Page 13 of How to Stake a Vampire (Diary of a Reluctant Werewolf #2)

DEATH BECOMES HIM

Pinevale Funeral Parlor loomed against the gray sky amidst the otherwise pleasant, middle-class landscape of west Amberford. It was the epitome of a business that catered exclusively to the undead: old, imposing, and about as cheerful as spending a night in a graveyard.

“This place seems fun,” I observed reluctantly as we pulled into the parking lot on Thursday afternoon.

Bo’s tail drooped. “I’ve seen morgues with more personality.”

“He watched CSI: Doghouse last night,” I said at Samuel’s faint frown.

“Too much TV will rot your brain,” Samuel told my dog.

“I fear it’s already too late for that canine,” Pearl said with a sniff. “Some brain muffins might help him recover.”

Bo curled a lip like he’d just caught a whiff of a skunk who’d spent a week hugging garbage in a sauna.

Victoria pretended not to hear our conversation and adjusted her black hat with the efficiency of someone who’d attended far too many supernatural funerals.

“Remember, we’re here to pay our respects. Please refrain from doing anything that will disgrace the family name.”

I couldn’t help but sense that remark had been intended for me.

“You do realize this is an undercover operation involving the police, right?”

Victoria narrowed her eyes. “An operation that you will carry out with honor and integrity.”

I was about to point out that honor and integrity were not exactly my forte when our earpieces crackled.

“For the love of— Gavin, stop breathing on the camera lens!” Didi snapped over the comm.

“Sorry, I get nervous at funerals,” the dragon newt said guiltily.

“You’ve been to exactly one funeral,” the witch pointed out.

“Yeah and someone tried to sacrifice me to a goat demon,” Gavin protested. “Forgive me if I’m a little anxious.”

“I should have stayed in regular police work,” Detective Johnson muttered.

Victoria’s eyes glazed over while Samuel did his best to pretend this was normal undercover talk.

“Look on the bright side,” I said with an encouraging smile. “It can’t get any worse than the Holts’ ball.”

Pearl swished her tail. “Those are brave words coming from someone who’s less than a week away from her next white wolf transformation.”

I patted my hair self-consciously. I could already feel the pull of the next full moon and had to resort to using my Moon Shine: Extra Glossy Coat shampoo this morning to tame my wild locks.

“You look fine,” Samuel reassured as we climbed out of the Bentley.

I smoothed down my new black dress. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” His eyes grew heated. “You should wear that on our next date.”

Warmth flooded my cheeks. I bit my lip.

Our last date had ended with us driving to a remote rest stop and testing the Bentley’s suspension late into the night.

Victoria sighed. “Look, while I appreciate that you’re on the cusp of your relationship, you should show your respect for the dead.”

“Sorry,” Samuel and I mumbled.

“Are they always like this?” Detective Johnson asked over the comm.

“We have a betting pool going on how long it will take for Abby to break Samuel’s desk,” Didi replied in a tone holding mild disgust.

My mouth pressed to a thin line as we navigated the crowded parking lot. I definitely needed to have a word with Fred.

It had dawned on me recently that Samuel and I spent a worrying amount of time naked when we were in each other’s company.

To my relief, Caroline had revealed that the first year of a newly mated werewolf couple’s life pretty much centered around getting to know one another in the biblical sense.

She’d gone on to describe how she and her husband Kent had broken more inn beds around New England than any werewolf couple she knew, a morsel of information I could have done without but which I nonetheless accepted graciously.

The unmarked van where Didi, Gavin, and Detective Johnson were monitoring the funeral was parked across the street and looked poorly disguised where it lurked behind a newspaper delivery truck. Even from here, I could make out Gavin’s horns through the windshield.

“They’re about as subtle as a brick through a window,” Pearl observed tartly. “At this rate, I doubt they’ll spot the suspect even if he does show up.”

“Should I go over there and give them tips?” Bo suggested helpfully.

Samuel swallowed a sigh.

Victoria gave me final instructions as we approached the entrance.

“Supernatural funerals have very specific protocols,” she explained sternly. “Do not comment on the deceased’s appearance and under no circumstances should you touch anything.”

“What about shaking hands with the other guests?” I hazarded.

“Most of the attendees will be vampires. They don’t shake hands. They air-kiss.”

“Right,” I muttered.

