Chapter 19

He refused to talk, so I cuffed him with my handy magic suppressors that hung from my belt loops, which I'd brought along in case of any trouble with the Nefesh youth when I'd been asking about Meryem. Then I frog-marched him into Moriarty's passenger seat.

This blood powers asshattery needed an instruction manual because it took me five minutes and a whole bunch of straining noises that sounded too much like taking a shit to make the shield disappear. I wiped myself off as best I could with most of a package of baby wipes, then scrabbled at my glove compartment for the box of chocolate-covered almonds and a stick of stale beef jerky left over from a stakeout last year. Expiration dates were only a suggestion, right?

I devoured all of it in a rush, my lightheadedness only slightly abating. Blood loss sucked. "Ready to talk yet?"

The Van Gogh stared stubbornly out the window.