Bite Me

  “Come!” Balt ordered. “Let us take our lovely niece inside and relieve her of having to look at these weak species.”

  Toni let out a breath once Livy was back in the house, and Gwen helped Blayne to her feet.

  “You all right, Bland?” Toni asked.

  “It’s Blayne!” the wolfdog yelled.

  “Oh God!” someone from behind Toni called out. “They’re heading for the pool!”

  Sure enough, the two behemoths battled their way across the giant yard until they tumbled into the pool. But so much predator landing hard in an Olympic-sized pool with heated water that kept it from freezing . . .

  Toni turned away but it didn’t help; the first three rows of spectators were drenched by heated water. The only ones who managed to get away in time? The honey badgers.

  A group of them stood off to the side, dry, drinking their vodka, and laughing.

  And the two males who’d caused this? Now flopping around like two bear cubs in the water that was left in the pool. No longer bothering to fight because they were enjoying being goofy way too much.

  “Well, I’m going inside,” Gwen announced, trying to shake off the water. But she stopped when she saw Lock walking by with a hose.

  “What are you doing?” she asked her fiancé.

  “Filling up the pool,” he explained. Lou Crushek—the polar bear—took the hose from him and went on to finish the task. “So we can shift and relax in there. Basically a bear version of a hot tub.”

  Toni, with a shake of her head, went inside for a dry towel and to get a stiff drink. Hell, why not? She wasn’t driving tonight.

  In a dry pair of sweatpants and T-shirt, a towel over his wet hair, Vic threw back his head and laughed at Crushek’s story about taking down three Volkov Pack wolves during an ill-planned jewelry heist in Queens.

  “One of them tried to make a run for it, and he just ran into these thick, bulletproof glass doors. So they didn’t break, but he got knocked out cold.”

  “What’s really sad,” Vic finally admitted, “I know them. Those were Grigori’s less-than-bright nephews.”

  “How are you friends with wolves?” Lock asked.

  “I used to think it was because somehow the bear and feline parts cancelled each other out. But I finally realized it was my mother. The men love my mother.”

  Vic heard a click and looked over his shoulder to see Livy standing by the doorway, snapping pictures of them. She’d put her new camera together and was thoroughly enjoying the evening now that she had something between herself and the crowd at the house.

  The one thing he knew not to do, though, was to point out that she was again using her camera. Nothing annoyed Livy more than when someone stated the obvious. Like, “Hot day, huh?” during an August day, or “Hey! That’s a camera,” when she was holding a camera.

  Those were things that irritated her. So Vic returned to his conversation with men mostly built like him, but who didn’t feel the need to drag him into playing a sport. According to Novikov, “I’m glad you don’t play hockey because you could be better than me and then I’d just have to destroy you so you didn’t get in my way.”

  He’d said that simply, as if it was something they should all understand—and they all did. It was clear Crushek and MacRyrie didn’t agree with him, but they understood his logic. Vic, however, kind of agreed. He could be pretty competitive, but he hid it well.

  Shen walked in with glasses and the bottle of forty-year-old scotch he’d found.

  “Poison free,” he promised as he poured each of them a glass.

  “You sure?”

  “I double-checked with Livy,” he said, pointing to where Livy had just been standing. She’d gone off to take more pics of the partygoers. “Apparently we should all be grateful there aren’t snakes here. It seems a honey badger party ain’t a honey badger party without some black mambas roaming around.”

  Vic shuddered. “I hate snakes,” he complained before sipping his drink.

  “Then you better not go to any Kowalski-Yang reunions with Livy, my friend, because that is how they all roll.”

  “I’ve been thinking about adding snake to our menu,” Van Holtz announced. “Cobra with a nice red wine sauce. Or should one have white wine with snake? Or should the wine vary with the type of snake . . . ?” He shook his head. “I’ll have to do more research.”

  Vic and Novikov exchanged glances across the room until both shuddered and went back to their drinks.

