by R. J. Blain
They ran, and I stared at the kitchen disaster. If their father had died, the children would inherit the place, and it would ultimately go to Sylvester for his future hive. Beauty would become the center of a chaotic bid war to have her. Every sane hive around the world would want her as its queen. If she carried the Right to Rule as I suspected, hives would wage literal war for her. Ironically, Beauty’s father had been right to want Bailey.
There was no one better suited to protect the pair of young gorgons.
Sunny collided with my legs and sat on my feet, slapping her tail on the floor. “Thanks, Perkins.”
“Your grandfathers will be here soon.”
I sighed. “Which ones?”
“All of them. I snitched about Bailey. Any news?”
“It’s bad. It looks like disease killed all but the children and the male, and to save the kids, I fear he had them put into glass coffins.”
Perkins’s brows shot up. “He put gorgon whelps into glass coffins?”
“Do or die. The girl is Beauty, the boy is Sylvester. We need to figure out who treated them and what they were sick with. I’ll have my grandfather see about vaccinations for the uninfected hives.”
“Rabies again?”
As I could see someone making a desperate gamble to cure late-stage rabies with a glass coffin, I shrugged. “It’s possible. If he tried to treat late-stage rabies, I could see him paying out for the treatment. But it would have to be late-stage. Neither child seems mentally impaired.”
“Unless he paid for a miracle. An angel could repair rabies damage.”
A high medical bill to save his children would explain a lot. “Call the CDC and inquire if the Dover hive requested any glass coffins. If so, call—”
My grandfathers, all three of them, appeared in a flash of golden light.
“—my father to get more information. Hello, Grandfathers.”
For a being without a head, my angelic grandfather was unfortunately good at staring down his nose at me. “What have you done now?”
“Didn’t peek?” I challenged.
“Not today.”
“The little girl might have the Right to Rule, the females of the hive were wiped out by disease, and their father is missing.”
My gorgon grandfather sighed. “Let me guess. You’re giving Bailey two gorgon whelps for Christmas.”
“I’m pitching it as temporary fostering until their father is found with the possibility of permanency.”
“That’s an upgrade from his original plan,” Perkins muttered.
My grandfathers glared at me.
Damn it. “I was going for a peaceful resolution first.”
“Also an upgrade from his original plan,” Perkins announced.
All of my gorgon grandfather’s serpents hissed at me.
“Thanks, Perkins.”
“Glad to help. He’s told the whelps to get their bags, so we should only have to be here for a few more minutes.”
I shrugged. “They can’t stay here alone, and I’m not going to let Beauty be thrown into the middle of a gorgon bid war. Forget it. Bailey’s winning any fostering battles, and I’ll pull out every stop to make sure it happens. They’ll be safest with me for now.”
My angelic grandfather sighed. “What was his original plan, Perky?”
“It involved legal violence and fostering.”
“No,” my grandfathers chorused.
Why couldn’t I ever get a break? “It was only a little violence.”
Perkins shot a glare my way. “And now it’s no violence.”
I gave up. “Fine. No violence, but he can’t have Bailey. She’s mine. The kids can come over and visit Bailey whenever they want after their father is found, and I won’t even complain if he’s in my territory, but Bailey is mine.”
“We know, Sam. We know. After we find their father, you can scold him before helping him establish a new hive. That way, he’s no longer a threat to Bailey.” Perkins got in my face and prodded me in the chest. “But don’t you even think of orphaning those kids because of jealousy.”
I wouldn’t, not without damned good cause. Sometimes, I wondered if Perkins had angelic genetics, too. Without fail, he never fucked up on the truly important decisions in life. Releasing my anger on a sigh, I nodded. “The whelps come first, always.”
Chapter Seven
Bailey
My new puppy howled whenever he needed a pit stop, which earned him Perkette’s grudging tolerance. I searched around the SUV for evidence of divine busybodies influencing my puppy without luck.
“This makes no sense,” I announced while we waited for my puppy to finish his business and investigate the falling snow.
“What makes no sense? The entirety of your life?”
Ouch. “Not quite, but yes.” As the snow threatened to become a blizzard before we could escape the north, naming my new puppy after the weather seemed like a good idea to me. “Blizzard howls when he needs to go to the bathroom, and he’s angelic the rest of the time. Who dumps such a good puppy?”
“A complete and total asshole.” Perkette leaned against the SUV. “I’ll give you credit, Bailey. When you decide to do something, you do it. I’m not sure it’s possible for you to shower that puppy with more affection.”
“His name is Blizzard.”
“That’s a foreboding name. I don’t want to drive through a blizzard.”
“Neither do I,” I replied, waving my hand at the darkening sky and the thickening snow. “It seems probable.”
“True. Has your husband told you any big news lately?”
I scowled at the reminder. “He mentioned something about a job transfer. He told me when I called him about Blizzard. I’m trying not to think about it,” I admitted.
“Why not?”
“It sounded too good to be true. That means it probably is. He mentioned a salary.” I sighed and watched Blizzard sniff at the snow skirting the road, and he didn’t even pull at his leash. “What sort of job can I do that has a salary?”
