THE
ANGEL WORE FANGS
A
Deadly Angels Book
By
Sandra Hill
Avon
Books
May
31, 2016
ISBN:
9780062356543; $7.99
E-ISBN
9780062356550 * $5.99
About
the Book
New York Times bestselling author Sandra Hill
continues her sexy Deadly Angels series, as a Viking vangel’s otherworldly
mission pairs him with a beautiful chef who whets his thousand-year-old
appetite . . .
Once guilty of the deadly sin of gluttony,
thousand-year-old Viking vampire angel Cnut Sigurdsson is now a lean, mean,
vampire-devil fighting machine. His new side-job? No biggie: just ridding the
world of a threat called ISIS while keeping the evil Lucipires (demon vampires)
at bay. So when chef Andrea Stewart hires him to rescue her sister from a cult
recruiting terrorists at a Montana dude ranch, vangel turns cowboy. Yeehaw!
The too-tempting mortal insists on accompanying him,
surprising Cnut with her bravery at every turn. But with terrorists stalking
the ranch in demonoid form, Cnut tele-transports Andrea and himself out of
danger-accidentally into the 10th Century Norselands. Suddenly, they have to
find their way back to the future to save her family and the world . . . and to
satisfy their insatiable attraction.
Purchase
Here:
THE ANGEL WORE FANGS – https://www.harpercollins.com/9780062356550/the-angel-wore-fangs
About
the Author
Sandra Hill is a graduate of Penn State and worked
for more than 10 years as a features writer and education editor for
publications in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Writing about serious issues
taught her the merits of seeking the lighter side of even the darkest stories.
She is the wife of a stockbroker and the mother of four sons
Connect
with Sandra Hill
Website - https://www.sandrahill.net/
Twitter – https://twitter.com/sandrahillauth
Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/SandraHillAuthor/
Praise
for Sandra Hill’s Deadly Angels series:
“Fans of paranormal and time travel will get a kick
out of this sexy and often humorous addition to the Deadly Angels series.
Viking vampire angel Cnut is a completely strong hero, and Andrea, his
accompaniment, is matched with him perfectly. Their antics will make readers
giggle, and their adventures will keep fans at the edge of their seats. Hill’s
vivid imagination really shines!”
—RT Book Reviews on The Angel Wore Fangs
“An awesome…series! Kept me up late into the night
reading. Looking forward to the next installment.” — New York Times bestselling
author Lynsay Sands
“Hill has written another winner featuring her
Viking vampire angels. In her fourth in the passion-driven Deadly Angels
series, two of the most unlikely characters, Mordr and Miranda, are thrown
together and the result is laugh-out-loud humor and unrivaled sex appeal.”
—Romantic Times Book Reviews on Kiss of Wrath
“With her clever dialogue, often bawdy situations,
and great cast of characters, including a warrior woman, a proverb-spouting
wise man/healer from the East, and a saucy cook, Hill has created another
wickedly wonderful story.” —Booklist (starred review) on Kiss of Wrath
“The third book in Sandra Hill’s Deadly Angels
series, Kiss of Temptation, comes out Tuesday. Along with it comes the
temptation to play hooky that day so I can hang out with Ivak, who’s guilty of
the sin of lust. Aren’t we all, when it comes to Sandra Hill’s books?”
— USA Today on Kiss of Temptation
“Thanks for the laughs and the heartfelt emotions,
Ms. Hill. I loved this one and am looking forward to the next book in this
exciting series.” —The Romance Reviews on Kiss of Temptation
Earthy, laugh-out-loud hilarious, and lusty, this
tenth-century revel takes readers back to a much-less-refined time and is just
plain fun. Hill’s (Viking Heat) Viking series are legendary; her fans are sure
to enjoy this latest addition.” —Library Journal on Kiss of Surrender
“Sixth in the Deadly Angels series, Even Vampires
Get the Blues is entertaining, solid and consistent in its storytelling. Fans
of the Vampire Viking Angels series will be pleased.”
