Page 9 of The Fantastic Fluke

David watched him leave, shaking his head sadly. “Some people just don’t want to be happy.”

“He hates animals. He once yelled at a Yorkshire terrier.”

That inspired a blank stare and rapid blinking from David. “A Yorkshire terrier. Those are the little ones, with the wispy fur? Like the size of my hand?”

“He didn’t like the way it was looking at him,” I answered, trying to keep a straight face.

David opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, but still nothing came out. Finally he just picked up his book and turned to go. Halfway to the door, he turned back. “Allergic?”

I shook my head.

“Fear of dogs?”

“Nope. Just said he doesn’t like animals at all. Ever.” Not having wanted a dog myself, I kind of understood the position of not wanting to deal with people’s pets. I just hadn’t begrudged them having pets at all, especially when those pets didn’t so much as come within a half dozen feet of me.

“Right.” David paused at the door to shoot me one more smile. “Good luck with the registry office. See you next Wednesday.”

As he left, I thought about what he’d said. Eight was early to open. He and Mr. Ashwell were the only ones ever in that early, and David would probably come in later if I changed it to nine. For Mr. Ashwell, he could live with one less reading hour in a day, couldn’t he?

He didn’t come in for the company, after all. He just sat on the couch across from the front counter and read. Once when I’d tried to sit on the other end of the couch with my own book, he’d glared at me and suggested I find something to clean.

“How dare you treat Mr. Ashwell like that?” came the grating, nasal voice from the back of the shop. “He’s been a customer in this shop since before you were born.”

I sighed and leaned over the counter, putting my head in my hands. Next to me, foxy gave a low, almost sub-vocal growl. It startled me for a second, because surely he wasn’t growling at me, and there was no way he could have heard—except of course he could. Or at least he could sense something was off. He was a familiar.

If foxy were my familiar, he could channel all the same magics I could. Maybe that was why he’d been drawn to me; maybe his own mage channeled magic similar to mine.

I looked up at the translucent figure of my father, fists on his hips, glaring at me. Because I couldn’t have been gifted with any decent amount of power, oh no. Instead of being able to channel social magic into intricate knots that drew people to me and made me friends and allies, I could see dead people.

I rested my chin on my fist and met my father’s translucent gaze. “Mr. Ashwell doesn’t spend enough here to cover the monthly cost of sticky notes.”

His sour expression didn’t change. “He deserves respect.”

Foxy, still growling, slipped back around the corner, staring in my father’s direction. He seemed to be able to actually see Dad, and while seeing the dead wasn’t the rarest ability for a mage, it wasn’t common either.

“And why is that creature in my store?” He turned to foxy and pointed at the front door. “Out, you! You don’t belong here.”

Foxy stopped growling, and for a second, I was convinced he’d comply, leave, and I’d never see him again. I gripped the edge of the counter, as though I could vault over it and put myself between the fox and the front door. I was more likely to fall over it and break a leg, but you know, either way it was likely to distract everyone, so win-win?

Instead of leaving, though, foxy yawned, stretched, met my father’s eye, and then sauntered right through him and over to the couch. When he got there, he stopped and looked at me. I gave him a smile. It felt brittle and breakable, but foxy stuck out his tongue and grinned his very foxy grin. He turned and looked up at my father.

“Don’t you dare get on that couch, you disgusting, tick-infested—”

As though inspired by my father’s anger, foxy turned, hopped up onto the couch, and sat there, tail curled around his feet and staring at my father with an expression I could only call smug.

“Sage, get this creature off my sofa,” my father insisted, turning to me. Somehow, even now, even dead, his cheeks and nose were going red, as they always did when he was angry.

He clearly expected me to do exactly what he wanted. I always did. It was why I put up with Mr. Ashwell treating the shop like a library. Why I was almost thirty with half a college education and one meaningful friendship.

I looked at foxy, who looked at me, all big brown innocent eyes. I’d known he was going to cause trouble. That bringing him to the shop was going to make things difficult.

I sighed, grabbed my scanner, and turned toward the back of the shop. “Come on, foxy. I need to inventory the westerns. Let’s leave Dad to his precious sofa.”

Foxy gave a motion that approximated a shrug and followed after me. I tried to pretend I wasn’t putting off calling the familiar registration office. His mage could live without him for one morning, couldn’t they?

Heck, maybe his mage was dead, and he was just as adrift as I was. Maybe we really did belong together, foxy and me.

Chapter Three

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