Why Did We Heart the Box, Anyway?

The past two days, we've posted the results of a writing prompt many Here Be Magic contributers worked on together to create flash fiction, or at least short fiction, about a heart-shaped box. Here's why we did it!

Danube Adele: "I loved the challenge of creating a new set of paranormal characters within a short time frame with a limit placed on number of words, which I think we all broke, but there you have it. It seemed like fun!"

Jody Wallace: "I talked everyone else into doing it, so I figured I'd better write a story, too."

Shona Husk: "I’d never written flash fiction before (or anything so short) so I thought it would be a fun challenge to do while I was stuck in edits on To Love a King. And it was!"

Nicole Luiken: "Short stories are not my forte, but once I heard the prompt heart-shaped box my mind started playing with the idea--and once I have an idea, it stands up on it hind legs, whines, and begs to be written."

Shawna Thomas: "Sometime short stories are the perfect creative outlet. The image for this story, the heart-shaped box, caught my imagination so I couldn't -not- write a story."

RL Naquin: "The talented authors at Here Be Magic are awesome, and missing the last group project with them made me sad."

Shawna Reppert: "For me, writing a flash story from a prompt is like coming home. My first fiction sale was to an e-zine, 10Flash Online, which had 10 flash stories per issue, all written around a prompt provided by the editor. I made several more flash sales to that ‘zine, and one to Everuday Fiction, which also specializes in flash. Although the novel is my preferred form, I do enjoy the challenge of writing flash fiction. With the tight word limit, the writer has to rely on subtext to develop the story and deliver the emotional impact. It’s a useful exercise.

This is the second Holmes flash piece I’ve done. ‘The Devil Went Down to Reichenbach’, unrelated to this story, is part of The Three Tunes, a set of three short stories around the power of music.

My first instinct when I saw the prompt ‘heart-shaped box’ was to write a story in the universe of my novel Ravensblood. But I couldn’t come up with an idea that would work as flash and didn’t contain spoilers for the novel, so I started to search for an idea for a story that would stand alone. It’s entirely too easy for a Valentine’s Day story to venture into the maudlin. I wanted to avoid saccharine sentimentality at all costs. So I turned to that paragon of rationality, Sherlock Holmes. . . and just the right touch of the softer emotions in a character not given to such things is like Godiva chocolate, bittersweet and rich, with a satisfying complexity."

***

Thank you for reading all our stories! We hope to revise and update them and publish and easy-to-download anthology in the next month or two.

Sincerely,

The authors of Here Be Magic

Take One Heart-Shaped Box....

Welcome to Chocolate Day 2014, or, as a lot of the world thinks of it, Valentine's Day. Despite being shunned by many as a too-commercial holiday with too many sour memories, the authors of Here Be Magic decided February 14, 2014, was a good day to share stories.

Tales of love, tales of alien technology, tales of the mists, tales of the paranormal. We took one heart-shaped box, gave it to the authors, and stepped back.

Just wait and see what they created with it.

We hope you enjoy our flash, and not so flash, fiction offerings, which we'll be posting every couple of hours today and tomorrow. Eventually, all the stories will be further tweaked, possibly expanded, and put into an easy-to-download free anthology like A Pixie's Tale. Here's the list of stories.

Violets in the Snow by Veronica Scott
A Pledge of Devotion by Regan Summers
The Knowing and the Myst by Danube Adele
Destiny in a Box by Angela Campbell
The Birthright by Shawna ThomasUnmatched Cupid by RL Naquin
The Silver Prison by Shona Husk
The Shape of His Heart by Jane Kindred
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Heart-Shaped Box by Shawna Reppert
A Box Full of Faerie by Jody Wallace
Heart-Shaped Box of Memories by Nicole Luiken



Happy Chocolate Day!

Sincerely,

Hera B. Magic

Violets in the Snow by Veronica Scott

Violets in the Snow

By Veronica Scott

Free image from http://www.sxc.hu/ used according to the Image License Agreement.

It was just a little heart-shaped china box, with one gorgeous violet painted on the lid. Every day as she walked past the window of Celia’s Closet on her way to work, Amy would check to see if the box was still there, nestled in the corner of the display. Sure, violets were her favorite flower, but something about the tiny container itself appealed to her.

Celia’s store was crammed to the rafters with knick knacks, vintage clothing and fashion jewelry of every era, but Amy rarely allowed herself to venture inside. She never had extra money to spend and certainly not on decorative dust catchers. But yesterday at the diner someone had left her an unusually large tip and today Amy found herself turning to enter the enticing store without even thinking about it.

“Did you come for the violet box?” asked Celia as soon as she saw who’d walked in.

Stripping off her purple mittens, Amy did a double-take. “How did you know?”

“You spend five minutes every morning staring at it.” Celia laughed and went to pluck the item from the crowded window.

The box felt cold on Amy’s palm but gradually warmed as she turned it this way and that, admiring the delicacy of the painted flower. The box seemed perfect—its gold colored trim bright, no glazing to mar the smooth surface. When she fumbled with the miniature latch, however, nothing happened.

“I don’t know why, but the lid won’t open,” Celia said, watching her. “Maybe someone glued it shut at some point. Or the hinge broke. Certainly it’s too small to hold anything inside.”

“How much?” Amy braced herself to give the box back if the price Celia named was too high. Some of the vintage items in her shop were worth amazing amounts of money, which the tourists paid without question.

“Oh, say $5.00? Even though the flower’s obviously hand painted by a real artist, there’s no signature and it’s so petite.” Celia shrugged. “I found it at the bottom of a box of things the executor consigned from the old Winters estate.”

“I’ll take it.” After handing over the money, Amy tucked the box in her pocket and left, rushing not to be late to her job at the small diner down the block.

*

After work that night, Amy set the little box on her nightstand, smiling at the single beautiful flower as she turned out the light. Somewhere around two AM, she sat up with a start, clutching the blanket and staring around at the room. It was snowing. Inside the room.

I must be dreaming.

Reaching out, she caught a sparkling flake on her hand. The snow promptly melted into a drop of cold water. Rubbing her palm dry, Amy burrowed under the blanket. If I had air conditioning in this place, I’d say it was seriously malfunctioning.

She watched as the snow fell, unsure what was going on. After a few moments, the flakes turned to flower petals and then stopped. Peeking over the side of the bed, Amy realized she now had a carpet of velvety purple petals.

“Too much wine at dinner,” she said, shaking her head. She punched the pillow and lay back. “I’m asleep, this is a dream and the alarm is going to buzz all too soon.” Closing her eyes, Amy rolled over and pulled the blankets closer. “Or they put the wrong kind of mushrooms on the pizza maybe.”

*

Sure enough, in the morning there was no sign of snowflakes or flower petals in her single room apartment. Sun streamed in the window, glancing off the sparkling china box. Amy kept glancing at the painted violet as she rushed around to get dressed and do her minimal morning routine. I hope I’m not going to have weird dreams about flowers and snow every night.

Business was slow at the diner, as things were all over town. Edwardsville was a ski resort, high in the mountains, but this had been an unusually dry year. No snow meant no tourists. Amy hoped her boss wouldn’t have to reduce her hours even further.

On her lunch, bored, she surfed the net to distract herself from worrying over the lack of tips. Somehow Amy found herself looking at legends and myths involving violets. Her favorite was an old English variation on the story of Persephone and the god of the underworld. In this tale, the lovers were the King of Winter and a girl named Violet. Amy had to return to waiting tables before reading the end of the legend but was sure she could guess the outcome. “Happily ever after,” she said with a grin as she tied her apron on.

*

That night, she woke at 2AM, shivering, covered by a blanket of sparkling, soft white snow. “Oh, this is too much,” she said, sitting up and shoving the snowdrift to the floor. Picking up the little box as snow continued to fall around her, Amy said, “I love you but I can’t have these dreams every night.”

As if her words had been a magic spell, the snow stopped and the box lid sprang open. Something glittered inside. Rising to turn on the bedside lamp, looking more closely into the box, Amy retrieved a stunning platinum ring, set with a pure white diamond, held in the center of a white gold snowflake by four prongs. “Wow!”

“Violet Winters, you’ve waited too long to wear the Snow King’s ring,” said a deep voice.

With a small scream, Amy turned to find six feet six of Tall, Dark & Handsome Male occupying the center of her small room. Hands on his hips, the man was glaring at her, brows drawn together in a frown, violet blue eyes blazing. His old fashioned clothes were silver, tight breeches doing nothing to hide his superb physique, topped by a cloak trimmed with ermine. On his head was a white gold crown, accented with diamond crusted snowflakes.

“The Snow King who gave you that pledge of true love is long dead and you’d better not be expecting me to honor the terms.”

“Um, I’m not Violet Winters, I don’t even know a Violet Winters.” Amy backed up until she ran into the nightstand. “I’m Amy Smith and I bought this box from a secondhand shop yesterday.” Why am I answering him, this is a crazy dream! Wake UP!

