I hate hospitals.

You can feel it when you walk in. Desperation and misery. The smell of sickness and disinfectant. Hospitals are by nature full of hurt, sick, miserable people, some of whom are dying horrible, lingering deaths. Doctors and nurses attend them with the calloused empathy their profession demands, trying so hard to save lives, knowing that some of their patients will die, anyway. Even in the small hours of the night, they move briskly, clipboards at the ready, faces set in a permanent expression of soothing professional calm.

St. Patrick’s Hospital was typical of the breed, with whitewashed walls, florescent lighting, and waiting rooms full of square shaped padded wooden chairs. The padding on the chairs was a subdued pink color, almost mauve, the kind of color some interior decorator decided must be soothing. It wasn’t, but the pads did make the chairs almost, if not quite, comfortable.

I didn't want to be here. Not yet. Two hours before sunrise, Stephanie had decided she couldn't take sitting in a church parking lot anymore. She had declared loudly and insistently that we had to go check on Troll and Mike. When I pointed out we could do that with a phone call, she had called me a coward.

The argument was quick and heated. Lady and I wanted to stay on hallowed ground until sunrise. Stephanie and Gina insisted we pay St. Patrick's a visit. In the end, Stephanie won by the simple expedient of getting out the car and starting to walk. If it was just Gina, I'd have let her go, but not Stephanie. I could recover from losing Justin, and maybe Mike and Troll, but Stephanie? It was unthinkable.

The only entrance that was open this early was the emergency room. We saw Mike in one of the rooms as we passed. He was in a hospital gown, with one arm in a cast, talking with two police officers. Stephanie was about to make a bee line for him, but I steered her in the other direction. We were persons of interest in a gunfight and at least one murder. If the cops saw us we'd be taken in for questioning at the very least.

A harried woman in scrubs told us Troll was in the ICU and directed us to a waiting area. We'd barely sat down when I got a text. I fumbled my phone out with my one good arm. It was from Mike.

GET OUR OF HERE YOU IDIOTS!!!!!

I took a moment to appreciate how he'd taken the time to write five exclamation points but hadn't bothered with the spelling. I showed the message to Stephanie, but she brushed it off. She wanted to wait til someone came to tell us if

Troll was out of the woods.

About ten minutes later, I got another text. Also from Mike.

COPS COMING GO NOW

"We've gotta go," I told the group.

"Don't be such a recreant," snarked Stephanie.

"The cops are coming," I told her. "If you want to stay here and get arrested, go ahead. Lady and I are leaving." Lady nodded agreement. I picked up the sports bag we'd hidden the sword in. Before I could take so much as a step, a pair of officers walked into the waiting room.

"Kevin Shrive?" The officer was my height, lean, but with a little more muscle than me. Short dark hair, brown eyes, and wearing a pair of soft leather gloves. The other one was taller and heavier, with big arms, a noticeable gut, and a head shaved down to stubble. The pair casually blocked the way out of the room.

I briefly considered lying, but decided it would be pointless. "That's me."

"I'm officer Henly," the larger officer spoke. "This is officer Mittens." The other cop gave him an annoyed look. "We have some questions for you."

My phone buzzed. Another text. One word.

run

He hadn't bothered with the caps lock. I could only think of one reason he wouldn't shout, and that's if he couldn't spare the time. We had to get out of here.

Step one, get past the cops. "Am I being detained?"

Officer Henly furrowed his eyebrows at me. "Are you sure you want to play it this way? Your friend is cooperating."

"I don't want to not cooperate," I explained. "But we have to get out of here. Right now."

The policemen looked at each other. "Okay," said Mittens. "We'll take you to the station."

"Not the station," Stephanie piped up. "We won't be safe there."

"We can protect you," Henly assured her.

"You cannot." Lady spoke. "They will-"

I cut her off. We were almost out of time. "The station's fine. We'll go. Just... get us out of here." I didn't think the police could protect us from vampires, either, but going anywhere was better than waiting for Madeline. I hustled forward, sports bag in tow. "Let's go."

"I don't think so." A melodious voice in a french accent froze me in my tracks. The policemen turned at the sound. Madeline stood behind them. She had a new sundress, red this time. Her impish smile reminded me to jerk my gaze away from her face. "You know, I thought I might be dealing with a real band of hunters, here. A genuine threat. But you're just a bunch of idiots, aren't you?"