Page 75 of The Fantastic Fluke

There was a push, then, at the image of Gideon that I had constructed, like the consciousness was putting it back into the forefront of my mind. It was already made of my power, all the bits of Gideon from my mind that I’d been able to piece together. Suddenly, the image was bursting with extra power. It still felt familiar, like it was my power, but I hadn’t strictly put it there.

The convergence.

There were also the missing parts I hadn’t known how to add. The scent of leather and smoke and man with hints of something herbal. The taste of salt. Hair blowing in the cool ocean wind, the weight of a hat on my sweaty brow and an ache in my overworked shoulders.

A crack that seemed to come from all around, and a sudden hollow sensation in my midsection. Looking down to see what was wrong, but not getting that far because my horse collapsed beneath me.Marron...

Yes, the disembodied voice agreed.Marron.

I didn’t know what the hell a Marron was, but suddenly the weight of Gideon’s image seemed to be a thousand pounds, and it was all I could do to try to hold it together as it threatened to shatter and dissipate.

With all the energy I could muster, I pulled at the flow of magic around me, wrapping it around us, layer after layer, hoping that if I just pushed enough power into the image, it would work.

Arcane magic might be more heavily theoretical than your average water or earth power, but I’d been well-trained in how to deal with flighty things that didn’t do what I expected. The years struggling to do anything with my social powers had served me well. I knew how to deal with unruly magic, even if I’d only ever succeeded with it in the most basic ways.

This was different. The magic was ephemeral, yes, but so much more responsive than social energy had ever been.

I treated the layers of magic as though they were bandages and started tying them off, one by one, forcing the magic to hold onto Gideon’s image, forcing him deeper and deeper into a magic cocoon, and I was struck by the sudden feeling of someone looking over my shoulder.

Yes, it whispered, its voice filled with sudden understanding.

The magic started to harden and take shape under my hands, glowing brighter and brighter as it did. There was a flash, and I threw up my hands to shield my eyes on instinct.

When I opened them again, I was sitting, slumped over, in the middle of my living room.

No Gideon.

Goddammit.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Fluke was lying on the floor next to me, head down, looking at me pitifully, obviously as exhausted as I was. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to cry, or just lie there and stare back, equally pitiful.

Eventually, I took a deep breath and let it out in a long, pained sigh. “Okay bud, I think it’s time to eat.”

That was always Gideon’s answer when I was too tired to keep going in training, and it usually worked to renew my energy, so maybe it would help when using real magic. I mean, technically there wasn’t a difference between practice and actual magic.

It took so much work to push up off the floor and go into the kitchen, I considered taking a nap on the couch on the way there. That could be the energy deficit from casting, or it could be the sleeping pill I’d taken, which suddenly felt like the biggest mistake ever.

If only I hadn’t impaired my own judgment, dulled my instincts, maybe I wouldn’t have lost hold on the spell. I’d been so sure I had it. I’d practically felt Gideon in my hands, it had been so real, so visceral.

Oh well. I shook myself, rolling my shoulders back and my neck from side to side, and then stood up straighter. I just had to refuel and try again.

And again, and again, until I got it right.

For as long as it took.

It was what Gideon wanted, for me to focus harder on learning how to control my new magic. Maybe I was doing it for selfish reasons, but in the end, wasn’t all magic for selfish reasons? Wasn’t almost everything anyone did?

And fuck it, I’d spent too many years helping other people to my own detriment. It was time to reach for something for me. If that thing happened to help someone I cared about, so much the better.

“What say you, Flukester, sandwiches? I think we’ve earned them.”

Fluke’s only answer was a low, near-silent bark as he leaned against a kitchen cabinet, and I took it for agreement. I should make something more substantial, but I was fucking tired. Cooking wasn’t going to happen.

So instead I made sandwiches out of all the bread we had—three and a half of them—and cut them into an even number of relatively equal sized squares.

We had made it through about half of them when the doorbell rang.

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