Lycan Legacy - 4 - 5 - 6: Princess - Progeny - Paladin: Book 4 - 5 - 6 in the Lycan Legacy Series

by Veronica Singer

  Mason lazily spun the ball on one forefinger. "I really don't have time today. Maybe on Saturday?"

  "Are you afraid?"

  Mason smiled a toothy smile, the kind that werewolves took as a challenge. "Tell you what, you block my shot and we'll go one-on-one today. If you can't, we'll wait for Saturday."

  Matthew nodded and scooted backward, getting closer to the basket to better defend it. He was expecting Mason to charge in for a lay-up or a shot.

  Instead, Mason bounced the ball once, bent his knees slightly and jumped. I looked up to see the grid pattern on the soles of his sneakers above my head. Most werewolves couldn't jump that high. Matthew raced toward us in a reflex action to stop Mason, but stopped as the ball flew over his head.

  Mason landed lightly, like he had just stepped off a curb instead of dropping over six feet. The basketball was still rising, arcing up and up—forty feet, fifty feet, sixty feet, seventy-five feet at the top of its arc.

  There's no way he can hit the basket from here. We're more than three court lengths away from the basket.

  We all stared as the ball seemed to hang in the air at the peak of its arc, then descend slowly. Realizing he had no chance to intercept the ball unless he was directly beside the basket, Matthew started racing back.

  He made an impressive leap, but missed the ball by inches as it dropped straight down through the hoop. The ball hit the court and bounced twenty feet into the air.

  Matthew ended up in a heap on the ground, glaring at Mason. Then the ball landed on his head.

  "Nice try, Matthew," said Mason. "We'll try again on Saturday." He turned away, then paused. He turned back to say, "Let's make it two on one, just to be fair. Losers buy the beers."

  A few minutes later, we came across a home with a pile of roofing tiles laying broken in the front yard. A long ladder was propped up against the house, leading up to the second-story roof. An old man was struggling with a large blue tarp on the roof.

  At the foot of the ladder, Mrs. Bobrov, one of our human neighbors, was looking up with tears in her eyes. "James, please come down! If your bad leg gives way, you'll fall."

  "Hello, Mrs. Bobrov. Looks like you need some help." I sent a call out through my pack link to have some of the pack come.

  "We paid to have our roof repaired. They came and tore off most of the tiles, took our money, then left. They said we would have to pay twice as much to get the roof fixed right.

  "Now James is up there, rising his life to get a tarp in place so we can use our air conditioner. We can't live here with the roof like that."

  Christopher and Logan showed up, trailed by Logan's daughters.

  "Christopher, go up and help Mr. Bobrov down." I turned to Mrs. Bobrov. "We'll take care of this for you. Logan, can we replace those tiles?"

  Logan looked the tiles over and shook his head. "The ones that weren't broken getting tossed off the roof were cracked with a hammer. There's only a few intact. We need new tiles."

  Mrs. Bobrov started crying again. "We thought they would give us a deal because the workers were Russian, too."

  I patted her arm and said, "Don't worry. We'll make sure they fix your house."

  Christopher came down with Mr. Bobrov, staying one rung below as the old man unsteadily climbed down.

  His face was red from the sun, and he was sweating. "How long were you up there?" I asked. "You shouldn't be working under this sun."

  "A few hours," he said. "Once they told us we had to pay again, I climbed up to put up the tarp so we could at least run the AC."

  Mason looked at me and raised an eyebrow. He could rejoin those tiles, put them on the roof, and seal the house perfectly with a spell. But doing magic out here, in front of my pack, Logan's daughters, and the Bobrovs wouldn't be prudent. I shook my head to let him know I would handle this.

  Several of the homes here had been purchased by the pack, but not yet used.

  "Mrs. Bobrov, why don't you and your husband go over to 5537 Mockingbird. That home is free until my cousin gets back. It's fully furnished and there are drinks stocked in the refrigerator."

  "We can't accept charity," Mr. Bobrov began.

  "It's not charity. It's a favor for a neighbor. Go ahead, the door's unlocked. Make yourselves comfortable while we track down these roofers."

