Big Bad Beast

CHAPTER 4

Rory Lee Reed was lying in his bed, wondering how much longer he’d have to sit here and hold this full-human female, when—finally!—his bedroom door slowly creaked open.

The full-human raised her head from his chest and, in a panicked whisper, “Rory . . .” She tapped his shoulder. “Rory. Wake up!”

He pretended to come awake, and looked across the room at Dee-Ann. She stood in his doorway, one denim-clad leg crossed over the other, Big Betty—the name he and his brothers had given her bowie knife—in one hand while she cleaned under the fingernails of the other.

“Dee . . . Dee-Ann? What are you doing here?”

“Came for my man,” she growled low and turned her head a bit so the early morning light made the yellow of her eyes stand out that much more. And, if he didn’t know her, he’d be terrified.

Heh.

“You told me you were single,” the full-human accused.

“Uh . . . well . . .”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said quickly and Rory stopped just short of rolling his eyes. She was one of those.

“You need to roll up out of here, darlin’,” Dee explained in a slow drawl. “Before I start gettin’ cranky.”

“Rory’s with me now,” the full-human told Dee. “I’m sorry if that hurts, but that’s the way it is.”

Dee’s eyes flicked over to his and without saying a word, he begged, Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.

They’d only been on three dates! Three dates that led to one night of solid, entertaining sex. But, as was the way with some of these full-humans, that was sometimes enough.

His daddy had warned him. Warned him but good. “Stay away from the full-humans, boy. They’re clingy and don’t know when to walk away. They’ll put up a fight.”

Of course, that warning came when Rory was sixteen. He was now thirty-five and, he just decided at this moment, way too old for this shit. By the time his daddy was his age, he had a mate, four healthy pups, and a decent business to keep them all going. And what his father hadn’t needed at the age of thirty-five was his best friend trying to help him get rid of his latest conquest . . . who wasn’t much of a conquest anyway. She’d practically dived into his bed.

“You gonna take care of our six kids, too?” Dee asked.

Six? Good Lord.

The full-human blinked. “Six?”

Tapping her knife against the tip of each finger, Dee named each imaginary offspring. “There’s Benny Ray, Johnny James, Jackie Duke, Juney Peach”—Juney Peach?—“Sadie Mae, and Sassy. She’s gonna be our pageant queen, ain’t she, Rory Lee?”

“You have six children?” the full-human demanded.

“And each one gets child support,” Dee added. “A real good amount, too. And with the oldest only seven . . . that’s a whole bunch of years of financial care he owes us. Ain’t that right, Rory Lee?”

Rory stared at the full-human and answered, “I take care of my kids.”

The poor room service waiter looked absolutely terrified when an hysterically laughing Rory answered the door. And with Dee on the couch laughing so hard she had tears, he placed the tray, got the signature from Rory, and took off.

“Juney Peach?”

Arms around her stomach, Dee replied, “Couldn’t use names of my kin. Didn’t know if she’d met them or not.”

Dropping on the couch across from her, Rory shook his head. “That’s it, Dee-Ann. I’m not doing it anymore.”

Wiping tears from her eyes, Dee-Ann sat up. “Not that again,” she sighed. “You always say that and I always end up rescuing your ass the morning after from clingy full-humans.”

“I’m thinking it’s time for me to settle down. I got a good job. The Pack’s in a secure place.” He looked her up and down. “You busy?”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“You’re not still waiting for love are you?”

“When was I ever—”

“Third grade. ‘Rory. One day I’m gonna find true luuuuuuvvv. ’ ”

“I never said that.”

“Mind like a steel trap. Trust me, darlin’. You said it. Meant it, too.”

“I meant lots of things when I was in third grade. So did you. If I recall, you were gonna be ‘president of this here United States.’ ”

“I still could be.”

“That’s all we need. A Reed in the White House.”

“I’d make you my Secretary of Defense.”

“You’d better.” Dee glanced at her watch. “Shit. I gotta eat and get out of here.”

“Work?”

“I’m working with KZS now.”

Rory laughed. “Kitty, Inc.? Have fun with that.”

“More like watch my back.”

“If you’re worried, why are you—”

“Too much to explain. Not in the mood.” She dug into her bacon and waffles and no, it wasn’t nearly as good as Ric’s.

