Beast Behaving Badly (24 page)

Knowing that she'd never be able to get away from Lock without causing him damage, she simply turned her head to scowl at the male she blamed for all this. He and his cousin or uncle or whatever the hell Niles Van Holtz was to Ric stopped walking and the cousin or uncle or whatever suddenly screamed,
“Jesus Christ! How does she do that with her neck?”

“Where's my Blayne!” she bellowed over the other one.
“What did you do, Van Holtz?”

Lock picked her up and carried her to the closest bathroom. Once inside, he said, “You need to calm down.”

“I'll calm down when I have Blayne back. Where's Blayne?”

“She won't leave Ursus County.”

It was Lock's wording that caught Gwen's attention, and she immediately calmed down. “What do you mean, she won't leave?”

“She says she won't leave.”

“What did those bears do to her? Is this some kind of Munchausen syndrome or something?”

“You mean Stockholm Syndrome. And it's Munchausen or Munchausen by proxy, which is completely different from—”

“Lachlan!”

“Okay, okay.” He blew out a breath. “Blayne's really upset right now because someone microchipped her, so she's not coming back.”

Gwen felt her anger spike again. “Ric microchipped Blayne?”

“No. Of course he didn't.”

And if it wasn't Ric, then it had to be . . .
“That She-whore!”

Gwen flung the door open to walk out and find the heifer who'd done this to her friend when Lock's big hand slammed the door closed before she could leave.

“You're not going anywhere.”

“Like hell I'm not.”

“Let Ric handle this.”

“Do you really expect me to leave my friend alone in bear country while these bureaucrats screw around with Blayne's life?”

“Gwen, she's got the protection of someone I know will watch out for her. He's a former Unit commander and Novikov's uncle. No one's going to hurt Blayne.”

“She's not planning to stay there forever is she?” Although Gwen wouldn't put it past Blayne. Actually, she wouldn't put
anything
past Blayne when she was pissed off enough. And microchipping her . . . oy.

“Of course she's not. She simply wants her father to come for her. Probably to ensure it's safe enough to come home.” The snort was past her nose before she could rein it in, and Lock's eyes immediately narrowed. “What?”

Gwen shook her head. “Nothing. So is Ric going to, uh,
talk
to Petty Officer Thorpe?”

“Probably his Uncle Van.”

“Okay then.” Gwen turned, grabbed the handle to the bathroom door, and pulled it open.

But, again, Lock shoved it closed with his hand.

“What aren't you telling me?”

“What makes you think I'm not telling you something?”

“Maybe because you answered me with a question?”

“Maybe you're reading questions that aren't there?”

“Gwendolyn—”

“I'm positive that Blayne's father will do what is in the best interest of his daughter.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.” She grinned because it helped her to stop from laughing hysterically. “Because if there's one thing I know, Lock, is how much that man loves his baby girl.”

 

 

“I don't remember what they were wearing.”

“You said earlier they were wearing ski masks. So which is it? You don't remember or they were wearing ski masks?”

Dammit! This was why Blayne avoided lying. She simply wasn't very good at it. It took too much to remember what she'd said and what the truth was and what she could tell and what she couldn't. So she handled the gruff, less-than-friendly black bear police chief, Ray Adams, the way she was often forced to handle her dad when he found her crawling into her bedroom window after curfew . . .

Blayne burst into tears.

The police chief's entire body jerked in surprise, and Grigori hit him in the shoulder. “What the hell's the matter with you?”

“Apologize.”

“Fine. Miss Thorpe, I'm—where did she go?”

She heard Bo clear his throat. “She's under the couch.”

“Under the . . .”

She watched as three sets of enormously large feet appeared in front of her, followed by three faces, two that appeared fascinated, another that was trying not to laugh. Blayne made sure more tears and snot-filled sobs followed.

“Good God, she is under the couch.”

“You frightened me!”

Adams's body jerked again, and Grigori again slugged his shoulder. “You frightened her.”

“Frightened her,” Bo said, shaking his head sadly.

“I didn't mean to. I was just asking some questions.” They stood up and she got another view of those feet. Like the Spanish Armada those feet.

“Look,” she heard the police chief bark, “I'm not trying to frighten her—”

“And yet you are.”

