Art looked as sick as Will felt. They'd both known about the demon – Will thought Art knew about the demon – and Will had assumed it must've been bad, horrific, but she'd never broached the subject and he'd never asked.
Eleven days of that. It'd taken a fraction for Gisborne to break him, and he hadn't had time to progress past the starvation and the waterboarding. Fucking cattle prods.
Artemis could have the Sheriff with Will's blessing.
He drew a breath, tried to banish the sudden tremble from his chest, before saying evenly, "We will, Mar. We will. Rob's right. He'll be cut off completely with Michael and he can stay that way till we're agreed, yeah? And ain't no demon or nothing getting past an archangel with a flaming sword."
"They ain't bloody well gettin' past us, neither," Art said stoutly. "My oath they ain't."