Christmas in Transylvania

by Sandra Hill

  He came up, two steps at a time, and sat down beside her, placing the box in front of them, down two steps. “I bought this for you,” he said.

  “For me? A present?”

  “No big deal. Just a little prelit Christmas tree for your room. I know how confined you’ve been feeling. It has tiny pink poinsettias on it, and I thought since you like pink so much . . . oh, shit! What did I say wrong?”

  Faith was weeping, big tears streaming down her face. She couldn’t help herself. It had been so long since a man had treated her so nicely with no ulterior motive. “Nothing is wrong. Thank you, thank you!” Without thinking, she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him. His lips were cool from just coming in from outside.

  He was momentarily shocked by her gesture, she could tell, but then he kissed her back, cupping her face with his cold hands. It was a gentle kiss to accommodate her still-­swollen lip, but it was erotic nonetheless, with tendrils of sensation snaking out to other parts of her body. Somehow, she was on his lap, her arms wrapped around his neck, and his hands were caressing her back and thigh and rump, wherever he could reach. His lips and fingers were no longer cold, but hot, hot, hot, and they were melting her. His tongue was in her mouth, and he tasted of peppermint. Candy canes, no doubt. Santa’s elves supposedly handed them out at the mall. But, oh, she was developing a taste for peppermint kisses.

  Just then, the sound of clapping crept into her dazed senses.

  Karl drew away from her and blinked. He was as testosterone buzzed as she was in hormone-­humming mode. She could see it in his silvery blue eyes.

  The two of them turned as one to look at the crowded hall, where everywhere was clapping at the spectacle they had just put on. Faith felt her face heat with embarrassment. What had come over her?

  She saw at a glance that Karl was blushing, too.

  The only one not clapping was Vikar, who tossed his hands out in surrender, and said, “You might as well come down. The cat’s out of the bag now.”

  “What cat, Poppa?” Nora asked.

  “What bag, Poppa?” Gunnar asked. “Oooh, did Santa bring us a kitty?”

  “Santa doesn’t come until Christmas Eve, silly. Poppa must mean Regina’s cat,” Nora told her brother.

  Karl stood and helped Faith to her feet. “I suppose you expect me to apologize for that kiss,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I’m the one who kissed you.”

  He arched his brows as if that was debatable. “It’s been forty-­two years since I’ve kissed a woman,” he told her then, “and that kiss was hot damn well worth the wait.”

  Wow! For a man of few words, he sure knew how to charm the pants off a girl. And she meant that literally. More importantly, the cold hard knot that had been lodged deep inside her melted some more.

  He winked at her then.

  The melting turned into a puddle.

  And Faith remembered that there was another part to her Christmas fantasy, and Karl had just fulfilled it.

  Love took seed in her heart and began to bloom. It didn’t matter that she’d just left another man. It didn’t matter that she hardly knew Karl. It didn’t matter that she might be pregnant. It didn’t matter that she looked like a skinny, beat-­up, bag lady, and Karl was a hot hunk. It didn’t matter that she was clearly older than he was. It didn’t matter that she would be here only a short while.

  For now, she was in love. Head over heels, love at almost first sight, with the added bonus that it was Christmastime. The lyrics of that sexy Mariah Carey song, “All I Want For Christmas Is You,” suddenly came on the sound system.

  And she thought, Oh, yeah!

  Chapter Six

  Was it love, or was it lust? Did it matter? . . .

  KARL WAS FALLING in love.

  It might have been forty-­eight years since he’d first had a crush on Sally Taylor, when they’d both been sophomores at Albert Einstein High School outside Duluth, Minnesota. It had been another three years before they’d gotten married, and they’d had three years of wedded bliss, so to speak, only one of them together, before he got drafted, and then he’d died in Vietnam at age twenty-­two. Now, he remained a perpetual twenty-­two as a vangel while Sally had gone on to age in normal fashion. She’d died a few years back of cancer. He’d never once stepped out on her, before or since her death, even though he’d never seen her again in all those years. Mike’s orders. She’d never remarried, either.