“Call me if you need something. Things are kind of quiet right now at the office, so I have time.”

“Everything all right?”

“Things have definitely slowed down, but we are still getting more work than most agencies. I think things will pick up when Bobby Ray’s back at the office full time.”

“He’s not?”

“Spending time with his pup.”

Dee wasn’t surprised by that. Wolf males often invested as much time in their pups as the females.

“What about Mace?”

“He’s got the name that gets the wealthy in, but his personality . . . we’re better with Bobby Ray handling that end.”

“You do it. Until Bobby Ray gets back.”

“Me? Why me?”

“You’re as smooth as Bobby Ray, and don’t pretend you’re not. At least don’t pretend to me.”

Dee glanced at her watch again, shoveled the rest of the food into her mouth, followed by a few gulps of scalding hot coffee.

“All right. Gotta go.”

“See ya.”

Dee left her friend’s hotel room and headed out. She wasn’t looking forward to this day, but the faster she could get it over with, the quicker she could be done with Marcella Malone.

Ric was on his computer, playing with his money in his home office, when Mrs. M. walked in. She’d been Ric’s housekeeper for years and she always took good care of him. She was older now, though, and only worked three days a week, but that was okay with Ric. When one found good staff, especially staff that made the best soda bread and brisket this side of Ireland, one remained flexible.

“Your mother’s here.”

Ric looked up from his financial reports and he knew he was frowning.

“Are you too busy?” she asked.

“No. No, of course not. Just give me a minute.”

“Of course.”

Ric piled together all the paperwork and put it away in his big safe. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his mother, but if she was coming to see him, unannounced, it most likely involved his father. And Ric would rather that she didn’t see anything his father would feel the need to drag out of her. His mother was not a very good liar and his father always knew when she was hiding something.

He was back at his desk when Jennifer Van Holtz walked in.

“Ulrich.”

“Mom.” He came around his desk and kissed both her cheeks. “You look wonderful.”

“Thank you.”

He held a seat for her and she sat down. Rather than return to his own chair, he rested his backside against his desk and smiled at her. “So what brings you here?”

When she twisted her hands in her lap and looked away, Ric answered for her. “Dad?”

“Well,” she began, “you two have never gotten along and he thought it might be better coming from me.”

“What might be better?”

“You know your father has always wanted to try his hand at something a little different.”

“Like being a coroner?”

First she looked stern, then she gave a little laugh. “I meant with his restaurants.”

“That’s down to Uncle Van.” But why Alder Van Holtz would want to change the theme of their restaurants when they were doing so well, Ric didn’t know. To quote Dee-Ann, “If it ain’t broke, leave it the hell alone.”

“He knows that. But nothing can stop him from doing something on his own.”

“Absolutely.”

Ric did all sorts of things on his own and Uncle Van never once complained, which he appreciated.

“And he has some backers already who are more than willing to invest in a new restaurant.”

“A new restaurant? Now?” In this economy? Ric was just grateful the Van Holtz Steak House and Fine Dining chain was doing so well despite everything else that was going on. But shifters did like their “natural” foods, as they called it. Polars wanted their seal blubber, lions wanted their gazelle legs, wolves wanted their deer marrow. . . .

“I know it sounds very challenging. He understands that, but he’s really got some great ideas and plans—”

“But?”

“He could use another backer.”

“Preferably his son, who he probably won’t bother paying back because he wants to believe that my money is his money?”

“Ulrich—”

“Mom.” He crouched in front of her and took her small hands into his own. “I know you want to help him, and maybe he’s got the best idea for a new restaurant chain that will make him a ton of money. And maybe it would be something I’d love to invest in . . . if I trusted him. I don’t trust him.”

“He’s your father.”

“He hates me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Mom.” Ric laughed. “Come on. You sent me to Uncle Van’s every summer rather than risk me spending days home alone with just him and Wendell while you were out. Probably because you were afraid of what he’d do while you were gone.”

She snatched her hands back from his and stood, stepping away from her son. “Ulrich Van Holtz! That is a horrible thing to say about your own father.”

Ric stood, shrugged. “But not exactly inaccurate.”