The man pointed at her hand. “But that’s the Snow King’s ring and you did say you loved—”

“The box. I love the box and the flower. Violets are my favorite flower.” She thrust the ring at him. “Here, take this and get out however you got in. It’s too flashy for me anyway.”

He took the ring and the touch of his fingers against her hand was curiously warm. Her flesh tingled and she took a deep breath. “Look, I know this is just a dream, so can we be done, please? Can you just poof? Leave?” She snuck a glance at the clock and moaned. “I have to be at work early tomorrow, I mean later today, oh God, it’s 3AM—”

“My apologies for frightening you.” He tucked the ring into a pocket on the inside of his sweeping cloak.

“Why were you so angry at this Violet person?”

“She’s kept us waiting for centuries, in case she decided to redeem the honor given to her by my grandfather and marry one of my bloodline. He wanted to wed her himself but eventually he married a snow nymph.” Her uncanny visitor grinned. “They can be very persuasive.”

She realized she didn’t even know his name. “Are you Jack Frost?” Amy asked, sitting on the bed, then standing right back up again.

“That jester?” The man’s disdain was plain. “I’m Gaimhreadh, Ruler of all Winter.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir.” Should I curtsey or something? “You know, the lady who owned this box before me was named Winters. She was really old, over 100 maybe, but not centuries. Not old enough to be the woman your ancestor wanted to marry. She didn’t leave any family.” Amy looked at the box. “Do you want this too?”

“No, although ‘tis kind of you to offer. I can see how much you treasure it so please retain the trinket, with my blessing.” He bowed. “I guess the mystery of the original Violet will never be solved now but I’m glad to have met you. Winter owes you a debt, for removing us from the shadow of a very onerous pledge.”

Feeling slightly foolish, but figuring anything goes in a dream, Amy said, “If you do owe me a favor in return, can you make it snow? The town is dying without snow for the ski runs, to bring the tourists. There isn’t even enough for making a decent snowman. It’s been a—” She bit her lip.

“A what?” He smiled and the effect was devastating.

Well, I can’t very well tell him it’s been a bad winter. She could feel her cheeks growing warm.

“I’ll leave you to your slumbers, Amy. Sweet dreams.” He bowed like an actor in a BBC historical series and was….gone.

Feeling a bit bereft and lonely, Amy set the box on the nightstand again, closing the lid with one hand before turning off the light. “He was a very nice dream,” she said as she drifted back to sleep.

*

Walking to work later in the morning was a joy, as snow fell gently from a leaden sky. It was the kind of steady snowfall that would stick and build up into wonderful powder for the ski runs. Amy felt like skipping along the sidewalk and she knew she was smiling ear to ear, even though she really couldn’t take credit for the turn in the weather. Could she? Just because I had a crazy dream -

She’d barely gotten her coat put away in the cramped break room and her apron tied on when the bell on the front counter rang. Hastening into the dining room, Amy stopped in the threshold, riveted by the sight of the man from her dream, dressed more prosaically today in very expensive but practical European ski wear. No crown, no ermine cape.

Grinning, he winked. “Is this what you had in mind when you asked for snow? Or must I do more to win your favor?” He held out his hand.

“Oh come on, this can’t be happening!” She barely noticed his heavy gold signet ring, with a crown and a snowflake, because she was staring at the heart-shaped bouquet of very out-of-season purple violets he was offering.

“My favorite flower,” she said.

“And mine.” He bowed. “I’m hoping that isn’t all we’ll find in common.”

As she led him to the best table, the one next to the fireplace, Amy said, “And they lived happily ever after?”

“Something like that might be possible,” he agreed with the warm smile that lit up his face.

“I’m off at five.” She placed the menu in front of him.

---February 2014

Find out more about Veronica Scott!

A Pledge of Devotion by Regan Summers

A Pledge of Devotion

By Regan Summers

(The only one of us who actually abided by the “flash fiction” word count!)

Free image from http://www.sxc.hu/ used according to the Image License Agreement.

“That better not be a ring,” John says, feet shuffling as he stares down at the box. He pauses, then says in his instructive voice, “That’s a human custom. Of courtship.”

I know the custom, have read the stories and viewed the scenes of one lover on his—usually his—knee, offering love. Pledging devotion.

“It’s not a ring,” I say, insides fluttering. He takes up the box, recovered from the bottom of the sea, and dull bits of barnacle shell fall to the floor as he removes the top with his pale, thick hands.

“I’m not good with your art,” John says, squinting at the note.

I look down at the crisp white paper, the even black script. I worked so hard, so hard on forcing my bones to bend so that I could grip the pen. So hard on keeping the paper dry as I etched out the symbols.

“It’s not art.” I gesture toward the three distinct words. How can he not see? “It says…”

He makes an impatient sound, a sound of finality. The world is suddenly blurry and a noise escapes me, a low whistle that makes him wince.

“Sorry.” He shoves the box onto the table. “I’ll have one of the techs document it. To…to chart your progress.” He marches out of the room, not as fast as his two legs can carry him but fast enough.

The page curls in the humidity of the room. The words droop, the ink bleeding away. I sink back into my tank.

“It says ‘I love you’.”
 

The Knowing and the Myst by Danube Adele

The Knowing and the Myst

By Danube Adele

Free image from http://www.sxc.hu/ used according to the Image License Agreement.

“I know you’re there.”

Bryland said this casually, the deep timbre of his voice giving me those warm, swirling tingles in my tummy. He donned his shirt over his sweaty chest. I pursed my lips with pouty displeasure. One of my favorite activities was sitting up on a leaf in the old oak tree closest to his home and spying on him. It was a plus if his shirt was off.

I wasn’t going to lie. I loved looking at his big man muscles. He was tall and broad, his dark hair tied back at his nape, and with a presence that commanded the respect of those from his village, Tregarsby.

“You aren’t very subtle.” He grinned, leaning his ax against the bottom of my tree and pausing, as though waiting for a response. Strange.

Who was he talking to? I did a curious scan of the immediate forest. No one was on the path. There was no other cottage for several miles. Was someone in the house?

“I’m talking to you, little sprite.” He smiled warmly, reaching to put a hand on the trunk of my tree. A faint blue light glowed under his palm. “I can’t see you, but I can feel you.” He closed his eyes and sudden warmth pulsed through the tree surrounding me.

Mother of the forest, he was talking to me! My heart fluttered. Escape? I pushed off my comfy seat to hover above it, but he opened his sparkling, green eyes and turned a wolfish grin my direction.

“I’ve surprised you.”

That was an understatement. It was unheard of for anyone of the Myst to be discovered by those of the Knowing, or anyone else for that matter. How in the worlds had he done it? Apprehension began to stir. This was unacceptable within the Myst community. We weren’t supposed to show ourselves to anyone. Ever. There were horrific consequences for such actions.

He frowned. “Don’t be afraid, sprite. I’m not sure of your exact words, but I can feel you’re worried.”

Yes, I was worried. This was wrong. Very wrong.

“I’ve enjoyed feeling your presence. It’s given me comfort. I’m sure you’ve heard talk of coming war. The Vieshins are in preparation.”

We’d heard rumor, but the Myst didn’t involve themselves in the affairs of the humans. We’d seen many battles over time, and this one would not be the last, but it would likely weave threads of destruction that would be devastating to the forest. We were nurturers. Healers. Helping the forest grow was our primary job. We would have much to do after the battle with repairing the forest. There would also be human death.

A sense of anxiety washed over me.

Could Bryland be killed in the coming battle? The Knowing were strong and skilled warriors and many had mastery of their blue magic. But even if they won, some might die.

“Don’t worry, little sprite. We’ll be fine. Guards are posted all over the forest. We’ll know the moment they come.”

At least that was something. There was nothing the Myst could do in any case, and besides, we tended not to become involved in human matters. Feeling a sense of heaviness, I realized this was more time than I’d ever spent spying. I had work to do.

“You’re leaving.” He seemed disappointed. “I understand. I thank you for listening.”

I didn’t know what to say, or if he’d even be able to interpret my thoughts, so I left. I spent the rest of the day mysting through my trees, creating the life-giving nutrients to spread within their veins and deep into their roots, accepting their thanks and feeling their renewal of strength and growth; however, a feeling of dread held me in a strong grip by the end of the day.

“Eadaya! Come quickly to the West Valley!” My sister Harine sent her message on a breeze. I could hear the urgency. Mysting to her at nearly the speed of sound, I covered hundreds of miles quickly and found her deep within the crevice of two boulders on the edge of a human encampment. A campfire was melting metals into the shape of a strange looking harness.

“They have strange winged creatures.” Harine looked to me with fearful eyes. “Look.”

Penned across the way were enormous, half-grown humans covered in scales, with reptilian-skinned wings that looked to span twenty feet. More than a dozen were chained together. When had they come?

