Page 117 of Playing with Fire

“Any viable eggs, little Samuel?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come release your bride. She can help us look for any survivors, then she can help reverse the surrogates’ petrification.”

Quinn scowled and lashed his tail from side to side.

“She’s hardly going to get into any trouble here.”

“Someone’s going to be in a lot of trouble if you don’t let me loose!”

His cobras hissed at me and flared their hoods. I hissed back.

“Samuel Leviticus Quinn, unseal your bride this instant.”

Leviticus? And I had thought Ember was a terrible middle name. A giggle tickled my throat. Screw it. I laughed until I cried. If he had a problem with my mirth, I’d blame it on the sedative.

To rescue the petrified surrogates, the incubi, and the succubus, I had to call the CDC on Quinn’s phone and request backup. I explained the incident with both phoenixes, endured the twenty-minute long scolding in silence, and sighed while listening to the supervisor tear into me for failing to secure the immortal birds following their first molting.

What were they expecting from me, a miracle?

While I dealt with the CDC, Quinn and his grandfather went through the nest, conferring over each and every egg. I stopped counting at thirty, and my chest tightened each time they set one aside, knowing it hadn’t survived Audrey’s neglect and scheming.

Quinn’s grandfather found the only viable egg about ten minutes after I hung up with the CDC, and he rose to his feet, showing it to his grandson. “This one lives. See the mottling on the stone? The green and gray hasn’t dulled or paled.”

I held my breath and stared with wide eyes as my husband took the egg from his grandfather, lifting it to his lips and breathing on it. “It can’t be more than a week old at this size.”

“Bailey must not have been the only one kidnapped from New York. We might be able to learn who the surrogate is, if she survived. Go on. Take the little one to your bride.”

Quinn stepped around the dull pale eggs and approached me, holding out his hands.

How could something so tiny become a gorgon? Most marbles were larger. Swallowing, I cupped my hands together and held them out so I could take the egg. “Is there anything wrong with it? It’s so small.”

“It’s quite normal. She’ll probably be a girl; the eggs of males tend to have splashes of other colors, often correlating with their snakes’ patterning. She’s maybe a week old. Is that right, Grandfather? A week old at this size? How long does Grandmother normally hold your whelps?”

Quinn’s grandfather chuckled. “She prefers a month. By then, the eggs are a little smaller than a golf ball. She says the whelps have an easier hatch the longer they stay in the womb. The eggs can be nested right after fertilization, but she believes the little ones are weaker at hatching. I’ve learned not to argue with your grandmother on such things”

I closed my fingers over the egg, worried it felt so cool against my skin. “What’s going to happen to her?”

Quinn kissed my cheek. “Don’t worry. We’ll find her a home, probably with a couple lacking a surrogate. A newly hatched whelp draws new females to the male, which in turn encourages the male to locate a permanent surrogate. She’ll find a good home quickly.”

While I had my doubts, especially after the lengths my parents had gone to in their efforts to get rid of me, I kept my mouth shut.

“He’s telling the truth. We’re not human, little one. We don’t treat our young the same way humans treat theirs. I’ll handle finding petitioners. Since I’m a former king, more new couples will be willing to approach me for a chance to claim the egg. If it makes you feel better, you and little Samuel can help consider the petitioners and oversee the meet and greets.”

“Meet and greets?”

Quinn’s grandfather chuckled, a low, wicked sound. “You’ll appreciate this. Prospective parents will come and battle for the right to be named parent of the unborn hatchling. When it’s your turn, you and little Samuel will decide if they’re worthy.”

With a huge grin, Quinn flicked my nose. “You’ll like this. We get to beat the living snot out of the prospective parents. The most determined pair wins the egg. That’s how gorgons handle adoption. Nothing tells a young whelp they’re treasured more than their new parents withstanding the most vicious beating of their lives for the right to claim a child.”

Oh. My eyes widened, and I held the egg close to my chest so it wouldn’t get cold. “We get to beat up a bunch of gorgons?”

“There are only two rules: we don’t kill, nor do we maim. The pair to withstand the worst beating goes home with the egg, once they’ve recovered. We’ll contact the CDC and hire someone talented with healing magics to speed their recovery.”

“And they want us to do this to them?”

Quinn’s grandfather laughed. “It’s considered a grave insult if they aren’t beaten sufficiently so they can prove they deserve to win the egg. An orphan in gorgon society is rare. While we can be vile in many ways, we get this right. Nothing is more sacred than a whelp.”