Dee walked into the Group offices cafeteria and immediately noticed how quickly all conversation stopped.

“What now?” she asked the room.

One of the coyote weapons technicians, with his legs up on one of the tables, grinned at her and asked, “You’re working with KZS?”

“Yeah. And?”

“You? You?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I work with the worthless, lazy evil felines around here all the time. It don’t make me no nevermind.”

“Perhaps,” one of the cheetahs sweetly suggested, “referring to felines as lazy and evil—”

“Don’t forget worthless,” Dee reminded her with a smile.

“Right. Perhaps . . . that might suggest that you, of all beings on this planet, shouldn’t be working with the pro-feline, noncanine-fan Katzenhaft members.”

“But why? When I’m willing to overlook y’all’s flaws and annoying feline habits?”

“This isn’t just some feline,” a sloth bear pointed out over canine laughter. “This is Bare Knuckles Malone. She used to play with the Nevada Slammers before she came out here. She ranks third in all-time penalty minutes behind The Marauder and that polar bear who tore off a hyena’s jaw with his teeth.”

Dee sweetly crossed her hands over her upper chest. “Are y’all worried about me?”

“No,” the entire room kicked back, making Dee laugh until that hand slammed down on her shoulder, nearly ripping it out of her socket.

“Smith,” Malone said, smiling.

“Malone.” Dee glanced at the hand gripping her shoulder. “You wanna keep those fingers, feline?”

“You wanna take your best shot, backwoods?”

“Wait, wait,” a male wolf injected. “Don’t do this . . .” He stood. “Until we pull the tables back.”

Blayne Thorpe wiggled her cute little butt out from under the restaurant’s kitchen sink. “All done!”

Ric finished up the eggs, bacon, and toast, and placed it on the counter where Blayne would have her late breakfast.

“Thanks for getting here so quick,” he said, before wiping down his pans. “We’re completely booked for lunch and dinner, so a backed-up sink would have killed us.”

“No problem.” Blayne scrubbed her hands clean before hopping up on a stool and enjoying her food while watching Ric’s crew get ready for their lunch service. She managed to light up the room without being intrusive. It was definitely a gift, especially in a busy restaurant kitchen.

“So,” she asked, “are you going to give your dad the money?”

Ric rested his elbows on the counter and his chin on his raised fists. “No, which is going to irritate him.”

“But don’t you have to give him what he wants when he asks for it? Isn’t that Pack rules or something?”

“Not unless you no longer want to have a Pack.” Although Blayne was half wolf, her father hadn’t been part of the Pack since she’d been born. The Magnus Pack Alphas—like most wolf Packs at the time and some still today—refused to let him stay if he insisted on keeping Blayne. So she had little experience with Pack law. She did, however, have a great father. Moody, a tad terse, but he loved his daughter. Ric briefly wondered what that was like—to know your father loved you. “Due to the opposable-thumb flaw all shifters have, you take a huge risk that they might leave the Pack if you attempt to abscond with their money.”

“Aaaah. I forgot about the opposable-thumb flaw.” She held up her hands, wiggled her thumbs. “Damn these thumbs. Damn them!”

Ric laughed, so glad now that he’d had sink problems. Blayne always had a way of getting his mind off . . . well, pretty much everything.

“So here’s my plan,” she said, pouring herself more orange juice. “July Fourth is coming up and I’m thinking about getting Bo to throw a party for all my friends. Doesn’t that sound great?”

“Why would you do that to us, Blayne?” Ric asked honestly. “You know we love you and you abuse that by trying to force us to spend time with that cretin.”

“He is not a cretin. He’s misunderstood!”

“I’m surprised his knuckles aren’t dragging on the ground and that he can create whole sentences with subject-verb agreement.”

She shook her finger in his face. “I will make you and Lock and Bo get along. Nothing will stop me from making you three the best of friends!”

“You mean besides my and Lock’s moral outrage on Novikov’s existence on this very planet? Allowed to breathe our precious air?”

Blayne’s lips twisted briefly before she asked, “Can’t you just say you find him annoying?”

“I find Lock’s insistence I don’t put enough honey in my honey glaze annoying. I find Novikov offensive and barbaric.”

Blayne let out a big sigh. “Yeah . . . so does everyone.”

