Yep, I’ll be at a table in the Blue Apple Books side of South & Pine on June 27th! My current master plan? Well, honestly, showing up and talking with anyone who stops by is the victory. After all, y’all know how I tend to sit a spell and wax on , wax off on nonsense!

But I’ll be there with copies of Death Whispers of the Etherwave, along with some free bookmarks to match. In addition, if things get a bit slow, that’s okay! Since I’ll have my trusty travel notebook and fountain pen (… not to mention tablet) and scribble out more for the upcoming Tidebloom Covenant for Legends of the Privateers, and a little short story that I can neither confirm nor deny might involve a certain Kiyosi Valchar from Windtracer Tales where he might be meeting a new friend (sort of).

With that, I’ll wrap this up. Might be some pictures (or even a surprise Substack video) on June 27th! Who knows? I mean a certain writer friend of mine did roll out the “Pictures!” request!

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For more about Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more.

Until next time!

-Kummer Wolfe

Author’s Note: Where the Blood Calls is a serialized fiction story in Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies, which is a fantastic collaborative corner of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles by the ever talented ! It’s a world of change and industrialization where magic has been set loose on the world of the 1800s. Here, in this corner, we’ll follow the escapades of one Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne with her work and adventures about the new, hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin.

New installments or chapters will materialize every other Wednesday as long as the story allows!

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. Plans were in motion but so were the pirates. Outnumbered three to one, calling it long odds seemed thin. While Doctor Thorne had deduced the possible toxin, and a repellent, to use with the Llamhigyn y Dŵr, it might not be enough. Caleb Rourke and his raiders had arrived in a screaming, bloodthirsty rush. Bullets looked for victims, but Rebekah kept her eyes on hope… and a wildly desperate gamble…

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Portlethen Bay, Scotland. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned or a doctor protecting her patients…

I’ve never considered myself a hero. Certainly not one of those from the stories with a lantern-jaw, flashing eyes, and a roguish grin. Pure flummery! I’ve only thought of myself as a doctor. But I’d be thrice-damned if I let that confounded man and his foul bunch touch my patients; deciding who lives and who dies.

No. Not today.

The tower house door slammed shut behind me with a final sound, like punctuation on my damn fool idea. A pair of bullets tore past my ear, clipping a length of my hair as I tasted the raw smoke of burnt earth. Maddock had been right. It would be close. So close, I knew Caleb’s raiders would be on us with knives the moment we tried to push off.

We’d lose people. Good people.

Not. Today.

I raced for the nearest marine, who was a certain lieutenant I knew too well. Lieutenant Angwin nearly jumped out of his tattered uniform when I stumbled into him behind his makeshift shelter of crates.

“Doctor?” he sputtered.

I shoved the clay jar into his hands. A glance across the battlefield made my blood chill. Caleb was up and leading a batch of butchers our way.

“Throw the jug at the nearest fire.”

The lieutenant glanced at the jar, then at me. “What?”

Scowling, I jabbed a finger at the nearest fire between us and Caleb’s bunch.

“Jar! Fire! Now, Leftenant! It’s thick with tallow and used gear grease; that’ll throw smoke everywhere! Do it and run for the boat!”

By God’s teeth, the man actually cooperated. Black-gray smoke, like the devil’s breath, leaped into the air, blotting the battlefield from view. Obviously, Angwin thought I’d follow him when he ran off. A part of me wanted to, but we needed one last bit of bait to slow the rotten bastards down in the smoke.

Me.

“Flummery! I hate cheap heroics,” I muttered in a tight voice. “Now I’m doing them!”

After a deep breath, I clenched my fists, then stepped out from behind the stack of crates. A shot tugged the air next to me, as Caleb waved his pirates back. I brushed loose strands of my dirty brown hair behind my ears, holding my ground; a short, thin doctor in a splattered waistcoat who’d had enough. I was unarmed, but never helpless. Fortunately, I didn’t have to hold the line forever; only long enough. Caleb belted out a laugh.

“Run down her crew,” he snarled. “We’ll dig the villagers out later. This one?” His dark eyes burned with a lurid light that gave me chills. “I know her,” he said, words like a velvet lie. “She’s mine to handle.”

I planted my boots in the dirt, knowing the smoke fouled Caleb’s Gift slightly. If luck were with me, it’d be enough.

“Handle?” I said with a sweet smile, my native Irish lilt from home bleeding under my words. “Now, Caleb, seems I recall you couldn’t do that even if you had a lantern and a map every time you tried.”

Caleb’s face twisted into a portrait of ugly rage. Several of his cutthroats whooped and laughed as they chased after Captain Vane and the others. That ended the instant the lot of them ran into Lieutenant Angwin’s devilment with the fishing line tripwires. Yelps of alarm replaced laughter.

“Stow it!” Caleb snarled at his crew, then slowly stalked toward me. He was sweat-and-soot-stained with blood splattered over the front of his fancy long coat and white shirt. It wasn’t noble or romantic, just dirty and repulsive; a look showing his true nature.

“Get your men and leave, you bloody bastard. You won’t harvest the dead like you did at the wreck of the Lewis Ross.” I sucked a ragged breath against the smoke. “Like you nearly did to me.”

His smile was like oil.

“Now, Rebekah. Don’t be like that. The past is in the past. It was an honest mistake. But we can make it better… I can make it better.” His voice dropped with a subtle echo as his Gift purred to life. A dull heat, like tiny fires, burned in his dark eyes. “Come to me.”

I took a slow step toward him before I realized it.

God help me, the man was already in my mind, turning it; Gift working, words purring.

I took another step against my will.

Then I stopped as a soft song hummed in my ear. It came from Caleb. The blood I heard was his. I felt the purr fade from my mind, barely a ragged, unpleasant memory. A soft smile dared bloom over my face as a gout of tallow smoke blew in between us, blocking his view and his Gift. The last Mesmer effects vanished like dew before the sunrise.

“No,” I whispered, iron packed into the word.

“Rebekah?” Caleb’s brow pinched in confusion as he tried again.

“Banshee,” I sharply corrected him, “or Doctor Thorne, if you please. Also, you know your Gift doesn’t work when mine has heard your blood.”

Wide-eyed, Caleb reached for a bleeding cut half-hidden at the edge of his hairline, against his ear. Grinning, I sang an Irish shanty off-key. Caleb yelled in pain as his blood danced to my tune. The man collapsed to one knee, and I leaned into the song. The pirate blinked, locking eyes with me.

“Rebekah, stop!”

The words purred into my mind like velvet poison. I heard them, but I no longer cared. My Gift held firm. I remembered the pain he’d caused my family. The cries of the dying and the just-dead at the wreck of the Lewis Ross. Pain visited on me when we were engaged. All of which this man had caused. Every bit for greed; for himself. It was blood money at its worst.

“No!” I snapped between verses, then roared out the shanty about a highwayman getting his due.

Red-faced and twisted in pain, Caleb yanked a knife from his belt before shoving to his feet. Blood steamed from his cut as he squared his shoulders, then charged. He managed three steps before a boarding ax sliced the air in front of his nose. Caleb jerked back, wide-eyed and panting, as if he’d seen his misbegotten life flash before his eyes. I glanced to my right where the ax had come from.

Corporal Maddock stood there, skin as metal as could be, with another boarding ax held at the ready. He gave me a curt nod, jaw tight. Metal or not, I saw a glimmer of concern behind that resolute expression.

“Ma’am.”

Confound it, that man packed more into one phrase than I could process.

Heart tight, I flashed a feral smile at Caleb, releasing my hold on his blood.

“Did he?”

Nearby, fishing line twanged. Bone knitting needles flew like a swarm of retribution, followed by the shadow of a hooked fishing net. Caleb dove to the ground. Several of his raiders didn’t. Screams of pain were as thick as grease smoke.

“Run!” I ordered Maddock, grabbing his arm. He didn’t say a word but ran easily beside me as we headed for the jolly boat back to the Javelin. Screams from the injured needled my ears. It was nothing compared to the cries of the lost souls that haunted my heart.

“You’re Gifted. A doctor!” Caleb growled after me. I glanced back to see him pull a bone knitting needle out of his woolen long coat. “You should be here with me. Healing my crew!”

“I soothe people.” My words were razor sharp. “Not mad devils drunk on death. I’m a doctor, not a priest!”

Caleb was back on his feet as we reached the jolly boat. Maddock and I were the last to board. He climbed in first as I turned back to glare at the pirate.

“Rebekah!” Caleb yelled in a rage. “This isn’t over. I’ll take your crew, your ship… and you.”

For a moment I stood one boot in the jolly boat, the other on the pier. Llamhigyn y Dŵr shot out of the water on either side of us, then back down. They arced over the pier, the others, and me; touching none of us. I shot a look of righteous anger at Caleb.

“Do. Your. Worst!” I yelled back, fire throbbing in my veins. “As God is my witness… you’ll still fail,” I added in a low voice.

“Doctor!” Captain Vane called from behind me.

I gave the captain a curt nod, taking my seat aboard. A midshipman keyed the crank, which poured our small supply of sulfuric acid over the scrap iron in the chamber at the bottom of the boat. The gasbag’s silk expanded as the others rowed. Not quite halfway from the pier and the air, someone dropped our single, tiny sail.

The dinghy lurched into the air as I stared holes through torn smoke toward shore. I watched Caleb and his raiders grab the wounded, stumbling back to their own boats. Whipped by the loss and his own anger, they were coming after us. Portlethen Bay was safe for the moment, even if we weren’t.

I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. Turning to my right, I looked up into Maddock’s concerned gaze. With a ragged sigh, I shook my head.

“It’s not over,” I said, words torn.

“No,” he said, looking up. “Not by a bit.”

Beyond our tiny gasbag, the HMS Javelin loomed into view. The last of the pitch-smoke boiled around her, but was fast bleeding away. She’d taken several hits but had held her own. Coming about was Caleb’s ship; a dirigible schooner. Light. Fast. Designed for hit-and-run, before boarding for blood.

“We’ll take them down or run them off,” Maddock said with steel conviction.

I nodded, pursing my lips as I glanced between the Javelin and the village of Portlethen Bay below. Lives that depended on us, and every minute we bought them.

“We have to,” I replied softly. “There’s no other way but to sail right through.”

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

As for me, if you’re looking for more of what I write, take a look at Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works. Please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. Subscribers also get behind the scenes videos, chat and even a chance to help me with some advanced reading of books before they go to print!

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Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Monday…

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. Sheriff Roy Branham stopped by for a chat about the recent murder victim, Fred Spivey, but also to check up on Daniel and Cassidy. Being an old friend of both their families, he was concerned. But the sheriff’s questions brought a few new details to light, which the sheriff noted with serious concern. Once gone, it left Daniel and Cassidy facing the weight of what they’d experienced—which was a lot for any couple to shoulder, newly married or not. While processing it all, they chose to dive back into the hunt for the fountain pens. This lead to a search for a mythical safe inside Moonlight Curiosities shop itself… revealing that it might have been far more than just a myth…

November 8, 2024. Moonlight Curiosities Antique Shop. Gloamstead, Alabama. Sometimes the more you learn, the more you wish you hadn’t…

I licked my lips, watching the sallow bulb gently sway at the end of the long, aged black cord. The image of a frayed hangman’s noose with its newest customer came to mind. I pulled my eyes away from the morbid sight.

“Okay, so not a safe,” I murmured, stating the obvious.

“Nope,” Cassidy replied with a nervous yip. Her eyes were as wide as mine, riveted on the gaping entrance in the wall; a spot we’d walked past dozens of times. She bounced a little on the balls of her feet, tennis shoes squeaking against the polished wood floor. “Doesn’t look like a little room for one, either.”

We exchanged a tense look, then eased to the right to get a better look. Just past the entrance, at the ragged edge of the light, there was a narrow set of dusty stairs descending into darkness. Pipes, wiring, and insulation lined the walls like a serial killer’s fever dream. Cassidy flinched, and I let out a nervous laugh like a startled hyena. We’d fought a bloodleech eager to suck our brains out—somehow this felt like a whole other level of worse.

I drew a deep breath, holding my palms out in front of me. “Okay, we need to go in and take a look around.”

Cassidy nodded sharply. “Yep. Certainly.”

Neither of us moved.

Silence wrapped around us like a blanket until it felt like a tourniquet. I cleared my throat as Cassidy rubbed her face, then wiped her hands on her jeans.

“This is stupid,” she sighed. “Daniel, your uncle wouldn’t have left the shop to us if it had something lethal in it.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” I breathed. “Right. So, first thing. Those horror movies we’ve seen?”

Cassidy’s brow furrowed. “We don’t do what they did.”

“Right,” I nodded, then rubbed my hands together. “None of that, except we’re still going in. So let’s grab flashlights, at least one crowbar, charged battery packs, and then…” I waved a nervous hand at the yawning doorway “… deduce the hell out of this.”

“Got it,” she replied, hurrying off while I kept watch. It wouldn’t have been so bad if little gusts of air didn’t creep out the opening like soft, heavy breathing.

Cassidy returned with supplies before my nerves crawled out of my skin, eager to call it a day. We swapped one more look, then headed inside the wall.

Brown, dusty floor planks complained, creaking with a whispered moan as I stepped inside. The small room was more long than wide, allowing enough space to walk single file. I went first, crowbar ready in one hand, flashlight in the other. Cassidy crept close behind, her flashlight on to back up mine.

Two steps down, she touched my shoulder.

“Daniel, wait.”

She gently shook her head, ears stretching upward through her auburn hair. One moment they were human, the next they were brownish-red furred bat ears, twitching in all directions.

“Better.” She took a dusty breath. “We might not be able to see much with the flashlights, but I’ll hear if anything tries to jump us.”

“Let’s hope for nothing,” I replied with a weak smile.

We took the narrow staircase a step at a time, moving slowly so Cassidy could hear past the nerve-splitting creaks in the wood. Five steps down, a rattle of metal clicks chittered in the air. My stomach dropped as the door sealed behind us, the feeble light beside it winking out like a spent candle. Then a series of bulbs ahead of us picked up from there—all dangling from their own black cords—splashing a thin trail of light down to another landing.

“That beats trying to fumble between spiders for a light switch,” I quipped darkly. Cassidy chuckled nervously, nudging me forward. My nerves took over my voice. “I don’t get it. This is a lot. Why make… all of this? It feels like overkill just to hide something valuable.”

Cassidy sniffed, wrinkling her nose against the dust.

“My allergies are going to hate me,” she sighed. “I think it really depends on the valuables.”

“Like the pens?” I asked, arching an eyebrow back at her.

She pursed her lips. “Not quite. Remember, most humans don’t want to know people like me exist outside of bad horror movies. Pitchforks come out when they do until they run out of things to kill.” Cassidy shrugged. “I remember hearing stories about people, some even humans, hiding us in basements until we could slip away from angry mobs.” She patted me on the shoulder. “You know that as well as I do, love.”

“Yeah, I do,” I agreed darkly. “So it could be like some ‘underground railroad’.”

“Maybe. Still, this is really a lot,” she agreed.

The landing at the bottom of the stairs was identical to the one above. It was framed by insulation, water pipes, and bare wood braces against stained cinder blocks. I hadn’t counted the steps down, but it felt like we were below the foundation. There wasn’t a wall or another door ahead, just an open doorway into darkness.

Then the lights turned on.

Rows of jaundiced bulbs sputtered to life, casting yellow light across a wide room. Each bulb dangled from a black cord. They were like glowing drops of yellow-hot tar from the ceiling’s crossbeams, frozen in motion.

The room itself was a healthy square, at least as wide as a two-car garage. Cinder block walls, dusted with sooty smudges of age, were braced by brown wooden beams. In between those, lovingly restored stained teak shelves lined the walls, weighted down with dusty antiques and more. Earthy scents of fresh carrots, potatoes, and dried herbs haunted the air; memories of vegetables long gone.

“This can’t be real,” I breathed, easing through the doorway as I clicked off my flashlight. On my right, I saw a heavy metal pair of shed-like double doors, padlocked from the inside. A pair of ceiling fans lazily spun to wake the dust. “My uncle hid a storage room? A panic room?”

Cassidy stepped around me, bat-ears flicking against the feeble hum of the bulbs. Slowly, her eyes trailed across the furnishings and antiques, ending at a rolltop desk and long table that dominated the center of the room. She cut her eyes over to me, waving a hand at the furnishings.

“Daniel, look again.” She flicked off her flashlight, crossing to the middle of the room. Kneeling down, she studied the desk. Wiping her hands against her gray t-shirt first, she brushed her fingertips across the stained teak wood. “It’s an office.”

“Down here?”

“This desk is in such amazing shape,” she murmured, then glanced back at me. “It looks like an office.” Cassidy studied the room again, mouth a tight line. “What if…” she hesitated, then lightly shook her head. “Nope. Got nothing, other than not a storage room. Everything’s too precise. Look at the table and desk; they’re arranged, not stuck here because it was convenient.”

I walked over to join her. After setting my flashlight and crowbar on the stained wooden table, I explored the shelves. My first stop was a glowing shape inside a one-foot-tall dusty bell jar—a ghostly rose. It slowly rotated toward me as I approached; glimmering powder flaking off the petals.

“All right, an office.”

Cassidy gently grabbed the handles of the rolltop desk lid. It opened easily, sliding up and away. Inside, there were three notebooks; one open. Ballpoint pens were scattered across an old, green felt ink-blotter. A stubby, round glass container sat in the desk’s corner, filled with a greenish-gray mist brewing like a storm cloud. She pulled back an old wooden banker’s chair, sat, and read. I followed the shelves.

“Don’t handle if ink is moving…” Cassidy read aloud. She waved a hand at my confused and worried expression. “Just a note I found. I’ll figure it out.”

“Ah.” Given everything so far, that felt like the safest thing to say. I turned back to the shelves.

There were 19th-century vellum-covered books in English, Latin, and languages I didn’t recognize. Finger-length quartz and blood-drop shaped amulets rested between the short stacks like dainty bookends. There were all manner of oddities, each with a handwritten tag, but a thankful absence of skulls—human or otherwise. Partway through my browsing, I stopped dead in my tracks.

“It’s another pen,” I murmured in the quiet.

“What? Where?” Cassidy asked, glancing quickly in my direction.

“Here.” I reached for it on the shelf.

The Waterman fountain pen lay on an old gray-brown wooden stand resting atop a square of blue velvet; all of it locked away in a dusty transparent case. A lacy doily with rust needlepoint was draped over it like a miniature burial shroud. The case’s lock was small but stout—a keyed steel padlock that radiated ‘do not touch’. A thin ghosting of dust coated it all. I carried it to the desk.

Overall, the pen resembled its twin upstairs with a chrome cap and smooth sheen on the polished tortoiseshell barrel. The biggest difference was the delicate veins along its surface.

“The vine decorations,” Cassidy said, squinting at the pen. “They’re blue? No, turquoise.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Maybe. But the pattern’s sure the same. Also, that case? It doesn’t feel like glass. It’s denser. Maybe Pyrex? Not sure what the doily’s for.” I frowned, mouth pulled tight, glancing around the room.

“What is it?” she asked, watching my expression.

“It should’ve been harder to get in here. Uncle Elias went to a lot of trouble to lock away this pen,” I said, waving a hand around. “Beloved, I’ve a bad feeling about handing any of them over to Dorian.”

Cassidy touched the open journal with a finger, as if it might bite. “Daniel, I’m not sure that’s all we need to worry about. You should see this.”

I read the wrinkled page over her shoulder. The notebook was another of my uncle’s journals; much more recent than the ones at the store-all. An icy chill skittered along my spine—this was dated a few days before my uncle vanished.

“Nighthunters?” I glanced at Cassidy, then read the page again. “Your dad mentioned them once. Isn’t that one of those fringe ‘monster hunters’ groups? They’re killers!”

She slowly nodded, staring at the page with a haunted expression.

“The same.” One of her bat ears twitched from nerves. She covered her mouth with a hand, then sighed, flipping between pages. “Remember, love, most people just think Nighthunters stage it all for videos. From this, it reads like your uncle was looking into a bunch that showed up around here. They caused more trouble over in Craigbrook than here in Gloamstead, but still…”

I picked up another notebook from the desk, leafing through the pages.

“Dryads… the dryad’s ‘Court Viridis’… Dopplekin… Cassie, there’s a lot here.” I turned to the front of the notebook to what looked like a title written in my uncle’s neat handwriting.

“Bestiary of the Uncanny…?”

My words stalled out like a dying car. Closing the book, I gently set it on the desk, then rubbed my eyes. “My uncle was a Nighthunter? I… thought I knew him.”

Cassidy skimmed a few more pages in her notebook, frowning.

“No… I don’t think so,” she replied. “Look,” she tapped a page, “he wrote about Nighthunters like… well… skinshapers and anyone else. It reads like a field study, but more so. There are times, locations, and what they did. Daniel… I think he was studying them. Tracking them. At least that was the last few entries before he vanished.”

I met her concerned eyes without a word. The silence screamed volumes.

“That’s… important. But maybe not a ‘right now’ important,” I said with a rattled sigh. “Anything about the pens in there? I’ll look through the other notebook.”

A few minutes of reading paid off.

“Here,” Cassidy said, indicating a page dripping with notes. “Uncle Elias believed the pens—maybe all four—were cursed or connected to something ancient. Maybe cursed by the Dryad Court over some stupid grudge.”

“Well, that would make sense. You’ve told me more than once, dryads get really petty over stupid things,” I scoffed.

“They do.” She smoothed the page, eyes devouring the text. “Looks like he thought the pens might even contain raw Darklight.”

“The swamp lights?” I asked.

She glanced up at me, eyebrows bunched.

“Hm. They’re that and more, but yes. Mostly he was sure the pens are dangerous, especially in the wrong hands. They never run out of ink, but leak when they sense a suitable victim to compel.”

“Compel to do… what?” I felt unease prickle over my skin.

She turned the page and shrugged. “No idea. Uncle Elias wrote that he believed the pens will not give up a victim lightly. They’ll make them do all manner of horrible things just to keep the pens safe. He believed that the more pens the victim had… the worse all this got.”

“Henry Vanil,” I whispered. “Also, anyone else out there with a pen—like maybe that college student—could be next.”

We exchanged another solemn, silent look, as words felt too cheap. I put my hand on her shoulder for reassurance. Cassidy reached up, giving my hand a gentle squeeze.

“I have so many horrible questions,” I murmured.

“So do I,” she replied. “Too many. Especially around what if a bloodleech—like Valeria Moffet or Dorian—had one of these pens? Does Dorian already know about this, which is why he wants the pens?”

I pursed my lips, meeting her gaze with an even look.

“Let’s go ask him.”

For more about Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more.

If you’ve enjoyed this and are looking for a little more action, take the plunge here at the link over to Legends of the Privateers. But if action-archeology is more your style, take the leap over here to Windtracer Tales!

