Santa Viking (7 page)

“Who do you think will be next?” Alinor inquired.

“Your twins?” Tykir said to Eirik and Alinor.

“Sigrud and Sarah,” Alinor agreed.

“Nay, they are too young,” Eirik protested fiercely of his twin daughters, the only children he and Eadyth had together.

Eadyth smiled, knowing they were eighteen, more than a marriageable age. Still, it would be more likely that Emma, Eirik’s daughter by another woman, at twenty-five, would be the more likely bride. However, Emma, who ran an orphanage in Jorvik, had a mind of her own and claimed to have no interest in men. That would change when the right man came along.

“Your son John,” Alinor said softly, taking one of Eadyth’s hands in both of hers. John was Eadyth’s illegitimate child. He was a handsome, brooding man of twenty-six who resided at Hawks’ Lair, almost a recluse. Everyone in the family worried about him. “Yea, we must make John our next project.”

Eadyth remained silent, but her eyes affirmed how much that would mean to her.

Eirik and Tykir just groaned.

Women! Viking men had found through the ages that they could not live with them, as evidenced by their long months a-Viking, but they for a certainty could not live without them.

Someone should warn John.

THE END

(Please continue reading for
A Viking for Christmas
)

When my son Rob was a little boy, he asked, “Mommy, are Santa Claus and God the same person?”

“I like to think they are,” I said.

So, this book’s dedicated to Rob—my rebel—who tries so hard to be a “bad boy,” but will always be a Santa at heart.

Desperation makes for strange bedfellows . . .

Only winos and weirdos shopped at the Piggly Jiggly Supermarket after midnight. But tonight there was also a thirty-year-old desperate woman dressed as Santa Claus.

Correction. A thirty-year-old desperate woman dressed as Santa Claus,
packing a forty-five in her pocket.

As she waited her turn at the service desk, Jessica Jones grimaced at the ludicrous situation she found herself in. It was the “Christmas Curse,” of course. For as long as she could remember, something really awful happened to her during the Christmas season.

She’d thought she was over the bad luck for this year when her fiancé, Burton Richards, dumped her two weeks ago, but uh-uh, the fix she found herself in now was even worse. A definite ten on the Christmas Curse Richter scale.

Jessica hitched up the wide belt beneath her sagging Santa stomach with determination.
Like the old song goes, I
’
m not gonna take it anymore.

A very tall, broad-shouldered woman walked by, swishing her hips in a red nylon mini-dress—not a good choice for a cold Philadelphia winter. Clearly a male, the cross-dresser was probably a prostitute. She
 . . .
he
 . . .
smiled at Jessica and made a kissy sound through thickly painted lips. Criminey, Santa was being propositioned.

Jessica shook her head vehemently.

The hooker shrugged as if to say it was Santa’s loss and walked over to the cigarette rack.

Good grief!

An old man standing in front of her, waiting to have his welfare check cashed, turned and slurred out, “Wha’dja say?”

His boozy breath almost knocked Jessica over. Her knees were knocking together as it was, and her hands were shaking so badly she had to stuff them in her wide pockets. She shifted the pillow higher and felt with her right hand for the pistol nestled against her thigh. Help! This is not happening. “Nothing. Just get moving, okay?”

“Some grumpy Santa you are,” he muttered.

Her eyes darted about the area, casing the automatic exit doors a few feet away. She was the last person in line. The only other person nearby was a gorgeous guy with a long blond ponytail, leaning lazily against the wall, scratching off a lottery ticket. Amazingly, he wore a Santa Claus outfit, too, but his hat, beard, and wig were stuffed in his belt.

He resembled some kind of Norse god with his sculptured cheekbones and clear blue eyes. Thor never looked so good, even in a Santa suit. Norse god, Norse, rather North Pole
 . . .
made sense, she supposed.

The Thor lookalike glanced over at her, gave her a quick once-over, and winked.

