Page 107 of How to Stake a Vampire

We traded glances while Melvina administered a surreptitious kick to Ludvik.

“That works,” Barney said with a shrug. “Who wants to do the honor?”

Ellie and I raised our hands.

Barney handed us some stakes while Leoric and Wildred manifested a pair of hammers from somewhere on their person.

Ludvik’s eyes bulged with genuine fear as we grabbed the coffin lid and prepared to lower it.

“Wait,” I said.

Ellie paused.

I put a hand out to Melvina. “I’d like a pair, please.”

Melvina blinked. Her face brightened. She handed me a pair of googly eyes.

I stuck them to the inside of the lid, right where Ludvik would be staring for the rest of eternity.

Gregory sucked air between his teeth. “Oh, that’s vicious.”

“I like it,” Finnic said smugly.

Samuel grinned. “Babe.”

Bo sat down and wagged his tail. “Wait till I tell Fur Ball about this!”

“Any last words?” I asked Ludvik pleasantly as we prepared to close the coffin.

An inarticulate gurgle left Ludvik.

I raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Well, Happy Eternity, asshole.”

Ellie and I dropped the lid on Ludvik’s choked scream and staked the coffin down.

32

NEW ARRANGEMENTS

Committee RoomAturned out to be nothing like the formal conference room where we’d held our previous Alliance meetings. Instead of a polished table and rigid chairs, the space felt like a supernatural gentleman’s club—leather armchairs, soft lighting, and a fully stocked bar that Finnic had already raided with the enthusiasm of a dwarf on a mission to get totally wasted.

“To victory!” the dwarf chieftain declared, raising his third tankard of the evening. “And to not dying horribly in a mine.”

“To not dying horribly!” Melvina cheered, Hilda and the other three warriors joining in with raucous ululations that made the lights tremble and Daria wince.

Didi lifted her wine glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

Gavin nodded firmly as he sipped a margarita, Detective Johnson holding a beer beside him.

Most of the Alliance had gathered for what Daria had diplomatically called a “post-crisis debrief,” but which felt more like a celebration. Even Oscar had emerged from his usual shadowy corner and was nursing what looked suspiciously like a Cosmopolitan.

“So,” Wendall said, addressing the room in general while pointedly not looking at me, “I suppose we should acknowledge that perhaps our initial skepticism was premature.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Is that an apology?”

“It’s an admission of tactical error,” he replied stiffly.

I looked at Samuel, who shrugged.