Pandora's Jar

By Sharron Riddle

It's hard enough being a seventeen year old Veil Walker, but when your boyfriend's a demigod and your mom's dating a soul sucker, things can get a lot worse. Pandora has seen ghosts since she was a kid, and now she learns she can bring back the spirits of the dead. Why would she do that? She has enough trouble getting rid of the ones stuck on this side. One annoyingly perky ghost wants Pandora to find her killer, but Ukwa, her super-hot boyfriend, doesn't like the idea. When trouble finds her, will she discover the true strength of a Veil Walker or, like the others, will her soul be trapped in her own Pandora's Jar forever?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: May 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781628302523

Book preview

Inc.

Pandora’s Jar

by

Sharron Riddle

Veil Walker, Book One

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Pandora’s Jar

COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Sharron Riddle

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

New Adult Faery Rose First Edition, 2014

Print ISBN 978-1-61217-251-6

Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-252-3

Veil Walker, Book One

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my wonderful beta readers,

Renee and Janee,

who encouraged me to send this to the publisher.

To my daughters, Linda and Julianna,

who both read and loved the book.

To my husband, Rick,

who insisted I go through and make the story

less Twilight-y.

To my awesome critique partner, Maureen.

And last but far from least,

to my amazing editor, Frances,

who believed in my work from the very beginning.

Thou art to me a delicious torment.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Chapter One

Dodging the dead was an art form at which I’d become a master. Even masters have bad days.

I hurried along Central Park West, kicking the leaves that swirled around my sneakers, their peppery smell swirling with the crisp fall air and the not so wonderful ozone smell drifting up through the sidewalk steam vents. Today marked a milestone for me, amplifying the excited, nervous sickness in my stomach.

Silently, fervently, I prayed nothing disastrous would happen to ruin my morning with my new (and only) friend, Darcy. We agreed to meet at Jodi’s Java at ten. As pathetic as it sounds, I’d been getting ready since seven, which didn’t speak well of what might happen if I ever actually went on a date with a guy. I’d have to start prepping three days in advance. But first, a guy would have to notice me as something other than that freak.

The brisk wind caught my curls as I turned up West Sixty-seventh Street. I was busy pulling the hair from my eyes when I barely dodged the screaming woman. Instinctively I turned my head away, but not before catching a good look at the knife plunged into her chest. Blood gushed down her flowered dress and stained her legs with wild crimson ribbons.

Help me, please. Someone, help me, she screamed, darting from person to person along the street, reaching with wet, red hands. I stared at the sidewalk, ashamed at myself for refusing to make eye contact, but I was in a hurry, and there was nothing I could do for her.

After the first time I’d seen her, I went home and Googled her murder. The next morning I’d returned to the same place, and there she was again. Every day at nine-fifteen, she flees from her killer, begging for help, but no one sees or hears her. Except me. No one stopped to help her the first time, either. Fifteen people stood by while her husband finished her off in the street.

I’d tried to help her cross over once, like my grandmother had taught me, but when I suggested moving on, this ghost went nuts, breaking parking meters and knocking over vendor carts. I’d been injured by angry ghosts before, so I left her alone after that.

Some ghosts couldn’t get past the savagery of their deaths, like the screaming woman or the jumping man who splatted on Broadway daily at noon. They seemed doomed to relive the worst moment of their lives over and over again. If there was a hell, I imagine that’s what it would be like.

My thoughts returned to my impending meeting, making my chest ache with dread. Darcy recently transferred to my Manhattan prep school. I knew as soon as I saw her, she wasn’t the kind of girl the other students would welcome very eagerly—all those future CEO’s and politicians—so I snatched her up for myself.

After two weeks with no embarrassing poltergeist incidents, I suggested a weekend excursion.

I passed Story Time bookstore, waving to Mrs. Harmon who was setting children’s books in the display window, and I said hi to Joe the pretzel vendor as he rolled his cart onto the sidewalk.

At Jodi’s Java, I paused inside the door scoping out the place for ghosts, and nearly swooning at the rich, luscious smell of fresh brewed coffee. Several groups of teenagers were hanging out on the sofas, and the window tables were occupied by people bent over laptops, focused on their screens. Two girl baristas frantically prepared drinks for the long line of customers while a young guy checked inventory behind the counter. Since no one appeared like they’d been shot or squashed by a bus, I ventured inside to join the waiting patrons.

Darcy hadn’t arrived yet, so I texted her for her order. By the time I reached the counter, I had her request for a caramel iced cappuccino.

