The Silver Stone Inn: The Sylvan Awakening
The grand lobby of the Silver Stone Inn had been stripped of anything fragile, flammable, or easily chewed. The crushed velvet lounges were covered in heavy-duty, spell-resistant tarps, and the complimentary hydration station had been replaced with a large, gilded trough of imported spring water.
Behind the mahogany desk, Ginny was calmly securing a grounding wire to her ankle.
"Ginny, I am going to throw up," Maggie whimpered, her wire-rimmed glasses fogging up with sheer panic. She was clutching the gold-leafed ledger to her chest like a shield. "The briefing memo said Sylvan Awakening Symposium. I thought it was a druid botanical retreat!"
"Druids do not rent the grandest spire in Imperia, Maggie," Ginny said, her voice a flat, deadpan drone as she clipped a second grounding wire to Maggie's skirt. "This is the Dorian elite. They have exhausted every standard luxury known to mortal man. So, once a year, they pay thousands of platinum pieces to regress into magical fauna. Do not look them directly in the eyes if they are in a predatory morph, and for the love of the Gods, do not offer them a mint."
Before Maggie could ask why, the massive platinum doors of the hotel blew open.
A wave of cinnamon, expensive musky cologne, and wet animal smell washed over the lobby. In strode Duke Vance. Or rather, an eight-foot-tall, bipedal Spark Squirrel that possessed the Duke's haughty, aristocratic voice. He was covered from head to toe in crackling, bioluminescent blue fur that shot miniature lightning bolts into the marble floor with every step.
"Ah, the Silver Stone!" the giant squirrel boomed, his massive, bushy tail twitching and accidentally shattering a nearby sconce. A shower of sparks rained down on the velvet ropes. "Front desk! I demand service!"
Maggie whimpered, shrinking below the counter.
Ginny didn't blink. "Welcome back, Your Grace. I trust the carriage ride was accommodating to your... magnificent tail."
"Barely," Duke Vance scoffed, leaning his massive, furry elbows on the mahogany. A jolt of static electricity arced from his nose to the hotel ledger, but Ginny’s grounding wire safely dispersed the shock. "My aura is terribly misaligned. I require my suite to be filled with acorns. Not standard acorns. I want them harvested beneath a blood moon and lightly dusted with crushed sapphire."
"Naturally, Your Grace," Ginny replied without a micro-expression of judgment. "We will have the Celestial Foraging Package delivered to your room. That will be an… sizeable surcharge. Additionally, would you require a scratching post made of imported ironwood, or will you be destroying the antique armoires again this year?"
The giant Spark Squirrel stroked his chin with a clawed, furry finger. "Bring the ironwood. The armoires gave me splinters last time."
"Very good. Here is your keycard, Your Grace. Please try not to electrocute the bellhops."
As Duke Vance lumbered away, his tail frying the rune etched panel of the elevator, Maggie slowly peaked over the edge of the desk. Her face was the color of old parchment.
"Ginny. That was the Minister of the Treasury. He was a squirrel."
"He is a Spark Squirrel, Maggie, and he just paid our monthly operating budget in acorn surcharges," Ginny corrected smoothly, reaching for a stack of waiver forms.
The doors burst open again. A woman transformed into a terrifying, twelve-foot-long enchanted python slithered into the lobby. She was clutching a diamond-encrusted clutch purse in her jaws because she had no arms.
"Mmph mmmph rnnngh!" the python demanded, rearing up to the front desk.
Maggie let out a high-pitched squeak of pure terror. "What is she saying?! Should I call the aurors?!"
"She is saying her heat-rock is the wrong temperature," Ginny translated flawlessly, pulling out a pair of thick, dragon-hide handling gloves. "Maggie, take this diamond purse from Lady Beatrice's mouth, and page the pyromancers. Tell them we have a cold-blooded VIP in Suite 310, and if she tries to swallow the maid cart whole again, charge it to her husband's account as In-Room Dining."
Ginny turned back to the python, offering a crisp, professional bow. "Right away, my Lady. Would you like a bucket of live, enchanted mice sent up while you wait?"
The python nodded enthusiastically, her scales shimmering with hostile opulence.
"Ginny," Maggie whispered, taking the saliva-covered diamond purse with trembling, gloved hands. "We are in hell. We have died and gone to hell."
"No, Maggie," Ginny said, her dead eyes scanning the lobby as a pack of aristocratic, bipedal dire-wolves began marking their territory on a marble pillar. "Hell is free. This is hospitality."