Playing with Fire: A Magical Romantic Comedy (with a body count)

by RJ Blain

  “To hunt gorgons.”

  “Yes, to hunt gorgons. How else am I supposed to hunt gorgons and destroy their dust if you won’t give me napalm?”

  “You intend to kill gorgons with it? Do you have a warrant?”

  She should have asked me about a warrant when I first told her I needed the materials to hunt gorgons. Were my requests that shocking? I sighed. “Hey, old man. Can you tell this CDC representative about the gorgon rights and laws crap I know nothing about?” I offered Quinn’s grandfather the phone.

  “I have a name.”

  Did he? Huh. “I bet you do. It might even be a nice one. I bet Miss CDC Representative would love to hear your name.”

  The gorgon and his snakes hissed at me, but he took the phone. “I am Former King Archambault Quinn. I am a gorgon, and the guilty have interfered with a gorgon prince’s bride on their wedding night. This is a grave insult, one covered by gorgon law, condemning the hive to death. Give her all she desires.” He listened for a moment. “I appreciate that, Miss Milson. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble handling any problems.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Quinn’s grandfather gave me the phone back. “Since you can’t provide the incubus or succubus for reasons I can understand, how about the phoenix feather, the ambrosia, the sedative, and the other materials I requested?”

  The CDC rep made whimpering strangled noises. “What are you trying to do? Cause a disaster?”

  After I retrieved Quinn and dealt with the gorgons, their dust, and made certain Audrey McGee never bothered anyone ever again, I needed to have a talk with someone at the CDC about their supply representatives. Miss Milson had no appreciation for the dangers of gorgon dust. “No. I’m going to wipe out a gorgon hive believed to be manufacturing gorgon dust. Since nobody trusts me with napalm, I have to get creative. You could just provide a tanker truck of the best napalm manufactured—the high intensity stuff—and a few strong men to operate the machinery. Then I wouldn’t need to get creative.”

  “You’re banned from having napalm of any rating.”

  “Then I need to get creative. Can you have everything I requested within an hour?”

  “Heaven help us all, but yes. There are no willing succubus or incubus available, so I will procure the rest of your supplies after I contact headquarters for authorization.”

  I grimaced at the thought of having to deal with Marshal Clemmends again. “If it greases the wheels, tell Mr. Clemmends Archambault Quinn is involved.”

  If using my grandfather-in-law’s reputation smoothed the way for me, I had no problem dropping names. The gorgon and his snakes watched me; I reached over and stroked the nearest coral snake under its chin.

  “I’ll make certain upper management is aware there’s a reasonable adult with you.”

  “Excellent. Thank you.” Hanging up, I smirked at the receiver before rubbing my hands together. “I have waited my entire adult life for a chance like this. Also, that representative seems to think you’re adult supervision. You obviously have her fooled.”

  A bunch of worried cops and an annoyed gorgon stared at me. I smiled and waited. The standoff lasted at least ten minutes.

  Quinn’s grandfather sighed. “Very well. I’ll bite. What are you planning?”

  “Probably not what you think. I told you I have bad luck, right?”

  “You didn’t need to tell anyone you have bad luck, dear. We know. Anyone who has met you knows.”

  Yep, Quinn had definitely gotten his smart mouth from at least one of his grandfathers. “There’s a reason for it, and it involves magic. While I’d love to kill Audrey and her brood with the ambrosia, that’s not happening. Too dangerous for anyone nearby.” I shrugged. “What I’m going to do is something a lot worse and bordering on the idiotic.”

  I had kept my vanilla human status for a long time. If Quinn could live a relatively normal life, if my magic helped me find him and put an end to Audrey, I could deal with the consequences of changing my status. Meeting the rest of Quinn’s family reassured me my magic rating wouldn’t bother him too much.

  “I find that answer rather worrying.”

  “I lie sometimes.” There. That was a good start to my confession, although no one seemed impressed with my statement.

  “Just explain what you’re planning.”

  “I lied when I told people I find things through luck or research. I use magic. Bad things usually happen when I use it, so I try to avoid it. I can also do a few other tricks I don’t think other unicorns can.”

  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.

  My agreement to take two dead phoenix feathers into the field would infuriate him, especially when he found out I knew exactly what I was getting myself into. With one mistake, I’d be incinerated. They’d likely devour my ashes, too, using me as fuel for their first molting.

  Maybe I could avoid telling him that part. Mr. Police Chief wouldn’t know the logistics of using a phoenix feather, would he?

  “If it makes you feel better, Mr. Clemmends said if you can handle the Quinn family, two phoenixes shouldn’t be any problem at all.”

  Yep, Marshal Clemmends was pissed about me marrying Quinn and unleashing the hounds of gorgon war on him. “How nice of him.”

  “It’s quite the compliment, really. Mr. Clemmends doesn’t trust most people with phoenix feathers or ambrosia, and he’s given me authorization to give you both. He did ask me to inquire about your request for the pixie dust and the sedative.”

  “It might be best if you don’t ask.”

  “Should I be concerned?”

  “You’re giving me two dead phoenix feathers from different birds. Why are you worried about pixie dust and sedatives?”

  “I’m Kevin. I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

  “Bailey. What grade is my pixie dust?”

  “A.”

  I could work with that. A grade pixie dust wouldn’t circumvent someone’s will, but it would buy me time. “And the sedatives?”

