Chapter 20

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What the furcula.

Childhood Kass.

I barely remember her.

She was a little freak who lived in a fantasy world. Her eyes were constantly sparkling. She was too loud and hyper and excitable. The other kids didn't like to play with her so much because she took over all their games. Conversations were hard before she began studying what exactly a successful conversation looked like.

Who even knows why I'm still thinking about advice from a figment of my imagination. What, on the off chance he's not actually a figment of my imagination?

That's bologna, and I don't eat bologna.

I have textured soy protein.

And that's textured soy protein doesn't have quite the same ring to it.

Lips pinched, I stare into the food processor as it struggles pitifully with the lump of seasoned vital wheat gluten I've just stuffed inside it. It's Thanksgiving today. And it's my job to make the tofurkey. So, needless to say, there will be plenty of textured soy protein to go around.

I am overwhelmed.

I am tired.

After talking with monster-Pollux last Wednesday, I awoke in a cold sweat, so I shut my thoughts off and went through the scripted motions and routines I've sworn by for years. I've been off work for one day, but with all the dodging questions about my student's single father who is a vegetarian and prime marriage material it hasn't felt like much of a vacation.

It's only because of the constant bombardment and the fact today is the day I will see him for Thanksgiving that the things I've blocked out for just over a week are oozing through the cracks.

Unpack a box, he said.

That's a bad idea.

I'll probably knock them all over if I try to climb and reach the top one. I'm used to sloppy kids, but that's why I have systems in place to maintain something akin to order in my own brain, life, and classroom. My supply closet is sectioned and tidy. Every single shelf and item is labeled. Even though the items aren't labeled by what they are. No. They're labeled by who.

Kids care about things with names.

Or, at least, kids care about things with names a little more than they care about things without names. I still have to sort my boxes about once a week while my littles half-do their own designated chores, but Marvin the glue stick always seems to find his way back home.

In conclusion, magic isn't real, because if it is, the fae can't lie, and if they can't lie, Pollux told me I was fae, and I'm not fae. I have two perfectly normal parents and a letter of apology about Santa claiming they would never ever seek to lie to me again.

Also, sarcasm.

I am capable of sarcasm, and sarcasm is often full of lies.

Me being fae incorporates about as well as the lump of gluten in the food processor in front of me.

Meaning it doesn't.

"Kasserole?" Dad pokes me in the shoulder after he pulls a tray of cookies out of the oven. "Are you all right, honey?"

I look at him. "Yeah, why?"

"Your face."

I fix my face with a tried-and-true smile. "Sorry. Testing is soon, so I was just thinking about school stuff. " See? Little white lie.

"When aren't you?" Mom laughs. "Are you sure you're not thinking about him. The him whose name we still don't know?"

Because it's a stupid weird name and you won't be able to giggle about it to his face when he introduces himself.

Dad's head shakes. "No, her expression wasn't giving off love. It was suggesting murder. Maybe she was thinking about a love rival."

My mother gasps and covers her mouth to hide her words, as though she's not talking at full volume and I cannot hear her conspiring against me. "What should we do about a love rival, Aaron?"

"I'll get the body bag."

"Guys," I protest, adding a single awkward laugh for good measure. "There's no love rival. There's no love. Please don't embarrass me in front of a parent. If you make things awkward, he may take my little out of school."

Hands still tucked into the pair of oven mitts I made for him last Christmas, Dad crosses his arms. Side-eyeing my mother, he says, "I think our only child is embarrassed by us."

"I think so, too."

"Imagine that. We aren't even the ones wearing a turkey costume."

My mouth drops open. "Excuse me?"

"So many frills," Mom tuts, eyes fixed on my clothes.

I turn the food processor off and display my festive skirt, which hosts an array of autumn colors and the cutest round turkey patch in the world. I know, because I made him from scratch after searching long and hard for one half as endearing. "This is hardly a costume. I'm in the holiday spirit. It is my Thanksgiving outfit, and it is tradition."

Dad lifts his mitt and uses it like a puppet. "Gobble, gobble, gobble."

I heave a dramatic sigh. "I am going to die of shame and lose my student." Grabbing a towel off the oven handle, I march my tofu turkey slop into the dining room where my stuffing is already prepped on the table.

