A Little Familiar

by R. Cooper

  Bartleby instantly slouched further, until he was nearly pressed to the grate in front of the fire. “Fine,” he went on, silky and annoyed. “It’s your family’s turn to provide treats for the Samhain revels.”

  “Yes, I know.” Piotr had put it on his list in August, along with what he planned to make. He normally brought cakes or sweets to all of the celebrations, but the coven liked to share responsibilities to keep the burden from falling on a few families, so they took turns being officially responsible for various tasks.

  Instead of making a face for Piotr’s tone, Bartleby wrapped both hands around his latte and intently studied the lid. “And, you are probably planning to bring your cider as usual, in addition to the work you do around your house for Halloween.” He peeked over, strangely shy and mesmerizing because of it. “They were worried… that is, everyone is aware that this is your first year doing this on your own. Andrei is across the country in grad school. Your grandmother is gone. And you aren’t… seeing anyone.” Bartleby cleared his throat and then took a quick sip of his pumpkin-flavored latte.

  “Shut up,” Piotr told him, his face flaming although Bartleby hadn’t actually said a negative word. He didn’t have to. His tactful pause said enough. “I knew it wouldn’t last. I never told him, so how could it?”

  “I didn’t say anything.” Bartleby insisted. Piotr couldn’t remember him ever being this hesitant. At least, not once he’d hit puberty.

  “You were thinking it.” Piotr uncrossed his arms, then didn’t know what to do with them. He already felt like a giant, and Bartleby’s soft posture made him regret anything that might be interpreted as a show of strength. “Everyone always thinks the same thing. You were thinking I should date someone within the community, or at least some liberal-minded person I can ease into it.”

  “Was that what I was thinking?” Bartleby wondered, with that same expression of unbelievable innocence that always made Piotr feel vaguely guilty. Then Bartleby stared at his drink again. “You’re the one with the gift for seeing what cannot be seen, not me. I can only rely on my limited talents, and what my eyes tell me.”

  Piotr’s guilt became considerably less vague. That Bartleby wanted him to feel guilty didn’t change anything.

  The Dorchesters were an old, esteemed clan. Bartleby’s mother was from an ancient family. By all rights, Bartleby should have been a witch of renowned power. In some ways, he was. But in the eyes of most he was something else entirely. Bartleby had been born to help other witches. Someday, he would help one particular witch and no one else. In the old days, he would have been praised as the rarest of rare jewels—a human familiar. Bartleby was a witch destined to give, possessor of powers he could never use by himself. But these days, no one seemed to know what to do with him. A human familiar hadn’t been born into any of the local covens in generations, and Bartleby wasn’t meant for just anyone.

  Piotr imagined the kind of close, intimate friendship that would develop between Bartleby and the witch of his choosing, then looked away. At least now he understood why Bartleby was here. “You’ve been sent to help me.” He didn’t know what the tight sensation in his chest meant, but forced himself to breathe. “Do you even want to be here?”

  Bartleby jerked his head up to frown at him. “They sent me, yes, but so what? Helping is kind of my thing, as everyone knows. It’s not… it’s not a burden for me to be here, if that’s what you’re trying to ask in your delicate papa bear way.” He seemed to see something in Piotr’s silence. “Look, they’re worried about you. They do love you, you know. Everyone does. You know that, right, Piotr? Your coven worries about you.”

  When Piotr stared at him without any answer but the ticking of the clock, Bartleby let out a hurt sound that was too loud for Piotr’s quiet house. “We worry about you like you worry about us,” he enunciated each word, making sure Piotr heard him. Then he lowered his gaze. “Just—” he waved his cup around without spilling a drop, “—give me something to do. Easy things. Hand me the kid scissors. Or, don’t, like always.”

  Piotr opened his mouth to protest that his isolation was not meant to insult or offend anyone, much less Bartleby, but Bartleby didn’t notice.

  He went from animated to dejected with another sigh, then fell into his usual posture. “I’ll be on my way, then. I don’t know why I bothered, except it’s the time of year when walls should be crumbling. But yours are as solid as ever, I see.” He slinked toward the front door but did it gracefully. “No one is forcing you to spend time with me.”

