Badger to the Bone Read online

  “Hello, dearest Aun—” she began but the brutal slap across her face stopped the remainder of Mairi’s greeting. She froze where she stood, the sound of that slap still echoing across the ocean surrounding them.

  “How hard is it,” Aunt Rina thundered at her, “to kill one man?”

  “It depends on the man, don’t it, Auntie?” She smirked. “That Grigori Rasputin—they stabbed him . . . but it didn’t kill him. Fed him cyanide . . . still he kept going. Took three shots to take him down but only because they hit him in the right spot. If they hadn’t, he’d probably be runnin’ around Russia right now, givin’ that Putin a hard time. Which is what I told you about good ol’ Uncle Will, but you didn’t listen, did ya? Blow him up, ya said. Take out his sons, too, ya said. Didn’t listen to me and now . . . he knows you’re after him. They all do, and the MacKilligans won’t let you or me get near him again.”

  Aunt Tina took a sip of some fruity-looking drink before calmly asking, “And why do you keep focusing on that little one?” She put her drink down, took a few grapes from a bowl. “We know you were in the Netherlands when she was.”

  “And how do you know that, Auntie?”

  Now Tina smirked. While Rina was nothing but raw rage and hatred, her twin was the cold plotter. Together, they were a dangerous pair because they had nothing but money and time.

  “I’ll never understand you two,” Mairi admitted. “You could be anywhere, doing anything, but instead you focus on a family that could not care less about either of you.” It was true: Mairi’s granddad was like most of the MacKilligan men, fucking anything that walked and had a pussy. But the MacKilligan male honey badger didn’t like the single life. So no matter how many girlfriends he might keep, he always chose a mate as mean and as vicious as he could find. Sometimes she was another honey badger, sometimes a full-human. And no matter who he fucked on the side, who he lied to about divorce and children, who he promised “forever” to, it didn’t matter. Because at the end of the day, the mate the MacKilligan male had chosen was the one he stayed loyal to until the end.

  “Your father—me granddad—would have never left our grandmum for your mum and he never would have claimed you two as his own,” she told them frankly. “Not ever. So I don’t see why either of you are sweatin’ about it.”

  “He didn’t have a problem claiming his American children.”

  There was truth to that. But, in Granddad’s defense, he’d bred those children through the meanest and most vicious honey badger female he could find in the States. He had wed both women. Just not legally. But what was a badger to do with all those stupid laws that prevented him from being married to two women at the same time? Of course, Granddad’s tragic end came when those two females found out about each other. That’s when they lured poor old Granddad to some place in Paris to plan a heist—and he never came back. The pair, however, did return. They met with the uncles, split up the available funds between the two families, and the American returned to her cubs in the States while Grandmum returned home. It was never discussed again; it was never analyzed or thought about. It was the risk a male took when he tried to have more than one honey badger mate.

  “Well, choosing to acknowledge his American cubs over you . . . that was different, wasn’t it? That was because he loved their mum.”

  This time the blow to Mairi’s face came from a fist. Impressive, when she thought about those ridiculous nails her aunts filed so that they resembled actual claws. Considering they both had claws naturally, it seemed excessive.

  “You piece of shit,” Rina spit out in her Italian accent, “you do what we tell you.”

  “We’re not paying for you to go after that Asian one,” Tina said.

  Ah, yes. The Asian one. The one who thought she was so special. So smart. So much better than the rest of them. At least the other two knew their place among the MacKilligan clan. Knew exactly where they belonged. But Max Yang thought she was unique. Blessed. She was none of those things, and Mairi was committed to showing her cousin exactly that.

  A commitment Mairi was not going to be dissuaded from no matter what her aunts ordered.

  “Well . . . I won’t get near Uncle Will,” Mairi responded. “Not now. His sons will make sure of that.”

  “You focus on Freddy,” Tina said, standing up. She pulled at the bottom of her gold bikini, digging it out of her ass. Classy! “He still has our money.”

  “Don’t you mean Uncle Will’s money?”

