Breaking Badger

by Shelly Laurenston

  But as Finn used his fangs to strip the flesh from the bone and drop the bone back on the plate, he heard crunching from the other side of the table. He glanced over and froze as he saw the honey badger feed rib after rib into her mouth the same way she’d fed the fries.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been staring until she stopped mid-chomp. Their eyes met, and she shrugged.

  “It’s a hyena thing,” she admitted.

  “I thought you were all honey badger.”

  “Mostly . . . yeah. But I do have a few hyena traits. Well, just a couple. I giggle at inappropriate times. Like in high school, during this old teacher’s funeral . . . that was awkward. Got a week’s detention for that. And I can crush pretty much anything between my jaws and digest it. Like bone . . . granite . . . steel . . . But before you ask, I do not eat human flesh.”

  “Why would I ever ask you that?”

  “Some people ask. But in general, I’m honey badger. When I shift, I’m honey badger. My fangs are honey badger. Temperament . . . honey badger. I can’t get enough of actual honey. Most poisons are just a seasoning to me, especially when snake is involved. Although man-made poisons do seem to give me sinus headaches. And that . . . whatchamacallit . . . ricin? It gives me migraines.”

  “Really? It kills most people.”

  “Yeah? It just gives me migraines. Max called me a wuss, though.”

  Unable to help himself, Finn had to ask. “Why were you and Max poisoned with ricin?”

  “It’s a long story and involves Hungarians, but it wasn’t really a big deal. And after a couple of Excedrin and a soda . . . I felt much better.”

  “Okay.” Finn threw up his hands. He couldn’t do this anymore. He had come with a purpose. “I just have to ask this and then I’m going to go back to practice—”

  “I already told you I do not eat human flesh.”

  “I was not going to ask you that. Ever!” He scrubbed his face with both hands. “I’ve been told that when it comes to getting information, honey badgers are the best. I thought maybe you could tell me how I could get Max to help me and my brothers.”

  She frowned. “Do what?”

  “Get information that could lead us to the people involved in my father’s murder.”

  “You want Max to help you guys with that?”

  “Or you.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “That would be betrayal.”

  “Betrayal?”

  “Of Max.”

  “Right. Of Max. So I have to go to Max?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. I’ll go to Max. Since you won’t do it.”

  Her nose briefly crinkled. “Max? Who you just threw out of your house this morning? After your brother yelled at her? And all her teammates? Even though she brought you pastries? That Max?”

  Finn let out a sigh. If he had to hear about those damn pastries one more time . . .

  “Yes. That Max.”

  It took a moment, but once she started laughing, she didn’t seem able to stop.

  * * *

  “You can stop laughing now,” he complained.

  But Mads couldn’t. She really couldn’t. Did he really think, after what had just happened that morning, and the way his older brother had treated Max MacKilligan, that she would ever, ever help them with anything? For any reason? Ever?

  Max would rather set herself on fire than help these big bastards! Or set the brothers on fire.

  The only reason Max MacKilligan hadn’t burned the house down with the brothers in it that very morning was because of her half-sister. But the Malone brothers’ father was not the father of their young sister. She might legally carry the Malone name, but as far as Max was concerned, Natalie Malone was and always would be a MacKilligan. That connection had kept the brothers physically safe, but it bought them no favors.

  They could have called in a huge favor after saving the lives of Max and her teammates just the night before. But they’d been cranky tigers instead and blown that opportunity.

  Now, here was younger brother Flynn or Gin or Bry-in— whatever the dude’s name was—asking how he could ask a favor from Max.

  And he didn’t expect Mads to laugh about that? Laugh a lot? It wasn’t even the tiny bit of hyena in her that was laughing. It was all bitter, angry, mean-spirited honey badger that couldn’t stop laughing right now.

  “Are you going to help me or not? Or are you just going to keep laughing at me?”

  Knowing of only one way to answer that, Mads stood up, patted the tiger on his massive shoulder, and walked away.

