Pandora: An Urban Fantasy Anthology

by Phaedra Weldon

  Brick wall.

  With a growl she looked up at Edward standing at the top of the stairs. "See? Brick. Wall. No back door."

  "It's because you have doubt, Brenda. And as long as you doubt who and what you are, then you'll never get it open."

  "Oh, this is stupid," Brenda shut the door and stomped up the stairs. Edward stepped back, and continued to step back as she pushed him back to the shelf with the grinning skulls. The duster cleaning the books moved away, and she could hear the chatter of dust bunnies. "I can't do magic, Edward."

  He winced. "Please, Brenda. Don't say that. Please don't say that."

  He looked so serious she took a step forward. "Why not?"

  "Because when you do—a fairy dies."

  With a sigh she threw up her arms. "Edward, I'm serious. I suck at magic. I can't do half of what you're doing right now," and she gestured to all the moving things. "I can't even tease a fire spark."

  "Why would you want too? They'll start a real fire if you bend them round the twist, you know."

  "Edward."

  "Brenda," he smiled, and a small bit of her ire vanished. "Not all wizards and witches can do the same thing. If they were all the same, there would be fewer of you. Granny Pollsocks—she was the best at what?"

  "Well, curses really. Getting rid of them. And amulets. Tokens."

  He held up a long, thin index finger. "Right. But she couldn't mix potions—just look at her shelves. At her stores of things. Even you had to have noticed how out of shape everything was."

  Brenda took a step back. "Yeah…"

  "I'm here to tell you that your strength is in potions. You can heal, Brenda."

  "Heal?"

  He nodded. And there was an excitement around him that buzzed and sparkled. "Yes. You can heal. I came to you because I knew you'd heal me. You have the gift. You knew what to do with those items. I didn't. Anyone can bake a cake, Brenda. But you—you can make it into a Bavarian crème masterpiece with chocolate sprinkles." He nodded. "Eh?"

  She took another step back. Something in what he said rang true—she'd always known how to teat injuries to her pets, to her mother on really bad cases, and even to her friends. She'd even considered going into medical school before Granny chose her to inherit the shop.

  "Are you saying that if I change a little of what Granny did—make it my own—I can make this place work?"

  He nodded. "And I'll help. It's what I'm here for."

  It was right then she knew that Edward wasn't really what he appeared to be—a youngish Englishman with electric eyes and a rather melodic voice. No—he was more, much more. "Edward—what are you?"

  He put a hand on each of her shoulders, and Brenda could feel the heat from his skin through her clothing. "I'm here for you, Brenda." He frowned. "Don't you know?" His smile returned with a radiance to rival the sun. "I'm your Familiar."

  Edward seemed to know what he was doing—in a sort of ordered chaos. He moved about with a catlike grace, and yet still managed to break a few things. It was like grace, charm, and newborn enthusiasm all rolled up in a very neat and somewhat gangly package. Together—with the aid of the magically touched broom and dusters—they cleaned out the corners, the cabinets, and the shelves.

  Tuesday and Wednesday passed with the ever-present ding of the cash register—even as the two of them tidied up. Men and women, old and young, familiar and new, all of them came back to the shop and asked for remedies.

  Aches, pains, cuts, bruises, colds.

  And it seemed that Brenda could look into the their eyes, into each of them, and know if the remedy was for them personally, or for a friend or loved one. She knew what to do. Brenda had always known what to do.

  Late in the evening on Wednesday, and after a rousingly well done day at selling and doling out advice, Brenda settled at the table with one of Edward's cups of tea—apparently the man kept a kettle warm all day.

  And without a hot plate.

  He stood at the register, tallying up the day and announcing that—as of five—they had two thirds of the money needed to satisfy the creditors. "Ah—so bank that, you scoundrels. One more day and you should be caught up."

  "How?"

  He frowned at her as he bagged the money. "How what?"

  "How is that possible? I mean, as of two days ago, no one would come in here. Suddenly they're all in the out of the woodwork. Did you do something?"

  "Well, yeah," and his grin widened. "I sort of spread the word. Offered many of them a back door. Did a bit of advertising. Sort of my job—it's what I do to help you."

  "Back door?"

  He put the money into a box on the counter and put his hands on the counter, palms down. "Back door—it's what I tried to tell you on Monday. Hrm. Or was it Tuesday. Oh, can't remember. But you have to look at the analogy. A back door means what?"

  Going with the first thought in her head Brenda said, "A way out."

  He held his right hand in the air. "Exactly. And that's what Granny did for them. Gave her customers a back door. It's hope, Brenda. There's always hope. And my back door was you. I could have curled up in the nothing and simply ceased to exist—and allowed your doubt to become stronger and stronger. But I couldn't. Because I have hope."

  A back door. A way out. Hope that there's something better on the other side. Alarmingly, it all made sense.

  "Edward—why are you a familiar?"

  Waiting until he had the money safely locked in the iron-and-steel safe Granny Pollsocks kept in the broom closet, Edward joined her at the table, a cup of tea abruptly in his hands. "Why? Why are you a witch? Or why does the moon go round the sun? That's sort of rhetorical, isn't it?"

  "No, no," she shook her head. "I mean, familiars are usually small creatures—like cats or toads or some such thing. Usually not grown—men."

  The left side of his mouth twitched and turned up. "Familiars are a part of lore and myth, just like witches and wizards. And how many of the old books got those facts right?" He winked. "If I believed them, you should be some scary old hag with a wart at the end of your nose, sitting about and eating children for breakfast."

  She smiled. Point taken.

  "Don't give in to doubt, Brenda." Edward sipped his tea. "Believe in yourself."

