Burn, Baby, Burn

by RJ Blain

  My choices of breakfast included pancakes, waffles, bacon, sausage, hash browns, more pancakes, and an entire jar of maple syrup for my enjoyment. It wasn’t just maple syrup, it was the real stuff, the kind I drooled over in the grocery store but usually refused to pay horrendous amounts of money to buy for myself.

  I made it through three pancakes and a stack of bacon before my stomach informed me I was no longer at immediate risk of starving to death. “Okay. You can talk to me now, but if you want me to talk without food in my mouth, you have to wait a while.”

  Quinn moved enough files so he could sit on the floor on the other side of the coffee table. “I filled everyone in on what I knew about Audrey, but they need you to fill in some blanks.”

  “We missed blanks from the first investigation?”

  “Apparently.”

  Huh. I hadn’t thought that was possible. I’d essentially crucified my husband on the cross of his sexiness factor, not that he’d seemed too upset over my blabbing about his prowess. “What did we miss?”

  “Who she might have been in league with.”

  “Beyond that incubus, I don’t know if she was in league with anyone,” I confessed. “Or if she was, I wasn’t aware of it.”

  “That’s what I said, but they think we may have missed something. Well, we did. Who gave Audrey the gorgon dust that infected her with the gorgon virus?”

  “I am still having trouble thinking of gorgons as being infected with a virus,” Roberto admitted. “It’s not usually on the CDC’s radar to worry about gorgons infecting humans.”

  Quinn scowled. “Because it’s not typically a contagious disease. Not really. Most gorgons are a natural species. Gorgon dust is basically a toxin that can change someone into a gorgon—and if the infection is potent enough, it can be spread. As a general rule, gorgons shun the manufacturing of dust. It involves too much sacrifice—or murdered victims. Or the bodies of a loved one. I’m concerned over what I saw at that mine.”

  “There were a lot of gorgon bodies,” I whispered. “And a child.”

  “And they were likely going to be converted into dust. In a way, I regret you torched that gorgon. I would have enjoyed peeling information out of him.”

  “Peeling?” I asked with wide eyes.

  “I would have used your potato peeler, the one I picked up at the restaurant store because you saw the demonstration of it tearing through a pineapple.”

  “Not my peeler!” I wrinkled my nose. “I hid the rusty one you wanted to get rid of under the sink because I couldn’t bear to throw it away. You could use that one.”

  “Alas, we can’t peel information out of the bastard, so we’ll have to be satisfied with thinking about it.”

  I considered our conversation. “We’re not good people sometimes, Sam.”

  My husband smiled at my use of his first name. “I know, but he got off lightly. He deserved a far worse death than you gave him.”

  “So, I killed someone who might have been important.”

  “He would have tried to kill Janet. You made the right choice. You made the right choice killing Winfield, too. He definitely would have tried to kill Janet. And the only reason you weren’t killed is because of your heritage. You took an entire ampoule of ambrosia.”

  I marveled at my husband’s neutral tone. “Did someone give you a chill pill? Because you are way too chill for this discussion.”

  He sighed. “Yes.”

  “You’re not a zombie.” I spent a moment admiring him. “You’re very pretty.”

  He chuckled. “I’m certainly glad you think so.”

  Roberto cleared his throat. “While I know we’re interrupting what’s supposed to be the start of your vacation, it’s critical we figure out how this happened in the first place.”

  I chomped on a piece of bacon, sighed, and shrugged. “It’s obvious that John Winfield got involved because he wanted to get revenge on me and Janet. I didn’t take sufficient care with his fragile male ego. He also disliked having to answer to Janet, a woman. He was a sexist, unprofessional pig. He deserved to be pancaked by an angry unicorn.”

  To make it clear I had zero cares that I’d killed the piece of shit, I stabbed my last pancake with my fork, twisted the utensil, and dunked it into a puddle of maple syrup. I took my time with chewing, too.

  My husband raised a brow. “That’s disturbing for even you, Bailey.”

