Page 103 of Playing with Fire

“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.

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.”

“You have a tan, and you’re glowing.”

Was I? I lifted my arm and scowled at it. Sure enough, I’d developed a golden-brown tan with a faint gleam. “Oh, look. I’m shiny. Neat.”

Unless I turned into a living lightbulb, I wasn’t going to worry. The ambrosia would bleed through most containers. Indirect contact wouldn’t hurt anyone. Just to be certain, I checked the meter Kevin had left with me, set it for a close-range blanket scan, and watched the results, stifling a yawn.

It confirmed ambient ambrosia in the area and a single strong source. Had I spilled any, there would have been a second strong source detected.

“I’m concerned.”

“You encouraged Quinn to run off. If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be handling dangerous substances right now.” I peeled off the gloves and set them inside the emptied tray, covered it, and set it aside. Mixing a strong batch of neutralizer spray, I spritzed the entire room and coated the tray in a layer so thick I couldn’t see inside due to the pink, glittery fluid coating it. “There. Give it ten or twenty minutes and the residual essence should be gone.”

A faint golden radiance illuminated the glass box containing the baby blankets. Oops. At least the phoenix feathers wouldn’t be affected by it; the birds loved ambrosia, and my stash might convince them to help me rather than fry me to a crisp. The sedatives might help, too, if push came to shove—and I lived long enough to trick them into eating a few along with the ambrosia capsules.

“It is rather concerning he isn’t answering his phone.”

I glared at him. “It’s just a handful of horny gorgons—including one who hates him. How bad could it be?”

“You must drive my poor grandson crazy. Your sarcasm has been refined through extensive use, I see.”

“If you hadn’t let him go wandering off, I wouldn’t need to be sarcastic, now would I? Anyway, I need a map, some chalk, and a pot of ink. After that, I’m going to need a vehicle.”

“The car and map I can understand, but why the chalk and ink?”

“You’ll see. Just trust me.”

“I’m concerned.”

Sighing, I shook my head and headed for Chief Hollands’s office. The man eyed the glass box warily. “This scaly pest has a list of things I’m going to need. If you could help him, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Of course.”