Page 26 of Junk Magic

Multiplier, I thought.

Shit.

And then they were coming this way.

They hit the shield I’d thrown up, but because it had been split second, there were gaps and one got through. And one immediately became another dozen, which required putting up another shield. And then more and more, piling them on top of each other to try to plug the holes, while Sophie yelled and Jen fled and Chris tried to grab one of the knives, God knew why. Forcing me to have to send a spell to knock him back toward the laundry room.

My heart tightened at the sight of him splayed against the door, but the fight was over the next second. Somebody had left the kitchen unnoticed by everyone, slipped around the side of the house, thrown open the stubborn back door and enveloped Kimmie in a hug from behind. And when Caleb hugs you, you stay hugged.

The knives abruptly dropped to the ground, and then she was sobbing against the big chest, saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” over and over again.

I looked at him and he looked at me, above her head. “Yeah. I’m gonna take some PTO.”

Of course, I couldn’t allow Caleb to do that, not when they were my students. So, while I turned over the bacon, which had started to smoke, and the kids picked up a whole laundry basket full of kitchen knives, and Sophie held Kimmie and tried to calm her, I got on the phone to HQ. It didn’t go well.

Hargroves wasn’t there, but then, the boss didn’t handle scheduling anyway. And the guy who did was a dick. His name—I kid you not—was Alistair Fitzgibbon, and he looked exactly the way that sounds: thin, haughty, British, and as pale as a vampire.

“Just for a few weeks,” I said, balancing the phone under my chin while I tended to the bacon.

“Not for a few days. Are you aware that we’re at war, Mage de Croissets?”

“You know, I’d heard something about it.”

“We need every man—”

“And woman?” I said, just to be difficult. Because the Corps tends to forget about us. But this time, it didn’t even phase him.

“—and anything else I can get! You try doing a schedule with half your operatives on medical leave and the other half—”

“I understand—”

“—who probably should be! This place looks like a convalescent home—”

“—but—”

“—with people staggering about—did you know, my own assistant is on crutches? Not because of the war, you understand; the boy falls over his own two feet if you don’t watch him, and took a stumble off the curb. The curb. Who breaks an ankle on a three-inch drop?”

“However, I really think—”

“Donovan, that’s who. Which means I have to fetch and carry everything myself. Assistant,” the tone was acerbic. “I should be credited with assisting him. He can’t even make coffee, not if you expect him to carry it, too—”

Caleb took my phone. “Fitzgibbon, it’s Carter. I’m taking a week’s PTO,” he said, and hung up.

“I can’t let you do that,” I said, dumping up the half-charred bacon.

“You can’t afford not to.” He held up one of the strips. “You said you could cook?”

“I like them that way,” Aki piped up.

“You like them any way,” Sophie said dryly.

“So, if anybody else doesn’t want theirs—”

“Here,” I handed Aki the platter. “Dining room’s through there.”

I started some eggs.

“I can set the table,” Jen offered, reemerging from the living room.

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