  “What we don’t know is when Audrey may have gotten into contact with John Winfield. This could be relevant,” the FBI goon beside me stated. I considered asking him for his name, but I opted against it. If he wanted me to know—or care—who he was, he’d tell me. Until then, I’d do my part, answer his questions, and hope he left so I could attend to more important matters, mainly my husband.

  “Why could it be relevant?” I asked when no one spoke and the silence began to bug me.

  “He may have used his connections within the police department to get information on your whereabouts, which ultimately may have led to your kidnapping. In fact, I’m speculating that there may be something to the connection to Chief Morriston, as only the cops directly working with a chief, or other chiefs, would have any reliable data on where a police chief is going. Chief Quinn, your position would have been monitored, and it would have been very easy to determine where you would have taken your wife the night she was kidnapped. You have a preference for that hotel, and it’s noted in your file.”

  Quinn’s expression turned neutral, which I recognized as his anger beginning to bubble to the surface. “Winfield wouldn’t have had access to that information, but Morriston would have.”

  “Correct. And if you were distracted with a situation dealing with your wife, you would have been in a position to be ousted from your position—or transferred due to poor work performance. Unfortunately, your work performance wasn’t hampered due to your accrued paid vacation time and sick leave. Even police chiefs have allowances for family emergencies, and the kidnapping of your wife certainly counts. This is where things become complicated. If Chief Morriston was involved with your kidnapping, it counts as the assault and interference of a government employee and it would also be considered a deliberate attempt to interfere with law enforcement. The punishment for this is severe in the state of New York. Chief Morriston’s rank would make the punishment even more severe.”

  “Do I want to know what an FBI agent considers to be a severe punishment?”

  “A complete stripping of all of his memories and a complete rehabilitation as a civilian. If possible, his magical abilities would also be stripped. Chiefs have a great deal of power, but with power comes responsibility. There’s too much potential for corruption.”

  “Absolute power corrupts absolutely,” I muttered. “Realistically, what is the probability of this Chief Morriston fellow being involved?”

  “Higher than we like. So, have you ever met him before?”

  I glanced at Quinn. “Have I?”

  “I have no idea.”

  I looked the man in the eyes and said, “I have no idea. What does he look like?”

  The agent reached across the table, picked up a stack of folders, and flipped through until he located a photograph, which he held out so I could see.

  The unfortunately familiar face of one of my father’s friends stared back at me, and I wrinkled my nose. “Oh. Asshole. Yeah. Pimple Pecker. He’s one of my father’s friends.”

  My husband’s brows shot up. “Pimple Pecker?”

  “He’s in love with his own pecker and needs to invest in a skin treatment plan. What do you want? I was like five when I came up with it. I thought I was clever at the time. Anyway, he’s an asshole, and it’s definitely safe to say we have a non-functional relationship. The last time I saw him, I was sixteen, he grabbed my ass, and I would’ve kicked him in the shins if my father hadn’t been glaring at me at the time.”

  “He grabbed your ass?” my husband asked, his tone dangerously soft.

  Crap. I gulped, my
eyes widening. “Well, uh. Yes. He’s a dick. And he thinks with his dick. And I may have said some unfortunate things. You know how I am, Sam. I can’t help it!”

  “Whatever you said, it wasn’t sufficiently harsh,” Quinn snarled, and he hopped to his feet, walked across the room, and picked up a phone from the computer desk. He dialed a number, and after a pause, he said, “Grandfather, I need you to verify the truth about a situation.”

  He hung up, and the archangel popped into existence in a flash of golden light.

  “I was wondering how long it would take you to ask for me,” he said.

  I made a ward against evil. “Archangels are extra assholes, and as I have a child named Sylvester, you need a new name.”

  “You can call me Sariel, as that cat is out of the bag now.” The archangel glared at his grandson. “I can’t believe you brought my brother into this.”

  “I didn’t, not exactly.”

