The Angel Wore Fangs(9)

Cnut glanced at his other brothers and saw that they came to the same communal opinion of Ivak. Suck-up!

“If enough people around the world begin nibbling, they can eat away at the core of ISIS,” Michael contended. “And keep in mind, it is the goal of vangels to destroy Lucipires and save dreadful sinners, not to ensure world peace.”

That’s a relief! Not! Cnut was doubtful of his abilities for such a huge mission, and he didn’t know what he was expected to do, exactly, or where to start.

“You will know when you will know,” Michael told him.

You will know when you will know, Cnut mimicked in his head. Another Mike-ism! Clear as celestial clouds on a dark Norse fjord.

“By the by, Cnut, your hair has become a favorite topic Up Above. Angels far and wide have adopted the style. In fact, legions of them look like dim-witted Vikings.”

The archangel was not pleased.

Neither was Cnut.

He was even less pleased when he got text messages from his brothers over the next few days:

If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and looks like a duck, it must be . . . Cnut.

You lucky duck!

Lord love a duck!

A duck walks into a bar . . .

You ever were a sitting duck, bro.

Some ducks turn to swans, don’t they?

Actually, Cnut didn’t mind his brothers’ lame attempts at humor. Vikings appreciated a good jest.

Still, he responded to each of them, Shut the duck up!

Then he prepared to get all his ducks in a row back at his office so he would be ready for Michael’s mysterious moment when he “would know when he would know.”

For some reason, Cnut had a sudden and fierce craving for turducken. And that night, on the Food Network, the host of Everyday Gourmet made a duck cassoulet. And wasn’t it a sad commentary on his life that Cnut, once a fierce Viking warrior (when he had been so inclined and/or able to get off his fat arse), actually knew what a cassoulet was? But hadn’t a clue how to save the world from ISIS.

Were the fates conspiring against Cnut, or just Michael?





Chapter 3


Sweet temptation!

It was Andrea’s third pass by the agency door as she gathered her nerve to go in. Her lunch hour would soon be over if she dawdled around much longer. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have an appointment.

Still, she peered dubiously through the shaded windows of Wings International Security, located just down the street from La Chic Sardine, trying to see inside. What kind of legitimate business had shaded windows? And a single metal desk and filing cabinet with two folding chairs? But she’d looked up the firm on the Internet, and the office appeared to be a reliable agency for tracking and protecting individuals or groups, with a special emphasis on terrorists. She’d done her due diligence. So, what was the problem?

•A creepy feeling she got up the back of her neck?

•A sense that something wasn’t quite right?

•Her first time seeking outside help for her sister’s shenanigans?

•Her family expecting her to drop everything and clean up another of Celie’s messes?

Pick any one of those. Or all of them.

Or maybe it was just plain exasperation. Why do I have to be my sister’s keeper? No, that’s selfish. I don’t really mean that. I love my sister. It’s just . . . just . . . frustrating. And, frankly, a little bit scary this time.

“Oh hell!” she muttered, and opened the door. Then stopped dead in her tracks. “Holy freakin’ sex on a stick!” she said in an undertone, before she had a chance to curb her tongue.

Andrea was almost thirty years old, and while she wouldn’t describe herself as having been around the block, she’d had several relationships, three if you counted Pete the Perv. More important, she’d never been attracted to musclemen. But son of a biscotti!

Standing beside the desk was a man, dressed in a plain blue, tapered, Oxford-collared dress shirt, untucked, over black jeans and black athletic shoes. But that was the only thing plain about him. He had to be six foot three or -four of lean muscles from wide shoulders to narrow waist and hips and mile-long legs. His lightly tanned face was a masterpiece of sculpted Nordic features, topped by a unique hairstyle, shaved on the sides and sort of French braided from his forehead to the back of his neck, where the remainder of dark blond hair was tied off with a leather shoelace, or something.

“Are you a Viking?” she asked.

At the same time, he asked, “Are you a doctor?”

He said yes, and she said no. Then they both laughed.

And, Lordy, even his laugh was sexy. Low and husky and masculinity personified.

She glanced down at her white linen chef jacket worn over white skinny jeans and comfortable Crocs. “No, I’m a chef. A pastry chef.”