  Livy sat on the stairs, teaching herself how her new camera worked. Toni sat down next to her, handed her a Coke.

  “I thought your camera got destroyed.”

  “It did. Vic bought me this one.”

  “He bought you that? That must have been expensive.”

  “It was, but he got a deal,” she said proudly. She wasn’t a fan of receiving stolen items—like the black pearl necklace her father had given her for her sixteenth birthday. Something he’d picked up from a heist a few days before. But Livy always did enjoy a good discount or haggling.

  “You really are in love with Vic Barinov, aren’t you?” Toni asked her.

  “I am. I told him it was his fault and I’d never forgive him.”

  “He’s not your dad, Livy.”

  “But am I? Am I going to make his life miserable?”

  “You’ve damaged the man’s home several times and eaten all his honey. If he’s not miserable yet . . .”

  “Thanks, friend o’ mine.”

  Toni grinned. “You’re welcome. Oh!” She went into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out an envelope. “I got this in the mail yesterday. It’s from Kyle.”

  Livy pulled the sheet of paper out of the envelope, unfolded it, and sighed. “Wow.”

  It was of her and Vic, asleep on the bed. Thankfully, they were both dressed as they’d been the morning Kyle had seen them that way.

  “I didn’t know you could look so serene.”

  “The serenity that comes with destroyed creativity.”

  Toni rolled her eyes. “You and Kyle with that ridiculous theory about love and the destruction of creativity.” Toni took the camera from Livy’s hand and looked through the pictures she’d taken so far, using the display screen on the back of the digital camera. “Look at that,” she said, showing Livy a picture she’d taken of Vic and Novikov chatting outside. They’d both just shifted and hadn’t put on clothes yet. She’d shot them from behind . . . yeah, it was a great shot. And she hadn’t even futzed with it yet, but she had shot it in black-and-white.

  “So can we stop with this bullshit, please?” Toni asked, pushing the camera back at her.

  “I guess.”

  “Aren’t there bigger issues you have to worry about?”

  “You mean the whole shot-by-bears thing?”

  “Nah. You’re through that. I’m talking about the illegal thing your cousin’s doing upstairs. You guys are just going to piss off Chumakov. Apparently he’s not one to back off when shamed. He may come after you again.”

  “Did you hear that from your new Russian bear friends?”

  “Maybe.” Toni glanced around. “Where is Zubachev anyway?”

  “Flirting inappropriately with my mother in the kitchen.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. He’s very married.”

  “But he’s near the poison-infused vodka—and my mother.”

  “Shit!” Toni jumped up. “He hasn’t signed the contracts yet for the hockey games!”

  Livy went back to playing with her new camera. “Some days, it’s just too easy to manipulate these people.”

  CHAPTER 35

  It took three solid days and Shen couldn’t believe it. He could not believe what he was looking at.

  He held up the print of that old missing Matisse painting and compared it to the painting Melly Kowalski had created.

  It was hard to believe this mess of a woman—and good God, was she a mess—could create such an amazing copy of another artist’s work. A g
reat artist’s work. She’d even used an old canvas her family kept for such occasions and aged the work.

  Shen looked at Vic. “This is amazing.”

  “I now see why the Kowalskis put up with her. Apparently she can copy any artist or artist’s style.”

  “So she’s like a drunk-savant.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone drink so much vodka before in my life. She just passes out for a while, and when she wakes up, she’s ready to eat and get back to work. It’s utterly disturbing.”

  “So now what?”

  “Now we let the Kowalski and Yang connections do what they do best.”

  “Which is?”

  “Sell the Kowalskis’ fake bullshit art to ridiculously rich people who are so desperate to have a piece of important art they refuse to know any better.”

  Shen smiled. “Excellent.”

  Grekina Renard opened her arms and hugged the giant bear of a Russian whom she’d invited into her art studio.

  “I’m so glad to see you, Stepka Chumakov.”

  “And you, Grekina.” He sized her up. “You look beautiful as always.”

