Page 41 of How to Stake a Vampire
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.”
