Sam’s phone rang, and I picked it up. “Sookie here,” I said.
“There are more of your people here,” Brother Arrowsmith said. “I’m sending them to meet you.”
“Thanks,” I said, and flipped the phone shut. I relayed the message to Sam.
“So he finally grew a pair,” Sam said. “And just in time.”
We’d gotten to the corner by then, and we had to turn right on Main and go north a couple of blocks to turn onto St. Francis. While we waited for traffic to pass—amazingly, some people were actually trying to go about their everyday routine—I saw someone running toward us out of the corner of my eye. I twisted to see Togo looking out at the traffic, and he met my eyes briefly before he was broadsided by a short, heavy man swinging his sign at Togo’s head. Togo bled and staggered and went down on one knee.
“Quinn!” I yelled, and Quinn turned to see what was happening. He bounded over the hood of the truck with a leap that was truly astounding, and he plucked Togo’s attacker off the ground and held him there.
The crowd was shocked, and some of them stared, stunned by Quinn’s speed and strength. Then they became enraged because this difference was exactly what they feared. I glimpsed more swift movement, Sam yelled, and I saw a tall woman, brown hair flying behind her like a banner, loping across Main at an inhuman rate. She looked normal in her jeans and sneakers, but she was definitely more than human. She went right to the knot of Togo, Quinn, and the protester. She seized the man from Quinn’s grip and carried him over to the side of the street. With elaborate care, she placed him on his feet, and then she did an amazing thing. She patted him on the head with one long brown hand.
There was a scattering of laughter from the crowd. The man literally had his mouth hanging open.
She turned to Quinn and Togo, who’d lurched to his feet, and she grinned.
Togo’s shoulders relaxed as he realized the crisis had passed—for the moment. But Quinn seemed frozen, and then . . . so did she.
He bowed his head slightly to her. I couldn’t hear what he said, but she bobbed her head at him in return, and she said one word. And though I couldn’t really hear her, somehow I knew what it was: “tigress.”
Whoa. I wished like hell I had time to think about that, but the road cleared in both directions and it was time to turn. I rolled down the window to let the people on foot know what we were planning, and then we moved out, the shifters running easily beside our little motorcade. We drove only a short distance before the left turn. Just two more blocks west to the church.
If Bernie’s street had been crowded and frightening, St. Francis was even more crowded, and emotions were jacked up accordingly.
Sam was concentrating so hard on driving while watching the crowd for any sudden moves that I didn’t dare talk to him. I crouched in my seat, every muscle twanging with tension.
The tigress and Quinn were loping ahead of the truck in tandem, their paces matched as if they were in harness. It was beautiful to watch. A woman darted in front of them with a bucket of paint in her hand, and before she could aim it at them, the tigress bent to hit the bottom of the bucket. The paint splashed upward all over the woman, who had the neat, casual look of a soccer mom . . . one who’d strayed way out of her league. Covered in red paint, the woman staggered back the way she’d come, and half the crowd laughed while the other half shrieked. But tiger and tigress kept on running at their easy pace.
I looked in the rearview mirror to see how Bernie’s car was faring, and watched, horrified, as a group surged forward with pieces of wood and bats in their hands to pound on the roof. The children! Togo, drawn by the noise behind him, turned and then cast a quick, doubtful glance at me.
“Go!” I yelled. “Go!”
Togo didn’t hesitate but sprinted back to the crowd and began pulling people away from the car and tossing them to the side of the road as if they were cockleburs he was removing from his pants hem. Sam had stopped, and I glanced over at his agonized face. I realized that he didn’t know whether to leap out of the car and go to help, or if that would leave the truck—and me—open to attack. Trish was back at Mindy’s car helping Togo.
Then I saw a blur move by the truck and recognized Quinn. I swiveled in my seat and looked through the rear window. Quinn vaulted into the pickup bed, making the truck rock on its shocks.
I thought we were all done for, that this violence would spread and spread, and we’d be attacked and overwhelmed. Instead, the people of the town and the shifters who’d come in to support us began to shout for calm.
For the first time in its existence, most likely, the town of Wright heard a tiger roar. Though the sound came from an apparently human throat, it was unmistakable.
The crowd fell nearly silent. Togo and Trish, both bleeding, covered the windows of Mindy’s car with their bodies. I could see Trish heaving for breath, while Togo’s shirt was soaked on one side with blood. I peered through the windshield to see if help was coming from the church direction. I saw a thick crowd, and way at the rear I could glimpse the brown of the Wright police uniform. Two uniformed officers were trying to make their way through to come to us, but they’d never be here in time if the crowd decided to rush us. I looked back through the window to see Quinn drawing himself up tall.
“There are children in this car!” Quinn called. “Human children! What example have you set them?”
Some protesters looked ashamed. One woman began crying. But most seemed sullen and resentful, or simply blank, as if they were waking up from a trance.
“This woman has lived here for decades,” Quinn said, pointing at Trish, whose hair was soaked with blood. “But you harm her enough to make her bleed while she’s protecting children. Let us pass.”
He looked around, waiting to see if he’d be challenged, but no one spoke. He leaped down from the truck and jogged back up to resume point position with his new friend. She touched him, her brown hand resting on his arm. He looked directly at her. It lasted a long moment.
I had the feeling that Quinn might not need to have a talk with me anymore.
Then the two weretigers began their run again, and we moved behind them.
Porter Carpenter and another uniform had kept an area in front of the church blocked off for our arrival, and they moved the sawhorses aside so we could park. They looked relieved.
“They didn’t come help us,” I said, and I found that my lips and mouth had been so tense that I could hardly talk now.
Sam turned the truck off and shuddered, having his own reaction. “They were trying,” he said, his voice ragged. “I don’t know how hard they were trying, but they were on their way.”
“I guess this was a little more than they could handle,” I said, making a determined attempt to be less than furious.
“Let’s not beat them up,” Sam suggested. “What do you say?”
“Right. Contraindicated,” I said.
Sam managed to laugh, though it was a sad little snort of amusement.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Before we get out and the madness starts all over again . . . forgive me for dragging you into this.”
“Sam, not necessary!” I said, genuinely surprised. “We’re friends. Of course I’m here, and glad to do it. Don’t bring it up again, you hear? I’m just glad Mindy’s already married!”
My weak joke lightened his mood. He grinned at me and leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, and we both opened our doors.