Page 1 of The Fantastic Fluke

Chapter One

No one came to my father’s funeral.

I didn’t pay for a lavish one, so it was just as well that a lot of unexpected mourners didn’t show up. The people at the funeral home were sympathetic, but they must have cases like him all the time. John had dozens, maybe hundreds, of acquaintances. Hell, he was a social mage, and a pretty talented one. He’d thrived on being around people.

But none of them came to his hospital room or sent flowers. When they saw me at the store or dropping by his apartment to pick things up for him, they’d stopped me to ask how he was. Each time, I would explain that they had found the cancer too late for the medical mages to help, and each time, they would click their tongues and offer sympathy.

Then they would tell me to give him their best and walk away. Not a single one ever asked for a room number, or anything deeper than what amounted to condolences on the impending loss of my father.

I wasn’t sure if it said something about my father, or something about humanity.

I must have gotten taller in the nearly twelve years between high school graduation and the funeral, because the cuffs on my suit jacket kept riding up and the pants were laughably high-water. Maybe I should have been pleased that I hadn’t gained weight and they zipped up at all, but the pulling in the crotch seriously sucked. Trying to get comfortable in a badly cushioned pleather chair would have been hard enough in clothes that fit.

The black draperies everywhere made the room feel smaller, as did the way they had packed as many chairs into the room as possible. Maybe it was shameful, but I was grateful that the room was empty.

Well, empty except for me and my father.

I had him cremated, though, so he didn’t count. I’d like to say I couldn’t stand to look at his face again, but the truth was simpler and crueler: it was apathy, not anger. It was cheaper and easier to have done with it, so I could just take the box of his ashes with me when I left.

“I’ve spent eighteen years of my life with you, Dad, and I don’t know what to say.” Maybe it was silly to talk to a box of ashes on a pedestal, but hell, it was the best conversation I was likely to ever have with my father. Gods knew we didn’t like each other very much when he was alive.

He left everything to me only by default, because there wasn’t anyone else. No one ever loved my father in my lifetime. His parents died when he was still in college, and he hadn’t had any siblings, aunts, uncles, or cousins. He was a blip for my mother, a short-term mistake before my birth that she hadn’t formalized into marriage. He hadn’t even dated, to my knowledge.

“Apparently, half the city knew who you were. The shop’s never been busier than since you died. People saw your name in the obituaries, and they drop by to ask about what happened. They remember you running the shop, or talking to them, or being so very clever at that party they were at one time. But no one actually knew you.” I glanced over my shoulder. The door was still closed. “You were kind of a miserable asshole.”

For the first time in my relationship with my father, he didn’t have a mean, pithy response. Sure, he couldn’t respond, but damn if it didn’t feel like an opportunity. “I kind of hate you. I left college to help you run the shop, and you never thanked me. Would it have been so hard? Just a few words. Totally painless. Hey, thanks, Sage. Good to see you. You’re not a burden at all.”

Because that was the heart of our relationship. My mother was killed when I was twelve, and the state gave me to him. Foisted me off, he used to call it. He put me to work in the shop a few days later, while I was still trying to scrape my mother’s blood out from under my fingernails.

Every time I thought of those days, I relived that sensation. Sick and lost and alone, a gaping hole in my life in place of someone who loved me. Instead, I’d had Dad, someone who barely tolerated my presence. I had tried to make myself small and quiet and unobtrusive, but it hadn’t worked. Somehow, no matter where I’d hidden, I had always been in his way.

“You didn’t even pay for Mom to have a funeral. That’s why I hate you most. You didn’t let me say goodbye.”

I let my head fall back against the metal frame of the chair, staring up at the ceiling. I couldn’t accuse him of stealing my inheritance from her. No, he’d scrupulously saved every penny, using only what he needed to take care of me. He’d kept a log of every dime he’d spent on me, every meal and pack of underoos, and taken it from Mom’s insurance payout.

There was a soft clearing of someone’s throat behind me, and I snapped my head up, turning to look at the door again. Mr. Emery, one of the owners of the funeral home.

“Time’s up?” I asked, trying to keep the wry smile off my lips. The guy was just following his own rules, after all, and it wasn’t like I was serving a purpose, sitting there talking smack to my father’s ashes.

He offered me a soft smile. “Did you need more time?”

Did I? I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve had more than enough of him to last a lifetime.”

He nodded, more like a bashful duck of his head, as he came up the center aisle to retrieve the box of ashes for me. He was biting his lip when he turned around to hand them off. “It’s not something we do here, but I have a friend who sometimes does memorial services for people. Later on.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I hadn’t put off a service for Dad because I wasn’t ready—I wasn’t ever going to pay money to have someone say nice things about the dead bastard—but then I realized what he meant. He’d heard me talking about Mom.

I almost dismissed it anyway. The insurance money from Mom’s death was long gone, and I’d spent most of Dad’s on his medical bills and this travesty of a funeral. The rest of it was going to cleaning out his apartment.

Still...

“Do you have a card?”

He set the box of ashes back on the pedestal and pulled a card out of his suit, flipping it over and writing on the back of it. “Her name is Aliyah. I think you’d like her. Very no-nonsense.”

It was my turn to duck my head. “Sorry. About, ah, that.”

He waved it away. “Don’t think for a second that was the worst thing I’ve ever heard. Not even the worst today. Relationships don’t stop being complicated just because one of the people in them dies.”

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