Shelly Laurenston - Bite Me

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.

Finally, the man stood tall and sniffed in such a way that Dez was convinced they were screwed.

He pulled out a cell phone—a different one from that phone he’d been checking all day—speed-dialed someone, and said something in what sounded like Russian. Although Dez didn’t know. She spoke English and Brooklyn-English, which involved some Spanish, and mangled Italian and Yiddish. But that was it.

With a nod at the contact, he packed up his crap and walked out without a word.

“Well?” Dez asked the contact.

The pretty girl smiled and gave a thumbs-up.

With a relieved sigh, Dez unclipped her cell phone from the holster attached to her jeans and called Vic. “It fuckin’ worked,” she said in Brooklyn-English. “I can’t believe it, but it fuckin’ worked.”

Vic put down his phone and looked at the three badgers and panda he was playing Texas Hold ’Em with at the kitchen table. Livy, Jake, Jocelyn, and Shen. He looked and said nothing.

As one, the four shifters turned and looked out the sliding-glass doors where Melly yelled into her cell phone, “You will never stop loving me! I will kill you first!” She burst into tears. “Please don’t stop loving me,” she sobbed. “Please! You motherfucker! ”

They faced forward again, shook their heads, and went back to playing their game.

Bayla Ben-Zeev reviewed the finances for each of the department heads who reported to her.

Unlike her predecessor, Balya did not nitpick each and every dime spent. If a fellow grizzly liked to spend BPC money on honey or a nearly eight-foot polar needed to invest in an extra-strong office chair designed for his four hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, she wasn’t going to argue. There were always more important things for her people to be doing than worrying about the cost of chairs.

Besides, Bayla occasionally liked this kind of busywork. Adjusting numbers, deciding which department needed more, which could survive with less. This kind of work had always been a nice break from what her real work was, which at first had been protecting the Israeli people. But now, it was protecting her fellow bears.

Both jobs she was exceedingly proud of.

Bayla’s office door was thrown open and a large grizzly stormed in.

He threw his arms wide. “Bayla, my love!”

Bayla sighed, already apologizing to her ears for the next few minutes of onslaught.

She leaned back into her chair. “Vladik Barinov. I’m not surprised to see you in my office.”

“Really?” He dismissed Bayla’s assistant with a wave of his hand.

But the Bronx native black bear wasn’t so easily sent away. She looked at Bayla.

“It’s all right, Judith. You can go.”

The door closed behind the She-bear, and Vladik dropped his mighty bulk into the chair across from Bayla’s.

“You are looking good, my dearest one. This New York City life agrees with you.”

Bayla ignored the compliment. Instead, she went back to her paperwork and said, “I’ve been hearing things about your son.” She thought a moment. “Victor.”

“My wonderful boy! So very handsome! Just like his papa!”

“Unfortunately, Vladik, he’s become friendly with a rather unsavory element.”

“Honey badgers have right to be pissed, do they not?”

“Do they?”

“Rostislav Chumakov is not a friend, my dear Bayla.”

“He gives BPC lots of money.”

“Is that why you protect him?”

Bayla looked up from her work. “I protect Chumakov as much as I protect you or any other of our kind. I need proof before I condemn a bear.”

“You will have proof.”

“Will I?”

“Oh yes. But he must know, Bayla—that retaliation of any kind would be foolish on his part.” Vladik grinned. “You know me. I am friendly bear! Everyone loves Vladik! But if he tries to kill my son’s lovely little badger again—I will cut him up into little pieces and bake him in pie. My grandmother did that once to a full-human she did not like in a neighboring village.” His smile faded. “She fed him to his family—and laughed while they ate him.”

His grin returned. “For we are jovial bears, the Barinovs! And we do not like unnecessary strife. What is the point, yes?”

Bayla leaned back in her chair. “I’ll make sure everyone’s clear on this issue. As you know, I believe in protecting hybrid bears as much as their full-blood brethren. That’s important to me.”

“Hearing that brings me joy, beautiful Bayla.”

“But for this to go any further than just warnings, Vladik—I better have proof he’s been protecting Frankie Whitlan.”

“Do not worry, my dear—as I said, proof you will have. Most likely more proof than you could ever want.”

Livy woke up when someone touched her arm. “Jake?”

“Chumakov’s in town.”

She nodded and said to her cousin, “You know what to do.”

“We’re already on it.” Her cousin walked out. Livy looked up to see that Vic was awake, his gaze focused on her face.

“Already on what?” he asked.

“Keeping an eye on my mother.”

“Your mother? Why?”

She yawned, snuggled back into his chest. “It’s something she used to always tell me when I was growing up. Kowalskis never forget . . . but Yangs never forgive.”

“We promised my father we wouldn’t make a move on Chumakov until we had proof. And even then . . . we should still go through the BPC.”

“Don’t worry. Balt will keep her busy. How, I don’t want to know. But we should be fine. At least until Chumakov heads out again.”

“Good.” Vic rubbed her back. “Besides, I doubt he’ll be staying in the States for long. Not once he gets the news . . .”

After handing over three and a half million American dollars, four of his men packed the Matisse away and took it out a back door of the small Greek grocery store where they’d met the full-human contact who had the painting.

Rostislav Chumakov was so happy with his purchase—three and a half million for a Matisse, stolen or otherwise, was what Americans called a “steal”—he didn’t notice anything was wrong when he stepped out of the small store and onto the Manhattan street until his eldest boy stopped walking right in front of him.

Rostislav leaned over a bit and he forced himself to smile. “Bayla Ben-Zeev,” he said, walking around his son and over to the She-bear resting her big bear ass against his limo. “You look wonderful as always.” He kissed both her cheeks.

“It’s good to see you again, Rostislav. What brings you to the States?”

“A little business. I can’t stay long.”

“That’s fine. Probably for the best. I heard you’ve been making some enemies lately.” Ben-Zeev shook her head. “Badgers? You’re pissing off badgers now?”

“I didn’t know the BPC involved itself in a bear’s personal business.”

“We don’t . . . unless it threatens what we have. When you told me I could use my people for more important work because you had a handle on the Whitlan situation”—she shrugged—“I took you at your word. A bear’s word is very important to me, Rostislav.”