“But everyone loves you,” he reminded her.

“Of course, they do. I’m Blayne.” She grinned. “They can’t fight my charm.”

At that point, they both started laughing and it took them forever to stop.

They had each other in a headlock when the front desk admin, Charlene, walked into the cafeteria. “Dee-Ann!”

“What?”

“Detective MacDermot’s here. And you know there’s no interspecies fighting allowed on Group territory.”

Dee and Malone immediately separated and Dee said, “We weren’t fightin’. Right, Malone?”

“Right. We were . . . training.”

Charlene folded her arms over her chest. “Training? Really?”

“I’m hearin’ tone,” Dee warned. She motioned to the door with a tilt of her head and headed out of the cafeteria. “Where’s MacDermot?”

“Waiting out front for you—and you did hear tone,” Charlene called after her.

Dee was passing one of the training rooms when Malone caught the sleeve of her denim jacket. “You’re gettin’ them kinda young, Smith.” Malone motioned to the young hybrids getting trained in hand-to-hand combat.

“Those are kids we’ve been finding around town.”

“Shouldn’t you take them to social services or something?”

“They’re hybrids.”

“All of them?”

“Yep.”

“Were they all used for fighting?”

“Just a couple. Like that girl sitting in the corner, glaring at us through the glass?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s Hannah.”

Malone glanced at Dee. “You brought her back? ’Cause she looks a little . . .”

“Dead inside?”

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t have much choice. Couldn’t handle the whining.”

“She whines?”

“Not her, but a teacup poodle.”

“Canines have teacup poodle shifters now?”

Dee was about to answer, then realized it was a stupid conversation, and instead just walked away. She went out the front doors and immediately smiled. “Who is that handsome cat?” she asked, reaching down to pick up the young cub who’d charged into her legs.

She tossed Marcus Llewellyn high in the air, loving the laughter she got from him.

“Not too high,” Desiree squeaked. “As we’ve found out a few times, too high and he’ll hook himself to overhangs.”

“Are you still bringing that up?” Mace Llewellyn demanded, coming around the couple’s car to give Dee-Ann a hug and kiss.

She still remembered the day the cat rolled into Smithtown, with Dee’s cousin Bobby Ray, acting like he owned the joint. Although he had the protection of Bobby Ray, Mace didn’t really need it. He’d grown on them all and was like family. Hell, Sissy Mae, Bobby Ray’s baby sister—and the single living reason Dee-Ann got into so much trouble when she was growing up in Smithtown—was godmother to Marcus.

“Mace, this is Marcella Malone.”

He shook Malone’s hand. “Bare Knuckles. I heard you’re with the Carnivores now with Novikov.” Mace gave a little laugh. “Didn’t you get into a fistfight with him after a game?”

Malone scowled. “That fucker pitched me into and through the glass in front of the penalty box during the game. So afterward I hit him in the nuts with my stick and spit in his face. And he threw his fox goalie at me! Skates first. Hit me right in the head. I was out for like twenty minutes and you can still see the scar from where the goalie’s skate split my head open.” She shrugged and added casually, “But we get along now.”

“Let’s go,” Dee said, exhausted just from hearing that stupid story.

She handed Marcus back to Mace. He took his son, but leaned down and whispered into her ear, “I don’t actually have to tell you that you’d better watch out for my wife, do I? Or how much I’ll hurt you if anything happens to her?”

“Mace Llewellyn, are you tryin’ to sweet-talk me? Right here with your wife staring at us?”

“Stop threatening people, Mace,” Desiree told him, well aware of the Smith female “code” when it came to their friends’ mates. Besides, Desiree knew her husband well.

“He’s just watching out for you, Desiree.” Dee patted Mace’s arm. “Bless his heart.”

Mace growled. “I know that’s not a compliment, Dee-Ann.”

Although he’d managed for an entire hour not to let one puck get by him, it was the one that did finally get past him that had Novikov screaming about what an idiot he was and how he would never amount to anything if he didn’t play like he had some “purpose.”

Ric, used to it by now, let the oversized hybrid rant like they were playing for the world playoffs rather than merely getting in some early ice time before the rest of the team came in. But when he saw Lock speeding across the ice, Ric scrambled to get between the two. He barely managed, Lock reaching over Ric’s head to shove Novikov and Novikov reaching over Ric’s head to shove the grizzly back.