  Mr. Bobrov opened his mouth to protest again, but his wife interrupted. "Thank you so much. We accept your offer." She dug in her purse and pulled out a card. "Here's the address and number for the roofers."

  She handed me the card with a shaking hand. "But we really can't afford to pay any more than we already paid."

  "I'll ask them to give you a refund for your trouble."

  Mr. Bobrov shook his head. "I don't think they'll listen to you."

  "I can be very persuasive."

  After the old couple left, I examined the card. It read Plotnikov Roofing, with an address about fifteen minutes away.

  "Christopher, please bring the manager here."

  "What if he doesn't want to come?" asked Brita, Logan's thirteen-year-old daughter.

  Christopher raised an eyebrow in query, sharp enough not to discuss mayhem in front of civilians.

  "Be persuasive," I said. "Make sure he comes here, alive." I smiled to make it seem like a joke.

  Two other pack members showed up, and I put them to work separating the broken tiles from the intact ones. Busywork, but they jumped to it.

  Thirty-five minutes later, Christopher showed up with his reluctant passenger. He walked around the car and opened the door. Inside was a powerfully built human with a sneer on his face and murder in his eyes. He was dressed in a khaki shirt and jeans over steel-toed boots.

  “This is the guy?” I asked.

  “The name on the sign was different, but this is him.”

  “Okay, let’s have a chat.”

  "Get out. My boss wants to talk to you," said Christopher.

  "Fuck you and fuck your boss," the man spat out in Russian-accented English.

  "Wrong answer." Christopher popped the seatbelt, then reached in one-handed, grasped the man's tough shirt and hauled him out as if he weighed nothing.

  Once the man was on his feet, Christopher grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm up behind his back. From the grimace, I could tell Christopher was using one of those judo holds that pinched nerves to ensure compliance. He marched the construction worker up to me and held him in place.

  A stream of Russian invective flowed from the man. Too bad I don't speak Russian. I glanced at Mason, who seemed eager to translate, and shook my head. This was pack business.

  I looked to my only Russian-speaking packmate and said, "Logan, tell him to shut up."

  Logan nodded, grinned his evil grin, and backhanded the man. His head spun and blood sprang from his split lip, and he suddenly stopped talking.

  "So, you're Mr. Plotnikov?" I asked. Not necessary, since his scent was all over the job site, but I like to keep up the niceties.

  More cursing, until Logan raised his hand again. Then the man spat out, "Yes, I'm Plotnikov. And you're dead. You and all these assholes."

  I smiled my toothy smile. "Yes, you're right. We're all terrified." I shivered theatrically.

  "What you want?" he asked.

  "Straight to the point. I like that," I said. "Before you leave today, you will repair my neighbor's roof and you will refund the money you took from them."

  He laughed and opened his mouth to reject my proposal. Then he got a sly look in his eyes. "I can't do that by myself, I need my crew."

  "By all means, call your crew. Call everyone you know."

  He shrugged off Christopher's hands and stepped to the side, then pulled out his cell phone and started talking in Russian.

  Logan stepped over close to me and whispered a translation. "He's telling them to gather all three crews and come here ready to fight."

  It was nearing full dark when three vans pulled up. The fifteen men who exited looked rough and ready for a fight, brand
ishing hammers, boards, and pipes.

  Christopher and Logan smiled and stepped forward. "Leave them intact so they can get to work," I said.

  Five of the attackers peeled off and headed toward me and Mason. Logan's daughters were standing behind us watching the drama with bright eyes.

  Mason looked at the five and said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you." He made a gesture and suddenly had a forty-five automatic in his hand. The tiny click as he released the safety was loud enough to stop them in their tracks.

  "We're calling the cops," said the largest. "You can't threaten us with a gun."

  "This is Nevada, asshole. I open the door for the pizza delivery guy with a gun in my hand."

  "Mason, you can't shoot them," I said, making the big guy smirk. Then I continued, "They have to be intact to finish the roof." His smile faded.

  In the meantime, the sounds of conflict—meaty thumps, grunts, and muffled screams—came from the other group.

  Unable to see the fight behind them, our group smiled at the sounds of mayhem. Then Logan strolled up to me and asked, "Do you mind if I take care of these guys too? I hardly broke a sweat on the other ten."

