Christmas in Transylvania by Sandra Hill Page A

they’d done the deed at all. It couldn’t be because of his prowess because no man wanted to be known for a two-­minute fuck.
    She was bent over the tub, naked, pouring rose-­scented bath salts under the running faucets, and he was on his hands and knees, naked, mopping up soapy water, when there was a slight knock on the door, which opened. Armod popped his head in, and said, “Karl, Vikar wants you to . . . oh, boy!” He was gone in an embarrassed flash.
    â€œAre we in trouble?” Faith asked.
    â€œI am,” he said, then added with a wicked grin, “Do I look like I care?”
    After Karl joined Faith in the bubble bath, and they’d soaped themselves clean and other things in the sloshing water, they’d had to mop the floor all over again.
    Faith said she was going to have a hard time explaining twelve soaking-­wet towels to the laundress.
    Karl told her he’d buy her a gross of new towels.
    Then they went to bed and never slept. By the shimmer of the two-­foot artificial tree he’d bought her with its white lights and tiny pink poinsettias, they made love and talked, and made love, took a brief rest, then did it all again. Through dinner, through the night, and before dawn, when they were both startled by a loud sound outside, overhead.
    â€œIt sounds like a million pigeons,” Faith said. “Or bats.”
    He was spooned against her, with a sheet, a blanket, and the quilt over them to ward off the chill air.
    â€œIt’s not pigeons or bats.” Karl groaned. “It’s archangels. Michael is here, and he must have brought some pals with him.”
    â€œMichael?” She rubbed her butt against him.
    For the first time in the past thirteen hours, his enthusiasm did not rise to the occasion. He’d forgotten that Michael was coming. Now there was an erotic buzzkill!
    â€œMichael the Archangel. Remember, I told you about him?”
    She turned so that she could look at him in the dim light. “You were serious? About all that vangel/demon/vampire stuff.”
    â€œSerious as . . .” He lifted the covers to stare at their nude, much-­sated bodies, “ . . . sin.”
    â€œAre we in trouble?” she asked, repeating an earlier question
    He gave her the same answer as before, “I am.”
    And, man, was that an understatement, he soon found out. Hell hath no fury like an archangel with a bone to pick, the bone being Karl.

 
    Chapter Eight
    Angels we have heard on high, and down below, too . . .
    E VEN THOUGH HE’D arrived at dawn, it was late morning before Michael called for a meeting of the vangels.
    Before that, Karl took a tray upstairs for Faith, with coffee, orange juice, two buttered croissants, and a banana. He urged her to stay put unless she was invited to come downstairs.
    â€œWill I be invited? I’ve never met an angel before. Except for you, and you’re just an almost-­angel.” At his raised brows, she added, “I’m not saying this right.”
    â€œI understand perfectly,” he said, and kissed her lightly. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
    Not being a VIK, Karl was able to step back and observe, for the most part. First, Michael had been engaged in a closed-­door meeting with Vikar, while Gabriel, who’d accompanied him, was in the dungeon . . . uh, basement, discussing training exercises with some of the newer vangels. Rafael led a prayer ser­vice in the chapel and listened to some of the hymns they’d been rehearsing for the Christmas Eve ser­vice. After that, they all attended Mass, celebrated by Father Bernard, who’d come up from St. Vladamir’s, followed by a hearty workman’s breakfast for the archangels . . . sausage, bacon, fresh-­baked rolls, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and toast . . . served by Lizzie and her helpers, who were clearly suffering hangovers. Once the