Charlie knew she could still fight her way out of here. If nothing else, she was armed. But Berg had brought her here. He must have some connection to the place and she wasn’t about to embarrass him. So, as much as she didn’t want to, she’d suck it up for the very nice bear who’d been helping her and her sisters.
She pulled off her light jacket, T-shirt, and bra and sat there. Refusing to put on the robe. Partly because she hated those things, but also because she’d been busy putting her gun under her jacket so the two females wouldn’t see it.
“By the way, my name is Dr. Davis. And let’s get a look at—” She’d finally looked up from her paperwork and stopped when she saw Charlie sitting there, topless.
“So, you’re not shy,” she guessed.
“No.”
“Excellent.”
She walked over and carefully pulled off the gauze that Charlie had stuffed in and around the wounds on her back.
“Huh,” she heard the doctor say and Charlie looked at her over her shoulder.
The doctor’s expression changed a bit, her brow pulling down in concern and confusion. She wanted to step away and Charlie didn’t blame her.
“You really don’t have to do anything,” Charlie explained while the doctor stared. Or gawked. “It’ll work itself out.”
“My dear girl, this is not going to work itself out.”
“Actually, it will. You just have to wait a little bit. It’s in the final stages.”
“The final stages before your death?”
That made Charlie chuckle. “As if my life could ever be that simple.” She looked around the room. “Got a magazine I can look at while we’re waiting?”
* * *
Max put a baseball cap on Stevie’s head and stepped back.
“Perfect.”
Not really. The hat was way too big—it was apparently “bear sized”—and covered half of Stevie’s face. Embroidered on the hat was “The Carnivores,” which seemed really bold to Max. Just putting out there that they were all meat-eating predators and everything.
It was true that Max had had more interaction with shifters outside the Pack than Charlie or Stevie, but those shifters were Dutch and his family and their few friends. Wolverines. Like the honey badgers, the wolverines weren’t involved with the “shifter nation” as they called it. They preferred to be around full-humans or, even better, no one. They could be quite introverted. Not unpleasant, rarely rude, but introverted.
So seeing all these shifters in one place, hanging out, pretty much getting along was . . . unusual. Interesting, though.
“I can’t see,” Stevie complained.
“But you look adorable.” She took a picture with her phone and texted it to Charlie seconds before Stevie slapped the hat off her head.
Laughing, Max showed the picture to Stevie. “Adorable.”
“Do you ever get tired of mocking me?”
“No.”
“I’m going to look for a bookstore.”
“Why?”
Stevie patted her shoulder. “You make me sad. Do me a favor and keep an eye out for Charlie. If we go missing, she will flip out on us.”
“I know, I know.”
Max went through the sports store and found a few shirts and caps she wanted to buy, but it had been a while and she thought it was best to go track down Charlie before Charlie had to track down her and Stevie. Their big sister’s anxiety went through the roof when she couldn’t find them, and Max didn’t want to be responsible for the ulcer she was sure Charlie was going to get if she didn’t relax a little.
Max walked back to where she’d last seen her sister. She stood outside the Starbucks and, going up on her toes, she tried to look over the heads inside the open café. So many tall people.
Frowning when she didn’t see her sister, Max decided to go inside for a closer look. But as she began to move, she heard a screeched, “Livy!” And then something landed on her back.
Without thought, only instinct trained into her since the death of her adopted mother, Max reached behind her, grabbed hold of whatever had her, lifted up and over, and slammed the person onto the floor.
She rammed her foot against a chest to pin her prey to the ground and pulled out the blade holstered at the back of her jeans. She raised the blade over her head, about to drop onto the prey beneath her to keep it pinned in place. But a hand grabbed her wrist, halting the blade mid-attack and yanking her back and away.
The grip on her wrist was firm. So firm, Max knew she couldn’t break it. So she turned her body, dislocating her shoulder. She ignored the pain and unleashed the claws on her free hand, burying them deep into someone’s side.
