White Hot Holidays 22: 'Twas The Knight Before Christmas

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  ‘Twas the Knight Before Christmas

  ISBN # 1-4199-0478-7

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  ‘Twas the Knight Before Christmas Copyright© 2005 J.C. Wilder

  Edited by Sue-Ellen Gower.

  Cover design by Syneca. Photography by Dennis Roliff.

  Electronic book Publication: December 2005

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Warning:

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This book has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  ‘TWAS THE KNIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

  J.C. Wilder

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Popsicle: Lipton Investments, Inc.

  Cherokee: Daimler Chrysler Corporation

  Chapter One

  “P.A. Norville, please report to Saint Peter’s office immediately.”

  At the sound of Angel Noelle’s smooth voice over the intercom, Probationary Angel Norville sat up with a crash. The front legs of his wooden chair struck the polished floor only moments before the oversized bowl of hot buttered popcorn. The container cracked in half and greasy kernels spilled across the floor.

  “Oh, bother! Mother Teresa gave me that bowl.” With a chubby hand he brushed at his belly only to discover oily yellow stains on his white robes. “Double bother.” His shoulders slumped.

  Saint Peter wasn’t going to be happy with him.

  Popcorn crunched under his Air Jesus sandals when he approached a full-length mirror. Staring into his all-too-familiar face, he grabbed a voluminous sleeve to scrub at his mouth in an effort to remove the buttery residue of his snack. Stepping back, his gaze caught on the slightly tarnished, crooked halo that hung suspended several inches over his head.

  No, Saint Peter definitely wasn’t going to be happy with him.

  Upon entering heaven, probationary angels had two tasks, the first being to earn their halo and the second, their wings. For the first task —all it took to earn the gold circlet was to answer one prayer from the billions received each day. His prayer had been to find a missing cat for a young girl in Kansas. When Sarabeth had awoken to find her missing feline curled up next to her, she’d been ecstatic and he’d been granted his halo.

  No, earning the halo wasn’t difficult, it was keeping the dratted thing straight that caused him difficulties.

  He nudged the halo with one finger. It emitted a soft chime but didn’t budge. His mouth twisted. Most of the other angels had shiny, straight halos while his, even after almost one hundred and forty years in the Angel Realm, still hung at an angle signifying his shame for all to see. Would he ever manage to complete his tasks to the satisfaction of Saint Peter and DAB, the Disciple Advisory Board, and get his halo straightened once and for all?

  Licking his fingers, he began smoothing his unruly blond curls. For most angels, Halo Straightening or, as it was called in the Realm, Going Straight, was a relatively easy process. A tilted halo was earned when an angel bungled a task so badly the backup team was called in to salvage the situation. The only way to correct a halo issue was to complete an assigned task or tasks of goodwill on earth. While he’d had hundreds of assignments so far, very few had turned out as Saint Peter and DAB had wished.

  One of his earliest assignments had been with a young man named Richard, a lost soul in the city of Chicago. Working odd jobs, he was on the verge of succumbing to the darkness of drink and despair. Norville’s assigned tasks were to find him a home, a suitable job and his one true love.

  That was his favorite part, finding love.

  The housing situation had been simple, an older woman by the name of O’Leary had the perfect situation for young Richard. Her guardian angel, Probie Tony and Norville had finagled a meeting between Richard and the kindly older woman when she was in a moment of need. Forever the gentleman, Richard had assisted her home from the greengrocer and she’d learned of his dire circumstances. She’d offered him a small room over the barn in exchange for caring for the animals and other chores around her home. He’d gladly accepted the arrangement and Norville was one step closer to his goal.

  Locating a suitable job was a simple matter of positioning his charge in the right place at the right time. After gently guiding and coaxing Richard into place, he was offered a job working as an apprentice blacksmith, a position for which he was well suited.

  Only one task left.

  The final step hadn’t been as easy as Norville had hoped. In his human life he’d had very little experience with the opposite sex so he’d been somewhat handicapped. One of his coworkers was working with a young widowed woman and her two small children. Seeing the opportunity to save the day for both of them, the angels arranged for Rich and Sarah to meet. Both had been charmed with each other and soon a wedding was being planned for early winter.

  Then came that fateful day, October 8, 1871, when Sarah made a divine fried chicken dinner to take to her fiancé. To this day Norville could still smell that chicken with mashed potatoes, piping hot biscuits and fresh white gravy.

  Too bad Richard hadn’t been quite so eager to see his fiancée.

  Sarah arrived at the O’Leary barn to find her beloved in the arms of another woman. Horrified and outraged, she’d flung the dinner pail at the lovers and stomped away. Bossy, one of the resident cows, had received a splash of hot gravy on her hindquarters causing her to lash out, and her hoof struck a lantern.

