How to Fake Being Harmless

The bacon in the skillet was sputtering hard enough to sting, throwing hot grease over my knuckles while the floorboards shook under my sneakers.

I didn’t back up an inch. If you flinched in this house, you went hungry. One blink and one of my four brothers would swoop in and snatch the last plate of biscuits cooling by the cutting board.

“Out of the way, Trouble,” Knox muttered, throwing an arm right across my chest with the thick-headed confidence of a guy who thought varsity combat training gave him right-of-way in every room in the house.

I didn’t turn around. I just threw a hard, sharp elbow straight into his ribs.

Knox wheezed, stumbling back into the counter, but the obnoxious smirk on his face didn’t even slip. He had white gym chalk caked in the hair on his arms, a torn hoodie hanging off his broad shoulders, and a raw red scrape running along his jaw from whatever sparring match he and Rhett had been finishing out by the garage.

“Vicious little thing,” he said, rubbing his side. “Why do we let you near sharp objects again?”

“Because the last time you cut the ham, you hit the knife with a blast of force and blew meat into the wall,” I said, flipping the bacon with the tongs. “Dad spent all Sunday fixing the drywall.”

“The cut was clean,” Knox insisted, leaning against the counter and reaching for the bread anyway. “The food got shared.”

“You turned it into dust, Knox.”

Out in the front hall, the heavy front door slammed open, followed by the loud clatter of wheels hitting the hardwood.

“I’m here, I’m alive, and if anybody touches the blue bag with the silver zipper, I will make sure your shoelaces stay knotted together for the next nine months!”

Josie kicked the door shut with the heel of her boot, hauling two heavy suitcases, a massive duffel, and a canvas bag that smelled like peppermint and lemon balm into the hall. She was already in her travel clothes—an oversized sweater, leggings, and three silver earrings that sparked with tiny, jumpy blue sparks because her lightning magic always got restless when she was stressed about packing.

“Josie’s here,” Rhett called from the doorway, stepping around her bags with a carton of protein drinks tucked under his arm. As the oldest, Rhett moved with the heavy, unshakeable calm of a stone wall. His protective shields were so solid they sat in the air around him like thick glass, strong enough to make the kitchen lights flicker if he stood too close to the switch. “You brought four bags, Josie. The roof rack on the truck is already bending.”

“Those are essentials, Rhett, don’t touch the buckles,” Josie fired back, marching into the kitchen and dropping her tote straight onto the island, shoving Knox out of her way with zero hesitation. “I brought sea salt, extra robes, and three backup power banks because you Credeurs drain every battery within twenty feet.”

She leaned right over my shoulder, snagging a strip of bacon off the paper towel before I could snap the tongs at her.

“Hey,” she said around a mouthful of food, her green eyes bright and sharp. “Tell me your mom made the greens.”

“Pot’s on the back burner,” I told her, the knot of annoyance in my chest loosening just a little. Josie lived three houses down the road, and she’d spent so much time on our couch growing up that she was basically family. “Don’t let Knox near them. He’s bleeding on the floor again.”

Josie looked down at Knox’s arm, where a slow bead of red was dripping onto the tile. “Did you punch a wall again?”

“I didn’t punch a wall,” Knox grumbled, wiping the blood on his pants. “Rhett set his shield early.”

“I put the shield where the line was marked,” Rhett said mildly, setting the drinks on the pantry shelf. “You hit solid stone with your bare fist. That’s just your own bad luck, Knox.”

I watched them bicker, turning the burner down as the familiar, suffocating tightness settled behind my ribs.

It was always there, that tightness. A hard, cold knot locked up tight behind my chest. When Knox threw a punch, his power rolled out of him like fire. When Rhett anchored a shield, the air turned dense and heavy in a heartbeat. Even Jesse, who came sliding through the back door with leaves stuck in his dark curls and a grin on his face, could weave visual tricks so clean he could make an empty driveway look like a parked truck.

And then there was me.

Nineteen years old, heading into my second year at the biggest school on the continent, with magic that felt like a dry well. Every time I reached for that power—the basic, easy spark everyone else used without thinking—the knot locked down. The power choked in my throat, coming out in useless, jagged little bursts that couldn’t keep a light bulb glowing.

“Look what was sitting on the hood of the car,” Jesse said, holding out a closed fist as he hopped up onto the counter.

“If that’s another screaming beetle, Jesse, I will throw your phone into the lake,” I warned him, pointing the tongs at his face.