  But this was no crush he felt for Faith. Somehow, he’d managed to skip all the steps from first attraction to slam-­dunk, I-­am-­a-­dead-­duck, putty-­in-­this-­woman’s-­hands. He wasn’t sure when or how it had happened. Probably when he’d stopped for one too many coffees at the diner where she worked. Or when he’d seen her battered face at her trailer. Or when she insisted that she did not take charity and would be out of his hair . . . not that he had much . . . once she was stronger.

  And here was the worst part. When Vikar, and Trond, and Ivak, and Wrath had found what they called their lifemates, they said there was a distinctive aura that came off their women like a mist, a pheromone, or whatever you called those sex-­lure things. In Faith, her woman-­scent was a sweet, light scent, like cotton candy. No kidding. He was getting turned on by friggin’ spun sugar.

  When he’d asked her a short time ago if she noticed any particular scent coming from him, she said, without hesitation, “Peppermint.”

  That was just great. Vikar and Trond and Ivak and Wrath and their partners gave got neat man/woman-­scents like cloves and honey and pine and ginger. He got candy!

  And, by the way, he had not been sucking on a damn candy cane at the mall, as Faith had assumed.

  Mike was going to have a fit. First of all, because Karl had brought a human into the castle. Secondly, because he’d dared to fall in love with one. Mike had made it more than clear to the VIK, the seven Sigurdsson brothers who were the leaders of all the vangels, that there were to be no more relationships with humans. If Mike felt like that with the esteemed VIK, what hope, then, did a lowly vangel like Karl have? None. Not that he was thinking that far ahead to commitment, or relationship, or, God forbid, marriage. His thinking was centered more like a foot below his belly button, but he knew where that would lead. He was not a casual sex kind of guy. Oh, crap! He had to stop thinking about sex, and Faith, before someone noticed the bulge in his jeans.

  He could always say he’d developed a sudden hernia from all that shopping. Like that would work!

  The best thing would be for him stay away from Faith.

  But he couldn’t.

  He went over to where she was perched in the same wingback chair before the fire where he’d sat the night he brought her back to the castle. Vikar had agreed that she could join the activity downstairs, but Alex had insisted that Faith just watch the decorating frenzy and not exert herself. The big tree in this room was almost done, and some of the vangels had moved on to the ones in the family room and the dormitory TV lounge.

  Karl tossed another log on the fire and used a poker to stir the flames. When he leaned against the mantel, he realized that the fire was almost too hot. He looked down at Faith, “Having a good time?”

  “Wonderful. Everyone has been so nice to me. I’ll never remember all their names.”

  “I don’t remember half of them myself, and I live here.”

  “Which brings up about fifty questions.”

  “I figured. Can they wait until after dinner? Lizzie is making her version of Amish chicken and dumplings.”

  “Sounds delicious. Can I eat down here? Please don’t tell me I have to go back to my room yet.”

  “You don’t like my bedroom?” Karl teased and could have kicked himself for the innuendo in his words.

  She just smiled, and, man, she had the sweetest smile, now that her lips were almost back to normal. “Is your cook’s name really
Lizzie Borden?”

  He nodded.

  “Why would anyone name their child after an axe murderer?”

  “Shhh!” he said, putting a forefinger to his lips. “Don’t let her hear you say that.” When he saw the alarm on her face, he quickly added, “I was kidding. Lizzie is in the kitchen, where she reigns supreme. She doesn’t let anyone else take over her duties.”

  “She sounds nice.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” Not even close. “Truth to tell, honey, Lizzie is the real Lizzie Borden.” The honey had just slipped out. Damn!

  She frowned. “How is that possible? She would have to be more than a hundred years old, wouldn’t she? I mean, I’m not sure when Lizzie Borden was alive, but it was surely a long, long time ago.’

  “Yes.” He waved a hand dismissively then. “I’ll explain everything later.”