  But that wasn’t the end of the story.

  Not only had the barn burned to the ground, it had taken one third of Chicago with it. While humans called it The Great Chicago Fire, the other inhabitants of the Realm referred to it as the Unfortunate Gravy Incident of Seventy One. To this day, on the anniversary of the fire, Norville received thousands of cow pictures via email.

  Heavenly inhabitants had wicked senses of humor.

  “P.A. Norville, please report to Saint Peter’s office immediately.”

  Angel Noelle’s voice carried the merest hint of impatience which sent Norville scurrying to his wardrobe for a fresh robe. He quickly exchanged the stained one for a fresh garment. Pulling
it on as he walked toward the exit, he knew he had to hurry as Saint Peter wasn’t one to be kept waiting. In fact, the man terrified him.

  Opening the door of his cell, he was afforded a breathtaking view of the earth below. His heart swelled as it did every time he looked upon the breathtaking sight. Raising his hand, a small cloud glided up to his door and he stepped aboard for the trip to Corporate Headquarters.

  The breeze was refreshing and he passed hundreds of other celestial beings as they went about their day. Some hung out on various clouds and suspended oases, some lounged, taking a break from their work, while others were in meetings with coworkers. He passed a large group preparing for a heavenly game of soccer while another cloud sported a tremendous crowd of fishermen readying for an expedition.

  Norville waved at friends as his transport whisked him along the heavenly highway—traffic was mercifully light today—toward a large structure on the edge of the horizon. As he drew closer, his heart began to beat a nervous tattoo. In the past few years he’d been here so many times the Archangels knew him by name.

  His transport whisked him straight to the front door, stopping at the feet of Michael. One dark brow rose when the Archangel caught sight of him. Crossing his massive arms over his bare broad chest, he looked down at Norville from his impressive height.

  “Back again, Probie?”

  His booming voice shook Norville’s transport, forcing him to grab the handlebars or possibly topple off the side. For an angel without wings this could be somewhat painful.

  “Yes, well,” Norville forced a jovial smile, “I’m very popular with the in-crowd you know.”

  An attractive smile broke out on Michael’s perfect face. “That’s the attitude, Norville.” He stepped aside. “You can go in now.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to put a good word in for you with Saint Peter.”

  The other angel laughed and Norville, more nervous than ever, scurried into the building. The entry hall, a shimmering expanse of marble and gold, was surprisingly empty for this time of day. As he hurried toward the elevators, he could feel gazes boring into his back from the gallery above. The doors slid open and he was breathless when he stated his destination. The doors shut.

  “You’re late.” Angel Noelle’s voice sounded in his ear.

  “Well, I had to get cleaned up before I could come in.” Checking out his reflection in the gleaming door, he took a moment to straighten his robe. “I was working out. Weightlifting is good for the soul.”

  “Oh, really?” A soft chime sounded and Noelle appeared before him. She was a human’s ideal angel. With her pale blonde hair and blue eyes, her robes were immaculate, her halo shone and her wings were perfectly groomed. She shook her head. “When are you going to learn that you, of all angels, cannot afford to keep management waiting?”

  “Peter and I are like that,” he held up his crossed fingers. “He understands my ways.”

  She rolled her blue eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

  “But I’m popular with the ladies.” He forced a grin though he felt like throwing up. Right now he’d do anything to prevent himself from peeing in his undergarments.

  Wait, had he even remembered to put them on?

  Before he could feel for the waistband, the elevator doors opened and they stepped out into the office of Saint Peter, the keeper of the gates of Heaven. The spacious room was lined with thousands of books, the shelves stuffed to overflowing. What couldn’t fit on the shelves were arranged in untidy stacks on the floor. Stepping around the tottering piles, Noelle led Norville to the desk in the middle of the room.

  Saint Peter himself was seated at the desk, his long gray hair in perfect order and a pair of spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. He was reading from a tremendous tome and his lips moved as he read.

  “Saint Peter, P.A. Norville has arrived, sir,” Noelle spoke.

  Saint Peter looked up, his smile distracted. “Thank you, Angel Noelle. You may go now.”

  She dipped her head toward him then vanished in a faint lavender-scented puff of air.

  “Saint Peter, always a pleasure to see you—” Norville began.

  “Hmm.” One bushy gray brow rose. “I’d heard we were as close as this.” The older man held up his twined fingers.

  Norville blushed. Caught again.

  “Sorry about that, it was a vague attempt at humor.”

  “Yes.” Saint Peter’s head dipped and he stared at Norville over his glasses. “Very vague.”

  His stomach cramped.

