Chapter Text
Aaron Slaughter felt Erica Slaughter die. This was part of the mysticism of the Order of Saint George; for all the advantages a lone hunter had over white-masked packs, they had nobody to report back to their House if they were killed in the field. Most hunters were killed in the field at one point or another. Therefore, whenever a black mask died, their head of house knew, instantly. Aaron Slaughter had never felt one of his subordinates die before, because he only had the one, but the brief flash of cold in his temple came with knowledge. A moment ago, Aaron knew that the sky was blue and Erica was hunting an animatype near Yosemite National Park. Then, the hoard gold embedded in his scalp froze and flipped a metaphorical light switch. Aaron knew that the sky was blue and Erica was dead near Yosemite National Park. This light switch couldn’t be unflipped.
“Oh,” Aaron said aloud, to nobody in particular. “I suppose I need to make arrangements, then.” He would have to retrieve her body. He would have to finish her hunt, because he was now the last black mask in the House of Slaughter. He would have to find apprentices of his own instead of letting Erica make excuses for why she hadn’t done so. Stiffly, he walked to the computer lab where the azure masks did the inscrutable, Sisyphean labor of keeping the Order and its secrets off of the Internet, and asked one of them to buy him a ticket from O’Hare to whichever airport was nearest to Yosemite. Yes, he would like a rental car as well, and no, he didn’t mind flying business if that would get him there faster. Then he returned to his rooms and began packing a suitcase.
That was last night. Now it was morning, and Aaron was driving down a crowded street in a charming tourist town, and all of the above raised a question.
Why did he see Erica Slaughter in a diner booth, eating breakfast with an unfamiliar man dressed so shabbily it had to be on purpose?