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Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. To be honest, it’s a bit creepy, if not spooky, when is isn’t beside itself with nerves. It tends to be a little shy. Did I mention it likes to needlepoint because there’s lots of stabbing? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Which means, really, he gets all the blame.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, undead, or why-aren’t-they-dead-YET is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot. Like daily.

Author’s Note: Where the Blood Calls is a serialized fiction story in Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies, which is a fantastic collaborative corner of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles by the ever talented ! It’s a world of change and industrialization where magic has been set loose on the world of the 1800s. Here, in this corner, we’ll follow the escapades of one Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne with her work and adventures about the new, hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin.

New installments or chapters will materialize every other Wednesday as long as the story allows!

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. As time runs headlong into death, Rebekah and her crew make a mad dash for the nearby stone tower home of the fishing town. The tower home, an ancient keep, seemed sturdy enough, But there were two boats of pirates bent on shedding blood for profit. The landing party, hurt and outnumbered, scrambled to build anything to slow the pirates down as they escaped.

Meanwhile, Doctor Rebekah Thorne had an unusual idea or two…

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Portlethen Bay, Scotland. Master against Commander is always a battle of blood and wits to the bitter end.

It’s been said the past is dead. Maybe that’s true. But there are times I think the past is a mad, clever revenant, wiggling loose from its shroud to torment the living. Especially when it’s a confounded air pirate trafficking in the recent dead.

The fact that the thief was a Mesmer, and my former fiancée, was just bitter icing on the rotten cake.

That damned man and his bloody business haunted me while I worked. Rancid fumes filled the narrow stone side room in Portlethen’s old keep. The kind that drew tears like a hundred angry skunks. Still, I discovered what I wanted to know in minutes. Which was good, since we had precious few of those to spend before we died badly.

It would’ve been faster if my patient had been a wee bit more cooperative.

“Steady,” I whispered. It was as much for my sake and Corporal Maddock’s, as it was for the Llamhigyn y Dŵr we had tied down. “I know this hurts, and someone grazed you with a shot, but you’re our only hope out of this mess.”

The Llamhigyn y Dŵr was frankly a sorry sight. The mottled gray-green frog-shaped beast was hunkered down under a tangle of old sackcloth and rope that Maddock had cobbled together. A bullet had grazed its upper back, though the beast hardly seemed resigned to its fate. It snapped and spat, slapping its bat wings against the tabletop over the indignity of being manhandled.

I hefted an old jar, sloshing the contents as if mixing a tonic.

“Maddock, I’ll need your hands,” I instructed. “Hold it down, but don’t hurt it. If this works, we’ll know quick enough.”

“Ma’am,” he replied, leaving his post by the door.

I poured the brackish mix onto one of the Llamhigyn y Dŵr’s legs—which I was surprised it actually had. None of the stories I’d heard mentioned the things had them. The creature’s charcoal tongue flicked twice before it belted out a low cry like a bagpipe getting stepped on.

Steam curled off a thick, tarry oil that slimed its skin. I quickly but gently wiped that off the leaper’s leg. It squirmed. Then, after a tuneless bagpipe bleat, it huffed and settled down. Its round eyes watched us warily while the rest of it deflated on the table into a puddle of tired animal.

I sniffed at the rag, screwing up my nose at it. “Oh, cogswaddle, that’s vile. This has to be a mix of rancid fish oil, quicklime, maybe pine tar, like I guessed. No wonder the beast is so limp. This is likely the most relief it’s had in days.”

Maddock studied the exhausted Llamhigyn y Dŵr with interest. “So that’s it?”

“Close enough. Keep it still while I clean it. No sense in letting it suffer any longer.” I talked while I quickly cleaned the water leaper to its exhausted delight. Along the way I hummed the haunting faerie tune I heard from its blood. “Caleb and his crew likely caught a batch of leapers, then kept them in his hold swimming in this cogswaddle swill on the way to drop them here. Probably used his Gift to catch them.”

“What?” Maddock started, which upset the water leaper. I hummed a bit more in earnest, and the leaper settled down, its bullet wound sealing closed. Maddock flushed. “His Gift? A Mesmer can do that?”

“Heard tales some Mesmers can.” I shrugged, wiping the last of the oil from the leaper’s skin. “It’s why they’re kept under close watch. Most go mad over their Gift. A few don’t. Then, there’s Caleb.” I slid a dark look at Maddock while I finished. “There’s barely any way to defend against a Mesmer.”

“God’s teeth,” the corporal whispered. A horrified look crossed his face as I saw him mentally chart a course on how much damage a Mesmer bent on greed could do.

Once done, I waved Maddock away and untied the animal. The Llamhigyn y Dŵr curled its feet under it, wings flat against its sides, with a contented look on its face. Its eyes were wary, but the beast looked for all the world like a contented, winged frog, willing to overlook recent indignities.

“Smug little bastard,” I chuckled, grabbing the clay jar with a foul-smelling mix I’d made of tallow, gear grease, and crushed bog myrtle. The jar went into the corporal’s hands. “Douse yourself with some of it, then pass it around. If I’m right, it’ll keep the water leapers at bay.”

He stared into the jar as if it were a pit of hell. “They can smell this?”

I dipped a clean rag into the jar, then waved it near the Llamhigyn y Dŵr. It wheezed a low bagpipe bleat, wearing an affronted grimace.

“Seems they can, just don’t ask me how. I’m a doctor, Corporal, not a farrier.” A muffled volley of shots slapped the air in the distance. I glanced up at the stone ceiling, then fixed Maddock with a stern look. “Shoo. We’re out of time.”

I quickly cleaned up after Maddock had left. Windows in a tower house were tall, narrow, and often high on the wall. I swapped stares with the water leaper. It seemed satisfied where it was.

“Fine then. Those windows are out of my reach, so I’ll leave the doors open when we leave. If you can, tell your flock or whatever they are, we don’t mean any harm. We just want to head back to our ship, taking the ones that hurt you with us.”

It softly bleated, followed by a tiny hiccup. I shook my head, then hurried after Maddock with my battered satchel.

In the great hall, Maddock and I dosed ourselves and our charges with my lotion. Given the blood, soot, and pain we’d been through, my bitter oil was a tiny improvement in the odor; just not by much. I had just enough time to make two jars of the rancid mix—one for us, the other for the locals. Shouts and the crack of shots against stone punctuated our work.

“Bloody hell,” a wounded midshipman swore, flinching at the noise.

“They’re close,” I replied with a sigh, then glanced at Maddock. “That everyone?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I nodded, tugging at my waistcoat out of nerves. “Everyone up! We’ll need to move fast if we’re to dart around the buildings for the jolly boat.”

The older fisherman slowly stood, favoring his wounds as his grizzled beard split into a thin smile. “No, I don’t think so, but we’re much obliged, Doctor Thorne. If it’s all the same to you, we’ll stay here. Once you leave, the rest in town will hurry in and we’ll be boltin’ the place closed.”

I blinked, swapping an incredulous look with Maddock. Then reason caught up with me.

“You’ve had your share of pirates before then?” I asked.

He nodded. “Aye. Just not pirates and those… faerie things. That was a bit much.” He gestured to the second pot of tonic on a nearby table. “But with that? We can manage the beasts. That leaves the pirates; we know how to deal with them.”

I hated this with a passion. They were my patients, and I’d be leaving them locked up in a stone tower house while I’d be running through the bloody mess outside trying not to get shot. I pinched the bridge of my nose and nodded. Life didn’t play fair. God’s own truth, everyone knew that already. It was that life liked to ambush people unfairly that hurt the most; most never saw it coming.

“Fine. Just stay alive,” I told them. “Once we button all this up, we’ll be back and I’ll patch everyone properly.”

Naturally, that was when Captain Vane half-hobbled in through the keep’s entrance. Face pale and strained, sweat poured off the man’s brow like rainwater. I met his eyes but could already hear the drumbeat of his blood-song. The captain’s wounds had opened, and he was bleeding again; slowly, but bleeding.

“Thorne! Your pirate bastard and his lot have landed. They’re getting tangled by water leapers, but that won’t last long. It’s now or never. You have something?” he growled.

“Aye, Captain.” I hurried over with the jug and its foul contents. “A repellent of sorts. Similar mix. Smells like the dog’s breath, but it’ll keep the leapers back. We lather up, then escort the rest outside to the jolly boat.” I jerked a thumb back at the locals. “It’ll be just us. The villagers plan to lock themselves in.” At his dubious look, I shook my head. “No, it isn’t safe, but it’s the plan we have.”

Captain Vane took the jug, dousing himself with a hearty amount. “Then it’s what we have.”

Corporal Maddock, Captain Vane, and I helped our wounded out the front door. Locals ran from their homes to scurry inside as we left. Amid the chaos, I noticed our gray-green leaper friend take wing, shooting out the doorway on its way to the shore. For us, outside the keep was our special shore of hell.

Two pirate jolly boats rested against the shore. Given the dead pirates near them, Caleb and his bunch hadn’t expected Angwin’s boys to be such good shots. But the air pirate’s dirigible had laid into the ground with a spare broadside that churned dirt and sand into a smoking ruin. If grass wasn’t burning, it was fishing boats, small storage shacks, and more.

Smoke hung everywhere like a gray veil. Caleb and his bunch were moving slowly and carefully, using the columns of smoke as cover while trading shots with our Marines. Our brave few had stacked crates and more into makeshift barriers.

“Reload!” Lieutenant Angwin called. “Fire fast. Keep ‘em guessing!”

It sounded noble, if we weren’t outnumbered three to one.

A stray shot from one of the pirates bounced off Maddock’s metal skin. He didn’t seem to notice as he studied the rough path between houses toward the pier.

“It’ll be close, Doctor.”

I helped a midshipman limp into Maddock’s brawny arms. A glance at the battle while we half-ran confirmed his fears and mine. Caleb Rourke, resplendent in a fancy wool long coat, tailored trousers, boots, and all, was among the pirates to my left. A feral leer twisted his face when he saw me. I avoided his gaze.

“Confound that man! Close won’t do, Corporal.” I patted Maddock’s metal arm. “Help the captain get the others to the shore. Keep the buildings between you and the pirates.”

I ran for the keep.

“Ma’am! Wait!” Maddock yelled.

“Doctor Thorne!” Captain Vane yelled at the same time. I heard him swear, followed by, “Trust her, Corporal. She knows what she’s about.”

I paused only to wave them on. “Go! I’ll be right behind you!”

Whatever else they said was lost under another volley of gunfire.

I reached the main door of Portlethen Keep before the locals bolted it shut. Panting, I looked around, then grabbed the jar of repellent I’d made for myself and the crew to use. We’d left it behind once we were done with it.

“Doctor?” the older fisherman said in surprise.

“Still working things out. Stay put and lock up behind me,” I said, then ran back into hell.

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

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Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Monday…

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. Trying to recover from rattled nerves and being attacked in an old attic, Daniel reached for coffee and shop inventory. Neither were successful. In the end, he chewed over what happened, along with what they knew of the missing pens. But life wasn’t about to give any breathing room. A call from Daniel’s former boss—all charm and guilt-trip—tried to drag him back into unhealthy habits. It took timely intervention from Cassidy to deflect that problem for now.

But the day wasn’t entirely cruel as fate had it, one of the shop’s customers gave them a solid lead on the missing pens: a student named Vera James at nearby Laguna Bay College. It also brought a visit from Sheriff Roy Branham with questions about murder most mummified…

November 8, 2024. Moonlight Curiosities Antique Shop. Gloamstead, Alabama. Answering questions and questioning answers…

The sheriff’s serious expression told me everything I needed to know. It wasn’t going to be a fun conversation; life was about to take a hard right turn.

But I asked the obvious anyway.

“… before? What do you mean before he was mummified?” I asked warily.

“What happened?” Cassidy added, straightening slowly with a tense look.

Sheriff Branham’s dark eyes studied us before strolling across the shop, mouth pulled in a tight line. The tension at the corners of his eyes told a story I didn’t want to guess at. He joined us at the shop counter with a heavy expression.

“Well, mostly murder,” he said, deep voice drawing out the words.

“Before he was mummified?” I said incredulously. “It’s not like mummified covers up murder. Doesn’t that basically double-down on the whole thing?”

The ghost of a smile tugged at the sheriff’s lips.

“Oh, more or less,” he drawled. “Which is why I need to ask a few more questions to get some details pinned down. But before I get into all that, how are you two really doing? I’ve been meaning to come by and check on you both after what happened at your wedding.”

Cassidy met my eyes with a haunted, worried look that mirrored my own. Neither one of us were in a hurry to answer. The truth was, we’d kept it together after that night by sheer willpower and holding each other up. Just doing what two people sharing a life did in a crisis. Dorian asking us to track down those pens gave us something to focus on, instead of what happened. There’s something to be said for forward momentum with your partner by your side.

“Sheriff?” I said, rumpling the awkward silence. “I’d be lying if I said we were doing fine. It’s been…” My words staggered, losing the fight to make a coherent sentence. But Cassidy was right there, ready to back me up.

“Tough,” she said with a sigh. “Daniel’s had nightmares. I’ve had nightmares.” She shook her head slowly. “Walking away from something like that has been hard. But we needed to get the shop back in shape, and finish this job tracking down those antique pens for Mr. Callix. There were a couple of days I might’ve screamed if Daniel wasn’t here.”

I reached over, putting my hand on hers. “Same,” I said with a thin smile, then nodded at the sheriff. “So, we’re managing?”

Sheriff Branham pursed his lips, then inclined his head.

“Understood. Now, if you two need to talk about it…” He held up a hand before Cassidy or I could reply. “…I mean it, y’hear? I was good friends with your Uncle, Daniel, and still friends with your father, Cassidy. If you two need to talk it out, call me. Bend my ear.” His dark eyes shifted between us, stern and grandfatherly. “All right?”

“Yes, Sheriff,” Cassidy replied warmly. I echoed her words.

Sheriff Branham relaxed with a smile. “Good.” Then his smile stepped aside for a professional sigh. “Now for the other reason I came by…”

“The murder?” I prompted, then took a long breath. “How can we help?”

The sheriff pulled out a pocket notebook, flipping open to a page with a trim collection of questions and notes. He frowned at them, taking out a pen.

“Mostly clearing up any details you might remember,” Branham said. “Daniel? Last night, you said the person who attacked you was wearing a dark sheet or cloak and they flew at you? Start there. Fly how?”

I thought back over the fight in the attic, forcing back a shudder.

“Flew. At least, it looked like it.” I waved both hands, miming cloth flapping in the air. “Flying. Whatever they had on flapped like some dark sheet or hooded long coat in the wind. You know, like one of those cheap Halloween ghost decorations. Creepy as hell in a dark attic.”

Sheriff Branham nodded, writing. “Probably the point.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “Anything else?”

“Not sure what else to tell you,” I replied, shaking my head. “It was dark, and they went straight for my throat. There’s only one bulb in that attic and it wasn’t all that bright.” I pursed my lips, glowering at the middle distance and memory. “They were taller than me by a few inches, but hunched?” A sigh tumbled out of me. “That seems right. Other than that, I remember the really pale hand with the long fingers when they grabbed the attic opening on the way out.”

Branham nodded again, adding more notes. “Not a lot to work with, but it’ll have to do. Might be something we can get off the attic entrance.” He glanced up from his notebook. “Cassidy? You told my deputy that you were in the basement, then came upstairs. Still sure you didn’t see anything?”

She shook her head. “Just Mr. Callix in the hallway. He was as rattled as I was when we heard Daniel yelling. Like I told Deputy Keene, that’s when we raced upstairs—” Cassidy squinted at the countertop “—there was a window open on the first floor off the library. It wasn’t like that when I went into the basement.” She looked between myself and the sheriff. “I just assumed Mr. Callix opened it, but now when I think about it, that seems odd.”

Branham raised his eyebrows slightly. “Odd how?”

“Just odd,” she replied, lightly biting her lower lip, frowning. “A déjà vu feeling or something. Feels important now, but didn’t last night? Things are still a little blurry.”

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed, then added a few entries to his notes. “Hm, first floor off the library,” he muttered. “Thank you. Any odd smells? Sounds?”

“No, not that I remember,” Cassidy replied. “But I was running hard up the stairs as Daniel was yelling. I was really surprised when he said someone had attacked him, then raced out of the attic right before we got there. The second floor landing and stairs were empty. I didn’t see anyone.”

Sheriff Branham tapped the pen against his notebook. “Hm, good to know. Thank you both. That helps shift some things around.”

“You’re welcome, Sheriff. Wish I could remember more. It was just so dark in that attic,” I sighed.

Cassidy tapped a finger on the counter. “Sheriff? This is probably pretty nosy, and I understand if you can’t tell us, but how did Fred Spivey wind up mummified? How did he actually die?”

Branham closed his notebook, slowly putting it away in a pocket. He didn’t reply at first, just narrowed his eyes a little. Then he looked down as if rolling some thought over in his mind, before meeting our eyes.

“I probably shouldn’t say, but seeing as it’s you two…” He hooked his thumbs into his belt. “No one’s really sure how he wound up like dried up beef jerky. Though my CSI team has a few wild ideas with embalming fluid that they’re excited about.” He shrugged. “As for how he really died? Looks like he was hit in the back of the head.” Branham raised his eyebrows at me. “Might even have been with that fireplace poker.”

“Which I grabbed up and swung around like a baseball bat,” I said, blowing out a breath. “My fingerprints are all over the handle.”

The sheriff chuckled. “True, there’s that. You might’ve smudged a few things, might not. Come by tomorrow, and I’ll get someone to take your prints, so we can compare against anything pulled off the metal. Now, you didn’t see any blood on it, did you?”

I shook my head. “Sheriff, I was too rattled to notice anything about it, other than it was solid and kept whoever that was in the attic away from my neck.”

He chuckled softly. “Trust me, I understand. This case with the dead body in the attic is an odd one. Maybe not as odd as that serial killer who crashed your wedding, but it’s damn close.” He reached out and lightly patted the counter with a hand. “Well, I’d best be going. Oh, if you two come across anything about Fred Spivey while tracking down those missing fountain pens, you let me know, y’hear?”

“Of course,” I smiled.

“You know we will, Sheriff,” Cassidy added.

Branham grinned. “Good. You two have a good day.”

Cassidy and I were quiet long after the sheriff had left. The shop suddenly felt too small to contain recent events, from our wedding to the grisly discovery in the attic. Cassidy squeezed my hand, and I hers. The ticking of an old teak grandfather clock in the corner was deafening in the silence. I think even the dust went still. It was Cassidy who broke the silence first.

“The bloodleech attack, just all in a week? It’s been a lot,” she murmured, her emerald eyes meeting mine. Then she drew a long breath, holding harder to my hand as she smiled. “We got this.”

I gave her a soft, lopsided grin. “We absolutely do. I refuse to think life can out-weird us.”

Cassidy snorted a soft laugh, and I leaned on the checkout counter.

“Fred Spivey is something else that’s really weird.” I slowly drummed my fingers on the counter, pursing my lips. “It’s funny how he was murdered and mummified next to that safe in Dorian’s attic.”

Cassidy wrinkled her nose, almost shuddering. “It is. Coincidence?”

I shook my head. “You know, I really don’t believe in those.”

She looked off at the dust drifting through late afternoon sunbeams that slid in through the unbroken shop windows. I could see the wheels turning behind her eyes, her sharp mind working at a million miles an hour.

“Neither do I,” she admitted. “Especially since he was mummified.”

I squinted. “Okay. I’m not sure I follow. Sure, the fact that the guy got his head knocked in before someone dried him out like an old sponge is… well… disturbing, but—”

Cassidy shook her head, lightly waving a hand at me.

“No. That’s not what I meant,” she replied, then grimaced, tilting her head. “Not entirely. I mean the mummifying part.” She glanced over, searching my confused expression. “Fred Spivey was mummified, love. Withered. Just like Henry Vanil. That bookkeeper who owned one of Dorian’s fountain pens, remember?”

I slowly straightened, raising my eyebrows.

“Oh. Him. The one from Sleepy Hollow, New York, who was found withered with dark ink stains on his fingers,” I said, soft as a mourner. “But Fred Spivey didn’t have ink stains on his fingers.”

“Are you sure?” Cassidy replied with a level look, eyebrows knitted. “Really?”

I let the silence and the ticking grandfather clock answer for me.

“So,” I said slowly, my mouth dry. “Earlier we were talking about Uncle Elias’ safe? That you thought it was hidden in the stairwell to our apartment?”

Cassidy straightened her back, rubbing the top of a shoulder as her eyes brightened. A sure sign she wanted a distraction as badly as I did from all the death and doom.

“Right, yes.” She gave me a hopeful smile. “Want to close up early for lunch and go safe hunting, love?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” I grinned.

We put the ‘out for lunch’ sign in the last intact bay window, then headed for the stairs. The stairwell was—doors used as wall panels aside—brown and ordinary at first glance. But the longer I stood there staring, the more I realized it was interesting. Life had just kept me too distracted from paying attention until then.

The antique library doors were a golden teak with the rough edges smoothed away, blushing with a light chestnut stain. I remember my uncle taking great pains to sand, saw and fit them against the wall like so many puzzle pieces. He took care to restore each door to as close to the original condition as he could. The result was wooden walls that looked as soft as satin under the overhead lighting. Just seeing the result of his careful handiwork felt like a reassuring hug I’d overlooked.

I blinked when Cassidy touched my arm.

“What’s wrong?”

I shook my head, giving her a tiny smile. “Oh, nothing. Just remembering when my uncle first got these doors to put them in. So, you take the left side; I’ll take the right?”

“Deal.”

We moved between the doors, poking and prodding every crack, edge, or the faded marks left by forgotten hinges. Just for good measure, we even checked if any of the stairs were actually a lid for a storage compartment. No such luck, other than it reminded me, we needed to dust the stairs.

At the top of the staircase to our apartment over the shop, we stood together, frowning at everything.

“I was so sure it was here,” Cassidy breathed with a sigh. She waved a hand at the walls. “I mean, it just seemed like something your uncle would do. We pushed and searched every inch of these doors. I guess they really are just unusual wall panels.”

“Yeah, I guess.” With a sigh, I studied the walls once more. “Your idea did make a lot of sense.” I shrugged, rapping my knuckles on the nearest door twice. “At least they’re solid.”

The knothole I tapped, slid into the door with a soft click. A second later, the entire wall-panel door whispered a soft groan as it opened into the wall. Then a weak, yellowed light sputtered to life like a resurrected forgotten bulb, inviting us inside.

For more about Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more.

If you’ve enjoyed this and are looking for a little more action, take the plunge here at the link over to Legends of the Privateers. But if action-archeology is more your style, take the leap over here to Windtracer Tales!

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Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. To be honest, it’s a bit creepy, if not spooky, when is isn’t beside itself with nerves. It tends to be a little shy. Did I mention it likes to needlepoint because there’s lots of stabbing? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Which means, really, he gets all the blame.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, undead, or why-aren’t-they-dead-YET is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot. Like daily.

