Ow.

There's warm wetness where he's gripping his shoulder, and a sharp pain radiating like a burn through his arm, and all he can do at all is glare.

Pierre nods to him. "Make a move towards that cross, preacher, and the next one goes between your eyes."

He lifts his hands, capitulating. "I don't know what you're talking about," he tells the guy, earnest, "but I think you've got the wrong idea."

"Shut up!" Pierre turns his attention -- and aim -- on Michael. His smile is sudden and disarmingly good-natured.

"'This ends' is such a vague term. What is it you want?"