Big Bad Beast

CHAPTER 27

Van opened his front door and let out a little sigh. “Dee-Ann.”

“Mr. Van Holtz.”

“How are you?”

“Feelin’ pretty fine.”

“Is Ric with you?”

“He’s around.” They gazed at each other and Van knew what he saw: that the cold, bloodthirsty, deadly spawn of Eggie Ray Smith loved Van’s favorite cousin.

Why, oh, why, did these things happen to him?

“Would you like to come in?” he finally—and grudgingly—asked.

“Thank you kindly.”

She stepped inside, those dog-yellow eyes taking everything in. “Nice digs.”

He nearly shuddered. “Thank you.”

Ric stepped through the doorway, carrying two small duffle bags.

“Uncle Van!”

Grinning, feeling pure joy at seeing his cousin alive and well, Van hugged the kid right off his feet.

“I’m so glad to see you, Ric.”

“I’m glad to see you, too.”

Van released him and took a step back. “You’re all right?”

Ric’s gaze moved across the hallway floor to the She-wolf wandering along, studying the pictures on the walls. “I’m doing great.”

Van’s eyes crossed. “You’re such an idiot.”

Ric grinned. “I love you, too, Uncle Van.”

Dee went around a corner, wondering if there was a bathroom nearby, and came face-to-face with a full-human female. She had ice blue eyes and curly dark brown hair that had streaks of grey throughout. The hair was thick and she wore it on top of her head in a loose ponytail. They gazed at each other for several long seconds until the female asked, “Are you doing that on purpose? With your eyes?”

“No, ma’am. Born this way. Just like my daddy.”

“Really? Fascinating. And your height? Is that normal for your kind or are you freakishly built?”

“Irene,” Niles Van Holtz said from behind Dee.

“What? I didn’t ask for a blood sample this time.”

“Dee-Ann Smith, this is my wife, Irene Conridge-Van Holtz.”

“Ma’am.”

“You’re a Smith?” She studied Dee a little more. “I thought they were to be killed on sight,” she said to her husband.

“Irene.”

“Why do I keep hearing that tone?” She looked at Dee. “Was I offensive to you?”

“Not so’s I’d notice.”

“See?” she smirked. “Not so’s she’d notice.” Dee chuckled and watched the female move around her. “Ulrich?”

“Hi, Aunt Irene.”

The full-human opened her arms to Ric and he swept her up, hugging her tight. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“And you.”

He placed her carefully on her feet, kissed her cheek.

“You look very good,” she told him. “Your excellent bone structure will help ensure that you’re extremely attractive well into your sixties. Perhaps even your seventies.”

He winked at Dee. “Did you hear that?”

“I’m standing right here.”

“Oh,” the full-human said. “Are you two sexually involved?”

“And we’re done,” Niles Van Holtz announced, catching the hand of his mate and pulling her to his side. “Ric, why don’t you show Dee-Ann your room . . . since I guess you two will be sharing. And meet me in my office after you get settled.”

“Okay.” Ric took Dee’s hand, openly claiming her in front of the Alpha of her Pack’s fiercest enemies, and pulled her toward a big set of marble stairs. They walked up the steps and met an older teenage female coming down. She was pretty, had her daddy’s face but her momma’s eyes. Cold like her momma’s eyes, too.

“Ulrich.”

“Ulva.” He kissed the girl’s cheek. “How are you doing?”

“Well. I head to Oxford in the fall.”

“Oxford? No restaurant time for you then, huh?”

“Not necessary. I received a full scholarship.” She glanced at Dee and Ric introduced them.

“Nice to meet’cha,” Dee said.

“Yes,” the girl replied.

“Uncle Ric!” Dee heard young boys scream down the second-floor hallway and Ric ran up the stairs to meet them, leaving Dee alone with Niles Van Holtz’s only daughter.

They stared at each other until Dee finally warned her, “You ain’t ready for me yet, little girl.”

“I believe you’re right,” she admitted. “But from what I’ve heard about you, I’m surmising I should endeavor to have you as an ally rather than an enemy.”