  Just then, someone turned off all the lights in the room so they could get the full effect of the lit Christmas tree.

  There was a communal sigh of appreciation from the vangels still in the room.

  “Is the star straight?” Vikar asked from the top of the tall extension ladder.

  “Perfect,” Alex replied. “Come down from there now before you fall and break your head.”

  “Will you kiss it better?” Vikar waggled his eyebrows at his wife.

  She laughed.

  “I’ll kiss it better, Poppa,” Nora offered.

  “I’ll give you a hug,” Gunnar said. “Hugs are more manly. Uncle Trond said so.”

  “Uncle Trond is full of . . . feathers,” Vikar said, coming down the ladder. “Let’s go wash our hands before dinner. Mine are covered with pinesap, and you two look like you’ve eaten half the candy canes already.”

  “Is my tongue pink?” Gunnar asked, sticking out his tongue.

  “You have sticky stuff on your nose,” Nora pointed out.

  “So do you.”

  They both grinned impishly, and said, “Cool!”

  When they’d gone, Alex came over and sank down into the other wingback chair.

  “The tree is beautiful. In fact, the whole room seems magical,” Faith said.

  “It does, doesn’t it?” Alex agreed. “Well worth all the trouble I had convincing my husband that we should celebrate the holiday this year. Of course, I never meant to go to this extreme. A small tree. A wreath. That’s as far as I expected.” She shrugged. “Vikings! They never do things halfway.”

  Karl was afraid Faith would use Alex’s mention of Vikings as an opportunity to start grilling them, but all she said was, “You didn’t celebrate Christmas before?”

  “We celebrated Christmas, but in a very subdued sort of way. More the way it should be, I suppose. Midnight Mass, a special meal on Christmas Day, a few small gifts. Nothing like the extravaganza this is turning into. But I wanted to do something more this year, now that the children are old enough to understand.” Alex grinned suddenly. “Who am I kidding? I love the Christmas season. The trees, the holly, the mistletoe, the carols, the religious and commercial aspects. I even like those awful chipmunks.”

  “I love Christmas, too,” Faith said in a small voice. “But I never really had that kind of family celebration.”

  Karl and Alex turned to her, waiting for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. The sudden sadness on her face said it all.

  “I got a phone call a little while ago from Father Bernard at St. Vladamir’s Church. Vikar is going to have a bird when he finds out,” Alex said to no one in particular. It was as if she was just speaking her thoughts aloud.

  “Um, what’s the problem at St. Vlad’s?” Father Bernard had been Bernard Jorgensson at one time, a seventeenth-­century cardinal from Denmark who’d failed to take his celibacy vows seriously enough. He had sired fifteen children. Enough said! You could say he’d earned his fangs the enjoyable way, and his name, as well.

  Drinking the symbolic blood of Christ was an important activity for vangels, with all the obvious parallels to their vampire blood activity, and Father Bernard came often to perform Mass in the castle chapel, whenever he could.

  While Karl had been zoning off, Alex had been talking. “It’s not just that the choir director had a nervous breakdown, but two of the choir members have adult measles, three have the flu, and two quit because they were tired of singing ‘Oh, Holy Night.’ ”

  Karl must have missed the point of Alex’s explanation.

  “So that’s why he asked if the castle choir would sing the Midnight Mass this year.”

  “Oh, crap!”

  “There’s a castle choir?” Faith asked, duly impressed.

  “Not a choir per se, but the men here have marvelous voices.”

  Faith looked at Karl.

  He blushed. “I’m okay.”

  “He’s more than okay. He has wonderful tone. They all do.”

  “And you think you can talk Vikar into performing in public?” Karl was skeptical.

  “I can convince him to do anything, with the right incentive.” She gave Faith a conspiratorial smile, as if another woman would understand.

  To his surprise, Faith nodded.

  “But that’s not all. Father Bernard wants a live Nativity Scene outside the church for the week leading up to Christmas.”

  “Oh, crap! Well, we can’t do both. Sing inside and stand outside like bleeping idiots.”