“I heard the humans talking. They plan to drop liquid fire and burn the forest within the in a matter of days.”

“Oh no!” I thought of Bryland. They would expect an attack from the ground, not the sky. They would all die for certain. “You need to find the Council of Elders.”

“I told them. They said not to interfere, but that doesn’t seem right.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“Eadaya?”

My sister called after me as I mysted through the forest faster than I ever had before. I went straight to Bryland’s home, but found it empty. Where would he be? The village? I knew where it was.

Only a few moments later, I was there, weaving undetected through people, between the buildings, and within village stores, trying to catch sight of him. He was on a training field not far beyond the village’s boundaries wearing breeches and a wielding a large sword.

He felt me immediately. A look of concern touched his face as he turned in my general direction.

“Little sprite?”

“Who are you talking to, Bry? Did I knock your senses loose just now?” His sparring partner chuckled, but frowned, not having any sense of my presence.

I tried to tell him about the attack, but Bryland only shook his head, frustrated.

“I can feel your fear, but I don’t know what you’re saying.”

Panic fueled my determination. There was only one thing left to do. I would need to morph into form on the human plane so he could see and hear me. However, stepping through the myst might mean never again being able to return.

I couldn’t let him be murdered. Concentrating on the film between my world and his, I created the light, and it enveloped me. Sticking my hands out, I pulled the film apart, tearing it, and stepped through one foot at a time into the cold air. Unused to the weight of the world, I fell weakly to the ground, my long black hair covering most of my pale naked body, and looked up, gasping for breath.

All of the men were speechless.

“The Vieshins created flying creatures,” I said with a soft, shaky voice. I’d never used it before. “They plan to pour fire from the sky.” The energy it took to move so quickly through the forest and undergo change from one dimensional plane to another drained me. I could only put my head down as darkness blacked out the world.

*

Bryland was watching over me when next I woke. I rested on a bed, likely at his house, with a sheet pulled over me. His expression was one of no nonsense as he captured my eyes, refusing to let me look away for a moment, but something he was holding caught my attention. It was a heart-shaped box he was pulling apart. Two small stones, soft and pearlescent, spilled into the palm of his hand.

“What is that?” I asked faintly.

“A conduit, from my heart to yours. It will give you energy to heal. It will also allow you to know my thoughts, and for me to know yours. Is that all right?”

I hesitated.

“With war coming, we need to be able to communicate.” His green eyes were piercing with their intensity. “We can help each other.”

I realized it was for the best and nodded.

Holding one of the stones over his heart, it came alive, turning into blue light and sinking harmlessly beneath his skin. Holding the second stone over my breast, I saw his hand glow a light blue before the heat of the stone sank through me.

“A time of reckoning has come.”

---February 2014

Find out more about Danube Adele!

Destiny in a Box by Angela Campbell

Destiny in a Box

by Angela Campbell

Dee lifted the packaging paper out of the box that had come in the mail this morning. The box she knew contained some inheritance from her late grandfather. She’d barely known the crotchety old man, but his death, just before the disappearance of her fiancé six months ago, had been a heavy blow.

The police believed Liam had gotten cold feet and taken off of his own accord. She’d had a hard time believing her grandfather’s devilishly handsome assistant had fallen for her anyway. Dr. Jeffrey Smith had been her only living relative, a mostly absent figure in her life, but she’d loved him. Now both men were gone, and she truly was alone in the world.

“Meow.”

As warm fur brushed against her elbow, Dee jumped. No. She wasn’t alone. She still had her faithful cat, Loki, a gift from her grandfather when she’d been 16. Her lovey dovey, cuddly wuddly baby boy.

As the cat jumped into the medium-sized UPS box, the crinkling of the paper inside rattled her nerves for a reason she didn’t understand. Foreboding settled heavy in her gut, stilling her actions.

Did she really want to know what was inside this thing?

Peeling back the paper, she saw a book. The Heart-Shaped Box by Destiny S. O’Connell.

The air left her lungs on a gasp. “What is this? Some kind of joke?”

Destiny Smith was her full name. Destiny O’Connell would have been her legal name had she married Liam on Valentine’s Day as planned.

“Meow.”

Loki dug at the paper, revealing two small, velvet boxes. His head nudged one toward her hand, but her gaze was focused on the envelope wedged between his body and the cardboard. She lifted the paper out of the envelope, her heart beating a steady rhythm in her ears.

Dearest Destiny. I know what happened to Liam. If you want to discover the truth, put on the ring. Make sure Loki is fitted with his charm first. The book is included in case you need convincing. Yours, J.S.

She read and re-read the letter numerous times. But it didn’t make sense! How could her grandfather have possibly known what happened to Liam when he’d died before Liam had disappeared? Flipping through the book only inspired more confusion. Its copyright was 1927. The pages were filled with nonsense about a young woman who went back in time to help her grandfather, a scientist/time traveler, battle a race of alien monsters in the Victorian era after receiving a package she fondly referred to as “the heart-shaped box.”

“Ow!” The swipe of Loki’s claw against her arm left behind a trail of blood and stinging pain.

His furry, gray head again nudged one of the black velvet boxes toward her. Frowning, she lifted the lid, exposing a gleaming silver charm with Loki’s name on it.

Hand trembling, she attached the charm to his collar. Heart doing laps around her chest, she slid the ring onto her finger, too.

*

“All right, then. About bloody time.”

Dee glanced around at the unexpected voice. A man’s voice. British. Suave. Kind of 007-ish.

She saw no one. “Hello?”

“Down here. Hello? It’s me. The, uh, cat.”

Eyes wide, she stared at her pet. “Loki?”

A long sigh preceded the voice again. “My proper name is Baron Von Brohemeaus Jones. I suppose you can continue calling me Loki if your feeble mind can’t comprehend the other. I’ve been tasked with guarding you. A bit boring, I must admit. Absolutely no one has tried to kill you yet. The pity.”

“Uh.”

“Very well. We mustn’t dawdle.” Loki pounced out of the box and darted toward the fireplace. “I didn’t think your communication device would ever arrive.”

“Communication device?” Oh dear lord. She had finally gone off the deep end. Flipped. Gone bonkers!

A whistling snapped her attention back to the feline. “Tick tock, Miss Smith. This way!”

The room threatened to spin around her as she watched, befuddled, as Loki nudged a brick beside the fireplace with his head, causing the wall to slide open and reveal another room.

Holy—!

“Your grandfather saved my father’s life when the Crickatar invaded our planet, and now, my family is indebted to yours. Ironically, your planet’s feline species closely resembles my people, allowing me to pass as your pet.” He waited until she followed to close the wall—how? She had no idea. “There’s another box on that desk. Open it.”

This time, it was a heart-shaped box. A thick and wide wristwatch was curled inside.

“Program it to 1888 Whitechapel, and for the love of Phalamacktal, make certain you’re holding onto me when you press Send.”

The digital interface on the watch allowed her to type a date and city. Her fingers trembled as she hit the buttons. Was she even entertaining the idea any of this was real?

Wait. “Whitechapel?”

Loki’s little head nodded as he jumped up and clung to her sweater, pulling himself up so that she had to either lift him or be clawed to death. “As in Jack the Ripper. Your grandfather is hot on his trail. He’s actually a Crickatar. Nasty creatures, those Crickatars.” Settled in the crook of her arm, he reached over and pushed the button with his paw.

A burst of white blinded her momentarily as ringing deafened her ears. Blinking, she realized she now stood in some kind of alley. Cobblestones were uneven beneath her booted feet, a thin layer of fog curling around her legs.

The ringing sound faded away. The click clack of a horse’s hooves grew louder and passed.

Loki leapt from her arms, so she called, “Wait!”

But the cat had already disappeared into the shadows.

Heart thumping, Dee pinched herself and felt the slight sting of pain. This was real? How could this be real? In the distance, a man’s familiar voice yelled, “Stop!” The slap of feet on pavement stampeded closer, and Dee shrank against the nearest building to get out of the way.

A dark-clad figure barreled past her hiding spot. An older man, gray hair curling at his ears, glasses perched on his pointed nose, gave chase. Dee’s eyes widened. Holy crap! That man looked exactly like her grandfather!

Another person, younger, handsome, with thick dark hair and an aristocratic profile, followed and caused her heart to leap into her throat. “Liam!” she yelled.

He turned, his eyes widening when he spotted her.

“Dee?” Giving up his pursuit, he approached her warily. “Is it really you?” Before she could speak, he tugged her into his arms. “I didn’t think you’d ever get here.”

She shoved him away. “What is going on?”

Three sharp bursts of a whistle blew in the distance, followed by, “Over’ere.”

Liam’s face grew more serious. “I’ll explain everything, but know this. If you come with me now, your life will never be the same. If you prefer, I can send you home. It’s not too late.” He swallowed a deep breath and held out his hand, prompting her to take it. “Your choice.”

