Page 101 of Playing with Fire

Quinn’s grandfather sighed. “You’re a closet caster, then. A practitioner.”

“Oh, no. I’m the real deal. Ask Quinn or Perky. I caught a sunbeam while they were both riding me. I didn’t leave them behind.” Smiling at the memory, I relaxed despite the scrutiny of the men surrounding me. “I was so proud of that. Perky almost threw up on me.”

Every last one of my grandfather-in-law’s snakes reared back. “You caught a what?”

“I hitched a lift on a sunbeam. I like it because it’s fast. Only works when there’s strong enough light and I’m a unicorn, but there you have it. No, I’m not a practitioner. I’m a hack, though. The last time I did this seriously, I found Audrey McGee in Central Park riding a college stud. That’s really not something anyone should ever see. Let’s just say that soured me on using my magic.”

“Just tell me what you’re planning, Bailey.”

I wrinkled my nose at the gorgon. “I’m going to locate the gorgon dust stash, incinerate it, find Audrey, beat the shit out of her, toss her into the flames, shovel her ashes into a bucket, take her out in the woods, dig a deep hole, and bury her where no one will ever find her. Since the only being capable of burning dust so it’s impotent without napalm is a phoenix, I’m going to have to take the playing with fire route, hope I piss one off enough it rises from its feather, and bribe it with ambrosia so it won’t kill me.”

“This is even worse than I feared. How do you intend to piss one off? Why would you?” Quinn’s grandfather shuddered.

No one in their right mind pissed off a phoenix on purpose, so I didn’t blame him for his reaction. Ambrosia might buy me enough time to convince the angry bird it should help me rather than burn me to a crisp and eat me. “Just trust me.”

“Only three words worry me more,” the gorgon muttered.

“Oh?”

“Hold my beer.”

I snickered.

Two hours after Quinn should have returned, worry cramped my stomach. I hated waiting, but I couldn’t do anything until the CDC arrived with everything I needed. The glass coffin delayed things; there wasn’t one in the area, so they had to fly one—and a technician—in from New York.

I got sick twice, although I blamed the overdosing on transformative pills and my stint as a unicorn rather than my concern for my missing husband. At least no one questioned me both times I had retreated to the bathroom.

At the two-and-a-half hour mark, a CDC representative arrived at the station in a covered pickup truck. He brought everything I had asked for with the exception of the incubus or succubus. None on staff were willing to take on a gorgon hive, and I couldn’t blame them in the slightest. At least the rep had tried, which went beyond my expectations.

Shivering in the cool evening air, I regarded the contents of the truck with an arched brow and a frown. “Is there a reason there are two baby blankets in a glass box back here? I may not be a math whiz, but I’m pretty sure two baby blankets means two phoenix feathers.”

The CDC rep circled the truck and leaned against the tailgate, grabbing hold of the case’s rope handles. “Yes, there are two feathers. The fathers of the children requested their blankets remain together, and the set was all we had available.”

I tensed. “And the mothers?”

With a soft sigh and shake of his head, he replied, “They were killed in a car accident. The women were best friends, and their due dates were within a week of each other.”

Oh no. I swallowed back the lump in my throat, staring at the box and the blankets it held. The blankets of unborn children were the only thing on Earth capable of quieting a phoenix feather and subduing its flames. Anyone holding such a blanket could handle the feathers without risk of being burned.

When the mother of an unborn child went into labor, a new blanket replaced the old one, and it was returned to the family. Expecting parents sent their blankets to the CDC hoping to give their unborn child luck in life. For parents stricken with grief and loss, sending their lost child’s blanket gave them a sense of hope and closure.

When a phoenix rose from the ashes of one of its feathers, it would take its blanket with it, using it to create its nest, keeping it as its own. Many believed the spirit of the unborn child became part of the phoenix and gave the bird its new life. I didn’t know what I believed, but I would never blame anyone for hoping for such a happy ending.

“And the phoenixes?”

“Both are dead. They were, in their last life, a mated pair.”

I gulped. Despite folklore, phoenixes didn’t often resurrect automatically. Sometimes it took days, months, or years before one rose from one of its lingering feathers—or the last of its feathers was destroyed, forcing its rebirth. A mated pair of phoenixes died bringing a hatchling into the world, leaving behind a single feather each when they immolated to create an egg.

“Are you trying to create a disaster?” I blurted.

One newly risen phoenix was bad enough. I couldn’t imagine what two would do.

“It would have taken at least eight hours to bring in a feather from a still-living bird. We only have five of them. Three are in Europe, one is in Africa, and the other is in California. Considering the nature of the problem, upper management thought it was wise to risk the potential resurrection of two phoenixes. You demonstrated you understood the perils of using a feather when you requested everything needed to control one or two of the birds should they rise.”

Feathers from still-living birds only lit everything around them on fire, nature’s most potent flamethrowers, making them much safer to use than the feathers of a dead bird.

Would a hundred ambrosia pills be enough to bribe two phoenixes? I sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. Two fathers had given the CDC their grief, their love, and their hopes for their lost children. Who was I to deny them? Quinn was going to kill me when he found out.