  Still laughing.

  It was the clearest way possible to get her point across.

  * * *

  “So is that a ‘no’ on the helping?” Finn called after her.

  When she only laughed harder as she disappeared around a corner toward the elevators, he figured that, yeah, it was a “no.”

  Noticing that she’d left her food plates behind, Finn cleaned off the table and took his time scraping things off so he could sort stuff in the recycle bins. He stopped by the bathroom to wash his hands and returned to practice.

  “Where did you go?” Keane asked, the blood of an offensive lineman splashed across his face.

  “I was hungry. And I needed to think.”

  “You and the thinking.” His brother sighed before reaching out his arm, snatching a wide receiver trying to charge past and throwing the poor leopard back a hundred feet.

  “I like thinking.”

  “Why? It never gets you anywhere.”

  “And you and your mighty instinct do?”

  “We’re still alive, aren’t we?” Keane snapped.

  “Barely. But let’s not get into a fight.”

  “Because you know you can’t take me?”

  “Because I know Ma will beat both our asses if we get into any more fights. So, while I was eating, I saw one of the badgers in the food court.”

  “Which one?”

  “The real blond one. Looks like she just got off the boat from Viking Land.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I’ll put it to you this way . . . we’d have a better chance of our ancestors returning to this plane of existence and telling us who murdered our father than getting any help from Max MacKilligan.”

  A cheetah going at least fifty miles per hour dashed past Keane, but Finn’s brother—without even looking—simply reached his arm out and yanked the cat back by his neck, then flung him toward the rest of the offensive line.

  “So,” Keane reasoned, “we need to find another way to ask MacKilligan nicely.”

  Shoulders dropping, Finn let out a breath and gave up attempting to understand his eldest brother.

  “I’m going to go hit bears,” Finn said, moving toward the giant linebackers whose entire job was protecting the quarterback and receiver.

  “You should wait thirty minutes after eating,” his brother chastised.

  Finn was about to tell his brother that was for swimming . . . and for full-humans. But why? Why tell the idiot anything? He’d created the situation they were in; he was the one who had to fix it.

  As far as Finn was concerned, he was done dealing with all the MacKilligans. He had a preseason game to think about and murderers to track down.

  He did, however, stop long enough to pull his phone out from where he’d tucked it between his hip and his padding and ordered some flowers for the badger who’d just lost her great-grandmother. He knew how hard it was to lose someone you not only loved but who loved you back. And it didn’t sound as though she had a lot of family members who loved her back.

  With the order in, Finn tossed his phone to Shay, then abruptly charged the unsuspecting linebackers just standing around waiting for Big Julie to give them orders. She saw him coming, too, and didn’t say anything until he’d decimated half her line. Then she informed the tryouts, “This isn’t the NFL, ladies and gents. You’re around real-life predators now
. You have to pay attention or you’re going to do nothing but get your ass kicked all. Day. Long. By big cats with nothin’ better to do.”

  chapter SEVEN

  They didn’t say anything until after practice when none of them could take it anymore. Nelle was sitting in the front passenger seat, so they all gestured at her to ask the question, which she attempted to ignore until Streep kicked the back of her seat.

  Reaching her arm over the headrest to give Streep the middle finger, Nelle turned and asked Max, “So, um . . . what happened to your face?”

  Max stopped behind a car at the light, waited a few seconds, then suddenly pulled out into oncoming traffic, went around the car in front of them, and made a right turn at the corner. Horns blared and the New York drivers cursed up a blue streak. Max didn’t even notice.

  “My face?” she asked.

  Nelle cringed as she gestured at the tiny claw marks that went from one side of their team captain’s face to the other and across her chin, nose and lips.

  “Oh! That! Yeah. That’s from Stevie’s new cat.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you gave my sister that damn cat, Tock.”

  “She kind of took it from me.”

  “And it’s not so much a cat as it’s a six-month-old kitten.”

  “Four weeks,” Tock corrected Streep. “It’s only four weeks old.”