Sorry I’m late, she said, joining me just as I picked up our drinks. I had to take the bus. Subways don’t run this way on the weekends.

She unzipped her navy windbreaker and slung her backpack onto the tall table we snagged, just as some geek girl vacated it. I pushed the drink to her and sipped my skinny mocha.

No problem. I live close by, over on Central Park West. Maybe I should have suggested someplace closer to Brooklyn where she lived, but if you think there are scary people on the New York mass transit, you should see the ghosts that wander the subway cars and scream in the ears of passengers on the buses. Cabs aren’t much better.

Her eyes widened. Nice neighborhood.

My cheeks burned, knowing this was my only shot at seeming normal, and I had three big secrets I didn’t want to share with anyone—rock star dad, reclusive novelist mom, and of course, the ghosts. Not that I’d had to worry about sharing secrets before now.

I noticed her staring and faked a smile. It’s okay, but the place is too big for just me and my dad.

Oh, that’s right. You said your mom lives in Florida?

Uh huh, they’re divorced.

Why don’t you live with your mom?

My eyes stung, and I stared into my cup. Because I’m a freak. I scare the crap out of her.

There aren’t any good prep schools near my mom, so my parents decided I should live here. I see her during breaks, and I spend my summers with her. I’d practiced that line enough to sound convincing.

Oh, that must be hard. Darcy pulled a wallet from her backpack, but I shook my head.

I got this. You buy next time, I said.

She grinned at me with a mouthful of braces. Cool, thanks.

No problem. Then I worried she would think I thought she was poor because she was a scholarship student and be angry that I paid. This was so complicated. How did people maintain friendships on a daily basis?

She swirled her straw around her drink while I considered what to say next.

After a long silence, Darcy said, "I’m reading Romeo and Juliet for English class. Do you think you could help me with the report?"

Sure, I’d like that. I read that two years ago for sophomore AP English, I said, relieved we weren’t talking about me anymore. I tried looking enthusiastic, because that’s what friends did. They helped each other. Or depending on which shows you watched, they stabbed each other in the back.

Maybe we could go to your house after this, she said, her eyes hopeful.

I ran Dad’s concert schedule through my head. He was leaving in two weeks for a month long tour in Europe.

Today’s no good, my dad’s sick, I said, hoping the lie wasn’t too obvious. We could go the Met. Have you been there yet?

She shook her head. Okay, sounds like fun, she said, her words at odds with the disappointment on her face.

I have plans next weekend. Sure, like shaving my legs. But I’m free the week after that. Why don’t you come home with me after school Friday and spend the weekend?

Sure, I’d love to. She brightened and I relaxed. Maybe I could pull this off.

I was delighting in an imagined future of shopping trips and museum visits when the guy behind the counter turned around. He had burnt caramel skin, dark hair, and large, dark eyes that sparkled with humor when he moved to an empty register. He grinned at a skinny white kid in a red hoodie. The boy seemed nervous, wiping his nose on his sleeve, his eyes darting around. The cashier’s face sobered, and the color drained away. Strange, I thought, but then I saw what had frightened him. A gun.

I stood too quickly, knocking the table and spilling Darcy’s coffee into her lap.

What the…! she exclaimed.

He’s got a gun!

Darcy leapt off her seat, stumbling back into another table. A laptop crashed to the floor, and people shouted.

Get out, everyone get out. I screamed over arguing voices.

The gun fired, an explosion of noise. I stared in horror as the top of the cashier’s head blew off, blood and brains spraying the wall behind him.

Oh my God, someone call 9-1-1. I said, backing to the door. I grabbed Darcy’s elbow, trying to drag her outside, but she yanked her arm away with surprising viciousness.

I pointed to the counter at the kid in the hoodie and the murdered cashier.

The commotion died down, and everyone was staring. At me.

I turned to find the killer and his victim had vanished, along with the gory stains on the wall. A sick, numbness almost crippled me. How could I have been so stupid? But I’d never seen a ghost who was able to project his own murderer. This was something new. He had completely blindsided me.

I glanced around at the angry faces. I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for that laptop. My hands shook as I worked my wallet from my purse and took out a card with my name and number.

What the hell are you on? The young man snatched the card from me before dropping to his knees, gathering shattered plastic from the floor.

Darcy slung her pack over her shoulder and yanked up the zipper on her jacket. I felt the cut of her glare. I felt it coming from every direction. All of them, tearing me up with their contempt.