“Police Chief of the NYPD, partnered with your husband.”
I dropped Blizzard’s leash, which Perkette stepped on before my puppy could make his escape. “What? Why would you even suggest that?”
For the past two months, the CDC had dumped me with the bomb squad, making me clean up explosives on top of my regular toxic substances. I still hadn’t gotten the courage to admit my job description had expanded disturbingly into law enforcement.
“The CDC transferred your contract to the NYPD. They opted to partner you with your husband. They’re renovating the eighth floor to give you an office. I have a spy feeding me intel. Sam’s been worrying himself sick over how you’ll react. He can be such a coward sometimes.”
“Repeat that to me in smaller words I can easily understand.”
“You’re so badass you’re now a cop.”
I could list a hundred reasons why making me a cop was a terrible idea, including my lack of training, abrasive personality, lackluster appearance, and tendency to destroy buildings. “Someone’s out of their fucking mind.”
“While our menfolk have been incoherently flailing, I did some research.”
Crap. When Perkette researched something, she emerged able to write a comprehensive and accurate book on the subject. Picking up Blizzard’s leash, I herded him to the rental, toweled the snow out of his fur, and clipped him to his seatbelt leash. “Whoever proposed this is a nitwit.”
“Your ex-boss.”
“Which one? My regional contract supervisor?” My regional contract supervisor changed once a month, sometimes once every other week. The position drove people to the brink of madness, and they tried to rotate it through qualified people so no one had to deal with me too much at one time.
Or so I liked to believe.
“The one in Washington.”
Marshal Clemmends. “I regret not shoving my marriage certificate down his throat and lighting him on fire.”
Perkette s
nickered and got behind the wheel, waiting for me to get settled in my seat and buckle up before starting the engine. “We all do. But being serious, it’s a smart move.”
“Before I call you out of your mind or batshit crazy, explain yourself.”
“No one will be able to touch your husband while you’re on guard. You’re practically indestructible unless you catch pneumonia or rabies.”
Damned rabies. “I’m a walking catastrophe, Perkette.”
“You’re also a one-woman bomb squad. Got a bomb? You can eat the explosives. I’ve watched the tests. You can disarm most bombs through eating the payload. You only run into trouble when they have sensitive detonators. Even then, shrapnel-based bombs tear you up a bit, but you heal like a champ, and you ignore the concussive burst. Even the shrapnel doesn’t hurt you that much. The assholes who shoot at you for screwing with their bombs have done more damage. The CDC has you playing on their bomb squads on live runs whenever the NYPD isn’t around to snitch on them to Sam.”
“Yeah. They don’t want Quinn to know about that,” I muttered. “He would not handle it well. At all.”
“I only know that because you needed my help learning how to read a bomb schematic. Look, Bailey. If it’s hazardous, you can handle it when a unicorn. You’ve been shot how many times now?”
I held up three fingers. The CDC had pulled out all the stops making the evidence disappear so Quinn wouldn’t catch on to what they were doing—and paying me to do. “They weren’t that bad. People get so offended when I eat their bombs for some reason.”
“Your Sam is a lot of things, but he isn’t indestructible. You know the rules and regs as well as most cops. You’ve been on crime scenes plenty, so you’re familiar with basic procedure. Your record is so clean it squeaks when you rub it. Add in your budgeting brilliance, and they’d be stupid not to want you. With you, they get a motivated bodyguard, a bomb squad, and emergency transportation. The puppy he got you is probably a police dog in training or a reject.”
“Neither Sunny nor Blizzard are rejects.”
“You got Blizzard out of a dumpster.”
“This is me not caring.”
“In good news, you’re handling this a lot better than I thought you would.”
“Salary,” I blurted.
“What?”
“For the first time in my adult life, I’ll have a salary.”
“Seriously? That’s what you’re worried about? Having a salary?”
“I figured hoping for stable hours would be asking for too much.”
Perkette laughed. “You never fail to amaze me, Bailey.”
“I don’t know how to be a cop,” I whispered.
“Sam barely did, either. Now look at him. You’re a quick study. You’ll figure it out. Just think about it this way. You get more free education. I swear, if you thought you could get away with it, you’d be a lot like me, learning everything you could just because you can.”
“I think I’ve had my fill of free education after all that bomb squad training. Quinn doesn’t know I’ve been a bomb squad gopher for the CDC. Please don’t tell him. He’ll freak out.”
“He’s going to find out, probably around the same time the CDC clues in they sent their living cleanup crew to the NYPD permanently. In good news? Your ex-boss is going to get into a lot of shit for losing an important asset to the NYPD.”
“He’s basically at the top of the chain, Perkette.”
“The politicians will eat him alive.”
“Why would they even care?”
“Could you have some limits to your self-esteem issues, please?”
“I’m being realistic here. Clemmends won’t even get a slap on the wrist for getting rid of me.”
“He most certainly will the next time there’s a major incident.”
I scowled. “I’ve had my fill of major incidents for a lifetime.”
“Me, too. Fine. You’ll figure it out on your own eventually. I’m sick of driving through the snow. Develop magic that can fix this travesty.”
