No akero feather.
No flame lizard.
No familiar at all.
That’s how well my plan worked.
I’m not sure whether the anti-fire spells wore me out, or whether it was the broken circle, or my attempts to bond that maniacal lizard, or whether I’m just tired from being such a monumental failure.
Whatever it is, I don’t even bother covering up the hole in the window. I just sweep up the glass, toss it in the trash, peel my uniform off, and climb into bed. At least I don’t relive my disaster over and over. Even the bright sunlight streaming down from my window doesn’t bother me.
I fall right to sleep.
When I wake up at sunset, I hear a gentle cooing.
At first, my groggy, sleep-infused brain wonders whether Bevin set a white noise machine in my room to make the soothing, gentle sound. It’s a considerate, kind, thoughtful notion, and I could totally see Bevin doing that. Not only because she strives to be good in all ways, but also because in spite of my failings, she loves me.
But no white noise machine on Earth pecks you on the nose.
Only birds do that.
I sit up so fast, I nearly fling the pigeon onto the floor. Its eyes widen indignantly, and it puffs up like a ball of fluff. Then it coos, purposefully, as if to say, what could you be thinking? Watch out, lady. I was trying to sleep.
Its eyes close again, as if I’m in its bed, and not the other way around.
“Hello!” I shout. “Get out, stupid. You don’t belong here.”
Instead of flying away, like it should, it turns its head toward me slowly, its eyes only half open. “Coo.” It closes its eyes again.
This cannot be happening. Maybe it’s a bizarre dream. It wouldn’t be the first strange thing I’ve dreamed about—not even the first this week. But even in a dream, there’s no way that I can possibly let a pigeon sleep on my bed. It’s like having a flying cockroach in my bed. Just, no.
I try to shoo it away, grimacing as my fingers touch its grey and black wings. I tell myself it’s a clean pigeon. Those exist, right?
Oh, no. What if it pooped on my bed?
Nothing looks soiled, but that doesn’t mean much.
Shooing it away fails spectacularly.
Its head swivels toward me, its little orange eyes blinking open again, and it leans against my palm, like it trusts me. “Um, okay, little weirdo. I hate to be the bad guy here, but this is my apartment, and you can’t be here.”
I pick it up, freaking out inside at how calm it is, and carry it out of my bedroom. Even when I squish it pretty hard to open the door, it doesn’t look alarmed. My hands are shaking by the time I open the door and realize it must have come in through the open window. I really should have blocked that off. There’s no telling what animals wandered in while I slept the day away.
I’m lucky it wasn’t night, or I might have an apartment full of owls and bats. Speaking of the approaching evening, a brisk breeze is blowing through the hole. Instead of shoving the poor little bird back through the broken window, I actually open the door and walk out onto the patio. “You’re going to have to stay out here, okay? And don’t poop on my patio, or you can’t be here either.”
When I set it down on the rail, I swear it looks at me as though I’ve betrayed it.
“Don’t give me that look. It’s nothing personal. I just can’t have a bird sleeping in my house. I’m way too much of a neat freak for that, okay?”
It hops down, fluttering its wings as it lands on the ground, and tries to follow me back through the door.
“No, no.” I’m forced to slam the door on its beak. “Ugh, what is your deal?” It glares at me as I cover the broken window with a piece of cardboard and duct tape. “I said!” I’m sure it can’t understand me, but I feel like I have to explain myself, for some reason. “I can’t have birds in my house! One poop and I’d melt down. You would not want to see that, trust me.”
I think about its pathetic little eyes the entire time I’m showering.
But when I step out of the shower, the last thing I expect to see resting on top of my clean towel is that stupid pigeon. “How the heck are you in here?”
It tilts its head as if I’m the one who makes no sense.
“I closed the hole. How did you even get in?”
When I shove it off my towel, I find that I can’t quite bring myself to dry my clean body off with a bird-towel. I’m forced to use my guest towel, and I hate doing that. It’s not the natural order. Besides, what will Roxana use, now?