  Streep gasped. “Why would a four-week-old kitten attack you, Max?”

  “I have no idea,” Max replied before she made a wild left into oncoming traffic and tore down another street.

  “Are we being followed?” Mads wanted to know.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then what are you doing?”

  “Making sure we’re not followed.”

  Mads leaned back into the SUV’s leather seats and stared out the window. She was done asking questions. It was too taxing on her brain.

  “I still can’t believe you were mauled by a kitten,” Streep pointed out. “What did you do to it?”

  “Nothing! I was just sitting in the vet’s waiting room with my sisters, and the next thing I knew it had attached itself to my face and Stevie couldn’t get its tiny baby claws out. When Charlie finally pried it loose, it just kept slashing at me. It acted like I owed it money. But I’m pretty sure I don’t.”

  “It doesn’t concern you that random animals seem to attack you for what you insist are no obvious reasons?” Nelle asked.

  “It’s not my fault. I literally was doing nothing.” She raised a finger. “Maybe they sense my barely simmering rage.”

  “You don’t have barely simmering rage,” Tock reminded her. “You’re a sociopath.”

  “That’s borderline at best. According to the psychiatrist I went to.”

  “Isn’t she writing a book on you?”

  “No. I’m merely a couple of chapters.”

  “How to know when you’re being conned, or how to know when your spouse is planning to kill you for financial gain?” Streep sweetly asked.

  “Something like that.”

  “That is not a definitive answer, Max MacKilligan.”

  They pulled up to the MacKilligan house in Queens, and everyone got out of the big SUV.

  Mads hiked the strap of her duffel bag over her shoulder and started after the rest of the team, but Tock tugged her back by holding onto the bag.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. Why?”

  “Jaleesa missed that layup at practice and usually you would rip her head off the day before a playoff game. But you didn’t say anything. That’s not like you.”

  Mads shook her head. “Nope. I’m cool.”

  She knew she could tell her teammates what was going on, but she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to tell anyone. It was her business and she would deal with it on her own. She dealt with everything on her own. No big deal. So she forced a smile, and Tock gave a shrug and walked ahead of her toward the front porch.

  Mads glanced across the street and several houses down to the three-story colonial owned by a She-bear widow that Mads hadn’t seen around lately. But she could see the She-bear’s daughter and son-in-law there now. It looked like they were cleaning out the place. She sighed a little. Another family loss, it seemed.

  Turning on her heel, she headed into the MacKilligan house but froze as soon as she stepped inside. Every badger head had turned toward her as soon as Mads entered. That was off-putting enough. But then Max’s baby sister suddenly came at her. Arms open wide. And before Mads could make a panicked run for it, she was being hugged.

  Hugged.

  Against her will.

  “I’m so, so, soooo sorry, Mads,” Stevie MacKilligan said in a shaky voice that told Mads the woman was barely holding back tears.

  Blessed Odin, not the sobbing.

  Not knowing what was going on, Mads looked at Tock. Her friend pointed at the dining room table, which could easily be seen from the living room where she was standing. And on that table was an enormous vase of flowers. White lilies mixed with white roses and some other stuff. Mads wasn’t really a flower person. But no one had sent her flowers before. Ever. Who the hell would send her flowers? And why would flowers lead to Stevie hugging—

  “We are so sorry to hear about your great-grandmother.”

  Oh, no.

  “And before you ask,” Stevie went on, “I didn’t read the card that came with the flowers. Max did.”

  “Rat,” Max accused before her entire mood changed and she happily noted, “No name on the card but there’s a number. . .”

  Mads tried to pull away from Stevie but the badger-tiger hybrid merely held on tighter. The MacKilligan sisters were not like other honey badgers. When a badger mated with another breed of shifter, the kids were always honey badger. They might have some slight deviations. Weird hair color or slightly off fangs. Or in Mads’s case, the ability to eat and digest steel. But at the end of the day . . . they were really just amped-up honey badgers.