Author’s Note: Where the Blood Calls is a serialized fiction story in Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies, which is a fantastic collaborative corner of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles by the ever talented ! It’s a world of change and industrialization where magic has been set loose on the world of the 1800s. Here, in this corner, we’ll follow the escapades of one Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne with her work and adventures about the new, hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin.

New installments or chapters will materialize every other Wednesday as long as the story allows!

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. A surprise broadside against the Scottish shore, turned sand to smoking ruin, and nearly cost the Doctor Rebekah Thorne and the HMS Javelin her captain. But Fate had other plans.

Working fast, Dr. Thorne and Corporal Maddock helped carry the wounded to the supposed safety of the fishing shack. There, Rebekah went to work—saving lives and denying death a fresh and gruesome harvest. But the danger wasn’t past, not at all. Rebekah gives a name to their tormentor; one Captain Caleb Rourke. A thief and a scoundrel of the first order. Worse? The man she had been engaged to be married before he tried to rob her family blind. Rebekah warned the landing party that she suspected Rourke was up to his old, horrific tricks. Invent a disaster to harvest and resell the bodies as resurrectionists…

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Portlethen Bay, Scotland. There’s always a price, just sometimes it’s a little too high.

For the first time in his miserable life, Caleb Rourke didn’t let me down. I could already feel that pirate coming.

But his ego—and love of his own skin—meant he wasn’t in any hurry. Especially with riflemen aboard the Javelin eager to shoot the hot air out of him. Still, they’d have to spot the confounded man first. After all, Caleb was bravest when leading from the back.

“Soon. He’ll be here soon,” I told the others.

Maddock glanced toward the way out, then back at me. “How do you know? Is he hurt?”

I shook my head. “Maybe, but I doubt it. I just… know.” Maddock’s frown deepened. I sighed. “It’s because of Caleb’s Gift.”

Captain Vane blew out a hot sigh, wincing as he touched the bandage over the burn on the side of his face. “Gifted or not, how long until Rourke and his cutthroats arrive? We’re in a bad spot and need solutions.”

Lieutenant Angwin peeked out the door of the shed. One look and his face turned sour.

“The Javelin and the air pirate are still at it. Looks like the pirates have fired off pitch-smoke. Given the cut of their hull, I’d give them twenty minutes at full sail to go from cloud-side down to the water.”

“Pitch-smoke?” Maddock murmured. “Isn’t that the hollow shot that spills out a pitch-based fog on what it hits?”

I glanced around, studying my patients for anyone showing fresh signs of poison or worse. “Yes. The same. Nasty, oily stuff. It won’t even have to hit the Javelin to blind them. That sticky fog will cling to her like a bad relative.”

“So, they mean to board the Javelin,” Maddock said, face somber.

“That, or raid the town, Corporal.” The captain ran a hand through sweaty, soot-stained dark hair. “This Rourke is a proper devil. Drops beasts so we wouldn’t risk anchoring the Javelin nearby. Makes us split our forces between land and air.” I watched the muscles of his jaw knot. “Doctor? You know this Rourke. Where will the bloody bastard strike next?”

I sighed, tugging at my waistcoat, then gave it a baleful glare. It was as much blood and dirt as it was proper Royal Navy blue—sort of like us. I glanced at the others. If ever there was a time for honesty and a helping of hot grit, it was then.

“Here. We’re vulnerable.” I waved a hand at the shack and everyone in it. “We’ve what? Three? Five able-bodied souls who can put up a fight?” My mouth in a tight line, I shook my head. “Caleb’s a scavenger and a thief. He goes for a victim’s soft spots so he won’t risk his own hide. If he gets us, I’d say he’ll blackmail the Javelin into giving up. Then the real horror begins.”

Lieutenant Angwin’s features went stiff with indignant rage. “Surrender? No Royal Navy ship would—”

I cut off his tirade. There wasn’t time. “… they might to save their captain.”

We all looked at Captain Vane, then at each other. A silence of the damned settled inside the small shack, rattled only by the sporadic cannon fire from the dirigibles overhead. Dust rained down from the ceiling, hazing the air. Then the world went strangely quiet. It felt like death waited nearby.

Captain Vane frowned, glaring upward. “Those pirates have to be coming about. Doctor? We can’t wait for you to figure out what those pirates have poisoned the leapers with. We need to move the wounded to that meeting hall.”

I glanced around. The captain was on his feet, but running? I wouldn’t put two farthings on it. Same for the others.

“Aye, Captain,” I replied with a nod, reaching for my satchel. “It’ll be slow going. We’ll need cover from the Llamhigyn y Dŵr and the pirates. I’ll need a hand with a couple here as well.”

Vane glanced around the shack, meeting hopeful, stern, and even a few worried looks. The last rumble from the cannons faded like distant thunder. He scowled.

“Angwin!” he growled. “You, and anyone else able-bodied, are with me. We’ll keep watch for the water leapers. A few careful shots will keep them at bay. Maddock?”

“Captain?” he replied, snapping to attention.

“Glue yourself to the doctor. Do what she needs and help keep these people alive.”

“Aye, Captain,” he replied, touching the brim of his hat.

“After that?” The captain breathed out a pained sigh. “I’ll be wanting ideas on how we can get the pirates out of this village before they burn it all down.”

With that, Maddock and I got to work.

The chaos from the battle had been a blessing in disguise; the noise and explosions hitting the ruined shore had driven the Llamhigyn y Dŵr farther away. They were still out among the waves near our dinghy, so a real threat. It just wasn’t one for the moment. Maddock helped me collect the worst of the burned and bitten, limping them out the door then north to the village’s meeting hall.

It wasn’t five yards, like the fisherman said, but more like twenty. The Common Hall was anything but common—it was the remains of an aged keep. One of the many tower houses scattered along Scotland’s coastline. Pitted gray stones formed a drafty square building with a pair of thick, dark wooden doors leading inside. Sadly, its defensive wall—what my family back in Ireland called a bábhún—was long gone. But still tall and strong against history, I suspected it defended against coastal raiders from another age. Now the old place needed to do that once more.

“How are they doing?” I asked Maddock as I helped the old fisherman, the last of our charges, onto a makeshift, narrow cot in the grand hall. Dim sunlight fought past clouds and pitch-fog to streak lines through the narrow windows high up along the walls.

Maddock raced out the front of the tower house. He stayed gone long enough that I worried and headed after him. I met him as he stepped inside, pushing one of the massive wooden doors closed. To my surprise, the man’s coat wiggled as if it had taken a case of nerves.

“Corporal, what in—?”

The Welshman stood at attention, skin a polished bronze, his Gift in full force. Both hands were firmly latched around a lump that resented its current lot in life.

“Doctor,” Maddock said, near-breathless. “Captain Vane has the others rigging bow-traps from fishing poles and line. Angwin’s idea. They’re crude spring-bows rigged to fire knitting needles, then reload once. Bone needles, I think. Handy idea, though I doubt they’ll survive the first reload. The Leftenant’s even rigged a gear-driven net thrower.”

I envisioned a volley of knitting needles at close range and grimaced.

“The Leftenant has a devious streak,” I admitted. “Any sign of the pirates?”

Corporal Maddock nodded, getting his breath back. “Yes, ma’am. They’ve dropped two jolly boats that are already at full sail, gasbags taut. The main ship’s headed back up to bother the Javelin. Looks like they’ll head in fast for water off the pier.” A worried look crossed his face. “Truth be told, the traps might be done before the pirates arrive, but the cutthroats outnumber us more than I want to say.”

A sudden thought struck me. “Maddock, where’s Captain Vane now?”

Maddock started to point out of reflex, but the wiggling lump wasn’t having any of it. A muffled bleat bolstered the complaint. “Out the doors and to the left. He’s left Angwin to secure fishing line in alleys to catch the pirates in the knee or neck.”

I hurried to the door. “Definitely a devious streak in that man—” Maddock’s coat-lump hissed before I heard the distinct sound of something slapping metal. I looked the tall, bronze Welshman up and down. “Maddock, what the devil do you have in your coat? Is that what I think it is?”

A dark metallic flush bloomed in the corporal’s cheeks.

“Yes, ma’am. Last I heard, you had an idea about what set the Llamhigyn y Dŵr off, and might give us a way out.” He shrugged, giving me a lopsided grin that was more endearing than it had a right to be. “So I went and nipped one for you.”

I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or what. “God’s teeth. All right. Take it into a side room off the main hall. Find a way to leash the thing and keep it still. Also, give it something to eat that isn’t one of our patients.”

“Er,” he grunted. “Aye, Doctor.”

He raced off with his charge, while I tore outside hoping to offer Captain Vane or Lieutenant Angwin an idea that might buy us time. It also gave me a chance to check Captain Vane’s burns. The man took to stubborn as if it was a hobby.

Vane was nearby, overseeing the traps. He was tired, haggard, and looked in need of a week’s rest. But he was upright, and that was enough. As for my half-baked plan, he told me to talk it out with Lieutenant Angwin.

I found the lieutenant in front of a narrow gap between a pair of weathered storehouses, wood shedding flakes of green and white paint. He’d just finished setting one of the fishing-pole-turned-bow-traps, aiming the knitting needles down the alley. I ignored the morbid implications as I stopped next to him.

He stood up straight, eyes narrowed and wary. “Doctor?”

“Leftenant,” I replied.

Words caught in my throat before I launched into my explanation. For a moment, I took in the pier and shoreline before looking up at the pirate jolly boats. Their small gasbags were tight, with a single sail strained against the wind as they descended at a sharp angle.

Maddock wasn’t wrong. The angle was too sharp for a safe descent to the water. Caleb had his raiders coming in sharp and fast. He’d lose people, but my gut suspected he didn’t care. This was about overwhelming us with numbers, his Gift, and whatever else his raiders brought to bear. I looked from the pier to our own jolly boat and the water leapers.

A devilish grin tugged at me.

I pointed at the pier, locking eyes with the Royal Marine next to me.

“Leftenant? I know you see the angle Rourke’s raiders are using. If you’re game, I might have an idea to slow those confounded pirates down, buying us more time.”

Angwin glanced sharply at the pier and pirates, then back to me. He folded his arms across his chest.

“I’m listening.”

My grin returned in full force. I brushed loose hair out of my face, putting it back behind my ears, then tugged my waistcoat straight.

“Caleb Rourke is resourceful, devious, and Gifted. He’s a Mesmer. Some say Mesmers use their voice or a glance to muddle what people see and think; or so the stories go. Cloud people’s minds with utter cogswaddle. No one’s sure.” I raised a finger. “But the confounded man is a rank coward who only thinks of his own skin. Other people are there for him to use.”

Angwin’s face darkened, pulling into a deep frown. To his credit, he didn’t interrupt.

“So, we use that against him. I’ll bet you two farthings he’s aboard one of those jolly boats. If you or one of the others aims for him—but don’t hit—I promise you he’ll have his raiders change course. My guess? Right to the water, putting the Llamhigyn y Dŵr between them and us.”

Angwin studied the beasts, the water, and then the pirates. He gave me a skeptical look, but there was a glimmer of devious hope in his tired eyes.

“So you’re betting that the leapers will be as big a problem to the pirates as they are to us?” He nodded sagely. “I like it. Even if the leapers ignore them, they’ll still be a mess to sail through.” The hint of a dark grin touched his features. “You’ve a devious streak in you, doctor. Which one is this Caleb Rourke?”

I gestured to the pair of flying jolly boats.

“He’ll be the one in the back. Tall, with short dark hair that has an auburn streak in the front. Also, probably the best-dressed. Caleb fancied himself as some sort of penny nobleman.”

Lieutenant Angwin snorted.

“I’ll pass the word and see if we can trim his hair shorter with a rifle shot or two. Hopefully, those leapers will harass the bastards like a flock of horrible geese. With the seas as rough as they are today, this’ll buy us a good ten minutes more at best.”

“Good.”

I ran for the keep, leaving the others behind to turn Caleb’s plan into a proper nightmare. After all, I’d need every single minute to study that Llamhigyn y Dŵr Maddock caught to find a way past the leapers and to our jolly boat. Otherwise, Caleb would kill the others and get his hands on me again—which would be a fate worse than death.

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

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Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Monday…

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. Daniel discovers both a dead man and a live attacker in the attic. A mad scramble sends his mysterious attacker running for the second floor with Daniel close behind—only to lose them seconds later. Outside, footprints hinted they slipped away unseen. Leaving Daniel, Cassidy, and Dorian to answer questions to the sheriff about the mummified dead man in the attic…

November 8, 2024. Moonlight Curiosities antique shop. Nothing like that feeling when you know you missed the obvious…

Yesterday stalked me so closely into tomorrow, I thought I had a second skin. It was close to noon before I shook it off with a cup of black coffee and a half-hearted inventory check.

Which worked—until it didn’t.

A few minutes later, it dawned on me that I had read the same entry for ‘1989 Calendar Plates’ five times. Groaning, I gave up, setting the tablet on the office desk.

“I need a break,” I muttered, taking a sip of coffee.

My eyes wandered to the open notebook next to me, then to the antique Waterman fountain pen in its wooden case. Overhead lights gleamed along the pen’s metal shell, turning it to fool’s gold. The pen’s decorative veins wavered like lines of fresh blood.

They were mesmerizing—a little hypnotic.

I dragged my eyes away. Feeling a mild headache, I rubbed my temples, then pulled over the open notebook. The current page was filled with almost everything Cassidy and I knew about the pens so far. A lot of notes—but not enough to explain why I’d come face to face with a dead body.

“A mummified, dead body,” I mused. “But the dead guy in Dorian’s attic might have nothing to do with the pens. It could’ve been a coincidence.”

But was it?

I picked up a pen—not the antique one—tapping it against the notebook. Then I wrote ‘Fred Spivey’, circling it with a question mark. After staring at the name, I added what else I remembered from the attic.

“There was the beige velvet cloth lining the safe, a bundle of papers, an ink stain, and old grocery store receipts.” I frowned over that last one, tapping the notebook again. “That ink stain meant the pen had been there, but why the grocery receipts?” I drew a slow breath, chewing that over. “What if they weren’t just receipts?”

I jumped when I felt hands settle on my shoulders.

“Hey, what’s this? Fred Spivey? Grocery receipts?” Cassidy asked, leaning over my shoulder. “Doesn’t look like inventory,” she teased.

“Well, this stuff with the pens and what happened in the attic wouldn’t leave me alone,” I said wryly. “Especially the dead man.” I shook my head, glancing up at her. “Other than being mummified, it feels odd that he was right there next to that safe.”

Cassidy nodded, idly massaging my shoulders. “Yeah, it does. Mummified…” She paused, looking into the middle distance with concern.

“What is it?”

She shrugged. “Not sure. It reminds me of something, and it bothers me I can’t think of what. It’s from when I was little.” Cassidy shook her head, sighing. “Wish I could remember.” Then her green eyes sparkled. “Oh! Hey. Remember we talked about your uncle having a safe?”

I turned in the chair, halfway facing her.

“You found one?” It was hard to keep the hope of sorting out this mess from my voice.

Cassidy grinned, squeezing my shoulders.

“Maybe?” she replied. “I think so, but I’m not sure. We’ve checked this place from top to bottom. But your uncle loved puzzles. So I looked around again this morning, and I think it might be in the stairwell leading upstairs.”

I frowned, picturing the dull wooden stairway with its brown walls. It practically screamed boring.

“There? Can’t be. It’s just a stairwell,” I replied. “How?”

Her grin widened.

“The walls.” Cassidy pushed the notebook aside to perch on the edge of the desk, facing me. “Think about it, love. Your uncle mostly helped build this place—literally. It’s an enclosed, interior stairwell, but the walls are made of antique doors.”

I turned that over in my mind. The walls were all six-paneled, chestnut privacy doors that my uncle once told me came from an old library. He said they had too much history to let rot, so he used them in the stairwell like wood paneling. I pursed my lips.

“Cassie, I’m not sure. We could be reaching here.”

She inclined her head. “We could. But think about it. Sure, the doorknobs were plugged with wood, but what a great place to hide a secret door—right in plain sight.”

My eyebrows reached for my hairline at the implication.

“So, if one of those doors is an actual working door—” I shook my head. “That’s Uncle Elias’ sense of humor right there. But if there is a room there, it’d have to be pretty narrow.”

Cassidy shrugged. “True. But if it’s just for a safe, does it have to be that big?”

I thought back to the hidden safe in Dorian’s attic.

“You know, probably not—”

My phone rang, scattering my thoughts like loose leaves. I pulled it from my pocket and went still at the caller ID on the screen; a cold chill teased my spine.

It was my former boss, Kevin Thorpe.

Cassidy’s expression melted into a dark thundercloud the second she saw his name. I exchanged an uneasy look with her, then tapped the speaker button as I set the phone on the desk between us.

“Dan! How’s it going?” Kevin’s voice rang through the phone, oozing charm.

“Fine, Kevin. What—”

“Great!” he pushed on. “I read about that mess with the serial killer. Nuts, right? The news media said your little shop got wrecked. Anyway, look. We’ve got some system documentation that needs some details. Also, we could use a second pair of hands for a little system stability.” There was a microsecond pause before he added, “I mean, given everything going on, I figured you could probably use the real income, right? Just to get back on your feet.”

“No,” Cassidy hissed low enough for the phone to miss it. “Daniel, no. That’s what he said last time, when he guilted you into working six days a week, thirteen-hour days.”

I rubbed my eyes, hands trembling as workaholic memories warred with emotion. An old reflex tried to kick in—just say yes, fix the problem, and move on. Only the problems never stayed fixed.

“Kevin…” I paused. My voice sounded ragged in my ears. After I swallowed, I tried again. “Kevin, I appreciate what you’re saying, but no. We’ve got too much going on right now…”

“Really?” he said, sliding into a gap between my words. “Okay… well. Hey, how about instead of no, why don’t you sleep on it? Dig a little deeper into the idea. Talk it over with Cassidy. Run the numbers, right?”

Cassidy softly punched the desk, eyes blazing.

I was saved by the shop’s front door before I could fumble another rejection. Cassidy swept up my phone, giving me a quick kiss on the side of my head.

“Go be charming,” she whispered, then took the call off speaker.

“Kevin? Hi,” she said, voice all rose-thorns dipped in honey. “Yeah, this is Cassidy. So, we should talk…”

I knew a potential verbal flaying when I heard one, so I eased out from behind the desk and left the office in search of customers. Our shop isn’t large, so I tracked them down pretty easily. One gentleman was interested in the antique books, while two ladies were inspecting the lamps and Mason jars. Two of the customers I didn’t know, but I recognized one of the ladies right away.

“Mrs. Adelyne, it’s good to see you again,” I said, smiling. “Thank you for the squash casserole, by the way. It was fantastic.”

Naomi Adelyne beamed, adjusting her wire-rimmed glasses along the thin bridge of her nose. I swore she blushed. But behind that, I saw a tremor of nerves in her piercing hazel eyes.

That got my attention. Mrs. Adelyne—never ‘Ms.’ despite being a widow—was usually the picture of proper. She was always impeccable from posture and speech, to clothing and the practical bun of her gray-brown hair. Only today, some of that practicality looked a bit frayed around the edges. Her hands tightly gripped the small blue purse in front of her, like a tiny cloth shield. Almost as if what she wanted to say warred with her inner nature.

“Mrs. Adelyne? What’s wrong?”

Her mouth pressed into a flat line before she let out a thin sigh. After a sharp look to either side, she leaned a little closer, voice hushed.

“Daniel, I’ve a delicate matter to talk about. I didn’t want to bother you, but my Issac said you or Cassidy could help me like your uncle did.” The worried look in her eyes flickered like a poked fire. She snapped open her purse, digging out a small, dirt-stained, gray canvas bag, heavy with something inside. Mrs. Adelyne held out the tiny, rosemary-scented bag to me. “My favorite pen is acting up. I just know it’s haunted.”

The bag did hold a pen—just not the one Cassidy and I were after. It was an antique Sheaffer ballpoint pen, not a fountain pen. A blue-black stain decorated the tip of the sterling silver shell. I glanced from the pen back to its owner with a hopefully comforting smile.

“Well, sure looks like it could be leaking. Come up to the front counter, and I’ll… er… see what I can do about the leaky spirits.”

Relief flooded her face. “Thank you so much, Daniel. I wasn’t sure, but Issac said you could handle it.”

Cassidy was there, my phone flat in front of her, arching an eyebrow at the two of us. I held up the canvas bag.

“Mrs. Adelyne needs some help with a leaky pen,” I explained. “She said Uncle Elias used to help with this.”

“Both with the spirit bothering it and the ink,” Mrs. Adelyne added primly, stopping at the end of the counter.

I swapped a questioning look with Cassidy, who replied with a faint shrug. It seemed Uncle Elias got up to a lot we didn’t know about. I glanced at my phone. Cassidy gave a slight shake of her head and a very pleased grin.

“Later. Kevin’s got a lot to think about,” she said in a low voice, then plucked the bag from my fingers. “So, let’s see what we’ve got.”

“Excuse me?” It was one of the other two customers. He was a broad-shouldered older man, in his mid-50s, wearing a Laguna Bay College sweatshirt and jeans. In his hands were a pair of antique Mason jars and a 1938 cookbook. His slightly weathered face had the sunny disposition of someone used to smiling.

Cassidy lightly touched my arm. “I’ll help Mrs. Adelyne, Daniel. You help Professor Barnes.” She gave the man a grin. “Good to see you again, Professor.”

Professor Barnes tipped an invisible hat. “Likewise.”

That’s when I remembered him. Cassidy had mentioned a Halcomb Barnes she knew from Laguna Bay College in the next town over, who was fond of vintage cookbooks.

“Find what you were after, Professor?” I asked as I rang everything up. He shrugged.

“Maybe. That cookbook might have the fig preserves recipe I’m after. We’ll see.” He gestured to the back office. “Well, that’s a familiar sight. Looks like a fountain pen I gave to a student last semester.”

I paused mid-tap on the tablet screen and glanced into the office where I’d left the antique Waterman pen on the desk.

“That pen?” I asked, surprised. Hope rose up, shooting fireworks off inside me, while logic yelled to keep the noise down. It was a long shot that would be one of the missing pens. Pen makers shamelessly copied each other’s styles, both then and now.

Barnes nodded. “At least one a lot like it. Why?”

I shrugged. “That was part of a four-pen set. Cassie and I are chasing down two that are missing.”

A woman, the third customer I’d noticed before, tapped the professor on the arm. Her blue eyes flicked between myself and the professor, before settling on the professor’s two Mason jars. With a bright smile, she brushed a strand of raven-black hair with a snow-white streak behind an ear.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, tapping one of the Mason jars, eyes lingering on the glass. “Just where did you find those? I’ve a collection, and that’s the style I’m looking for.”

Professor Barnes smiled, face warm as sunshine. He pointed back across the rows of shelves, over to the far wall near the stairs up.

