Back Door Magic

by Phaedra Weldon

  BACK DOOR MAGIC

  Phaedra Weldon

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2010 by Phaedra Weldon

  originally appeared in the DAW Anthology Wizards, Inc. 2007

  BACK DOOR MAGIC

  Phaedra Weldon

  The fire spark blew her a raspberry before vanishing in a black puff of sooty smoke.

  Brenda blinked a few times in the abrupt darkness before grabbing up at the flashlight perched handle up on the table. Since when did elementals have a sense of humor?

  The evening shadows, elongated at that moment, stretching their hollow limbs into the crevices of the store's tall shelves. A row of authentic skulls, nestled among a neglected Halloween decoration of dried autumn leaves and miniature pumpkins, all illuminated by the streetlight outside, peered down at her from the top shelf near the cash register.

  I never asked Granny to whom those belonged—maybe those are the skulls of hapless idiots like myself who thought they could make money at magic.

  They starved to death.

  Maybe this wasn't such a bad thing—sitting here in the dark. At last she couldn’t see the deed of sale spread out on the table in front of her. She didn't really need to see it to know what it said. The deadline to pay the back taxes and over due mortgage on the shop was Friday, less then four days away.

  With renewed anger (masquerading as determination), Brenda attempted again to conjure another fire spark. Nothing answered her call. Empty space and the faint smell of sulfur.

  Could it get any worse?

  Granny Pollsocks had lit fire with a snap of her fingers—sometimes with only a glare. One look from her violet eyes, and all the fire sparks in the room jumped to do her bidding. Of the six grandchildren, Granny had declared Brenda to the be the one gifted to carry on the tradition of magic in the family. None of the others had been interested—or really believed in it.

  And before granny died, Brenda had shown some aptitude for a few spells and potions. Flash powders were a sore subject. She'd managed to blind a store full of patrons one summer afternoon by accident. Granny had made sure Brenda practiced upstairs after that.

  But then she died, and left "Back Door Magic" to Brenda. Books, supplies, scrolls, amulets, bills and debt included. The steady customers, the ones who'd depended on Granny for years came to Brenda at first, hoping she had even the slightest peep of the talent Granny had had. But after six months—the customers dwindled away.

  The money dried up. And no matter how hard Brenda tried—she couldn't turn lead into gold.

  Just yesterday they'd turned off the power. And now she shivered in the November evening, unable to light a simple candle. She couldn't find the matches—but Granny had never needed them.

  She heard the familiar backfire of her mother's car outside the door, pulling up along the curve in the street outside the shop. Detective Jackie Grafton always parked on the street, in a no-parking zone. Married wealthy, widowed wealthy once, never sick, never injured, always in a good mood. Of course, the widowed wealthy had come after Brenda's father had died, with husband number two.

  Another noise came just as Brenda stood. She stopped and pivoted slowly on her worn sneakers. Most of the shop was dark and scary.

  Just the way Granny liked it.

  Well, I don't like it that way. And that noise sounded like it came from the stairwell.

  Four steps that led to a back door that opened to a brick wall.

  Brenda figured Mom could get in on her own—she had a key. She switched on the flashlight and took several cautious steps to the back of the room, closer to the stairs. "Hello? Is there someone down there?" Her voice echoed in the empty shop.

  She aimed the beam down the stairwell—

  —and a pair of electric blue eyes looked back up at her, eyes filled with pain.

  It was a man!

  The front door opened. "Brenda? You in here? Oh, gawd—where are the lights, child? There are a enough candles in here—hell—light up one of those seven-day candles."

  Brenda turned at the sound of her mother behind her, and then she turned back to the stairwell and shined the light back down again.

  The heels of her mother's boots clacked noisily behind her as Jackie neared. "What're you doing? You see something down there? Rats?"

  Brenda blinked. She thought she'd seen a man in trouble.

  A man with beautiful blue eyes.

  Her mother sighed. "Never could figure out why that door was there. Never made sense." She turned. "Let's get some light in here. I think there are matches behind the cash register."