Darn! Caught smack dab in the middle of a leer!
Her heated face probably matched her suit. Jessica lifted her chin haughtily and pretended she’d been looking at something else, like the bare wall behind him.
Hah! Who am I fooling? And, Lordy, haven
’
t I had enough of womanizing egomaniacs in my life? I can
’
t believe I
’
m about to perform a criminal act, and I
’
m ogling some lech in costume.

Thor laughed.

She was about to snarl, but it was her turn at the service desk.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward. “Put up your hands. This is a stick-out,” she yelled in a too-shrill voice to the gum-chewing guy behind the counter whose name badge read “Frank Brown, Assistant Manager.” He gulped and swallowed his gum with a squeak.

Thor, who’d been studying his lottery ticket, peered up at her with faint interest through eyelashes that could double for brown feather dusters.
Blond hair, brown lashes, nice!
she thought with what was probably hysterical irrelevance. “Stick-up, baby. You mean stick-up,” he offered helpfully, his lips twitching with amusement.

“This is a stick-up, Frank,” she amended, brandishing her gun.
Thank heavens the thing isn
’
t loaded, or I
’
d be in big trouble.
Pointing the weapon at the smiling Santa, she ordered, “And don’t give me any of your lip, buster, or I’ll wipe you up, too.”

“Wipe out, not wipe up,” the long, tall Santa laughed.

His ridicule made her so mad she clenched her fingers over the gun, which, to her amazement, went off accidentally. And, holy cow, it shot a big hole in the Pepsi machine about three feet to the right of the jerk’s ear.

Her heart slam-dunked to her throat.
Oh, no! Julio told me it wasn
’
t loaded. I even shot it once in the woods and nothing happened. It can
’
t have real bullets in it. It can
’
t.

She took another peek at the Pepsi machine. There was an opening the size of a baseball in the glass front. The bullets were real, all right.
Oh, geez!

Frank screamed.

The hooker called out, “Way to go, big boy! Ho, ho, ho!”

And the Thor-Santa ducked.

Through her peripheral vision she saw a young girl at a cash register, a bag boy, and two customers throw themselves to the floor.

One man cried out, “Oh, God! This is probably one of those maniac postal workers taking us hostage. I’ll miss Christmas with my kids.” Then as an afterthought, he added, “Hallelujah!”

“Do you think we’ll make CNN News?” the female clerk asked. “Wouldn’t ya just know this would happen on a bad hair day?”

“Shit!” Thor exclaimed, his lottery ticket fluttering to the floor. “Are you nuts?”

Her heart was slowing down to a gallop.
Okay, that was a close call, but I
’
m okay now. No serious damage. I can mail a check next week. Calm down.
Pretending that her shot had been deliberate, she threw her shoulders back and aimed directly at the shivering assistant manager, being careful not to touch the trigger again. “You’re next, Frank,
if
you don’t give me my money.”

“An
 . . .
anyth
 . . .
anything you want,” Frank sputtered. He started to stuff bills into a cloth bag.

“No!” Jessica interrupted sharply. “Just thirty-nine ninety-five.”

“Wh-what?” Frank choked out.

Everyone was gawking at her like she was a psycho. She was, of course. “You heard me. Give me thirty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents. And make it quick. I’ve got an itchy thumb here.”

“Trigger finger, sweetheart,” the smirking Santa corrected again, snickering. “You gotta get the lingo right if you’re gonna follow a life of crime.”

She frowned in confusion.

“It’s an itchy
trigger finger,
not thumb,” he explained patiently.

“Thumb, trigger finger, big difference!” she said, waving her gun dismissively at him. “And stop interrupting me.”

“Hey, be careful where you aim that thing,” he growled, edging toward her. He probably planned to tackle her. Not a good idea when the curse was in motion.

“Stay where you are,” she warned, raising the revolver higher.

He stopped, eyeing her warily.

“Thirty-nine ninety-five!” Frank squealed. “Hey, I know who you are. You’re that whacko nun who came in here last week demanding her money back for a defective Buzzy Burp Bear.”

“I am
not
a
nun,” Jessica said weakly.

