Under any other circumstance, Mac would have probably given some smart-ass answer about how he was pretty and it would be a damn shame for the world - and womankind in general - to lose him. Perhaps fortunately, however, he wasn't feeling very smug or arrogant at the moment. He was feeling terrified.
He swallowed as well as he could past the hand at his throat and looked at the unusually calm woman. He knew she had to be different, like Evan and Ian and Johnny and the cute little girl who'd just showed up were different. As in: not mortal. Had to be. There was just no other explanation that would logically compute - not that this one was exactly logical, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.
"I... I don't know," he answered. At least he was honest. "Maybe I'm not worth the risk. But I... if I knew what you were and what you wanted, I could offer you something in exchange for the effort." Which was about the dumbest thing he could say because that meant more talking and more talking meant more time spent in the clutches of this gnarly, emaciated, wreaking thing.
"I'm just a singer," he said a moment later, "a damn good one at that. But I doubt that's enough for you to risk your own skin." Mac's downfall would probably be the fact that he was too loyal to his best friend to rat out the fact that he knew of the gods or use Emo as some kind of bargaining chip. He wouldn't do that, even when he was desperate and running short on ideas. But then again, sheer terror didn't exactly make one think straight.