22. What are you attempting to do? Single-handedly raise the birthrate in Vermont? #2
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 feathers.
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 beyond 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.