“Oh, well. I saw plenty like this on that last aisle. At least ten.”

I nodded, bagging the jars and cookbook for the professor. “Ma’am? If you don’t see what you’re after, just let me know. That’s only a part of what we have in stock.”

The woman beamed. “Thank you!”

Once she hurried off, Professor Barnes collected his purchase, then inclined his head at the Waterman pen.

“Daniel, is it? Well, if you’re looking to track down those pens, the student I gave one to was Vera James. She’s still taking classes at Laguna College. I should see her on Monday. Want I should ask her to call you?”

I handed him a business card, not wanting to count this as good luck yet—just hope for some. “Please, if you don’t mind.”

Barnes pocketed the card. “Sure thing. See you later, Daniel. Give my best to Cassie?”

I nodded, smiling. “Will do.”

A few minutes later, more Mason jars were bought, and Mrs. Adelyne was mostly satisfied her pen was at rest for the moment. Now, with a lack of customers, I filled Cassidy in on what Professor Barnes had said.

“Do you think it could be one of the pens?” she asked skeptically.

I glanced through the office door at the Waterman pen. It might have been my imagination, but the pen looked slightly out of place, as if it’d been moved when I wasn’t looking. I frowned at the decorative red veins along its surface, glimmering a dark red in the filtered sunlight.

“Maybe?” I replied. “We know two pens found their way here to Gloamstead. What if one was taken from a safe and sold?”

It was Cassidy’s turn to frown as she slouched against the counter.

“Seems weird to sell one after all the doom, gloom, and ‘burn it’ in those hidden messages we found.” She reached over, gently clasping my hand. “But still, stranger things have happened.”

As if on cue, the front bell rang and Sheriff Branham stepped inside, pulling off his hat.

“Stranger things? That’s one way to put it,” he said. “You two have a minute? We need to talk about that dead body you found, and what happened before he was mummified.”

For more about Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more.

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Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. To be honest, it’s a bit creepy, if not spooky, when is isn’t beside itself with nerves. It tends to be a little shy. Did I mention it likes to needlepoint because there’s lots of stabbing? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Which means, really, he gets all the blame.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, undead, or why-aren’t-they-dead-YET is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot. Like daily.

Author’s Note: Where the Blood Calls is a serialized fiction story in Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies, which is a fantastic collaborative corner of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles by the ever talented ! It’s a world of change and industrialization where magic has been set loose on the world of the 1800s. Here, in this corner, we’ll follow the escapades of one Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne with her work and adventures about the new, hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Wednesday as long as the story allows!

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. The captain’s orders had been straightforward; sail down to the fishing town and render aid where possible. Simple, until it wasn’t. The brazen beasts of Welsh legend attack in force. Swarms erupted from the water and diving at the landing party, teeth bared for locals and landing party alike.

Moving fast, Rebekah and Corporal Seith Maddock grabbed nearby survivors, and headed for shelter. After a pitched battle, Captain Vane and the others went to join them. Which was when the real trap was sprung…

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Portlethen Bay, Scotland. Nothing like being a fish in a net when the fisherman’s a monster.

If ever there was a proper idea of how hell smelled, it was a broadside against a shoreline of people. There was rancid smoke and sweat. A tang of gun oil—from Maddock’s uniform most likely—along with the sharper stench of raw terror and burned clothing.

Then there was the blood. Oh, how it sang from pain—I nearly cried.

I put sanity in my vest pocket and threw open the shack door. Maddock instantly stepped out in front of me. Bits of glassed sand pelted the Marine, turning him bronze again.

“This way!” I yelled to the landing party. “To the fishing shack!”

It had been six and Captain Vane. Now there were three still walking, and three barely able to move. I closed my eyes over the seventh, as I saw his shade stand up from his ragged body.

“Barnes. I’m sorry,” I murmured, blinking back wetness from my eyes.

“Not your doing,” came the whispered reply. With a nod, the midshipman I’d barely met scattered into the wind and was gone.

The living crashed into the weather-beaten shack like an errant wave. I grabbed anyone who looked unsteady, hauling them to the nearest piece of floor or battered cot. Maddock stepped in behind the lot of us, a living door of metal blocking the last bits of flying debris as the latest cannon shot struck the shore.

It had been crowded in the hut, but now it was almost suffocating. The place hadn’t been made for so many occupants at once, and certainly not for any sort of medical shenanigans. A stink of smoke, powder, and sweat made an unholy combination with the scent of blood.

But I had work to do.

“Corporal, hand me the twine,” I snapped. “No, the green—”

His bronze hand passed over the colorful thread. Then he reached over to help me finish another bandage in a long line of them.

“Like this?”

I nodded. “Precisely like that.”

That done, I turned to the next in line; then the next after that. I hummed one blood’s song after another until it turned into a concert of wet injuries. Wounds puckered with each note, refusing death by inches under my Gift. Finally done, I sat back, feeling drained from using my Gift so much at once. Tension filled the shack to the brim, amplified by the distant rumble of cannon-fire—the Javelin was giving as good as she got.

That tension concentrated around a figure on the far side of the hovel. Not Captain Vane, he was still partly dazed from the explosions. This was the ranking Royal Marine who looked like a storm ready to blow. Red-faced and jaw tight, his hands were clasped behind his back as if inspecting troops.

“Begging your pardon… Doctor Thorne?”

The stress on the word ‘doctor’ felt like a slap. With nothing to save me from the impending moment, I stared holes into the man.

“Yes, Leftenant… Angwin is it?” I replied.

“Indeed.” He pursed his lips. “Is this,” he waved a hand at the shack and notably the villagers, “crucial at this moment? Surely we could prioritize who gets tended, given this is a forward fighting position—”

“Flummery!” I snapped, voice as sharp as a pistol crack. “What? Should we flip a coin, Leftenant? Issue lots?” Fists clenched by my side, I stood, tugging at my smudge and blood-stained vest; eyes blazing. He wanted rank to matter. I wanted people to live. “Before you go on about ‘keeping the beasts at bay’ or some other cogswaddle, look around!”

“You see here, madam—!” Angwin protested.

I slashed my hand in front of me, cutting off his protest. “We’re a landing party. Every hand and able soul is needed! You may hold rank, Leftenant, but unless you know how to use thread to do more than darn socks, stow that bilge! We’ll need everyone able to move if we’re to survive the next few minutes… and I don’t mean just the beasts!”

“Both of you, pipe down!” came a ragged voice of command from my left.

Captain Vane pushed up from his cot. Blue coat bloodied and burned; he was wounded, bandaged, but awake. Vane’s eyes flicked between myself and Angwin. The captain gave me the tiniest nod, then fixed a hard look on the Royal Marine.

“Leftenant,” Vane rumbled, his calm tone cutting over the noise as if it wasn’t there. “A word.”

“Captain,” the man stiffly replied, then huddled next to Captain Vane.

I turned away, giving them what privacy I could, and busied myself with counting supplies in my satchel. After that, I checked on my patients—save for Captain Vane—to steady my anger and nerves.

Finally, I eased open the door to peek outside. Overhead, the Javelin and the pirate dirigible swapped blows like street brawlers. Several others in the fishing town had done the same as I had. Townfolk conversed from their partly open doorways with each other—no one willing to chance the combination of water leapers and stray cannon fire. Maddock joined me at the door.

“Doctor? What did you mean about the beasts and surviving? Did you mean the pirates?” Even the worry lines in his forehead had worry lines.

I glanced up at him over my shoulder, then nodded, brushing loose strands of my dirty brown hair out of my face.

“Yes, I do.” The moment held its breath until it sighed. “Also, I’m fairly certain who the bloody bastard leading that pirate crew is. It’s the same one that devised a way to bring down the HMS Lewis Ross; the dirigible I was on when I first got my Gift. He was the man I was to marry, at least before he tried to swindle my family. One Captain Caleb Rourke of the Poseidon’s Pearl, late of the East India Trading Company. If my father hadn’t retired, he’d still be hunting the man.”

Maddock blinked, stunned as if hit on the head. “He caused the wreck of the Lewis Ross?”

I smiled ruefully. “Sounds like something out of the broadsheets, doesn’t it?” Slowly, I dabbed at the sweat and grime over my eyes. “Most of that’s a story for another time… but it’s still true. The Lewis Ross had moved in to help the HMS Providence when she signaled trouble. Something about a wild eel infestation. The captain took us in to help, thinking the report was cogswaddle—it wasn’t. It was a trap.”

“Captain Rourke?”

“The same,” I replied grimly. “That time, he let loose wild eels coated in a toxin on a fishing town. I recognized the oily, bitter stench in the air when we got here. The water leapers are coated with the same. Whatever it is, the stuff sends beasts into a frenzy. Still, the last time it was enough to distract both the Ross and the Providence. They never saw Rourke coming. He’s nearly pulled the same trick again today.”

I drew a deep breath, watching the air battle above us even as memories washed past. The occasional water leaper gave me the evil eye while jumping over the waves, but I ignored it.

“The Providence limped away to get help, but the Ross still went down, taking out part of a fishing town.” I gave Maddock another rueful smile as I softly beat a fist against the doorframe. “From there, I’m sure you know the rest.”

Maddock grunted; it spoke volumes. He backed that up with a quick, “Yes, ma’am. I’ve heard the stories about you.” Then he squinted, pursing his lips. “Why do it, though? What’s there to take?”

“The bodies.”

Maddock went as still as stone. I slid my tired eyes up to meet his.

“Captain Rourke and his bunch are resurrectionists. They create a disaster for the body count. Stokes the man’s reputation, and he turns a profit off the dead.”

“You said your father hunted Rourke?” Maddock asked, curiosity piqued.

I nodded. “Until he retired from the Admiralty, yes.”

Maddock’s eyes went wide.

“Wait. That Thorne family? Your father… you mean the Admiral Jaime Horatio Thorne?” he whispered at me. “You’re Hannibal Thorne’s daughter?”

“Yes, I’m that Rebekah Thorne. Not a story for now, though,” I murmured wearily. “Besides, Corporal, I’m not my father, nor he me. I’m my own person.”

Maddock opened his mouth to reply but nodded, then changed his tack. “What about the poison?”

I shook my head. “Makes some sick. Mostly it just irritates whatever poor beasts he’s scooped up and turned loose.”

As if on cue, the older fisherman keeled over to empty his stomach onto the floor.

“Confound it all!” I swore, grabbing Maddock by the shirtfront and dragging him with me as I ran across the room.

Maddock cleaned the fisherman’s face while I set to work with my Gift. Poison and open wounds were nothing alike. The blood resented the latter, but got into a confused panic over the former. I hummed the soft shanty in the fisherman’s blood, helping calm it down by giving a tune to follow.

A minute and a second poisoned patient later, I was back at the doorway for some air. Maddock joined me, keeping a wary eye on our group.

“Doctor?” He hesitated, as if sensing how delicate his next words were. “Why hasn’t there been some message about this Rourke? Especially since your father had been hunting him.”

I chuckled bitterly.

“Because the Admiralty would have to admit there’s a Gifted pirate on the loose, and what the confounded man’s been doing.” I clenched my jaw, then forced myself to relax. Idly, I waved a hand. “Oh, I’m sure there are crews out hunting Rourke, but it’s easier to bury embarrassment than spread panic.”

I watched the battle overhead, then turned to stare into the shack. My thoughts churned over the view, position, and what might happen.

“We have to leave. Someplace better that’s more defensible and where I can work,” I murmured.

Nearby, Captain Vane had finished his conversation with Lieutenant Angwin. The younger officer looked more red-faced than before. He bristled at my words.

“You’re not in command,” he snarled. “That’s the captain’s choice… Doctor.”

Never had I wanted to punch a man so hard that his ancestor’s teeth would rattle. Fortunately, Captain Vane interrupted my visions of ancestral dentistry assault.

“Leftenant!” Vane growled. The feeble cot creaked as the captain pushed upright again, then slowly climbed to his feet. He fixed the lieutenant with a hard stare. “I trust you implicitly, Leftenant. You’re top at what you do, but this is far from normal for any of us.” Vane sighed, looked around the small room, then at me. “I’m well aware of the Lewis Ross incident. If Doctor Thorne has an idea, I want to hear it… and so should you.”

I let out a long, measured breath. “Captain? Leftenant? We’ve two problems—first, Captain Rourke will come calling. He’ll want you as a hostage so he can butcher the Javelin. So we need someplace more defensible with more room. It’d be better for me and the Marines.”

Lieutenant Angwin narrowed his eyes. He was still put out, but I saw the gears turning. Good.

“Long hall. Shuttered windows,” he said.

“Common Hall,” the old fisherman nearby said in a weak voice. “Short run from here. Maybe five yards north at worst. Built to stand up against the worst the North Sea gives out. Thick shutters. Double-thick doors.”

“It’ll do,” Angwin replied thoughtfully.

I nodded, relishing the cooperation, then held up two fingers.

“Second? The Llamhigyn y Dŵr. They’ll try for us the instant we leave. Corporal Maddock can defend us, but Shielder or no, he can’t be everywhere. So,” I rounded on Maddock, “get me one. Alive. I need to scrape off whatever Rourke is using to rile them. If I can figure out something that keeps them at bay, we can run for the Common Hall.” I shrugged. “Perhaps even find a way to get the leapers to turn on Rourke’s people.”

Captain Vane grinned. “Not to mention a snare or three for the bloody bastards to trip over. Good. Done. Make it so.”

I turned just as a dizzy feeling washed over me, then a faint melody—a song of blood.

“Wait. They’re on their way,” I said, staring off into the middle distance.

Overhead, the roar of cannons shook the clouds, easily heard over the roar of waves along the shore. Dust sifted down from the rattled roof. The broadsides had increased, joined by the faint crack of rifles.

“The pirates?” Captain Vane asked.

“Yes, Captain,” I replied softly, meeting his concerned expression. “Rourke’s coming. I can feel it.”

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

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Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Monday…

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. Clues from the store-all and a visit to the old Rawls’ home led to Cassidy and Daniel searching the house with Dorian’s help. The trio split up, each taking a part of the house with Daniel in the attic. One there, among boxes and dressmaker dummies, he finds a safe—and a little bit more than he expected…

November 7, 2024. The old Rawls’ home next to Crescent Edge Cemetery—it’s all fun and antiques until you find a dead body…

Time froze like a deer in headlights as I stared, nose-to-nose, with the man’s mummified face. Everything shattered back to normal the moment my nerves rebelled.

“Gah—!”

I rolled off the body with a shriek, skittering backwards over rotten rugs to escape the corpse. Before I knew it, I’d crashed against the attic wall as the dark shape flying across the room found me. I jerked to one side as pale hands thrust out of the shadows, clawing at the air where my neck had been.

The dark shape hissed like a boiler’s dying breath.

I scrambled on all fours to anywhere but there. Then my right hand found an old fireplace poker. I rolled over, swinging the metal bar with a snarl, hitting something solid. A yelp and another hiss followed. We stumbled apart, both of us tripping over magazines and more in the dark. I fell one way; the thing went another, as a lantern with its candlelight-yellow glow clanked down between us.

The shadowy figure leaped up, but I was a second faster to my feet, shoving a stack of boxes into their face. That earned me another hiss before it rushed for the open attic entrance.

“Dorian! Cassidy!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, racing after the thing.

I was too slow. The dark shape flowed through the attic opening, dropping to the floor below like a forgotten sheet. In the dim light of the attic, I caught a quick glimpse of a pale hand—thin, with fingers a bit too long for normal.

“Cassidy!” I bellowed again. Tripping over more magazines, I managed a clumsy run for the attic opening, brandishing the fireplace poker.

I frantically climbed down the ladder, missing two steps before I dropped less than gracefully to the floor. Landing in a crouch, I spun around, gulping air, iron poker at the ready. At the same time, Cassidy and Dorian stampeded up the stairs from the first floor.

“Daniel!” Cassidy yelped, racing over with bat claws extended. “What is it? Where is it?” Protectively holding onto my arm, she scanned the hallway for anything to fight.

To my surprise, Dorian looked upset as well. He hadn’t melted into the full nightmare of a bloodleech’s natural appearance, but his eyes had taken on the solid obsidian orbs of one.

“Attic. Person,” I wheezed as I winced, feeling the bandaged cuts on my arms and shoulder sting like all hell. “Did you… did you see them?”

“No,” Dorian replied with the hint of a low snarl.

“They were tall, wearing like a black coat or something. They attacked me when I found a wall safe,” I said, standing up straight—which turned out to be a bad idea. Aches rippled along my shoulder and back.

The hallway and its vintage decor wanted to swirl around me like ice cream in a blender. Not that I have anything against frozen desserts, but ice cream and murder just didn’t seem to mix. I stumbled, but Cassidy caught me before I fell over.

“Hold still,” she whispered, immediately checking the back of my neck.

“What?” I breathed.

“Checking for bloodleech bites,” she replied with a brief side-eye at Dorian. “You’re a little pale and dizzy.”

Dorian either ignored the implication or was too focused on an invader in his new home.

“Where did they run to?” He frowned, voice predator-soft.

“Not sure,” I gasped. “I hit them with this fireplace poker and they dropped something before they jumped down out of the attic. If you didn’t see them on the stairs, where did they go?”

“Both of you stay here,” Dorian said quietly. “I’ll check the rooms here, then outside. It’ll just be a moment.”

Satisfied there wasn’t a telltale ring of bite marks on the back of my neck, Cassidy turned me around in a hard hug. Then she placed her still-furred hands on either side of my face, searching my eyes. I could feel the worry rolling off her in waves.

“If Dorian’s touched you…”

I reached up, putting my free hand on hers, shaking my head.

“He hasn’t. I just know he hasn’t,” I gently replied.

Worry laced her expression. “I’m not so sure. Ambushing someone in a dark attic sounds very bloodleech to me.”

I gave her a lopsided smile. “Yeah, but you once told me bloodleeches loved drama and performance. This felt more like cornering a feral cat in a bathtub. I don’t believe it was him.”

She snorted, touching her forehead to mine. “Okay, fine. That’s a good point. So if it wasn’t Dorian, who was it?”

“I don’t know… yet,” I whispered.

The aforementioned bloodleech returned a moment later, looking more human and twice as concerned.

“No one’s around. I saw where they came in, and where they left. But there’s no sign of them now.” His brow furrowed. “Daniel, are you hurt? Whatever you need, I’ll get it, or call for it.”

Cassidy scowled at the hallway, as if willing whoever attacked me to show their face. I lightly waved a hand at Dorian.

“No. Just a little winded from getting scared half to death.” I drew a long breath. “But that dead body in your attic is going to need the sheriff and a coroner.”

“What?” Cassidy blinked at me, then leveled a hard look at Dorian. “What did you do?”

To his credit, Dorian looked as horrified as I’d felt when I was practically kissing the corpse.

“Nothing,” he replied, pulling out his phone. “Though while I’ve enjoyed burying a body or two in the backyard during my time, this is something best left for the sheriff.” Dorian held up his phone, raising his eyebrows. “If you’ll excuse me. Please make yourselves at home in the kitchen downstairs.”

We headed down and settled into Dorian’s kitchen, helping ourselves to water and a delightful lack of dead bodies. Sadly, drama was still on the menu.

Dorian had no sooner called the sheriff, than they arrived in force a few minutes later. Three cars pulled up outside, escorting an ambulance, and a CSI truck. They descended on the house with lethal precision, invading the attic. Radio chatter hummed through the night air like evening bees out for that one last flower.

After that, they cornered Dorian in one room, Cassidy and I in the kitchen. Then came the questions—a lot of questions.

It took nearly an hour before that wound down.

The deputy taking our statements, and giving a barely veiled interrogation, studied her notebook carefully. Deputy Marla Keene was—if nothing else—professional.

I’d spoken with her a few times, such as at my uncle’s funeral. She was polite, straightforward, and deadly serious as a deputy. Brown hair pulled back in a bun, gray eyes level—the kind that didn’t blink first—she was the portrait of solid and unflappable.

“Shadowy figure in possibly a dark overcoat. Long, thin white fingers.” Deputy Keene read from her notes. “You’re sure you’ve never met the deceased before tonight?”

“No,” Cassidy replied. “Never.”

“Not until I nearly bumped noses with him,” I lightly quipped. The deputy didn’t look amused, so I nodded in a limp, sagely fashion, before drinking some water.

Deputy Keene hummed at me with a deadpan expression. “I see. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne. If we’ve more questions, we’ll follow up.”

The kitchen door opened with a casual creak, interrupting what else the deputy was about to say. Night air, rich with the earthy scent of damp grass, wandered in like a loitering ghost.

Sheriff Roy Branham stepped through the door with the unhurried calm of a man who’d seen more than most. Someone who’d spent thirty years walking into bad situations and rarely had to raise his voice. In less time than it took to cross the threshold, I noticed his eyes wander the room—memorizing it at a glance, before settling on us.

“If for no other reason than because attics don’t grow bodies on their own,” he said with the ghost of a wry smile.

The sheriff was a broad-shouldered, dusky-skinned man somewhere in his early fifties, with close-cut hair touched with gray at the temples. My Uncle Elias had spoken highly of the sheriff more than once. Despite the damp evening outside, Sheriff Branham’s uniform was still mostly immaculate.

I grinned a little. Sheriff Branham’s easygoing manner seemed to seep tension out of the air, deflating it like a balloon.

“No, I suppose not. What about the lantern that the person dropped?” I asked. “If you need it appraised, we could take a look?”

The sheriff frowned a little, rubbing his chin. “Might do that. But I’d rather my CSI boys look at it first to see if we can get a better handle on who was up there.”

Dorian appeared behind the sheriff, who didn’t seem the least bit bothered. I almost envied that calm the sheriff had—almost, but not quite.

“Well, I can say it didn’t belong to my contractor, best that I know,” Dorian casually admitted. “Fred brought plenty of flashlights and other tools, never a lantern.”

Deputy Keene went stone-faced, and I thought I saw Sheriff Branham swallow a tiny sigh. I got the impression Dorian wasn’t supposed to casually stroll in, talking about the dead man like that.

“Fred?” Cassidy asked carefully.

“Fred Spivey,” Dorian explained, either ignoring the sheriff and the deputy’s mild frustration or just didn’t care. “Remodeling contractor I hired from over in Craigbrook down the road.”

Deputy Keene cleared her throat, getting to her feet. She snapped her small notebook closed like a mousetrap.

“Well, thank you all. Like I said, we’ll be in touch with more questions.”

As the officers made their way out of the kitchen, Sheriff Branham paused with a thoughtful look on his face.

“Oh, by the way,” he asked. “Did Fred Spivey mention that safe in your attic, Mr. Callix?”

“No, not a word.” Dorian replied with a thin smile. “If he had, I’ve no doubt he’d have told me. Would’ve been a good reason to up his fee for remodeling.”

The sheriff lightly tapped the nearby counter, raising an eyebrow at Cassidy and myself.