“Ain’t you a little young to be so . . . conniving?”

The girl gave a little half smile and continued on her way, but Dee heard her when she replied, “Not in this family.”

Dee headed up the stairs and found Van Holtz rolling on the floor with three boys who were slightly younger than their sister.

They all stopped and gazed at her.

“That your girlfriend, Uncle Ric?” one of them asked.

“It is. Isn’t she pretty?”

“Gorgeous,” one of them sighed and all Dee could do was shake her head. Because something was just plain wrong with all the Van Holtz men.

Before involving Dee-Ann, Van wanted to speak with Ric alone.

“Your father,” he said by way of introduction to the subject.

“Yes, sir.”

“Dee-Ann said he didn’t want you dead.”

“No, he didn’t.” Although Ric wasn’t sure if Alder would have minded if it accidentally happened anyway.

“Does he really think that we don’t already know he’s been stealing from the Tri-State restaurants? That we don’t already know what he and Wendell have been doing?”

“I think my father hoped that the distraction of my injuries would have allowed him time to replace what he’d taken. Especially if being incapacitated gave him direct access to all my money. Because once the money was back, he could claim he’d only borrowed it due to an emergency of some kind and he could use any additional cash to help open his restaurant.”

“And Stein?”

“Convenient. Alder has no use for him anyway, so if something had happened to him, it wouldn’t have mattered.”

“It would have mattered to me,” Van said. “The kid needed a wake-up call but he’s still a Van Holtz. He still has our protection.”

“I know.”

“Your father needs to go, Ric.”

“You can’t kill him, Uncle Van. I’m not sure my mother would ever recover from it, and that I can’t allow.”

“You’d fight me on this?”

“If I had to. This is her mate and her firstborn son we’re talking about.”

“I adore your mother, but—”

“Let her move back to Colorado. To be with her Pack. She’d love that and you can explain to Alder and Wendell that they have no choice but to go with her.”

“And what about you?”

Ric frowned. “You’re going to make me move to Colorado?”

“No.” Van chuckled. “I mean, who’s going to take over the Van Holtz Pack in New York once your father’s out?”

“Anyone but me?”

“You’re the most logical choice.”

Ric admitted the ugly truth. “I’d rather set myself on fire and let pit bulls tear my carcass to pieces than be an Alpha.”

“You know, Ulrich, most people just say no.”

Irene sat back and watched her sons watch Dee-Ann Smith make them something as foreign to them as Ancient Egypt—a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Berg, her youngest, observed, “But you didn’t even cut off the crusts.”

“Why would I?”

“And that peanut butter,” Carl pointed out, “it’s the kind we use to get our pet dog to take his pills when he’s sick.”

“What was I supposed to use? That organic crap y’all got?”

“Yes,” all Irene’s sons answered. So much like their father, she already pitied the poor women who’d eventually fall in love with them.

“Shouldn’t you use the homemade jam we make each season?” her middle son Finn asked. “Rather than that store-bought grape jelly?”

“P.B. and J. ain’t supposed to be fancy, boys. It’s supposed to be delicious.”

The abnormally large female cut the sandwich into four pieces and gave one to each before taking one for herself. They all took a bite and she grinned at their appreciative groans. “See?” she said around a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly. “Isn’t that good?”

“And so decadent,” Berg sighed. “I feel like I’m eating evil. Pure, unadulterated evil.”

“But good evil,” Finn added. “The finest evil ever.”

“Come!” Carl, the unabashed history fan and future historical “re-creator” of the lot—an activity Irene had always thought was an incredible waste of time for any human being with a brain—cried out, “Let us tell the others of this glory and what we have learned here today from the enemy She-wolf!”

“Huzzah!” they all cheered and ran out the kitchen back door.

The female turned to her and said, “Bless their hearts.”

Irene had the distinct feeling that wasn’t necessarily an actual blessing, but she couldn’t prove it and she didn’t want to get into a discussion about religion.

“So you’re in love with our Ulrich?” Irene asked, always one to cut right to the heart of the matter rather than dance around it.

“I reckon.”

