“Are you just going to stand there?” the She-jackal demanded, her glare on Ricky.

“That was my plan.”

“But I saw you with the smaller one earlier,” she said over the snarling, growling, and roaring. “You know him.”

“Barely.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re brothers, aren’t you?”

“According to my momma, but I still want DNA tests to prove it.”

The older boy tried to shoot past the She-jackal toward the fight, but the teenager grabbed the back of his T-shirt and held on.

“Are you insane?” the teenager demanded of her brother.

“Toni promised me I’d get to meet him!”

“I promised I’d try,” the She-jackal shot back. Huh. The kid called her “Toni.” Not “Mom” or “Mommy.” Then it hit Ricky . . . these weren’t her kids. At least not all of them. They were her brothers and sisters.

The teenager caught hold of her younger brother by the back of his neck, the extra flesh every canine predator child had there giving her a better collar than some strip of leather. “Toni’s not about to let you get in the middle of a predator fight.”

“But—”

“I keep telling you, Kyle,” the She-jackal reminded him, “we’re scavengers. Wait until the vultures arrive. Then you can go over and maybe get a little lunch.”

When Ricky raised a brow, the She-jackal only smirked and gave a small shrug.

Deciding not to ask too many questions, Ricky focused on his brother and the hybrid—who was a damn talented hockey player—that had Reece on his back, big bear-lion hand around the wolf ’s throat.

Reece was putting up a good fight, though. Desperately trying to get the crazed hybrid off him. Too bad it wasn’t working.

After landing a few blows to the hybrid’s face, Reece glared at Ricky. “You going to do somethin’?” he squeaked out.

“Didn’t you tell me yesterday to stay out of your business?” Ricky asked, grinning.

“Son of a—”

“Hey,” Ricky cut in. “There are pups here. Gotta watch your mouth.”

The She-jackal sighed. “Seriously?” she demanded. “I mean . . . seriously?”

“What?”

“He’s getting the holy hell beaten out of him by a man whose hair just suddenly grew.”

“That’s his mighty mane. Only comes out when he’s really mad.”

“And you’re comfortable with him basically pummeling your brother?”

Ricky thought on that, but he must have taken too long to answer because the She-jackal handed off the boy in her arms to the teenager.

“It’s like I have to take care of everything,” she snapped at Ricky before walking around to the two fighting males and yelled over the roaring, “Excuse me, Mister . . . uh . . .” She glanced back at the oldest boy, Kyle.

“Novikov,” Kyle prompted.

“Right. Mr. Novikov? Mr. Novikov!”

The hybrid stopped, his hand still gripping Reece’s throat, his massive body still pinning the wolf to the ground. Slowly, he looked up at the jackal, mane nearly covering glowering blue eyes.

“Hi.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “I’m Antonella Jean-Louis Parker. Toni for short. That’s Toni with an ‘i,’ not a ‘y.’ Anyway, Ulrich Van Holtz may have mentioned that I was going to stop by today. And this is Kyle.” She snapped her fingers and the boy quickly moved to her side. “Kyle really wants your autograph and although I’m sorry to interrupt your . . . wolf-pummeling, I am on a bit of a schedule.” She tapped the sturdy-looking diving watch on her wrist. “So is there any way we could speed this up? Maybe you could assault the wolf later? Kyle would really appreciate it.”

The boy grinned. “I would!”

The hybrid studied the jackal for several long seconds before he nodded. “Schedules, I understand.” Then he looked down at Reece and roared in his face, “Schedules! Learn the concept!”

He released his grip on Reece and got to his mighty big feet. By the time Novikov stood, his mane had lessened considerably, something the She-jackal noticed, her eyes narrowing a bit. The hybrid faced her, his back now to Reece. That’s when he mule-kicked him, sending Ricky’s brother flying until he slammed into one of the many pillars around the building.

Ricky cringed. He sure bet that hurt.

“What do you want me to sign?”

“Get the shirt, Kyle.” The boy took off his backpack and quickly dug out a hockey jersey and a permanent marker. Based on the jersey’s colors it looked like it was from the Washington shifter hockey team. A team that the hybrid had once belonged to. That guy had belonged to a lot of teams, and to this day many of his past teammates still hated him.

The boy handed over the shirt and marker to the hybrid. As Novikov signed, he asked the boy, “So do you play hockey?”

“No, sir.”

“Really? How come?”

“Because I plan to use my brilliance for something real and important, not something petty like sports.”

The She-jackal cringed, her head dropping while Novikov’s head snapped up.

“Sorry?”

“See, what I like about what you do,” the boy explained, his hands accenting each word, his voice intense, “is the raw rage and violence. I can use that in my work. And while you’ll probably be forgotten soon after you retire, which is the way of you athletic types whose happiest years are usually when you’re in high school”—he glanced back at his teenage sister and she rewarded him with the one-finger salute—“my legacy will live on for centuries. People will study my work, copy it. My work will start a new art movement, a new wave of creativity born out of blood and violence and rage. And you . . . you, Mr. Novikov, will be my David.”