We swapped a brief look. She gave me a tiny, resigned nod.

“We didn’t know, but suspected,” I said. “Uncle Elias had a set of antique fountain pens come through his shop a few years back. Mr. Callix hired us to track down where they went. This house used to belong to one of my uncle’s antique pickers.”

Sheriff Branham nodded slowly. “Meredith Rawls, I remember. So you came here to see if the pens were here?”

Cassidy clasped her hands around her glass of water. “That or see if there was a record left behind about them.”

The sheriff glanced around the room again, then at the ceiling.

“Mr. Callix, is all the work you wanted done on the first floor?”

“It is,” Dorian replied, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Doors and other things.”

Branham hummed at that.

“Odd, Spivey was upstairs in the attic when the work was down here.” The sheriff smiled at us and Dorian. “No matter. Mr. Callix? I’m sorry in advance, but my CSI boys will be tromping through your attic a good bit. Also, I’ll need you to stay in town in case we’ve more questions.”

“Well, of course,” Dorian replied, inclining his head.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne, you’re at Elias’ old shop?” When we nodded, he gave us that warm smile again. “Good. I’ll be by tomorrow or the next, likely with more questions. All of you have a good night.”

For more about Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more.

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Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. To be honest, it’s a bit creepy, if not spooky, when is isn’t beside itself with nerves. It tends to be a little shy. Did I mention it likes to needlepoint because there’s lots of stabbing? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Which means, really, he gets all the blame.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, undead, or why-aren’t-they-dead-YET is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot. Like daily.

Author’s Note: Where the Blood Calls is a serialized fiction story in Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies, which is a fantastic collaborative corner of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles by the ever talented ! It’s a world of change and industrialization where magic has been set loose on the world of the 1800s. Here, in this corner, we’ll follow the escapades of one Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne with her work and adventures about the new, hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Wednesday as long as the story allows!

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. The day had been like any other, which meant Doctor Rebekah Thorne was busy with the usual scrapes, bangs, or bruises from the crew. This didn’t count for the spectacularly deep gash one ensign earned by falling on the airship’s gear. But life took a strange turn when she felt a strange calling—an unnatural feeling that seemed to come from the fishing village below. At least, that’s what she thought…

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Portlethen Bay, Scotland. Into the winged jaws of death, and the fickle fortune of fate…

Captain Alistair Vane’s orders had been crystal clear. First, sail the jolly boat down to Portlethen Bay and beat back the beasts. After that, figure out how they got there while treating the wounded. The latter was supposed to be my only part to play.

Simple. Until it wasn’t.

The Javelin’s dinghy touched down in the cold water by the town as chaos welcomed us with open arms. A swarm of Llamhigyn y Dŵr broke from the waves, attacking us before we were even tied off at the dock. Tangy salt spray and yells splattered the air.

“Leapers!” a Royal Marine yelled, ducking for cover.

The first pair of the mold-green, frog-things dove at us—mouths full of teeth gaped wide, black bat-wings flared as they dove. There were too many; far too many. It felt like a culling. Weak sunlight spilled past the clouds, rippling over the beast’s oily sheen.

A leaper streaked past a Royal Marine’s ear, nearly biting it off. A second tangled in the rigging, snapping at a startled midshipman. The beast yanked loose and shot upward, only to bounce off the dinghy’s inflated canvas gasbag with a wet smack. It ricocheted skyward, then cartwheeled into a dive back for the churning sea foam.

“God’s teeth!” a marine sputtered, clutching his weapon as a water leaper stole his hat.

“To the dock!” Captain Vane bellowed. “They’ll pick us off if we sit still!”

Marines surged out of the boat, myself and two midshipmen scrambling madly in their wake. The jolly boat rocked wildly, trying to throw us into the sea. Despite that, we invaded the dock before daring a look around.

Closer to town, I saw locals running for the shelter of their homes. Buildings nearest the water were the most at risk from leaper attacks. Two fishermen on the town-side of the docks flailed on the ground, water leapers latched onto an arm or leg.

I caught the captain’s eye. He glanced at the insanity near town and nodded.

“Do what you need, Doctor, we’ll give cover.”

I nodded back as another Llamhigyn y Dŵr shot through the air, jaws open for my arm. I slapped it between the eyes with my russet, canvas satchel. The stench of burnt fish oil made my eyes water.

The thing screeched with a sound trapped between a hiss and a pig’s squeal. Eyes rolling, it tumbled sideways off the dock into the water, leathery wings flailing. Another darted past my head. I turned to the nearest living thing that wasn’t trying to bite my head off.

“Corporal Maddock!” I barked at the man next to me.

The young, tall Welshman lunged for a nearby water leaper. He grabbed it where the wings met the body a second before the beast locked its jaws onto a midshipman’s shoulder. The leaper thrashed like a cat threatened with a bath, long tongue whipping out in irritation at having lost a meal.

Maddock avoided getting lashed by the tongue, quickly turned and slammed the beast against the weathered wooden dock twice. The Llamhigyn y Dŵr’s tongue lolled out the side of its mouth, bleating a yelp like an out-of-tune bagpipe. Before the beast returned to being a problem, the corporal pitched it into the bay as far as he could throw it.

“Ma’am!” he replied, gulping air as he shakily snapped to attention.

I reached into the dinghy, then shoved a banged-up, gray medical satchel into his hands.

“Corporal, you’re with me. Mr. McLaren had to stay aboard the Javelin. We need the wounded off the dock. Find a place with good shutters and a sound door.”

He glanced at the satchel in his hands, then touched his hat. “Aye, Doctor!”

We raced along the dock between the fallen bodies of fishermen. The Llamhigyn y Dŵr had bitten a horrid chunk out of the town, leaving a grisly trail behind. Water leapers flew at us with each step, eager to bring us down. Despite that, we yanked a pair of live fishermen away from the beasts, hauling them with us.

“Doctor! Fishing cabin ahead,” Maddock exclaimed. “Looks solid.”

It was a weathered fisherman’s shack near the shore, shedding blue paint from the sun and time. An old, tan fishing net was draped from the eaves against the nearest wall to dry. That would have to do.

“Make for the cabin! The one with the net!” I ordered.

Llamhigyn y Dŵr swarmed us—a storm of hissing teeth, dripping with hunger. I slapped away two of the wet beasts as I helped my charge along, a tawny-haired young man, barely old enough to shave. He limped beside me, pale from shock and blood-loss, hampered by a ragged bite on his thigh.

“Ugh,” he coughed, then gasped with a wheeze. “What are those things?”

“Llamhigyn y Dŵr,” I grunted. “Welsh water leapers.”

“Welsh?” He blinked, expression caught between confused and pain. “They weren’t here two days ago!”

“Shush. Explanations later. Hurry,” I said sternly.

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy muttered between clenched teeth.

Corporal Maddock and I hauled our charges to the weather-beaten shack. The corporal shoved open the door, then hurried inside with his wounded fisherman. I was two steps behind with the young man. The scent of long-stale fish, and cramped air eager for the shore, embraced us. Shouts and screams of pain nipped at our heels, blending with the stout, briny wind off the North Sea.

I glanced back at the rest of the landing party—they were in a bad way. It had become a fighting retreat from the jolly boat along the dock and into town. Captain Vane had rallied the marines he’d brought down with us. But it seemed there were two leapers for every person. That rang a bell in my mind, but I wasn’t sure why.

It also meant I never saw the Llamhigyn y Dŵr diving at me until the last moment.

I hissed in shock, throwing myself aside to get out of the way. The flying frog-beast hurtled at me, a double row of ivory-white shark teeth all-too-eager to nibble at my throat. My back hit the doorframe as Maddock shoved an arm between myself and the leaper.

“Confound it, Corporal, move!” I stammered, shoving both of us aside. At least, that’s what I tried to do.

Instead, I shoved, moving the corporal back a half-step before he froze. After that, it felt like I’d tried to push over a wall as the beast slammed into him. I yelled, then stared in disbelief. The water leaper’s teeth had shredded the corporal’s red woolen coat sleeve, but not his arm—that was metal. It wasn’t a clockwork prosthetic.

The man’s skin had turned a gleaming bronze.

He was Gifted, like me.

“Maddock… are you a Shielder?” I asked, studying him, wide-eyed.

The young man flushed. “Yes, ma’am.”

Two more water leapers joined the first, their bite forcing more of the corporal’s skin bronze to the neck. Shielders were one of the more durable Gifted with their metal skin. They tended to shrug off what hurt most anyone else. At least until it abruptly didn’t, such as getting hit with something hot enough to turn metal to slag.

Maddock flinched more from embarrassment than pain.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” the corporal rumbled, bronze cheeks flushing dark. “Need to sort these three out.”

He stepped out of sight. After a series of teeth-rattling slams against the side of the shack, the corporal returned. He looked like a fidgeting bronze statue draped in a ragged Royal Marine uniform, mercifully free of water leapers on his arm. Quickly, he ushered me into the shack, casually shutting the door behind us as if he’d just come for tea.

I shook my head, rushing to clean the arm bite on the older fisherman with what vinegar I had—humming the blood’s tune as I worked.

“How long do you… er… stay bronze?” I finally asked the corporal, struggling with words as I treated the fisherman’s arm.

Maddock hurried over to be an extra pair of hands with the bandage.

“Too long if you ask me, ma’am.” He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Once it starts, it takes a bit to stop. Makes me heavy and slow, which I’m not fond of at all.”

“I can imagine.” The older fisherman hissed as I wrapped the bandage. “Here,” I thrust a small bottle at Maddock. “Cut open the boy’s trouser leg and dab the bite with this vinegar. I don’t want that leg to turn sour.”

He nodded, turning to the boy. The corporal was a tall rail of a man, easily over six foot, with squared shoulders to match. After a shy look at me, he slipped a hidden dirk from his boot, then went to work splitting bloody cloth away from the boy’s wound. I joined them as the corporal gently peeled the cloth aside, grimacing.

“Don’t fret, Corporal, I won’t tell a soul about your dirk,” I assured him.

Kneeling next to Maddock, I studied the wound. The boy’s blood was up—as anyone’s would after getting bitten—but he was a stout sort. I hummed a few bars of a lively jig, matching the tune I heard from his blood. When I noticed them staring at me as if I’d lost my mind, I cleared my throat.

“My Gift comes with a bit of music to it,” I tried to explain with a frustrated sigh and smile. “I’m a Bloodsinger. Now hold still, boy, while we clear that wound and set it right.”

The lad wasn’t sure to be in pain, confused, or terrified. Maddock took care of the startled and concerned part. I fought down rolling my eyes over their reaction and focused on my job. Vinegar first, then singing the blood to work; herbs and bandages quickly followed.

Maddock tied off the bandage as I wiped the blood from my hands, not that it helped. I’d accidentally splotched my waistcoat in interesting scarlet patterns; stray ends of my brown hair weren’t better off. But it was the price of the job. I handed the corporal a spare rag for his hands.

“We’d best check on the Captain and the others,” I said, heading for the door. “A Shielder. Corporal, how in God’s blessed teeth did someone with your Gift get assigned to an Aetheric Dirigible?” I asked, easing open the entrance.

A gust of North Atlantic wind, rich in salt air and rotten with dead kelp, greeted me. So did approaching shouts, punctuated by the pop and snap of flintlock weapons. Fortunately, neither of those came with a new round of water leapers looking for lunch.

“Not that I’m complaining,” I continued, “but when you change, wouldn’t you shift the ballast?” I asked.

The tall Welshman stood, plucked off his black felt hat to wipe his face and ash-brown hair with the rag.

“Yes, a little,” he admitted, giving the open door a pinched, worried look. “But I didn’t request assignment with the Javelin. Leftenant Angwin pulled favors to get me aboard. I was supposed to be reassigned to artillery, so a nobleman’s son could take my place in the regiment.”

“Pfui,” I growled, scrunching my nose at him. “Noble privilege, sometimes signed from birth to a modest rank for family status. Utter rubbish. Well, I’m glad you’re here.” I rubbed my eyes, grabbing the doorframe as I wobbled. Outside, the Captain and his marines had a field day with the water leapers.

“Ma’am? You well?” Maddock asked, looking more concerned than ever.

He walked over, but I waved him off. “It’s part of being a Bloodsinger. Everyone’s blood has its own song, and you hear them all in a fight. Not a confounded way to tune it out, either. I’ll be fine.”

Then, as soon as I said that, I wasn’t.

I grabbed the doorframe again as the world spun. Then I felt that same urge—a pull or call. It was identical to what I had felt aboard the Javelin. Something felt wrong… familiar, but wrong.

“Doctor Thorne!” Captain Vane shouted at me from the dock with a wide grin.

Despite an ugly cut through one sleeve and a new bruise on his right cheek, the captain looked more or less intact. His blue officer’s uniform was a mess, but so were the rest of us. He stalked down the dock for our fishing shack, followed by two battered midshipmen and four Royal Marines.

I breathed a sigh of relief. We’d not lost a soul. But the lot of them took a hard beating—or rather a sharp chewing—to clear the dock.

As they approached, one or two of the frog-beasts tried one last assault. But a knife, or shot from a flintlock, put an end to that nonsense. The others remained out of reach offshore, arcing out over the waves then back down again as they tossed greedy glares in our direction.

Captain Vane had lost his hat in the fight; not that he cared much. I’d known the square-built captain for years, and had him to thank for the post aboard the Javelin. Him losing that hat in a scuffle was as regular as the sunrise. The man ran a hand through his black hair, then scratched at his trimmed beard, glancing back at the leapers.

“I think we’ve got them on the run, Doctor.” He shook his head. “Wish we’d made it down sooner to save more than we did, but—”

Then the memory hit me. The oily sheen on the water leapers. A smell of burnt fish oil.

The leapers weren’t alone.

“No,” I muttered. “Captain—!”

The gray-white clouds overhead ripped the sky with fire. For a heartbeat, the wind stilled as the world held its breath. Then the air cracked like a slap. A hot broadside narrowly missed the Javelin’s keel, raining hot metal toward shore. Captain Vane and the others ran like mad for us until the ground erupted behind them.

It was air pirates.

Llamhigyn y Dŵr were bait. We were the fish, and I knew the bloody fisherman all too well.

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

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Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Monday…

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. A search through the shop’s archived paper records in the Simmons Store-All turned up more than allergies and a history lesson. Instead, Daniel and Cassidy uncovered a decades-old code left by Daniel’s uncle, Elias Hawthorne. A code that concealed a hidden journal entry specifically about the pens. There was also a mentions of two safes; one with Elias and another with a deceased woman named Meredith Rawls. Not wanting to waste time, they out hoping to search the abandoned house that night, only find the old Rawls’ house not so abandoned…

November 7, 2024. The old Rawls’ home beside Crescent Edge Cemetery—where “safe” had always been a lie…

Cassidy and I sat in the car, staring at the house’s new owner, standing on his porch. We swapped an uneasy look, then eased out of the car as if a predator lurked nearby. Technically one did, but neither of us was going to tell him that. We crossed the yard, then climbed the dingy white steps as the evening wind rattled the bare branches.

Dorian Callix, dressed in his usual gray and white clothes save for a windbreaker, filled half the open front doorway with his thin, manicured frame. The man—or really a bloodleech—stood as sharp as a fall shadow, cutting the night under a sickly waning moon.

“If I knew I’d have company, I’d have put a kettle on,” he drawled. “But you’ve come at a good time. Contractors have left for the day. Less noise around.”

Cassidy drew a deep breath. It looked like she bit down on three tart replies just to pin down the one she wanted.

“Oh? I’m surprised you didn’t eat the contractors,” she replied with a brittle smile. “Less payroll. Fewer witnesses.”

Dorian touched two fingers to his forehead in a mock-salute, rolling out a genuine laugh.

“My dear Mrs. Hawthorne, some of us don’t go around eating the help. It’s already hard enough to find them in the first place. Besides, it’s sometimes a rather bland meal. Comes out tasting like sheetrock installs and taxes. I’d rather just enjoy the company.” He stepped away, gesturing inside with a too-polite nod. “Do come in.”

It was an old Victorian home that practically dripped with history. From floor to ceiling, she was a grand lady from another age. Dust outlines on the wallpaper were ghosts of paintings that once stood watch over the entry. Past the foyer, an elegant staircase wound upstairs; freshly polished mahogany banisters gleamed with age.

“What do you think? 1890s?” I whispered to Cassidy.

“Maybe even 1910. Lots of crawlspaces to hide things,” she mumbled, eyeing the ceiling trim.

I nodded thoughtfully as Dorian led the way.

A short walk later, we arrived at what I assumed was the library. This was a guess based on the staggering amount of books—some shelved, some still boxed—stacked against the walls. Two antique brass floor lamps painted the room in a deceptively warm glow, considering who owned them. A vintage Aubusson rug with a dusty gold and green garden pattern added to the mood.

Dorian sank into a cracked brown leather armchair that looked on the precipice between too-new and falling apart. Cassidy and I claimed a nearby red velvet loveseat that whimpered under our weight. The thing shed tattered thread like a nervous, long-haired cat.

“So.” Dorian drew the word like a bow over a violin. When he crossed one thin leg over the other, I half-expected him to form a finger pyramid like some movie villain. “Daniel, Cassidy, good to see you both. You’re looking healthy. How are those scratches? Healing up?”

Cassidy stiffened on the loveseat next to me, while I gently massaged the bandages on one of my forearms. Conversations about our recent near-murder didn’t rate high on our small-talk meter. We answered at the same time.

“Fine,” Cassidy said, clipped.

“Getting there,” I sighed. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Callix…”

He waved a hand at my manners. “Now, now. Dorian, if you please. No need for the formality.”

I stretched a smile over my fatigue.

“Dorian… sorry to say, this isn’t a social call. We’re here about the pens.”

The man’s eyes glimmered like polished coins. “Oh? Do tell. I’m all ears.”

Cassidy raised her eyebrows, so I jumped in with the explanation.

“We’ve been doing some digging about the ink pens. So far their age checks out, but they’ve got some sketchy history.”

“Sketchy?” Dorian looked pained. “You mean they’re fake?”

I sat back, shaking my head, hands raised in light defense.

“No, they’re real. It’s just that a good amount of people who owned them have died pretty badly.”

It was as if I’d told Dorian it was Halloween and he could have all the candy. His grin was all morbid sunshine.

“Delightful. I love items with a colorful history.” He waved a hand at the half-filled shelves of old and new books. “They’ll have a lovely home here. Are there any leads on the missing pens? I trust there’s something, since it brought you both out tonight.”

“Some,” Cassidy said. “We’ve found some old purchase records, with dates, locations, and more. We’ll write up the details for your records, but…” she glanced at me for support “…this address came up as one of the recent locations.”

“Here?” He actually looked surprised.

I picked up the beat, following Cassidy’s lead. Quickly, I edited down my mental notes to the key points that didn’t include my uncle.

“Here,” I echoed. “The pens changed hands from one estate sale after another. We’ll document it all, but a few receipts pointing to the pens’ whereabouts brought us here—maybe in a hidden vault or safe. Have any of your contractors mentioned one?”

Dorian swapped his theatrical expression for a contemplative frown, staring holes in the rug.

“No, not a word,” he replied thoughtfully. “They’ve been roaming the halls for two days now, getting ready to make small improvements.” Dorian indicated the library doors with a nod. “Replacing a few doors where the frames had rotted, that sort of thing. No one mentioned a safe.”

Then he grinned and clapped his hands together.

“But you’ve stirred my curiosity about these pens, so we can always look around now.” His grin turned sharper. “I do so love a good hunt. Keeps the mind sharp.”

Cassidy stiffened slightly next to me on the loveseat—eyes tight, lips thinned to a sharp line. To say she didn’t trust Dorian was like saying water was wet—not that I blamed her. Still, his excitement was contagious, even if it suggested wet cellars and knives in the dark.

More than that, I had an uneasy feeling about these fountain pens. That they were more than just some valuable antiques—though I couldn’t say why.

I gave Dorian a polite smile.

“A hunt? Yes, it does. Since you’ve had contractors here, could you point to any likely odd spaces? I’m used to a vault being in a study or office. Places like that.”

“Don’t leave out mausoleums,” Dorian offered with a wink. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I know just where to start—the back hallway.”

I couldn’t tell if that was a joke or a warning—so I decided on both; that seemed safer.

Dorian led us through a set of interconnected parlors with antique furniture waiting for guests. But for now, they’d been temporarily claimed by stacks of cardboard boxes. Dorian breezed through with the self-assured grace of nobility showing off his domain.

“Oh, pardon the boxes. Empties had to go somewhere,” he said with a limp wave. “Now that I think about it, one contractor told me the previous owners were fond of stashing valuables in odd places. One story said they hid a cousin in the attic for two years during prohibition. Rum runner, supposedly.”

I squinted at Dorian’s back, then glanced to Cassidy for help.

“How dramatic,” she deadpanned.

Dorian tossed a smooth grin over his shoulder.

“Isn’t it? All part of the charm of why I bought the place.”

The back hall was more than just that; it was the spine of the first floor. Faded wildflower wallpaper echoed a different era of decor. It was an odd match for the Victorian wall sconces that had been adapted for lightbulbs. The delicate curves of the light fixtures held a blush of rust, while the bulbs gave off a moth-dusted golden light. A glow most haunted houses would’ve killed for.

“Given the hour, and that I’m dying to know about this safe, we’ll cover more ground if we split up,” Dorian suggested.

Cassidy clenched her jaw slightly—and really, I did, too—but Dorian didn’t show a hint of malice. Just the eager energy of someone who enjoyed this too much.

“You do know the house better than we do,” Cassidy relented with a soft breath.

“True,” I agreed, giving her a reassuring smile. “It won’t take that long.”

She gave me a tiny nod, but I saw her eyes flick to the bandages on my forearms. Memories of our wounds stung more than the cuts themselves. Still, she smiled, lightly brushing a hand on my upper arm.

“I’ll take the cellar,” she said with a shrug. “Even if there’s not enough light, I navigate in the dark pretty well.”

“Good idea,” Dorian replied with an excited, slightly feral smile. “I’ll check the first and second floors. It might be behind a painting. Wouldn’t that be just elegant?”

“That leaves the attic,” I said, glancing up. “Is there an attic for the first floor, then another for the second?”

“No, just the one,” Dorian replied, pointing at the stairs. “It’s big enough to make the library look small. Access is on the second floor. I’ll show you, then be back to escort you to the basement, Mrs. Hawthorne.”

“Thank you,” Cassidy replied dryly.

She slid her hand down my arm and gently squeezed my hand. I gave her another reassuring smile.

“I promise I’ll be careful.”

Cassidy raised her eyebrows.

“Extra careful, please? You’re still vintage near-mint, and only slightly scuffed. I’d like to keep you that way.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I grinned.

Dorian led the way. It turned out the attic access was a few feet down the second-floor hall, between a pair of bedrooms. As I grabbed the cord to pull down the hidden ladder, Dorian held up a hand.