“You reckon? Is that . . . some form of agreement?”

“Yep.”

“Where are you from exactly?”

“Tennessee.”

“Well, the Southern states are known for their colloquialisms.”

The She-wolf took out more bread and made two more sandwiches, giving one to Irene. She handed it over on a paper towel, turning the sandwich into decadently relaxed dining. Something Irene hadn’t experienced since the eighties when Holtz, her personal nickname for her husband, had made it absolutely clear that peanut butter and crackers—her favorite “work” food—was no longer accepted in his house. It hadn’t stopped her from eating her favorite delicacy, but she often did it when he was out of town on business and there was less chance of her being caught in the act of “betrayal” to his cooking, as he insisted on calling it.

The Van Holtzes took their food very seriously and Irene had come to terms with that. It seemed only fair since Holtz had come to terms with the fact that nine-point-three times out of ten, Irene would insult or completely terrify his friends, Packmates, family members, and business associates. Not on purpose, but still . . .

Irene bit into the sandwich made with average white bread—not sour dough baked fresh that day, but white bread Dee-Ann Smith had brought with her from the nearby 7-11—and relished the taste of generic grape jelly and peanut butter. She ate while Miss Smith found tall water glasses, and took out fresh milk from the refrigerator. She poured them both a glass and joined Irene in eating.

And as Irene neared her last bite, Holtz stepped through the kitchen door, coming to an abrupt halt when he spotted her, his eyes wide.

“What are you eating?” he asked. He made it sound like he’d found her fellating one of his teenage male cousins.

Irene tried to reply around the sticky substance tacked to the roof of her mouth, but it took too long and the enemy She-wolf answered for them both.

“Made a couple of P.B. and J.s for your boys and wife. You want one?”

“Demoness!” Holtz exploded. “Out of my kitchen!”

“Are you trying to sweet talk me?” the female asked and Irene almost choked on her sandwich.

“Ulrich!”

Ulrich rushed into the kitchen. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Look what she’s doing . . . in my kitchen.”

Holtz’s young cousin sighed and shook his head sadly. “Oh, Dee-Ann.”

“What? We were hungry. Ain’t that right, Irene?”

“Starving,” Irene finally managed, enjoying the way her husband’s face turned all red like that. Of course, that could be due to the words the She-wolf was speaking or the fact that she’d sullied up his kitchen counter with jelly and peanut-butter-covered utensils that she hadn’t wiped up as she’d gone along.

Irene secretly admitted that his clear OCD issues surrounding his kitchen still amused her after all these years.

“And we had no clear idea how long you would be in congress with your cousin,” Irene added.

“Then you come get me, woman! You don’t let this She-wolf feed my young, defenseless pups crap!”

Those strange yellow eyes that Irene simply couldn’t get enough of because they were so fascinatingly strange narrowed a bit. “I’m hearing a nasty tone I’m not a fan of.”

“First you seduce my young, hopeless, pathetic cousin,” Holtz accused.

Ulrich glanced up at the ceiling in confusion. “Wait . . . what?”

“And now you come here to seduce the rest of my family with your unhealthy food products?”

“Good Lord, man, it’s a sandwich not some Satanistic ritual callin’ up dark demons . . . which I wasn’t planning to do until midnight or so.” She glanced at Irene and added, “The witchin’ hour.”

Irene laughed and Holtz’s aghast expression had her clearing her throat and honestly admitting, “I find her amusing. But I’m laughing with you,” she told the She-wolf. “Not at you. That’s rare for me.”

“Out of my kitchen!” Holtz ordered. “Everyone out of my kitchen!”

Ulrich went around the kitchen counter and grabbed the She-wolf’s arm, pulling her out of the room. “See everyone at dinner!” he said before the door closed behind him.

“I like her,” Irene told Holtz and when he barked at her in outrage, she did her very best not to let more laughter trickle out. He was—as was she—getting older and she didn’t want him to suffer a stroke from the strain.

Missy Llewellyn lifted her gaze from the paperwork in front of her and blinked in surprise at the sight of her brother standing in her office doorway . . . glaring at her.

