Page 88 of The Flame Game

“You are no longer in any trouble,” Perkette announced.

I laughed. “Are you feeling okay otherwise?”

“So far. I’ve been a moody mess, which is why I ultimately went to the hospital this morning. Apparently, being a moody mess is what happens when you have ovaries and a functional uterus you didn’t have in November. Then my husband started snickering. That’s when he assigned some blame to one of the Quinns.”

My husband chuckled. “I’ll accept a lot of the responsibility. Had I known you wanted children, I would have had the problem fixed long ago. Any incubus or succubus can do the work. I’m not as good at it, so I had Arthur ask my grandfather. My uncle helped. They actually started messing with you before Christmas. There’s no guesswork on the conception date, if you’d like to give that to your doctors. That said, your real doctors have been preselected for you, and I’d like to see a human beat an archangel at the baby game, especially my grandfather, who will do just about anything for an invitation to babysit children.”

“Can I thank you in a few days after I deal with a ridiculous number of tests? You know how tests make me when I’m not the one conducting them, Sam.”

“You’re welcome, Tiffany. My wife is innocent this once, though. She was too busy hoodwinking me for twins with my other relatives to be able to hoodwink you into having quadruplets.”

“I’ll come up with a suitable present. There aren’t really any standard treatments for my problem.”

“Outside of an incubus or succubus, and those are expensive.”

“It would have been five million,” Perkette replied. “I’d looked into it before marrying Arthur, and Arthur was okay with what we couldn’t have, and well, who has that sort of money?”

I choked on my own spit. “It’s how much for what?”

“It’s five million for that level of miracle unless you get lucky and an incubus or succubus decides to take pity on you. I’ve never gotten lucky. That’s pretty rare, but it does happen.”

I grumbled curses. “That’s insane.”

“It is what it is. I mean, no ovaries is a pretty big stumbling block. I’m going to have to explain this to my mother. She’s going to accuse me of having slept with the Devil. And then Arthur is going to laugh. I’ll have to tell her no, I slept with Arthur, but the Devil may have involved himself, and that’s just going to be an interesting discussion.”

I dug out my personal laptop, booted it up, and opened the word processor. “So, Perkette. How exactly does a strong, manly gorgon-incubus doohickey make my favorite treat? I need napalm, and he wants to be able to make it himself. You know, in case we can’t swing by the CDC and get them to give it to me.”

“Despite her grumpy attitude about that, the CDC is allowing her to have napalm. I’d just feel better if I can make it myself.”

“Well, which grade do you want and how expensive do you want her treats? I have varying recipes.”

“Start me with a lower grade and work me up to better grades.”

“Okay. This one isn’t a terrible grade, it’s cheap, and it’s easy enough for manly gorgon-incubus doohickeys to make. Go to a camping store and get a big jug of the camping gel.”

“Methanol?” Quinn asked.

“Yeah. Methanol gel. You can get the pink stuff, too. Either works for this. Mix that with equal parts diesel, a quarter part neutralizer, and hot sauce. The hot sauce is only because Bailey likes hot things and I thought it was amusing, so I added it. Once you have that all mixed together, seal it up in a container so the fumes don’t kill you. I recommend you use a practitioner trick to contain the fumes. They’re a problem with this mixture. Get some charcoal, grind it up or smash it, and add it to the mixture. Quarter part. Then add a quarter part of lighter fluid. Use a cup as a part, and that’ll give her enough to cause some trouble and have a good time without the extreme hangover—hopefully.”

“Napalm hangovers are the worst,” I complained.

“Well, you be careful making that for her, Sam. It’s toxic, and the only reason I get away with making it is because of practitioner tricks. If you can’t do the tricks, I’ll make several batches and put them in sealed containers for her enjoyment.”

“I can handle the required practitioner tricks, so don’t worry about that. How about the higher grade napalm?”

Perkette listed more ingredients, how much needed to be added of each, and the extra precautions needed to mix the stuff without asphyxiating in the process. “I recommend against mixing it until you need it, unless you’re really good at sealing in fumes.”

“I’ll be careful,” my husband promised. “And I will ration out her treats in acceptable quantities.”

“Good idea. Ah, bugger. I have to go back into the hospital gauntlet, where I’ll get yelled at for my age in addition to the appearance of ovaries I shouldn’t have. Wish them luck. If they keep pissing me off, they’re going to need it!”

She hung up before we could say a word, and I saved the formulas for the napalm. “Maybe we should have given her a little more warning.”

“Maybe a little, but I’m sure she’ll be fine. That said, we better leave them gifts and bribes until she forgives us for meddling behind her back.”

“Us?” I asked. “I think you mean you. I was too busy meddling behind your back to meddle behind hers.”

“I’m sure she’ll only make me suffer a little.”