A white-haired woman dressed in cheerful pink hospital scrubs was standing by the admissions desk. She would have looked like any other attending nurse if it weren’t for her yellow-rimmed pigeon’s eyes and the wings sprouting from her shoulders, feathers as white as her hair. Her feet were bare, and her toenails were long enough to be suggestive of talons. She looked up at the sound of our footsteps, and her expression passed rapidly from polite greeting to confusion before finally settling on cautious relief.

“Verity Price?” she ventured, putting down her clipboard and taking a step in our direction. Her voice had a flutelike quality that blurred the edges of her accent, making it impossible to place her origins as anything more precise than “somewhere in Europe.”

“That’s me,” I agreed. “This is my cousin, Sarah Zellaby.”

“Hi,” said Sarah, waving one hand in a short wave.

The white-haired woman gave Sarah a quick once-over, one wing flicking half-open before snapping shut again. She looked puzzled. “Dr. Morrow didn’t tell me you would be bringing an assistant, Miss Price,” she said slowly.

“He probably forgot,” I said. I was telling the truth. People have a tendency to forget about Sarah unless she’s standing directly in front of them, and sometimes even then. It’s all part of the low-grade telepathic masking field she inherited from her biological parents. There’s a reason we consider her species of cryptid one of the most dangerous things in the world.

“Nice to meet you,” said Sarah. “I never knew there was a hospital down here.”

As usual, it was exactly the right thing to say. The white-haired woman smiled, both wings flicking open this time in visible pleasure. “It required a very complicated piece of sorcery to conceal it here, but it’s more than worth the cost of maintenance. We have access to the whole of St. Catherine’s when we require it, which prevents our needing to acquire some of the more specialized equipment for ourselves.”

“Clever,” I said. Inwardly, I was salivating over the idea of getting, say, an MRI film of a lamia. There’d be time for that later. This was the time for business. “When Dr. Morrow contacted me, he said you were having trouble.”

“Yes.” The white-haired woman nodded, expression growing grim. “It’s started again.”

“Show me,” I said.

St. Catherine’s was one of five hospitals located within a two-mile radius. That might seem excessive, but two were privately owned, one was more properly termed a hospice, and one—St. Giles’—was constructed under the subbasement at St. Catherine’s. St. Giles’ didn’t appear on any map, and wasn’t covered by any medical insurance plan. That was because, for the most part, their patients weren’t human.

Over the centuries, humanity has had a lot of names for the sort of people who go to places like St. Giles’ Hospital. There’s the ever-popular “monsters,” and the almost as enduring “freaks of nature.” Or you could go with “abominations,” if that’s what floats your boat. My family has always been fond of the slightly less pejorative “cryptids.” They’re still people, men and women with thoughts and feelings of their own. They just happen to be people with tails, or scales, or pretty white wings, like the woman who was now leading us down the hall toward the maternity ward.

Sarah caught me studying our guide and shot me an amused look, accompanied by an arrow of audible thought: She’s a Caladrius. She’s wondering if you’ll notice, and a little bit afraid you’ll start demanding feathers.

Whoa, I replied, trying not to stare. Caladrius are some of the best doctors in the world. Their feathers have a supernatural healing quality that no one’s ever been able to duplicate. That’s why there are so few Caladrius left. They used to volunteer to help with any sick or injured creature they encountered, regardless of the dangers to themselves. It took them a long time, and the slaughter of most of their species, before they learned to be cautious around humanity.

“Here,” said the nurse, stopping in front of a doorway. It was blocked off with plastic sheeting, lending it an ominous air. She gestured to it with one hand, but made no move to pull the plastic aside. “I’m sorry. I can’t go in with you.”

“I understand,” I said. I did, really. If Dr. Morrow’s report was correct, we were about to walk into a slaughterhouse. Caladrius will heal the wounded if they possibly can, but they can’t bear the sight of the dead. Dead people look like failure to them. “Thanks for showing us the way.”

“If you need anything . . .” she began.

Sarah smiled. “We’ll call,” she said. “Loudly.”

That is so much nicer than “we’ll scream until you send backup,” I thought.

Sarah’s smile widened.

Looking relieved, the Caladrius nodded. “I’ll be at my desk if you need me.” Then she turned, hurrying away before we could think of a reason to need her to stay. Sarah and I watched her go. Then Sarah turned to me, a wordless question in her expression.

“I’ll go first,” I said as I turned and drew the plastic veil aside.

The smell that came wafting out into the hall was enough to make my stomach turn. I’d been the one to request that the room be sealed off without cleaning, to give me a better idea of what I was dealing with. Suddenly, I thought I might regret that decision.

Streaks of long-dried blood warred with cheerful pastels for ownership of the walls inside the maternity ward. Most of it was red, although there were a few streaks of green, purple, and even shiny-clear breaking up the crimson monotony. Patches of the original cartoon murals showed through the gore, representing a cartoon cryptid wonderland, with dozens of happy cryptid and human children gamboling through a paradise of acceptance that hadn’t existed in millennia, if it ever existed at all. Sarah blanched.

“Verity . . .”

“I know.” Even the thickest splotches of blood had been given time to dry. I touched one, and it flaked away on my fingertips. “If the pattern holds, it’s still nearby.”

“Oh, goody. Have I mentioned recently how much I hate it when you say things like that?” Sarah glanced nervously around. “I’m not picking up on any other minds in this room. We’re alone in here.”

“That’s a start.” There was a closed door on the far wall. I pulled the pistol from the back of my jeans, holding it in front of me as I walked cautiously forward. “Stay where you are.”