“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.”

“I liked him. He was young. Very handsome. Good amount of insurance on him. Tragically died in Qincheng Prison.” She pressed a perfectly manicured hand to her chest. “Broke my heart.”

Semenova laughed. “It’s fun to pretend that either of us has one.”

The badger, grinning, reached into her large handbag with the atrocious flower pattern and pulled out a bottle of the best vodka that Russia had ever produced.

She slammed the bottle onto the table. “Let’s drink, feline. Drink . . . and chat.”

The bottle slid across the table and into Semenova’s outstretched hand.

Curious and desiring a taste of home, Semenova opened the bottle and took a deep drink. “Yes, old woman. Let us chat.”

Vic glanced away from the TV to see Livy walk into the living room. She sat down on the floor near his legs and stretched a large towel out.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Jake stopped by my office and picked up my camera.” She placed the damaged equipment on the towel. “I’m going to see if I can fix it.”

“You know how to fix cameras?”

“I’ve restored cameras. Fixed a few minor problems.” But never had the inside of a camera been in so many pieces before. She looked at Vic. “If I hadn’t already killed those bears . . . I’d totally kill them again. Because this”—she held up her damaged camera body that still made those very disheartening rattling sounds—“is just wrong.”