“Ugh, you! You’re messing things up, and I already had a terrible day yesterday.”
It starts to coo, and fluffs up, as if it understood what I’m saying. . .and it’s trying to comfort me? Oh my Gabriel, if anyone else could hear my thoughts, they’d think I’d gone insane, attributing feelings to a pigeon.
“You’re the most hated bird in New York. You know that, right?”
Its coo sounds distinctly sad, then. As if I’ve personally insulted its entire family.
“Look.” Is it even the same bird? I don’t know how I could possibly know. Maybe a whole flock came in while I was sleeping. Maybe there are twelve of them, poking all over my apartment. The thought gives me the shivers. But after I dry, dress, grab the dumb pigeon again, and emerge from the bathroom—there’s no sounds or signs of any other birds, pigeon or otherwise. “Where did you come from?” I ask. “How did you get in?”
“Who are you talking to?” Roxana asks, her eyes wide, and her mouth hanging open. She glances around the apartment, clearly looking for another human being.
“Uh.” I tuck the bird behind my back, though I can’t think of a single reason why I’d hide it. “No one.”
“You were asking no one how they got in?”
What’s wrong with me? “It’s this pigeon.” I bring it around to the front, and it’s sitting just as docile on my palm as it was before. “It’s so strange. It lets me pick it up, and it lets me hold it, and it’s totally calm, but it keeps coming inside.”
Roxana ducks a little so she can see it better. “A pigeon?”
“It was—” I can’t quite bring myself to admit that it was sleeping by my head all day. “But I put it outside already, and next thing I know, it’s here again, in the bathroom.”
“Uh, that might have been my fault.”
“What? How?”
“I like the water to be really hot, and that gets things really steamy, so I cracked the window in there. The one that’s up really high.”
Oh, that makes so much sense. “Alright. Then I’m not going crazy.”
“But it must have been awfully hard for it to squeeze through that tiny opening, and why would it do that? Are you sure it’s the same bird?”
I pick it up closer, peering at it. “They all look the same. Iridescent head, grey body. Black stripes on their wings and tails. Who knows?”
It coos then, as if I’ve insulted it deeply.
“I don’t even have any idea whether it’s a boy or a girl.”
It pecks my hand.
“Hey!” I almost drop it. “Did you see that? It’s the first sign of aggression.”
“I can’t believe it didn’t do that before. Once, when I was a kid, this blue jay would come and visit me on my patio. It came every day. Once it even sat on my hand, but when I tried to grab it, it pecked the fire out of me and left. It never came back.” Roxana scowls at the pigeon. “Birds are evil.”
It chitters, then, as if it’s yelling at her. I had no idea pigeons could even make that noise.
“I think it’s possessed,” I say.
“Can pigeons get rabies?” Roxana shudders. “Get rid of it. Quick.”
This time, I don’t set it gently on the railing. I chuck it through the patio door into mid-air and watch as it flutters away. I feel a little bad for hurling it away from me like that, but what else can I do? It has to learn it can’t live here.
“Don’t you have to get to work soon?” Roxana asks. “Or are you off work?”
“Right,” I say. “Yes, I’m due there in less than thirty minutes.” I straighten my uniform. “I was going to try and clean all this up, but.” I glare helplessly at the charred coffee table, the ruined blankets, and the messy chalk circle on the tile.
“I can do it,” Roxana says. “I’m not very experienced with cleaning, but I can scrub the floor and put the blankets in trash bags. I wasn’t sure whether that’s what you wanted?”
“That would be awesome,” I say. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” She frowns. “I’m so sorry about the flame lizard and the disaster—”
“It’s fine.” I can’t think about that now, and I really can’t think about how spectacularly I failed after giving up my akero feather. I’ll burst into tears before work. “Let’s not talk about it, okay?”
“I did tell you they’re nasty little beasts,” she says. “I guess I should have given more examples.”
“Really, it’s fine, and I’m fine, and I’d rather never talk about it again.”
