Page 86 of The Flame Game

“That’s important when you’re a gorgon-incubus doohickey with shitty taste in women.”

“You’re so getting corrective therapy tonight for that one.”

I smiled. “Until you reward me better for not making that comment, as long as we’re not in front of the kids, I am so making that comment. Corrective evening therapy is a mandatory part of cindercorn care.”

“All right. I see I did not think that one through properly. I’ll come up with something properly motivating for you.”

“Or you can continue your corrective evening therapy tactics, which I thoroughly enjoy.”

“I can’t win this one, can I?”

“Nope.”

“All right. Get on the phone with Tiffany and get me the ingredients for your napalm. After what we saw at the first bed and breakfast, I’m expecting trouble.”

“If it’s like the first bed and breakfast, the CDC will bring the napalm, in vast quantities, to us. Oh. Did the dust sample match? I passed out before the test results came in.”

“It wasn’t a match.”

Damn it. “How’d it rate up in terms of potency?”

“Now that was a little more conclusive. It wasn’t the match we were hoping for, but it had a lot of the same general properties. What we don’t know is if that gorgon was a later or previous experiment. But they think his dust was manufactured in a similar method to the stuff used in 120 Wall Street.”

“Is that enough evidence to add to Morrison’s charges?”

“Not quite, but we’re getting there. Ideally, we’ll find the original batch of dust, and we’ll destroy it.”

“What about that first batch I destroyed? Could it be that one?”

“No. That batch was traditionally manufactured, and it would have been closer to what we expect from dust. Was it potent? Yes. Was it the same stuff at 120 Wall Street? I really doubt it.”

Damn it. I retrieved my phone from my purse and called Perkette, wrinkling my nose at the thought of having smacked right into another dead end with the 120 Wall Street investigation.

“You are such a bitch, Bailey Ember Quinn!” Perkette shrieked.

I blinked. “I am? I didn’t do it!”

“True. Tell your husband he’s a bitch!”

“Sam, Perkette says you’re a bitch.”

“Found out she’s pregnant, huh?”

I giggled. “Can’t have wine?” I guessed.

“Arthur popped a cork yesterday, and I ended up throwing up my lunch from last week. I spent all day at the damned hospital today. Was there something you may have forgotten to tell me?”

“Forgotten? No? Neglected to, yes.”

“I am so fucking proud of you.”

I laughed at her complete change of mood. “I’m not sorry, but you should be yelling at your husband. He’s the one who lured you to his bed and did wicked, wicked things to you. It’s his fault. I’m an innocent cindercorn. As innocent as a cindercorn married to a gorgon-incubus doohickey can be.”

“Such a bitch,” Perkette muttered. “First, one of you recruits a what to do what?”

“You may have been meddled with by an incubis, an archangel, the Devil, and a gorgon-incubus doohickey. Please don’t do anything heinous to my gorgon-incubus doohickey. It’s my own damned fault we’re having twins.”

“But seriously, Bailey? Quadruplets? Do you hate me?”