Page 27 of How to Stake a Vampire

The banshee escorted us to the ward where the vampire victims were being nursed back to health. To my surprise, the place was located in the basement and accessed through a service elevator that required a special key card.

“Is this standard protocol?” I asked uneasily as the doors closed on us.

“For these lunatics—I mean patients—yes,” the banshee replied.

We emerged into what looked like a cross between a hospital and a medieval dungeon, complete with stone walls, wrought-iron light fixtures, and low-level moaning and groaning.

A trio of nurses huddled at a workstation up ahead. They were drawing straws with fraught expressions, like their lives depended on it. The shortest one, a dwarf, lost. She cursed and shook a tiny fist at the ceiling. Her werewolf and witch companions hastily pressed a tray into her hands, relieved.

“Looks like Hilda drew the short straw again,” the banshee remarked as the dwarf turned and trudged down a hallway, beard drooping.

Gavin’s nostrils smoked nervously. “What did Hilda lose at?”

“Giving Count de Vile his meds, probably.”

“Oh God,” Barney groaned.

The name sounded familiar.

“He’s a longtime client of the firm,” Didi said sourly at my questioning look. “Dave has to take antacids when he visits him.”

Translated, the client was a pain in the ass.

The werewolf nurse noticed us first. She left the station and approached.

Recognition flared in her eyes at the sight of me. She swallowed and regained her composure.

“I’m afraid we’re not accepting visitors right now.”

“They’re the people Mr. Tremaine called about,” the banshee explained in a tone full of hidden meaning.

The werewolf’s expression fell like a badly baked soufflé. “Oh.” She chewed her lip. “You should come back tomorrow. Some of the victims are still, er, indisposed.”

As if to prove her point, someone began wailing close by.

The werewolf’s shoulders knotted.

A nurse with pointed ears and gossamer wings floated out of a room on the left, her expression harried and her uniform covered in stains that I hoped was pizza sauce.

“Could I have a hand?” the pixie started distractedly. “The baron is being?—”

The wailing intensified, drowning out the rest of her words.

“Oh, woe is me!” someone lamented in the tone of one getting their innards ripped out. “To have witnessed what I have witnessed!”

“It’s way too early for this shit,” the banshee muttered under her breath.

Barney sighed heavily. “Not that pillock too.”

“You know the baron?” I hazarded.

“For my sins.”

The banshee departed hastily as the keening triggered more bemoaning and blubbering from several sources. The pixie fisted her hands and gnashed her teeth. The witch at the nurses’ station popped a small bottle open and hastily downed a couple of pills, wincing.

“Look, now is really not a good time,” the werewolf attempted again, desperation creeping into her voice. “How about I reschedule your visit for this afternoon at least?—”

She was interrupted by a pale figure trailing dramatically out of a room on the right, one hand pressed to her forehead and the hem of her Victorian lace gown brushing the floor.