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
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
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.”
Giveaway:
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