  Perhaps it was approaching Samhain, when the veils between worlds became thin and boundaries ceased to exist, creating a season for powerful magic. Because the pressure on Piotr’s chest increased as Bartleby came close, and when Bartleby passed him and reached the door, Piotr could barely breathe. Bartleby wanted to help. That was who he was, concerned and caring and unafraid to show it. Piotr had never known how to react to him, but that wasn’t Bartleby’s fault any more than it had been Kyle’s.

  “Wait,” Piotr got out, and the candles guttered as if the door had already been opened and a breeze had threatened to snuff them out. Bartleby stopped and turned around. In the stillness of his own home, Piotr was loud and too awkward and blocking the hallway with his shoulders. “Won’t you have other things to do?”

  “Before one of the biggest holidays of the year?” Bartleby put a hand to his chest. “Are you joking?”

  Instead of calming Piotr down, the reminder made his heart thump against his ribs. “Oh right,” he remembered aloud. “You’ll have plenty to do at the revels themselves.”

  Although hardly the bacchanalia ordinary humans imagined, the coven and its guests could get a little wild at certain celebrations. The younger witches in particular had a tendency to drink too much and wind up in compromising situations.

  He met Bartleby’s gaze without meaning to, and Bartleby licked the corner of his mouth.

  Piotr had a sudden urge to make pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream.

  Fortunately, Bartleby misinterpreted his staring, and wrinkled his nose at him exactly like the mistreated and misunderstood housewife witch from that 60s TV show. “You get caught making out behind the hay bales one time!” Bartleby raged—although his rage was the gentlest rage imaginable, the briefest, quietest maelstrom in a teacup. He waved his latte around once more and then whined at Piotr. “I’d had a lot of your cider. I was weak.”

  “It was my cider?” Piotr heard himself asking, like a fool, then immediately, physically, moved on from the subject of Bartleby’s escapades in the hay, and thoughts of the taste of spiced apples that would have been in Bartleby’s mouth at the time. He went down the hall into the dining room, intending to pick up his current notebook. “I don’t know if you’d want to do anything on my list, but if you do, no complaining that it’s boring. And—” He stopped short, and Bartleby bumped into his back. They both froze. “And no remarks about my love life,” Piotr ordered.

  It wasn’t much of an order, considering his voice was pitched low and there were a ridiculous number of candles lit now, and Bartleby had put one hand against Piotr’s back to steady himself. His hand was small and warm.

  Piotr hurried into the dining room, Bartleby on his heels. He regretted his lack of foresight when Bartleby immediately noticed the tea cup. Piotr slapped his hand over the top to hide the leaves, then picked up the cup and carried it to the kitchen to rinse it out. He swore under his breath as he remembered the food he’d been reheating, but switched the oven off and pulled out the pot pie to cool on the counter.

  The pot pie was going to be very dry. He could never serve any to Bartleby now, if Bartleby should ask. An overcooked pot pie was no kind of offering.

  But Bartleby said nothing. He drifted from the dining room table into the kitchen and then glanced around. He went completely still when he saw Pallas, his eyes filling with a hurt that made Piotr swallow a dozen apologies. But when Pallas let out a small “c-r-ruk” sound, followed by a rough
, “Nope nope nope,” Bartleby relaxed against the counter.

  There was tea left in the pot, but Bartleby already had a drink, so Piotr stayed quiet and didn’t reach for a cup for him. Bartleby had probably already eaten dinner as well. Piotr didn’t have anything else to give him, so he stood there, being judged by both bird and Bartleby.

  At last, Bartleby spoke. “I’m fully aware that your garden and your house are your domain, Piotr. I’m not here to intrude, especially not in your kitchen.” He put his cup down next to the teapot, and somehow he was at Piotr’s side before Piotr realized it. His easy posture made him seem smaller than he was. His wrists could have been made of glass. That was his only real deception—appearing harmless. He might even have thought he was.