  Brenda barely noticed her mother's retreat, the clacking of the heels, the faint odor of White Shoulders perfume drifting about the air like an errant ghost. Her mind, her flashlight's beam, and her gaze focused again on the empty stairwell. Five steps down. To a door that went—no where.

  She knew that. But Granny Pollsocks never let her get too close to it—and even through these past six months alone Brenda hadn't bothered to go down the stairs. Too dingy. Too grungy.

  Too…weird.

  With a frown she turned and looked at the register counter. Her mother had found the matches and had several different candles lit—one of them warming candle of red-and-orange-swirled wax. "Why did Granny keep that door?" Brenda moved to the register, switched off the flashlight, and set it and up on the table beside a frog-kissing stone, guaranteed to turn black the moment a toad—disguised as a gorgeous man or woman—delivered their pick-up line.

  Brenda hated them. They always stayed black for her.

  Jackie lifted her gaze from the warming candle and shrugged. Her red hair was streaked with white—mostly by choice. She wore her usual boot-cut pants and tailored, thigh-length coat jacket. And, as she'd been doing for several days now, clutched at her left side. "For years I thought it was the door to the basement. So I went down there and opened it."

  "You saw the wall."

  She nodded. "Brick wall. Granny laughed at me." Jackie made a face as if she smelled something bad. "Come to think of it, she called it her back door."

  Brenda glanced to her left at the front glass with the words Back Door Magic painted backward on the inside. "You mean like her shop name?"

  But her mother didn't know, and didn't care. "Nonsense. All of this place. Now—you got those papers signed? You know I have to give you marks for trying to keep this place afloat, Brennie. But to think you could do magic like Granny?" She gave a snort. "Disappointing. You just don't have it, girl. Neither did I. I'm afraid the magic died with Granny."

  With lowered shoulders, Brenda shook her head. "She didn't want to believe the words her mother spoke—and yet each letter, each syllable burned a mark into her skin and dug deeper into her subconscious, weakening her own belief that maybe—just maybe—she was a magical creature after all. "No—I have till Friday, Mom. And I'd rather just hang on to things until then."

  "You're just prolonging the inevitable, Brenda." Jackie's hands rested on her hips, and the flickering candles lined up along the counter beside the register cast shadows that only enhanced the no-nonsense look on her face. "The shop's going ot be sold. And then you can go back to college. You're not too old to be taught some sort of trade or skill. We might even make enough money to where you won't have to work—just find a rich man and marry him."

  That didn't feel right. It never felt right when her mom mentioned selling the shop. But Brenda wasn't sure if it was the selling part, or the money part. She suspected if she jumped the broomstick now and sold before the deadline that she's somehow be missing—something.

  But what?

  She glanced back at the door. Where had that man gone? And had she really seen him?

  "Well, I'm off, then. Got a date tonight�
��a nice Irish man. Sexy accent. Dark hair and blue eyes." She moved from behind the counter, and Brenda was sure if the register actually had money in it, Jackie would have taken it. "You'll be all right? Need groceries? Though," she looked her daughter up and down. "You could stand to lose a few pounds."

  Brenda stared at the floor.

  "Well, that's good. Okay—I'm gone. You just go ahead an sign those papers, Brenda, and we'll both be well in the green.' She waved and clacked back to the front of the store where she disappeared behind the door.

  Brenda took in a deep breath, clutched at the counter with both hands, and then exhaled.

  "Yes, quite an exhausting woman, isn't she? Thought she'd never leave."

  Brenda gave a slight squeal and spun around, shoving the edge of the counter into the small of her back—close to her kidney.

  The blue eyes were standing in front of her. They belonged to a nice long face, with a perfectly shaped nose and full lips. Pale skin.

  His hair was dark and short, but suited his face which sported a perfectly shaped nose and full lips. Pale skin. Very wiry in dark pants, shirt and black suit jacket.

