Page 5 of Kiss of Wrath

Michael nodded. “Mayhap even thousands.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course. You can choose to be a vangel, or join the other side.”

“The other side? Oh. Oh no!” Mordr realized that Michael meant he would be taken by those beasts, slobber dripping from their fangs, their eyes glowing like torchlights as they tried to break the barrier to get at him. “I choose vangels. Definitely.”

“So be it!” Michael said, and extended a hand over Mordr, causing him to be lifted to his feet.

Mordr put a hand to his neck and felt the skin intact. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me yet, Viking.”

Mordr blinked several times. The golden halo was gone, as were the horrid beasts. In fact, the battlefield was now a clear field. No fighting soldiers. No dead bodies. There were so many questions riddling his mind, but he asked the most inane one. “Will I have wings, like yours?”

Michael hooted a short laugh. “Not yet. Maybe later. Probably never.”

That was clear as mud. “By the by, what is a vampire?”

Michael graced him with another of those smiles, which were not really smiles.

Immediately, Mordr felt a fierce pain in his mouth, as if his jaw were being broken and pierced with fiery tongs. When the pain went away, as suddenly as it had hit him, Mordr felt around his mouth with his tongue and realized that he now had a long—really long—tooth on either side of his front teeth on top. With horror, he said, “You made me into a wolf? I hate wolves. They are the most devious creatures, and they smell bad.”

Michael shook his head. “Not a wolf. A vampire.”

Then more pain hit him. On his shoulder blades. He reached behind him, over his shoulders, and discovered two bumps there. He arched his brows at Michael. “Please do not tell me that you put teeth in my back.”

“Thickheaded dolts, that is what these Vikings are,” Michael muttered. Then, he told Mordr, “Do not be ridiculous. They are bumps. Where your wings might emerge someday.”

“There is hope for me then?”

“Viking, Viking, Viking! Didst not know, there is always hope? Are you ready to begin your penance?”

Penance? Ah. He means punishment. Still, Mordr nodded, hesitantly. What choice did he have, really?

The angel took him by the hand, and Mordr found himself rising above the ground, higher and higher, spinning, through the clouds, across the skies, over countries. Where he would land, Mordr had no idea.

One thought emerged through his battered brain. I have been given a second chance. Praise the gods! Nay, that is incorrect. Praise God!

Michael smiled, and this time it was a good smile.

Some inheritances are better than others . . .

Dr. Miranda Hart, psychologist, prided herself on always maintaining a dignified calm. She did a half hour of yoga every morning, after all, and she gave lectures on stress management. Even so, she stared with stunned horror at the lawyer in front of her and practically screamed, “Noooooo!”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Hart.” Bradley Allison, elderly Cincinnati lawyer and longtime family retainer, clearly was not sorry. In fact, he recoiled, obviously disgusted with her reaction. “I thought you’d be pleased at this ‘bequest.’ The highest compliment!”

“Are you crazy?” Miranda asked, immediately realizing that she was the one who sounded crazy. And crazy was not a word that a mental health professional should be using. She inhaled and exhaled several times, finding her center. “You have to understand, Mr. Allison. I’m thirty-four years old. I’ve never been married, by choice. It’s taken me eight years to pay off my college loans and establish a successful practice in Las Vegas. Not Cincinnati, by the way. I live in a luxury high-rise apartment with two bedrooms, one of which has been converted into an office. I have no desire for children . . . or a dog.” She shivered with distaste.

“It was your cousin Cassandra’s wish that you adopt her five children. If you decline, there’s no option but to put them in foster care. Cassandra’s neighbor is unable to care for them for much longer. She has a big family of her own. I must warn you, if the Jessup children are adopted, I’m sure they will be separated.”

The oldest of Cassie’s children was eight-year-old Margaret, or Maggie. One set of twins was six-year-old Benjamin and Samuel, Ben and Sam. The other twins were three-year-old Linda and Larry. Mr. Allison was right. Miranda would bet her hard-earned degree that there would be two separate adoptions for the twins, and Maggie might not be adopted at all because of her age.

Miranda steeled herself not to care. “What about Roger’s family?” Roger Jessup, Cassie’s no-good husband, was in prison for assault and battery, and not for the first time, which had been news to Miranda when she’d arrived for Cassie’s funeral three days ago.

“No family,” Mr. Allison informed her. “Just you.” By his seventy-five-year-old nose raised northward, she could tell what he thought of her. She knew for sure when he added, “Perhaps they would be better off in foster care, after all.”

Miranda didn’t have a maternal bone in her body, but she didn’t like some old codger pointing out her flaws. Besides, she didn’t consider a lack of desire for procreation a flaw.