  “He really didn’t. He bargained with a lesser devil.” I wrinkled my nose.

  Quinn sighed. “You’re never going to let that go, are you? It’s part of our job, Bailey. If a devil gets into trouble on the mortal coil, they can bargain their way out of traditional punishments. The favor I did was only partially work related; I prevented it from becoming a major incident, so he owed me a direct bargain and something that would help law enforcement in general. So when that devil couldn’t pay back the bargain, the Devil did, and as it was to help recover Janet, it fit the requirements.”

  Sariel grumbled, and I almost expected the archangel to start cursing. “It annoys me that you speak the truth. He’s going to be absolutely insufferable. And I heard about Easter, you little punk.”

  Quinn grinned. “You’re always telling me I should be more open with the family. I am.”

  “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

  I realized why the archangel was so grumpy, and I pointed and laughed at him. “You like your brother, and you have to admit it, because you’re an archangel and you can’t lie about it. Sucker.”

  The archangel sighed. “This is payback for when I chased you around that arena isn’t it?”

  It was now. “Yep.”

  “All right. What did you need verified?”

  My husband looked me in the eyes and asked, “Bailey, is it true that Chief Morriston grabbed your ass when you were a minor?”

  “If sixteen counts as a minor, yes. He copped a feel of my breasts when I was fifteen, too. It was an ‘accident’ in the swimming pool.” I wrinkled my nose. “Honestly, I didn’t even remember it until I saw that ass wipe’s picture. He just managed to piss me off.”

  “She speaks the truth.”

  My husband’s calm expression cracked, his cheek twitching. “Sexual assault of a minor is enough to lose him his rank, and if he found out I had married Bailey, she might have been inclined to talk about the situation—which would give him sufficient motive to have her targeted. If Audrey went to Winfield after the 120 Wall Street incident, and Winfield went to Morriston for additional information on Bailey, then he could be complicit in her kidnapping. He knew if she spoke up, he could lose his job.”

  The FBI agent grunted. “And the statute of limitations doesn’t apply in assault cases of a minor because of the nature of the crime. Sariel’s confirmation of the incident would be sufficient to start a case on his character. Or lack thereof. Bailey, please forgive me for having to ask this, but did the assaults escalate?”

  “No,” my husband and I said at the same time.

  I grabbed an unused napkin and flung it at him. “Not a single word out of you. I wasn’t raped. Groped, yes. But not raped. And he always did it when my asshole parents were close enough to keep my mouth shut because they trusted him over me. And hated me. Still hate me,” I said with a shrug. “I really completely forgot about it. I think there’s a psychological term for that, isn’t there?”

  “Psychological repression or thought suppression,” Roberto announced. “It depends on if you were doing it unconsciously or not. Thought suppression is when you deliberately forget about the event to dodge the trauma. Sariel? Can you tell which category she falls into? Either would be evidence of sufficient trauma to warrant pursuing in court.”

  “I won’t prod into my granddaughter’s memories without her permission.”

  I waved my hand. “Prod away, Sariel. I have nothing to hide.”

  Quinn stared at me with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open.

  “What?”

  The archangel stood before me, leaned over the coffee table, and unwound the towel from my head and ran his fingers through my hair, brushing away the tangles. “You’re a master at hiding, Bailey, but my grandson loves you because of it. He’s just surprised you’re so open about this. He expected you to retreat into your shell. You’ve grown a lot in the past few months. I will be gentle, but you may remember things you wish you had forgotten.”

  “If this will help resolve this, do what needs done. I can handle it.”

  “It’s possible that once upon a time, you couldn’t. And if it’s discovered your parents were complicit in these assaults…”

  If I hadn’t been aware of my grandfather’s true nature, his icy tone would’ve terrified me. “The Devil said there was a special place in hell for them.”

  “There is. But how special, I suspect I will find out. You are free to say no, but would you like me to evaluate your childhood? If anything, you will know I understand. You’ll be able to move out of their shadow.” Sariel stretched his wings, and bands of green and gold colored his feathers. “I may rethink my intention to have them at your wedding as guests dependent on what I see. I try not to prod too much into the past.”

