39

"We're all mad wolves, Matulo," Heinrik says. His tone is conversational and bantering, but his companions look like they're in agony, as if any amount of civility is torment. "The Cultists know what they are. It's the rest of you who have forgotten. Shadow Lords plotting with immigrant gangsters, Silver Fangs sinking deeper into clannish degeneracy every year. We wanted to work with the other tribes, to find strength in all of them. We looked so hard. But there's none. The Garou of Broad Brook failed, and look at what's left! The girl here lost the Wolf. A pathetic cripple. And you're here to, what, rescue her? Is it out of pity?" As Scritti Ligotti finishes "Dr. Locrian in Jerusalem," and starts up "Brushed with Shadow, Dusted with Darkness," you feel the crowd's mood growing even darker. They've seized full bottles of Sprite from the juice bar, the closest thing they can find to weapons since there are no cans or glass bottles. If Heinrik notices, he doesn't seem to care.

I manipulate him into revealing something interesting before the crowd turns. "Actually, I think Roscoe is talking to Nin."

I let him talk and try to get a feel for him, staying carefully neutral. "Fenris isn't a fan of pity, I take it."

These goons need to go. "It's to keep her away from mad dogs like you."

I punch Heinrik right in his stupid face.

I'm not going to let this situation escalate. I back off and get out.

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