“Got it,” she says. “But how about something to eat?”
Last night, she made me the worst sandwich I’ve ever eaten in my entire life. “I mostly just drink protein shakes on my way.” I edge toward the small pantry at the corner of the kitchen. “I’ll just grab—”
“Oh, no, that’s not a good enough breakfast, not when you’re out there risking life and limb trying to save. . .what exactly do you do? Fight demons?”
I laugh. “Mostly I deal with magical miscreants of all stripes. Zombies, moonstruck weres, domestic violence involving mages or whatnot. It’s anyone’s guess what problems will be called in.”
“Alright, well, you need a healthier breakfast.” Her forehead furrows. “Er, dinner.”
“I really am—”
“I insist.” She hands me a ziplock bag with something squishy inside.
“What is this?”
“You had all that raw meat,” she says. “So I meal prepped some burritos.”
I don’t even want to know how dragona eat meat chunks, and there’s no telling what kind of meat Bevin bought for the flame lizard. “Uh huh. Alright, well, thank you so much.” I tuck it into my bag and head for the door. I can always buy a bagel on the way to work.
“You’re not going to try it?” She bites her lip. “I wanted to make sure you enjoyed it.”
“Well, um, right.” I’m nearly to the door, so I open it, and then I pull the baggie out of my satchel. “Hm, it sure smells unique.”
Her eyebrows rise. “I’ve never made a burrito before, so I hope I got it right.”
“Oh, good.” My throat closes off, and my lips twitch, but I manage to stuff it into my mouth and force my teeth down to break off a bite.
Tortillas are meant to be lard, flour, salt, and sometimes a kind of leavening agent. I have no idea what this tortilla was made of, but it tastes eggy. And the meat inside appears not to have been cooked at all.
I choke a bit.
“Is it too strong?” She grimaces. “I’m so sorry. It said half a teaspoon of salt, and it’ll get more savory as I cook it, but since I wasn’t cooking it—”
“Why?” I choke. “Why didn’t you cook it?”
“Everyone knows meat is way better when it’s fresh, and this was butchered yesterday. It said so on the package.”
I spit it back into the baggie. “Roxana.” I gag on the acidic and almost metallic taste. “You thought it would be better raw?”
She frowns. “It’s not? Everyone I know likes their food better raw.”
“Other than me, is everyone you know dragona?”
Her enormous, bright, round eyes blink slowly. “Yes.”
“The rest of the world likes their meat cooked. Preferably, most of the way through.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders droop. The corners of her insanely full lips turn down. “Well. I’m sorry.”
I offer her the remains of the horribly disgusting burrito, and she finally takes it. “I really appreciate the gesture.” I push past her and reach into the pantry. If I drink a protein shake fast enough, maybe I can forget how bloody awful that egg-wrap-raw-meat-roll was. Probably not, but it’s worth a try.
I open the lid and start chugging, which is why I’m distracted when I step into the hallway and nearly squash the dumb pigeon.
“For the love of howling canids.”
It coos and then chitters.
“What are you doing in the hallway? How on earth did you get in here?”
“Is everything okay?” Roxana pokes her head around the door.
“No!” I point at the door. “Don’t open it. Don’t let that thing in!”
The pigeon chitters again.
“It’s possessed,” I say. “It’s crazy.”
“Do you think it laid eggs in here or something?” Roxana asks. “I have never seen a bird try so hard to get inside someone’s home in my life.”
“I can’t figure it out,” I say. “But go close that bathroom window, stat.”
“Stat?”
“Right away,” I clarify.
“Got it.” She closes the door.
I race down the hallway, checking over my shoulder. The dumb thing is following me, flutter-hopping as quickly as it can behind me. “Shoo.” I wave at it.
It tilts its head and coos.
“I’m a police officer.” I straighten my back and square my shoulders. “I will cast a spell on you, rendering you unable to move, if you don’t stop following me.”
“Minerva?”