“Can we not do this?” Ric demanded. “There are kids watching!”

“They have to learn sometime,” Novikov spat out. “Either they’re winners or they’re losers! There is no second place except for loser grizzlies!”

Lock roared, his grizzly hump growing under his practice uniform.

“Cut it out!” Ric ordered, expecting them to actually obey. Not only because as team owner he could fire them both—something he’d most likely never do—but because he was also team captain. That meant something!

“Novikov, run drills.” As it was something that the man did obsessively anyway, Ric knew it would be done without question. And, with a little snarl, the Marauder skated off to run his precious drills.

“Why do you put up with him?” Lock demanded once Novikov was at the other end of the ice.

“Because he’s one of the best players of all time, because we win, because—”

“Blayne would hysterically sob if you traded his ass?”

Ric couldn’t lie to his best friend of twenty years. “Yes.”

“Your weakness sickens me.”

“I know. But if Blayne Thorpe was miserable, she’d cry about it to Gwenie, who’d complain about it to you, and then you’d make me hire Novikov back anyway.”

Lock’s grizzly hump quickly deflated. “You’re right.”

“I know. But we can be weak together. Besides, even that Neanderthal can’t ignore the pitiful tears of a wolfdog.”

“True.”

Ric patted Lock’s shoulder. “Do me a favor. Go run some drills with him until the team gets here. Keep him busy and out of my hair.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Lock put on his helmet and gazed down the length of the ice as if Ric had just asked him to face an entire army of samurais completely alone.

While his friend skated into battle, Ric left the rink and went into the team’s locker room.

“Hey, Bert,” he said to the black bear tying up his skates, and the only other player there.

“Hey.”

Ric walked past him and to Novikov’s locker. He played with the new lock the hybrid had just purchased, opening this one as easily as he’d opened the others. Once inside his locker, Ric proceeded to move around all his meticulously laid out items, including shampoo, soap, razor, bandages. He took his time, enjoying what he was doing as much as he enjoyed making a really good crème brûlée. Once he felt he’d done enough, he closed up and engaged the lock.

Bert watched him until he was finished, then remarked, “You’ve got kind of a mean streak, Van Holtz.”

“Only a little one.”

“True.” Bert got to his feet. “You could have pissed in his locker instead and we both know he would have spent hours cleaning it up.”

“Don’t tempt, Bert. Don’t tempt.”

Van buried his face in his hands and sighed—loudly.

He’d come to loathe these meetings with the Board, the representatives of every major Pack, Pride, and Clan, as well as some reps for the non-social breeds. The meetings were long and tedious but he wasn’t ready to step down from his position for no other reason than he didn’t trust any of these people to do what had to be done. The grizzly and black bears with their philosophical debates. The polars with their inability to take anything seriously. The lions with their blatant boredom. The tigers and leopards with their constant plotting. The foxes with their sticky fingers and the wild dogs with their patience-rendering goofiness. And then there were the wolves. His own kind. Even the damn boardroom table was merely another area for them to fight over territory. He’d become so fed up with the constant snarling and snapping that he’d actually outlawed it during meetings. It was the only way to get through these things in a somewhat timely manner.

“Is there anything else?” he asked over the current argument. And what were they all arguing about? Where to hold the next Board meeting. The Magnus Pack was down for Arizona so they could attend a thousand-mile ride with a bunch of other lowlife bikers. The Löwes wanted to meet in Germany, probably for the multi-band rock concert that happened every year. The Llewellyns wanted to go to the French Riviera, and several of the grizzlies, polars, and a couple of tigers wanted to go to Siberia—because that would be fun.

“Yeah,” Anne Hutton, a middle-aged tigress from Boston who made most of her money by laundering gangster cash, said. “What’s going on with all that half-breed shit in New York? And why are we giving so much money to the Group? Your Group?”

“It’s hybrid, you fucking idiot,” said the always delicate Alpha Female of the Magnus Pack, Sara Morrighan. She reminded Van of a dog that had been kept in a cage twenty-four-seven for the first half of its life until someone had let it out in the backyard to go completely wild. “Half-breed is rude.”