She relaxed back in her chair and asked, “What did I say to your precious wife this time to insult her?”

“You haven’t spoken to Dez since the wedding,” he shot back.

“Then I don’t know why you’re standing there—scowling at me.”

“I was going to wait to see how this worked out but I need to ask you something and you need to be straight with me or we’re going to have some real problems.”

Not understanding what in the holy hell her brother was talking about, Missy shrugged and said, “Ask.” So that he could leave more quickly.

He stepped farther into the room. “Have you been financially backing an organization that’s been trapping and using hybrids as fight dogs?”

Missy gazed at her sibling. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Yes, but I believe I must have had an aneurysm while you were speaking because your words made no sense.”

“Don’t fuck around with me on this, Missy. Seriously.”

“And, seriously, I think you’ve lost your mind. Just like our father, apparently.”

“Answer me.”

“No. I have not. It’s true that I don’t want mutts dirtying up the Llewellyn gene pool and I’m at least grateful for the fact that your bride is trash but full-human trash so that my nephew is pure Llewellyn. But other than those issues, I haven’t actively bothered with anyone. I have things to do. This Pride is not easy to run and I don’t have the time to chase around after genetic mistakes.”

“Amazing,” her brother said. “You managed to insult an entire group of people with your open hatred, while at the same time proving that you are, in fact, too lazy to kill off what you term ‘genetic mistakes.’ ”

“And your point?”

“My point is that you have a problem. Because someone is using your name and, more importantly, your bank account to fund this little operation.”

“That’s impossible, Mason. You know how I am about my money. And because this Pride belongs to me, it’s all my money. There is no way that I would not notice if . . .”

When she stopped speaking, Mace moved closer to her desk. “What?”

Missy shook her head, refusing to believe that what she was thinking could remotely be possible. “Nothing.”

“Like hell it’s nothing . . . what?”

“No . . . it’s . . . it can’t . . . it’s not possible.”

“What’s not possible? Talk to me, Missy.”

“No. We will not discuss this further.”

“You don’t seem to understand the situation you’re in.”

“What do you mean?”

“If it’s proven that you’re involved in this, one night you’re going to go to sleep and you won’t wake up again.”

Missy sat up straight in her chair. “And you’d allow them to do that to me? Your own sister?”

“No. But the people who handle this sort of thing know how to bypass people like me and Smitty. So if you know something, you need to tell me. Now.”

“There’s only one other person who has unlimited access to Pride accounts. All Pride accounts.”

He briefly closed his eyes. “Please don’t tell me it’s Allie or Serita.” Their younger sisters.

“No, no. Of course not. Like me, they’re much too lazy to do such a thing. But . . .” She swallowed.

“Who?” Mason pushed. “Spit it out already.”

“Our grandmother. As former head of the Pride, she has complete access and unlimited usage of all our funds.”

Mason dropped into the chair across from her. “Oh, my God.”

“This can’t be right, though, Mason. It can’t. It’s our grandmother. Matilda Llewellyn. Blue blood, actively involved in some of the most prestigious local charities, on the Getty and MOMA board of directors—”

“And one-time Nazi supporter!”

“That was never proven!”

They stared at each other again and then burst out simultaneously, “Oh, my God!”

“Okay, okay,” Mason said. “We can’t panic.”

“But what are we going to do?”

“What can we do if she’s involved in this?”

“Mason, she’s our grandmother.”

“And a sociopath!”

Missy pressed her hand to her mouth. “Could she really?” she asked around her fingers. “Would she really?”

“I don’t know.”

They were silent for several minutes until Missy finally said, “Do whatever you have to, Mason. I will not be a party to this.”

He let out a relieved sigh. “The first sensible thing you’ve said in quite a while.”

“Well, of course. I can’t allow the taint of our grandmother’s involvement in the wiping out of those genetic misdeeds bring down the Llewellyn Pride name if it gets out what that old sow has been up to.”

Mason threw up his hands. “Oh! Well as long as we have our fuckin’ priorities straight!”

“Don’t you dare curse at me, you motherfucker!”