Mom follows me in and hands me a different towel before stealing the one I just got. "Use the dish towel around food. It's fresher than the hand towel."

"Thanks." I wonder if I need to mention ahead of time that Pollux and Andromeda don't like to say or hear thank you. It would be a real shame if one of them stole my parents' souls, after all.

Because, ha ha ha, that can totally happen.

Ugh.

Probably best not to open the cult can of worms right now. Pollux can do that one himself if he so desires.

I've finished wrapping up my tofurkey roll, getting it in the oven, and setting the dining room table for five before a knock sounds at the front door.

Mom gasps, and she sparkles as mischief pours out of her pores. Checking her hair, her clothes, and the kitchen—which is somehow spotless on the one holiday where it is meant to be a wreck—she giggles then glides to the foyer.

Every cell in my body wants to be a rugrat and place a single dirty cup by the sink, but I refrain. Supplying my mother with a heart attack on Thanksgiving is not kind. And dontcha know? According to monster-Pollux, a la last week, I'm a good girl.

Somebody shoot me.

"Good evening," Pollux's gruff voice sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. "I am called Pollux Strakh."

"Oh. My." Mom's surprised tone twists a knot in my stomach. She's just discovered how pretty he is. This does not bode well for me.

Ever so inconspicuously, I peek down the short hall and find Pollux filling out the front door frame.

He is holding a bouquet of flowers so vibrant I swear there's a filter on them.

Mom's tittering laugh makes me wince as she reaches for the bouquet. "For me? You shouldn't have."

Pollux tenses while I rack my brain for a reason he'd be coming here, to my parents' house, with a bouquet of flowers for me. We aren't in a relationship. Unlike monster-Pollux seems to think, we are not married. Please tell me he didn't take this invitation the wrong way? How can I even begin to explain this mess?

I've just about reverted my emotions concerning him back to stab, stab, and die when he—very quietly—says, "I apologize. A friend told me it was appropriate to bring the matriarch of the house flowers, as gratitude, for hosting Meda and me. If I shouldn't have, I do sincerely apologize."

Mom stills. "They…they are for me?"

"They were meant to be, yes."

Andromeda squeezes past Pollux's leg with a bouquet of her own, finds me snooping, and gasps. "Mrs. Role!" She bolts before Pollux can catch hold of her. Grinning, she holds up the brilliant arrangement of sunflowers and bright orange lilies and peachy roses. "These are for you. Pila helped me arrange them."

My heart is thundering, but I manage to say, "They're beautiful."

Mom walks by holding her waterfall of pinks and reds. "Mine's bigger," she says.

"Mom," I snap.

She sticks her tongue out at me, leans closer, and whispers, "Also, he's gorgeous. Marry him." Humming as though she is not a gremlin, she trots into the kitchen to put her flowers in some water.

I brace myself for whatever might come next as I lift my attention toward Pollux.

His dark gaze trails over me, over my chubby embroidered turkey, over the bouquet I'm clasping to my chest, and he smiles. "Kassandra."

"Hi." I blink, forget everything that is supposed to come next, and babble, "These…lovely. Tha— Mm. Nope. Sorry."

My father swoops in to either rescue me or put the last nail in my coffin as he exits the living room and offers his hand to Pollux. "Mr. Strakh, I hear. I'm Kassandra's father, Aaron."

"It's nice to meet you, sir." Pollux doesn't lift his hand. "I appreciate the invitation. This will be a new experience for us."

"Fish!" Andromeda cheers, eyes massive. She dances on the tips of her toes and stares into the living room where my father's seventy-gallon tank makes itself the centerpiece of the far wall. She whips her attention up to Pollux, then back to the tank.

Dad lowers his hand and crouches in front of Andromeda. "Greetings, half-pint. Would you like to say hi to the fish?"

"They talk?"

He laughs. "Well, we can find out. What's your name?"

She rocks on her heels. "Andromeda."

"Wow. That's a big name for a half-pint."

"If it's too hard, you can call me Meda. That's what Mrs. Role calls me."

My father's brows rise. "Mrs. Role? My wife is already giving you nicknames?"

Andromeda's head lops to one side. She points at me. "Mrs. Role."

"Ahh, I see. Mrs. is used for married women. Did you know that?"

