The Fantastic Fluke

2020·0.37 MB·english

by  Sam Burns

Copyright © 2020 by Sam Burns.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case
of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Content Warning: this book is intended for adult audiences only, and contains violence against both people and animals, trauma, a whole
lot of swearing, and graphic sex.
Cover art © 2020 by Natasha Snow at natashasnow.com
Editing by
Amy Pittel for LesCourt Author Services
and
Becca Waldrop
Created with Vellum
CONTENTS
Glossary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Also by Sam Burns
About the Author
For my husband, without whom there would be no Sam Burns.
GLOSSARY
A
urora Aureum: also known as “the Aureum,” or “the Golden Dawn.” The international
organization of mages that work with governments worldwide to teach, lead, and police
magic users, since it’s beyond the ability of any local law enforcement group. Initially
organized in the early nineteenth century at a time when humanity was discovering that magic was not
only real, but of possible use to society.
D : A member of the leadership, or political arm of the Aurora Aureum. They make the
OMINUS
decisions for the organization, and are the public face, dealing with PR and outside governments and
government entities.
M : A member of the teaching arm of the Aurora Aureum. They locate future mages through
AGISTER
testing, and then teach them at Aureum-run schools. The schools take most students starting at ages
thirteen and fourteen, but often have a few younger students whose powers manifested earlier.
Q : A member of the law enforcement arm of the Aurora Aureum. They enforce magical
UAESITOR
laws, and track and arrest both criminal mages, and mundane criminals involved in magical crimes.
M D
AGICAL ISCIPLINES
Elementalists: Mages who specialize in any of a huge number of elements or element-
related focuses. The traditional options are earth, air, fire, and water, but there are also flora,
fauna, weather, and others. As with all magic, only a single specialty can be chosen. Each
mage is also known by their specific specialty: e.g., earth mages, forest mages, fire mages.
Corporists: Mages who specialize in manipulating the human body. Mages who specialize in
internal body magic are masters of their own form. They’re usually in excellent physical
shape and live longer than any other mages. Those who specialize in external body magic
can manipulate the bodies of others. This kind of magic has enormous potential, and
enormous potential for misuse. Powerful internal body mages are carefully regulated, and
most go into medicine. Usually referred to simply as body mages.
Exanimists: Mages who specialize in the dead. They use the power of decomposition and its
side-effects to fuel their magic, and are becoming invaluable to the green movement. A
traditional sort of necromancer. Referred to as dead mages.
Extinguists: Mages who specialize in the magic of death itself. Not a well-respected
specialty, not taught by the Aureum. Referred to as death mages, and usually in hushed tones.
Temporalists: Mages who have been cursed with the specialty of time magic. These mages
rarely if ever choose their specialty, because the Aureum doesn’t teach time magic—it
manifests in its practitioners, often before the age when students are tested. The abilities of a
time mage are quite specific, and range from the insanely powerful: “can see everything that
has happened or ever will happen in the spot where they stand,” to the nigh useless: “can
give you the name of anyone’s mother.” Usually known as time mages, or “those poor saps.”
Socialists: Stop calling them this. No seriously, it’s not as funny as you think. Mages who
specialize in the energy produced by social situations and the humans therein. Their abilities
are usually used to manipulate the emotions of those people. Some mages use this to good
effect, putting people at ease and comforting the victims of violence. Some put it to less
savory, and sometimes downright unethical use. Powerful social mages aren’t watched as
closely as powerful body mages, but the Aureum often keeps an eye on them. Always known
as social mages, except by people who think they’re funnier than they are.
Arcanists: Not a real thing, no matter what Gideon says. All magic requires a focus, a
source, and there’s no such thing as generic . . . magical magic. That’s a fairy tale. They’re
not called anything, because they’re not real.
C HA PT E R O NE
N
o 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