  "Oh, sorry, I'm not in the habit of startling my saviors," he said, and she heard the accent that time. English—Surrey? Maybe a little bit of Liverpool? Soft and melodic. "I'm sorry—it's just that I'm in the middle of a very—" He looked down at his right side, where Brenda saw a red stain spreading over his fibers of his dark shirt, making it stick to his skin. She could see the blood even clearer on his fingers as he pressed his long-fingered hand to his side. "Uhm…a very tetchy situation."

  His eyes glazed over, and he nearly fell. Brenda went out ot him and moved under his left shoulder, the side that wasn't bleeding. "What happened?" She hated the flat, nasal sounding voice she had in comparison to his. "Were you shot?"

  "Yes, and no," he said and stumbled with her as she guided him to the table she'd been sitting at earlier. With a grunt, Brenda eased him into the chair and then pushed the papers away.

  She frowned at the wound. He didn't look too good. Very pale.

  Bone pale.

  "What can I do?"

  His eyes opened then, and though she saw intelligence there, she also saw the pain she'd seen before at the stairwell. "Do? Why, my dear Brenda, you can heal me."

  Heal? Me? "Heal you?" she shook her head and took a step back. "I'm worry mister—" Did he say his name? "Mister, but I'm not a healer. I'm supposed to be a magician, but I'm really not any good at that, either."

  With a nod the stranger smiled. It was a very nice smile, and would have lit up his whole face if it wasn't for the shadow of pain she saw just beneath the surface. "Actually, you're a lot better than you think." He winced. "And though confidence is something you do lack the skills in, I'm afraid I don't have the luxury of time right now to teach them to you, so," he bent over for a few seconds and his breathing became labored.

  "Oh, damn," Brenda ran her fingers through her hair. "Look, what's your name? I can't call you 'hey you' all the time.'

  "Edward," he managed to say in the middle of another wince. "Edward Darlington. Yes, yes. That will do this time. Now, speaking of time, we don't have much. The door is locked and the outside looks vacant. So grab the wormwood, the St. John's root, and some of the Dragon's Blood Rede from that shelf over the necromancer tomes."

  She blinked at him. "Edward—I didn't understand—"

  "Brenda," he smiled again. "Just let your hands guide you. Please hurry—I'm not going to be conscious much longer."

  Let my hands guide me? Geez! She turned and ran to the designated shelf. Luckily, Granny had things labeled, and she was able to gather the bottles of each of the items Edward asked for. She set them on the table in front of him.

  "Good, good," he said. He was sitting funny in the chair. "Now—you need a small amount of mandrake oil—and I mean small. Maybe a dab and that's it. Too much, and I'm dead anyway."

  She found it on a different shelf and grabbed it—then paused as her gaze rested on a large green marble mortar and pestle, a small grater and a white-handled knife. Letting her hands guide her, she put the smaller items inside the mortar, dumped in two more ingredients, and carried the whole thing to the table.

  He watched her and smiled. "See? You know what you're doing, Brenda. You just need confidence."

  She set all the things out in the deed of sale and then looked at him. "Now what?"

  "Now what?" His eyelids drooped and he leaned at an odd angle, nearly out of his chair. His hand was still tightly gripped at his side, his fingers covered in blood. She then noticed the widening puddle of blood on the floor beneath the chair. "Now—I lose consciousness. Brenda…" He tried to catch himself with both hands, but the blood on his right hand slipped on the table. "It's up to you…"

  And he crumpled to the floor in a heap. Brenda tried to catch him—but he'd fallen too fast. With a sigh she pushed and pulled at his, getting him onto his back.

  "Edward?" She tried jerking his shoulder back and forth. "You have to tell me what to do. Edward?"

  But he was unconscious, his breath sounding ragged and harsh.

  Biting her lip, Brenda moved to his right side and pulled the bloodied shirt away from the wound.

  As a detective's daughter, Brenda had seen all manner of wounds. Gunshot, knife, and even a lead pipe. But this—

  This wasn't right. This looked like he'd been bitten by something big.