  “Now, now, old friend. I didn’t call you here for any of that.”

  “Then what do you want? My father is expecting me back in Moscow in the next day or two. You can come with me,” he sweetly offered. “See your old homeland?”

  “I’m only half-Russian. I was raised right here.” Grekina dropped down into a comfortable chair. “Remember that offer you made to me a year or so ago?”

  “I made lots of offers to you.”

  Grekina smiled. “I’m talking about the one that would get me money.” And before he could run with that, she added, “If I brought you unique . . . art?”

  “My father likes art. But he’s very choosy.”

  “What about a Matisse?”

  “He has one. Actually, he may have two.”

  “This one he won’t be able to have on display.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was stolen a few years back. It really belongs to a local museum.”

  The Russian suddenly sat up in his chair and paid close attention to what Grekina was saying rather than staring at her tits.

  “You sure about this?”

  “I have lots of friends in the art world. They tell me things.”

  “Is it here? In Belgium?”

  “No. You’ll have to travel for it. It’ll be worth it, though. Interested?”

  “Maybe.” Stepka stood up. Adjusted what had to be a tailor-made suit because the man could not possibly shop at a regular store. “Text me the details, yes?”

  “And, Stepka?”

  “Yes?”

  “My finder’s fee?”

  “When we find something . . . you’ll get paid. Okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  Grekina jumped up and walked to the elevator door of her studio. She lifted it and waved at Stepka before lowering it again. She went to one of the big windows and watched the street until she saw him leave the building and get into a Mercedes-Benz stretch limo.

  Once he’d driven off, Grekina pulled the no-name cell phone out of the pocket of her denim shorts and dialed a number.

  “Give it a day,” she said to the voice that answered on the other end. “I’m positive he’s in? How do I know?” Grekina grinned. “He stopped looking at my tits for longer than two seconds. That’s how I know.”

  “Good news and bad news,” Jocelyn announced as she walked into the living room. She stopped and stared at her cousins sitting on the floor. Each on laptops, with headphones on.

  “What are you guys doing?”

  “Killing stuff,” Livy said, her gaze focused on her screen.

  “Not killing,” Vic said as he passed Jocelyn. The big hybrid dropped onto the couch. His hair was wet, and he’d changed out of what he’d worn earlier in the day. He never made much about it, but he’d clearly been enjoying Novikov’s indoor pool. Not that she blamed him. “Massacring. They’ve been massacring.”

  “What?”

  “They joined a game, created a league, and now they’re killing everyone and taking all their shit.”

  “I now have the most amazing armor,” Jake said, grinning. “It’s got spikes. If I were a warrior from back in the day, I would totally have spiked armor.”

  “Anyway,” Jocelyn said, totally dismissing this conversation since she didn’t understand the appeal of gaming. “Word has come down that Chumakov is sending an art appraiser to evaluate the painting before he’ll come to the States.” She glanced at Vic. “He’s apparently being very cautious at the moment.”

  “Can you blame him?”

  “No.”

  “So what if he’s sending an appraiser?” Jake asked, his fingers pounding on his poor keyboard. Now Jocelyn understood why he had one laptop for his “work” and one for his gaming, considering the abuse the gaming one took. “Who cares?”

  “We need to.” Jocelyn waited a moment for full dramatic effect, before stating, “He’s sending Pierre-Phillipe Anwar from Paris.”

  Every honey badger eye turned to Jocelyn and she knew why. Although the hybrid didn’t.

  “Who’s Pierre-Phillipe Anwar from Paris?” Vic asked.

  “Well, we’re screwed!” Jake announced, always more dramatic than the rest of them.

  “Pierre-Phillipe? Are you sure?” Livy asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Still don’t know who that is,” Vic said.

  “One of the best art appraisers in the world.”

  Livy scratched her ear. “Jake’s right. We are so screwed.”

  “Is it really that bad?”

