He immediately began muscling his way through the crowd, cutting a swath with his shoulders and elbows through protesting revelers. I followed in his wake, trotting to keep up. I eased a hand inside my jacket and wrapped it around the Savalette Guardian. The big gun was slippery in my grip—my hands were sweating. The cultists may not have murdered Mama G, but they had set in motion a chain of events that led to her death. And now they had turned their attention to another innocent...