As if.

Without any protest at all, she took his hand.

---February 2014

Find out more about Angela Campbell!
 

The Birthright by Shawna Thomas

Birthright

By Shawna Thomas

Free image from http://www.sxc.hu/ used according to the Image License Agreement.

The carriage jostled on the rutted road, further bruising Jareth’s already sore backside. He much preferred riding or even walking to a closed carriage, but he didn’t want to risk being recognized. Not now. He reached for the small package deep in his coat pocket and realized he’d done so at least two dozen times since retrieving it. As it had each time, his breath caught as he unwrapped the tattered cloth to stare at the plain brown heart-shaped box.

It was small, but heavy for its size, easily fitting in the palm of his hand. It was an unassuming box, unless you had the magic to sense what lay within. Jareth ran his hand over the smooth wood. Words flickered to life in the wake of his touch. Although he recognized the ancient language, they disappeared before he could decipher their meaning. He didn’t have enough magic to make them stay.

He didn’t, but she did.

Would Calli think he brought her a blessing or a curse? He shook his head, staring at the fine mahogany grain of the wood. “Power, so much power.”

Was she ready for it? He took a deep breath, letting determination fill him as he exhaled. It was time. He’d witnessed her power over the years. Small things. Her ability to heal the animals in the surrounding woods. Her knack for always knowing which herb to use. She didn’t have a clue. Of that he was certain.

Jareth sighed. He hated when Calli left the security of the walled manor, but not even his stern warnings could keep her in. She’d so charmed most of his guards, they let her wander at will but followed at a discrete distance. It was perhaps dangerous, but even he had a problem denying her anything. She was his world. Besides, they were so far removed for the nearest village and no one here knew he was anything more than a reclusive lord. Once one of the guards had frightened a small fawn and she had so scolded the battle-hardened man that he’d returned red faced and ashamed.

She had a power over men too. A born ruler.

He closed his eyes, once again smelling smoke, the clang of swords, and the screaming. Jareth swallowed past a dry throat. He’d been his outer chamber, collecting ancient scrolls to make a hasty escape when the door had burst open. He’d expected his death but found his king wild-eyed and frantic, thrusting a wrapped bundle in his arms as the halls echoed with thunder.

He’d followed the king’s instructions to the letter, not stopping until he’d traveled the underground passages and followed the river to the small fisher’s shack. He’d carefully unwrapped the bundle, already guessing what was inside. She’d been so tiny, so perfect. They’d drugged her with niander leaf and she still slept peacefully. Her tiny chest moved in a steady rhythm. He remembered wondering if she could fathom that her life had just changed.

Inside the bundle he’d found enough gems to run a small country for a lifetime, provisions for the baby, a scroll and the wooden box. Jareth hadn’t needed to open the box. He was the court historian. He knew what was inside.

Written in the king’s hasty scratching, the scroll warned him to hide the box and the baby far away from each other until the time was right and to keep her safe at all cost.

Was the time right? He was only an historian, a failed one at that. How was he supposed to know the time was right? He quickly replaced the box and closed his eyes.

Would she hate him for lying to her? That was his biggest fear. She thought she was the daughter of an eccentric minor lord, not the heir to the kingdom. He leaned against the jostling seat and closed his eyes, letting the weariness of the last few weeks lull him to sleep.

It took him a moment to realize the screams had not followed him from his dreams. His limbs went cold. Men shouted. The carriage was under attack. He peeked out the curtained window. They were not far from the manor. Calli.

A horse screamed followed by the sibilance of steel. He drew his own short sword. He’d asked his men to teach him the finer points of self defense, just in case. From the sounds coming from outside the carriage, he wasn’t wrong.

A thud hit the carriage a moment later. The box. He had to get the box to safety. If it fell into the wrong hands... Acid coated his stomach.

“Papa!”

His heart leapt in his chest. What was Calli doing out here?

Jareth kicked open the carriage door and rolled outside. His men battled twice their number. The attackers resembled bandits, except for their first class weapons and skill. An arrow flew overhead and thudded into the carriage wall behind him.

Two men ran into the forest toward where Calli had screamed. He ran after them. Fire pierced his thigh. He stared in stunned disbelief at the fletching sticking out of his leg. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he forced himself to keep going.

He whirled in time to block a downward arc of a sword and swiped blindly with his knife. The spray of blood almost surprised him. The man crumpled. He surveyed his surroundings as though in a dream. Where was Calli? Fewer of his men fought and more bodies littered the road. Lost. He had to get the box to safety.

Calli emerged from the forest between two men. He raced forward. A dull thud sounded and something hit him from behind. He looked down, shocked to see an arrow piercing his chest. He dropped to his knees and began to crawl toward his daughter.

“Papa.” The word was almost whispered yet he felt the reverberations of it through the ground. The heart-shaped box in his pocket jumped as though it was a living thing. The bloodstone. Blood calling to blood. That’s why the king wanted it far from his daughter. It recognized her. Filled with the blood and power of her ancestors, it now called to her.

“Stop!”

It was the same tone she used when she’d found two young guards teasing one of the kitchen boys in the yard. Only this time, the air vibrated with power. The bandits froze and then crumpled to the ground. He was close enough to see confusion replace the fear in Calli’s eyes and then she was hovering over him.

“Papa.” She sobbed.

He reached for the heart-shaped box in his pocket. “Your birthright.” Every breath hurt and his words gurgled in his throat.

“Papa, don’t leave me. They attacked the manor. I escaped into the woods but I heard your carriage. Everyone is dead. Papa.”

As though from far away, he felt his head moved to her lap. Tears pooled in her pale green eyes.

Jareth reached up and touched her face. “I have loved you.”

“Don’t.” She offered a wobbly smile. “We’ll get you to a healer. You’re going to be fine.”

He smiled and pressed the box into her hands. She gasped as he felt the magic within surge.

“Your birthright,” he repeated. “Show it to no one. Find Elodia.”

The world began to darken. He decided the box was both a blessing and a curse.

---February 2014

Find out more about Shawna Thomas!

Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Heart-Shaped Box by Shawna Reppert

Sherlock Holmes and the Secret of the Heart-Shaped Box

By Shawna Reppert

Free image from http://www.sxc.hu/ used according to the Image License Agreement.

Sherlock Holmes’s top desk drawer held trophies of his many successes, plus a simple, wooden, heart-shaped box. One with Holmes’s skill in observation might note that the box was the sort of cheap trinket that a young person might buy with an allowance, painted after purchase with a tutored but inexpert hand.

I first encountered the box when he sent me looking for a tin of poisonous seeds that he thought might shed some light on a current case. I pulled out the thing with a laugh, for it seemed so unlike my friend’s tastes, and made some sort of jovial allusion to the tales of the monster who cannot be killed because he keeps his heart in a box, only this box was empty.

Holmes uncurled like a viper from his previous indolent pose and snatched the box from my hand.
Thinking I had offended him with my joke about heartlessness, I stammered out an apology—though he had said as much and more about himself on occasion.

Holmes waved off my contrition. “It is I who should apologize, my dear Watson. It is only that the box is a reminder of a matter most sensitive to me. While everything else you see in that drawer is a memento of my success, that box is a reminder of my failure. My very first mystery, which remains unsolved.”

Something in his face discouraged further questions and suggested to me that personal sorrow, not professional frustration, drove his somber mood. Though Holmes lived and breathed rationality, I have often suspected his cold logic to be a defense. One need only hear him play his Stradivarius to realize that he was a man of deep passions. Perhaps he kept tight rein on his emotions out of fear that they would otherwise run away with him.

Something ran away with Holmes that dreary winter. He was out all hours, sometimes not coming home for days, often returning very much the worse for wear. When I asked him about the client, he would only say that there was none.

My friend sometimes undertook odd exercises to keep his skills sharp and, I suspected, to alleviate boredom. Since this was less unhealthy than some of his other methods of combating ennui, I held my tongue until the night he came back with a bullet wound for me to dress.

“Damn it, Holmes, life isn’t something to be held lightly.”

He tilted his head back to look at me upside-down. “You are right, my dear friend. It is not.”

Holmes slept for a day and a half, rose in a better mood and ate breakfast with an unusual appetite. I tried to engage him in conversation on the previous day’s headlines. The Yard had solved a serious of murders of young women, some going back almost two decades, previously thought to be unrelated. Such a subject would usually interest him, but he only said ‘indeed’ and proceeded to fill his pipe from the store he kept in the Persian slipper on the mantel. Our rooms filled with the strong, harsh scent of shag tobacco, and all was right with the world.

I was called out to an emergency in the evening and did not return until the sky started to lighten, so I might be forgiven for being still abed when Holmes received his caller, a somewhat older woman by her voice, in our shared sitting room. Eavesdropping was unpardonable, but I had caught the vice of curiosity from Holmes.