  “Sure we can. Those who want to sing, sing. Those who don’t, can be the Three Wise Men, shepherds, Joseph, Mary, angels, whatever. I don’t care if they’re a jackass. And, hey, maybe baby Michael . . . that’s Ivak and Gabrielle’s little one,” Alex explained for Faith’s benefit, “could be the baby Jesus. They should be here by then.”

  “Alex,” Karl said with a groan, “Vikar isn’t going to have a bird. He’s going to have a cow.”

  “I know,” Alex said, putting her face in her hands for a moment. Then she stood. “I better go find that black negligee with the peekaboo lace.”

  Karl and Faith looked at each other after Alex left, then burst out laughing.

  Was she really falling in love with Dracula? . . .

  Faith made it through dinner, but she didn’t realize how exhausted she was until she tried to climb the first flight of stairs to her third-­floor bedroom. She’d gone only five steps when Karl made a tsking sound of disgust and picked her up, as if she weighed no more than a pillow.

  She liked being in Karl’s arms. Too much.

  “Where have you been sleeping while I’ve taken over your room?” she asked.

  “Trond’s bedroom, next door to mine, when he’s in residence.”

  “I’m sorry to put you out. I could sleep in another room.”

  “It makes no difference to me where I sleep. As long as it’s not a rice paddy”

  “Okay,” she said, and nuzzled his neck.

  She thought he moaned softly, but it might have been because he was starting to feel the exertion of carrying a hundred and ten pounds up three flights of stairs. When they got to her room, he kicked the door open, turned on the lamps by nudging the wall switch with his elbow, then laid her on the bed. The light switch had also turned on the small, artificial Christmas tree Karl had bought her. It was sitting on the other side of the dresser and was possibly the most beautiful thing Faith had ever seen.

  “You should take another pain pill now,” Karl advised.

  “Not yet,” she said. “They make me sleepy, and I want to stay awake while you answer my questions.”

  “We could wait until tomorrow.”

  She shook her head. “Now.”

  He leaned his rump against the dresser and crossed his ankles. He wore a gray Navy SEAL T-­shirt over faded denims with ratty athletic shoes.

  “Are you a Navy SEAL?”

  He laughed. Apparently, it wasn’t the question he’d been expe
cting. “No. I trained to be a SEAL at one time, but that was never intended to my real mission. I was in the Army, but that was long before that.”

  His words raised more questions than answers, but there were some things she needed to get out of the way first.

  “Who are you, exactly? I mean, all of you ­people here. Vangels?”

  “How do you know about vangels?”

  “The twins.”

  “Ah. How much did the little twerps disclose?”

  “Not much.” She shifted her butt up so that she was propped against her pillow, and folded her arms over her chest.

  “Vangels are Viking vampire angels. Some of the five hundred or so vangels that exist in the world today were actual Vikings with swords and longships and all that stuff more than a thousand years ago. Vikar and his brothers, for example, are that old. Others, like me and Armod, aren’t that old, but we have at least some Norse blood in our veins.”

  “Whoa! Are you saying that Vikar and his brothers are more than a thousand years old?”

  “Yes.”

  “He doesn’t look much older than his early to mid thirties.”

  “Vangels do not age.”

  “How convenient!” she said. Then narrowed her eyes at him, “How old are you?”

  “Well, I was twenty-­two years old when I died in Vietnam forty-­two years ago. So, I guess you could say I’m sixty-­four.”

  “Holy cow! And here I thought I was being a cougar at twenty-­nine, lusting after a younger man.”

  He grinned. “You lust after me?”

  She decided to ignore his question. For now. “That still doesn’t explain the whole vangel . . . vampire angel business.”

  “A long, long time ago, God got angry with the Viking race as a whole, and the Sigurdsson brothers in particular. Too sinful, too vain, too vicious, too arrogant. He decided to wipe out the Viking culture and, in fact, eventually did so.”

  “That is some story!”

  “You don’t see any Viking nation today, do you?”