— Romantic
Times Book Reviews on Even Vampires Get the Blues
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Excerpt
from THE ANGELS WORE FANGS:
Weight Watchers, where art thou? . . .
Cnut Sigurdsson was a big man. A really big man! He
was taller than the average man, of course, being a Viking, but more than that,
he was . . . well . . . truth to tell . . . fat.
Obesity
was a highly unusual condition for Men of the North, Cnut had to admit, because
Norsemen were normally vain of appearance, sometimes to a ridiculous extent.
Long hair, combed to a high sheen. Braided beards. Clean teeth. Gold and silver
arm rings to show off muscles. Tight braies delineating buttocks and ballocks.
But not
him.
Cnut
did not care.
Even
now, when three of his six brothers, who’d come (uninvited, by the by) to his
Frigg’s-day feast here at Hoggstead in the Norselands, were having great fun
making jests about just that. They were half-brothers, actually, all with
different mothers, but that was neither here nor there. Cnut cared not one whit
what the lackwits said. Not even when Trond made oinking noises, as if Cnut’s
estate were named for a porcine animal when he knew good and well it was the
name of the original owner decades ago, Bjorn Hoggson. Besides, Trond had no
room to make mock of others when he was known to be the laziest Viking to ever
ride a longship. Some said he did not even have the energy to lift his cock for
pissing, that he sat like a wench on the privy hole. That was probably not
true, but it made a good story.
Nor
did Cnut bother to rise and clout his eldest brother, Vikar, when he asked the
skald to make a rhyme of Cnut’s name:
Cnut is a brute
And a glutton, of some repute.
He is so fat that, when he goes a-Viking for loot,
He can scarce lift a bow with an arrow to shoot.
But when it comes to woman-pursuit,
None can refute
That Cnut can “salute” with the best of them.
Thus and therefore, let it be known
And this is a truth absolute,
Size matters.
“Ha,
ha, ha!” Cnut commented, while everyone in the great hall howled with laughter,
and Vikar was bent over, gasping with mirth.
Cnut
did not care, especially since Vikar was known to be such a prideful man he
fair reeked of self-love. At least the skald had not told the poem about how,
if Cnut spelled his name with a slight exchange of letters, he would be a
vulgar woman part. That was one joke Cnut did not appreciate.
But
mockery was a game to Norsemen. And, alas and alack, Cnut was often the butt of
the jests.
He.
Did. Not. Care.
Yea,
some said he resembled a walking tree with a massive trunk, limbs like hairy
battering rams, and fingers so chubby he could scarce make a fist. Even his
face was bloated, surrounded by a mass of wild, tangled hair on head and beard,
which was dark blond, though its color was indiscernible most times since it
was usually greasy and teeming with lice. Unlike most Vikings, he rarely
bathed. In his defense, what tub would hold him? And the water chute into the
steam hut was often clogged. And the water in the fjords was frigid except for
summer months. What man in his right mind wanted to turn his cock into an
icicle?
A
disgrace to the ideal of handsome, virile Vikinghood, he overheard some fellow
jarls say about him on more than one occasion.
And
as for his brother Harek, who considered himself smarter than the average
Viking, Cnut glared his way and spoke loud enough for all to hear, “Methinks
your first wife, Dagne, has put on a bit of blubber herself in recent years.
Last time I saw her in Kaupang, she was as wide as she was tall. And she farted
as she walked, rather waddled. Phhhttt, phhhttt, phhhttt! Now, there is
something to make mock of!”
“You
got me there,” Harek agreed with a smile, raising his horn of mead high in
salute.
One
of the good things about Vikings was that they could laugh at themselves. The
sagas were great evidence of that fact.
At
least Cnut was smart enough not to take on any wives of his own, despite his
twenty and eight years. Concubines and the odd wench here and there served him
well. Truly, as long as Cnut’s voracious hunger for all bodily appetites—food,
drink, sex—was being met, he cared little what others thought of him.
When
his brothers were departing two days later (he thought they’d never leave),
Vikar warned him, “Jesting aside, Cnut, be careful. One of these days your
excesses are going to be your downfall.”