Xander’s standing in the hallway, and his face looks entirely too amused.
I cross my arms.
“Who ya talking to?”
“That thing.” I point at the pigeon.
“The pigeon?” Xander’s lip twitches.
“Why is she talking to a pigeon?” Izaak’s head pokes out behind Xander’s. He’s still in his pajamas—we keep similar hours, thanks to my partner and my job.
“It’s following me,” I say. “I’m not the crazy one. It is.” I fold my arms again.
“Okay,” Izaak says. “But maybe don’t tell anyone at work about this, or they’ll never consider you to be a guardian.”
“Shut up.” My phone rings then, luckily, saving me from any additional jokes. “Hello?”
“Have you been checking your messages?” Amber asks.
“Do I have any?” I’ve been so distracted by the bird that my whole routine has been knocked off.
“The Chief called me—to make sure we didn’t have anything that would interfere with you being interviewed. For that guardian position. I gave him the green light of course, but it’s in like twenty minutes. I figured you’d be here early.”
I nearly drop my phone. “Oh, no. I’ll leave right now.”
“Maybe take a cab,” she says.
“You think?”
“And maybe less sarcasm.” Amber grunts. “Guardians don’t like it.”
I hang up.
Xander and Izaak are tossing breadcrumbs to the pigeon, but it keeps moving away from them. It won’t let them get within two feet of it. “Looks like a normal pigeon to me,” Izaak says.
“Actually, it looks dumber than usual. Probably just got trapped in here.”
“Hey, don’t insult it,” I snap. Why am I defending a bird? I have an interview to race toward. “I’m running late. Don’t encourage it! I want that thing gone when I get home in the morning.”
Izaak looks like he’s going to argue with me, but I so do not have the time.
I race down the stairs and hail the first cab I can find. Luckily, I have good luck—usually I can’t catch a cab to save my life. I reach the precinct about two minutes before my interview is set to start. I’m sweating already, and my hands are shaking, and I haven’t practiced a single spell this morning, but at least I’m not late.
And none of them know I just gambled away my entire life savings for a lizard that burned half my house down and escaped.
“Officer Lucent.” The Chief’s voice isn’t super deep, but it’s loud, like there’s a built-in Bose speaker in his chest. “So glad you could make it.” He quirks one eyebrow as if to say, where the heck have you been?
I force a laugh. “You know how Fridays go.” How Fridays go? What does that even mean? It’s like I’m speaking gibberish. I am not off to a good start. Get it together, Lucent.
“Er, well, come right over here,” he says. “Apparently, none of the guardians who are on the committee have had food yet. I told them we could go to dinner.” He turns toward Amber, who’s already standing next to them. “Your partner has been singing your praises. She also said she’ll be able to survive without you for a bit if we steal you for this.”
“I’m not sure the filing system will survive, but I can muddle through for an hour or two.” Amber beams.
I wish she’d shut up about the files. It’s not like the guardians are looking for a file clerk.
“You maintain all the files?” A tall man with silver at his temples and bulging muscles that show through his button-down shirt asks.
It’s the first time I’ve looked their direction. “Uh. Yes.” Now that I look, there are a lot of them, and just thinking of having to talk to all of them makes my heart race.
There’s a tall woman with bright red hair, a short and stocky woman with a close-cut bob, the tall man with silver at his temples, an ancient guy I’ve never even seen before and at the very back. . .Ricky. My eyes freeze there, unable to shift away from his perfectly sculpted chest and arms, and his too-beautiful-to-be-real face.
“Actually, she’s being far too modest,” the Chief says. “Our files were embarrassingly bad until Officer Lucent took over.”
“That’s an undervalued trait,” Ricky says. “It shows an attention to detail and a care for the little things that would really help you stand out.” He smiles, bright white teeth offset against his beautifully dark skin.
“Uh, thanks.” I need to stop saying ‘uh’ all the time.
“Is Mexican food okay?” the short guardian with the bob asks. Now that I’m looking at her more closely, she’s not so much stocky as she is curvy. “I’ve been craving fajitas.”