We made our way inside the funeral parlor and joined a small crowd of mourners in the foyer. I looked around curiously, my wolf rousing at the complex scents and emotions swarming the air around us.

The vampire aristocracy was out in force. They were all dressed in expensive black attire and stood in tiny clusters speaking in hushed tones, a few occasionally dabbing at dry eyes with silk handkerchiefs.

To my surprise, I’d learned that vampires couldn’t cry. Hugh had claimed this was because of a physical impediment. Pearl had declared it was because they were cold-hearted bastards that would as soon kill you as look at you.

“Poor Giles,” a vampire with a monocle said in a low voice. “He was such a refined gentleman.”

A woman in an elaborate black dress with a veil that could have doubled as a fishing net blew her nose discreetly next to him. “He was taken far too soon.”

“Hear, hear,” another man muttered.

Barney appeared from the direction of the parlor’s main room.

“I’ve secured our seats.”

A ripple of unease ran through the gathered mourners at his sight.

It was clear the assembled vampires were as wary of Barney as Gregory had been.

We followed him into the funeral parlor’s main room.

Lord Chudwell’s coffin sat on a shallow stage at the front, surrounded by enough flowers to stock a small garden center. The casket was covered in gold trim and what looked like genuine gemstones.

“Are those real?” Detective Johnson asked dubiously over the comm.

They were monitoring the inside of the funeral home through the tiny camera brooches pinned to our clothes.

“By the looks of it, yes,” I muttered.

“Vampires don’t do subtle,” Victoria said.

That was becoming unmistakably clear.

I spotted the Tremaines talking to a woman near the front row.

“That’s Aubrey Sweeney, the owner and director of Pinevale,” Victoria murmured. “She’s a banshee.”

Betsy, Quincy, and the cats were in the family section to the left of the stage. The housekeeper and the butler acknowledged us with stiff nods. The cats ignored us.

Gregory and Constantia greeted us politely when we took our seats beside them. Bo’s bow tie earned a brief stare.

The room was filling up with more mourners. I spotted several familiar faces from vampire high society, all of whom were making a great show of their grief while simultaneously checking out each other’s outfits.

The funeral director waited until everyone was seated before approaching the podium to begin the service.

“Dear friends, we are gathered here today to honor the memory of Lord Giles Pilkington Chudwell,” she began in a voice that carried just a hint of her supernatural nature. “A vampire of distinguished lineage and impeccable taste.”

“The gargoyles on his estate would disagree,” Pearl muttered.

Bo grinned, tail swishing. “They were cool, though. In a poop-inducing kinda way.”

Gregory narrowed his eyes. Samuel’s mouth flattened to a thin line.

“Lord Chudwell lived a long and fulfilling undead life,” the banshee continued shrilly, doing her best to ignore the cat and the dog. “I shall now invite his acquaintances to say a few words about him.”

The service progressed with various vampires taking to the podium to share memories of the deceased. To Bo’s delight, most of these seemed to involve dinner parties, investment portfolios, and the occasional blood duel.

“He once challenged the Duke of Carlyle to a sword fight over a disputed wine vintage,” one elderly vampire recalled fondly. “Giles won, naturally.”

“What vintage?” another vampire called out.

“1847 Bordeaux.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd.

I was beginning to understand why vampires had such complicated social lives.

To my surprise, Barney didn’t take to the podium. I couldn’t help but feel he was still in denial about his friend’s death.

The banshee finally called for anyone who wished to pay their final respects to approach the casket. I rose along with Victoria, Samuel, and the Tremaines and joined the mourners shuffling into a queue in the center aisle.

Betsy and Quincy stood at the front, handing out red roses.

Bo padded alongside me as I approached the ornate coffin, flower in hand. It was my first time seeing Lord Chudwell.

He was a distinguished-looking vampire even in death and had a kind face and laughter lines around his eyes that spoke of an undead life well lived. Someone had stitched up Mr. Snuggles and laid the teddy bear beside him. The stitches matched the neat row on Lord Chudwell’s neck.

I had just placed the flower inside the casket when the hairs rose on the back of my neck. My wolf had just gone on alert.

I was pretty certain I’d seen the body twitch.

Samuel stopped where he was making his way back to his seat, no doubt sensing the sudden tension humming through me across the mate bond.

I frowned and leaned in closer to take a look at the dead vampire.

“Abby, what are you—?” Didi started suspiciously in my ear.

Lord Chudwell sneezed.