Andromeda's head bobs. "Yes."

"My daughter isn't married." Dad oh-so-subtly glances at Pollux. "Yet."

"Dad," I hiss.

Andromeda looks at her father, and something unspoken passes between them. A moment later, she's tugging my father into the living room. "Fish!"

He laughs. "Okay, okay. Let's learn about the fish."

Left alone in the hall with Pollux, I try to release a breath, but it gets stuck.

"Does your kitten have a name yet?" he asks, lowly.

I hug my flowers and give up the big, bad secret. "Chai."

"You must really like the drink."

"Mmhm…" I clear my throat as scandalous red fills my skank cheeks. "He's been banished to my room all day, so we could cook without fur getting in the food."

"Do your parents know where he came from?"

A nervous laugh exits me. "Oh, absolutely not." I am, at this point in time, willing to believe you only drink recreationally and are a bit of an obsessive connoisseur, but I have no plans to reveal the fact you gave me a random kitten while you were drunk at a Halloween party. I don't even know why you were at the Halloween party because your cult doesn't seem to approve of holidays. You're welcome. I replay the Oh, absolutely not that I actually said, not what my brain monologued, and stiffen. "Not to be rude. It's just… It was very interesting, and sudden, how I got him."

"So they believe he's an average pet. I see. That explains things."

What…things, exactly, does that explain?

He changes the subject before I even begin to know how to phrase my question. "I spoke with Willow in an effort to learn what behaviors might be acceptable today."

I fiddle with a soft petal on one sunflower. "O…kay?"

"She told me to bring the flowers, but your mother's response makes me question the other information I have been provided."

I am scared. I don't know exactly why. I just know I am. My brief meetings with Willow lead me to believe, of everyone in Pollux's cult, she is the one least likely to be trusted. "What other information did she tell you?"

"She mentioned that after the bird has been killed and dismantled, I may be asked to break its bones. I hope that all bird-killing-related activities are suspended, given that it would be wasteful to kill something you don't eat? Or, perhaps, your parents are not also vegetarian, and I might need to fortify myself for this request?" His eyes narrow. "If that is the case, I shall do my best to pulverize every vertebra."

"Um." I have no words. Pollux does that to me. He shuts off all my words. Probably because the ones he incites are the kinds I've been taught aren't entirely polite. Example: at this exact moment, I'd like to say dude, what the f— "Wait a second. Is she talking about breaking the wishbone?"

Light turns on in Pollux's eyes. Closing them, he scrubs a hand down his face. Growling, he says, "Willow." He sucks in a breath and lets it out before snapping his eyes back open. "I'm almost proud of her delivery of the truth in such a morbid and creative manner. It's quite fae of her, and I appreciate the innocent mischief." He cracks his neck. "I'm familiar with the wishbone tradition. The snapping of a bird's furcula. It originated in an ancient Italian civilization. A mischievous faerie, who I will not name, thought it would be hilarious to convince a group of people that birds held power over predicting the future. In the beginning, the furcula wasn't broken, it was stroked. Because, again—" Pollux grumbles. "—the unnamed he thought it was funny to make a bunch of humans murder and pet the bones of deceased creatures. It was the Romans who took to breaking the bone in order to attain the wish. And I'm not saying that our unnamed—" He curses. "—of a faerie enjoyed carrying out many of the most terrible wishes, but I am also not saying he restrained himself if the wishes could be twisted into something he found funny."

My eye twitches, so I rub it and, again, attempt to locate an appropriate response. All I manage is, "Furcula?"

"The wishbone. The necessary bone in a bird's anatomy that allows its flight mechanics. It's somewhat elastic and functions almost like a loaded spring in order to store and release energy for each flap."

I swallow. I tell myself I am not very attracted to a man who knows random facts about bones, but, alas.

"Kass!" Mom calls, perhaps saving me from more googly-eyed staring. "I think the turkey's done. Is everyone ready to eat?"

"Yep!" I squeak. Like an idiot, I touch Pollux's arm, and my stomach turns over in response to yet again witnessing his muscles. "We're all vegetarians. Don't worry. The turkey is a tofurkey. We're not going to break any bones." I close my stupid fingers off him and smile as bright as possible. "Let's go eat!"