“Not
one of these days. Now,” Cnut proclaimed jovially as he crooked a chubby
forefinger at Inga, a passing chambermaid with a bosom not unlike the
figurehead of his favorite longship, Sea Nymph. “Wait for me in the bed furs,”
he called out to her. “I plan to fall down with you for a bit of bedplay.”
Vikar,
Trond, and Harek just shook their heads at him, as if he were a hopeless case.
Cnut
did not care.
But
Vikar’s words came back to haunt Cnut several months later when he was riding
Hugo, one of his two war horses, across his vast estate. A normal-size palfrey
could not handle his weight; he would squash it like an oatcake. Besides, his
long legs dragged on the ground. So he had purchased two Percherons from Le
Perche, a province north of Norsemandy in the Franklands known for breeding the
huge beasts. They’d cost him a fortune.
But
even with the sturdy destrier and his well-padded arse, not to mention the
warm, sunny weather, Cnut was ready to return to the keep for a midday repast.
Most Vikings had only two meals a day. The first, dagmál or “day-meal,”
breaking of fast, was held two hours after morning work was started, and the
second, náttmál or “night meal.” was held in the evening when the day’s work
was completed. But Cnut needed a midday meal, as well. And right now, a long
draught of mead and an afternoon nap would not come amiss. But he could not go
back yet. His steward, Finngeir the Frugal (whom he was coming to regard as
Finn the Bothersome Worrier), insisted that he see the extent of the dry season
on the Hoggstead cotters’ lands.
Ho-hum.
Cnut didn’t even bother to stifle his yawn.
“Even
in the best of times, the gods have not blessed the Norselands with much arable
land, being too mountainous and rocky. Why else would we go a-Viking but to settle
new, more fertile lands?”
“And
women,” Cnut muttered. “Fertile or not.”
Finn
ignored his sarcasm and went on. Endlessly. “One year of bad crops is
crippling, but two years, and it will be a disaster, I tell you. Look at the
fields. The grains are half as high as they should be by this time of year. If
it does not rain soon—”
Blather,
blather, blather. I should have brought a horn of ale with me. And an oatcake,
or five. Cnut did not like Finn’s lecturing tone, but Finn was a good and loyal
subject, and Cnut would hate the thought of replacing him. So Cnut bit back a
snide retort. “What would you have me do? A rain dance? I can scarce walk, let
alone dance. Ha, ha, ha.”
Finn
did not smile.
The
humorless wretch.
“Dost
think I have a magic wand to open the clouds? The only wand I have is betwixt
my legs. Ha, ha, ha.”
No
reaction, except for a continuing frown, and a resumption of his tirade. “You
must forgive the taxes for this year. Then you must open your storerooms to
feed the masses. That is what you must do.”
“Are
you barmy? I cannot do that! I need the taxes for upkeep of my household and to
maintain a fighting troop of housecarls. As for my giving away foodstuffs,
forget about that, too.
Last harvest did not nearly fill my oat and barley
bins. Nay, ’tis impossible!”
“There
is more. Look about you, my jarl. Notice how the people regard you. You will
have an uprising on your own lands, if you are not careful.”
“What?
Where? I do not know—” Cnut’s words cut off as he glanced to his right and left,
passing through a narrow lane that traversed through his crofters’ huts. Here
and there, he saw men leaning on rakes or hauling manure to the fields. They
were gaunt-faced and grimy, glaring at him through angry eyes. One man even
spat on the ground, narrowly missing Hugo’s hoof. And the women were no better,
raising their skinny children up for him to see.
“That
horse would feed a family of five for a month,” one toothless old graybeard
yelled.
His
wife—Cnut assumed it was his wife, being equally aged and toothless—cackled and
said, “Forget that. If the master skipped one meal a month, the whole village
could feast.”
Many
of those standing about laughed.
Cnut
did not.
