In a Badger Way

by Shelly Laurenston

  But they both knew he’d also seen too much.

  Just like she had when he’d ended up on the wrong side of seven football players because he’d been fucking around with the wrong girl.

  Max had dragged a naked, sobbing Dutch back to the Pack house to recover. The linebackers had done a number on him, beating him within an inch of his life. Unfortunately, unlike the MacKilligan girls, Dutch was still going through puberty and had no control of his ability to shift. He could barely unleash his claws, much less turn into a vicious wolverine with a thought. To make matters worse, it had been Charlie who’d come to Dutch’s rescue, beating the unholy crap out of the linebackers. Not because she liked or wanted to protect Dutch, but because she was not okay that seven seniors were beating up one sophomore.

  But it hadn’t been seeing Dutch at his worst that had permanently put him in the “love him like a brother!” category. It had been what he did afterward . . . he’d hooked up with the same girl again.

  That was such a “dude thing” to do that to this day she really couldn’t let it go. Because he hadn’t done it for love, but for revenge. And Max didn’t have time for that.

  It didn’t really matter, though. She needed loyal friends more than she needed another dick attached to some idiot man. She could get dick anywhere, but someone who always had your back? That was like gold.

  Max was checking her phone for the fifteen-thousandth time—she was just so bored standing in this goddamn line!—when she noticed that everyone around her had gone silent. Her hackles went up and her claws itched to be released. But she kept control with an iron grip that Charlie had practically beaten into her. “If you just attack every time you feel in danger, you’ll be in prison for the rest of your life,” she used to say.

  With her head still down, her gaze still focused on the phone, she sniffed the air; sorted the scents.

  She recognized what was behind her. Recognized it well.

  It was Dee-Ann Smith. A She-wolf of worldwide renown among shifters. Her entire Pack was world renowned, and not for good reasons. But Dee-Ann was known to be one of the worst. The “killer” of the family, which was saying a lot when the whole Pack was made up of “killers.”

  And this particular Smith hated Max. Despised her. Wanted her dead. Not that Max blamed Smith for feeling this way. It was sort of what she’d been aiming for when she’d snuck into Smith’s Manhattan apartment and made herself comfortable with the female’s young pup. She wanted Smith to know fear, to understand that Max “Kill It Again” MacKilligan was not the nice one in her family. Far from it.

  Not that Max would have ever hurt that child. She wouldn’t have. And not because of her sisters’ moral leanings or because she knew she’d get into serious trouble if she crossed that particular line with the other shifters.

  No, it was none of that. Max would never hurt a child because it was unfair. Kids were not a challenge. Even the scary ones, like hyena cubs who were born with fangs. And if there was no challenge, then what was the point?

  So all kids—even the pain-in-the-ass ones—were never to be fucked with in the Max MacKilligan playbook. But that didn’t stop Max from letting Dee-Ann Smith sweat, thinking that her kid was at risk if she fucked with Max’s sisters.

  The problem now, though, was Smith hated Max so much she could barely see straight. She went out of her way to let Max know that as soon as she could, she’d kill her. Even if she pissed off the wrong people in doing so.

  That was why Max knew she had to show this woman exactly how dangerous a MacKilligan sister truly was. How much she risked.

  “Dee-Ann?” she asked softly without lifting her head; without turning around.

  Leaning so close Max could feel the canine’s breath against the back of her neck, Smith replied low and soft, “Well, hey there, darlin’.”

  Girding her loins, Max moved.

  “Dee-Ann!” she squealed, then spun around, throwing her arms around the woman’s broad shoulders and hugging her close.

  Smith went rigid and the Siberian tiger partner she had with her all the time—something Malone—stumbled back, eyes wide in shock.

  “I’m so happy to see you! How long has it been?” Max stepped back and grabbed Smith’s hands in her own. When Smith attempted to pull away, Max held on tight. “Look at you! Gurl . . . did you lose some weight? So pretty!”

