CHAPTER
4
R ory 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.”