Al's commlink converted Requiem's text into sound for his earbud, and even as he heard the big sammie's assessment of the Flowers, the reality of their situation quickly fell into place as he spotted the kid. The kid that had put his friend down and forced them to leave him to the mercies of the freakish crowds outside. Frenchie had spared the little vermin's life, but Al wasn't sure he could. He was sick of losing mates, and sicker still of having to abandon them, even if it was in the name of their shared charge of protecting the family.
As the protective rage welled up in him, it took a real effort not to blast the kid and the old crone right there - and he didn't mind if it showed in his craggy, weather-lined face.
But that might bring the crowd in here, which, unlike these child molesters, was a threat they couldn't protect the Pelletieres from. And hell, this poor kid was probably an innocent pawn in their abominable schemes anyway.
"Oh, you ain't misread us, you perverted old whore. Sure as the remainin' seconds o' yer miserable life are lookin' numbered, we ain't the ward types. Naw, we's on the other side o' the equation. That girl is our ward. An' if we was ta lose 'er, well, then ol' Al'd have ta claim two lives fer the the one that was lost. An' like the wrathful deity of the Old Testament, I ain't gon' be no respecter o' persons."
He punctuated his threat by slapping a burn-scarred hand down flat on the countertop, trapping the old hand that fingered the packet of powdered mischief.
"So less'n you figure the addition o' one new joygirl ta yer stable's worth death by gutshot fer you an' the brat, you'll git that girl back here an' pronto."