The woman thanked him, over and over again, for some service he had rendered.

Holmes’s voice was gentle, almost fond, as he quieted her. “I fear, madam, that my services were too little, too late.”

“But at least now we know what happened to her. A bit of peace, after all these years. And you were practically a boy yourself, without resources or training, when Patricia disappeared. You never did say how you discovered her killer.”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade was going on in his customary monotonous way about his early years on the force. Usually I ignore such prattle, but he mentioned two unsolved disappearances from his early years. I saw the similarities he had missed between those two cases. Similarities Patricia’s disappearance also had in common. Those peculiarities helped me build a description in my head of the killer as sure as if he had provided me with a photograph and a personal biography.”

“So you hadn’t the information you needed all those years ago to find out what had happened to our poor Patricia,” the woman said. “There was nothing you could have done earlier.”

“Yet it was my fault to begin with that she was lost.”

“No, Mr. Holmes—Sherlock. We have never held you responsible.”

“If I had escorted her to that dance as she requested, the blackguard would not have had his opportunity.”

“She knew such things were not to your taste. She could have stayed home, or accepted one of a half-dozen young men who would have been happy to escort her. She was just being our Patricia—outrageous, irrepressible, and even more stubborn than you.”

I heard Holmes open a desk drawer, sort through the objects, close it again. “I still have this, you know. The box she gave me. She said I should take it so I had at least one heart, as it was clear that I wasn’t born with one.”

I winced for my friend.

“You know she only meant it as a jest. She admired you greatly.”

“And I her.”

“Did you sometimes wonder, if she had not been taken. . .”

I held my breath, expecting my friend to scoff at the idea that he might ever have married, but Holmes will never cease to astonish me.

“I did wonder. Do wonder, useless and unproductive as such thoughts are.”

“Here, I’ve brought you something. It was among her things, I’ve kept it all these years, but I think you should have it.”

I blush to confess that by this point I had cracked the door to the sitting room open that I might watch. The woman opened her reticule and handed to Holmes a small locket, tarnished with age.

Holmes opened the locket, gave a wistful, sad smile. “Thank you.” He opened the heart-shaped box, put the locket inside, and closed the lid.

I will never again say that Holmes has no heart, nor agree with anyone who says that heart is empty.

---February 2014

Find out more about Shawna Reppert!

The Shape of His Heart by Jane Kindred

The Shape of His Heart

by Jane Kindred

Free image from http://www.sxc.hu/ used according to the Image License Agreement.

It was an extravagance. She insisted she didn’t need a gift. It was the same every year, and every year, he ignored her, presenting her with trinkets, dainties, and posies, which she accepted with grace, chastising him gently. And every year, his gifts were piled with the others from her many admirers and instantly forgotten. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the gesture; she did say repeatedly, after all, that she didn’t need the gifts he insisted on giving. But the queen had many admirers, all of whom ignored her wishes on the matter.

One could hardly blame them. Male or female, human or hiddenfolk, one look upon her countenance and they were consumed by an inescapable obsession. He’d fallen for her himself so long ago he no longer remembered the life he’d once had in the world above. All that mattered was the queen. And all that mattered to the queen was conquest.

He had brought her the spoils of war—foreign princes from exotic lands in the upper realm, incomparable beauties of every hue and height who knelt before her, defeated, for her amusement. He supposed he might once have been one of them. The thought only bothered him a little. Those who resisted her pull amused her most, as they would be the ones who simpered and fawned over her to the point of obsequiousness after their ultimate surrender.

He had given her the daughters of princes, as well. Teary-eyed little things who missed their mothers, and who were easily enchanted by the maternal kindness she showed when she chose to. But she had so many of these tender morsels she couldn’t remember their names.

He’d gifted her with rare blooms from the most distant mountaintops and valleys, stunning and exceptional, for her ladies-in-waiting. She wore down their pride with her own grace and elegance until they went mute, with eyes downcast, grateful for the chance at servitude. She decorated herself with them, arranging them about her throne in fantastic flowing gowns of every color to kneel at her feet and lay their heads against her thighs and drape her arms to offset her own matchless beauty. They changed with her mood, and she had many moods.

But this gift…this one, he was certain would surpass all others. It was a gift no one had given her before. He wrapped it carefully in leaves of gold, tied with glistening gossamer. He allowed the others to go first, patiently biding his time from the back of the hall, where he leaned casually against a crystal pillar watching the queen accept her gifts with the usual graceful boredom. This gift would not bore her. It was a gift she would never expect.

Her tresses of midnight blue trailed down over her ladies-in-waiting, stunning in gowns of scarlet against her own golden sheath, the train of which pooled around them like molten metal. She’d gone with lighter gold for her skin, offsetting it nicely. And her eyes this evening were the color of amber; he could see them from here, glowing like a cat’s. The queen nodded and thanked her admirers with the presentation of each gift, tolerating the emotional ones who wept and kissed her feet, overcome.

The gifts piled up.

At last, the room had emptied. Sycophants and servants glared at him on their way out, knowing he was a favorite, or at least that he thought himself so. She beckoned to him with jewel-bangled hand.

He pushed himself away from the post and came forward, bowing low—but not too low—when he reached the dais. She liked that he had a bit of spirit. He supposed he must not have struggled much against his enslavement, for he wasn’t in the least obsequious.

He straightened and held out the gift.

“Darling, you shouldn’t have,” she said, as always, as she accepted it. “You know I want for nothing.”

“But you do not have one of these.”

She raised a poppy-colored eyebrow. “Have you brought me a pixie? I can’t imagine what other living thing could fit in such a package.” Her graceful hands pulled away the gossamer and layers of gold, revealing the claret-colored box. The thick, leathery fabric of the box was stitched together with sinewy cord in the shape of a heart. He’d made it all himself by hand—the hinge, the clasp, the intricate designs he’d carved into it.

The queen raised her eyes and smiled encouragingly, inquisitive. He’d captured her interest. She ran her fingers over the surface, admiring it, rubbing her thumb along the seams. He held his breath. She opened it.

Nestled inside, the bloody muscle beat steadily.

The queen frowned, lifting it out. “You think I don’t have one of these?”

“My queen, that is not the gift. I merely thought you would appreciate the symbolism of what could the gift could be used to hold. The gift is the box itself.”

She set the heart back in its nest and closed the box once more, examining it. “It is lovely.” She seemed puzzled.

“I made it for you myself, my queen.”

“Made it? Out of what?”

He unbuttoned his coat and unlaced his shirt, holding it open to let her see the jagged pink line of puckered scar tissue.

Her eyes went wide, the amber sparkling like fire. “It’s your heart in the box?”

“No, my queen. My heart is the box. I tenderized it and hollowed it out, and sewed it together with cord made from my veins. The hinge and clasp are the arteries.” He smiled at her incredulous gasp and took her hand from the box to bring her fingers to his mouth. He kissed them reverently. “Your heart will be safe inside it.”

---February 2014

Find out more about Jane Kindred!

A Box Full of Faerie by Jody Wallace

A Box Full of Faerie

by Jody Wallace

Chapter One

Wham! Wham! Wham!

A thunderous pounding on the door disrupted Rachele’s daily yoga workout. Startled, she froze in the ‘cat’ segment of her cat-cow sequence for warming up the spine.

Wham! Wham!

She leapt to her feet. The hair on the back of her neck prickled a warning, like some kind of intruder alert. Her brain rapidly assessed threat responses—knives in the kitchen, vase on the table near the door, hand to hand, straight-up hiding.

None of that would help if they had a gun.

“Who is it?” she called, voice cracking.

When there was no response, she crept silently toward the front door of the cottage. Gene sat on the foyer table beside the vase, long, black tail curled around his paws.

Displaying zero alarm after the sudden racket, he swiveled an ear as she approached. Cats often sensed danger before humans, so if he wasn’t anxious, maybe she shouldn’t be either.

“You’d better not break that vase,” she chided him. Gene was her destructo kitty. The blue willow vase was the fourth one to occupy the spot of honor in the foyer. This one, she hoped, was both heavy enough that Gene couldn’t knock it over and that it would make a good weapon.

Because that was the perfect criteria for interior decorating choices.

Gene blinked. The tip of his tail flicked an acknowledgement.

Reassured, Rachele pressed her eye to the peephole. A man in khaki clothing with a clipboard waited on the porch. A cap shaded the top half of his face from view.

Rachele laughed to herself. A delivery person. If khaki guy were a gun-toting villain, he wouldn’t have bothered to knock. She’d never get used to the way people here traipsed onto your porch like they were allowed on your property without an invitation, but that didn’t mean everyone meant you harm.

Not like where she’d grown up—not at all.

Which was exactly why she’d relocated to Shawnaville, North Carolina, in the first place.

Checking her clothing to make sure all the important ladybits were covered, she unchained and unbolted the door and swung it back. Pleasant afternoon sunlight streamed through the opening, warming her exposed arms and face.

