Bite Me

CHAPTER 38

Vic walked into the bedroom they’d been sharing since they’d been at Novikov’s Rhode Island home and found Livy packing up her duffel bag.

“What’s going on?”

“I need to go back. That feline wedding planner is getting way text-bitchy. ‘When are you coming back?’ ” Livy mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “ ‘Should we hire someone else? For what you’re charging, you should be on-call at alllll times.’ ”

Vic sat down on the bed next to her bag. “Are you sure?”

“She may not really sound like that, but she was definitely being text-bitchy.”

“Not that. Are you sure about leaving?”

“I can’t hide out here forever.”

“But,” Vic said, getting to the heart of the matter, “there’s a pool. I love that pool.”

Livy laughed and put her hand on her shoulder. “I know this will be a sacrifice for you.”

“It really will. But for you, I’ll do it.”

Vic watched Livy shove a bag of dirty clothes into her duffel bag then zip it closed. “Livy?”

“Huh?”

“Are you going back to your apartment?”

“I’d rather set myself on fire.”

Startled, Vic laughed out, “Why?”

“It’ll smell like Melly. Smelly Melly. I can’t have her drunken scent surrounding me. I can crash at Toni’s place, though, until I get another place that’s hopefully snake free.”

“Or you could crash at my place,” he offered, trying his best to make it sound casual, even though it wasn’t. “If you want, I mean.”

With a sigh, Livy moved her bag aside and sat down on the bed next to Vic. “But . . .” she said hesitantly, “you don’t have a pool.”

Sadly, it took Vic a little longer than it should have for him to figure out she was joking. And by then, he was just embarrassed, grabbing Livy and yanking her onto his lap.

Vic kissed her neck and tickled her ribs, loving the way she laughed and tried to wiggle away from him until Livy’s mother strode up to the door. The older She-badger had on her mink and held the handle of her bright red travel suitcase, which she rolled behind her.

“I’m leaving,” Livy’s mother announced.

“Bye, Joan.”

Joan sniffed, tossed her hair, and walked off.

“Is she mad?” Vic asked.

“Who knows?”

“Shouldn’t you ask?”

“Except I don’t really care.”

Vic’s cell phone vibrated once, letting him know he’d gotten a text or e-mail, and he grabbed it off the nightstand. He opened a picture that had been sent to him and reared back.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

He sighed. “Well . . . Whitlan’s dead.”

Livy glanced back at him. “What?”

He held up the phone and Livy studied it. “Oh . . . yeah. He sure is.”

“I can’t believe Eggie Smith did this, though.”

“That’s not a Smith move. That’s all honey badger.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know my people. Any other shifter would have gone in, ended Whitlan, moved on. But my people . . . we’re a little petty. Very mean.”

Vic looked back at the picture, studied it a little more. “Livy? What’s that? In the house.”

Livy glanced over, shook her head. “It’s a hole. They burrowed into Chumakov’s house. Who knows what they did once they were inside.”

“So, we’re actively pissing off Chumakov now?”

“My family is, apparently. I’m just trying to get ready for this wedding.” Livy stood, picked up her bag. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I’m done with hiding.”

It took Chumakov more than two days to get home, including delays and a snowstorm that hit part of Eastern Europe. But when he stepped out of his car and saw Frankie Whitlan hanging upside down and skinless from the front of the house, all his travel exhaustion went away.

It wasn’t that Whitlan had meant much to him beyond always providing the best entertainment. He could find anyone to do that. But he’d given Whitlan his protection. The protection of Rostislav Chumakov. That meant something. Or, at least, it used to.

But that girl was still alive, from what he’d heard. Whitlan was dead. And everyone now knew it.

“Hey, Chumakov,” one of the bears from a nearby village called out. “Nice decorations!”

The other bears who’d come to see Rostislav Chumakov’s shame laughed.

“Papa,” his eldest urged. “We should go.”

“No. I want to see all of it.”

Rostislav walked into his home. There were holes torn into the foundation where the disgusting animals had dug through. Furniture had been pissed on. The lesser artwork he had acquired because he just liked the pieces had been slashed with claws. The expensive pieces had been taken. The electronics taken. His safes had been cracked and every bit of cash, gold, diamonds, everything, were gone. All the weapons he had were gone, and he’d had enough to equip an army. Expensive rugs were removed and expensive flooring destroyed.

Nothing, absolutely nothing, had been untouched. Even his pools, his workout equipment . . . everything.

And there were only three bodies here. Whitlan and two of Chumakov’s most loyal men. But the other guards . . . they’d run. Bears had run from rodents.

“They’ve taken everything!” his youngest son yelled as he charged back into the room. “Even the paintings downstairs.”

The artwork that Rostislav obtained through the black market, he kept in a special vault room. But the thieves had gotten in there, as well.

His eldest was busy on his phone and announced, “They cleaned out our bank accounts.”

“The Moscow banks? That doesn’t matter.”

“All the accounts, Papa. They cleaned out all our accounts.”

Of course Rostislav had money that was in no bank. He had gold and silver. He had businesses. He had other homes. But none of that was the point. The fact that he was still rich meant nothing when he could hear the laughter of his neighbors outside. Mocking him.

And that, more than anything, was something Rostislav Chumakov would not stand for. Not now. Not ever.