  “Pierre-Phillipe Anwar works for the biggest and most powerful museums in the world,” Jocelyn explained. “He’s testified in federal and international cases that have put people away for decades, including a few of our relatives.”

  “Poor Cousin Bronislaw,” Jake sighed, sadly shaking his head.

  “But I thought Melly was the best.”

  “She is. But so is Anwar. If anyone can sniff out her work, it’s him.”

  “Then what do we do?” Vic asked.

  “Can we bribe him?” Livy asked.

  “We tried with Cousin Bronislaw. That was added to his federal charges.”

  “Oh.”

  “So what do you want to do, Livy?”

  Never one for rash decisions, Livy was silent as she thought on that. After a bit, she said, “Let’s see how it plays out. We’re going through a third party anyway. If it blows up, we can clean up and be gone in less than thirty.”

  “Should we tell Melly what’s going on?”

  “She’s not even here,” Jocelyn replied to Jake’s question. “She went back to the City with Antonella. To meet up with her ‘boyfriend,’ ” she said with air quotes.

  “Thousand bucks says she’s in jail by the end of the week,” Jake tossed out. Sadly no one took him up on it.

  “Did you tell my mother all this?” Livy asked.

  “And Uncle Bart.” Jocelyn shrugged. “They both said to come to you.”

  Livy rolled her eyes. “I hope they don’t think this is some kind of training. I have no plans to join the family business because of this.”

  “I don’t think that’s it,” Jocelyn admitted. “Your father, your decisions. That’s how it works. Besides, you’ve become too much of a goody two-claws from hanging around those Jean-Louis Parkers. You’re very lucky we still allow you to call yourself a Kowalski.”

  Livy snorted, returned to her ridiculous gaming. “As if I could be anything else.”

  Dez stood behind the Kowalski contact handling the selling of the painting. She was fully aware this was illegal. Selling a painting she knew to be a forgery. Helping the Kowalskis lure a man to this country so they could kill another man in a foreign country . . .

  She couldn’t even pretend this was kind of legal. It wasn’t. Not a little. Even if she wanted to bust the guy who was going to be evaluating
the painting, she couldn’t do that, either.

  And yet . . . Dez felt no guilt. She should. Before her life had changed to include a husband who could shift into a five-hundred-pound lion and a son who would one day be able to shift into a five-hundred-pound lion, she’d been a very clean cop. Something she’d been proud of.

  But with life changes came moral changes sometimes. At least for her. Because protecting her family had become the most important thing. Sometimes the only thing. So if that meant helping a family of honey badgers track down and kill a man who’d been hunting shifters like her husband and son for sport . . . Dez was going to do it.

  The art appraiser glanced up at Dez. He had small eyes behind those glasses he wore. Small and beady. And his French accent annoyed her. She didn’t know why. When Mace had taken her to Paris for their anniversary last year, she’d loved every minute of it. God, especially the food. She almost went up a pant size eating all that great food. But this guy . . .

  Maybe it was just the rude arrogance behind that French accent and those beady eyes that was annoying her. Yeah. She could see that.

  “Who is that?” Anwar asked, pointing a long, thin finger at Dez.

  “She is my protection,” the contact replied.

  “I see.”

  “You don’t expect me to walk around New York with a Matisse and not have some protection, do you?”

  “If it is a Matisse,” he sneered.

  Dez watched the little man work. It took hours. Seriously. Hours.

  Hours of staring, of pulling out small lights and things to test as much as he could. There was some muttering about more intensive tests like X-rays or carbon dating. But he’d need help with that, and no matter how much he was being paid by Chumakov, Anwar wasn’t about to risk his reputation with legitimate museums and reputable art dealers by taking a stolen Matisse in to have it flippin’ x-rayed.

  As they hit hour six, Dez began to panic. How much longer would this take? And what if he didn’t think it was a real Matisse? Then what? Dez liked Livy. She wanted her safe. She wanted all shifters safe, even the ones she didn’t like . . . her sister-in-law coming to mind.