Sylvie glared, still pointing the spoon at me. She looked so tiny and frail, but I had no doubt she'd take a swing at me with the little spoon just like she had with the baseball bat if I came closer.
"Why would you help us? You said it yourself. Werewolves hate vampires."
"I said I'd protect you, and that's what I'm going to do. Also, fuck Lazarus. If letting one vampire get loose means wiping the smug look off his face, then I can bear it."
She finally let the spoon fall a little. "You'll really help us?"
"Yes. Now give me that ridiculous spoon." I stepped closer and reached out, grabbing it. I clenched my hand tight around it and then scrunched my face up in a show of agony. "Ahh! Silver!" I hissed.
Sylvie's eyes went wide with horror, but she didn't let go of the spoon.
I relaxed, laughing at the look on her face. "I told you I-"
Sylvie swung and hit me in the temple with the spoon. It made a dull, metallic sound.
Of course, that happened to be the moment Felix and Fang had come into the room.
"Did she just hit you with that?" Felix asked.
Sylvie pointed the spoon at Felix. "Come closer and you'll get it, too."
"Easy, Rambo,” I said. “They already know about your sister. We're all going to help."
Sylvie moved her eyes around all of us, then all the strength seemed to drain out of her. Both the girls started to collapse together, but I got there in time to keep them from crashing to the ground. I put them both in the bed and stepped back.
"Felix, find a way to get Maisey someone to feed on," I said. "Fang, get a doctor here for Sylvie. I don't care if they're human. Just get them here and I'll handle the rest."
"Got it, boss," Fang said. "One doctor, coming up."
Fang hurried out of the room.
"Not that simple, Riggs. Trust me on this.”
I gritted my teeth. I didn’t want to consider asking vamps for help. I wondered how hard it could really be to stop the small woman from drinking too much. Then again, I supposed I didn’t know how fast a vampire drained a persons’ blood or how much was too much. Dammit. “Then figure something out,” I said.
"I could ask the Rebel Prince."
I almost shut the idea down out of reflex, but I had to consider that extreme situations called for extreme solutions. The Rebel Prince was a vampire who had broken from the Coven. He claimed they had no interest in subjugating humans or continuing the war with werewolves, but I wasn't ready to believe it. I thought it was a play to get werewolves to help them fight a civil war we had no part in. If the rebels won, I had no doubt they'd turn on us as soon as it was over.
But for the time being... Maybe Felix was right.
"Look into it," I said. "Quickly."
Felix nodded and left.
As much as I wanted to personally handle everything, I had to admit it was good to have help. It meant I didn't have to leave the girls alone and hope nothing would happen.
I stared at their sleeping forms, but felt a swirling, nearly uncontrollable hatred when I looked at Maisey. She was one of them, and I was helping her.
But when I looked down at Sylvie sleeping peacefully, I reminded myself it wasn't about Maisey or vampires. It was about doing the job I set out to do. To keep this woman safe. From anything. Even if it was the danger her own sister posed. Even if it was the danger my kind posed.
I'd failed once to protect someone I swore to protect.
I didn't care what it cost. I wasn't going to fail Sylvie. I couldn't fail.
15
Sylvie
Fang led a man into the room with a hood over his head. He was trying to talk, but it sounded like he'd been gagged beneath the hood.
I sat up in bed, wondering if this was a fever dream.
Maisey was sleeping beside me, looking bad, but not noticeably worse than she had when I'd staged our failed escape attempt. Riggs, as usual, was posted by the door with his big arms crossed over his chest.
I wasn't sure if it was the fever, but he looked more obnoxiously handsome every time I saw him. I kept finding more things to appreciate, like the fact that his eyes had just the right amount of upward tilt at the outer corners. Or how long his eyelashes were.
Stop that, fever brain, I thought.
Fang ripped the hood off the man, who was wearing sweat-stained clothes like he'd been in the middle of a workout. He was in his fifties and a little out of shape. He wore a salt and pepper goatee with round glasses and a pudgy, short nose.