Jesse gave me that wide, fake innocent smile—the exact same hazel eyes Knox and Rhett had, the family eyes that had completely skipped me. “Della, my sweet sister. Have some respect for the arts.”

He opened his hand. In the middle of his palm sat a tiny, delicate purple bird made of clear glass, its little wings humming with a soft, pretty sound.

Josie leaned in, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, that’s pretty, Jesse. Did you freeze the shape?”

“Better,” Jesse grinned.

The glass bird dissolved into a fat, slimy bullfrog that let out a loud, miserable croak and jumped straight at Josie’s face.

Josie screamed, ducking behind my shoulder, while Knox roared with laughter and Rhett caught the frog mid-air with a quick wave of his hand, trapping it in a glowing little box of force before it could land in the grease.

“Jesse,” Rhett said, his voice flat as he carried the floating box over to the open window and let it drop into the bushes outside. “Stop.”

“Josie needed to practice her dodging before combat trials tomorrow,” Jesse said, grabbing a warm biscuit off the counter. “Mmh. Put more honey in next time, Del.”

“You’re riding on the roof,” I told him.

“Where is Emmett?”

The voice cut through the room instantly. My mother walked in from the back room, carrying a stack of clean school blazers. Her dark hair was pinned up with an old comb, her sleeves pushed up, her sharp eyes taking in the grease on the stove, the blood on Knox’s pants, and the bags in the hallway all at once.

“Upstairs,” Rhett answered. “Buried in old papers.”

“He’s not packing,” I said, setting the tongs down. “He’s reading.”

Mom’s eyes drifted to me, and that heavy, gentle look came over her face. I hated that look. It was the same look people gave you when you dropped a plate in a crowded room—quiet, careful pity. Knox and Rhett got yelled at for putting dents in the walls; I got soft smiles and hands on my shoulder, like I was made of glass that might crack if someone spoke too loud.

“Go call him down for dinner, Delphine,” Mom said softly. “Your father is almost finished checking the truck, and the food is going to get cold.”

“I’ll go,” I said, glad to get away from the crowded kitchen before my brothers started another fight.

I took the stairs two at a time. The second floor was quiet, smelling of clean cedar, laundry, and the dry, papery dust of Emmett’s endless notebooks.

His bedroom door was open an inch. I didn’t bother knocking; I just pushed it open with my sneaker.

Emmett was sitting flat on the rug with his back against his bed, his laptop open, surrounded by stacks of printed records, family charts, and thick, yellowed papers tied with dark thread. Emmett didn’t live in the gym like Knox. He smelled like strong coffee, ink, and old books. He was the quiet brother, the third-year who didn’t care about fight rankings, but whose eyes were always tracking every single thing in the room.

“Mom says dinner’s on the table,” I said, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed. “Knox is eating everything, so if you want food, you’d better hurry.”

Emmett didn’t jump. He calmly slid a plain leather bookmark over the paper on his screen, shutting the laptop with a quiet click. “Did Jesse get Josie with the frog again?”

“Flew right at her nose. Rhett had to catch it.”

A tiny smile touched Emmett’s mouth, but it vanished almost immediately. He pushed his glasses up, his dark eyes fixing on me with that quiet, intense look that always made the back of my neck feel cold. Of all my brothers, Emmett was the hardest to look at. He never treated me like I was weak, but he looked at me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve in his head.

“What are you looking at?” I asked, nodding at the stack of old papers near his knee.

“Old school history,” he said smoothly. “Reading up for the new term.”

“You don’t take history until spring,” I pointed out, stepping into the room. “And you don’t keep copies of hundred-year-old state papers under your bed.”

Emmett didn’t blink. “I like knowing what’s coming, Delly. You know that.”

“I know you spend your allowance on old school records,” I said, though I didn’t push it. I had my own things to hide—mostly the sharp, bitter sting of every failed spell in class. I wasn’t going to dig into his strange hobbies. “Just come down. Dad’s coming inside.”

“Is the truck loaded?” he asked, standing up and brushing off his jeans.

“Rhett took the big bags. Josie brought enough potions for an army.”

“She likes being ready,” Emmett murmured, stepping past me into the hall. “She likes having an answer for things she can see.”

I stayed in his doorway for a second, looking at the black notebook on the corner of his desk. For a split second, a weird, sharp chill ran down my spine—a sudden, electric prickle that made my skin tighten. I rubbed the back of my neck, shaking it off, and followed him down the stairs.

Dinner at our table was loud, fast, and competitive.