Now it was enough just to stop what I could. But, Jesus, I’m so tired of it.

A vibrating buzz almost startled me. It was the pager in its padded pocket. I dug it out and glanced at it, and my entire body went cold.

What the fuck is he doing calling me?

I tested my legs. They were willing, capable little soldiers now that the crisis was over. My shirt was ruined, and my leather pants weren’t far behind. Still, all my bits were covered, and my trench coat was ripped and tattered but still usable.

I got going.

My pager went off again, and when I slid it out of my pocket Concepción, the Filipina ER nurse, looked at me funny. But they’re used to me at Mercy General, and Saul made soothing noises at the sobbing, red-haired almost-victim.

“Montaigne at the precinct will have details,” I told the ER nurse, who nodded, making a notation on her clipboard. “She’ll probably need sedation, I don’t blame her.”

The stolid motherly woman in neatly pressed scrubs nodded. “Rape kit?”

I shook my head. “No.” Thank God. I got there in time.

Of course, if I hadn’t, Molly Watling would be carted to the morgue, instead of driven to the ER or even forced to endure a rape exam. Small mercy, but I’d take it. Connie’s expression said she’d take it, too; her relief was palpable.

“It’s all right,” Saul said soothingly. The silver tied in his hair with red thread gleamed under the fluorescents, and he didn’t look washed out in the slightest. But then, Weres usually look good in any lighting. “You’re safe now. Everything’s okay.”

The slim red-haired woman nodded. Fat tears trickled down her damp cheeks. She flinched whenever I looked at her.

“Bueno.” Connie patted the woman’s arm. “Any injuries?”

I shook my head again. “Nope. Shock, though. Ex-husband.”