“The enemy cannot pull a trigger… if you disable his hand,” Misty misquoted, bending down and picking up Abberline’s finger. She took a zip lock bag from her cargo pants and bagged it up before tucking it away.
“I fucking love that movie,” she admitted, then made a sensual growl in the back of her throat. “Casper Van Dien, damn!” The haze of gun smoke and the scent of ectoplasm hung heavy in the air and she looked down at her own smoking pistol as though surprised to find it there. Her hand was trembling slightly and she suddenly felt a desperate need for some chocolate ice-cream and a bottle of tequila. The approaching sirens didn’t afford her the option.
“I don’t want to seem ungrateful or a bad host,” she went on, hastily scooping up casings and shoving them into her pockets.
“But I can’t be here when those cops arrive, pretty sure my parole officer will take a dim view of me being found at the scene of a shootout,” she explained, then cast a glance at Mitra, “Not to mention, consorting with ‘ye olde powers of darkness’ or whatever the fuck is going on here.”