32

JUGGLING CHAINSAWS

I have a lead on the Butcher,” I told Matthew. “I’m going to need to focus on it for a few days.”

I was still working on the worrying-about-other-people-while-on-a-hunt thing.

We were in the back room of a music store in the Abalmar Grande, a shopping mall that was struggling not to get sucked down the economic black hole left behind by the impact of Internet shopping. The manager was one of Matthew’s tribe. There was a lot of background music with a heavy beat to discourage listening devices that measured vibrations in the air, and enough people around us to discourage any open raids by knight teams.

Matthew took a cautious sip of the bad food-court coffee that we were drinking from Styrofoam cups. “I know what you said about the Butcher being a child killer and all, but you’re here to help us too, right? We’ve got knights running around killing our own.”

Four new arrivals, a small werewolf pack from Maine, had been found slaughtered in their RV. The wife of the leader had found them after she had gone out to get supplies. The RV had been full of blood and bullet holes.

We had managed to get rid of the bodies, but we hadn’t managed to stop the fear and anger rippling outward from their discovery like earthquake tremors.

“I’ve got a plan for drawing the knight strike teams out of hiding.” Actually, calling it a plan was a bit generous. I had the beginnings of an idea. “But I need to nail down the Butcher to put it into effect.”

“And I could use some help circling my wagons,” Matthew said. “I admit it.”

“I’m putting Virgil on the RV,” I said. “And I’m putting Paul on that MRE distributor who’s trying to jack up prices. And I’m giving you Gabriel if you need any extra hands. But Matthew, you’re going to have to protect Stacy and Carl.”

Matthew’s eyes narrowed and his voice went taut. “I have to protect all of my people on my territory. Even you, John.”

Cute.

“I can’t keep being the middleman between you and your noncombatants,” I said. “Think of Stacy like your sergeant. Do you know what happens to officers who can’t work with their sergeants?”

Matthew worked his jaw. “That woman ain’t no sergeant.”

“It’s called a metaphor, dumb-ass,” I said.

Actually, I didn’t say that. My soul said it. My brain blew fuses while somewhere way down in my mental cellars, my id shook its fists up at my ego and screamed it. But my mouth didn’t say it.

“This thing between you and Stacy is a problem,” I managed. “You seem to think that being a leader means that she has to be the one to fix it.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re not all that worried about me being a target?” Matthew asked bitterly.

“I know you can take care of yourself,” I said. “You need to prove that you can take care of someone else.”