  “What the fuck are you—”

  Max cut off Smith’s next words by kissing her on the mouth. When she pulled back, the She-wolf was shaking with rage. Shaking. She wanted to wipe the very existence of Max MacKilligan from the entire universe. But she couldn’t and they both knew it.

  Keeping hold of one of Smith’s hands, Max moved to the counter as the line seemed to have abruptly cleared away.

  She swung Smith’s arm like two girlfriends holding hands—which was making Smith nuts—and said to the barista, “Honey Macchiato with three extra shots of honey, please. And you, sweetie?” she asked Smith. When the wolf was too stunned or pissed to speak, Max pushed, “Do you want something? Bear claw? Croissant? Donut? Coffee?”

  Smith only managed to shake her head.

  Max pointed to the Siberian tiger. “You, hon?”

  Tears poured down the cat’s face, her arm around her stomach, her laughter silent only because she couldn’t catch her breath. She waved a hand at Max, but that was all.

  Max shrugged. “Okay,” she said to the barista. “That’s it.”

  She glanced at Smith, swung their clasped hands a little more widely so they resembled friendly toddlers. “New makeup regime?” she asked the face that had clearly never had makeup on; a seen-better-days Tennessee Titans baseball cap was pulled low to make that plain face appear even more terrifying. But despite that cap, Max could see those angry, yellow dog eyes glaring at her. “You have to tell me your secret, beautiful. You look awesome for fifty.”

  The wolf glare turned into wide eyes of horror and the Siberian tiger dropped to her knees, choking on her laughter so hard, Max was worried she’d have to get the feline an ambulance.

  * * *

  They stood around the treadmill, Kyle’s older sister actually taking the time necessary to explain everything to Stevie. It was a nice gesture and Oriana was incredibly patient considering Stevie was a grown woman who should have known how to use a treadmill. It was especially entertaining when Stevie became so enraptured by the device that she started to take it apart while Oriana was talking, but Shen easily distracted her by pointing at the various options on the display.

  “Press Feline,” Oriana continued, “and that takes you down to the submenus where your options are Lion, Tiger, Leopard, Mountain lion, and Cheetah. But I wouldn’t suggest the Cheetah setting unless you’re really fast. Are you really fast?”

  Stevie shrugged. “For short periods of time.”

  “Okay, so you press Tiger and then press here for location. Siberian landscape or Indian jungle.”

  Another shrug. “Uh . . . Siberian landscape?”

  “Okay. We’ll try that.”

  Once the machine started to go, Stevie jumped on and began running.

  “You seem to know a lot about treadmills,” Shen observed.

  “When I was in high school I used to put in a few hours at a local shifter-only gym. They had the same kind of treadmills. Although these look top-of-the-line,” she added, gesturing toward the machine . . . which was when they realized that Stevie was no longer running, but somehow had gotten her entire body tangled between the dashboard and the rails people used to balance themselves during their run.

  “Geez!” Kyle ran over to Stevie. “What did you do?”

  “I . . . have no . . . idea,” she gasped out.

  Kyle couldn’t figure out what to grab to get her off the treadmill so Shen quickly stepped in. He gripped her under the arms and managed to untwist her and pull her off.

  As he held her there, dangling in midair, bruises already starting to show on her calves and, somehow, her throat, Orian
a nodded and offered, “Maybe we should find you an exercise class of some kind.”

  “I could try the step thing,” Stevie suggested, pointing across the gym to a step machine.

  “No,” Shen, Kyle, and Oriana said as one.

  “I agree with Oriana,” Shen said. “You should stay away from the machines.”

  “I was just trying to see how it worked,” Stevie clarified. “Then things went weird.”

  “Of course they did.” Oriana reached over and patted Stevie’s shoulder. “Of course they did.”

  * * *

  Cella “Bare Knuckles” Malone had what many would consider a good life. She had a beautiful daughter. An irritating but loving family. And two jobs she loved. Coach of the New York Carnivores pro hockey team and recently promoted head of the “Wet Works” division of Katzenhaus, the protection agency of the Cat Nation. Both paid very well and they allowed her lots of freedom. Like continuing to work with the only canine she could truly tolerate for any length of time.