Good
thing they did not know how many mancuses it had taken to purchase Hugo and the
other Percheron. It was none of their concern! Cnut had a right to spend his
wealth as he chose. Leastways, that’s what he told himself.
Now,
instead of being softened by what he saw, Cnut hardened his heart. “If they
think to threaten me, they are in for a surprise,” he said to Finn once they’d
left the village behind and were returning to the castle keep. “Tell the taxman
to evict those who do not pay their rents this year.”
By
late autumn, when the last of the meager crops was harvested, Cnut had reason
to reconsider. Already, he’d had to buy extra grains and vegetables from the
markets in Birka and Hedeby, just for his keep. Funerals were held back to back
in the village. And he was not convinced that Hugo had died of natural causes
last sennight, especially when his carcass had disappeared overnight. Cnut had
been forced to post guards about his stables and storage shed since then.
Everywhere he turned, people were grumbling, if not outright complaining.
That
night, in a drukkinn fit of rage, he left his great hall midway through the
dinner meal. Highly unusual for him. But then, who wouldn’t lose his appetite
with all those sour faces silently accusing him? It wasn’t Cnut who’d brought
the drought; even the most sane-minded
Creature must know that. Blame the gods, or lazy
field hands who should have worked harder, or bad seed.
As he
was leaving, he declined an invitation from some of his hersirs who were
engaged in a game of hneftafl. Even his favorite board game with its military
strategies and rousing side bets held no interest tonight. Bodil, a
chambermaid, gave him a sultry wink of invitation in passing, but he was not in
the mood for bedplay tonight, either.
He
decided to visit the garderobe before taking to his bed, alone, and nigh froze
his balls when he sat on the privy hole. He was further annoyed to find that
someone had forgotten to replenish the supply of moss and grape leaves for
wiping.
When
Cnut thought things could not get any worse, he opened the garderobe door and
almost tripped over the threshold at what he saw. A man stood across the
corridor, arms crossed over his chest. A stranger. Could it be one of his
desperate, starving tenants come to seek revenge on him, as Finn had warned?
No.
Despite the darkness, the only light coming from a sputtering wall torch, Cnut
could see that this man was handsome in appearance, noble in bearing. Long,
black hair. Tall and lean, though well-muscled, like a warrior. And oddly, he
wore a long white robe with a twisted rope belt, and a gold crucifix hung from
a chain about his neck. Even odder, there appeared to be wings half folded
behind his back.
Was
it a man or something else?
I
must be more drukkinn than I thought. “Who are you?”
“St.
Michael the Archangel.”
One
of those flying creatures the Christians believe in? This is some alehead
madness I am imagining! A walking dream.
’Tis
no dream, fool,” the stranger said, as if he’d read Cnut’s thoughts.
“What
do you want?” Cnut demanded.
“Not
you, if I had a choice, that is for certain,” the man/creature/angel said with
a tone of disgust. “Thou art a dire sinner, Cnut Sigurdsson, and God is not
pleased with you.”
“Which
god would that be? Odin? Thor?”
“For
shame! There is only one God.”
Ah!
Of course. He referred to the Christian One-God. Vikings might follow the Old
Norse religions, but they were well aware of the Christian dogma, and, in
truth, many of them allowed themselves to be baptized, just for the sake of
expediency.
“So,
your God is not pleased with me. And I should care about that . . . why?” Cnut
inquired, holding on to the doorjamb to straighten himself with authority. He
was a high jarl, after all, and this person was trespassing. Cnut glanced about
for help, but none of his guardsmen were about. Surprise, surprise. They are
probably still scowling and complaining about the lack of meat back in the
hall. I am going to kick some arse for this neglect.
“Attend
me well, Viking; you should care because thou are about to meet your maker.” He
said Viking as if it were a foul word. “As are your brothers. Sinners, all of
you!”
“Huh?”
“Seven
brothers, each guilty of one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Pride. Lust. Sloth.
Wrath. Gluttony. Envy. Greed.” He gave Cnut a pointed look. “Wouldst care to
guess which one is yours?”
