Page 13 of Kiss of Wrath

“So, what’s the problem, sweetie?”

“Kids who have their birthdays on the weekend get to bring birthday cupcakes in during one of the school days.”

“And your day is today?” Miranda guessed.

Maggie nodded again.

“Did you tell me about this before?” Miranda knew the answer before Maggie could nod yet again. I am such a failure as a mother. “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. You go to school, and I’ll go down to Shakey’s Bakery and get some super-scrumptious cupcakes and drop them off before I go to work.” And be even later.

“But everyone will know they’re not homemade.”

Good Lord. Shakey’s cupcakes probably cost three dollars each. Two dozen, about seventy-two dollars. Whereas it would cost only a few dollars to make the whole batch at home. Plus, hers would probably taste like crap. She thought for a moment. “I’ll put them in a Tupperware container.”

Maggie smiled hesitantly. “That would work.”

“Aunt Mir, I can’t find my retainer,” Ben said.

“In the downstairs bathroom on the sink.”

“Aunt Mir, can I have five dollars to sign up for hockey?” Sam asked.

“In the cookie jar.”

“Did you wash my soccer shirt?” Larry was adjusting his massive backpack onto his shoulders.

“In the laundry basket.”

“Can I go to Sally’s house after school?” Linda asked.

“As long as Sally’s mother is there, and you do your homework when you get home.”

Soon an almost miraculous silence came over the house as the kids rushed out. Miranda sank down into a chair and put her face on the table. Something sticky hit her forehead. Probably syrup. Under the table, Ruff let out a loud burp.

Miranda would have cried if she had the energy. Something needed to be done. What she needed was a household manager. A babysitter, but much more than that. Someone who could organize her home, do the grocery shopping and cooking, supervise the children, chauffeur the kids to all their various activities, and generally take some of the weight off her shoulders. A wife. I need a wife. No, no, no, that is so sexist. I’m a psychologist, I should know better. What I need is a Mary Poppins, do-everything kind of home helper.

She recalled Bradley Allison’s phone call then with the threat of Roger looming on the horizon, and amended her wish list. What I need is a Mary Poppins, do-everything kind of home helper who is, oh, let’s say, an ex-Marine the size of a bulldozer with special forces fighting skills.

But where could she find such a person?

Three

Mission Impossible it might very well be . . .

Michael the Archangel sat in a wingback chair in the first and biggest of three parlors in the castle, looking around at what he had come to regard as his children. The seven Sigurdsson brothers, who comprised the VIK, the high council of all the vangels, sat in a half circle of chairs, facing him.

Vikings! Was there ever a more boisterous, wild, sin-prone race of men to walk the earth? Who would have predicted that a heavenly being, such as himself, would grow fond of such creatures?

Not that he would ever admit to softening his sentiments toward the miscreants. Devious opportunists that the Vikings were, they would use it against him.

He hoped his fellow archangels never found out. A saint bonding with Vikings? It was embarrassing, really.

The seven brothers were still atoning for their original mortal sins, but being Vikings, they could not help themselves from erring more, which accounted for more and more years being added onto their initial seven-hundred-year penances. In fact, their nervousness now as they waited for him to speak was telling. Not knowing the purpose of this meeting, each was worried, having committed some wrong or other. He would bet his wings that they would be vangels until the end of time.

Raising his hands high, he prayed, “Lord, bless this gathering and give these men wisdom, courage, and determination to carry out your will in their missions.” And give me the wisdom, courage, and determination to deal with these idiots. “For they are stubborn as mules, prideful as peacocks, wanton as rabbits, greedy as hogs, dumb as dinosaurs, and irritable as bears with wind in the bowels. Amen.”

The seven brothers—grown men of great height and, by the grace of God, handsome appearance—raised their eyes and waited in nervous silence for the axe they expected to fall on one, or all, of their fool heads. Except for Mordr, that was, who muttered something about lackwit animal metaphors. He would get to Mordr soon enough. The dour Viking would have reason to mutter then.

“Vikar,” Michael said, calling first on the eldest.