  “He lost it. Now it’s ours.”

  “Everyone wants Uncle Freddy,” she reminded them.

  Rina leaned in close to her and growled, “Find him. Or the money stops and then we start—on you. Understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  In their matching gold bikinis and six-inch designer heels, the twins stomped off. Guards followed them and the one who had asked for Mairi’s weapons stepped in beside her. He gestured to the exit that would take her back to the little table and the helicopter that would fly her to the private airstrip and the private plane that would whisk her back to the States.

  But before she followed the armed guard, she took a moment to look over the super yacht. She could still feel where Rina had hit her. Could still hear the ringing in her ears from her condescending tone. But that was okay. She didn’t mind. Not now. Not when she had much bigger, long-term plans.

  Mairi grinned as she took in the beauty of this yacht that would, one day . . . one day soon . . . be all hers.

  * * *

  Zé sat down on the couch in the living room, but the back of his foot struck something under it and he reached down and grabbed the object.

  When he’d fished it out, he immediately realized it was a sneaker. A sneaker that required him to hold it up with two hands. A sneaker that was the biggest he’d ever seen. Did the NBA stay here on weekends or something? Because who else had feet this big? This thing was Shaq sized.

  “It’s a Viking boat,” he muttered. “It’s a shoe the size of a goddamn Viking boat.”

  He tossed the sneaker down and leaned back, but he kept leaning until he was lying flat, staring up at the ceiling. Zé sat up and examined the couch. It was also enormous.

  He was not a small man. He was six-two, nearly two-hundred-and-sixty. He used to play football in school. Could have gotten a scholarship to play ball in college but, just to irritate his grandfather, he joined the Marines instead, pissing the old man off. Because they both knew he could have easily gone pro. He used to be that good. But despite knowing other players who were way bigger than he was, he’d never gone to their houses and found couches this size—although he was sure many of them would have appreciated something so comfortable.

  Zé shook his head. No, no. He was letting those crazy women get into his head. He was letting them convince him of something that was just not possible. There was no way what they were saying . . . no way he could be . . . no way there was even a chance that . . .

  Resting his elbows on his knees, he dropped his chin on his raised fists and simply sat there. Staring across the room at a TV that wasn’t turned on.

  He had no idea how long he sat there like that before the back of his head itched. Without really thinking, he reached around and scratched his scalp. That’s when he felt it. Just under the skin. Small pieces of bone . . . moving into place. He jerked his hand away and immediately noticed his headache was abruptly gone.

  What was happening? What the hell was happening?

  He heard a door open at the front of the house and five men walked into the living room. They didn’t look at him and Zé didn’t speak. One older man seemed to lead the others, strutting in front of them. They weren’t tall like the brown-haired men he’d spoken to earlier but they were stocky and powerfully built. He could see their muscles under their suit jackets. He also heard accents as they spoke to each other. Scottish. Or Irish. He’d always had trouble catching the difference.

  They’d barely made it to the far side of the living room when St
evie rushed in. She held her hands up but the men simply walked around her. She blinked in surprise at being ignored as if she wasn’t even standing there and she ran around to block them again. This time stretching out her arms wide and yelping, “No!”

  This time the men did stop and stare at her.

  “Dear sweet niece,” said the older man, “a lovely sight as always.”

  “Hello, Uncle Will. Uh . . . I thought you guys had left. For good.”

  “Why would we do that? Charlie said we were welcome to stay.”

  “She was lying. She’s a vicious little liar. She lies and lies—we can’t stop her.”

  “Now, we all know that’s not true, dearest girl. I’m sure if I talk to her—”

  “No!” Stevie barked again, her hands pressed against her uncle’s chest specifically to keep him from moving forward. She forced a smile. “My sister has a lot on her mind right now.”

  “That’s too bad. You know what?” her uncle suddenly announced, smiling. “She should take a break. Maybe go spend some time with that grizzly of hers. I’ll suggest it to her.”

  Stevie stood her ground. “You want her to leave that house? That’s your plan?”

