He should have known. This again. His nostrils flare and he snorts, laughing because he's upset, because he doesn't want to show it. "Doesn't make any sense," he mutters. "Just tell me what you know, Joan, and it won't come to that. I ain't going to agree to kill you. That's — "

That's what it wants him to do. He cuts himself off, swallows, tries a different tack.

"Maybe you ain't concerned about your soul, but mine's got enough on it. So if you're so given up on Heaven, let me try for it. How's that? Since you don't wanna hurt me and all." He grimaces, sort of like he's smiling, but it's rictus-like. "Ain't much worse you can ask from me. So don't."