Nay,
he would not. “So I eat and drink overmuch. I can afford the excess. What sin
is that?”
“Fool!”
the angel said, and immediately a strange fog swirled in the air. In its mist,
Cnut saw flashing images:
• Starving
and dead children.
• Him
gnawing on a boar shank so voraciously that a greasy drool slipped down his
chin. Not at all attractive.
• One of
his cotters being beaten to a bloody pulp for stealing bread for his family.
• Honey
being spread on slice after slice of manchet bread on his high table.
• A
young Cnut, no more than eight years old, slim and sprightly, chasing his older
brothers about their father’s courtyard.
• A
naked, adult Cnut, gross and ugly with folds of fat and swollen limbs. He could
not run now, if he’d wanted to.
• A
family, wearing only threadbare garb and carrying cloth bundles of its meager
belongings, being evicted from its home with no place to go in the snowy
weather.
• Warm
hearths and roofs overhead on the Hoggstead keep.
• A
big-bosomed concubine riding Cnut in the bed furs, not an easy task with his
big belly.
• The
same woman weeping as she unwrapped a linen cloth holding scraps of bread and
meat, half-eaten oatcakes, and several shrunken apples, before her three young
children.
Cnut
had seen enough. “This farce has gone on long enough! You say I am going to
die? Now? And all my brothers, too? Excuse me if I find that hard to believe.”
“Not
all at once. Some have already passed. Others will go shortly.”
Really?
Three of his brothers had been here several months past, and he had not
received news of any deaths in his family since, but then their estates were
distant and the roads were nigh impassable this time of year. The fjords were
no better, already icing over, making passage difficult for longships.
“I
should toss you down the privy hole and let you die in the filth,” the angel
said, “but you would not fit. Better yet, I should lock you in the garderobe
and let you starve to death, like your serfs do.”
Ah,
so that’s what this was about. “You cannot blame me for lack of rain or poor
harvests. In fact, your God—”
Before
he could finish the thought, the angel pointed a forefinger at him, and a flash
of light passed forth, hitting Cnut right in the chest, like a bolt of
lightning. Cnut found himself dangling off the floor. He clutched his heart,
which felt as if a giant stake had passed through his body, securing him to the
wall.
“Let
it be known hither and yon, the Viking race has become too arrogant and
brutish, and it is God’s will that it should die out. But you and your brothers
are being given a second chance, though why, only God knows.”
What?
Wait. Did he say I won’t be dying, after all?
“This
is thy choice. Repent and agree to become a vangel in God’s army for seven
hundred years, and thou wilt have a chance to make up for your mortal sins.
Otherwise, die and spend eternity at Satan’s hearth.”
A
sudden smell of rotten eggs filled the air. Brimstone, Cnut guessed, which was
said to be a characteristic of the Christian afterlife for those who had
offended their god. At the same time, he could swear his toes felt a mite warm.
Yea, fire and brimstone, for a certainty.
So, I
am being given a choice between seven hundred years in God’s army or forever
roasting in Hell. Some choice! Still, he should not be too quick to agree.
“Vangel? What in bloody hell is a vangel?” Cnut gasped out.
“A
Viking vampire angel who will fight the forces of Satan’s Lucipires, demon
vampires who roam the world spreading evil.”
That
was clear as fjord mud. Cnut was still pinned high on the wall, and he figured
he was in no position to negotiate. Besides, seven hundred years didn’t sound
too bad.
But
he forgot to ask what exactly a vampire was.
He
soon found out.
With
a wave of his hand, the angel loosened Cnut’s invisible ties, and he fell to
the floor. If he’d thought the heart pain was bad, it was nothing compared to
the excruciating feel of bones being crushed and reformed. If that wasn’t bad
enough, he could swear he felt fangs forming on each side of his mouth, like a
wolf. And his shoulders were being ripped apart, literally, and replaced with
what, Cnut could not be sure, as he writhed about the rush-covered floor.
“First
things first,” the angel said then, leaning over him with a menacing smile.
“You are going on a diet.”
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