  “Do you have a better one?”

  “Anything’s better!”

  “Awww, now, Stevie. Don’t be unfair. You know I only want the best for your sister.”

  “Since when?”

  “Come on,” the man pushed. “We’ll tell her together.”

  “We’re not telling her anything. You’re just leaving. I’ve got a lot of work to do and all of you are nothing but distractions that I’m beginning to loathe.”

  “Oh, so it’s you that wants us out, is it?” He smiled and even though Zé saw nothing that actually said, “Hello there, I can change into some kind of large jungle animal,” the smile did scream “predator!”

  “Well,” her uncle went on with that grin spreading across his face, “that changes everything, doesn’t it?”

  Stevie’s left eye twitched at his words. Zé could see it from across the room. It was so dramatic even he felt the need to inject himself into the situation, but he never had the chance.

  “What’s up?” Max asked as she walked into the room. She’d changed into long, blue basketball shorts, a matching tank top, and blue high-top Converse. Her purple hair was in two ponytails and she had a red, white, and blue basketball tucked under her arm. This placement was necessary so that she could hold a large jar of honey in one hand and spoon said honey into her mouth with the other.

  Christ. Who wanted to eat that much honey? She ate it like she was eating ice cream.

  “Just havin’ a little chat with your baby sister here before I go and get me a nice cuppa.”

  “Nice cuppa what?”

  The Scots—or Irish . . . whatever—all looked at her, their lips curled in disgust. Were they not clear on where they were? They were in America! Where one has cups of coffee! The only tea drinkers around these parts were those gentrifying bastards in Brooklyn. Not real Americans!

  “I’m telling them to leave,” Stevie said, finally lowering her arms so she could cross them and tuck her hands under her pits. It was a weird visual. She seemed a little old to pose like that. Even when annoyed.

  “Why?” Max asked. “We love having them here.”

  “See?” the uncle said, grinning again.

  “Yeah. They can stay as long as they want. Right, guys?”

  The men gave a little cheer at Max’s words and she handed over her jar of honey. One of the younger males took it and eagerly scooped spoonfuls into his mouth. Why? Honey was an additive! A condiment! It was not to be used as a self-contained treat!

  With her hands free, Max began to dribble the basketball. She didn’t do a fast dribble. Just one annoying bounce at a time. It was . . . methodical, the way she dribbled that ball. One bounce. Two beats. Another bounce. Two beats. Another bounce. Two beats. Yeah. It was methodical. Or, at least, that’s how it felt. It felt methodical . . . almost planned. Which was ridiculous, right? He’d been around a lot of basketball players in his old neighborhood and high school, still played some pickup games when he spent a weekend with his grandfather, and if there was a ball in someone’s hand, they always bounced it repeatedly, as fast as they could because it was a ball in their hands. They didn’t even think about it. They just did it. No matter how much bouncing that ball annoyed Zé.

  And God, did it annoy Zé. Then and now!

  It was a habit he found so annoying that on more than one occasion, he had snatched a ball from some bouncing offender, only to slam it back into the man’s face. Why? Because he needed to learn! Sadly, his grandfather had been forced several times over the years to explain to some pissed-off neighbor from down the block that “it was a total accident. You know what a fumble-fingers my grandson is. Aren’t you, idiot?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m a fumble-fingers.”

  The memory almost made him smile except that the bouncing was really starting to irritate him. It was, he also quickly noticed, annoying Stevie.

  He could tell when she carefully placed her middle and forefingers against both sides of her head, making small circles at the temples, before asking, “So you’re not leaving?”

  “Oh, we’ll leave. Eventually. You know, still trying to find out who blew us up. That’s kind of our priority right now.”

  “We know who blew you up. It was the half-sisters who hate you!”

  “Who can say?”

  “I can!”

  “Dearest niece, I understand how it is. Sometimes you just have to throw your own kin out into the cold night.”

  “It’s summer,” Stevie bit out between clenched teeth, that left eye twitching again. “And it’s morning.” She glanced at her sister. “Could you stop doing that, please?”