“You are,” Bo repeated.

“She's hiding under my couch . . . sobbing!”

“Sobbing,” Bo repeated, and Blayne had to put her hand over her mouth to stop from laughing.

“How do you live with yourself, Adams?”

“Yeah. How do you?”

“Would you shut up!” Adams snapped, and she knew it was directed at Bo.

“I think you've asked her enough questions,” Grigori said, and the feet moved away from her line of sight. A few seconds later, the front door opened and closed, and when the sound of the truck roared to life, the feet returned.

“You think we should leave her under there?”

“We could. She could scare off the dust bunnies.”

“Very funny.” She stuck her hands out. “Help please.”

Big hands grabbed her and carefully pulled her from under the couch, placing her on her feet.

“Are you all right?” Grigori asked.

“I'm fine. Sorry I had to Plan B it.”

“It worked.”

“How worried do I have to be?” she asked.

“Not at all. Adams is just being nosey.”

“And I make him nervous.”

Grigori gave her a small smile. “Wolves make us cranky, but you're under my protection, Blayne Thorpe. So you have nothing to worry about.” He leaned down a bit, his face close. “But that, little girl, means no knives.”

She shook her head. “No, sir. I, uh, just get a little testy when I'm backed into corners.”

“I'll keep that in mind and make sure everyone else is clear on it. Fair enough?”

“Yes, sir.”

He stood tall. “Then we have an understanding. And while you're here”—he gestured to Bo—“you can keep him out of trouble.”

“Me? What did I do?”

Grigori grunted and walked off.

“More like I'll need to keep
you
out of trouble,” Bo muttered to himself.

“Not if I can go running!” She ran in place, giving him a big cheesy smile. “Exercise is good for the soul. At least that's what my anger management therapist in tenth grade told me. Wait. Don't walk away. She gave me great info that helps all hybrids!”

CHAPTER 19

V
an stood at the front door of the Queens, New York, house and knocked again. When no one answered, he walked down the front porch steps and briefly debated what to do next. He had the man's cell phone and home number, but this wasn't something one told over the phone or left a message about.

Deciding to wait in his limo until Thorpe showed up, Van headed down the front path. But he stopped, turned his head. His ears twitched, and he knew he heard something coming from the back of the small house. He followed the sound until he reached a metal fence. A black man in his fifties, wearing a Harley Davidson sweatshirt and grime-covered jeans worked in the near freezing cold on a cycle that even Van would have to say was gorgeous. Of course, he knew nothing about motorcycles. The Van Holtz Pack liked to get around in more conventional vehicles. Cars, private planes, hovercrafts.

The Magnus Pack, however . . .

And although Ezra Thorpe hadn't been part of that Pack in a number of years, it seemed his love of motorcycles had not faded.

Van unclipped the metal gate and walked into the backyard. He moved cautiously until he stood behind the wolf; then he waited.

Thorpe, his hands deftly untwisting something from the bike, didn't turn around when he said, “Explain to me why some stray is in my backyard?”

“Mr. Thorpe. I'm Niles Van Holtz.”

Thorpe looked over his shoulder, his cold, light amber gaze swept Van from his feet to his head. “Yeah. You certainly are.” He focused back on his bike. “So explain to me why some Van Holtz is in my backyard.”

“It's about your daughter, Mr. Thorpe.”

“What did she do now?”

Van didn't know why the wolf would ask that question, but he answered him anyway. “Nothing.”

“She must have done something for you to be here. That girl can find trouble in an empty milk carton.”

“Full-humans snatched your daughter last night in Brooklyn.”

Van would admit, he expected a modicum of panic from that sentence. The wolf didn't even tense up. And he kept fixing his bike.

“What does that have to do with the Van Holtz Pack? I wasn't aware you let in hybrids.”

They didn't but Van was working on that.

When Van didn't respond, Thorpe asked, “So where's the body? Shouldn't I be identifying something?”

Van worked hard not to judge people's actions against his own. His wife was a good example. Many found her cold, but he knew better. So maybe he was just not reading the wolf right.

“There is no body, and your daughter is quite alive.”

“Then what do you want?”

“She's currently in Ursus County. We'd like you to come with us to retrieve her.”

Thorpe's hands stopped moving, and slowly, he looked over his shoulder again at Van. “Why?”