“Oh, sure,” I say. “That’s great.”
As if leaving the precinct somehow changed my luck, things start looking up. The Chief and the five guardians pepper me with questions. . .and I knock them out of the park.
“Are you okay with sitting on the patio?” the guardian with the greying hair asks.
“Of course,” I say. “I love to be outside.”
“Another point for this one,” the curvy woman says.
“I’ve heard you work well with your partner.” The ancient man hasn’t said a word until now. He steeples his hands together. “And that in six years, you’ve never once requested a new partner or a transfer.”
“That’s true,” I say. “I think it’s important to build relationships of trust with the people around me. I always hold up my end of things, and I’m almost never let down by others. They rise to my expectations.”
“That’s an impressive answer,” the grey-templed man says. “But what do you do when they do let you down?”
I shrug. “Lower my expectations for the future?”
The ancient man and the curvy woman both laugh. Laughing at my corny jokes can only mean one thing: they like me. For the next half hour or so, my hopes actually rise. Could this be the group that finally takes a chance on me?
Even without the flame lizard, could this be it?
If so, my dad’s up in heaven, smiling down on me right now. I can almost feel his pleasure, his pride.
The waitress brings out a plate of sopapillas and sets them in the middle of the table. “I just wanted to say thank you all for your service. We always give the police free dessert.”
“Wow,” I say. “This place is a real find.”
The curvy woman’s smile is broad. “They hooked me the first time I came with these little bites of heaven, and now I’m a regular.”
The ancient man hasn’t spoken again since asking about my partner. I’m pleased when he opens his mouth.
“I heard from the Chief that you sometimes struggle with spell casting.” Until he says that.
“Well, I have in the past, it’s true.”
“Isn’t that why you’ve applied to become a guardian a dozen times, interviewed for it on six other occasions, and yet, you’ve never been selected?”
I cough and bring my hand up to cover my face. Unfortunately, that movement knocks my fork and my napkin onto the ground. That gives me a moment to regroup—to think what to say—as I bend over to pick it up. When I straighten, I notice a bird, winging its way toward our table.
A grey pigeon.
It can’t possibly be the same one.
There must be more than a million pigeons in New York. Other than a few random white ones, they all look exactly like this one.
But somehow, I know.
It’s the same damn bird.
“Officer Lucent?” The Chief widens his eyes at me. “Did you hear what Guardian Holms asked?” He pastes a smile on his face, and it warms my heart that he’s trying to help me. “I’m sure you’d like to tell him about the course you recently completed.”
“Oh, right, yes, the analysis done by the Institute of Magical Justice found that I was overthinking things in the stress of the moment. We spent months making sure that won’t happen anymore, and they recently certified me as proficient—”
“But aren’t those classes only for flunkies?” The thin man frowns. “I don’t know anyone who ever had to take one.”
“Officer Lucent’s magical aptitude tests are superb,” the Chief says. “And her scores on the entrance exams were perfect. She didn’t miss a single question.”
“It’s rare that an applicant has a full, unlimited recommendation from the Chief,” Ricky says. “In fact, I can’t think of a time we’ve considered someone who did. Usually it’s the hasty, rash, and otherwise a little reckless officers who want to join us.”
“Certainly not the people who organize files.” The tall, red-haired woman smiles. “We could probably use a little of that kind of initiative and discipline, honestly.”
My heart swells. Are they. . .actually considering me?
“Coo.” The pigeon flutters up to the table and lies down next to my right arm, as if it’s applying to be a fork here.
“Is that a pigeon?” the ancient man asks. “What on earth is it doing on the table?” His eyes slew toward mine, seeking some kind of explanation.
I don’t think—I just act. “Who knows?” I sling my hand sideways, jostling it off the table and sending it careening toward the ground.