“Can I help you?” she asked the man.

“Delivery for 802 Danube Street.” He tapped the clipboard. “Are you Rachele Waters?”

She peered past him to the medium-sized truck parked at the curb. Two other men busied themselves at the rear of the vehicle as if her delivery weren’t a small box or overnight envelope. She didn’t recognize the company name on the side of the truck—Summerland Express.

“I didn’t order anything,” she said automatically, although it was quite possible she had. She hated shopping— wearing clothes and shoes, going outside around all those strangers, in the stores, leaving her cats alone in the house when who knew what mischief they could get up to? The internet was her friend.

The man lifted his chin to look at her. The bored expression on his brown face didn’t flicker as he extended the clipboard and a large ink pen. “If you could just sign at the X?”

“But what is it?” she asked.

“I just drive the truck, ma’am. I don’t know what’s in your parcel.”

Bemused, Rachele accepted the paperwork. She glanced over the tiny print. Everything looked standard. The sender appeared to be an internet retailer she often accessed. Huh. Was it time for more cat food? Craft supplies for her online business? Oh, maybe it was that new yoga mat.

What a nice surprise. She loved presents.

Balancing the clipboard in one hand, she scribbled her name awkwardly with the pen. It was slick and unusually heavy, as if weighted inside. The pen slipped out of her grasp as she was writing the last letter. The sharp clip pricked her finger like a cat’s claw.

“Ouch!” A tiny bit of blood dripped on the signature line. Embarrassed, Rachele snatched her hand behind her back. “Sorry. I got a smudge on your paper.”

For a former...well, for a person whose employment used to involve slinking around and eavesdropping, she was so clumsy sometimes.

The delivery guy shrugged and handed her the customer copy. “As long as we get the signature.”

The two other guys pushed and tugged a large carton out of the back of the truck--a brown box about as tall as they were and almost as wide. They hoisted it between them easily—apparently it wasn’t too heavy—and toted it across her yard. Large arrows on the sides indicated “this end up”.

What in the miaow was that? Not a yoga mat, that was for sure. The box they supported could hold a refrigerator and a half.

“Do you need us to bring it inside, ma’am?” one asked.

“No.” She didn’t know what it was. No way was it coming in her house. “Just leave it there.”

They looked at each other as if she was dim-witted, set the box down near her stepping stone pathway, and returned to the truck.

The guy with the clipboard tipped his cap at her. “Have a nice day, Ms. Waters.”

She waited until the men drove off to fetch a box cutter, slip on her hated shoes, and head out to the yard to inspect her new possession. While she didn’t want it inside until she could figure out what it was, that didn’t mean she wasn’t dying of curiosity.

It wasn’t a fatal flaw...considering she was still alive...so why curb it when so many fascinating things awaited discovery?

Her name was clearly marked on the box, as was her address. Nothing was misspelled. Didn’t seem like a mistake. Hm, was it that new predictive delivery she kept hearing about?

She gave the box an experimental shove. It moved half an inch through the close-cropped grass. Probably too heavy for her to carry by herself, but she had several nice neighbors. Next she shook it.

Something inside, something large, thunked against the cardboard.

Rachele jumped back, box cutter held low. The better to slash with.

When the contents of the box didn’t thunk again, she straightened, smoothed her long, black hair, and casually glanced around to see if anyone had noticed her freak out over a box.

“Mrow!” Shona, her long-haired, grey tabby, minced through the flower bed. Her tail waved like a plume behind her. She was not accompanied by the jaunty jingle of a bell.

Well, turd buckets.

“Where have you left your collar this time, puss?” Rachele knelt and buried her fingers in the cat’s warm fur. Four collars, just this month. She didn’t want to keep the cats locked inside, but roaming the streets could be dangerous for critters. Even these streets. The least Shona could do was leave her collar on.

The cat rolled onto her back, purring. Guests to her home had been certain Shona was a Maine Coon, but she wasn’t. She was as mixed-breed as all of Rachele’s cats.

They were her kitties. Her charges. Her babies. She might be a bit of a crazy cat lady, but what did she care?

It was better than what she had been. Before.

In fact, everything was better than it had been before except Jacques, but he would never be okay again.

Never mind that. Never, ever mind that.

“Let’s see what’s inside.” Giving Shona one last pat, Rachele pushed thoughts of the past aside and felt around the edges of the parcel, looking for seams and tape. If Gene was her destructo kitty and Shona was her gorgeous wanderer, Luiken was her box lover. This box, however, was a touch larger than the shoe and paper boxes he favored.

She stuck the box cutter into the crack along the side of the box and sliced downward. Cardboard and glue parted ways with a long, dry rip that sent shivers up Rachele’s spine. Ack! It was nearly as bad as daggers on a chalkboard. She continued along the bottom, stood, and sliced along the top.

The front of the box eased open like a door. Inside the parcel was something she had definitely not ordered for herself.

A person-high wardrobe with a single door rested inside the box, no Styrofoam cushioning. Well, that didn’t seem like a very sensible packaging technique. The wardrobe was shaped oddly, almost triangular, with a bottom as wide as the box and a top that came to a point. Intricate carvings covered the aged wood—vines, fairies, unicorns, and other mystical creatures. The door, like the wardrobe itself, had three sides.

She took a step back and frowned. Cocking her head to the side, she realized it wasn’t a triangle.

It was an upside down heart.

Graceful swoops at the bottom rested on the ground, giving the wardrobe more stability than one might assume an upside down heart would have. The doorknob was also a heart, iron filigree and very fancy.

It looked expensive. And old. Leaning forward, she gave it an experimental sniff. Beeswax mixed with spice and hints of pine, though the wood itself appeared to be oak. The combination reminded her of something, perhaps something from her past, but she couldn’t recall what.

Whatever it was, it made her sad. Since she had no more room in her life for “sad”, she shrugged it off and continued her inspection.

She ticked the door with a fingernail. Solid. Next she rapped on it. The hollow clunk seemed to verify it was empty.

How lovely. Who’d sent it to her? And why? It wasn’t her birthday, and nobody in her regular life knew when her birthday was. Just the cats, who didn’t really care, but they did enjoy the fact she served them ice cream on her special day.

As for the wardrobe, she could place it in her craft room and fill it with yarn and beads and more yarn. She grabbed the doorknob and pulled it open, eager to see if had shelving inside.

A loud crack, like lightning, resonated across the yard. Bright blue light blasted out of the door. Rachele yelped. Stumbled. Fell on her bottom. Shona hissed and scampered toward the house in a flash of bushy tail.

After a moment, the blue dimmed until there was just a phosphorescent glow around the door edges.

Cautiously, she inched toward the wardrobe and stuck out a toe. She nudged the bottom corner of the door until it swung open on creaky hinges.

A swirling, glimmering portal greeted her stunned gaze.

Hastily she slammed the door. It had no lock but stayed shut.

For now.

Well, dammit! Dammit to Frell and dammit some more. Who had sent her a dog-damned door to Faerie?

After all she’d done to get away from that place.

*

To be continued in the HEART-SHAPED BOX anthology!

---February 2014

Find out more about Jody Wallace!
 

The Silver Prison by Shona Husk

The Silver Prison

By Shona Husk

Free image from http://www.sxc.hu/ used according to the Image License Agreement.



It had taken him close to a century to track down the damn box. A century of stalking witches and making sure they didn’t trap him too. But now he was close he could almost smell the magic. He dragged his captive forward. She mumbled against the gag he’d shoved into her mouth, and while the rope cut into her wrists, the pain wouldn’t worry her for much longer.

The witch who was supposed to be guarding the box was out at her coven meeting. Her cat hissed at him, but when he hissed back, it skulked away to hide in the shadows. He didn’t need to turn on any lights to see where he was going. The box up was upstairs on the dressing table. Hidden in plain sight.

A stupid move, really, considering he knew what the silver box looked like and had been scrying for it for decades. Previous witches in charge of its safekeeping had kept it wrapped and in boxes, handing it over while masked so he never saw their faces. It was hard to track something when he didn’t have a clue about where it could be. But this witch either didn’t know what was inside or they’d made a box for him and this was a trap.

After stalking the witch in the real world, the astral and online, he was sure it was the former. She was less witch and more wanna-be.

The college girl he’d kidnapped struggled against him. He shoved her up the stairs and down the hallway to the bedroom. He paused in the doorway for a moment.

Perfect. Just as he’d seen in the bowl of blood, the box sat on the dressing table. The box was shielded from simpler scrying methods such as water and crystal balls. Did the witches really think that he wouldn’t stoop to using blood? He’d lost track of the number of people he’d almost killed to find the box.

The silver, heart-shaped box glinted in the moonlight. It was truly a beautiful prison. The woman kicked him in the shins in a futile attempt to get free. He grabbed her hair and growled, revealing his mouth full of fangs. Her angry mumbles became a smothered whimper. No doubt she’d never seen a demon in the flesh.

