Page 6 of Murder Mittens

“That’s not fair, Harri. You can’t have my truck. You can take my car, but you can’t have the truck. It’s new.”

Yes, it was. Not only had he gotten it new, he’d been proud of every bell and whistle he’d gotten on it. I could run over my targets and not feel a thing with how many horses lurked in its engine. “Truck.”

“Car.”

“Truck.”

“Car.”

I flexed my hands and fought the urge to indulge in a partial shift and swipe at my stubborn father. “Either I’m taking your truck or my car. There is no room for negotiation.”

“Yes, there is. The car is new, too.”

Wait. Dad had a new car? I turned around, frowning at the selection of vehicles, pointing at the Camry he’d bought a few years ago. “The Camry is right there, Dad.”

“I gave it to one of your brothers, so that is no longer mine.”

My family hated me. That was all there was to it. They hated me and wanted to deny me happiness. That is the only way one of my brothers without a car, all of whom were younger than me, would get dibs on the Camry. “Wait, I have that piece of shit junker, and you gave one of my wretched brothers the Camry? Come on, Dad. How is that even fair?”

“Would you have accepted the Camry if I had offered it to you?”

I thought about that. “Maybe.”

“Don’t you make me turn you over my knee and spank you for lying, little kitten.”

Damn. “I’m telling the truth! Mine’s got more rust than paint now.”

“Milo? Give your sister the Camry, and I’ll take you to the used dealership and sign your soul over to a salesman,” my father hollered.

I sighed. “Just loan me the truck, Daddy.”

Milo, one of the fraternal triplets from my parents’ thirteenth litter, opened the front door and popped his head out. “I don’t want to sign my soul over to a salesman, Dad. Harri doesn’t even like Toyotas. Give her the truck if you don’t want her driving her piece of shit.”

Damn. My little brother was on a roll. “How’d you talk Dad out of the Camry, squirt?”

“I begged and promised to share with Miles and Maurice, and we promised we’d share a place until we’re twenty-one. To sweeten the deal for our old man, we also promised if we got into any trouble, we’d call, even if it meant we had to ask for help with the rent.”

Hah. That would make my parents happy, as they’d done too good of a job raising us to be independent. “Tell Daddy I won’t get mad if my car has an incident while I’m gone if he loans me the truck.”

“Hey, old man. Harri will ignore if you fix her car problems, if you loan her the truck for the next week or two. She’s got to go get girly things done to her, and according to our research, she might come back to us as a lady if we leave her about her business. She’s going to a city ripe with single lycanthropes. Maybe she’ll bring back one she likes.”

“Absolutely not,” my father announced.

“It’s a wolf town, Milo. I don’t want no damned wolf.” My virus hated wolves with a passion, and even if I shacked up with one, the poor male would suffer from rejection for years to come. “My virus likes cats, thank you.”

“Your virus doesn’t like anybody,” my father muttered.

Well, my virus had an unhealthy interest in a bastard of a lion I sometimes ran into while working, but I went out of my way to avoid Sebastian. He roared. I purred. I purred whenever he roared, which meant my virus goaded me into making him roar, and whenever we entered the same room, fur flew. As far as enemies went, I could do worse, but who the hell wanted a CDC liaison breathing down their neck all the time? Last I checked, Sebastian worked with Interpol and one of the international drug organizations to put an end to the nastier drug trades.

While I kept my activities legal, I didn’t need a damned lion poking his nose in my business. It tested me enough as it was that the CDC sometimes assigned him to some of my harder jobs.

I had a strict no-lion policy.

I just liked making the poor bastard roar from frustration. It pleased my virus. I also enjoyed having excuses to purr, and a lion’s roar masked the sounds of my purrs, as I had a reputation to maintain.

“Be nice to Harri, Dad. Just give her the keys to your truck.”

“I offered the car,” our father complained.