  “I have another task for you and this is a very important one.” He slammed the book shut and a clap of thunder rolled through the room. “Do you remember Star Whitefeather from Montana?”

  “Yes, sir.” He nodded. “She was one of Angel Kizzy’s souls. College student hoping to become a social worker and aid battered children, if I remember correctly.”

  “I see you remember her.” Saint Peter gave an approving nod. “Kizzy is busy with another assignment and I need you to help Ms. Whitefeather out of a tricky situation.”

  “Of course, sir, I’d be delighted.” Norville clasped his hands in what he hoped was a serene pose. “Just what would you like me to do for the young lady?”

  Saint Peter removed his glasses and dropped them on the desk. “Ms. Whitefeather has graduated from college and is working for the Department of Children’s Services in Montana. A few hours ago the agency received a call regarding two children in possible danger. This woman takes her job very seriously and since she’s the only one without family waiting for her this evening, she volunteered to investigate the situation. Right at this very moment she’s in her car trying to get home and she’s gotten caught in a snowstorm.”

  “A storm, sir?” His stomach twisted. With his track record Saint Peter had to know that he didn’t handle storms very well. Surely he didn’t forget about the landslides in California only a few years ago—

  “This isn’t a simple storm, Norville. It is a blizzard with near whiteout conditions and your charge is driving in the dark down a mountainside.”

  Norville gulped.

  “I need you to guide Ms Whitefeather to shelter and keep her safe until the storm passes.”

  Well, that didn’t sound too difficult.

  “Consider it done, sir—”

  “Not so fast, Norville. You are also to answer her most ardent prayer, to not spend another Christmas alone.” Saint Peter picked up his glasses. “Just so you know, I received a note from The Big Man about this task. As is His way, each year on the eve of his son’s birth, He selects one special mortal and Star Whitefeather is just that woman.”

  Now he knew he was going to throw up.

  “Isn’t Angel Roscoe available?” He began to wring his hands. “He would be much better equipped for this assignment—”

  “He specifically asked for you, Norville.”

  He gulped again. He wasn’t even aware the Big Man knew his name.

  “Don’t worry, son, I think this job is right up your alley.” Saint Peter gave him a tense smile. “The Big Man doesn’t make mistakes so there must be a reason he requested your services for this task.”

  “I can’t imagine what it would be,” Norville mumbled. “Not unless he deliberately wanted this screwed up.”

  Saint Peter shook his head. “You’re too hard on yourself. Any angel could’ve made the misstep which caused that fire—”

  “What about the Titanic?” Norville’s shoulders slumped.

  Saint Peter nodded. ”That too.”

  “Or the San Francisco earthquake—”

  “You’re not helping yourself, Norville.” His tone was chiding.

  “Yes, sir.” He straightened his spine. His mother would box his ears if she knew he’d slumped in the presence of Saint Peter.

  “Do you understand your assignment, son?”

  “Yes, sir. I am to assist Star Whitefeather to shelter and then answer her most ardent prayer to find love for the holidays.”
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  “Very good, Norville.” He replaced his glasses on the tip of his nose. “Complete this simple task and your halo will be straightened for good.”

  “For good, sir?” His stomach fell. This must a tricky assignment to grant such a large boon for successful completion.

  “Yes, for good.” He opened the massive tome and this time it made a pleasant jingling sound.

  “You can count on me, sir.” Norville started to salute when his voluminous sleeve slapped him across the face. Startled, he jerked backward only to stumble over a stack of books.

  “I got it!”

  He spun and tried to catch the falling volumes. The books landed with a crash and with flaming cheeks he hastily restacked the pile. Turning, he caught the look of long-suffering patience on Saint Peter’s face.

  No, Saint Peter definitely wasn’t pleased with him.

  Chapter Two

  One minute Star was straining to see the snow-covered road ahead and the next her SUV was in a dangerous skid. Without hesitation she countersteered the vehicle, her blood running cold when it failed to respond. A tire slammed into a boulder on the side of the road and her teeth clicked together hard. Her eyes widened when the headlights illuminated a thick row of pine trees that ran along the edge of the road. She’d grown up only a few miles from here and she knew they were the only thing standing between her car and a two-hundred-foot plunge into the valley.

  Wrenching the wheel to the left, the SUV responded sluggishly to slide toward a drainage ditch. Suddenly, as if the car had a mind of its own, it turned and headed toward the trees again. Bile burned her throat at the thought of plummeting into the valley. Her body wouldn’t be found until the spring thaw.

  “I don’t want to die alone, God!”

  Hurtling toward certain death, she swore under her breath as she wrestled with the steering wheel. With only several yards remaining, she was stunned to see the startled face of…Santa Claus?