She heard a grunt of pain and finally looked up—and holy shit! Up!—until she was gazing into bright blue eyes surrounded by white hair.
Max hissed, unleashing her fangs. In return, the man unleashed his own.
And when his two eyeteeth continued to grow until they reached past his square jaw, like a pair of tusks, Max decided . . . she was out. Fuck that shifter shit with their honorable “fang to fang, claw to claw” code that Dutch had always told her about.
Max yanked out her claws, causing blood to arc out of the male’s side and splatter several onlookers. She spun again, the pain in her shoulder very close to making her pass out. But she clenched her jaw, and when she faced the man again, she quickly sized him up before kicking him mid-chest. Shocked by the power of the blow, he finally released her, sending Max reeling. She hit the ground, rolled backward, and stood. By then she had blades in both hands. Her wounded shoulder couldn’t move much, but she could still have his eyes out and his throat cut before the pain got so bad she’d wish that someone would just kill her already.
She cracked her neck and started forward, but two adorable bookend bears slid to a stop in front of her, both with their big arms out, matching eyes wide in panic.
“No, Max!” Berg said. “Don’t do it.”
Max narrowed her eyes. Not because she was plotting something but because her shoulder was killing her. But the two males misinterpreted.
“You can’t do this,” Berg begged. “Please. Just walk away.”
“Max?”
Max looked away from the two bears and saw her cousin standing a few feet away.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Livy walked closer, shoving the two bears out of the way. “Starting shit again?” She growled before yelling, “Again?”
“It wasn’t me! It was—” Max started to point at the man who was behind the bears, bleeding from his side. He’d done the damage to her shoulder, but he hadn’t actually started anything.
Max looked over the crowd, finally pointing at a black woman in roller skates. “It was her.”
Livy turned and Max saw her cousin’s entire body go tense. “What did she do?”
“She hugged me from behind.”
Livy rested her hands on her hips. “I thought we talked about that sort of thing, Blayne.”
“Okay, this looks bad,” the woman called Blayne said, skating forward, focused on Livy. “But I thought it was you.”
Max stepped up beside her cousin. “Is that your excuse? That we all look alike?”
“What?” Blayne’s eyes widened in horror. “No! Of course not!”
“Really, Blayne?” Livy asked. “Because it sounds like you’re saying we all look alike.”
Of course, they were cousins and Blayne hadn’t actually seen Max from the front. She was just going on body size and the short hair. But that didn’t matter . . . because this chick was just too easy to fuck with. Hell! Max could do this all day!
“Because we’re Asian?” Max asked.
“Of course not! I mean, my husb—”
“What?” Max pushed. “You about to tell me that some of your best friends are Asian?”
“Actually, my best friend is . . . um . . . look, I’m just saying that . . . um . . .” Her brown eyes narrowed. “You two are fucking with me, aren’t you?”
Max started laughing. She couldn’t help it. Who was this little weirdo?
The big guy who’d gotten between Max’s blade and Blayne’s sternum stepped up beside Blayne and glowered down at Max.
“You tell ’em, honey,” Blayne said. “My husband.”
Max knew she was looking at a fellow half-Asian, so she was kind of expecting a “talking to” as Charlie liked to call her lectures. To be honest, looking at the size of the guy and seeing the blood dripping onto the floor from the side she’d ripped open with her claws, she’d gladly welcome a “talking to” rather than a “beating on.”
Still glowering, Blayne’s husband demanded, “Do you skate?”
“Yeah!” Blayne agreed. “Do you . . .” She turned to her husband. “Does she skate?”
“We need a new enforcer. And she’s mean.”
Max grinned. “I am mean!”
“I think she’s a serial killer,” Livy added . . . for some reason. “Look at that smile,” she said flatly, pointing at Max. “That sick, disturbing smile.”