  “I’m not worried about that.” Piotr was bad at relationships, but that was more due to his inability to keep someone wanting him than anything else. He wasn’t an asshole. “You’re more than capable.” Bartleby smiled as if Piotr had given him a wonderful compliment. For a few seconds, Piotr couldn’t think. “But none of this is interesting,” he fumbled on, giving a reason he’d heard more than once. “Not even Halloween, or Samhain, will make it fun for you. It’s what I do every day, with the addition of pumpkins and lots of baking. It’ll be tiring. It’s tiring for me, and I like doing it.”

  “You could just buy a mix and make cupcakes from a box like almost everyone else does.” Bartleby frowned as he made the suggestion. “Everyone would be disappointed, but they’d understand. The same with your cider. You could bring beer or something. I mean, as long as I get a bottle of the good stuff.”

  “The cider is done already.” Piotr gave Bartleby a careful look. “It’s five days to Samhain. I made the cider weeks ago so it could ferment and settle. It’s not magic,” he added, because Bartleby seemed amazed. Piotr waved toward the kitchen door leading out to the garden. “The press is in the shed behind the berry bushes, next to the beehive. I like to provide cider. It feels like a real offering. And I don’t care for beer.”

  “There will be more than enough booze, but your cider will still stand out,” Bartleby assured him, as if Piotr had needed the praise. Maybe he did, and Bartleby knew it. That was the sort of embarrassing thought to haunt Piotr. That, and the realization he could offer Bartleby cider, and Bartleby would likely accept it. He might not even know what that would mean to him. Bartleby probably received gifts of books or flowers or chocolates. One bottle of cider intended for everyone was hardly anything to remark upon. Yet Piotr didn’t move.

  Bartleby spun around to consider the entire kitchen. He took a deep breath over both the teapot and the pot pie, as if both smelled tempting.

  Piotr’s mouth went dry. Bartleby returned to his latte and came close enough that Piotr could smell the warmth and sweetness of it, cinnamon and nutmeg teasing senses he hadn’t realized were starved.

  “So this is where the magic happens?” Bartleby asked, then cracked up at the old stupid joke. At least his amusement brought Piotr back into the moment, where he was a powerful, if lonely, witch, and his coven had sent a familiar to him in an effort to cheer him up. They meant well. They couldn’t have known the sound of Bartleby’s laughter would keep him up all night.

  Piotr wanted to take the sugar and caffeine away from Bartleby. Then he wanted to give him more, but in something he had made. He tried to be sensible and remember what a waste of Bartleby’s power this would be. “All that happens here is that I will carve or cook a lot of pumpkins. Then set out some decorations. Everything else has been done already. Canning took up most of September.”

  He shouldn’t have said it. Bartleby stopped laughing and turned on his heel as if truly studying the pantry this time.

  “All that for you?” he wondered, and put the latte down with a final, defeated sort of gesture. “All that, done already? Do you even need my help, Piotr?”

  Piotr didn’t. But Bartleby fixed him with a sorrowful look and Piotr had to glance away. “It’s a lot, isn’t it?” Piotr asked, without waiting for an answer. “I can get carried away, I know.”

  Piotr was somewhat infamously known as the postal delivery man who dogs didn’t bite and bees wouldn’t sting. He did his job and did it well, but he lived in a small town and was one of several drivers. Unless it was Christmas, he didn’t have that much to do. So he had the time to care for the garden, to can, and make cider, and pour over spellbooks until he found exactly the spells that were needed. But the sheer amount of food he’d put up for the winter was mocking him now with Bartleby there to see it. Maybe it would be good to have someone to remind him to stop, someone to actually share this food with. He’d already given away so much.

  “The coming of winter makes me want to make sure everyone is prepared,” he explained himself further while Bartleby took stock of the jars full of preserves and vegetables and applesauce and bits of honeycomb, the herbs hung up to dry along the top of the pantry.

  He steeled himself, but when Bartleby faced him, his smile had returned. “Still no chicken coop?” He didn’t say how he knew about Piotr’s desire for fresh eggs, or how Piotr hadn’t set up a coop in the yard.

  Piotr shook his head without admitting that he also attracted the odd fox and coyote, and not just cats and dogs, and so couldn’t have his own chickens. “That’s pretty much all it is,” he continued, and knew he sounded like a boring twit when Pallas croaked, “Hippie shit,” at him. “Baking. Decorating. It’s nothing I can’t do alone. The coven doesn’t need to worry.”

