Page 5 of The Fantastic Fluke

Technically, legally, I could register the fox as a familiar, since I didn’t have a real one. That being the case, I could take it to the shop if I wanted, since a mage was allowed to take his familiar pretty much anywhere.

But why was I even entertaining paying the fee for that?

The fox leaned against my leg and sighed, then tentatively reached out to lick my hand.

Dammit.

“I hope you like peanut butter and jelly,” I mumbled, and turned to start walking again.

The fox followed without hesitation.

If the fox were a licensed familiar, I could take it into a grocery store, but it wasn’t, so that was out of the question. The shop owners saw me often enough that there was no way I could pretend. Plus, if I’m being completely honest, I kind of suck at breaking the rules.

It’s not that I have some great respect for rules, I’m just terrified of getting in trouble. Heck, once in high school a random security guard on a power trip confiscated part of my Halloween costume, a letter opener playing stand-in for a dagger, and I cried for an hour. The guy wasn’t even within his rights, but I kowtowed and cried like a schoolboy caught stealing candy.

Then I got in trouble with Dad for losing the letter opener, a “family heirloom” that probably came from a mail-order catalogue.

Anyway, the fox was a wild animal, however much it was acting like something else. It understood that I’d stopped the asshole from kicking it, so it was grateful. Bringing an unlicensed not-really-familiar into a business that sold food would break so many health codes. Maybe there was a grocery delivery service that wasn’t outside my budget.

Oh, who the hell was I kidding? Just feeding a second mouth, even if it ate dog food, was probably outside my budget. Besides, what if I bought a giant bag of dog food and the fox wouldn’t even eat it?

What if I fed it peanut butter and jelly and it turned out raspberry jam was poisonous to foxes?

I was halfway through typing “do foxes eat raspberries” into a search engine when there was a tug on my pants. The fox had taken the side seam delicately between its teeth and was trying to stop me from moving.

It took me a second to get it. The little man on the crosswalk sign ahead of us had disappeared in favor of a flashing red hand.

I looked back at the fox, realization dawning. “Wait a minute. Youarea familiar. There’s no way wild foxes understand crosswalk signals. Whose familiar are you?” I knelt down next to the fox and reached out a hand, and it didn’t hesitate for a second. It crowded up next to me and leaned against my shoulder, nosing my cheek.

The poor thing smelled awful, or I was pretty sure I’d have wrapped my arms around it.

“Whoa there, foxy, you need a shower before you go licking me.” I glanced up, and the light had gone white again, so I stood and we continued on toward home. “I guess tomorrow I can call downtown and see if any familiars have gone missing.”

The notion of turning the fox over to its rightful owner made a pit open in my stomach, which was ridiculous. I’d met it five minutes earlier. We weren’t BFFs.

Obviously I needed to get out more, make more friends, if I was getting attached to strange foxes.

I stopped at the mailbox, pulled out the folded mess of flyers inside, tucked it under my arm next to Dad, and headed for the front door. It seemed like more mail than usual, but maybe I’d forgotten to check it the day before.

It had been a Tuesday, new book release day, and I often get frazzled on busy days.

I unlocked the door and the fox followed me right into the house. If I’d had any doubt it was a familiar, that evaporated when it stopped to brush its feet on the mat so as not to track dirt inside.

I stared at it for a minute, and it turned to look at me like, “Well? Now what?”

“Shower first,” I told it as I closed and locked the door behind us. “You’re not coming into the kitchen until you smell less like a dumpster soaked in pee.”

The fox dropped its head to stare at the tile on the entryway floor, and I had a pang of guilt.

“Hey there, buddy, it’s not your fault. We’ve just gotta fix it is all.” I set the box of Dad’s ashes on the table next to the entryway, the mail and my keys on top of it and suit jacket balled up next to them, and headed for the bathroom without looking back, expecting the fox to follow.

All that was left was to figure out how to get the fox into the shower and cleaned up without killing both of us.

When we were kids, Beez’d had a dog, and I’ve got to admit, that spaniel colored my view of dogs as a species. He’d been high strung and annoying as hell, barking like mad at everyone who came to the door and taking forever to warm up to people. Every time I had helped her give him a bath, he sat in the tub and howled like we were skinning him, not soaping him up. Then when he was wet and slippery and covered in soap, he would try to escape.

There was nothing for it but to jump right in. Unceremoniously, I reached down, picked up the fox around the middle, and set it in the bathtub. It didn’t struggle or yowl, just looked around the bathroom, then stared up at me confusedly. Like I’d told a joke and it was waiting for the punchline, or like it thought it was being punked and someone with a camera was going to jump out any second.

I considered taking off my shirt, but if the claws came out, I’d be sorry for that. Besides, the worst-case scenario was that the shirt got shredded, which might be for the best. I shouldn’t wear it again anyway.

---