Max tilted her head to the side and tapped Livy on the elbow. “Thanks so much, cousin,” she said with as much sweetness as she could possibly manage.
Frowning, Livy stepped away from her. “See what I mean?”
“She was going to kill me,” Blayne accurately pointed out to her husband.
“She wouldn’t be the first.”
“Where’s your sister?” Berg asked Max.
“Which one?”
“Don’t play word games.”
“Excuse me, Britta,” Blayne’s husband interrupted, glaring at Berg. “I’m trying to have a conversation.”
Berg’s eyes briefly closed and he gave a short shake of his head while Dag smiled a little and looked away.
“I am not Britta, you Cro-Magnon. I’m Berg. That’s Dag.”
“Is there really a difference?”
“Yes!” Berg insisted. “Yes, there is.”
The man shrugged. “I don’t see it.”
Berg’s jaw tightened in frustration and Max wondered how many times he’d had this conversation with the tusk guy. Clearly more than once.
“Let’s get your sisters and go,” Berg finally said, focusing on Max.
Max shrugged. “I have no idea where they are. Go find them.”
“Max—”
“Yeah,” Blayne’s husband said, “go find them.” He reached out and grabbed Max’s wrist. “She’ll be at the training rink.”
“I can’t believe this!” Blayne nearly shouted. “She tried to kill me and now you’re going to test her out to be your enforcer?” Her big brown eyes welled with tears. “I am the mother of your children.”
He faced her, but still didn’t release Max. “I don’t understand the connection.”
“I should be more important to you than hockey.”
He looked off, blew out a breath. “You should . . .”
Max bit the inside of her cheek to stop from laughing.
Blayne stomped one skate-covered foot before skating off, a group of derby girls following her.
The giant glowered down at Max, but now she saw a hint of a smile around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. “I’m going to pay for that later.”
* * *
Berg watched Max follow Bo “The Marauder” Novikov.
“Does he really not know that we aren’t Britta?” Dag asked. Again.
“If it doesn’t involve hockey or that one woman who tolerates him . . . I don’t think he notices anything.”
Livy tapped Berg’s arm. “So what has my cousin and her sisters gotten you two involved in? Are you in danger? Did you lose any money? Are you being followed by foreign interests?”
Berg frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Look, as someone I don’t necessarily want wiped from the face of the planet—”
“Awwww. Thanks, Liv.”
Berg stared at his brother. “What’s wrong with you?”
“—be careful that you don’t get too involved with the MacKilligan sisters.”
“Why?”
“Well, according to my mother and aunts, they’re cursed.”
“Cursed,” Berg repeated. “Uh-huh.”
“By ghosts.”
Scratching his forehead, Berg gave himself a brief moment before asking Livy, “You believe they’re cursed by ghosts?”
“No. I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“So you just think they’re cursed in general?”
“Yeah. I definitely think they’re cursed. It’s their father’s fault, though. I think he pissed off a witch or something.”
“You don’t believe in ghosts . . . but you believe in witches?”
“Witches exist.”
Berg nodded. “Okay. I’m walking away now.”
He did, and Dag followed behind him.
“If I were you,” Livy called out, “I’d find the little sister before you go looking for the big one. If you don’t have the little one, the big one is going to flip the fuck out.”
Berg stopped walking and let out a sigh.
“Livy’s right, isn’t she?” Dag asked.
“Yeah.”
“But Stevie could be anywhere here.”
“Well . . . let’s try to think like her.”
Dag folded his arms over his chest and said in all seriousness, “So where would a former child prodigy and genius with an extreme panic disorder who is being hunted by all sorts of people go when in a shifter-filled sports center?”
Berg began scratching his forehead again. First with one hand, then the other. Until he finally just buried his face in both hands and let out a very large, very pained sigh.
