Free Christmas in Transylvania by Sandra Hill Page A

the lit Christmas tree.
    There was a communal sigh of appreciation from the vangels still in the room.
    â€œIs the star straight?” Vikar asked from the top of the tall extension ladder.
    â€œPerfect,” Alex replied. “Come down from there now before you fall and break your head.”
    â€œWill you kiss it better?” Vikar waggled his eyebrows at his wife.
    She laughed.
    â€œI’ll kiss it better, Poppa,” Nora offered.
    â€œI’ll give you a hug,” Gunnar said. “Hugs are more manly. Uncle Trond said so.”
    â€œUncle Trond is full of . . . feathers,” Vikar said, coming down the ladder. “Let’s go wash our hands before dinner. Mine are covered with pinesap, and you two look like you’ve eaten half the candy canes already.”
    â€œIs my tongue pink?” Gunnar asked, sticking out his tongue.
    â€œYou have sticky stuff on your nose,” Nora pointed out.
    â€œSo do you.”
    They both grinned impishly, and said, “Cool!”
    When they’d gone, Alex came over and sank down into the other wingback chair.
    â€œThe tree is beautiful. In fact, the whole room seems magical,” Faith said.
    â€œIt does, doesn’t it?” Alex agreed. “Well worth all the trouble I had convincing my husband that we should celebrate the holiday this year. Of course, I never meant to go to this extreme. A small tree. A wreath. That’s as far as I expected.” She shrugged. “Vikings! They never do things halfway.”
    Karl was afraid Faith would use Alex’s mention of Vikings as an opportunity to start grilling them, but all she said was, “You didn’t celebrate Christmas before?”
    â€œWe celebrated Christmas, but in a very subdued sort of way. More the way it should be, I suppose. Midnight Mass, a special meal on Christmas Day, a few small gifts. Nothing like the extravaganza this is turning into. But I wanted to do something more this year, now that the children are old enough to understand.” Alex grinned suddenly. “Who am I kidding? I love the Christmas season. The trees, the holly, the mistletoe, the carols, the religious and commercial aspects. I even like those awful chipmunks.”
    â€œI love Christmas, too,” Faith said in a small voice. “But I never really had that kind of family celebration.”
    Karl and Alex turned to her, waiting for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. The sudden sadness on her face said it all.
    â€œI got a phone call a little while ago from Father Bernard at St. Vladamir’s Church. Vikar is going to have a bird when he finds out,” Alex said to no one in particular. It was as if she was just speaking her thoughts aloud.
    â€œUm, what’s the problem at St. Vlad’s?” Father Bernard had been Bernard Jorgensson at one time, a seventeenth-­century cardinal from Denmark who’d failed to take his celibacy vows seriously enough. He had sired fifteen children. Enough said! You could say he’d earned his fangs the enjoyable way, and his name, as well.
    Drinking the symbolic blood of Christ was an important activity for vangels, with all the obvious parallels to their vampire blood activity, and Father Bernard came often to perform Mass in the castle chapel, whenever he could.
    While Karl had been zoning off, Alex had been talking. “It’s not just that the choir director had a nervous breakdown, but two of the choir members have adult measles, three have the flu, and two quit because they were tired of singing ‘Oh, Holy Night.’ ”
    Karl must have missed the point of Alex’s explanation.
    â€œSo that’s why he asked if the castle choir would sing the Midnight Mass this year.”
    â€œOh, crap!”
    â€œThere’s a castle choir?” Faith asked, duly impressed.
    â€œNot a choir per se, but the men here have marvelous voices.”
    Faith looked at Karl.
    He blushed. “I’m