The Flame Game (Magical Romantic Comedies #12) - R.J. Blain Page 0,115
years. Taking care with my sharp claws, I flipped open the topmost title to discover a ledger.
No, not a ledger. A scientific log detailing the progress of the dust batch. Not batches, but batch. Names went with the fallen gorgon, which would allow me to find closure for their hives if they still lived. Quinn’s grandfather would know. I memorized their names.
In the back of the book, I found the evidence I needed in the form of several receipts for equipment and supplies, and they bore Morrison’s name.
However contaminated with the dust, it contained the clues we would need to put an end to the man’s plans, whatever they were.
The log only provided a step-by-step guide on how to make the dust, and its infection rate, a horrific 25.7%, ensured I would be burning the building to the ground to make certain the recipe and the victims never surfaced again.
“Bailey?” Quinn asked.
“Stay out. This master batch. Bad dust. Recipe here. Morrison name on receipts used in ex-per-ee-men-tay-shun and creation. Use scanner from window, but barrier broken. Dust may get out. Must burn, Sam. They tested. High infection rate.”
“How high?”
“Twen-tee five per-cent.”
“Did you just say it has a twenty-five percent infection rate?”
“Point seven. Plus point seven.”
“Fuck.”
“No kidding. Need napalm. Barrier. Around building. No let dust out. Make hurry. Bring big dozer to get tanker here. No let this stay. No big snort big enough for this. Must all burn. I stay in building, get information. Bring good cameras? I take pictures of all pages before burn. Done in few hours. Have names of gorgon, notify family.”
“On it. Find what you can, and I’ll make the rest of this easy on the CDC and just hand over all of Audrey’s files so they can look over everything and do additional investigations. But if this is the master batch, we should be near the end of this mess.”
One could only hope.
After Sam confirmed we’d located the same dust found in my apartment and responsible for the devastation at 120 Wall Street, the CDC descended on the place worse than a nest of infuriated hornets. In good news, I was out of their reach, as they didn’t want to send anyone near the building even in a hazmat suit. In better news, I would enjoy as much napalm as I could stomach to make certain I eliminated the entire batch.
Unfortunately, the discovery brought a cranky Marshal Clemmends my way with Professor Yale in tow. They stayed a safe twenty feet from the building, and my former boss opted to use a megaphone to bother me.
“Not deaf but will be if you keep using that!” I snorted flame at him, which did not impress the CDC’s asshole head honcho in the slightest.
“I don’t feel like ruining my voice yelling at you today.”
How rude. I flattened my ears and snorted again. “Is not my fault I curious and most beautiful cindercorn, and we were hiking!”
“In the middle of a no-horse closed tourist town? Emphasis on the closed.”
“Didn’t know was closed, we wanted to hike. Yes, hike. In snow, where pretty. This pretty!” I blew a larger flame, which glowed blue. “Except for the dust. Why not explore cool place left empty? Exploration fun! We honeymoon. Exploration, exploration!”
Professor Yale, who remained relaxed with his hands in his pockets, regarded me with interest. “You’ve really improved your basic speech, Bailey. Well done. However, I can’t help but notice you’re freezing and you seem to like it.”
“Tiny terrors fault. Burn extra hot.” I pointed my horn at my husband, who was chatting with Alan. “His fault. We adults, we make tiny terrors. Doc-turs make me uni-corn at least several times a week. Good for tiny terrors. Also, need poisons.”
“You do not need poisons, Bailey,” my husband announced without even glancing my way.
“Do!”
“You need venom,” he corrected.
Oh. “I need venom,” I dutifully informed the old professor. “Many different gorgon venoms. Good for tiny terrors and their immune sys-tems. Very good. You help provide, yes? I stand in box and you use me to teach if you get me good venoms.”
“Deal. I’ll talk with the CDC and see what I can get for you. Has your honeymoon been going well?”
“It go well until we find bodies. We explore Queeny’s past because he see things I not see before, and I never travel before him. His past full of sad things, but therapy may help.”
“That’s funny,” Yale replied, shaking his head. “We have a slight problem regarding the equipment. That dust is