THE ANGEL WORE FANGS

A Deadly Angels Book

By Sandra Hill

Avon Books
May 31, 2016

Synopsis

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.

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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

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.”

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

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