He ran his knuckles down her cheek and her eyes widened. He’d picked her because she was very pretty. She’d also been very willing to accept his offer of a lift home after a few drinks. He could be a perfect gentleman if he chose or lust incarnate.

When he pulled the knife from his pocket and flipped the blade, all color faded from her skin. She shook her head and her mumbles became more pleading. He couldn’t stand whiny women, but he needed her alive.

“Shut up and pick up the box.” He hoped it wasn’t booby-trapped. He didn’t want to have to find another woman.

The woman complied, her hands shaking. The silver heart box fitted in the palms of her cupped hands. For a moment he hesitated. It had been so long. The witches who’d made this prison had paid with their lives—he’d made sure of it.

“Open the lid.” He knew he wouldn’t be able to open it. It was warded against anything that wasn’t human. The witches who’d set the trap had been far more knowledgeable than the ones currently in charge.

The woman shook as she struggled to get the lid off. He almost considered cutting the rope binding her hands just to speed up the process. Then the silver lid popped off and fell on the floor with a muffled thunk.

Inside was a cloth poppet bound in a nest of spider’s silk. The white cotton cloth heart had been personalized with a piece of golden hair and stained with blood. It pulsed, making the web tremble. A black spider the size of a fingernail crawled from underneath and sat on the fabric.

He smiled. “Hello, lover. I’ve brought you a new body.”

---February 2014

Find out more about Shona Husk!

Heart-Shaped Box of Memories by Nicole Luiken

Heart-Shaped Box of Memories

By Nicole Luiken

Free image from http://www.sxc.hu/ used according to the Image License Agreement.

The first fan mail confused the heck out of Brooke.

Dear Brooke (I know I should probably call you Ms. Harper, but I feel like if we met we’d be friends):

I just wanted to thank you so much for sharing your Perfect Date with me. Valentine’s Day has been a low spot for me in recent years (I’m a widow). I picked your chocolate on a whim and it was so sweet! It brought tears (of joy!) to my eyes and has buoyed my sagging belief in True Love.

Wishing you and Jon many years of happiness,
Trudy Dorrheimer

Brooke wrinkled up her nose. She couldn’t remember ever being in a movie called Perfect Date or even a Valentine’s movie of any sort. Ms. Dorrheimer must have confused her with someone else. She deleted the message.

The next day there were nine more, all in a similar theme, thanking her and congratulating her on finding True Love. The next day there were 600.

Brooke stormed into her agent’s office, waving a handful of print-outs. “Avery, what is this? Did you sell some subsidiary rights I’m not aware of?”

He barely glanced at the papers. “Brooke, darling, perfect timing! I just got a call. Paramount wants to make a romance starring you. The script is still in development, but they’re very excited about it.”

Her jaw dropped open. All thoughts of the weird emails flew from her head. She’d had a few lead roles before—seven years ago, to be truthful—but those had been hard-fought auditions. Apparently, she was more girl-next-door than Steamy Seductress. She’d never been courted before.

“That’s—that’s fabulous. Tell me more.”

“It’s called Perfect Date, and they’re trying to get Jake Gyllenhal as the male lead.”

Her euphoria crashed to a halt. “Perfect Date?” That was the name mentioned in the weird emails.
“Avery, stop. Something strange is going on. Do you know anything about this?” She handed him the print-outs.

He rolled his eyes in impatience, skim read one, then stopped and read three more with a more serious expression. “I don’t know what this is. It sounds like someone has infringed on your rights. I will look into this—but Brooke, regardless, the Paramount offer could be your big break.”

Brooke nodded, but worry tainted her earlier happiness.

*

At their next meeting, Avery was missing his normally jovial smile, his mouth set in a thin line. He shoved a heart-shaped box across the table. “It’s being marketed like a box of chocolates, but it’s actually downloadable memories. Yours is Perfect Date Caramel. Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s actionable. It’s not your memory. Everything is seen from the point of view of your date.”

The bottom dropped out of her stomach. “Is there… nudity?”

He shook his head. “It’s just a date. A romantic one,” he added.

“Who?” she asked. Several of the emails had referred to Jon or John. While she knew a number of Johns and two Jonathans, one of whom was a close friend, she’d never dated any of them. How memorable could the date have been if she didn’t even remember the guy?

Avery shrugged. “The memories don’t have names credited to them, not even yours. I’m trying to get names from the company so we can sue, but we’re stalled in legal limbo. Your hair is caramel-tinted and short, the way you wore it in Flesh and Spirit. You need to view the memory, Brooke. Give me a name so we can sue his ass.” He pushed the heart-shaped box across the table at her.

With great reluctance she took it.

*

The memory chocolate gave Brooke severe indigestion.

She remembered that sweet red-and-white polka dot dress. She remembered getting slightly buzzed on wine, but more intoxicated on his attention. She remembered kicking off her white sandals and running hand in hand on the beach, though she had no idea she’d looked so starry-eyed. God help her, she’d thought she was sophisticated back then, but her emotions were written on her face. She’d been so in love with him. But his name wasn’t Jon or John, it was Conrad Whitten. Her co-star back in Flesh in Spirit.

And he’d turned out to be such a jerk. He’d slept with her that night and sneered at her in the morning. She remembered the pity in the cameraman’s eyes when she’d made a fool of herself on set by daring to act as if they were a couple.

After Conrad Whitten, she’d learned to guard her heart. She let friends in, dates not so much.

Her throat swelled with emotion, choking her. How dare he? How dare he stomp on her heart and then make a cheap profit off of it? She started to reach for the phone, then stilled. Conrad Whitten was pulling down millions a movie as an action hero. Why would he sell this?

She watched it a second time and spotted some discrepancies. Like she’d only danced a slow song with Conrad, not a fast one.

And then she remembered: it had been a double date. She’d gone with her friend Kerri, who turned out to not be a very good friend at all, sleeping with Conrad a week later. And Kerri’s date had been—

The phone rang. It was Avery. “Some interesting news. The Perfect Date Caramel has been withdrawn. Apparently the owner of the memory is also suing—though I still don’t have a name. He claims it was stolen from his private collection and that it’s a fantasy. Brooke, I know you’re upset about this, but as long as we have a disclaimer that it never happened, I’m not sure pulling it is the best move for us. This is generating a lot of publicity. If it fades, Paramount may not green light the movie project.”

Brooke wasn’t listening. “I’ll think about it, Avery. Good night.”

*

Brooke rang the doorbell of Jonathan’s condo. How many times had she come here bearing pizza for a movie marathon or script reading fest? How many times had she cried on his shoulder after a bad date? Kerri had turned out to be no friend, but Jonathan had become her best bud. He was sweet and funny and cute in a bookish way.

Jonathan opened the door, his expression wary. “Hi, Brooke. What’s up?” But he was a cameraman, not an actor, and she could see the panic behind his eyes.

She asked him flat out. “Jonathan, are you in love with me?” Her knees were shaking.

He didn’t lie. In fact his shoulders straightened like a burden had been lifted. “Yes. For years. I’m sorry—”

“Shut up.” She went up on tiptoe and kissed him until he stopped talking and kissed her back.

Fade to black.

Dear Trudy,

Thank you so much for your email. I’m glad the memory of our first date gave you joy, and I wanted to let you know that True Love is out there—even if sometimes it takes some of us a while to find it.

Best wishes,
Brooke and Jonathan

The End

---February 2014

Find out more about Nicole Luiken!
Free image from http://www.sxc.hu/ used according to the Image License Agreement.

Unmatched Cupid by RL Naquin

Unmatched Cupid

by R.L. Naquin

Ellen flounced into the office, rosy cheeked and self-satisfied. She hung her wings on the hook beneath her name and rang the bell next to the wipe-off board. The entire freaking office went wild with applause.

Except for me. Oh, I gave a polite clap, sure. But I didn’t bother to offer even a fake smile, and had she deigned to look my way, she’d have seen the poison darts I was pretending to shoot at her out of my eyeballs.

Because Ellen was obnoxiously petite, the boss-lady had set up a stepstool for her. I watched barely five feet of bubbling cuteness climb the step to draw another tick mark beneath her name on the board. She flashed a grin over her shoulder at the rest of the room, then added two more ticks.

The room erupted again. She smoothed her little pink-and-white cardigan, then hopped down.

I stared at my computer screen in despair. I wasn’t cut out for this. Every match I tried to make blew up in my face. I was the worst matchmaker in the Cupid department. And if I didn’t make a match soon, I’d be demoted and transferred to somewhere far worse.

Honestly, I wouldn’t have taken the job if I’d had any other choice. There were only two ways into the Mount Olympus Employment Agency: you could be sponsored and brought in by a blood-related god—like Ellen had—or you could have unknown god blood somewhere in your heritage and hit rock bottom.

