Even having put himself up against the wall, there is only the scantest cover: the lip of the door, the over-packed shelves, the counter that just between rooms. There is no real space to hide unless he cares to put himself on the floor, and the loss of mobility that would come with that isn't worth it.

He can hear the scrabble of possession from the floor, along with the slowing gurgle from the dying Crow.

"Get ready," is a hiss of warning, right before John follows Flint's example. He stretches out a hand, and flings the contents of the shelf after that first strike. Maybe not all will provoke that same pain yelp, but the shower of powders and herbs should be sufficient disruption to allow Flint an unobstructed shot.

One would hope, at least.