‘Drop the shears, lady. Back away from the broad.’
Fifi raised an eyebrow, her fatal squeeze halted before it had begun, by the threat from behind. Annette grinned widely. Good old Ribbons. He’d caught Fifi totally unawares – as planned.
‘Excuse me?’ The pedicurist asked, still leaning over Annette, secateurs still pressed against her toe.
‘You may not know it,’ said Ribbons in the style of Humphrey Bogart, ‘but this thing sticking in your back’s a .45 magic wand, standard issue Witchcraft Police. It can drop a Warlock at half a mile.’
‘That’s illegal without a licence,’ she complained.
‘I have a licence,’ he retorted. ‘And if you think you can take a hit from this range, and walk away, you’re wrong – dead wrong. Now drop the shears, or you’re frog.’