That was how I got there. Apparently, I was related to some minor god, and when I found myself homeless, unemployed and alone—boom. Some bum I’d never met before grabbed me and dragged me into an abandoned building. Except the building was different inside—huge, clean, and filled with people. Not sure which was more terrifying, abduction by a bum or the magic office, complete with gorgon receptionist.

I suppose I could have run, but I didn’t have much choice. I had nowhere else to go. I didn’t get to choose my new profession, either. They made me a cupid. And I sucked mightily at it.

I pushed my sweaty bangs away from my eyes and focused on the screen. It was no use. I’d been trying to fill the grid for so long, I’d lost track of where I’d started. Better to start from scratch. Tapping the reset button, I watched the sixteen portraits of lonely men and women shuffle like cards and spread themselves to the edges of my screen. The grid in the middle emptied its rows and columns for me to refill.

The Fates department had determined through whatever weird methods they used down there that several of these people were meant for each other. They did not, however, say which ones. Those of us working in the Cupid department were left with these gaping Sudoku grids that we had to sort through and attempt to place the right couples together in the right squares.

I squinted at the profiles beneath the photos. Derrick of the smoldering eyes was a dentist. I dragged his picture to the upper-left square. Felicia, a redhead with a lovely smile, was a veterinarian. I dropped her next to him. Hey, she obviously had good dental hygiene, a fact I was certain would appeal to Derrick. To her right, based entirely on her job as a veterinarian, I placed Stan, a blonde surfer with a golden retriever. But the grid line between the two blinked red.

No good. I took a closer look. Okay. So, Stan was gay. I tried placing him underneath Derrick's picture. The screen remained steady.

“Interesting.” I tapped the screen with a chewed fingernail. “Dr. Derrick goes either way, don’t you, buddy?”

Except that I could see absolutely nothing compatible between Stan and Derrick other than the fact that they both enjoyed the company of men. I sighed and dragged Stan to the bottom left corner of the grid for holding.

The Fates department probably thought this entire process was hilarious.

Stephanie, a stockbroker, was originally from a small town in Alabama—a much more likely match for Derrick, who came from a different small town in Alabama. I placed her picture where Stan’s had been, directly beneath Derrick.

The key now was finding another match that might fit beneath the veterinarian and to the right of the stockbroker.

This was always the part that hung me up. Whenever I made it this far, I panicked. How could two different men be possible matches for the same two women?

I scanned the other twelve faces staring at me from the screen. Ah. Dave. Long hair tied in a ponytail. Charming grin. No job. Dave was an artist who made beaded jewelry and sold it to tourists on the boardwalk for cash, then couch surfed for a place to sleep.

Dave was a project. Two successful woman. One handsome freeloader. I dropped Dave’s photo next to Stephanie and beneath Felicia.

I groaned. Putting Dave in a middle spot instead of on an edge meant I would have to find four women who were potential love matches for him. I really didn’t want to give this lowlife that many shots at love. Where was the justice in that? Smoldering-eyed Derrick with an education, a career, and an open mind only got two possible mates.

Maybe it was the right answer, but I wasn’t going to be responsible for it. I hit reset. If I started over with someone else in the corner—Deadbeat Dave, for instance—I’d get a better idea of where everyone was supposed to go.

Gods, I sucked at this.

Two hours later I had a reasonable grid setup that I thought was, if not right, at least partially right. The next step would be fieldwork. As much as I hated setting the grid, donning the Cupid wings and running around town invisible to meddle in people’s lives was worse.

I was worse.

On one assignment, I’d helpfully tipped over a man’s coffee on a woman because I had the vague idea that this was what in the movies they called a “meet-cute.” Her hand was badly scalded, which meant she was unable to make the flute audition for the Miami Symphony Orchestra. She lost her dream job, then sued the pants off of the guy who’d spilled his coffee on her. He lost his construction business and moved back to his parents’ house in Missouri.

Not a meet-cute.

In the seven months I’d been in the Cupid department, I’d made three successful matches. Two of them were during training, so I’d had help. I was on very thin ice.

I glanced up at my assigned wings hanging on a hook next to Ellen’s. Her cutesy giggles drifted across the office and over the wall of my cubicle. Ellen was cut out for this. Ellen had an instinct. Ellen was freaking adorable.

As I rose to make my reluctant way to grab my wings off their hook, I backed my chair into something solid. When I turned, I found the mail guy pushing his cart right behind me.

“Oh, sorry, Rudy. I didn’t realize you were there.”

He grinned. “My fault, Dory.” He reached into his bag. “Got a package for you.”

Rudy handed me a red velvet box, no bigger than a grapefruit and shaped like a heart.

I frowned. “Who’s it from?”

Rudy shrugged. “No idea. I just make the deliveries.” He skipped away, every few steps lifting off the floor with the aid of his winged sandals.

I dropped back into my chair and stared at the box. It was beautiful in its simplicity—the dark red almost a burgundy. The point on the bottom was rounded, giving the heart a more friendly feeling, like a bubble or a twelve-year-old girl’s dots above her letters.

The velvet was smooth and luxurious against my fingertips as I lifted the lid. I had no idea what to expect.

Candy. Jewelry. Someone else’s present delivered to me by mistake. Even a dead mouse. Any of those things could have been in the box and barely fazed me. What was really in there shocked the hell out of me.

At first, I thought the box was empty. A light flashed from its inky depths, and I dropped the damn thing on my desk. Lavender smoke puffed out, laced with sparkles and the smell of roses.

The smoke cleared and a moving image of the boss-lady smiled up at me. “Please see me in my office, Miss Anderson. And bring your wings with you.” The face dissolved.

Boss-lady hadn’t been to the Miami branch in months. I shivered. This was probably a very bad thing. I’d once heard of a woman in the Muse department who couldn’t complete her artist quota. They’d demoted her to Hades and made her a poop scooper for the three-headed dog, Cerberus.

I moved to the wall and unhooked my wings. They seemed so light in my hands for being so large. If I slipped them on, I’d be invisible once I left the building. I shook my head. There was nowhere to hide. They’d find me eventually.

And maybe scooping dog poop the size of a bowling ball would turn out to be my calling. Cupid sure wasn’t it.

I knocked on the office door and waited for the sensual voice of my boss to invite me in. The door opened on its own.

When you’re in the presence of a goddess, it’s difficult to figure out where to look. This particular goddess was an even bigger problem.

Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, adorned the pink, frilly office like a centerpiece at a wedding reception. She was breathtaking, smelled like a botanical garden after a spring rain, and sounded like a purring kitten. She was also practically naked by current cultural standards. The frothy bit of fabric she had draped over her hid nothing.

“How wonderful to see you, Miss Anderson. Please. Set your wings on the table next to you and have a seat.”

I did what I was told, swallowing a lump in my throat and keeping my gaze on her pink marble desk. Disappointing a goddess—especially this goddess—was the most embarrassing and shameful thing I’d ever done. It was worse than the time I’d tucked the back of my skirt into my pantyhose on a dinner date with a chiropractor named Chip. The maître d’ stopped me, but not before I’d marched clear across Andre’s waving my baggy white granny panties at everyone in the dining room.

Yet this was worse.

Aphrodite stared at me until I met the gaze of her lavender eyes. She cleared her throat, and it sounded like a choir of harmonizing lilies. “As you know, Dory, your success rate has been…unfortunate.”

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” In comparison, my voice was a hoarse, unlovely whisper.

“Oh, now. It’s not a tragedy. No one’s going to chain you to a rock and let a vulture eat your liver over and over.” She laughed and it sounded like adorable white mice ringing miniature golden bells in their tiny paws.

She clapped her hands and the door opened again. I twisted in my chair for a better view. In strode a tallish man with brown hair and large brown eyes behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose and cleared his throat.

“Dory, I’d like you to meet Ben.”

He nodded at me and smiled. “Hi, Dory.”

I didn’t say anything. My jaw felt frozen shut.

Aphrodite rose and handed a file with my name on it to Ben. “Ben will be taking you to your new assignment.” I vaguely heard her speaking behind me, but nothing she said seemed to matter. Something about Hercules being my new supervisor and cleaning Augean stables or something.

I lifted my hand to acknowledge her. “Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

Ben’s eyes sparkled like a disco ball at a skating rink. He smiled and brushed my bangs from my face. “Shall we go?”

I nodded. My heart thudded in my chest, and my stomach danced the Macarena.

We walked through the office, and behind me I heard Aphrodite’s voice again. “Well, done, Ellen. Ben was a perfect choice.”

“What do you say we try to get you a better assignment?” Ben took my hand. “Do you believe in Fate?”

I smiled up at him, and the warmth of his gaze spread over me like a soft fur. “They’re two floors down, right?”

Behind us, someone rang the matchmaker bell, long and loud, and the office went wild.

--February 2014

Find out more about RL Naquin! http://www.rlnaquin.com/