“I will transform and poke you with my horn so you drive faster and complain less.”
“It’s rare I say this, but your threats don’t actually need any work.”
“I’m so glad I’ve earned your approval.”
“Your sarcasm is in good form, too.”
“Perkette, you’re being evil again.”
“I’ll feed you some good napalm later. I have a recipe, and it only takes twenty minutes to make.”
It occurred to me that adding a puppy to the mix ruined our plans to gallop across half the country. “I made a mess of our plan. I can’t carry a rider and a puppy, and Blizzard can’t run that far. He’s just a puppy.”
“Bailey, our plan had the general coherency of two drunks on a pixie dust high. Don’t worry about it. Just tell your man we’re going to the zoo to see if they have any lions or tigers up for adoption.”
“We’re not adopting a lion or tiger.”
“You adopted a rabid puppy from a dumpster. A lion or tiger could happen.”
“If I find a stray lion or tiger in a dumpster, I may change my mind,” I admitted. “Or a panther, cheetah, leopard, or cougar. How about a lynx or bobcat? They’re kinda cute.”
Perkette giggled. “Let’s make this trip fun.”
“No.” Fun, in Perkette’s twisted world, landed me into trouble.
“Don’t be a spoilsport. You need some fun in your life.”
“We ran away because I was having too much fun.”
“Wrong type of fun.”
“Perkette, will you please be serious?”
“I am! You’re a wayfinder. Use your magic to find the next little one destined to be adopted into your family.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“What do you mean by that? Of course it works that way.”
“Specific people, places, or things only.”
“That’s a pretty shitty limitation. What happens if you try for something unspecific?”
“Nothing happens.”
“So there’s no harm in trying, right?”
I sighed. Giving in to the inevitable would make my life easier. It wouldn’t work, so what was the harm in indulging her? “Fine. I’m going to need a map, ink, some chalk, and a piece of paper. But don’t complain later when nothing happens. I warned you.”
Quinn
When asked what they wanted to eat, Beauty and Sylvester stared at me with wide, hopeful eyes. I braced for the horror my life would become with their next words.
Gorgons could eat just about anything, and whelps often took their dietary adventurism to extremes.
“Nuggets?” they whispered in unison.
Somehow, I’d won the lottery of life.
“McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Burger King, or from somewhere else?”
The happy squeals in the back of the vehicle implied I’d mentioned their fast food joint of choice. It took several minutes for the whelps to calm down enough to tell me they’d do anything for McDonald’s. Bailey would adore scheming with them for extra chances to eat all the nuggets she wanted, too. “McDonald’s it is. All I ask is you take your time eating so you don’t get sick.”
If they’d been raised like most gorgons, they’d view my word as law, a painful enough thing to watch despite knowing their training was necessary. Gorgons who endangered humans rarely lived long lives. I’d have to enforce their obedient behavior, something Bailey would protest until I reminded her they needed to be disciplined if they wanted to survive through adulthood.
Then I’d have my hands full reining Bailey in, as she often struggled with the basic concept of moderation.
At McDonald’s, Beauty seized my hand and attempted to meld with my leg while Sylvester latched onto the one being no sane mortal would test: his namesake. As angels loved children even more than gorgons, the whelp would be safe enough in his care.
Two joy-induced meltdowns and sixty nuggets later, I carried a sleeping
Beauty to the SUV while my angelic grandfather coaxed her brother to walk under his own steam.
“I can’t believe you fed them thirty nuggets each,” my gorgon grandfather complained, helping to settle Sylvester in and buckling his belt. “Have you considered calling Bailey and asking her to come home?”
“You know I won’t do that. You also know why.”
“I do, but I felt the need to remind you that it’s a possibility. What do you want from us in the meantime?”
“I don’t think a father who’d lost so much would risk his children like this.” Like his sister, Sylvester passed out, and I sighed. “Find their father. If needed, I’ll prepare Bailey for an adoption match.”
My angelic grandfather’s sigh didn’t bode well. “Some mysteries shouldn’t remain hidden in the dark. For their sake. You won’t find him.” The finality of his words made me wince. Angels couldn’t lie, and when he said I wouldn’t be finding their father, he meant it. I presumed it mean the gorgon had perished and his body had been destroyed.
The last thing I needed was another potent batch of gorgon dust making a mess of things, but I’d anticipate and expect it.
Gorgon males who disappeared without a trace usually ended up in a vat to become a batch of gorgon dust for some idiot’s ambitions.
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
“It’s not. I’m sorry. The how and why is the mystery you must solve, but there is no future with their father in it. I’m not permitted to look any further into the matter than that.”
God worked in mysterious ways, as did His angels. “Per His will?”
“Per His will. He permitted me this much. Otherwise, I’d complain.”
My incubus grandfather snickered. “He hates the whining.”
How had my gorgon grandfather become a bastion of sanity? “Can you handle the legal matters for me and register Bailey as the primary match participant with me as her backup and partner?”
“You plan on fighting dirty for them, I see.”
“They deserve only the best, and that’s all Bailey knows how to do.”
“While true, you as her partner sends an odd message.”