I should have listened to the other kids. They warned me about you. Darcy shouldered past me, leaving me alone on the sidewalk in front of Jodi’s Java.

The tears came in a rush. I hung my purse across my front and shoved my hands into my sweater pockets, walking blindly back the way I’d come. I felt like the screaming woman, with a knife stabbed in my chest. Here I was, repeating the most horrible moments of my life.

I didn’t have to imagine hell. I lived it.

****

I mumbled to the doorman as I hurried across the lobby of our high rise. In the elevator, I turned the key in a special lock and hit the button for the penthouse, then I dug through my purse for a tissue or a napkin. Giving up, I finally just wiped my eyes on my sleeve.

When the elevator door opened to our vestibule, I used another key to let myself in, wishing I could spill my bad morning experience to Dad. But Dad didn’t like hearing my problems. Realizing that truth brought a fresh gush of tears. Too bad. He was going to hear them today.

Dad? Where are you? I tossed my purse onto the sofa.

In here, he called from the study.

A haze of pot smoke hung in the hallway. Great. I needed him alert, listening. Sympathizing for once.

I stomped into the study, high on my indignation horse. Dad, how could you. You’ve been out of rehab for what, three months… My words fell away with the last of my fragile psyche.

Dad was sitting on the large leather sofa that took up the center of the shrine to himself, Izzy King, Rock Star. His platinum records hung on polished oak walls, and golden award statues gleamed on glass shelves. He was barefoot, wearing jeans, and a T-shirt, his dyed black hair hanging in tangles around his shoulders.

Pacing behind him was his groupie of the month, Candy something or other.

Calm down, Pandy Bear. We’re just doing a little celebrating.

His silly grin made me shiver, because I’d seen it before. He was about to announce another colossal mistake.

What’s going on, Dad? I glanced at Candy, who was maybe five years older than me and dressed for a hooker convention. She gave me the evil, knowing glare of a cobra about to sink its fangs in your neck.

Me ’n‘ Candy are getting married next week. Surprise. He threw up is hands, a joint crushed between two fingers. An empty bottle of scotch lay on its side on the coffee table.

Isn’t this kind of sudden?

Hey, how can you put a time limit on love? His words came out a little slurry.

A time limit on love? That doesn’t even make sense. Why don’t you sleep this off and think about things when you’re sober?

Nope, too late. We’ve already rented a church in London, and everyone’s coming, Candy said.

London? I don’t think I can miss that much school.

You don’t have to miss any school. I bought a six bedroom house in Dorset, near some harbor. It has a pool and a game room, and we can even get a boat, said Dad.

Are you telling me you’re moving to England? Next week? I stared at Candy again.

Her eyes narrowed. She pointed at Dad and herself and nodded. Then pointed to me and shook her head, jangling hoop earrings as big as bracelets while running a finger across her throat.

I blinked, shocked at her boldness. Was she threatening me?

Please don’t do this, Dad. I have a bad feeling.

Candy leaned over the couch, her silky blonde hair spilling over Dad’s shoulder. She took a long drag from the joint in his hand, keeping her eyes on me. Her creepy spider fingers massaged his neck while she whispered in his ear and giggled. She was good. I had to give her that.

This is the real thing, Pandora, Dad said, oblivious to Candy’s threats and my objections.

Then what’ll it hurt to wait a few months?

Honey, your dad’s been married five times. We thought it would be nice to start fresh, Candy said, smiling innocently.

I wanted to shake my dad. How could he not see she was just another gold digger? None of his marriages had lasted more than a year, except his marriage to my mom. They’d managed to hang on for six.

Then move to England, just don’t get married.

Sweetie, if we’re going to start a family, we want to do things right, Candy said with a serious face.

I frowned at Dad and raised my brows. He rubbed his eye with a knuckle, pretending he had something there. Coward. Mom told me Dad had a vasectomy after I was born. Apparently, he hadn’t shared this news with Candy.

Wow. You two are really made for each other, I said and fled from the room.

Pandy, what about England? Dad called after me.

I’m not going, I yelled and slammed my bedroom door. A minute later, I was shoving handfuls of clothes into a suitcase on my bed. My sketchpad, pastels, and laptop went into my backpack with a few of my favorite books.

A rage swelled inside me, chomping away at the bitter walls I’d built so thick and high they shadowed my life in ugly gray darkness. No more. I’d had enough of his addictions and his groupies. I’d had enough of the kids’ whispers at school. Enough, enough, enough.

