Authors: Phaedra Weldon
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 shelf 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."
It was at that moment she
caught the fluid movement of a brown feather duster cleaning off ht
bookshelves behind the counter. She blinked. There wasn't anybody
actually
holding
the duster—it was just cleaning things itself.
With a slow pivot in her house slippers
Brenda saw several other things moving on their own about the room.
Window cleaner and a rag moved in perfect counterclockwise circles
on the front window. A second duster moved with precision over ht
rows of skulls, which now looked as if they were grinning at her,
happy to be given some attention.
And in the corner a broom swept several
tumbling little mousey things about. They twittered and
chattered—reminding Brenda of finches. She moved closer and
narrowed her eyes down at them.
"Dust bunnies," Edward said beside her.
"Nasty little buggers. They're all over this room. Hiding in the
cracks and crevices." He said crevice an "a" sound, much like
cre-vace.
She looked up at him. His eyes sparkled as
he handed her a white mug. "Tea?"
"We have tea?" Brenda looked at the amber
liquid inside. "And bacon?"
"Well, you have an assortment of things—" He
winced. "I'm not they'd all qualify for tea—and the bacon came from
your neighbor, two doors down. He needed a poultice but didn't have
his wallet with him. Oddly enough, his wife returned with a pound
of bacon." The grin returned. "Interesting isn't it? But I did find
some commercial bags in that little workroom in the corner."
She took the tea. It did smell normal. She
sipped it. Mmm. And it tasted normal. Nice and sweet. "Honey?"
"Well, I'm not sure our relationship calls
for terms of endearment yet—seeing as how we just met and—oh," he
beamed again as comprehension dawned. "Sorry. Yes. I used honey.
Don't have much use for sugar—toddles about with the magical
lines." He put a hand to his side—the damaged one. "Oh, and nice
job you did. Hurt like all rot, but look," he held up his dark
shirt, no longer soaked or stained with blood she noted, and
revealed a perfectly smooth side.
Pale. But smooth.
She also noticed how nicely lean and muscled
he was.
Edward pulled his shirt back down and
motioned for her to follow him to the counter. As she moved
forward, she noticed the shop was empty, save for the repeated,
precise movements of the cleaning objects.
"Now, I hope you don't mind, but as a thank
you for helping me out last night, I decided to put my own skills
to work for you. I've got all the appliances working—including the
bathroom," he frowned. "And I don't mean to sound tetchy, but you
might want to use some cleaner now and again in there. It was
disgusting."
Brenda was watching him,
listening to him, but wasn't sure how to respond. Finally, her
brain caught up with her and she said, "I—
I
healed you? That potion healed
you?"
Edward stopped at the counter and took the
cup from her shaking hand and set it down. "Yes, yes. Didn't you
look when I showed you? Do you want to see again?" He grabbed at
his shirt.
"No, no," Brenda raised her hands. "It's
just that—I suck."
His excited smile transformed into a
confused frown. Edward pulled up his sweater, exposing the empty
area again. "You sucked out the poison?"
"No—I didn't suck it."
"Well, I hope not—" He lowered his shirt and
arched his eyebrows at her. "You'd get one hell of a negative
headache if you did that."
"I sprinkled the—negative headache?"
"Right—nasty thing, those. Buggers up the
whole positive aura. Pretty much clogs the magic pipes," he frowned
again. "Didn't I say that already? Oh, no—that was sugar wasn't
it?"
Brenda blinked.
"But—anyway—you knew what to do. You always
knew what to do. I just took something like last night to give you
that kick in the backside. Well, so to speak."
"Edward," she held out her hands, palms
down. "What in the hell are you talking about? And where the hell
did you come from? And what," she pointed to his side. "What thing
bit you that badly?"
"Doubt."
Pause. Blink. "What?"
"You asked me what bit me? Doubt. Now that's
a corrupt piece of thought, doubt is. It's the single worst thing
to come out of Pandora's Box. Loads of people thought famine and
disease were the tops—but no—doubt was the worst. I mean, when you
really think about it, if you didn't have doubt, hope might have a
fighting chance. Hope is so strong and pure—and it was the last
thing in the box, did you know that? And if you had hope, you'd
know that positive thinking and confidence can win against famine
and disease, but there's always that—"
"Edward!"
He cocked his to the side. "Are you all
right? You're looking a little flustered Brenda."
She put her hands to the sides of her head.
"Edward—were did you come from?" She was thinking since the bite
question wasn't getting her anywhere, maybe this question
would.
"Back door."
Eh? "Edward, there isn't a back door. Not a
real one."
He glanced in the direction of the
stairwell. "It's over there. Down those steps. Nice door."
"It opens up to a wall."
He gave her a lopsided grin and leaned in
close. "Yeah—for those who don't believe in magic."
Brenda glared at him, and then looked at the
stairway. With a sigh she stalked to the stairs, took them two at a
time, put her hand on the doorknob, and yanked it open.
Brick wall.
With a growl she slammed it shut and looked
up at Edward. "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 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, think index finger.
"Right. But she couldn't mix potions—just look at her shelves. At
her stores of things. Even if 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 block out the sun. "I'm your
Familiar."