  A bear?

  Oh no Brenda that's just stupid. But it really did look like huge teeth marks. His skin was slick with blood that pooled on the dingy tiled floor.

  How am I supposed to heal this? This man needs an ambulance. She stood with that thought and took a signal step to the counter where her purse lay tucked inside the lower shelf—and then remembered she'd left her phone at her mother's.

  Edward moaned.

  She turned to the table and the collection of things sitting about the mortar and pestle. He'd said it was up to me. Me. Me how? She'd never been taught any sort of healing magic from Granny. A quick search through her memory didn't unearth anything about Granny ever using healing.

  In fact—Brenda had never gone to Granny for healing. She always went to a regular doctor.

  Let your hands guide you.

  Yeah. Right. Fire sparks were sticking their noses up at her, but she was supposed to save a dying man? Brenda looked down at Edward. She knew her mother would yell at her right now, and be on the hone to the hospital. But he had believed in her. And his encouraging words had helped.

  A little.

  After taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and did what he told her—let her hands guide her. She'd known to get the mortar. And somehow in her mind's eye she could see the potion. Saw it in a pot—over a flame.

  She grabbed up the block of Dragon's Blood and then used the grater on one side. Brenda never opened her eyes—but she saw in her mind what needed to be done—much like a paint-by-numbers canvas. She knew what went in first, and second, like what colors went last. And she knew how much.

  Once the St. John's root was properly ground, Brenda took the mortar to the side room where Granny Pollsocks hung herbs, hex and bless charms and amulets, and micro-waved the occasional quick bowl of soup.

  She grabbed some bottle water out of the small office fridge and poured in enough to make half a cup of broth. Six turns deosil, six turns widdershins, and then six turns deosil. Clockwise, counterclockwise, clockwise.

  Brenda shoved the entire mortar inside the small white appliance and turned it on to medium for one minute.

  It never dawned on her to question how a microwave worked with no electricity.

  When the first bubbles came to the surface, she jerked the door open, grabbed a towel and lifted the mortar out of the microwave, poured the contents into a clean, green ceramic mug with a Green Man on the side, and hurried back to Edward.

  With no thought about what she was doing, Brenda grabbed a large, fat kabuki brush from a side shel
f of glass pens and cartography books, dipped it into the steaming mess and began painting the wound with it.

  Edward's eyes came open. Deep pools of sapphire agony.

  He screamed. Brenda screamed.

  The flesh beneath her potion curled, smoked, and then wove together the cuts and tears of flesh into a garish, puckered line. She blinked several times as Edward relaxed back, is eyes closed, and the wound…

  Brenda put her hand to her lips. The wound was little more than a white, aged scar.

  <><><>

  Light came into her bedroom from the dingy window facing Abercorn Street. Brenda blinked slowly and noticed the oak next door still had its leaves. Orange, yellow, red, and brown. And as she watched, several of those leaves came off in the gentle wind and spiraled around her window.

  She took in a deep breath.

  And smelled bacon.

  Bacon?

  And she heard voices downstairs as well.

  Och—was Jackie in?

  Brenda stretched as she moved about her room, pulling on her socks, her jeans, shuffling into the bathroom to brush her teeth—and it was at that moment, staring at her reflection in the mirror, that she remembered puckered flesh.

  Smoke.

  Blue eyes.

  Edward.

  After choking on toothpaste, she rinsed and ran downstairs—

  —and stopped just inside the shop.

  People. There were people inside. Customers, taking a look at tings and then actually picking them up! Carrying them to the counter—and handing out cast to—Edward!

  She shuffled forward, pausing once to avoid walking into two gossiping little goth girls. Edward was grinning, his color radiant, and his smile—intoxicating.

  When the paying customers were gone, he turned that smile on Brenda. "Hullo, sleepyhead. You made it up. Cup o' tea?" He raised his eyebrows. "Or I've made bacon and biscuits—real English biscuits, though." He frowned. "so I'm not sure if they're what you're accustomed to."