* * *
There was a food court! And a shockingly large and well-stocked bookstore! She even found an entire store devoted just to honey! Honey! She’d gone in there, despite the large grizzly sow behind the counter who wouldn’t stop glowering at her. She’d started to panic a little but she swallowed it and put in a large order to be sent to the house for her sisters—she was actually not a fan of honey. Too sweet for her taste. But once the order was in the sow went from glowering to glowing. Suddenly she was more than happy to help Stevie even without knowing what the hell Stevie was. She kept sniffing. At one point, when Stevie was looking at a large display of chocolate-covered honeycombs—Max loved honeycombs—she felt the sow standing right behind her. And Stevie was almost positive that she sniffed the back of her neck.
Thankfully, her meds were working well and Stevie, after years of group and individual therapy, was able to “deep breathe” her way through the oncoming panic until the sow moved away from her.
After leaving that store, Stevie bought a large order of very crispy french fries, a large bottle of water, and asked for extra ketchup. Then she found a bench in the middle of a high-traffic area where she could comfortably people watch.
Everyone was going somewhere or coming from somewhere and didn’t notice her at all. She loved it.
Watching the movement of people, hearing their voices rise and fall, listening to the noises coming from the nearby food court made her think of music. Made her think of what she could do with these sounds. She could easily see trained dancers moving to what was playing in her head.
She smiled a little. It had been years since she’d had the time, energy, and emotional fortitude to allow herself to think about her own music. To let her easily stressed-out mind wander down those roads of emotion and art.
To this day, she still got emails from fans. Her work was still discussed in music schools and prestigious university music programs. Some classical orchestras still attempted to play her beloved but most-complicated symphonies to sold-out audiences. At one time, she had been the one conducting those orchestras even though she’d only been about seven and had to have a specially made podium in order to see and be seen by the orchestra and audience. She was ten when she’d walked away from all of it. She’d hit a creative and emotional wall that
had her—literally—hanging from the ceiling by her newly formed claws, unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to do anything but cry and hyperventilate until they started her on medication.
Medication, though, hadn’t been an easy fix for Stevie. The first reason was because she was a shifter. Shifters had very amped up internal systems that allowed them to heal quickly without medication, which was great for physical ailments but a real problem when one had mental issues. Then add in that Stevie was also half honey badger. Medications and poisons were easily absorbed and then pissed out by honey badger shifters. Sixteen-year-old Max had once tried vodka infused with the venom of the black mamba snake. She was in a coma for an entire day before she snapped awake, hungry and smiling. Smiling until a livid Charlie punched Max in the face, breaking their sister’s nose and cheekbone as she screamed, “Never do anything that goddamn stupid again!”
And even though Stevie and Charlie were only half badger, with what Charlie insisted on calling “our dad’s fucked up genes,” they still had to manage their medications differently from nearly everyone else in the world. So it took years before Stevie and her team of psychiatrists and therapists and German physicians found the right combination of talk therapy and meds. In that time, she’d not only walked away from her brilliant music career, she’d run. Screaming.
Most of the prodigies Stevie had known when she was growing up had parents who would have never let them quit what had been a substantial, worldwide career. Especially considering the money she’d brought in. But Stevie’s mother had abandoned her to Charlie’s mom for reasons still unknown to her. When Charlie’s mom had been killed and the three of them had gone to live with the Pack in Wisconsin, the Pack left decisions about Max and Stevie up to Charlie’s grandfather and, eventually, Charlie.
When Stevie said she didn’t want to write, play, or even think about music anymore, Charlie had only asked, “Then what are you going to do? Because you’ll need to do something, and we both know it.”
As always, Charlie had been right. If Stevie didn’t occupy her mind, things would get bad for everyone. So . . . Stevie focused on physics and math. She liked equations and science and behind it all, she’d always found a certain level of music. Of art. It turned out she’d been a prodigy in that, too, which meant all her scholastic financial needs were met by other people. Important since financially her father had eventually ruined what was left of her music career. Universities, labs, and some rich people liked being a benefactor to a child who tested out of high school by the time she was eleven.
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