  Many of her feline compatriots often asked her, “How can you put up with Dee-Ann Smith?” But that was just a narrow view. Because taking someone as laid-back and uncaring as the scariest Smith of all—next to Dee-Ann’s father, Eggie—and finding something that actually irritated the living hell out of her was like catnip to this Siberian tigress.

  Sure. She could be in Europe, working with the Parisian organization of Katzenhaus. But then she wouldn’t be here, watching a snarling, angry She-wolf attempt to stare down a honey badger who was thoroughly enjoying her honey macchiato.

  Malone had had staring contests with Smith more times than she cared to think about, but she’d always lost because at some point, she couldn’t take it anymore, and she’d launch herself at the She-wolf and the fight would be on.

  But the honey badger wasn’t backing down. She wasn’t freaking out. She wasn’t even getting aggressive. She just kept sipping her drink and smiling.

  The insane staring went on for so long that Cella was about to intercede—something she never did, because she wasn’t stupid.

  But before she could say, “Hey! Idiots!” Smith slammed her fist on the table.

  Cella and the rest of the coffee shop inhabitants jumped. Although Cella was mostly shocked that Smith was the first to break.

  The badger’s eyes widened dramatically at Smith’s sudden explosion . . . then again, so did her terrifying smile.

  The badger placed her drink on the table and asked, “Something wrong . . . ma’am?”

  Smith nearly had her hands around the badger’s throat before Cella managed to pin them to the table, which forced Smith to sit back down.

  “Call me ‘ma’am’ again . . .” Smith dared.

  “Would you prefer ‘spot’?”

  Cella grabbed Smith around the waist and dragged her from the table she’d been crawling across so she could get to the badger grinning at her. Cella practically had to carry her outside, dumping her as soon as they were back in the middle of the lobby.

  “You need to calm down,” she told the red-faced She-wolf.

  “That woman—”

  “Is messing with your mind, and you are letting her, which hurts . . . because that’s my job.”

  Smith pressed her fingers against her chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to kill anyone as badly as I want to kill that woman.”

  Cella quickly realized that said a lot. Smith had tons of patience. She’d been known for it when she was a Marine. Able to wait for her prey for days, if not weeks. Yet this one, small woman was really getting under the She-wolf’s skin. And Cella wasn’t exactly sure why.

  “Maybe I should talk to her alone,” Cella suggested, and instead of being insulted, Smith just gave a short nod and turned away.

  Smith exposing her back to a Siberian She-tiger? Something the wolf had been taught not to do since before she could walk. Eggie Smith had made sure of that.

  Deciding it was best to get this over with as soon as they could, Cella headed back into Starbucks.

  * * *

  Stevie didn’t appreciate how much laughter was going on between siblings who didn’t get along. At least that’s what Kyle had always told her. That he barely tolerated Oriana. “She’s a genetic freak who’s lucky I acknowledge her as a human being much less my sister,” he had said to Stevie on more than a few occasions.

  And yet here they were. Together. Shoulders touching. Laughing at her.

  “It’s not funny,” she complained.

  “Who gets punched by a yogi?” Oriana said around her laughter, tears pouring from her eyes.

  “If he doesn’t want his students to ask questions,” she shot back, “then he shouldn’t act like he’s okay with it.”

  “He was fine with the first six questions,” Kyle insisted, “but after that, you were just testing his will to live.”

  “And he didn’t punch me,” Stevie went on. “He accidentally slapped me with his elbow when he was turning away.”

  For some reason that seemed to only make them laugh harder, forcing them to lean against each other for support.

  The locker room door opened and Shen returned with an ice pack. He pulled her hand away from her face, fingers gentle against hers. That gentleness was still there as he placed the ice pack against her eye and cheek. He positioned her hand so she could hold the ice pack in place and stepped back.

  That’s when he exploded into a fit of laughter and asked, “How do you piss off a giant panda yogi? They’re the nicest yogis!”