“Piggly Jiggly has a two-week refund policy,” Frank explained to the wino and Thor, “and the damn nun
 . . .
I mean, the nun
 . . .
had it for a month before she brought it back. Said it wouldn’t burp. Hah! She’d probably been playing it nonstop all that time and wore out its burp battery.”

“A nun?” the wino whimpered, backing away from her as if she had something contagious.

“I am
not
a
nun.”

“Hot damn!” the Santa-with-an-attitude whistled. “A holy bandit!”

“I am
not
a nun.”

“Clara
 . . .
that’s your name, Sister Clara,” Frank chortled. “Boy, you are in
big
trouble, lady. I’m gonna report you to the police
 . . .
and the Pope.”

“I’m not Clara, I tell you. I’m
 . . .
I’m Clara’s hit guy.” She realized her mistake at once, and before Santa could pipe in, she corrected herself. “Hit man.” Then she added, “And I’m not in big trouble, because you owe me
 . . .
I mean, Clara
 . . .
the money for the stupid bear, and that’s not stealing. And I’m going to pay for the damage to the Pepsi machine. So there!”

“And here I thought I was gonna have a dull Saturday night. This is more fun than playing the lottery or doing laundry.”

Jessica gave the crud-that-would-be-a-Viking a withering appraisal. As if he had any difficulty filling his nights! He probably had women lined up with numbers. He probably drove a Porsche. He probably had a penthouse. He probably posed for centerfolds.

Unfortunately, she knew a few guys just like him; in fact, one of them had been her Christmas Curse six years ago. Except he’d looked like George Clooney with a paunch.

The guy’s arms were folded casually across his chest, and he grinned from ear to ear. Even with the padded Santa suit, she just knew he didn’t have a paunch.

“Give me my money,” she demanded, turning back to Frank as she felt the situation deteriorating around her. “I’m not leaving without my thirty-nine ninety-five, dammit.”

“Tsk-tsk, nuns aren’t supposed to swear,” Santa chided.

“Tell it to your reindeer, bozo.”

She had no choice then, she had to show she was in control. She aimed for the Little Debbie cupcake stand over to the left. Although she fired two shots, the second one came up blank. That must mean the gun was empty.

But, more important, instead of hitting Little Debbie, she winged the pyramid display of Buzzy Burp Bears. Immediately, brown fur flew everywhere as stuffed animals careened to the floor, and a chorus of bears began burping to the tune of “Jingle Bells.” It was a scene out of an
I Love Lucy
episode, or her worst nightmare.

Jessica groaned.

Everyone’s mouth dropped open in surprise, including the jerk Santa’s.

“Now
 . . .
give
 . . .
me
 . . .
my
 . . .
thirty-nine ninety-five,” she spat out evenly in her best Clint Eastwood voice, and tacked on in a gravelly rumble, just for effect, “or make my day.”

Frank didn’t hesitate. With quivering fingers he counted out the bills and coins and shoved them across the counter.

She put the money in her pocket and was about to leave when she saw a flash of dark blue race through the exit door.
A security guard.
Immediately, a loud alarm began to ring throughout the store.
Oh, great! What should I do? What should I do?

Jessica tried to think what a genuine robber might do.
A
hostage. I need a hostage.
Quickly, Jessica scanned her possibilities: Frank, the wino, the cross-dresser, the sales clerk, the two customers, or Thor.

“You’re coming with me,” she yelled at good ol’ Thor.

“No, I’m not,” he said, backing up.

“Yes, you are. You’re my hostage.” She leveled her now-empty gun at him—first, at his chest, then lower. Yep, a guy like him would care more about protecting those assets than his heart. Her upper lip curled with disdain. “Listen, Mr. Viking Santa, I’m in the middle of my Christmas Curse, and I’d hate to see your dead body be my bad luck this year.”

“Curse?” Brad barked with disbelief. “You’re pulling a heist because of PMS?”

She blinked at him with confusion. “Oh, you idiot! Not that kind of curse. My Christmas Curse is the real kind—black magic, evil eyes, that sort of thing.”

“Give me a break!”