  She didn’t snap that request. But there was a tone there that Zé didn’t want to examine too closely. A tone that would make him aware he’d want to stop bouncing that ball.

  But not Max. Not the crazy woman who took on ex-military like she was pranking a bunch of junior high nerds. No. She just smiled. That smile he remembered so well from the other night. She smiled and she just kept going.

  “You don’t understand,” Stevie continued. “I have a lot of things going on right now. I’ve got a ballet to write—”

  “Isn’t that cute?” her uncle said to the burly men with him. And there went that eye twitch again.

  “—a lab to set up—”

  “Oh, are you doing the science thing again? Good for you, lass. Good for you. Bet you could do well with that sort of thing . . . if you just tried. You know, put your mind to it. Focused on it.”

  “—and my boyfriend’s parents to meet.”

  “Is that the Oriental bloke we saw around here?”

  Oooh. There went that nasty twitch again and now it was getting . . . intense.

  “The word is not Oriental. It’s Asian or, if you want to be specific, Chinese. My boyfriend is Chinese American.”

  “You can barely tell,” the uncle said. “His English is really good. Like he was born here.”

  “He was—” She managed to cut herself off, but Stevie’s fingers had now curled into fists.

  “Please stop dribbling that ball,” she asked Max again before she said to her uncle, “So what I’m saying is, I’m sure you’d be much more comfortable in a hotel—”

  “A hotel? I don’t know about that. We’re so low on cash right now, ya know . . . after what your father did and all.”

  Stevie slowly blew out a breath, then said, “I can pay to put you up in a hotel for a bit.”

  “That’s real kind of ya, darlin’. Real kind indeed. But we can’t just go anywhere, now can we? After someone tried to kill us.”

  “What hotel would you like?” she asked.

  “For us? It would need to be the Kingston Arms, now wouldn’t it?’

  The Kingston Arms? Was this asshole kidding? The Kingston Arms was expensive. Seriously,
blindingly expensive. It made staying at the Ritz Carlton seem like hanging out at a Motel 6 off I-95.

  “Well . . . that’s a problem,” Stevie said as she tried to slap the basketball away from a still-dribbling Max, “since—the last I heard—the Scottish MacKilligans have been banned from the Kingston Arms. All Kingston Arms. Even the ones in Africa and Asia.”

  “Maybe because they kept calling the Asians ‘Orientals,’ ” Max suggested, making Zé snort just a little.

  “That wasn’t what happened,” the uncle argued. “And Africa? How could we be banned from some African Kingston Arms? That’s not a country I’d even go to. Isn’t that right, lads?”

  When the men agreed as if even suggesting such a thing was the real offense here, Stevie threw up her hands and snarled. “Africa is a continent, you dimwits! You’ve been banned from all the Kingston Arms that are in the many countries on the continent of Africa.”

  “Country or continent—”

  “Continent!”

  “—being banned from Africa was not the fault of the MacKilligans.” His head bopped from side to side before he added, “But Asia . . . that was definitely our fault. But not Africa. It was our enemies who got us banned from Africa. That was other badgers who used our name.”

  “I don’t care! You need to go! And you—” she suddenly bellowed, turning to face her sister, “—need to stop dribbling that goddamn ball!”

  But Max didn’t stop; she simply began dribbling the ball back and forth between her legs. Zé had to admit, though, she had solid technique.

  The uncle, however, didn’t seem to be aware of anything but getting what he wanted.

  “Look, niece,” her uncle began again, “we’d go if we could. Truly we would. We don’t like being in your way. But where would we go? What would we do? So for now, at least, here we’ll stay. And I’m sure with a heart as big as yours, you’ll be happy to let us stay, now won’t she, lads?”

  The burly men heartily agreed, their condescending smirks annoying Zé so much, he thought about hurling that Viking boat of a sneaker across the room in the hopes of destroying them all the way the Vikings did to those monks in 793 AD. But before he could make that move, Stevie abruptly reached over to one of the men and grabbed something off his belt.