“Shut up, Fido, no one’s talking to you,” Hutton shot back.

“Don’t you have a hairball to cough up?”

“All right,” Van cut in. “That’s enough.” He held his hand out and his assistant placed the file he’d brought with him. “And why we’re putting so much money toward this situation is simple.” He pulled out the stack of photos and tossed them across the glossy table. Some glanced, but quickly looked away. Others leaned forward to take a longer look. Some didn’t look at all.

“There are so many,” Morrighan whispered.

“Too many.” Van gestured to the photos. “And we can’t let this go on.”

Slinging her arm over the back of her chair, Hutton said what Ric was sure many of the others were thinking. “They’re mutts. Are we really going to go through all this effort for mutts?”

Van saw Morrighan’s left eye twitch the tiniest bit. The only sign she’d show just before she went completely postal and attempted to kill everyone in the room. Holding his hand up to stop her, he said, “They start with them, but they’ll end with us. We protect all of us. You. Them. All of us.” He grabbed one of the pictures: a lovely shot of a young female dog-tiger hybrid torn in half with her insides spread out across the dirt floor she’d died on. “This is Trisha Barnes. She worked full-time as a waitress in a diner and went to nursing school in the evening. One night she was snatched off the street and used as a bait dog for the screaming entertainment of a myriad of scumbags.” He picked up another photo. He knew the victim in each one. Had studied the information about each, knew how they’d died, how they’d suffered. And he’d done all that just for this reason. For what was happening right here—at this moment. “This is Michael Franks. A mechanic. Had a wife and four pups. His injuries were so bad, we were forced to put him down on-site.” And another picture. “And this is—”

“All right. All right.” Hutton cut in, waving her hand dismissively. “I get your point. God, you’re such a drama wolf.”

“But now that Katzenhaft is involved,” Matilda Llewellyn suddenly volunteered, “perhaps they can take the lead—and the financial hit.” Matilda was one of those ancient shifters who just wouldn’t die. She-lions had a tendency to live a long time anyway and Matilda seemed to be ready to outlast everyone if she could manage it. Van was afraid that she could manage it quite nicely at the rate she was going.

“Katzenhaft is involved now?” Melinda Löwe sat up straight. “Katzenhaft doesn’t get involved in anything to do with hybrids.”

“Apparently their philosophy has changed—as has ours. And perhaps you should talk to your niece Victoria, since she runs KZS.”

Melinda, who’d known him for what felt like centuries, rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, Van. This is KZS we’re talking about. Even the Prides don’t have control over them.”

“That’s probably why they get things done,” Clarice Dupris of the Dupris hyena Clan muttered loud enough for everyone to hear.

Seeing where this would quickly be heading, Van stood. “Meeting adjourned. Because I’m rather sick of all of you right now.”

With shrugs and eye rolls, the predators he was forced to work with for the good of his kind, got up and headed out for the lunch he had set up in one of his Pack’s restaurants on the top floor of this Chicago hotel. Really, Van would rather get to his jet and head home to his wife, kids, and kitchen, but he’d make it through lunch. That was the great thing about predators—little talking while they ate, and they all ate quickly. In another hour, he would be heading home.

Thinking about that, he motioned to his assistant and began to pull the papers together when Matilda made her slow way to his side with the help of a cane and one of her young great nieces.

“So young Niles,” she greeted, flashing those fangs that could no longer retract. That’s how old she was. It was like she was turning into a very large and lean cat full time. It was weird. Even for fellow shifters . . . it was weird. “How’s it going with that She-wolf? Egbert Smith’s daughter.”

“She’s working out well.” Matilda always had problems with the hiring of Eggie Smith and then Eggie Smith’s daughter. Van didn’t know why, nor did he care. What Matilda always failed to understand was that sometimes one needed killers when they were protecting more than a few dollars in the bank or some jewels in a safe. And Eggie and Dee-Ann Smith were both born killers.

“Best watch her, though,” Matilda warned, slowly moving around him, and heading toward the door. “Just like her father, she kills for fun.”

Van’s assistant stood next to him and noted, “You didn’t really argue that point with her, did you?”

“There’s no point in arguing the truth.”