The Angel Wore Fangs(6)

“They’re not leather. They’re black denim.”

“You may as well tattoo BADASS on your forehead. I could do the job for you with my trusty rusty needle,” she offered.

A low growling noise escaped his throat.

She sneered with satisfaction, having annoyed him as she’d no doubt intended.

Cnut flashed his fangs at her.

Regina flashed hers back at him.

“And who do you think you’re fooling in that nun garb?” he countered. “Everyone knows you’re more slut than saint.”

“Everyone knows nothing,” she snapped back.

Cnut deliberately banked his temper. Best not to rile Regina too much. She was, or had been, a witch in her human life, and she’d been known to throw a curse out with less provocation than the foolish insult he’d just hurled at her, ofttimes at a Viking’s “wee wick.” With exaggerated politeness, and one hand placed discreetly over his crotch, he said, “My apologies, m’lady.”

“Bullshit, m’lord,” she replied succinctly.

“Witchy wench!” he muttered.

He heard laughter behind him and saw that Vikar had emerged from the office and overheard his conversation.

Regina laughed, too, his “wee wick” was relieved to note, and walked away, hips swaying.

Vikar shook his head at Cnut. “You know she just loves to bait you.”

“And succeeds,” Cnut agreed.

Vikar motioned him into his office, where Trond was sitting in a side chair, wearing a U.S. Navy T-shirt and jeans, his long legs extended and crossed at the ankles. He cradled a mug of what Cnut assumed was coffee in his hands. Cnut should have grabbed one himself while he’d been in the kitchen scarfing up smoked boar strips aka bacon. Trond grinned and said, “Hey, bro! Still channeling Ragnar Lothbrok, I see.”

“Definitely.” He was not going to rise to another bait. Even so, he remarked, “Still channeling Rambo, I see.”

“Definitely,” Trond said with a grin. He was a Navy SEAL.

“I noticed that Ragnar shaved his head in later seasons of The Vikings.” Vikar arched his brows at Cnut.

“No, I am not going to shave my head.” Bloody hell! Did his brothers have naught to do but discuss his hair? Cnut sat down in the other chair. “So what’s new?” he asked both of them. “Any word on what Mike has on the agenda for today?” Mike was the rude name the vangels had adopted for Michael. Not to his face, of course.

“Not a clue,” Trond said.

The annual Reckonings were held to keep all the vangels in line, to tally up all their good deeds and bad ones, and reevaluate their penances. Usually, that meant more years added on to their original sentences. Being Vikings, they found it hard to be good all the time. Thus, it was no surprise that the original seven hundred years was now well over a thousand for all of them. They’d probably be vangels until the Apocalypse.

But, in addition to the individual evaluations, there was usually some big announcement. It started four years ago when Michael revealed they would be staying in the present, not bouncing back and forth through time, as they had in the past. One day a gladiator, another they could be a Regency gentleman, or a Civil War soldier, even a Greek Olympian. Once Cnut had even ridden with William the Conqueror. And Mordr, guilty of the sin of wrath, had fought against Genghis Khan. Now there was a Rambo, if there ever was one!

Last year, Michael told them that more new vangels would be created and trained in light of the increasing evil in the world, aka Lucies, the vangel nickname for Lucipires. Cnut had no idea what the exact number was by now. He would have to ask Vikar, later.

“Mayhap Mike will bring Gabriel and Raphael or some of the other archangels to help, and mayhap it will be just a cursory review of our sins, and mayhap this will be an unusual Reckoning. Fun.” It was Trond offering this optimistic view.

Cnut and Vikar looked at him as if he was barmy.

“Or mayhap not,” Trond conceded.

Just then, there was a strange, flapping sound outside, overhead in the skies, like thousands of geese flying north for the winter. Except this was July. And there was no honking. Just an ethereal silence and an incredible—you could say heavenly—fragrance filling the air.

It was Michael and he must have brought an entourage to help with the Reckonings. He walked in, leading a procession of white-robed angels, wings closed but stray feathers fluttering in their wake. Not Gabriel and Raphael this time, but other archangels of equal stature. They were an impressive sight, but none had the presence of authority that Michael had. With a mere lift of his hand, the angels scattered in different directions to set up “confessionals,” or rather private spaces where they could interview each of the vangels individually.