  “It sucks, you’ll probably be scarred for life, and it’s a good thing you don’t have a head, as I really don’t want to see your expression.”

  “It will be an unhappy one.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I don’t want to see it,” I admitted. “It’s easier when I can’t see the pity.”

  “You are too strong a woman to pity, Bailey, even if you can’t see that for yourself.” Sariel tucked my hair behind my ears. “You are less likely to remember much if you keep your eyes open. It’s one of those funny things about human minds. It will feel as though I’m tickling the inside of your head. I apologize for that, but it’s inevitable.”

  “Are you going to talk about it or just do it?” I asked, debating if I wanted to torment the archangel by undressing my spouse with my eyes while he poked around in my head.

  Then again, I didn’t like sharing. At all. When it came to Quinn, I was happily jealous and greedy. Selfish, even.

  The archangel chuckled. “That you are.”

  “In case you weren’t sure, gentlemen, angels are assholes. It’s a truth of the universe.”

  While I mostly focused on my husband, I was aware of the FBI agent gaping at me. “You just called an archangel an asshole.”

  “If he had a head and tilted it to the side really far, he might be convinced I actually like him,” I replied. “I could even be talked into confessing I love him despite him being an angel.”

  Quinn laughed. “I’m proud of you. You said it without looking like you swallowed a toad. If you don’t run to the bathroom this time, I’ll be forced to reward you appropriately later.”

  Over the past few months, he’d done an excellent job of training me into doing what he wanted using his body as an irresistible bribe. “I love you. Please reward me appropriately later.”

  The archangel chuckled. As warned, the inside of my head tickled, but I ignored his poking and prodding in favor of my husband. His smile promised the best kind of trouble in my future.

  “All right. I’m done,” Sariel announced.

  I blinked. “That’s it?”

  “My grandson is a most excellent distraction. You were so focused on him you couldn’t have cared less about what I was looking for in your memories.”

  “I’m so proud of you, Mr. Ar
changel. You’re not nearly as stuffy and formal as usual. If you had a head, I would make Quinn find you a cookie.” I sighed, and aware I couldn’t afford to dodge the truth, I asked, “What did you find?”

  “About what I expected having met those humans. They have earned their special place in my brother’s keeping. I’m in no mood to be merciful on their souls.”

  “Abuse?” Quinn clenched his hands, and after several deep breaths, he relaxed.

  Even a month ago, I’d instinctively flinched when he balled his hands into a fist. The first time he’d done it around me, I’d frightened both of us with my reaction.

  “Yes. And Chief Morriston’s behavior was worse than she remembers, and I can verify all incidents and draw up the accusations per mortal laws. I can also verify the presence of psychological scarring, and I will file the appropriate mortal paperwork required to bar her from taking the stand. I will have the truth of my words verified by another archangel and my brother, using my viewing of her memory as evidence.”

  I blinked. “You can do that?”

  “Angels may always opt to take on the burden of witnessing on behalf of a mortal. But it requires what I did to you, a complete exposing of your memories and soul. Not everyone is as open as you.”

  “Me? Open? Have you met me?” I pointed at myself, and then I pointed at my husband. “You should hear some of the shit I say to him because I’m nervous.”

  “That is different, although I find it rather amusing how often you lie to try to hide just how much you adore my grandson.”

  “It’s his fault!”

  “Yes, it is. It is a good thing that he, on an instinctual level, is aware of when you’re fibbing. It doesn’t hurt he’s learned to speak your language, which involves a great deal of flailing, babbling, and running to the bathroom to hide when you’ve blurted some form of affection in a public space.”

  “Has everyone heard about that?” I complained.

  Quinn grinned. “I thought it was adorable, honestly. I don’t mind when you blurt things because you have no idea how to handle how much I love you. I know the truth.”