  Growling to herself, Stevie turned away from the three people who were now laughing at her and thought about all the ways she could bring this entire building down with nothing more than toilet paper, roach spray, and some raw almonds.

  * * *

  A bear-shaped bottle of honey was carefully placed in front of Max. It seemed the She-tiger had returned but not her pit bull friend.

  “Thanks,” Max said cheerfully. She loved the gift of honey and, in her opinion, not enough people in the world gave that gift.

  The She-tiger sat down across from Max and smiled. “Hi. I’m Cella Malone.”

  Max, sipping her drink, waved.

  “So I guess you know why we’re here.”

  Max placed her cup on the table and gazed at the She-tiger, making sure her smile stayed in place. But she didn’t speak. She’d found over the years that smiling without speaking freaked people out. Effective, especially since she really had no plan to answer this chick’s question.

  At least not such a vague one. For all Max knew, this cat could be here for all sorts of reasons. What if Max guessed wrong? She could easily open up another can of snakes.

  Yummmm. Snakes. Gosh, she hadn’t had snakes in weeks. She could really go for some snake. Maybe a boa. Or a python, which was one of her favorites. Or perhaps she could risk it all and go for a black mamba. Eh. Probably not. Charlie would just get pissed again. She hated when Max played with her food and ended up briefly dying.

  “Are you listening to me?” she heard the She-tiger snap.

  She hated lying. “No.” Max shrugged. “Sorry. I was thinking about snakes. I guess I’m hungrier than I thought.”

  The apology seemed to confuse the feline more than anything.

  Max picked up the bottle of honey, twisted the top off, and poured half of it into what was left of her honey macchiato.

  “Anyway,” the woman continued, “we thought we’d have heard from you by now.”

  Max frowned. “Heard from me about what?”

  The feline tilted her head the slightest bit. “Your aunts? Your cousin?”

  “You’ll need to be more specific than that. I have lots of aunts and a ton of—”

  “Caterina and Celestina Guerra. Mairi MacKilligan.”

  “Oh! Right. Them.”

  That’s what the feline was asking about. Nothing else. Good.

  It wasn’t that Max didn’t think the shifter organizations that protected their kind wouldn’t find out about what
had happened with Stevie. She knew they absolutely would. But she was hoping to keep it under wraps at least until they could make sure that their baby sister was a little more . . . in control. Her shifted size freaked out everyone, but the real issue would be that she had little to no control over her shifting. That was what Max and Charlie were truly worried about.

  Stevie was working on it, though. Hard. But, until the situation was managed properly, Max wanted these “agents” to be distracted from her little sister.

  “Not much to hear, really,” Max admitted about the three women it seemed everyone was looking for. “The twins haven’t been seen since my cousin’s wedding. And Mairi . . . don’t know what to tell ya about Mairi.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “No. I’ve only met a few of my Scottish relatives. Usually when my father fucks up something.”

  “A large group of them are heading this way from Scotland.”

  “Good for them.”

  “Maybe you could—”

  “My sister already made this clear. We’re not spying on them for you. So stop fucking asking. It’s beginning to annoy me.”

  “What if the twins have made a deal with your uncles?”

  “What if the moon didn’t rise? What if detergent was actually dirt? What if aliens made you set yourself on fire?”

  Eyes wide, the cat snapped, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Those two bitches stole the MacKilligans’ money. A lot of it. But my uncles are criminals, so they had lots of money in different places, and they’ve been able to keep roofs over their heads and their businesses running.”

  “And your point? They could still make a deal with the twins if it means getting their money back.”

  Max had to smile. The cats and dogs . . . they never got it, did they? They went around snarling and snapping and hissing, but they never really got it.

  “What? What are you smiling about?”

  “The Guerras made my uncles look like idiots. They used some no-name hacker, I assume, to break in and take their money. The twins could come to them naked, on their knees, with twice the money in their hands, ready to give it all for absolutely nothing. And my uncles still wouldn’t let it go. They don’t forgive shit. They’re MacKilligans and honey badgers. That means they’re mean, vicious, cruel, and vengeful. Then again . . . so am I.”