“Mr. Hawthorne, a word? I know you and your wife have little reason to trust me. My… predecessor? As I’ve said, she made quite the mess here in Gloamstead. I’ve no intention of repeating that mistake.”

I studied him for a moment. Beneath that polished, eerily too-perfect appearance, I thought I heard some sincerity behind his words. With a nod, I drew a long breath.

“Dorian…” I paused, pulling words together. “Your predecessor literally tried to murder us a week ago. Just bear in mind that’s made us a bit skittish.”

“Understandable,” he said lightly. “I’d love to find a peaceful middle ground between the three of us.” Dorian gestured to the attic. “Good hunting among the dressmaker dummies.”

Honest conversation or not, I still waited until he returned downstairs before I headed up the ladder.

The attic was as advertised. It was long, running the length of the house, with a bare, gabled ceiling. Light from below was a column of safety until I pulled a nearby string. With a click, a single bulb pushed out the darkness, which shoved right back. The place was like a cluttered cathedral of memories.

A thin, damp heat held the air hostage while the dust of decades past clung to everything. What didn’t smell like stale paper was scented by sour insulation. Boxes were misshapen columns of cardboard crowding decades-old magazines in uneven stacks. I gave a trio of neglected dressmaker dummies facing a corner the side-eye before I stepped deeper into the gloom.

I tried to be patient as I searched, but passing seconds pricked at me like sewing needles. Two rounds across the attic left me grimy and frustrated. I scrubbed my hand over my face, then tried to brush dust out of my hair. It was a failed effort.

“Now wait,” I muttered. “Think. My uncle knew something was off about the pens to the point he made that code in his ledgers.” Putting my hands on my hips, I looked around me—really looked. “He wouldn’t have agreed to put them literally in a safe, but he would’ve left a hint how to find them.”

I narrowed my eyes at the attic, willing it to give up the prize. It didn’t, but I did get an idea.

“The magazines.” I shook my finger at the dusty stacks of old Alabama Heritage issues, hurrying over to them. “I bet they reused the ledger codes.”

I knelt down, brushing years of grime aside, and sorted them by year until I reached the one I was looking for.

“October 1977,” I muttered.

Four pages in, I found what I hoped for—handwritten letters and numbers in the margin. I grinned and got to work. Ten issues and several notes later, I decoded the hidden passage.

“Twelfth brick from the left. East wall. Attic.” I frowned at the last part. “Mind the wheels?” I glanced at the east brick wall just outside the sole lightbulb’s island of light. “What wheels?”

Frowning, I crossed the attic and counted bricks.

The brick I’d tracked down wasn’t any different from the others nearby. I ran my fingers over it, then along the mortar. Partway down, my fingers touched metal. The phone’s flashlight glinted off a series of four small wheels—a simple combination lock. I scrubbed at the grime, exposing their numbers.

“Combination lock wheels.” I shook my head in disbelief. “But what’s the combination?”

I tried a couple of obvious combinations first. Nothing. Then I gave the wall a crooked smile.

“No. It couldn’t be. That’s way too easy.”

Carefully, I pushed at the dials. Age held them in place, but they finally gave under my thumb. Slowly, I set the dials to ten, four, nineteen, and seventy-seven.

“October 4th, 1977. The date he got the pens from Meredith.”

A soft click replied before a four-foot-square section of fake brick separated from the wall. Inside, there were folded documents, even grocery receipts, all sitting on top of a beige velvet cloth marred by a pooled ink stain. Its wet edges glistened faintly in the light.

“One of the pens was here, but…”

A soft creak of wood whispered across the attic. I heard the sound of a footstep, followed by the hint of breath.

“Dorian?” I asked, turning around. “Cassie?”

The air tasted faintly metallic—like pennies and old ink.

Something dark peeled off one shadow and flowed to the next across the room. A faint glow—no more than the desperate light from a feeble candle—wobbled in the air. The dust-choked air shifted, disturbed by something moving too fast. Then a lean figure rushed out from behind the boxes straight for me.

“What the…” I yelled.

Stumbling back, I ducked a low rafter, tripping over my own feet. The figure flitted across the room like a wild sheet of darkness. I fell hard—landing next to old rugs and something that gave with a dry, brittle crunch.

It wasn’t a rug.

A face stared back at me.

Leathered skin was stretched tight over bone—hollow eyes inches from mine.

For more about Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more.

If you’ve enjoyed this and are looking for a little more action, take the plunge here at the link over to Legends of the Privateers. But if action-archeology is more your style, take the leap over here to Windtracer Tales!

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Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. To be honest, it’s a bit creepy, if not spooky, when is isn’t beside itself with nerves. It tends to be a little shy. Did I mention it likes to needlepoint because there’s lots of stabbing? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Which means, really, he gets all the blame.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, undead, or why-aren’t-they-dead-YET is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot. Like daily.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Monday…

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. Suspicious deal done, Daniel and Cassidy dove into tracking down the history of the pens. It took four days of false leads but a faint breadcrumb of information appeared—none of it pleasant. A trail of previous owners having met untimely, or suspicious, ends came to light. This collection of clues, estate sales, and more traced through Moonlight Curiosities, suggesting more might be found in the shop’s old records. Namely ones tucked away in a Store-All near a Bayou at the edge of town…

November 7, 2024. Simmons Store-All near the Leatherdown Bayou. Unit 45. Buried in boxes and a few memories…

As it turned out, dumpster diving through old antique shop records did have a lot less death involved. But there were still plenty of bitter-smelling, yellowed papers with an airborne invasion of brown dust. It was a powdery, dry grit that occasionally billowed out of boxes filled with my uncle’s cryptic journals and accounting ledgers.

We headed to the Simmons store-all rental unit late the next day after we’d closed shop. The store-all unit was modern and indoors, complete with a good air filtration system. Still, yellow-brown dust was everywhere. It stubbornly fogged the chilly air with a musty scent from decades past. So, after about an hour, I figured the nearby air filters had given up and left in disgust.

Cassidy set aside a stack of papers, then sneezed so hard she practically bounced off the floor where she sat.

“God,” she snorted, then sneezed twice more. “It’s like inhaling history. I’m just not built for this.”

I handed her my handkerchief, then promptly sneezed four times in a row.

“You’re not the only one,” I chuckled dryly after a rough snort. “But hey, you’ve got echolocation if the lights go out,” I teased.

She shot me a perturbed look—sharp hearing and sheet metal walls never mixed. With a light wave of her hand, she indicated the storage unit.

A tinny, country western tune echoed down the lonely, near-dark hallway outside our unit. It gave the empty store-all hallway bad horror movie vibes I wanted nothing to do with. I leaned on the current stack of boxes between us.

“Okay, that’s fair. Metal walls with a country music beat do not a good echolocation moment make,” I relented. Then I gave her a faint smile. “Hey, at least the worst here is dust swarms, not murder ink.”

Cassidy snorted from the dust and my limp humor.

“I’ll give you that one, but the music could still be better.”

As if insulted, the ceiling speakers in the too-empty hallway changed to something involving cowboys and pickup trucks both being sad in beer. Maybe the beer was just sad, I wasn’t sure. Laughing, we continued to search.

I took another break an hour later. My hands had turned ghostly gray from forgotten dust, and every ledger page just looked like a paper cut waiting to happen.

Cassidy had settled cross-legged in the middle of the storage room with a Midori travel notebook. The book was open in her lap, with journals and papers arranged around her in a rough semi-circle. Green, cloth-bound ledgers were stacked off to her right.

She took notes with a sort of monkish discipline, scowling over every page. Every so often, she let out a “huh” or “interesting” over something she’d found.

Progress? Maybe. But perseverance eventually paid off as I tapped an open journal balanced precariously on a stack of boxes.

“Found something here in a journal,” I said slowly.

I cleared dust from my throat.

“October 4, 1977. Got two Waterman fountain pens from Meredith today,” I read aloud. “Amber tortoiseshell, odd amber veins along the surface. Meredith made me swear to not sell these to repeat clients or children. She claimed they were haunted, but they both passed the ‘cold touch’ test.”

Cassidy sat up straight.

“Hold on, you never told me he believed in haunted objects.”

I winced a bit and grimaced.

“Sort of? Maybe? Uncle Elias said there was always an explanation. Just not a neat and tidy one everyone liked,” I explained. “I’m starting to think he did believe in haunted objects, and knew a lot more than he let on. Listen to this.”

I cleared my throat again.

“There was ink in the pens. After trying a handwriting sample, I had vivid nightmares. These might be a bad investment. Best to put them in the vault.”

“Vault?” Cassidy echoed. “What vault? I remember when you cleared his safety deposit box after the will was read. Maybe he meant a safe?”

I shrugged.

“No idea. Wasn’t in his will. I’ve not seen a safe in the shop or when I had to clear out his home.”

My eyes scanned the journal page, reading over the entries again. This time I noticed a thin scrawl in the margin. I ran a finger over the notes, squinting at the letters that had nearly turned sepia with age.

“Cassie? Look at this,” I said, walking over to her with the journal.

I sat down next to her on the concrete floor, and pointed at the notes.

“This doesn’t look like part of the journal entry. It was like he made it later.”

Cassidy brushed her red hair out of her face, leaning over to look. I read the notations aloud.

“LGR77… P4… W27.” I frowned. “Looks like a math problem.”

Suddenly Cassidy snapped her fingers.

“No, I bet it’s an index. Think about it. LGR might mean ‘ledger’. The ‘P’ could be ‘page’?”

I nodded, quickly catching on.

“So ‘W’ might be word?”

She shrugged then squeezed my arm affectionately.

“Your uncle was really obsessive about staying organized. What if it’s some custom shorthand?”

Cassidy reached over to the ledgers, until she found the one for 1977. She flipped frantically through the entries.

“Here!” she tapped a yellowed page. “I swear, beloved, your uncle’s handwriting is so neat and spidery, it gives me fantastic chills. Anyway, yes, I’ve got something.”

She traced a finger along the page, counting off the words.

“…twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven. The word is ‘return’.”

“Return what?” I muttered. “Library books?”

Cassidy gave me a wry look, tapping the next line.

“Daniel, look. Right here on line thirty-one—”

She spun the green-bound ledger toward me. At the bottom of the page, almost lost in a sea of numbers at record entry thirty-one was another cryptic entry. It was as faint and sepia toned as the ones from the journal.

“P12? W14-22?” I read aloud. “Okay, P12? If ‘P’ was ‘page’ before, that would be page twelve. Then ‘W’ is word, so words fourteen through twenty-two?”

“It’d have to be,” she replied.

“No idea what the 77JNL42 or L4 means, though,” I sighed.

Cassidy exhaled, eyes drifting to the journal I brought over.

“Is there anything else in the journal?”

I turned it over in my hands, then searched each page again from front to back. A small faded number was circled on the upper left corner of the first page.

“Thirty-eight.”

Cassidy blinked at me.

“What?”

I showed her the number, then frowned at two of the journals next to Cassidy.

“Hey, I wonder.”

On the first page of each dusty book, I found a tiny circled number in the same location.

“They’re numbered!” I exclaimed, then rose to check two more journals. “I think the numbers restart each year? Maybe?”

A grin spread over Cassidy’s face as her green eyes lit up.

“That has to be it! I bet that’s journal forty-two for 1977. The rest would be page twelve, line four. Then the last part is words fourteen through twenty-two.”

Numbers spun through my head in overlapping patterns.

“Cassie, are we sure this is even right? Why would anyone bother to do this?”

She scrubbed a hand over her face, narrowing her eyes at the middle distance between us.

“Beloved, I’ve no idea,” she replied thoughtfully. “But your uncle did have a habit of stashing things out of sight for safekeeping.”

Her eyes went a little wide as if a thought struck her. She laughed softly, then gently squeezed one of my forearms.

“You know, it’s like trying to work out the combination to an old safe.”

The next moment passed in dead silence. Even the country music in the hallway had stopped.

“A combination.” I asked, raised my eyebrows.

“Like for a lock,” she replied. Then her eyes lit up again. “It’s a trail!”

I let out a low whistle.

“Okay. Let me dig out journal forty-two.”

Two hours later, the floor looked like an archivist’s graveyard. Journals from across 1977 to January 1978 were spread around us in uneven stacks, ledgers propped open like an accountant wizard’s spellbooks.

Cassidy muttered half to herself, counting out words, lines, or paragraphs. She’d frown or thump a page each time she hit a wrong number, curse then start back to the last good line.

As for me, my fingers wound up smudged with ghosts of ink and dust. The tips a bit sore, probably the same way my uncle’s had been from years of all these journals.

But we kept at it. Each time one of us found a clue, the other picked it up and ran with it, until everything turned into a steady rhythm.

By the time we were done, we sat on the store-all unit’s concrete floor, surrounded by dusty books. Cassidy had scrawled pages of notes in her own notebook.

For a long time, neither of us spoke. We just stared at the journals and Cassidy’s notes.

“It’s a hidden journal,” I said quietly. “Uncle Elias set up this entire page, line, word puzzle combination to hide an entire personal journal entry about these pens.”

Cassidy nodded, tapping a section of her notes.

“Right down to Meredith Rawls telling your uncle to burn the pens or get a priest.”

“Yeah, that’s encouraging,” I replied sourly, leaning back to work out a stiff back muscle. “It’s odd after telling Uncle Elias that, she kept one of the pens for safe keeping, what? Two days later?”

Cassidy flipped through her notebook.

“Three.” She pointed at her notes. “That’s when Uncle Elias stashed a pen in his own vault. Meredith was supposed to store the other pen in her vault.”

“More with these vaults or safes or whatever,” I sighed, running a dusty hand through my hair. “We’ll have to find them. Uncle Elias obviously had one, and probably kept it close by where he could get at it.”

Cassidy brushed a strand of hair out of her face, then idly tapped the side of her notebook.

“The shop. It has to be there, somewhere. Your uncle was so meticulous and careful, he’d never keep something like this at home. He also kept the shop’s security up to date.”

I leaned back on my hands, taking in a deep, dusty breath. Then I checked my watch.

“It’s not that late. Which first? Head home and turn the shop upside down, or find Meredith Rawls’ safe?”

I watched the wheels turn behind my wife’s eyes a moment, thumping a pen against her notebook.

“Meredith Rawls’ house,” she decided. “If your uncle’s safe is in this shop, and I really bet it is, we’ve time to find it. But we’ve no idea if the Rawls’ house is still up for sale since she died last year. Better to check.”

“Makes sense,” I nodded. “If someone’s bought the place or everything’s been cleared out and sold, we’ll have to track all those pieces down to maybe find this vault or personal safe. We have an address?”

Cassidy grinned as she snapped her notebook shut, wiggling it at me.

“Sure do. It’s not far from here, either. Along the edge of the bayou.”

We cleaned up the store-all unit, or at least made the chaos more organized instead of less. After that, we locked up, climbed into the car and headed for the address.

Just like Cassidy had said, it wasn’t far away—a short ten-minute drive. I frowned at the sign for Crescent Edge Cemetery, when I turned off the county road onto a gravel drive.

“Crescent Edge Cemetery?” I asked warily.

Cassidy frowned, quickly scrolling through her phone.

“Yeah, that bothers me, too. But I don’t remember why.”

We realized it the moment we pulled up in front of the old Victorian-style home.

Our headlights swept over the skeletal fingers of the wrap-around porch, before resting on a trio of ancient oaks in the front yard. Ghostly-gray fronds of Spanish moss, draped over the branches, shivered in the wind.

At the house itself, yellow warm light peeked out from around sun-aged curtains in the stained windows—a ghost’s half-lidded eyes thick from sleep. On the porch a man stood framed in that same yellow light, shoulders easy, as if he’d been standing there waiting.

I knew that silhouette.

A sharp smile sliced through the dark.

Dorian Callix was already home.

For more about Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more.

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Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. To be honest, it’s a bit creepy, if not spooky, when is isn’t beside itself with nerves. It tends to be a little shy. Did I mention it likes to needlepoint because there’s lots of stabbing? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Which means, really, he gets all the blame.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, undead, or why-aren’t-they-dead-YET is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot. Like daily.

Author’s Note: Where the Blood Calls is a serialized fiction story in Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies, which is a fantastic collaborative corner of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles by the ever talented ! It’s a world of change and industrialization where magic has been set loose on the world of the 1800s. Here, in this corner, we’ll follow the escapades of one Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne with her work and adventures about the new, hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin.

New installments or chapters will materialize every other Wednesday as long as the story allows!

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Six hundred feet off Portlethen Bay, Scotland. Shakedown cruise of the HMS Dawn Javelin.

I’ve heard it said a cry for help at sea is the loneliest sound in the world. Hard lessons have taught me otherwise.

They’re more like a clean-cut wound. Some can be treated, others bandaged with care and hope. But then there are those that cut to the heart—the kind that make you wonder if the blade isn’t waiting to strike again.

We’d arrived off the coast of Portlethen Bay in Scotland—the third stop for the Javelin’s shakedown cruise as a hospital dirigible. It was the Royal Navy’s newest experiment of what do with an Aetheric Dirigible fleet that wouldn’t upset the rest of the water-based Admiralty. As the Fates would have it, there was already work to be done—such as patching up the crew against their own bad decisions.

I sighed, closing my notebook with a snap before setting it on a nearby counter. The current subject of the morning’s work, and my mild frustration, sat nearby in a wooden chair. My medical station aboard the Javelin’s bow wasn’t exactly small; it was only a bit wider than a pair of fish carts. But the tall man in the chair added bulk that seemed to shrink the room. Rigging pulled taut against sails and elongated canvas bag above, creaking in time with the subtle roll of the deck as the Javelin’s keel cut the clouds.

“Seaman,” I said, drawing out the word as I rubbed my eyes. “How in the bloody hell did you manage this? We’re in flight.”

Seaman Evan Riley frowned, giving the ragged cut along his forearm a bitter glare. It was a touch sharper than the look he spared me. I’d grown used to it, but it still made my hackles rise. The man was taller than most, broad-shouldered with a clean-cut look and a square jaw that made him the sort the Royal Navy favored.

He also had the sense to rein in whatever it was about me that bothered him. Probably because I was a doctor who had access to plenty of sharp knives.

“Ma’am,” he replied, tamping down his irritation. “Found one of the main gears the hard way. I was inspecting the foresail when I tripped and fell into an open gearbox for the canopy. Someone hadn’t stowed the rigging properly.”

I swapped a quick look with my assistant, Surgeon’s Mate Blake McLaren. Recently of the Glasgow Royal Infirmary, he was a red-headed firebrand with a notion that rules existed for interpretation. But he was as bad a stickler as I was for keeping things stored in their proper place.

“I’ll get the purified vinegar,” Blake said, turning toward the cabinets.

“Thank you,” I replied, then grabbed some cotton and a small bottle of water to wash the wound.

It only took a moment to wash the blood from the wound, leaving an ugly, jagged tear. Most likely not the last Seaman Riley would see in his career. Blake handed me cotton, and I dabbed at the wound. Riley hissed low in his throat as I cleaned the cut, as the sharp scent of red wine vinegar sliced the air.

“Yes, it’ll sting,” I said dryly. “Might make a nasty scar that won’t have a good story to go with it. I’ll see what I can do about making it less obvious—provided you keep still.”

“No stranger to being stitched up, ma’am,” Riley replied, gripping the chair. “Ready when you are.”

I arched an eyebrow at him while Blake grinned.

“Never said anything about stitches,” I replied.

“Er… I don’t follow,” Riley said, worry dusting his words.

Blake quickly strapped the sailor’s limb to the arm of the chair with a stained leather strap. It didn’t improve Riley’s nerves.

“What…?” he sputtered.

Blake patted the man firmly on the shoulders, then stood on the opposite side of the patient from me.

“It’ll keep you from twitching,” he explained in his usual Scottish burr. “The less you twitch, the easier it is for Doctor Thorne to work on your wound.”

Riley’s eyes cut between Blake and myself.

“But it’s just a cut,” Riley protested.

I shook my head a little.

“It’s a deep gash that could turn sour, costing you the arm. Now be quiet and let me hear your blood.”

“Hear my… what?” Riley’s voice rose a half-octave.

Blake grinned—my assistant had a wicked sense of humor. I swore he loved this part most when people had to face my Gift in action. That particular shock and surprise wasn’t the highlight of my day, but I lived with it.

“Your blood. My Gift,” I said. “Now, be still.”

Slowly, I passed a hand over the jagged tear in his flesh. The blood stirred beneath my touch—restless, disobedient, and far too eager to run. It threatened to well up and trail over Riley’s arm at any moment. I wasn’t in a mood to let it.

My Gift stirred with a thought. The seaman’s blood sang back in reply—a soft melody, reminding me of an old, half-remembered sea shanty. I softly hummed along, the wooden creak of the Javelin’s hull in the background, as I brushed my fingertips over the wound, gentle as a spring breeze.

Gifts were new, having only appeared three years ago, if the Admiralty’s ledgers could be trusted. They weren’t common, and mine was rarer than most. A Bloodsinger.

Some claimed it was a curse, others a boon; a few called it dark witchcraft. I had enough problems in my life to borrow the baggage of those labels, so I simply tried to ignore them. Besides, it wasn’t like I asked to be Gifted in the first place.

Riley’s blood welled up under my fingers, rippling like the tide.

“Ah,” Riley hissed, face bunched from pain and no small amount of disgust.

“Shush,” I ordered.

His sputtering didn’t surprise me—most reacted that way. But I kept on, humming with the blood’s song, giving it weight and power. In reply, the blood neatly pulled the wound closed inches at a time.

As it did, Blake crouched down, using a cotton rag to catch the stray blood that inevitably leaked out. When done, it took nearly a minute, but I felt like I’d run a mile by the time I sat back, drawing a long breath.

“Done,” I said with a tight nod. “Not quite good as new, but you won’t lose the arm. Also, you’ll barely have a scar.”

Seaman Riley frowned at his arm as Blake unstrapped him. Once liberated, Riley slowly flexed his arm, testing the motion. The faint scar looked red and raw—after all, the body isn’t pretty when it heals. But the seaman’s wound now looked like a cut that had been healing nicely for weeks.

Blake appeared then with an ample supply of bandages and another grin.

“Unless you like pain, or want to attract the wrong kind of faeries, let’s bandage you up to get you on your way.”

Riley frowned harder, eyes still on his arm. He looked confused, surprised, and a little concerned. The first two made sense; while the last was the boil I wanted to lance. My chair groaned as I sat back, taking another long breath—bloodsinging was a bit draining—but also to set my line of approach.

“So, out with it.” I said, tugging at the front of my officer’s waistcoat. Royal Navy officers who roamed the seas below had to wear blue frock coats. We in the Aetheric Dirigible Corp were a bit more scaled-down for efficiency. “Still embarrassed over having slipped? Unnerved by the bloodsinging?” I paused before I ventured the last one. “Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m a woman officer, a surgeon, aboard a Royal Navy vessel?”