Dad knocked a few times and gave up. I suppose some part of me had always known the truth. I’d nursed Dad through every divorce and every trip to rehab, but he’d never been there for me, not for the important things.

I sat on my bed, trembling as the anger ebbed into a dull ache. Staring at the phone in my hand, I sighed, pressed speed dial number two, and waited.

Hello? said the familiar voice.

I cleared my throat and spoke the words I never thought I would say. Mom, can I please come live with you?

****

Mom waited for me just outside the security checkpoint at the Gainesville, Florida airport. Her eyes were the same blue-green as mine, her dark curls cut to her chin. She wore a red sundress and white sandals with white sunglasses pushed up on her head.

People say we look alike, except my hair is dark copper, and I’ve been freakishly tall since the fifth grade.

"Ma chérie, you’re more beautiful than ever, if that’s possible," Mom said with her French accent. She gave me a big hug. We shared superficial conversation while we collected my luggage, staying on safe topics like the weather and shopping.

Outside, the air was as hot and thick as melted cheese. Despite a sleeveless blouse and Capris, my skin dripped sweat by the time we reached her Beamer. Mom lives in the small town of Dunnellon, and from May to October, the temperatures average a stifling, breezeless ninety degrees.

I’m so happy you finally decided to move back in with me. I’ve been dropping hints for years, Mom said.

What? You sent me away when I was seven. Since when did you decide you wanted me back?

Mom went silent, her eyes watery. I regretted my words, even if they were true, because I was projecting my anger at Dad on to her. We had our own issues to hash out, but not today.

Are you coming with me to register for school tomorrow? I asked, keeping my tone light.

Mom’s shoulders relaxed. I signed you up this morning, and Westchase faxed your transcripts. They have most of the same AP classes you were taking in New York. You can always change them around if you don’t like your schedule.

Huh. I hadn’t realized she’d paid so much attention to my classes.

We’ll take you this afternoon to get your permit if you like, she added.

Sure. I turned to stare out the window at the horse farms and forests, highly suspicious of this new parental attitude.

My phone chimed, and I checked the screen. Dad was texting to tell me how much he already missed me. My eyes burned because I missed him, too, and I felt guilty I’d left things so badly. But he’d made his choice with Candy, and she’d made it perfectly clear I wasn’t welcome. I replied that I loved him but was staying in Florida no matter what.

****

Sophie shot out the door as soon as Mom turned the knob. She chuffed excitedly, almost knocking me over when her paws hit my shoulders, her tongue lapping my face.

I’m happy to see you, too. I gently pushed her off.

My black Great Dane leaned against my legs while I dragged a suitcase from the trunk.

Her whiptail smacked both walls as she followed me down the hall to my room, which was barely the size of my closet in Manhattan.

Everything remained the same as it had when Mom bought the house twelve years ago. She’d let me help decorate, but I’d been five at the time and deeply into my princess phase. So now, I was stuck with a frilly white bedspread with matching curtains, and cotton candy pink carpet that would make Cinderella cringe.

I’ll make us some sandwiches, Mom said, dropping a suitcase just inside the door, her cheeks pink from the heat.

Okay, thanks. After setting up my laptop on the desk, I filled two drawers with clothes and jammed the battered bookcase with paperbacks. I couldn’t bear to part with them, even though I had an e-reader now. I dug the pastels and sketchbooks from my backpack, setting them on the easel in the corner.

Mom called me for lunch, and a few seconds later her office door slammed shut.

I sighed and headed to the kitchen. Through the sliders in the living room, the deep, cool waters of Rainbow River invited me for a swim. Cyprus and oak crowded the far bank, Spanish moss drifting from their branches.

A thousand miles and a million years from Manhattan’s busy streets.

On the counter, I found a sandwich on a plate with a short note beside it. Deadline.

In Mom speak, that meant she was working on her latest novel and no one was to bother her until she came out for food or sleep. Or until I smelled something decomposing.

I was starving enough to give the tofu turkey on rye a chance. The taste was okay, but the texture was all wrong, and I ended up feeding half to Sophie. After putting my plate in the dishwasher, I changed into my one piece and grabbed a towel and my e-reader. Sophie followed me through the sliders, racing down the deck stairs to the backyard. Sweet roses and gardenias from Mom’s flowerbeds perfumed the air and carried on a lazy breeze that followed me to the water.

At the end of Mom’s dock, the