Page 109 of Kiss of Wrath

“Forget pigeons. More like ants,” Michael remarked. “Teeny tiny brains to fit in big fat heads!”

Mordr would have been insulted, except he was still back there with Michael’s assertion that the children had prayed for him. “And you think I used the children for my own ends?”

“Why else would they be praying to God—to God! not me, by the by!—for your return?”

“Uh. Mayhap they are fond of me, small-brained as I am. Mayhap they see me as some kind of father figure to replace that nithing whose blood they unfortunately carry. Mayhap they suddenly got religion. Mayhap—”

Michael spoke right over him. “You usurped my authority, Viking, by going over my head, directly to my superior.”

“I did nothing except sit here in this tower. Wait a minute. Are you saying that your ultimatum about no more human/vangel relationships has been overruled by a higher authority?” He pressed his lips together in an attempt to hide his glee.

“The Lucipires are growing in strength, no thanks to you vangels, who need to work harder. You will no doubt be a vampire angel for many centuries to come, and that does not even count your penance for your most recent sins.”

“No less than I expected.” Mordr shrugged.

“She might not have you,” Michael said.

Mordr grinned. “I am a Viking. She will have me.”

A declaration of war . . .

Miranda wanted nothing to do with Mordr.

He’d been gone for more than three weeks now. Not a word from him. Not even a secondhand message via one of his brothers, who’d taken to dropping in on her on occasion, except for Harek, who had been sent to Siberia on a mission of indefinite duration. And she knew that Mordr had been released from his “prison” exactly six days ago.

Then, all of a sudden, Mordr had shown up, sporting a new, neatly trimmed mustache above his lip and a soul patch on his chin. And a haircut! He’d trimmed off all that beautiful hair into a modern do, low on the neck, but lots shorter than his previous tresses. His clothing had to have come from some upscale men’s shop. He was wearing a bleepin’ suit, for heaven’s sake. Black Hugo Boss over a crisp white dress shirt and a Ralph Lauren tie and Italian loafers. It was as if he was trying to expunge the Viking out of himself. Good luck with that!

“Miranda, dearling,” he had drawled out, his voice oozing sex.

She’d give him “dearling”!

When his endearment didn’t cause her to do handsprings toward him, he crooked a finger, beckoning her toward him. And then he winked.

She almost laughed.

Or cried.

The clueless Viking actually thought he could just pick up where they’d left off weeks ago. In bed.

She had news for him. That door had closed. It had taken her a week to stop crying. It had taken even longer to convince the children that Mordr wasn’t coming back. No way was she putting herself or the kids through that pain again.

But Mordr wouldn’t give up.

That first day, before he’d left, she told him, meanly, “By the way, I don’t like facial hair. You look like you have a caterpillar on your lip.”

Next day, he was clean shaven.

Every day, like clockwork, he showed up at her house, at her workplace, at the coffee shop at the lower level of the clinic building, even on the jogging path where she ran every morning. You did not want to see a six foot four, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound hulk come running up beside you at half past dawn, even if he did look like pure sex in his running shorts and shoes, and that’s all.

And now, speaking to her through the narrow opening of the chain lock on her front door—not that he couldn’t teletransport, if he’d wanted to—he tried to defend his absence, “But I was locked in a castle tower like some bloody medieval princess. I could hardly come to you, on a whim.”

Excuses! He could have found a way if he’d really wanted to. “You ever heard of Rapunzel? You could have climbed down your hair or something.”

He didn’t even crack a smile. Great! They were back to the Grim Reaper again. Big deal!

“How about the six days after you were released?”

“I was making plans.”