I was a doctor. I was trained to respect life. I was supposed to accept my patients where I found them, healing those I could and offering comfort to those beyond my ability to help.
I. Hated. Banshees.
For one thing, no one knew exactly what the creatures were. The few people who’d lived after seeing one said they looked like ancient women, crones with withered faces and bedraggled hair. They wore tattered gowns that resembled torn and filthy graveclothes. They rarely manifested in physical form; more often than not, only their faces appeared, contorted and screaming as they floated in mid-air.
Because they lacked a complete physical form, they often left behind combs as calling cards, dropping them from their straggling hair. Tortoiseshell or intricately worked silver or ivory—each banshee had her favorite adornment. As a witch learning about the spirits’ existence, I’d wondered what a good haircut and some decent conditioner would do for them. Maybe the banshees could get a good night’s sleep if they just managed a decent blow-out from a competent stylist.
Some people said banshees were fairies, descended from ancient British royalty. But fairies had no place in the Eastern Empire—the so-called “fair folk” had never crossed the ocean to the New World. If banshees were fae, they were different from every other type fairy ever recorded.
In the end, it didn’t matter where they came from, even if they had royal blood. Banshees were simply loathsome creatures.
Their unearthly wails foreshadowed death in the next twenty-four hours.
Lovely.
I stared at the comb in Becs’s hand as if it were a rattlesnake poised to bite. Forget inspection on Midsummer Eve. If the Eastern Empire Healthcare Facilities Accreditation Board knew we had banshees on the premises, they’d take away our charter faster than I could say “Hecate Preserve Us.”
And I couldn’t blame them.
I looked at my warder and said flatly, “Burn it.”
“That won’t change anything.”
“I said burn it, Becs!”
She nodded somberly, slipping the comb into the pocket of her jeans to dispose of in short order.
I chewed on my lip. It didn’t make sense, banshees terrorizing the hospital for no good reason. But sense or no, I had work to do—work that had been interrupted by Becs’s unsuccessful suggestion that I try to regain my powers in the storeroom’s privacy. I squared my shoulders and headed for the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Becs asked.
“Right now? I’m heading back to my office to work on getting this place ready for inspection.”
Becs didn’t contradict me. But she did cast a doubtful glance toward the votive candles on their shelf.
“Don’t say it,” I warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“But you’re thinking very loudly.”
She was my warder. She had my back. She’d never say out loud that a witch without powers—a mundane human woman—would never be allowed to run Empire General Hospital. We both knew the truth. Especially when that hospital had been visited by banshees.