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He’d deflected me perfectly from following him by appealing to my hospitality. My grandmother would have hit me with a fly swatter if I hadn’t gotten Tray a Coke right then.

By the time he arrived back in the kitchen and pronounced the house clear of intruders, the icy Coke was sitting in a glass on the table, and there was a meatloaf sandwich sitting by it. With a folded napkin.

Without a word, Tray sat down and put the napkin in his lap and ate the sandwich and drank the Coke. I sat opposite him with my own drink.

“I hear your man has vanished,” Tray said when he’d patted his lips with the napkin.

I nodded.

“What do you think happened to him?”

I explained the circumstances. “So I haven’t heard a word from him,” I concluded. This story was sounding almost automatic, like I ought to tape it.

“That’s bad” was all he said. Somehow it made me feel better, this quiet, undramatic discussion of a very touchy subject. After a minute of thoughtful silence, Tray said, “I hope you find him soon.”

“Thanks. I’m real anxious to know how he’s doing.” That was a huge understatement.

“Well, I’d better be getting on,” he said. “If you get nervous in the night, you call me. I can be here in ten minutes. It’s no good, you being alone out here with the war starting.”

I had a mental image of tanks coming down my driveway.

“How bad do you think it could get?” I asked.

“My dad told me in the last war, which was when his daddy was little, the pack in Shreveport got into it with the pack in Monroe. The Shreveport pack was about forty then, counting the halfies.” Halfies was the common term for Weres who’d become wolves by being bitten. They could only turn into a kind of wolf-man, never achieving the perfect wolf form that born Weres thought was vastly superior. “But the Monroe pack had a bunch of college kids in it, so it come up to forty, forty-five, too. At the end of the fighting, both packs were halved.”

I thought of the Weres I knew. “I hope it stops now,” I said.

“It ain’t gonna,” Tray said practically. “They’ve tasted blood, and killing Alcide’s girl instead of trying for Alcide was a cowardly way to open the fight. Them trying to get you, too; that only made it worse. You don’t have a drop of Were blood. You’re a friend of the pack. That should make you untouchable, not a target. And this afternoon, Alcide found Christine Larrabee dead.”

I was shocked all over again. Christine Larrabee was—had been—the widow of one of the previous packleaders. She had a high standing in the Were community, and she’d rather reluctantly endorsed Jackson Herveaux for packleader. Now she had gotten a delayed payback.

“He’s not going after any men?” I finally managed to speak.

Tray’s face was dark with contempt. “Naw,” the Were said. “The only way I can read it is, Furnan wants to set Alcide’s temper off. He wants everyone to be on a hair trigger, while Furnan himself stays cool and collected. He’s about got what he wants, too. Between grief and the personal insult, Alcide is aimed to go off like a shotgun. He needs to be more like a sniper rifle.”

“Isn’t Furnan’s strategy real . . . unusual?”

“Yes,” Tray said heavily. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Apparently, he don’t want to face Alcide in personal combat. He don’t want to just beat Alcide. He’s aiming to kill Alcide and all Alcide’s people, as far as I can tell. A few of the Weres, the ones with little kids, they already repledged themselves to him. They’re too scared of what he’d do to their kids, after the attacks against women.” The Were stood. “Thanks for the food. I’ve got to go feed my dogs. You lock up good after me, you hear? And where’s your cell phone?”

I handed it to him, and with surprisingly neat movements for such large hands, Tray programmed his cell phone number into my directory. Then he left with a casual wave of his hand. He had a small neat house by his repair shop, and I was really relieved to find he’d timed the journey from there to here at only ten