“Whoa, what was that for?” the Chief asks. “Is it going to be—”
But the pigeon pops its wings out at the last second and veers sharply to the left, flying into the legs of someone sitting a few tables away. It starts chittering immediately and ruffles its way free. Then it immediately launches back for our table, trying to land next to me.
Again.
It must be the same insane bird. Only this time, when I reach out to knock it out of the way, I feel how upset it is by my actions.
I feel the bird’s feelings.
Inside my head.
That’s when I realize what must have happened. The flame lizard broke the circle, and that opened me up. . .flinging my familiar spell outward. And thanks to my time crunch, I never did a spell that kept anything else out. That means that technically, it’s all my fault.
I bonded a pigeon, and I can’t think of a single thing that could possibly look worse.
“Why is that pigeon coming back?” The Chief couldn’t possibly sound more confused.
“It’s acting. . .” The ancient man turns slowly toward me. “It’s acting like it knows you.” He pauses. “Have you been here before? Do you feed it a lot?”
The laugh that pours out of my mouth is borderline unhinged. “Knows me? A pigeon?” My laugh kicks it up a notch. “That’s insane.”
The stupid, moronic pigeon lands on my shoulder.
“Is it. . .your familiar?” the grey-haired man asks.
My laughter has somehow transformed to tears, and I wipe them off, dislodging the stupid bird in the process. It flutters to the ground, but doesn’t go far, cooing and strutting around my feet. “Of course not.”
“Officer Lucent doesn’t have a familiar,” the Chief says. “She’s never wanted any additional encumberments. No boyfriend. No pets. No familiar. Nothing to distract her from the job.”
If I stay here more than another few moments, there’s no way they won’t realize that this dumb pigeon is bonded to me. I stand up abruptly. “My stomach appears to be upset. I think the tacos might have been a little much for me.”
Judging by the looks on their faces, a weak stomach might be worse than a pigeon familiar.
“I’m going to run to the restroom.”
The pigeon, of course, follows me conspicuously.
I have no idea what to do. I hide in a stall, staring at the pigeon for more than five minutes. “You.”
It coos.
“You can’t follow me outside.”
It coos again.
Maybe that means it understands. Maybe it’ll stay here. Or maybe cooing means Go to hell, you crazy lady. I groan. If it does mean that, I can’t even blame it. I bonded it. It had nothing to do with it. The fact that its brain is smaller than a pea isn’t really its fault.
“Are you a boy?”
It pecks me.
“A girl?”
It coos.
I’m going to take that to mean it’s a female. “Look. I’m at a job interview, and I need this job. So you must stay in here and stop making me look crazy? Alright?”
Of course, I can’t lock it up inside. There’s a huge gap above and below the stall. I try telling it to stay several different ways, even promising to come back for it, but the minute I emerge from the stall, it struts out behind me.
And flies up to sit on my shoulder.
Peter Chester has a falcon. He looks pretty cool, waltzing around the office with that feathered predator sitting on his shoulder, ready to attack on his command. Maybe I look cool—maybe I’m over thinking this. I glance in the mirror.
If Peter’s falcon looks predatory, awe-inspiring, and noble, my pigeon by comparison looks. . .constipated.
Oh no. What if it poops on my shoulder? I feel like it will do it the second I walk out. I’m in the middle of wrapping my little pigeon in toilet paper as tightly as I can when the door opens.
And the curvy woman walks inside.
“So are you completely crazy? Or is that pigeon actually your familiar?” She looks downright terrified to hear the answer.
I drop the toilet paper and the stupid bird wriggles its way free.
“Why would you bond a pigeon?” It sounds like she’s asking me why I crapped my pants.
“Oh, no, I didn’t.” I sigh, accepting that I’ve botched yet another interview. “I made the mistake of feeding it a while back,” I say. “It’s been following me around ever since. If the restaurant finds out it was me, they’ll never let me in here again.”
“It’s nothing personal,” she says. “But we can’t have people who make mistakes on our team. We need only the very best. The rest of our lives depend on the guardians we choose.”
I can’t even blame her. I wouldn’t hire me either.