There are certain known facts about vampires. They revile change. They are obsessive-compulsive. They are illogical. They are cursed. They will burst into flames in sunlight.
They are dying.
With less than a hundred vampires left in the world, Yas...
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Tavius laid Sonya on the floor. Her nose was bleeding. Her teeth were tinged pink. "It's okay. I've got you." He urged, smoothing back her hair, which plastered to her sweaty face. She was shaking, her skin clammy, and he feared that she was mere minutes away from death.
"I have to—I have to..."
He shushed her, pressing her down when she tried to stand. "Stay still."
Peja lunged for him.
Tavius hated manhandling her, but he had no choice. Picking her up, he threw her bodily a few feet away. She landed like a limp doll, which filled him with panicked guilt, but he had barely any time for himself. He whipped his arm out, knife ready. He managed to slice Peja's arm. The man reeled backward, wings flapping. Just as quickly, the blonde Albanian darted forward, a thin blade in each hand. Tavius threw up Libby's knife again. His wristbones shuddered as he caught blows from either side.
Peja spun, barking a frantic order at the younger man in a different language.
"I. Don't. Want. To." The youth gritted out between bared teeth.
Peja shouted again, a short noise heavy with command. With a scowl, the blond man leapt back and sprinted out of the room. After August and the vampire, Tavius presumed grimly.
Peja turned a grim face onto Tavius. His wrinkles were deep with disapproval and regret. "You shouldn't have tried this," he intoned heavily. "Our people need her."