The tall seaman went a little wide-eyed as if he’d taken a hit to the gut. He pursed his lips, color fleeing his cheeks a little as he looked anywhere but at my face. Almost as if he desperately wanted an escape hatch to dive through.

“Well… I… er…” he stammered, then his words tripped over themselves onto the floor. “Begging your pardon, Doctor… ma’am. Women officers are fine, just a woman surgeon is a bit uncommon.” He blinked, face a concerned mask. “Much less one with a Gift like that—with the blood, I mean.”

I’d like to say I was surprised. The Gifted were highly prized, but carefully watched. The Royal Navy couldn’t care a whit if a Gifted was a man or a woman, only what they could do. Still, old dated stigmas in the Royal Navy ran deep.

Riley fidgeted in his seat when the silence stretched too long, but he had the discipline to wait until dismissed. I inclined my head, offering a thin smile.

“It’s quite all right, Seaman. My Gift’s a bit disturbing, but it’s all part of why the crew calls me ‘Banshee’ when I’m not looking, eh?”

Riley winced, while Blake coughed, covering a grin. Blake was the one who’d told me about the nickname. Obviously, Riley had heard it before.

“Yes… ma’am,” the big man replied, sounding a bit lost for what to say. “I doubt anything bad was meant by it…” his words stumbled to a confounded stop.

“Seaman Riley,” I said, sitting forward slightly with a smile. “It’s fine. We all serve at His Majesty’s pleasure in the Royal Navy—each to our own abilities. Just remember, while Captain Vane holds sway across the Javelin, this medical bay is my domain. You can trust that no matter what, I do everything in my power to keep my patients safe. Something to think about while you let that arm finish healing up.” I indicated the door with a nod. “Dismissed, Seaman.”

“Aye, Doctor.”

The man gave me a hasty salute, which I returned, before he scrambled out of the medical bay like all hell was hunting him. With Riley well and gone, Blake stopped hiding his grin behind a cough. I tossed a brittle look at him, then went about cleaning the chair and medical bay.

“Yes, I know, I could’ve been less barbed about that,” I said sourly.

Blake nodded thoughtfully, collecting the last bloody rags to wash.

“Oh, maybe a wee bit,” he replied airily. “You didn’t quite hit him like a hammer, but the man did leave sporting a few new bruises around the ego.”

I stopped scrubbing an errant bloodstain on the floor. It was Riley’s, so I heard the lingering refrains of the old sea shanty. Truth was, the blood was already in the cloth, so all I was doing was working on the wood out of frustration. The sway of the ship smoothed off a few rough edges of my nerves. I felt a soft rumble as the Javelin’s ballasts shifted to bring us to a drift.

Finally, I surrendered my wool-gathering with a sigh.

“You’re right; he didn’t deserve all of that. I’ll speak with him later. It’s just—” I sat back on my boot heels, pinching the bridge of my nose, “—confound it, Blake! I’ve heard the talk saying I’m a walking curse. I thought maybe taking a stand, one crew member at a time, would nip it in the bud.”

Blake set down his rag, turning to lean back against one of the tiny counters. Quietly, he folded his arms, staring at the stained wooden bulkhead across from him.

“That makes a bit of sense,” he said after a moment’s thought. “But would it work?” He shrugged. “Not sure. It’s an uphill climb against superstition, Doctor. You stumbled out half-alive and bleeding from the wreck of an Aetheric Dirigible. Then led the rescuers to anyone still breathing by singing to the dying among the wreckage—saying their blood called you.”

I stood up, tossing my spent rag into a nearby bucket.

“It’s when my Gift appeared. I can’t help how it took hold,” I muttered bitterly, putting my hands on my hips. “At least it kept those bloody resurrectionists at bay when they came hunting the dead and dying as the squall passed.”

Blake shook his head. “Oh, no doubt. You stumbling about covered in blood—and singing—sent them for the hills.”

“None of that means I’m cursed,” I complained.

A mischievous grin brushed his face. “That depends, Doctor. Those resurrectionists thought it bad luck you kept them from stealing any gold teeth!”

I would’ve replied, but the words caught in my chest. A hum trembled under my skin. Slow and quiet, it was a mournful song—lonely and wanting words it’d long forgotten.

“Blake,” I breathed, staring at nothing, “there’s trouble—”

“What?” Blake asked, narrowing his eyes.

Muffled shouts from on deck chased a tawny-haired Junior Petty Officer into view—Miles “Lifter” Perkins. He collided breathlessly against the doorway.

“Doctor Thorne! Mr. McLaren! The fishing town! There’s a problem…”

“Slow down, Mr. Perkins. Take a breath. What’s the trouble?” I asked, reaching for my stained, russet satchel.

“Water leapers hit the village. Several hurt,” the petty officer panted. “Captain’s taking a group ashore, and called for you both on deck.”

I blinked. “Leapers? You mean water leapers?”

Water leapers, or Llamhigyn y Dŵr, were nasty beasts. Giant frog-like nightmares with bat wings, they ambushed the unwary in packs, looking for a quick, juicy meal. Many a fisherman had gone missing to their appetite over the generations—especially since 1815.

The young man bobbed his head vigorously. “Aye, Doctor, I know.”

Blake’s scowl turned thunderous.

“Boil your head, Lifter, you can’t be serious. Here? In Scotland, on the coast? They’re Welsh freshwater problem.”

Lifter shook his head, raising a hand to hold off another outburst.

“Tell those Llamhigyn y Dŵr that. Lookout spotted five of the things leaping over the Portlethen Bay docks. Nearly took a man’s arm off.”

“Five?” I slipped on my satchel. “We’ll figure the why later. Get moving!”

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

As for me, if you’re looking for more of what I write, take a look at Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works. Please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more. Subscribers also get behind the scenes videos, chat and even a chance to help me with some advanced reading of books before they go to print!

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Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

Just for a brief moment, close your eyes.

Feel that brisk chill in the air? A spray of water from the sea, before you rise up to touch the clouds. There’s the sound of waxed canvas creaking as the gas envelope fills to the brim. A pop as the wind catches the sails, pulling the ship forward. Wood creaking in the deck beneath your feet.

You’re moving—no, sailing—between cloudbanks as if charting a course to new undiscovered countries…

Only to hear a peal of thunder, feel a blast of smoke, realizing it may be pirates, or much, much worse—if you’re lucky.

These are the logs of the hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin. First of her class, she sets sail along the skies to help the infirm, sick, and giving aid to those in need.

Where the Blood Calls

Click for the Table of Contents

Blood Might Be Thicker Than Water, But Her Past Could Drown Them All

On the maiden flight of the Aetheric Dirigible, HMS Dawn Javelin, the crew responds to a cry for help from a Scottish fishing village.

Little did they know it wasn’t a simple mission of mercy.

As the Javelin’s captain and landing party are trapped in the village below, Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne faces a dire challenge in the sky. A tragedy from her past rises from the clouds to threaten ship and crew, testing loyalties, honor, and ingenuity.

In the end, it wasn’t a rescue—but a reckoning.

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Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Monday…

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. A meeting in the back office of Moonlight Curiosities, turns over a tempting business proposal. For a modest sum, Daniel and Cassidy would track down any and all information on a set of antique fountain pens. Ones that had belonged to Valeria Moffet—the bloodleech that tried to murder them. After some conversation, the couple warily agrees. Not so much that they want to, but they need to, given the damages to the shop they have to repair. Now all that remains is to dig in to uncover the history behind the antiques but also find two that have been missing for decades.

November 6, 2024. Our apartment above Moonlight Curiosities. Nothing says pie like a little skullduggery…

Dorian’s two-week deadline gave us plenty of motivation, so we dove into the research with a vengeance.

It was four days of clawing through half-forgotten library records, sketchy auction listings, and old estate sales. I wasn’t sure about Cassidy, but I’d read enough fountain pen collector forums to make my eyes cross.

Every time we thought we had a lead, it turned out to be a dead end. It felt like chasing smoke in a dark room. But for every four of those false leads, we’d get one hint of a real one.

Also, there was pie. A lot of pie. Maybe a couple of casseroles, too, but I lost those among the pie.

The soft reopening of Moonlight Curiosities brought a parade of well-meaning neighbors offering sympathy. Every one of them came armed with well-wishes served with a side of casserole. If it wasn’t casserole, it was enough pecans or other pies to build a sugar-powered shrine.

I was caught a little by surprise, but Cassidy handled it in stride.

“It’s fine,” she explained midway through the multi-day meal parade. “Gloamstead handles tragedy like any other small Southern town. You know, feed the survivors, smile politely, and—in our case—don’t get too nosy about the boarded up, scorched front window of our shop.”

I quickly caught on that a little nosy was still fine. After all, town gossip needed its own tender loving care. In any case, by the fourth day into it all, we’d turned it into the world’s oddest taste test.

“This one’s definitely squash,” Cassidy said around a bite, handing me a bowl. “That, or possibly revenge.”

I took it, eyeing the golden crust on top with suspicion. “Squash casserole is revenge?”

Cassidy gestured at the innocent casserole nestled in the white ceramic dish.

“If you grow more than you can store, add a lot of pepper, or both, it is,” she replied, before taking another bite.

I wasn’t entirely convinced, but tried my own bite anyway. At least I didn’t get ambushed by pepper.

“Mrs. Adelyne really didn’t have to do this,” I said between bites.

“Oh, yes, she did,” my wife said with a wry look. “Southern hospitality comes with a body count in the gossip circles.”

I snorted out a laugh, then ate more of the squash casserole.

“Did you get a chance to talk to Maggie Winsom about the pens?” I asked.

Cassidy nodded, pulling her laptop across the kitchen table while we ate. We’d closed the shop for the night, so she’d shed her human disguise for her natural skinshaper human-bat shape. It was her way of ‘letting her hair down’ to unwind. She sighed, combing fingers through her hair and dark fur, before giving a slow stretch of her arm wings.

“I did. Maggie said she had sold one online, but it wasn’t a Waterman. Just a 1942 Parker pen,” Cassidy said. “Looked similar though. Mrs. Adelyne’s story was better. She’s convinced her leaking pen is haunted.”

I nearly coughed on a piece of pecan pie.

“What?” I stammered, wiping my mouth.

“Haunted.” Cassidy grinned. “Not the right pen, but I almost thought it was. Her pen doesn’t have the weird amber lacework.”

Her claws raced over the keyboard.

“But other than that, I found something this morning while you were opening the shop,” she added.

I leaned over her shoulder to see her screen.

“Turtles?” I blinked.

Fur along her cheeks ruffled from a faint flush as she slammed the browser tab shut in a second—she clicked open another one.

“No, those were tortoises. Totally different.” She squeaked then pursed her lips. “Tortoiseshell pens got me thinking about tortoises. I got distracted.”

“You also like tortoises,” I teased.

“Yes, I do. Shut up. You know I do,” she admitted gently, even more embarrassed.

I held up my hands in defense. “Just kidding, honey. I get it. It was like me and ‘how did people make ink in 1722’ rabbit hole.”

“Exactly,” she replied, flicking her ear at me with a sheepish smile. “Anyway, like I said, I think I found our first real lead.”

She tapped the screen, giving me a proud, determined expression.

“Over the last hundred years, pens matching that Waterman pen Dorian dropped off have popped up in estate sales and other places.” She showed me a list of historical auctions. “Mostly in the Northeast. They show up, then vanish. Then a set of four—with one that looks like a perfect match for Dorian’s pen—gets purchased by a bookkeeper named Henry Vanil. He lived in Sleepy Hollow, New York.”

I blinked, setting down my serving of squash casserole before I pulled up a chair next to her.

“Wait. Sleepy Hollow?” I asked incredulously. “The Sleepy Hollow? Headless Horseman Sleepy Hollow?”

“Not making that up,” Cassidy replied with a fanged grin. It was hard to miss the delighted glint in her eyes.

“Was he Ichabod’s cousin?” I joked, grinning back. “Maybe a pen pal?”

“Didn’t say, but wouldn’t that be fun?” She tapped the screen. “It just says he lived there in the nineteenth century and had a thing about wanting to collect these pens.”

Cassidy tapped the keyboard again, pulling up a historical records site. It looked like it belonged to a library in Sleepy Hollow, New York.

“Then… he abruptly died.” Slowly, the amusement drained from her face.

A few clicks later, she dredged up scanned copies of a time-yellowed death notice. There wasn’t any mention of a headless horseman or burning pumpkins—just the date of October 12, 1919, and the method of death.

“Wait, Cassie. Hold on. It says they found his body withered, with his mouth and fingertips stained black?” I said slowly, raising my eyebrows. “That’s how he died?”

The words sat in my stomach like ice water.

“Murder ink,” she quipped morbidly.

The air felt like it chilled two degrees. Even the shadows at the corner of the room seemed a touch longer. Silently, we stared at the laptop for a long, uncomfortable moment, until neither of us could stand the silence.

“Dan, I really don’t like how close ‘withering’ and ‘black mouth’ are to ‘murdered gleefully by a supernatural thing’,” Cassidy said at last, voice thin. “Sure, I’m a skinshaper, but there are a lot of really nasty things out there.”

I reached for her furry hand out of reflex, caressing her fingers.

“Maybe he just chewed on ink sticks?”

Sure, that was unlikely. But it felt safer than the alternative.

Cassidy gave me a pained look, eyebrows bunched.

“Oh sure. Maybe he also died of chronic writer’s cramp.” Then she added with a small, worried look at the screen. “Are you sure we need this work? Supernatural shenanigans aside, do we really?”

I knew that hollow-eyed look, and right where her thoughts were headed. Even her voice held that same thin edge when we were being treated by the paramedics outside the Briarwood murder mansion. Before she retreated into that memory, I lightly kissed the knuckles of her hand, trying to interrupt her train of thought.

“We do,” I sighed. “The front window,” I reminded her solemnly. “All the remodeling we’d planned on to make this place work, so I don’t have to go crawling back to my former toxic tech job.”

Cassidy gave me a wan smile, before sliding a hand along the side of her face and snout.

“I really hate your old job. So. Right.” Her words came out soft, but serious. “We got this.”

“So, where did the pens go after Vanil?” I prompted.

Cassidy pulled up the shared document we’d filled with notes, website links, and more. Scrolling down, she tapped the screen lightly with a stubby claw.

“Yeah, and sorry, love, no trip to Sleepy Hollow. The pens vanish for decades,” she explained. “But then, two pens resurfaced in Gloamstead, 1977, which matches what Dorian told us. They were part of an estate sale for a Professor Martin Altamont.”

On the screen, Cassidy brought up an old black-and-white photo of a balding, mustached physics professor. He had that look of everyone’s favorite, happy uncle. The one who told the best jokes.

“So, who bought them from the estate?” I leaned forward a little toward the laptop. “Any idea?”

Cassidy’s claws ticked out a quick pattern against the table while she scrolled through the shared document.

“I found that,” she murmured. “It was here yesterday. Oh! There. This lady. She was a local collector who purchased them. Records got hazy, but I saw her name come up more than once.”

She stopped on a small entry in our document about a Meredith Rawls. I squinted a little as my mouth went dry.

“Wait. I know that name. She’s a friend of my uncle’s,” I explained in surprise. “I remember her from when I was a kid. She’d always have a box of old antiques with her for my uncle when I saw her.”

Cassidy’s smile faded in favor of a thoughtful nod.

“Sounds like she was your uncle’s antique ‘picker’,” she said. “Daniel, if that’s the same Meredith Rawls, she’s our best real shot at the pens. Not to mention any local history.”

“My uncle did have a Meredith that worked as an antique picker. She’s in one of the photos with him in the office.”

We found Meredith’s obituary online a few minutes later. Neither one of us spoke. We just read, and were a little too unnerved to talk at first.

“So, it was her,” I said softly, knocking the silence aside. “Died last year. Her memorial service was at Gloamstead United. I think I remember a little bit about this. No one wanted to talk about it. Closed casket. All anyone would say was ‘it happened very suddenly’. No one talks about how. Won’t even gossip about it.”

Cassidy turned to me, lightly running a hand softly along my back.

“Everyone who gets these pens dies in a really bad way,” she said, eyes filled to the brim with concern.

The comment hung in the air between us. Thanks to Dorian, we had one of those murder pens here in our shop.

“Everyone but Dorian,” I added in a brittle tone. “He didn’t even blink when he handed it to us. Which isn’t surprising since, well, Dorian’s a,” I waved a hand a little, “you know.”

“A bloodleech,” she replied. “Who’ll think it’s just fun that all the previous owners died horribly.”

Cassidy’s frown deepened.

“Now I wonder how many other cursed things he’s handled without batting an eye.”

“We need better clients,” I moaned slightly, putting my head in my hands.

Cassidy leaned over, touching her forehead against me a moment. I gave her hand a squeeze, relishing in the feeling of the velvety fur there.

“So,” I sighed. “It might help to know how Meredith died. But you know? We might have been sitting on the answers all along.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, squinting at me.

“If Meredith was an antique picker for my uncle, the pen or pens might have gone through here. This shop.” I explained. “My uncle kept alarmingly detailed records. If Meredith brought the pens to him, he’d have a record of it. Not to mention, he’d have some notes about the history of the pens.”

Cassidy sat up straight, wide-eyed.

“If not, surely Meredith Rawls kept her own records. Just to keep up with your uncle.”

“So, we just need to search my uncle’s old records from what? Forty-seven years ago?” I said with a thoughtful, mild frown into the middle distance. “Those won’t be in the shop’s digital records. It’ll be in the store-all. My uncle didn’t digitize records that far back. Said it wasn’t worth it.”

She clasped my upper arm gently with her hands, snout wide with a toothy grin.

“Yes! If that doesn’t pan out, we can dive into Meredith’s records. She died a year ago. Those have to still be stuck somewhere. People here in Gloamstead stash stuff for decades.”

“There’s one other bright side,” I told her with a grin. “We also have an amazing amount of suspicious squash casserole to buffer us against imminent, and gruesome, death.”

Cassidy broke down into a wheezing laugh, shattering the tension like cracked glass.

“Daniel. I love you so much,” Cassidy said, hugging me fiercely. “Seriously, if I die of suspicious causes, I’m haunting you until you die of vitamin A toxicity.”

Suddenly, I had a vision of the world’s most judgmental ghost haunting me with a casserole dish.

I raised my nearby portion of the squash casserole in a toast.

“I love you, too, Cassie. So, to loving spouses, weaponizing beta carotene, and dumpster diving into dusty antique shop records.”

“Maybe with less death?” Cassidy suggested.

“Maybe that, too,” I agreed.

For more about Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, Windtracer Tales, Legends of the Privateers, or any of my other works, please consider subscribing as I would really appreciate the support, sometimes I post behind the scenes on writing, worldbuilding and more.

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Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. To be honest, it’s a bit creepy, if not spooky, when is isn’t beside itself with nerves. It tends to be a little shy. Did I mention it likes to needlepoint because there’s lots of stabbing? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Which means, really, he gets all the blame.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, undead, or why-aren’t-they-dead-YET is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot. Like daily.

Each installment will be released each week on Wednesdays!

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Previously: With the crisis at the Council building done, Tela setting down for a little peace and quiet. Something that lasted only as long as her patience allowed, and a summons from the chancellor of the Council of Seven. A long walk confirmed Tela’s worst fears, she was both heralded as a hero—and a kingdom-breaker—in equal amounts for her role in what happened. Neither a a title or position she wanted. But the discussion was brief, settling debts and scores leaving Tela one last task to handle involving the ancient Iraxi crystals…

Medilus 16, 1278: Port Side District. City of Ishnanor. Setting something right that was so very wrong…

The long ride from Arth Prayogar to Ishnanor was like a long exhale of breath I didn’t know I held. It was close enough to relief that I felt it counted.

A gray dawn kept me company as I walked out of Ishnanor’s Port Side along the shores of Embercrest Bay. Waves lapped at the yellow-white sands, steaming with sea foam and a haze from the newborn sunrise. The humid air was rich with the whisper of old rain. Amber-gold pinpricks of lantern bugs fizzed in the cypress underbrush, while a marsh squirrel squawked from a branch overhead.

Really, it was just another morning in Ishnanor. Shame I was about to do something pretty stupid to rattle it.

I’d sent word to Skarri where to meet me—a fallen log next to a narrow tidal pool, one hundred Ancient Order meters outside the city. That felt far enough away that no one, myself excluded, risked getting hurt.

She smiled and waved as I walked up, worry creasing the scales around her eyes. That was nothing compared to the person standing next to her. Kiyosi was the portrait of pained concern. My best friend stood with his arms folded, blue-skinned tail slapping an irritated tune against the feather-leaf ferns behind him.

They made a great set of bookends for the topic of ‘things Tela shouldn’t do with ancient relics’.

“I wish you had let me weave a few spell threads to try to crack the crystals open,” he said. “It wouldn’t have taken even an hour to check.”

“How about no,” I deadpanned, rummaging in my shoulder bag for the crystals in question. “Last you told me, no one knows how to really make portals. At least ones that didn’t cut people in half.”

Kiyosi’s face went through four kinds of frustrated before he replied. “There’s jumping out of windows, Tela, then there’s this. It was barely a year ago you nearly killed yourself stabbing a lich with a mind magic storm.”

I pulled the crystals out of my bag, waving them at him.

“This won’t be a mind magic storm,” I snapped. “… probably.”

Kiyosi threw his hands in the air with a wordless grumble, then paced around the log.

Resting on the log, Skarri tugged at her forest-green tunic, war-kilt pleats fanned out below her waist. Slowly, she’d dug a nervous furrow in the sand with the end of her tail. Silent through my argument with Kiyosi, her inner commentary staged a rebellion the moment he started pacing.

“Tela? I want the crystals made harmless as bad as anyone. But…” A sigh escaped in a low hiss. “… you make terrifying tactical choices.” Skarri shook her head as a flush darkened her scales. “I know your improvised plans usually work, but… this time… just how are you planning to do this?”

I drew a long breath. She had a good point. Old me would’ve been angry at the comment about my plans, but I wasn’t old me. They were worried. We’d seen what these elemental-filled crystals could do—which were memories that were going to gleefully haunt me for some time. I knew they didn’t want me to get hurt, and if my guess was wrong? I’d get hurt really badly.

But we needed to take the risk. Idly, I jiggled the crystals in my right hand, making them clink.

“I know this’ll be a shock, but I did think this through. It’s still risky, but this isn’t one of my ‘make it up as I go’ ideas.” I stopped rattling the crystals like dice, clenching them in a fist. “Instead of cracking the crystals—which I don’t think would work—my idea is to draw the elemental out using mind magic threads. Channel them in the way the bracer did, I think.”

Skarri squinted as Kiyosi stopped pacing.

In all fairness, I had left out some of the ‘what ifs’ of my idea.

My threads could fray trying this, or the elemental inside might not see, or care, about what I’m doing. Of course, the fire elemental might care a lot, then try to possess me by following those threads right back into my head.

