“Stand her up for me,” Jocelyn ordered.
Shen did, making sure to turn Melly away from him. Although he realized that might not actually save him.
Jocelyn stared at her cousin for several moments before pulling back her hand and slapping Melly in the face. The first time did nothing, but the second slap had Melly swinging fists and cursing.
“Melly. Melly!”
The honey badger stopped. “Hey, Jocelyn. What’s going on?”
“We need you to work for a little while.”
“I don’t feel like it.” Melly searched her dress, which had no pockets. For her phone, Shen guessed. “I don’t understand how he can’t love me.”
Jake looked at Shen and rolled his eyes.
“We’ll have to worry about that later, sweetie. Because I really need you to handle this right now.”
“Handle what?”
Jocelyn held up a poster of an old Matisse painting that had been stolen from a Belgian art museum nearly ten years ago and never recovered.
“Ohhh,” Melly drunkenly sighed. “Matisse. I love Matisse.”
“I know you do.” Jocelyn nodded her head at Shen, and he released Melly’s shoulders. Jocelyn began to walk backward, holding the painting up and Melly stumbled after her. “Only you can do this, Melly. You know that, right?”
“Yep. I know.” She waved her hand at Jocelyn. “Pin it. Pin it.”
Jocelyn pinned the poster to an easel and Melly stood in front of it. She stood. She stared. She weaved a little.
With a finger to her lips, Jocelyn gestured for the men to leave. Together, the three walked out, Jake silently shutting the door behind them.
Shen started to say something, but Jocelyn shook her head and indicated for them to walk down the stairs. Once they were on another floor, Shen asked, “Are you sure we should leave her alone? She looks about to pass out again.”
“She’ll be fine,” Jocelyn said with absolutely no concern in her voice.
Shen wasn’t so sure but . . . he wasn’t about to go back and risk getting hit with all manner of disgusting things. He just hoped the family knew what they were doing since a lot of what they were planning hinged on a bipolar honey badger female with an obvious drinking problem.
Toni watched Vic open another jar of honey, put a spoon into it, and hand it to Livy. “The cinnamon-infused.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m going to go watch TV with Shen.”
“Ball game on? Maybe a little hockey?”
“No. Star Trek: The Next Generation marathon.”
“Of course.”
Vic kissed her cheek and walked out, leaving the two females alone in the kitchen. They sat on the island, their feet hanging over the side.
“Honey?” Livy offered.
“I hate honey.”
“What kind of demon hates honey?”
“So, how long before you admit to Vic that you love him, too?”
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up?”
Toni laughed. “Oh my God. This is the best. I actually have something to torture you with. This is like heaven on earth.”
“Shut. Up.”
Livy’s mother pulled the sliding glass door open and walked into the kitchen. She’d clearly been shopping, her hands filled with bags from stores like Chanel, Coach, and Saks Fifth Avenue. She stopped, though, when she saw Toni sitting next to Livy.
“Oh. Antonella. How nice,” her mother practically sneered.
“Chuntao,” Toni said, always knowing how much Livy’s mother hated when Toni and Jacqueline called her by her given name. She’d worked hard to be Joan Kowalski, and she didn’t appreciate being called out by “those artistic snobs.” “How are you holding up?”
“Fine. Just fine. Thanks.”
Joan cut across the kitchen.
“Love the mink,” Toni lied. “It’s always nice to wear the fur of a dead animal on your back.”
Joan paused by the doorway that led to the hall. “I’m so glad you’ve come, Antonella dear.” She looked over her shoulder and smiled so that the pair could easily see her fangs. “It’s so hard these days to find a good friend.”
Once Joan was gone, Toni asked Livy, “Your mother really does hate me, doesn’t she?”
“I think she hates your mother much more. But you are a close second.”
Toni gave a dismissive wave. “Then my job here is done.”
Sitting at the dining table, a glass of red wine nearby, Semenova chewed on elk jerky, flipped through a copy of Russian Vogue, and watched honey badgers skitter around. They probably didn’t see themselves as “skittering,” but that was how it seemed to Semenova. They moved quickly, stopped, listened, moved again.
Watching them made her want to go on a hunting-killing spree, but she knew her son wouldn’t appreciate that. So she focused on her magazine and her elk jerky instead.
She heard bickering and glanced through the big glass windows that looked out on the backyard. It was that Olivia Kowalski and her mother Chuntao “Joan” Yang.
Semenova knew Joan Yang. Not personally, but anyone in her line of work made it their business to know the Yangs and the Kowalskis, as well as all the Mongolian Chinbats, the Russian Popovs, the African Owusu, the Albanian Dushku, the American Phillips . . . good God, the list of honey badger families went on and on.
The honey badgers, however, had always been unique among shifters. They dealt mostly with full-humans and didn’t involve themselves in shifter politics. They did, however, involve themselves in full-human politics because it amused them to do so. It amused honey badgers to fuck with people. It amused them to steal, torment, and toy with those who weren’t part of their families. They bred many to ensure their strength among the shifter nation, in general, and other honey badger families specifically.
Of all shifters, Semenova always felt that the honey badgers were the ones who could take over the world . . . they simply never felt like it. Instead, they managed to keep the balance. They kept the world from ending, but they never allowed things to become perfect.
Perfection was a curse. Perfection was boredom—and badgers hated boredom.
So they served their purpose in the world, but she still treated badgers as the criminals most of them were. Especially in Eastern Europe and Mongolia, where Semenova and her mate worked long and hard helping law enforcement keep control.
What could Semenova say? She and her Vladik were very good at what they did. Her Vladik was the sweet-talker, negotiating with everyone, from mobsters to pirates to government rulers.
Semenova, however, was . . . what did her son call it? Ah, yes. She was “The Bad Cop.” She’d been trained by her mother, who had been Soviet Secret Police. Not because she’d been forced to or recruited, but because she’d enjoyed it. She’d enjoyed it greatly.
Just as Semenova enjoyed what she did . . . greatly.
A sudden banging on the table had Semenova looking up from her magazine. An old Asian She-badger stared down at her. An old She-badger she knew.
“Hello, feline,” the badger greeted.
“Ancient rat.”
The badger smirked. “Ratel . . . but you know that.” She pulled out one of the dining chairs and slowly sat down. Every bone creaked as she did. How old was this woman? Semenova had seen at least six birth certificates. Some from China, others from the States. One from Paris. And she looked anywhere from seventy to eighty to ninety.
“Tell me, ratel,” Semenova asked with a smile, “how many of your . . . what’s the English word? Kin, is it? How many of your kin have I had put away? At least two daughters, a son . . . that third husband of yours.”