  “You’ll like this. It’s the good stuff. You’re not certified for it, but I convinced Mr. Clemmends a temporary exemption would be prudent, especially as it should be handled in the same way ambrosia is, which you are trained for. Your request for honey made me suspect you wanted to disguise sedative capsules as ambrosia, likely to give to the phoenixes to calm them down and make them docile.”

  “You’re right. I think we are going to get along just fine.”

  “It’s ungraded, but only because it comes in one potency. Those who take it will become docile, although they remain mostly coherent. It will not induce unconsciousness, but it induces certain numbing properties. It was developed for use in surgery, but it wears off too fast and leaves the subject aware of their surroundings. It’s restricted, since when combined with other substances, it may circumvent someone’s ability to make their own decisions.”

  “Does it leave people susceptible to suggestion, like higher grades of pixie dust?”

  “Let’s just say the development of this substance was banned beyond this level due to its potential. In this form, it will make subjects pliable yet maintain coherency. It’s ideal for hostage situations—if you’re the one holding the hostages.”

  If I were a better person, I probably would have considered subduing the gorgon hive rather than indulging in first-degree murder. “I’ll be careful with it.”

  “I thought you would. I’ve also been informed of your immunity to gorgon dust and have been given instructions on how I should use the glass coffin if you require it. We’ve determined forty-eight hours followed with an immediate dosage of transformative plus a special containment chamber with a bucketful of our best napalm should resolve any potential issues should you be contaminated.”

  “You could just skip straight to the napalm.”

  “We are considering it, depending on how Chief Quinn handles your treatment in a glass coffin. There will be a two-hour minimum if you’re contaminated.”

  While I didn’t like it, I could live with the arrangement. “All right. Let’s get this stuff inside so I can get to work on my preparations.” I took custody of the phoenix feathers, which required two hands. The box didn’t weigh a whole lot, but if I dropped it and the glass broke, I’d die. With my luck, I’d die, and both phoenixes would make an appearance, incinerating anything within ten to twenty feet—or more—when they rose from their feather. If they weren’t contained—or moved—within ten minutes, they’d go through their first molting, which would give them the ability to fly and ignite anything.

  Quinn’s grandfather met me inside the doors. “You look like you swallowed a lemon.”

  “The CDC sent two feathers.”

  “I’m guessing that’s why there is a pink bundle and a blue bundle in that box.”

  “They’re from dead phoenixes.”

  The gorgon’s expression remained blank, guaranteeing he hadn’t studied phoenix lore. “And?”

  “Gorgon king school didn’t include a course on what might happen if you use the feather of a dead phoenix? Tsk, tsk. It’s simple. You might get the whole bird.” I grinned at my grandfather-in-law.

  He blanched. “Do you have to sound so cheerful about it?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. I’m bringing phoenixes to a gorgon fight.”

  “God help us all.”

  I hated working with ambrosia. Like other lethal substances, I came with a natural resistance to the stuff, which made me one of a handful of people certified to handle it outside a CDC containment vault. No one knew what would happen if I ingested ambrosia, and no one was willing to experiment to find out. The furthest anyone had gone was to dab a minor amount on my fingertip with a protective coating of neutralizer on my palm and arm. I glowed a lovely golden hue when exposed, and not even the neutralizer blocked the reaction.

  That had terrified the piss out of all the observing scientists and researchers, as they realized their precious pink, sparkly compound was no match for the essence of a god. After two minutes, the glow had spread all the way to my shoulder, had turned my hair blonde, and had done something to me, something I felt in my head and my chest but couldn’t describe bey
ond an itchy feeling and pressure.

  Angels kicked my ass and frightened me, but ambrosia made angels seem insignificant in comparison.

  In the interest of preserving his precious status as a vanilla human, my father had done a lot of research on my mother’s side of the family. I had no doubt he would have found a way to kill me if he had uncovered anyone questionable during his research. He’d gone back four hundred years before he had hit a stone wall.

  Considering magic hadn’t been widespread then, limited to the rumor of witches and mythology, my father deemed me pure enough I wouldn’t utterly disgrace the family name. Hiding the murder of a baby in a family unwilling to use birth control wouldn’t have ended well for him, and he knew it.

  How had I survived my childhood?

  Sighing, I went to work filling the gel capsules with blunt needles attached to syringes. Kevin had brought a hundred slot tray to make my work easier and simplify the filling process. Wearing latex gloves and a dust mask, I filled the smaller half of the capsules with the golden fluid first. Then I began the tedious process of using tweezers to fit the larger halves on top. The second part of the tray would flood the chamber with enough heat to meld the two halves together and prevent leakage.

  It took me almost an hour to fill the capsules with both substances and put them in their appropriate bottles. I put the ambrosia in a red bottle to give a very visual cue I carried death in my pocket.

  Somehow, I managed to avoid contaminating anything, although such close proximity to the ambrosia left me with a mild headache.

  “Are you finished turning the break room into a death trap?” My grandfather-in-law leaned in the doorway, watching me slip both bottles into my pockets.

  “Whoever made yoga pants with pockets needs a raise.”

  “Is the room contaminated, Bailey?”

  I sighed. “Bring a little ambrosia into a police station and everyone freaks out. I didn’t spill any, so don’t worry. I’ll spray the place down to be cautious, but everything’s clean. I’ve been careful. I’ll even do a full scan to be sure. It’ll take ten or twenty minutes for the place to clear out.”