  "They're all yours, Logan," I said. Mason's pistol disappeared, and Logan leapt.

  "Yay, Daddy!" screamed Brita, jumping up and down. "Wait till I tell the kids at school."

  Her older sister shushed her. "Don't tell anyone. You might get Dad into trouble again."

  "Why did you pull a pistol on those goons?" I asked Mason in Fae.

  "They're too stupid to understand the danger they were in," he answered in the same language. "I had to show them something they understood. Also, the effects of my combat spells are omnidirectional. There are too many innocent bystanders." He tilted his head at Logan's daughters.

  Plotnikov was the only man left standing. All of his crew were laid out on the ground, or squatting submissively.

  "You're not human," he growled.

  "No shit, Sherlock," said Logan. Then he spat out something in Russian. The only word I caught was "volkov," the Russian word for wolf.

  "You think I am afraid of wolf?" Plotnikov pulled a medallion from under his shirt and squeezed it tightly. A bright flash of magic showed between his fingers.

  Mason said, "A calling spell, similar to our magical SOS."

  "You'll see now! My mother is coming!"

  Logan laughed out loud. "You called your mommy on us?"

  "When she gets here, she'll take out your entire pack."

  "When she gets here, she’ll find her son working his ass off to fix that roof," I said.

  Plotnikov sneered. I nodded at Logan, and he was suddenly beside Plotnikov. He grabbed his arm at wrist and elbow, raised a knee, and brought down the arm with explosive force, breaking Plotnikov's radius and ulna as if they were chopsticks.

  The workers froze at his screams. Those who had surreptitiously put their hands on weapons suddenly jerked back.

  Plotnikov's arm dangled crookedly and he looked at it in horror. I stepped up to him and asked, "Are you ready to get your ass to work now?"

  "Fuck you, bitch!"

  "Logan can do your other arm," I said. "And I'll still put you on the roof to work. I'll make you swing a hammer with your damned teeth if you don't get those assholes to work right now!"

  I gave him my smile, the one that showed my teeth and unnatural eyes. He paled and swallowed nervously. He looked over at Logan, who was rubbing his hands together with anticipation.

  "I can't work with broken arm," he muttered.

  Christopher came over with two pieces of two-by-four and a roll of tape in his hands. "I'll splint his arm so he can work."

  Plotnikov grunted as Christopher straightened his arm out and expertly applied the splint.

  "I can't climb ladder with broken arm," he persisted. The scent of betrayal emanated from him. Did he really think his mother would swoop in to help?

  "Logan," I said, "Help him up the ladder."

  Logan grinned and grabbed Plotnikov from the rear by his shirt collar and belt. He heaved the two-hundred-fifty-pound man toward the ladder as if he was a sack of flour. The top of Plotnikov's arc ended about halfway up the ladder. He scrambled comically with his splinted arm, free arm, and feet to grab the ladder, only barely hanging on.

  He looked down at the twenty-foot drop below him and froze. Logan grabbed the base of the ladder and pulled it a few inches away from the wall.

  "We ain't got all night, dickhead. Get your ass to work."

  As soon as Logan put the ladder back in place, Plotnikov scrambled up to the roof.

  Christopher looked at the rest of the workers and said, "Do I need to make more splints, Luna?"

  "No, I think they got the message."

  They were still frozen in place. Logan grabbed another worker by the scruff and belt and carried him towards the ladder.

  "No, no," he said, "I work, I work!" He spun his legs in mid-air, then Logan dropped him and he raced up the ladder, shouting orders to the rest of the group.

  I pointed to the man who had threatened Mason and me. "You—get your men to unload those tiles."

  "What tiles? We have no tiles."

  I walked to the third van and ripped the sliding door off its hinges, revealing that the van was loaded with ceramic roofing tiles. I grabbed a tile from the stack and threw it to him with a backhanded toss. It hit him in the stomach with a loud thunk. The blow bent him over double and he started retching.

  "The next tile hits you in the head," I said.

  I pointed at three men randomly, "You, you, and you. Get your asses to work unloading these tiles."

