Art let her cling, and he wound his arms around her in a protective hug, while his brow knit at Rob's words. Decide together, well, okay, but his vote wasn't changing. Only good Sheriff was a dead Sheriff.
Michael, Will thought. Michael was good, at least. Michael could intimidate Lucifer himself; a weaselly shit like the Sheriff of Nottingham didn't stand a smidge of a chance. But Michael was only a temporary solution.
"Well then, I say we give him back to Artemis," he said flatly. "She warned him. This ain't his town anymore. She can do with him what she likes, far as I'm concerned."
The thought should've filled him with revulsion. Just like he should've been sick when he'd read Artemis' message, how she'd hunted the Sheriff till he couldn't run anymore, till he was brought to a crawl with cold and hunger and dehydration and festering wounds. He knew it was fucked up and monstrous, knew it probably said something fucked up and monstrous about him, but he'd read all of that and he'd waited for the horror to overtake him and it just hadn't come. Whatever torture Artemis had visited on the Sheriff, Will was ready to bet it hadn't been near enough.