Page 53 of The Fantastic Fluke

He hung his head.

Gideon snorted. “Just give him the second piece. You’re gonna give in sooner or later, might as well get it over with.”

I gave a melodramatic sigh and picked up the piece of toast. As the most minor rebellion ever, I broke it in half and only put half on Fluke’s plate. Without waiting on me to start eating, he immediately wolfed it down—foxed it down? —as though worried I would take it back.

“The animal safety people should take you away from me,” I told him. “That’s not healthy.”

Gideon waved like he was shooing my worries away. “He’s a familiar. They’re magic.”

Fluke grinned his foxy little grin and waited on me before starting the rest of his meal. Spoiled brat.

“You want to talk about why you’re pulling back?” Gideon asked when I was half finished with my eggs. “I know it’s a lot, but something’s keeping you from giving it your all, and it’s not just fear of the magic.”

I stuffed my mouth full of ham and gave him a glare as I chewed, but he was unruffled. As always. “I think being afraid of the magic is a good enough reason. It’s kind of trying to suck me in.”

“Fair enough. The convergence doesn’t understand that you can’t just dive into the magic. Is that the only thing? Because there isn’t much we can do about that. That’ll just take more time and practice.” He rested an arm across the back of his chair, and I looked at it long and hard.

“Is this kind of magic why you have such good control over your body?”

He looked where I was looking, as though maybe his arm were doing a trick and he hadn’t noticed. Then he gave me a half shrug and helpless look. “Damned if I know. I just do things.”

“Dad can’t sit on the couch. He just falls through.”

Gideon snickered at that, and I couldn’t help joining in. Then Fluke did too, panting and grinning so hard his eyes closed.

While Gideon and Fluke were still amused, the truth tumbled out of me, unbidden. “I’m afraid of knives.”

“I figured.”

“What? How? Why?” I didn’t know why, precisely, it was important that he had noticed, but I tried so hard to act normal. Sure, I spread peanut butter with a spoon and cut sandwiches with the flat edges of my silverware, but I wasn’t flamboyant about it or anything.

Gideon looked around the kitchen, then back at me. “There isn’t a knife in this room. No block, no drawer, not even one of those knives for butter.” He looked over at Fluke, then back at me. “And you told your familiar not to dig up your athame. Which means you buried it.”

“And this doesn’t bother you at all?” Dumbfounded didn’t cover it. What the hell was wrong with him, that he’d noticed all that and still not treated me like the damn weirdo I was?

Instead of agreeing and explaining that he’d simply been trying to be kind, he frowned, looking at me like I was speaking in tongues. “You kidding? Everybody should be afraid of knives. Or at least avoid them.”

“Even butter knives?”

He just shrugged. “Knives are knives. I don’t like ’em either. They’re worse than guns. They’re for people who like to kill up close and personal.”

I shuddered involuntarily at the thought, and he reached for my shoulder. For the first time ever, I saw sheer frustration cross his face—when his hand passed through my shoulder, giving me nothing more than a little chill. He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, taking a few deep breaths. I almost reached for him in return, like that wouldn’t have made it even worse, and I fucking ached with the need for it to work. To be able to touch him.

There was pain in his eyes when he opened them. “It’s shitty, being dead. I can tell you how to learn magic. I’ve gotten pretty good at teaching it over the years. But I can’t protect you from assholes. I can’t help you paint the back room of your shop or move stacks of books.” His gaze dropped to the tabletop, refusing to meet mine. “Can’t touch you.”

And gods, but there was nothing I wanted more. Screw magic and murderers and whatever, all I wanted was those strong, callused hands all over my body. They’d be rough, I was sure. I wanted to arch into his imaginary touch like a damn cat. Have him take both my wrists in one hand and press them up over my head, his whole body draped over mine.

“I wish you could touch me too,” I whispered.

In that moment, there was nothing I wished more. Yeah, sure, a hug to comfort me about my knife issues. My victimhood.

My mother’s brutal murder and my constant fear that it would happen to me too.

But more than that, I wanted him to kiss me. Wanted him to pick me up, toss me over his shoulder, and carry me off to his cave. Or my bedroom, I guessed, since it was closer and also existed.

He reached out again, this time toward my face, running his hand along the curve of my cheek, leaving just enough distance to preserve the illusion and not make me shiver at the cold of him.

His gaze dropped to one side, and he rolled his eyes and dissolved into laughter. I was offended for all of two seconds before I followed his gaze and found Fluke, having crawled halfway across the table, the second part of “his” piece of toast in his mouth as he tried to slip back into his seat with it.

---