“She's requested your presence.”

“Why?”

Getting frustrated, “Could you just come with us to get your daughter please?”

Thorpe grabbed a rag and wiped his hands while getting to his feet. “Why don't you just tell me what's going on?”

“Full-humans have been snatching hybrids and using them to fight. Like pit bulls. Your daughter's name was sold a few months back, and we've been watching her ever since, hoping she'd lead us to them.”

“I see.” He studied Van again. “The Group, right? You work for them.”

He ran them, but he wasn't sure admitting that would help him right now.

“You know, something doesn't make sense,” Thorpe went on. “My daughter is all about helping. She gives strangers on the street food, helps out at the pound, and runs—while not being chased, mind you—in marathons to help different charities. That's just her way. So, I see her being all over this particular situation like a bad rash . . . if she knew. So my question to you, Van Holtz—did my daughter know?”

“No.”

“So you were using her as bait? And Christ knows, my daughter hates to be lied to,” he laughed. “So she stuck you with me. Right? This was her brilliant idea?”

Feeling a small sense of relief that the man understood the situation better than Van could hope and, more important, seemed to be taking it so well, Van nodded. “You could say that.”

Thorpe chuckled a little more. “That girl. Look, why don't I make this easy for you and me?” Thorpe tossed the rag to the ground and placed his hands on his hips. The sleeves of his sweatshirt were rolled up to the elbow, and Van saw the anchor tattooed on Thorpe's right forearm, but it was the tattoo on his left forearm that was far more telling. It was his daughter's name and her birthdate.

“Blayne likes to feel we have a rough-and-tumble acrimonious relationship, and I let her. Because in a bizarre, Blayne-like way it makes her feel more normal when, in fact, my girl's weird. I know she's weird. Her friends know she's weird. And we all accept it because she's weird, but she's also amazing. And I want my weird but amazing girl safe. So this is what you're going to do. You're going to track down the fuckers who grabbed her and you're going to do what the Group does best, which is wipe their full-human asses from the planet. You're going to do this in a timely manner and then, when it's safe, I'll go with you to bring my girl back.” He stepped in closer. “And, even after staying with those goddamn bears in Ursus County—who, by the way, hate wolves and are terrified of wolfdogs—my girl better be as annoyingly perky and helpful as she was when she was grabbed, or I'll raze Van Holtz territory to the ground from here to the West Coast, leaving nothing but craters the size of the Atlantic Ocean when I'm done.”

Shocked, Van stuttered, “I'm . . . I'm sorry?”

“Didn't anyone tell you? That's what I used to do in the Navy. I was an engineer. Worked with the SEALS. I can take an amount of plastique that would barely blow up a squirrel and level a city block with it. It's all about placement, really. Find the right weak spot and I can destroy anything. So you're gonna make sure my kid is safe, since you put her in this position. Or you can start telling your wife and kids now how much you'll miss them when they're gone.”

A shocking burst of anger shot through Van's system, and his chest slammed into Thorpe's, but the lone wolf only laughed.

“Come on,” he said, showing a smile he'd often seen from the wolf's daughter. “You're gonna fuck up that nice cashmere coat? And if it makes you feel any better, I'm sure when we get Blayne back, she'll forgive you. Even if I won't.”

The wolf turned his back on Van, and Van knew that Thorpe felt no fear from him. A true lone wolf. There were some that were nervous freaks, terrified by every sound or strange look. Then there were the ones like Thorpe. They'd sneak into a camp full of sleeping humans and drag one of the smaller adults or teenagers off into the night for food. Why? Because they didn't give a fuck.

As Van returned to his waiting limo, he knew that they'd have to do exactly what Thorpe had demanded. They had no choice. Not just for the Van Holtz Pack's safety but for the safety of everyone who might come in contact with the wolfdog's father.

There were some very dangerous men in the world who were completely safe to be around . . . until something happened to the one person in their lives who kept them happy. Clearly, as irritating as he said he found her, Blayne kept her father happy. And if something happened to that wolfdog while she was living among all those unstable bears, then there would be nothing else for that lone wolf to give a fuck about—and to Van that meant everyone else would pay.

“What do you have on your feet?”

