Page 22 of Kiss of Wrath

“Me?”

“Yep. Our new nanny.”

“A nanny? Are you calling me a goat?”

She closed her eyes and appeared to be counting. When she was seemingly in control of her temper, she explained very slowly, “Well, household manager then. That’s the title the agency gave Aunt Mir. Darla is supposed to keep you company until Aunt Mir can interview you. Aunt Mir said you’re the answer to all our prayers and Darla was to sit on you if you tried to escape, but I think she was kidding. Don’t you?”

“Don’t I what?” Did she really say I am the answer to someone’s prayer? Hardly! More like the opposite. And anyone trying to sit on me is going to have trouble getting me to the floor first.

“Are you a Viking? You look just like those men on that series we watched on the History Channel.”

“Yes, I am a Viking, but I am not a house person, like you mentioned. Nor am I the answer to some fool prayer. You have me mixed up with—” Oh no! Mike, you didn’t!

“Whatever.” The girl, who probably thought he was arguing about the title, not the job itself, was jumping up and down with agitation. “You need to help us. Now! Hurry, hurry, hurry.”

He reached up to pull at his long hair in frustration, but restrained himself. Instead, he fisted his hands at his sides and counted to ten, in Old Norse. “Where is this Darla person?”

From upstairs, he heard a pounding, like someone knocking on wood. And muffled curses.

The girl’s face got red as she looked everywhere except upward.

“What’s that noise?” he asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“It might be Darla,” she said, looking everywhere but up at him.

“Why is she yelling?”

“She might be locked in the bathroom.” Still not making eye contact with him.

“Why?”

“Don’t worry about that now. We have to stop Ben and Sam first.”

With a snort of disgust, he followed the girl through the kitchen, which looked as if a horde of Huns had swept through. There was food and books and a spilled pitcher of some red drink . . . not blood, he was certain. Well, fairly certain. The source of the television sounds came from a small set on the counter showing a lackwit sponge that talked. He’d seen his brother Vikar’s children watching the same show on numerous occasions. And people thought Vikings had been strange for believing in gods and trolls and dragons and such.

Outside, a big white dog, which resembled a polar bear, was barking as it galloped in circles around the backyard, over and over and over. It was being chased by a boy, about eight years old, in a red St. Joseph’s Academy T-shirt who had a running hose in his little hands. Another boy in a blue St. Joseph’s Academy T-shirt, the twin of the hose wielder, was standing over a cold barbecue, striking match after match, trying to set the grill afire. The matches must have been wet because not one of them ignited. Thank God! The two boys were as soaked as the dog. An even smaller boy, about five years old, with blond spiky hair and a freckled face, was bemoaning the fact that he’d been unable to find the gasoline can, so far. And suddenly latched on to Mordr’s thigh was a little girl, about the same size and similar appearance to freckled boy number three. Not identical but possibly another pair of twins. Her hair was long and blond and held off her face with butterfly clips, and she was missing two front teeth. He glanced down and saw her soulful greenish-gray eyes gazing up at him as if he were some hero come to save their personal planet.

“Are you my daddy?” the little one asked.

“Don’t mind Linda. She asks every man that,” Owl Girl informed him.

In that instant, he realized that for the first time in a thousand and more years he was face to face with not only a little girl, roughly the same age as Kata had been, looking for a lost father, but also a boyling, or several boylings, much the same size as Jomar had been. Before their deaths. Blood drained from his head, his legs turned to butter, and he reached out for the door frame to brace himself. “I . . . have . . . to . . . go,” he gritted out.

“You can’t go,” Owl Girl howled. “You’re a Viking. Practically a superhero. You have to help us.”

“He’s a Viking?” all three boys said as one. “Wow!”

The still-running hose was turning the sparsely grassed plot of the backyard into a pool of mud, but none of them seemed to notice, even though they were barefooted.

“We’re getting a Viking for a babysitter!” Red Shirt remarked with obvious pleasure. “Cool, dude!”

“Do you have a sword?” Blue Shirt wanted to know.

“I can’t wait to tell Johnny Severino. This beats his pet snake any day,” said the smallest boy.

“I have to pee,” the gremlin attached to his leg whined.

“You guys are in big trouble!” Owl Girl yelled.