“I’m glad you mentioned that, Urrah. ”
The Theurge’s eyes immediately turned to slits at the title with which Robert Swift-Pain-in-the-Neck addressed her.
I’m the Urrah? I’m the shunned one because of O’Toole? The guy I can’t even remember? You don’t even know my real father. He’d destroy you so fast if you blinked you’d miss it. And he’d make sure no one ever forgot how easily you fell. For that matter, O’Toole could probably take you, too, you pompous jerk.
At the mention of Rends killing Tames the Weaver, Zoe’s thoughts continued to spew.
Yeah, Rends killed his father, a legitimate threat to Gaia. And why did you kill your father? Oh right, because you’re a power-hungry warmonger with nothing but your own glory in mind. You will never be half the Garou Roaring Jack was. Never.
When the conversation made its way to Robert’s order to kill one of the will workers, Zoe bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood.
I am medicine chief. I am level-headed. I am peace. I am wisdom. Lashing out at this ignorant fool will not do me, my pack, or O’Toole any good.
As he continued to explain why all mages were a threat, the Theurge’s rage continued to boil just below the surface, a lightning bolt poised in the penumbra just in case.
How dare you suggest that O’Toole is the threat when you are the one who stole a fetish weapon to give you an advantage in an unfair fight against your own flesh and blood? You fear anything you don’t understand. You Get could use a little more of the Weaver’s order and a little less blind rage.
"And what if we refuse?" Zoe asked.
"Why would you? That sounds like something a traitor would do, Urrah."
Lightning flashed across the penumbral sky, but was stopped just short of crossing the Gauntlet.
There's no way in Hell we are killing O'Toole for you. Your days are numbered, Eldest.
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