  But Bartleby nodded. “I won’t get in your way,” he promised seriously, as if Piotr had ever once thought he would.

  Piotr drew his eyebrows together in a puzzled frown, the same frown that had earned him the nickname the Great Big Russian Bear among the other kids in the coven when they’d played together. Piotr never actually known his father, but presumably he’d been Russian, judging from the names his mother had chosen.

  Blond and graceful, Andrei had been called Baryshnikov until he’d left for college. Piotr thought it was nature’s need for balance that made them so different. Their grandmother had assured him Piotr was made big and strong because he would have more to handle. But she had also insisted, with a pointed look over the top of her bifocals, that a familiar would be good to have around, even for a man with the shoulders of Atlas.

  Piotr had never disagreed. But he studied Bartleby and wondered why there was a sly, pleased curve to his mouth. He’d thought Bartleby would leap at the chance to say no. “If you get bored, it’s okay.”

  “You ridiculous wild creature.” Bartleby stretched up. Piotr bent his head before he even realized he was doing it, but by then Bartleby had pulled the twig from his hair and placed it on the counter. “You can’t go on like this either, can you?” Bartleby enjoyed not making sense, Piotr was sure of it. But he gave Piotr no chance to figure out what he meant. “You have my number right?”

  For coven business, every member had everyone’s information, and everyone was friends on social media, even those who didn’t use it. Nonetheless, Piotr hesitated before answering. “Yes.”

  “Good!” Bartleby hovered in the general area of the tea, then sniffed the pot pie one more time. When Piotr didn’t speak, he sighed heavily and moved away. Despite the sad sound, he was smiling as he went into the dining room. “So use it. Call me. Explain what you need… well… you probably won’t need anything. But tell me whatever I can do for you whenever you feel like being less than amazingly competent. There has to be some way I can help you.”

  Illogically irked by the compliment, Piotr followed him. “See if I give you any bottles of cider early, then,” he challenged, and had no idea what had come over him to be this rude to someone who didn’t deserve it. He was nearly thirty, not twelve.

  Pallas cackled. The candles flickered. Piotr had a feeling he was flushed.

  “You’re going to deny me cider?” Bartleby was slippery and teasing as he turned around. His smile was confusing, but Piotr memorized it
anyway. “I wait for that cider all year!” Bartleby complained, his voice taking up the entire first floor of the house. “I know!” He snapped his fingers, or tried to, in his gloves. Then he held up his latte and narrowed his eyes with knowing pleasure. “I’ll make a trade with the great Piotr Russell. One bottle for one pumpkin latte. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you drooling over this.”

  Piotr brought his gaze up from the traces of purple lipstick on the plastic cup lid, and firmly banished all thoughts of what Bartleby’s mouth would taste like.

  “And I thought your eggnog lattes thing at Yule was bad.” Bartleby shook his head in false despair, thankfully oblivious to Piotr’s thoughts. “And disgusting. Eggnog. Gross.” Bartleby shuddered. “But at least we see you then. You should think about it, if not this year.” His laughter faded until he was once again quiet and serious. “Hang all the cobwebs and paper skeletons you want. Light this place up, put a bowl of candy on the porch for the children, but then come back to us.”

  “I like to spend the night here.” Piotr spoke gruffly, insisting with more force than was necessary. “I like Halloween.”

  “Okay.” Bartleby held up a hand in a placating gesture. “You’re going to have to convince me, I guess. Because I think you belong with us on that most sacred night, watching us enjoy the treats you’ve made, actually seeing us cared for by your hand. This is sweet and lovely, Piotr, but it’s not what you were meant for, and I, for one, have no intention of avoiding the Circle forever in order to give out candy and listen to novelty songs about monsters.”

  Which was one of the more perplexing things Bartleby had ever said. Piotr hadn’t invited him to spend his Hallow’s Eve here, because if he had, Bartleby would most likely snap back with a, “I would prefer not to”—one of his other favorite jokes to make himself laugh.

  Bartleby didn’t have to like the human version of one of the most ancient holidays, although he certainly had no reason to hate it. Most witches seemed to find it amusing at best.