Little John wasn't sure about the wisdom of ordering food to a house where the last thing that was delivered turned out to be a death trap. "Might pass on the grub," he said, still watching the Sheriff. It wasn't the first time he skipped dinner on a vigil, and besides, he had a few homemade muesli bars in the bottom of his bag if things with Michael took longer than expected.
It grated, this prick making himself at home in the angel's kitchen, offering them tea like not a single whit of history mattered to him. His calm and his reason was chilling, wasn't all that long ago he could barely string a couple of words together, thanks to Clio's viral marketing ploy, and if that had worn off, what else about the Sheriff was inching back toward the twisted cruelty they all knew too well?