In a Badger Way (Honey Badger Chronicles #2) - Shelly Laurenston Page 0,3

it.”

He knew that. She took care of everything. Weight of the world sat on those shoulders.

“Look,” he said, turning toward her so they faced each other. “Do whatever you’ve gotta do to protect your sisters. I’ve got your back.”

“I know you do. I just—”

The screams of sibling hostility exploded from inside the house, and his eldest granddaughter closed her eyes, letting out a huge sigh. She hated when her sisters fought, but Charles didn’t mind it so much. It was the only normal thing about the three of them.

She turned to go into the house but stopped long enough to go up on her toes and kiss his cheek.

Without a word, she moved away from him and he faced the yard again, staring straight ahead. He heard the front screen door open, and his eldest granddaughter barked, “Max! Untwist Stevie’s tongue right this second! I don’t care what she said to—hey! That does not mean grab her throat! Release Stevie’s throat right this second. This very second or I swear by all that is holy—”

Charles smiled. Although he knew he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t condone their behavior, but how could he not find that just so cute?

chapter ONE

Thirteen years later . . .

Doreen thought she was dreaming. Thought it was all imaginary. Something sad and twisted in her subconscious. But when she turned over . . .

The small but powerfully built woman was straddling her elderly husband, her knees pinning his arms to the bed, a pillow over his face. Her husband, Peter MacKilligan, was struggling with all his might to dislodge the woman who was on top of him. But nothing he did worked.

Her husband was old. Nearly eighty-five. But his body didn’t show his true age. He looked like he was still in his fifties. He was strong. Still boxed, lifted weights, swam every day in their indoor pool. He’d always told her it was genetic. “The men in my family are all like that,” he’d say.

And yet . . . he couldn’t get this woman off him.

Doreen turned and reached for her cell phone, but that’s when the woman spoke.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” she said. She had an accent. Sounded like her husband’s half-siblings from Scotland.

Doreen looked at the woman over her shoulder. She was still on top of Pete. Still pinning him to the bed. Still smothering him with a pillow.

“Here’s the thing, luv,” the woman calmly explained in the midst of killing a man. She even had a smile. A large, bright smile. “You can call for help. Use your phone. Or just scream for one of Pete’s boys. And help will come. I’ll run, of course. They won’t catch me. I’m fast, ya see. I’ll be gone and you’ll have stopped this. How proud you’ll be. But then . . . one night . . . when everyone’s forgotten about you, I’ll be back.”

Pete’s struggles slowed and, after a little longer, stopped.

Leaning back, the woman pulled away the pillow and pressed two fingers to Pete’s throat. Satisfied, she slipped off him and came around their bed, sitting down next to Doreen.

Brushing her hands against each other, as if she was dusting off flour after making bread, she continued, “And when I come back, I’ll peel that pretty face right from your skull. Wouldn’t like that, now would ya?

“Of course not,” she said, patting Doreen’s knee through the bed sheet. “I’m sure you wouldn’t like that at all. My Great-Uncle Pete always had an eye for the beautiful ladies. What are you? Wife number six?” She shook her head. “I never get it. You marry once, I understand. You marry twice . . . sure. First one could have easily been a mistake. But after that . . . you’re just an idiot.”

She crossed her legs, picked some lint off her jeans.

“Now,” she went on, “like I said, you could scream and cry and call for help. Or, you can wisely keep your mouth shut. Wait until I’m long gone and call for one of Pete’s boys. They’ll think he died natural. Let them. They won’t want an autopsy. MacKilligans don’t like that sort of thing.” She sighed, sounding disappointed. “That’s why I had to do it this way, you see. I would have much preferred to put a leather strap around his throat and wring the life from him. It would have taken ages, too, but there’s honor in that—for both of us. Because for our kind . . . it takes a