  The front door burst open. Both of them turned to watch Detective Jackie Grafton come in, her boots stomping on the newly cleaned and shiny floor. She wore her usual black pants suit and a tan trench coat. Her eyes were wide as she took in the shop, staring at the improvements, at the working lights.

  "What have you done?" Jackie's voice boomed out.

  Brenda actually shrank in size in her chair.

  "Well, hullo," Edward stood up and walked up to Jackie, his hand extended out. Today he wore a simple long sleeve black button up cotton shirt and black jeans. "You must be Brenda's mother. So charmed to meet you."

  Jackie narrowed her eyes at him. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

  "I'm Brenda's new employee. Edward Darlington." He glanced down at his still extended hand. When it was obvious she wasn't going to shake it, he clasped his hands behind his back. "Care for a cup of tea?"

  She moved past him to Brenda and loomed over her. "What is this nonsense about not selling the shop? I got a call from Mr. Bitterman—he was all happy and gushy that you'd nearly paid up your bill? And you'd given him a sachet that completely cleaned out the cat-pee from his house?"

  Brenda tried not to laugh—but she did smirk. "Yes mom. I did that. But I told you I didn't want to sell—that was your idea."

  "Oh? And you think you can keep this place working with two days of good luck?" She snorted. "Oh please, Brenda. Just give it up. You'll never be as magical as Granny. None of us were."

  Just then one of the dusters swished out from behind the bookshelf and started its controlled and precise sweep of each shelf. The broom came from behind the counter, chasing dust bunnies across the floor—though they were much smaller than before.

  Brenda liked the look of
disbelief on her mother's eyes. It was a look that rarely sat there. "I'm afraid you're not quite right on that mom." She knew Edward wanted to answer her in the same manner, but she felt it was better if it all came from her.

  "Oh?" She glanced at the broom and duster again. "Parlor tricks. That's all. You can't do magic."

  "Maybe not magic the same way Granny could, mom. But I can. I can heal. I can give advice. And I can even make a great cup of tea." She held up her cup. "Would you like some?"

  There was something else happening here, and she didn't realize what until she looked at Edward. She knew it when she looked at his eyes. She knew it when her knees didn't knock. She knew it when her palms didn't sweat.

  She was nervous around her mother—but she wasn't doubtful. She no longer worried that this was the right thing to do—she was confident it was.

  "No. I don't like tea. Well, you're doomed to fail at this idea as well, Brenda. I'd hoped to spare you from that harsh reality. But those same people who turned on you when you failed them before will turn on you when you fail them again.'

  Brenda stood then and Edward moved a little closer. He held a candle in his hand. A thick, white candle. He handed it to her. "I won't fail, mom."

  "Yes you will, child. I don't have magic. You don't have magic."

  "I have back door magic, mom." And she looked at the candlewick and snapped her fingers.

  No fire sparks appeared. No wisps. Not even a tinge of smoke issued from the candle. A single spark, and the flame ignited and burned a tall, strong blue. Brenda knew it wasn't magic—she didn't know how to conjure fire without a fire spark. But she'd thought of the door, and she'd thought of Edward's faith in her, and she'd thought about the faith she had in herself.

  Magic…and hope.

  She'd seen the back door in her mind.

  Jackie's expression was resigned. She adjusted the purse on her shoulders, straightened her coat, and went back to the door. She opened it and then turned to face the two of them. "I won't be back, Brenda. I tried to help you. But it's all in your hands now. Yours." She narrowed her eyes at Edward. "And his."

  And with that she slammed the door.

  Neither of them said a word until Edward moved closer and pinched out the flame. "You thirsty? I'm thirsty. But not for tea. I know this splendid pub over in Yorkshire—and they have the worst meat pastries—but a fine dart board. Care to come?"

  "Yorkshire?" Brenda blinked at him. Her heart was still racing—she'd never told her mother no before. Never done anything her mother told her not to. "As in England?"

  "Well of course."

  "Edward, how are we going to get to—"

  "Through the back door," he nodded to the stairwell. "And we'd better get a move on."

  She grabbed her coat as she humored him and followed him down the stairs to the back door. It looked different somehow. More alive. Vivid colors that seemed to swirl and move all around.

  "Ready?"

  Brenda put her arm in his. "I could kiss you for being here for me."

  "Ah—one rule for familiar to witch or wizard," he looked down at her. "No fraternizing. Can't be messing it all up." And with that, he smiled and gave her a soft but firm kiss on the lips."

  "Edward?"

  And he opened the back door.

  About the Author

  Phaedra Weldon is a writer and mother of one. Born in Pensacola, Florida, Phaedra was raised in the lush, green southern tropic of Georgia. She grew up on southern ghost stories told while eating marshmallows around campfires, or on the back of pick-up trucks in the middle of cornfields on chilly October nights. Phaedra currently lives in the South with her daughter.

  For more information

  www.phaedraweldon.com

  phaedra@phaedraweldon.com

  Copyright © 2018 by Phaedra Weldon

  “Mirror Mirror” Copyright © 2008

  “Darker Streets” Copyright © 2014

  “Back Door Magic” Copyright © 2007

  “The Stars Are Fire” Copyright © 2014

  “Pandora” Copyright © 2012

  “Gaze Of Intent” Copyright © 2010

  “The Mer” Copyright © 2015

  “The Revolt of the Philosophers of Fomalhaut” Copyright © 2015

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by Caldwell Press

  Thank you for purchasing and reading Pandora: 8 Tales of Urban Fantasy. It would be greatly appreciated if you could take a moment and leave an honest review of this anthology within the guidelines of your favorite retailer.

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