Page 106 of Caller of Crows

She let out an offended sound. Apparently, she really did want Sven to address her properly.

"My lady," Sven corrected himself with a sigh. "Will you lead the way?"

She preened, then spread her wings and lifted herself into the air.

Sven followed behind her.

* * *

When Sven knocked on the door to Iskander's room, a tall vampire opened. He had short, raven-black hair, and when his eyes fell on Sven, they flashed gold for the briefest of moments.

Sven stared at him blankly for a moment because he'd never seen anyone with eyes like that. And the rest of Iskander was pretty fine too. Tall and muscular, with broad shoulders and strong arms, a dark skin tone—for a vampire—and sharp, handsome features.

Sven was very much in love with a different vampire, but he appreciated good-looking men nonetheless, and this was definitely a gorgeous creature right here.

Then he remembered he probably shouldn't stare. He quickly schooled his expression and tried not to seem as if he'd been gaping like an idiot at Iskander.

The vampire—whom Sven was guessing was Iskander—took in his appearance slowly, appraisingly, before finally giving him a curt nod. "You must be Sven."

"Yes," Sven said, extending his good hand.

"Heard about you," Iskander said gruffly as they shook hands. Then, he motioned for Sven to step into the room. "Come in."

"Thanks."

As Sven entered, his gaze immediately fell onto Rhyme, who lay on his back on a single bed near one of the walls. He looked pale, still, and thinner than any man should. An IV was attached to his arm, dripping nutrients into his veins. His eyes were shut tight, lips slightly parted. He was clearly sleeping.

"He's still unconscious?" Sven asked Iskander, worried for his friend.

Iskander shook his head. "He's lost a lot of blood. But we're making sure his vitals stay stable, and that his injuries heal."

Sven licked his lips. "Thank you," he whispered. "For helping him."

"I'm following orders," Iskander said without wasting any more words on the matter.

Sven sighed quietly as he made his way over to the chair beside his friend's bed and sank down, careful to move quietly so as not to disturb his sleep.

When Sven reached out to brush a stray lock of hair back from Rhyme's forehead, he felt Iskander's eyes on him. "Who is he?" Iskander asked after a minute.

"Altair didn't tell you?"

"Only that he was Nephariel's captive."

"His name is Rhyme," Sven said. "To be honest, I don't know much more than that either. He grew up in a vampire coven, but they sold him to Nephariel when he didn't want to be a juice box anymore. When Altair came for me, I asked him to take Rhyme too because no one should have to live like that." He raised his gaze in defiance at Iskander, expecting the vampire to disagree. But the vampire only inclined his head, as if this explanation was acceptable to him.

Sven relaxed his shoulders and lowered his eyes once more, studying Rhyme. His friend's breathing was steady, at least. That had to be a good sign.

Sven hoped it was.

"Will he be all right here?" Sven asked, turning his attention back to Iskander. "He hates vampires, you know."

Iskander didn't answer for several seconds. Instead, he leaned back against the wall, watching Rhyme's unconscious form with an inscrutable expression on his face. Finally, however, he spoke. "No one will hurt him while he's under my protection." His words were calm, sincere, almost matter-of-fact.

"And you won't drink from him?" Sven challenged the vampire, stomach drawing tight. If Iskander felt offended by the question, it would be easy for him to snap Sven in half, but Sven needed to know that his friend was safe here.

"I'm not hungry."

"And if you were… Would you? Drink from him?"