Blayne lifted up her leg, grabbed her foot in the palm of her hand, and brought it up until she could easily see what she had on her feet. The Babes didn't call her “Flexi” for nothing. “In common vernacular, I'd say they were shoes. Of the sneaker variety.”

Bo's gaze flickered over her stretched leg. She knew she heard a little growl, but she pretended she didn't. She liked giving the hybrid her infamous blank stare. She could tell it drove him nuts.

“These aren't the sneakers Norm recommended,” he said.

“Those were expensive and these are on sale. And they're cute!”

His gaze continued to move along the length of her leg. “You have a very pronounced arch.”

“Years of ballet and gymnastics.” To illustrate, she went up on her toes with the leg she still had on the ground.

Okay, she'd admit it. She was having the best time. The absolute best! Blayne knew she shouldn't be. She knew she was in huge denial over being betrayed by a very close friend or possibly friends, but playing with Bo was making all that much easier to deal with. Why? Because he took everything so seriously! Honestly . . . sneakers? He was upset over sneakers? He almost made it too easy to toy with him.

“If you're going to run around here,” he said, trying desperately not to look at any of the hockey equipment taunting him from across the room, “with all this packed snow and ice, you should take Norm's recommendations.”

“He makes
expensive
recommendations. I've put myself on a budget because I won't abuse our friendship.”

“Why don't you just admit you're always cheap.”

“Not cheap. Thrifty! I love getting deals.”

“A Prah-Duhhhh watch is not a deal.”

“It was pink and sparkly.”

“And couldn't tell time.”

Bo stood and grabbed Blayne by the ankle, flipping her over. “Hey!” Carrying her by her one leg he took her back over to Norm Blackmon, local Maine sloth bear and sports supplier.

The inconsiderate hybrid held her up in front of Norm, ignoring her hysterical giggles. “These aren't going to work for her.”

“I know,” Norm grumbled. He talked in a grumble, Blayne had noticed, all the time. “Tried to tell her. She kept looking for cheaper. Cheaper ain't always better, Miss Blayne Thorpe.”

“But these are cuter,” she reminded them both. “And how come everybody in Maine uses my full name?”

“Get her the other ones.” Bo yanked off the sneakers she wore and handed them back to Norm. “A few pairs, different colors. I have no idea how long we'll be here.”

“Yep.”

“You're ignoring my wants and needs.”

“Quiet.” He held her upside down until Norm returned with the sneakers. Bo flipped her over and placed her on her feet. After allowing her a short dizzy spell from all the blood rushing back and forth between both ends, he took the shoebox from Norm and crouched in front of her.

“That pair's a bit bigger in the toe 'cause she's wearing the thick thermal socks I gave her. Those will keep her feet warm when she's running or just walking around.”

“Good. You better give me twenty more pairs of those, too. She's not real good with doing laundry.”

“Hey!”

Bo finished lacing up and tying her sneakers. “How does that feel?”

“Like I may lose toes due to lack of circulation.”

“Oh.” He undid the laces and retied them, this time without causing her acute pain. “Better?”

“Yep.”

He stood, forcing Blayne to drop her head back to see him.

“You have everything you need?” he asked.

“And more.”

He grunted—she decided to take it as a verbal agreement—and held his hand out to the salesgirl who worked for Norm. “Here.” He attached a small MP3 player to her new, insulated vest, dropping the earplugs into her palm. “I had them download some music for you.”

“How do you know what I like?”

“I cleaned that pit you call an apartment. Not hard to figure out what you like from that. And you have very eclectic taste in music.”

“I bore easily.” Blayne smiled. “Thank you for this.” She touched the very expensive player that even refurbished and online, she couldn't find a reasonable price she was willing to spend to get one. “That was very sweet.”

“Uh-huh.”

Grigori walked into the store carrying a medium-size bag from a jewelry store. “Here,” he said, reaching into the bag and pulling out a square box. He handed it to his nephew. Even if Blayne didn't know what it was from the shape and dimension of the gift box, she'd have known from Bo's reaction. Like a drug addict about to get a long-needed fix, he tore open the gift box and took out a big, silver watch. He put it on his wrist and sighed happily.

When Blayne looked up at Grigori, he quickly said, “It wasn't me. According to his mother, he was born this way.”