  They hesitated until I picked up the tile I had used on their foreman, then scrambled to set up a human chain to unload.

  Spurred on by curses and cuffs from Logan and the rest of my pack, they started to work.

  11

  About thirty minutes later, a large limo screeched up to the curb. An old woman—short, dumpy, and dressed in a long, black, shapeless dress—exited the vehicle, cursing in Russian. Her face was deeply wrinkled, and none of the wrinkles were laugh lines.

  "Great," said Logan as her scent reached us, "a fucking witch."

  Without interrupting her cursing, the witch reached into her purse and pulled out a small corked bottle. The contents of the bottle glowed with an evil light, like the phosphorescence emanated by corpses.

  She threw the bottle at me, but Logan and Christopher were too quick for her. Christopher was suddenly between me and the old lady, hand raised to catch the bottle.

  Logan got there first and grabbed the bottle out of the air. The glass shattered and an evil stench erupted as the contents vaporized.

  The cloud of evil vapor climbed up Logan's arm, burning his shirt sleeve off as it advanced. Where the vapor passed, Logan's skin burned, crisping to blackened flesh with white bones peeking out from the ruined arm.

  Mrs. Plotnikov cackled as the vapor advanced, but she fell silent when it stopped, then blew away on the breeze.

  "Mason," I said, "I asked you not to interfere."

  "She's cheating. That potion contained wolf's-bane. Anyway, with the stench of magic coming from her, no one noticed mine."

  Logan's daughters were aghast at the damage to their father's arm. "Don't worry, girls, it looks worse than it is," I reassured them as I stepped closer to Logan.

  I stroked Logan's arm, flooding his body with lunar energy. The damage to his arm reversed like a movie played backwards. Healthy skin replaced burnt flesh starting at his shoulder, then spread down to his fingertips in moments.

  The old lady's face turned bright red in anger. "You and your pet magician can’t stop me, I am the granddaughter of the dread witch, Baba Yaga." She sneered, as if expecting us to be terrified of that name.

  I searched my memory, then muttered, "Who the hell is Baba Yaga?"

  "My grandmother. She has iron teeth, a cottage that walks on chicken legs, and she dines on children!"

  I laughed. "O
h, I remember now. Your grandma's an old crone who has bad dentures, lives in a mobile home, and is too weak to hunt full-sized prey."

  She made a pearl-clutching gesture—I had only ever seen that in movies—and gasped. "No one talks about Baba Yaga like that!"

  Logan snarled a comment in Russian. Mason laughed out loud, and Mrs. Plotnikov gasped even louder. Her heartbeat raced and the scent of her outrage flashed through the air. Her face flushed red, and she spat on the ground in front of Logan. Her spittle sizzled on the pavement like acid.

  Logan laughed in her face and added another comment, then turned to us. "I told her that if that old witch shows up here, we'll rip those chicken legs off her mobile home and barbecue them in that man-sized grill we welded up."

  Mason gestured, and the still-sizzling spittle vanished. "She's trying to mark our territory. Shall I take care of it?"

  "No, I'll take care of this." I turned to Mrs. Plotnikov. "Bitch, don't mess with me. I'm pregnant, hormonal, and have to pee really bad. I also have a wolfpack to back me up. You will have those thieves finish this job, tonight. And then you will refund the money you stole."

  Her face was getting redder and redder as I continued. "And if you or your people ever set foot in my territory again, I will end you and your entire family."

  "You wouldn't dare."

  "Test me," I stared at her and let my eyes shift from human to wolf as my fangs lengthened. That made it hard to speak, but I snarled, "My teeth are real and I don't have a problem with old, stringy meat."

  She glared at me for ten seconds, then finally glanced away. Only a millisecond, but it showed who was in charge here.

  She tried to match my glare again, but couldn't maintain my gaze. She turned and spat out a sentence in Russian to her team. They had been watching our contest of wills over the edge of the roof. At her curses, they turned back to work with alacrity. One of the ground team went to a van and pulled out a set of portable floodlights so they could keep working through the dark.

  Mustering her dignity, she turned to me and said, "Satisfied?"

  "Refund," I barked. I needed to pee soon.

  "I can get you money tomorrow," she said.