  That, however, was not true of the MacKilligan sisters, Charlie and Stevie.

  Charlie was half wolf and couldn’t even shift. She had fangs and claws whenever she wanted, but that was it. No fur. No changing limbs. But she had a crazy amount of super-shifter strength that would make an entire Navy SEAL team look like three-year-old boys.

  And Stevie . . . well, Stevie’s abilities were never discussed. By anyone. The team just knew that she wasn’t exactly a honey badger; nor was she a Siberian She-tiger. She was something much more terrifying, and if she ever started crying in rage and panic, Max had told her teammates once, they were to start digging escape tunnels and digging them fast. A warning Mads never forgot.

  But none of that excused having to put up with hugging. Mads didn’t do hugging.

  “Awwww,” Max teased, coming closer. “Look at all that love.”

  Mads grabbed her teammate by the hair, yanking and twisting until she stopped laughing and said, “Okay. Okay!”

  Mads released her, and Max grabbed her baby sister’s shoulders and pulled her away from Mads.

  Thankfully, Stevie went willingly, but tears were still shining in her eyes and she kept sniffling.

  “Do you need anything, Mads?” Stevie asked. “Would you like some coffee or tea?”

  “Vodka?” Tock muttered.

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  Stevie’s face scrunched up into something Mads couldn’t quite explain—she just knew she didn’t like it—her head gently tilted to the side, and she said with soft care, “Are you, though, sweetie? Are ya fine?”

  Streep immediately covered her mouth, eyes wide. Tock’s eyes just rolled. Nelle sniffed once and went back to her phone. Max grinned. Charlie, who’d walked in from the kitchen, grimaced.

  And Mads dropped her duffel bag and walked out of the house.

  * * *

  Finn checked his phone again and scowled. She must have gotten the flowers by now. And no thank-you text? Who didn’t send a thank-you text after gett
ing a lovely bouquet of “sorry your great-grandmother died” flowers?

  Sure, he could imagine his baby sister mouthing her standard You must be joking at him. For expecting a thank-you after that morning’s blowup in their kitchen. But this wasn’t about what had happened between the two groups. This was about the discussion they’d had as two independent, semi-human beings. And his gesture deserved a proper thank-you.

  “Hello, cousin!”

  Finn looked up from his phone and into gold eyes that matched his own. The gold eyes of a Malone.

  Fangs pushed out from his gums and a low growl began to build in the back of his throat, ready to be unleashed so it could take down the entire Sports Center!

  A big hand landed on Finn’s shoulder as a polar bear sat next to him on the bench.

  “Everybody calm down,” the bear muttered. “We’re just here to talk.”

  “I don’t talk to traitors.”

  Marcella Malone, one of his many first cousins, put her hands on her hips. “I was a kid when your father died!”

  “Murdered! He was murdered! And your father, his brother, did nothing! That makes you the daughter of a traitor!”

  “What did you say about my father?”

  “Do you actually want me to say it louder? Because I will!”

  “Hey!” the bear bellowed. “This isn’t nice! I want nice!”

  Finn looked at the polar bear sitting next to him. He looked like an ex-con. Long white hair that reached halfway down his back in a loosely tied ponytail, a threadbare Black Sabbath T-shirt barely covering ten thousand muscles, worn jeans, biker boots, a scar on his neck that was not put there by any claw or fang, and both arms littered with tattoos. But worst of all, he was armed.

  “You’re hanging around bikers now?” Finn asked his cousin.

  Cella pursed her lips. “He’s not a biker. He’s a cop.”

  Finn laughed. “Yeah. Right.”

  Then the cop pulled out his badge.

  “Oh.” He looked the polar bear over again. “The NYPD’s really lowered that dress code.”

  “I work undercover a lot.”

  “As what? Old biker or old drug dealer? Or old both?”

  “I’m not old,” the bear quickly replied. “I’m not old!”

  “He just looks old,” Cella felt the need to explain. “It’s the white hair.”