Still, I’d explained the important part.

“That’s,” Kiyosi paused, nodded thoughtfully, “actually an interesting idea.” He glanced over at me, arching an eyebrow. “It gives the fire elementals a path out that isn’t through you.”

“Thank you!” I replied with a little sass under my words. “I may not practice like I’m supposed to, but I have been paying attention.“

Skarri pursed her lips, eyes tight. “What she catches fire? That’s raw elemental power.”

Kiyosi nodded, staring at the middle distance. “Then you yank her back as I weave some healing salve. It’s not perfect, but it’ll help. Still, using mind magic is a really clever approach… provided you don’t catch fire.”

I raised my eyebrows with a thin smile.

“These are fire elementals. So I’m betting it’ll get as hot as an open oven when I start.” I waved a hand at the water in the bay. “Which is why I pulled a favor or three to send word to a friend who can help.”

Kiyosi frowned at the bay, curious. Skarri simply smiled.

“Oh. That’s why we’re all the way out here,” she said.

I winked at her. “Exactly.”

Moments later, Azure’sella drew up out of the emerald-blue water, then walked to shore. As she did, the robe of jellyfish-like material she wore melted into a modest sky-blue tunic and black trousers. Water cascaded from her cobalt hair, running off her and into the water at her feet. By the time the water elemental reached shore, her long hair and magic-spun clothes were dry.

“Saint’s quiet tides, Tela,” Azure signed to me, smiling brightly.

I grinned, signing back. “Saint’s quiet tides, Azure’sella.”

“Azure is fine,” she replied, cheeks flushing a darker blue. “I was surprised when I got your message.” Her smile faded to a frown, concern flickering over her sea-green eyes. “It mentioned the Bargain, and that you needed help. You haven’t been bound, have you?”

Kiyosi and Skarri exchanged a glance that landed between confused and concerned. I shook my head for everyone’s benefit. Then replied to Azure with sign language, but also aloud for the others.

“No, thank the Lady Deep. I’m not trapped in some mystic Bargain; it’s nothing like that.” I paused, hands caught in mid-sign. “It’s the Iraxi. The crystals can’t be broken, but I’ve an idea how to make them harmless—free the trapped fire elementals.”

Azure stiffened.

“I’m not saying don’t do it, but they’ve been there for centuries. Even elementals feel the pain and passage of time,” she quickly signed. “Are you sure about this?”

After a deep breath, I repeated what Azure said to Kiyosi and Skarri.

“She has a point,” Skarri replied, pushing upright off the log. “Could you…” she hesitated, glancing between Azure and myself. “She can understand us?”

I nodded. “Mostly. Signing is more natural for her. Her name is Azure’sella, or just Azure.”

Skarri inclined her head in thanks, then faced the water elemental and bowed.

“Azure’sella, it’s a valid worry. Tela makes,” she slid a brief look at me, lips slightly curled, “interesting tactical choices.”

Kiyosi snorted softly, while Azure’s grin returned. I lightly rolled my eyes, then gave them all a deadpan look. There’s nothing like close friends to keep you honest. Skarri ignored me and pushed on.

“But that’s why Kiyosi and I are here,” she explained, gesturing at Kiyosi. “He’s a very skilled spellcaster. I’m a warrior. Between the two of us, we could hold off a fire elemental for a short time if we have to.”

Azure listened silently, then signed back as I translated.

“That would make sense. What’s my part?”

“Keep me from catching fire,” I replied. “Also? I’m hoping that when the fire elementals are free, seeing you will keep them from going on a murder spree.”

“I’m a water elemental,” Azure replied dubiously. “They’re fire. It isn’t like they’re a part of my water-clan.”

“Yes, but we look way too much like people who put them in there,” I countered. “You don’t.”

“Fair point,” she replied.

“So when—and how—do we start?” Kiyosi asked, looking at the rest of us.

I held up one of the crystals in question, gesturing with it at the shoreline.

“Easy. I kneel down, pull mind magic threads while you three get ready to grab me, the fire elemental, maybe both.” I grinned at them. “Let’s free some elementals.”

The first part was easy. I knelt down in the sand, then pinched the air in front of my forehead. Like always, I felt that warm push behind my eyes a second before silvery-blue threads trailed off my fingers. Quickly, I wrapped the glowing threads around the pulsing red crystal, like winding thread around a spool, leaving a long trail for me to pull. What I’d wrapped around the crystal sank like melted butter into bread.

“Is it supposed to do that?” Skarri asked, looking over my shoulder.

“Maybe?” I replied. “First time jail-breaking a fire elemental.”

A bright orange light flared from the crystal in my hand. Heat followed a second later. Shoving the stone partway into the sand, I slowly pulled at the silver threads. Fire sparked as the magic threads slid out of the crystal. Sparks turned into tiny gouts of flame before tendrils of molten fire spilled in all directions. It was like what happened with Marius’ lich crystal, only with primal fire—I wasn’t sure which was worse.

But in the end, my idea worked.

While I pulled the threads, the air turned savagely hot. My lungs burned as if they were on fire, but I wiped sweat off my face and kept at it. Time warped like white-hot metal, steam rising as if I were being cooked alive. Maybe I was. I couldn’t tell. In that soup of moments, I felt Azure summon water to keep me cool. Kiyosi wove his own spells to heal me, or draw off as much excess light and heat as he could.

One crystal was swapped for another. I wondered idly, hands and body trembling, if this was how I would die. Maybe so, but roasting alive while freeing two victims from a crystal prison felt worth it.

Finally, I toppled over as both fire elementals took form on the shore. It was a man and a woman. They were tall and human-looking, with sun-yellow hair and broad-shoulders. Both had skin like polished brass and deep orange eyes. Most importantly, they didn’t go on a rampage. If anything, they looked overcome with emotion, eyes filled with an ancient relief as they looked around.

I noticed a tendril of gravedust snake out of my bag while the others dove to haul my battered body out of the sand. It was the gray, powdery mist from the third crystal with the lich spirit inside. I might have been beaten to hell, but I still managed a glare that stopped the tendril cold.

“Not. Now,” I rasped, throat raw.

The gritty tendril recoiled like a snake, hissing before it vanished back into my bag and the third crystal. I would’ve warned the others, but that was when I passed out.

Minutes mixed with hours until time turned into gravy. I woke later—hours, maybe—with Kiyosi arguing nearby with someone about whether I was allowed to walk. Once I got my wits back, I cleaned up, slipping on a fresh blue linen shirt and brown trousers, both soot and blood-free. Boots on, I grabbed my bag, limping out of the Windtracer Company compound before anyone could stop me.

Naturally, I was caught less than an hour later at the Saltwind Tea House, overlooking the bay. Atha walked up with a huge grin on his face as I sat down, dropping my journal next to a cup of tea.

“There hyu are,” he chuckled. “Healer will be so happy. Hyu haven’t gone out to kick over any new kingdoms.”

I shot him a glare; he ignored it. Atha pulled over a chair and sat across from me.

“Ki worries too much. I didn’t burn alive.” I held out an arm, showing off my bronze-dark skin, dotted with bruises. “See? Nothing melted. I’ll be fine.”

Atha chuckled again as a server dropped off a large cup of tea, placing it in front of the minotaur.

“Jasmine?” I asked.

He nodded, sipping with a look of contentment.

I watched him for a moment, then shook my head. “So, Ki’s staying here. Mikasi and Skarri are here for a few days, then off to Banye. What about you?”

Atha gently set down the cup, staring off across the bay.

“Probably collect my brothers, then head to the northern lands. See if aunt has found new laws to break.” He shrugged. “It’s too quiet here… too boring.”

“Too boring?” I snorted. “Liar. You make out like a bandit, but I’m pretty sure I know better. You’re going to find something to fix or someone to help.”

The minotaur’s deep laugh rattled nearby windows.

“Maybe so,” he said with a wink. “Don’t spread it around. What about hyu?”

I sipped my own tea, then shrugged.

“Rest. Recover. Study the Iraxi bracers and spent crystals.” I tapped my journal with a finger. “You know, the more I uncover about the Ancient Order… it feels like the less I know.”

Out in the bay, water churned like a geyser. Fishermen in small boats frantically paddled, did anything to get away, as a certain threadmarrow basilisk broke the surface with a series of playful burbles. The fishermen cut loose with a torrent of curses, but a pack of local kids dove into the water. Both kids and basilisk were delighted. The fishermen, not so much. Atha and I laughed.

“Also, I need to figure out what to do about him,” I said.

Atha shrugged, finishing his tea. “Looks like he already figure it out. But I should go, and hyu have Windtracer things to do.”

I tapped my journal again, nodding. “Good journey, Atha.”

“Until we meet again, Windtracer,” he grinned.

I was quiet for a long time after Atha left, remembering Arth Prayogar, Deepland Hollows, even the odd things with that lich-possessed crystal I carried. Then there was Rima Nimad. I had a feeling she wasn’t gone, but was out there waiting.

Quietly, I pulled open my journal to collect my thoughts. After another sip of tea, I dug out a pencil from my bag, turned to a blank page, and wrote.

“Basysus 12, 1278: City of Osidore, Belari Trade Alliance. River Junction Inn. Where I had something like a plan.”

“It really was a great plan.”

Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. For everyone that is reading Windtracer Tales: Kingdom of the Slithering Maze, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. I hope you enjoyed the ride every step of the way. This story is dedicated to each and every one of you.

But!

Make no mistake…

Tela Kioni WILL return in

Windtracer Tales: Blood from a Stone

Curious about what came before? Book 1 of the Windtracer Tales is out for eBook, paperback, hardback, and audiobook! Click here to learn more!

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Windtracer Tales is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In fact, it considers itself rather fancy and quite proud of itself. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Also! Windtracer Tales and Windtracer: Adventures in Awldor is written with much respect to Starfarertheta and their work on the other half of Awldor.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Monday…

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Previously. With the bloodleech destroyed, Daniel and Cassidy took a well-earned collapse. It wasn’t the ‘day after getting married’ they expected, but it was far less terrifying than their wedding day. But life decided to spice things up a bit with a visit from another bloodleech. Only this one was less set on murder, but a little monetary mayhem wasn’t quite off the table. One Dorian Callix arrived with a business proposal, one that might help Daniel and Cassidy get the shop back in order…

November 2, 2024. Back office of Moonlight Curiosities. Making the uncomfortable choice…

The back office still felt like it belonged to my uncle. His space. Not mine—not yet. But at least it wasn’t crowded. Compared to the rest of the shop, it bordered on spartan.

An old, wide wooden desk dominated the western wall. It paired well with a refurbished 19th-century banker’s chair. Shelves held a mix of my books and my uncle’s keepsakes, from pocket watches to small ink paintings, and black-and-white photographs. Some were photos of my uncle with antique ‘pickers’ he’d worked with over the years—mostly locals from around the county. I hadn’t thought about them in years.

Last of all, there were three padded, red canvas chairs that kept the office desk company. Dorian Callix was already seated in one of them, directly across from the desk as Cassidy and I walked in. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, admiring the photographs.

“Moonlight Curiosities,” Dorian said thoughtfully, his New England accent stretching the words. “Good name for an antique shop. Has a nice sound to it. Did it always have that name, or was it a recent change?”

Cassidy and I swapped a wary glance. I took the chair behind the desk while she pulled over one of the canvas chairs to my right.

“My uncle named it when he first opened up shop,” I explained. “After the place passed to me, I didn’t see a need to change it.”

“Too many memories?” Dorian asked casually.

“Something like that.” I clasped my hands in front of me, leaning forward on the desk. “So, you mentioned something about a matter of interest?”

Dorian shifted position in the chair. It let out a muffled squeak in protest.

“That I did, but before we get to business, I’d like to offer my congratulations on your wedding.” A smooth smile brushed his face. “Two days ago now wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Cassidy replied. Her voice carried a quiet promise of violence.

Dorian nodded slowly.

“Shame Valeria interrupted your reception, wedding night and all. The woman had no sense of manners—or propriety.”

Cassidy looked ready to leap across the desk and throttle Dorian. I scowled. The last thing Cassidy and I wanted was fresh reminders.

“She had a lot of problems,” I replied, my words as brittle as dry clay. “Mr. Callix, if you don’t mind…”

He raised a hand idly to interrupt me.

“No, no. It’s Dorian, if you please. No need for formality between the likes of us,” he replied, an all too easy charm sliding easily off each word. “After all, we’ve something of a connection. Like I said outside, I owe you both a favor of getting me free of Valeria’s shadow.” Dorian gestured lightly to us with both hands. “So, I’m looking to repay that debt—if I ever can.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Which means what?” I asked carefully.

Dorian interlaced his fingers in his lap.

“Belated wedding gift,” he explained. “Maybe some help with that honeymoon. I can recommend a few nice places. All out of the way, of course, with no prying human eyes.” Dorian nodded to me. “No offense, mind you.”

I managed a thin smile. “None taken.”

Cassidy cleared her throat, staring holes in Dorian.

“Thank you for the congratulations… Dorian,” she said, her words honeyed poison. “But the other night was a bit trying. If that’s all…?”

“Oh, not in the least,” Dorian replied quickly. “Now, as I said I’ve a business offer I wanted to discuss. One I think you two are perfect for.”

He pursed his lips as if gathering his thoughts, eyes shifting between the two of us.

“As I mentioned, after you two had your little adventure with Valeria the other night, I had to tidy the remains. Best to clean that up before your sheriff got too curious.” He raised his eyebrows at us. “Though, two iron spikes? Really, one would have done in Valeria just fine.”

“We were pretty motivated,” I replied in a clipped tone.

I kept to myself that the second one was less ‘strategy’ and more ‘lethal panic attack’.

Dorian hummed, nodding at the statement.

“I suppose. Well, other than disposing of her remains, such as they were, I needed to take ownership of her things. Most I had burned. Some I had sterilized. But one in her personal safe caught me by surprise. Which is where you both come in.”

He reached into an inner coat pocket, producing a dark-toned beechwood box a good six inches long and two inches deep. The whole thing had been polished enough that the edges and corners had been worn smooth. Dorian set it on the desk, then slid it over to us. I exchanged a curious glance with Cassidy, then accepted the box.

Inside, nestled in faded crimson silk, was a fountain pen that made my pulse jump.

The barrel of it gleamed with the smooth, liquid tone of old, polished tortoiseshell. Swirling amber lines wound through the surface like vines, suggesting movement if you stared at it too long. They caught the light in a way that made them seem to move.

I wanted to lift it up but was a little worried to touch it. Beside me, Cassidy sucked in a sharp breath, staring.

“May I?” I raised an eyebrow at Dorian.

He gestured toward the pen.

“By all means,” he replied casually.

“Pre-1930s Waterman,” I explained with a thoughtful nod. “Classic tortoiseshell cover, but these amber lines aren’t typical Waterman design.”

I turned it over with my fingers. Just holding it made me want to scrub my hands with a rough sponge.

But what I said wasn’t a lie. Those amber lines around the pen shell weren’t typical. They were slightly raised, as if added later. I slowly ran my thumb over them. A dull cold settled in the pit of my stomach. I returned the pen back to the wooden case.

“Certainly vintage,” I told Dorian. “But you didn’t need either of us to figure that out. What’s so special about it?”

Dorian gave me a sly smile.

“It wasn’t alone,” he said. “The original box held four pens, two of which are missing. One is there, the other is with my accountant in New York. He’ll be moving down here later in the week as the rest of my estate arrives.”

I filed that away under future problems. Dorian didn’t seem to notice, or mind, that we didn’t comment on his moving plans.

“Waterman’s you say? Hm.”

Dorian’s face was calm, but I could tell the thought picked at him for some reason. Then he met my eyes again.

“In any case, my accountant assures me the last two of this set are here in Gloamstead. I’d like you to track them down for me.”

“Why us?” Cassidy asked suspiciously.

Dorian’s eyes glinted. “Honestly? Beyond your brief and bloody association with Valeria, I believe you two are best suited for the search.”

“We don’t make a habit of doing favors for murderers,” Cassidy snapped, leaning forward with the hint of a predatory posture.

If Dorian noticed, he didn’t let it show. That is one thing about bloodleeches—when they want to be composed, they’re masters at it.

“Which is why I’m wanting to pay you,” he replied smoothly, idly waving a hand. “As I said, it’s Valeria’s, or was. I can’t imagine why she kept them. She wasn’t, as you might expect, all that interested in this kind of history.”

Cassidy and I exchanged a look.

This was a mess. The kind that had already tried to kill us once. But the idea of passing up the work gnawed at me. I could tell by the tension in Cassidy’s shoulders and her jaw, it ate at her, too.

“Suppose we take the job—”

Dorian held up a hand to interrupt again.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll pay quite handsomely,” he explained. “Signed contract, all above board. Let’s say,” he waved a hand around at the room, “enough to rebuild this lovely little shop of yours to your exact tastes. Also, a bit more beyond that for you both to have a proper time away?”

He leaned forward conspiratorially with a smile so smug it made my shoulders twist into knots.

“Come now, you’re both far too clever to turn this opportunity down.”

I saw Cassidy was as tense as a spring. It was obvious, at least to me, that it took all her restraint not to claw either the desk or Dorian.

“And what happens if we don’t take it?” Cassidy asked uneasily, as if she suspected the answer and didn’t like it.

“I’ve been known to sulk,” Dorian replied with a theatrical sigh. “Which likely means impulse shopping therapy at antique stores… daily.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed.

He leaned forward to place his hands on the desk, interlacing his fingers. Again, he looked like an upscale salesman. At least Valeria had looked dangerous. Dorian was exploring new and inventive twists on exasperating.

“Shall we say, oh, two weeks to track down the missing pens?” He raised his eyebrows. “Possibly longer if needed? It really is quite important to me.”

Cassidy and I sat in silence for a moment, weighing our options in the heavy, almost thick moment. I glanced at Cassidy, face tense, eyebrows knitted tight. She sighed a little back, giving me a slight nod. I raised my eyebrows in reply, then matched Dorians’s serious look with my own.

“Fine,” I said. The word tasted like powdered rust on my tongue.

“Wonderful!” Dorian declared, clapping his hands together in pure delight. I almost flinched. That one word sliced through the tension like a silver-plated knife.

He stood, adjusting his immaculate, probably stain-proofed cuffs before he gestured to the door.

“I’ll be staying here in Gloamstead while making arrangements on property,” he explained in a casual tone. “There’s a charming old home near one of the local cemeteries that has completely carved out my heart. We can meet at your convenience. I’ll give you my number.”

He gave us another gracious smile.

“But don’t worry, I’ll check in here now and again.”

Oh, goody. I wasn’t sure if that was a threat. But he was going to pay us, so I decided it wasn’t.

“Keep the pen,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll need it for your research. Let me know when you’ve got a contract drawn up, and I’ll stop by.”

He placed a business card on the desk with his number. Then, with one last, sweeping small wave, Dorian strolled out of our office. We watched him go, then stared at the pen on the desk nestled in its wooden box.

Cassidy turned toward me, arms crossed, wearing that tight-lipped look she saved for really irritating problems she couldn’t swat.

“Well,” she sighed. “Isn’t that one hell of a wedding gift?”

I put my head on the desk and sighed.

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Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. To be honest, it’s a bit creepy, if not spooky, when is isn’t beside itself with nerves. It tends to be a little shy. Did I mention it likes to needlepoint because there’s lots of stabbing? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Which means, really, he gets all the blame.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, undead, or why-aren’t-they-dead-YET is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot. Like daily.

Each installment will be released each week on Wednesdays!

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Previously: A quick decision and dive into death mist, put Tela on a slight edge. But it nearly cost her—and Garrik—their lives. Despite that, Tela used a risky gamble to bring down Rima’s plans of conquest once and for all. As for the lich, Rima Nimad? She went up in smoke—or did she? No one knows. But as the dust settled, Tela found herself the focus of concerns and questions… so very many questions…

Medilus 8, 1278: Arth Prayogar. Getting not quite what I wanted, but probably what I deserved.

I finally got that hot bath and nap I wanted. But they came at a price—three days at the Lemongrass Inn, more than one bruise rainbow, and a brutal headache. The last got worse every time I retold what happened to Council officials, sympathetic Trade-Wardens, and more. Admittedly, a visit from one of the Dream-Scribe’s people was a surprise.

That last visit confirmed my worst fear—I’d come down with a nasty case of being called a ‘hero’. No matter how hard I scrubbed, it wouldn’t come off.

“Hero of the city,” the emerald-skinned tiefling said with a polite smile, writing the phrase in his canvas-bound notebook.

“Wait. What?” I sputtered, nearly dropping my cup of coffee.

Zamien Ramode, the tiefling across the table from me, wore the typical gray and brown monk robes of a Dream-Scribe. It was the book-themed red stole around his neck that gave away he was a librarian-priest. Calmly, he set his quill on the notebook, then sipped his coffee with a chuckle. The amusement rippled down to the end of his tail, which twitched like an amused cat’s.

“Just what I said,” Zamien replied as if explaining how water really was still wet. “Hero. You and your companions. I’ve heard it more than once since what happened in the Council building. But if you prefer something less friendly, there are those calling you a ‘kingdom-breaker’.”

A grumpy moan, ragged as a torn sheet, fell out of me.

“Is there an option here for ‘none of the above’?” I asked, not quite able to keep a tiny whine out of my voice.

The priest chuckled again. I was glad someone was entertained by all this.

“No, there isn’t,” he replied. After another sip of his coffee, he picked up his quill, rubbed it against the ink-stone, then continued to scribble notes about the Iraxi and events three days prior. “A little advice, if I may, Lady Kioni?”

“Tela is fine,” I said, solemnly peering into my coffee for salvation. “You don’t have to toss more titles on.”

Zamien inclined his head. “Tela, then. What’s done is written. Titles? They’re fleeting. Titles can be as light as a flower laurel or heavy as an ox-yoke. The more you dwell on them, the heavier they become. Focus on today, not yesterday. The titles aren’t you.”

I pursed my lips, frowning.

“Thank you, Librum Zamien.” I turned the advice around in my head a bit, chewing on it for the flavor. “It’s… something to think about.”

By late morning, ‘think’ had melted into ‘worry’ with a steaming side of twitchy. It haunted me until an out of breath messenger arrived from the Arth Prayogar council building—Chancellor Fel wanted another private meeting. After they left, I changed into a fresh, cream linen shirt free of blood-stains, and my least-battered pants before I told the others.

They weren’t thrilled to say the least.

“Again?” Skarri hissed. She was still recovering, but Kiyosi had been doing his usual top-notch healing work. Today, Skarri was wearing more clothing than bandages, which was a good sign. “I don’t like it.”

“You’re not alone,” Kiyosi added, folding his arms over his chest with a glare. “Haven’t they asked enough questions? You need rest!”

I fought a very real urge to roll my eyes. They all made it sound so easy to sit, rest, and recover. I tried to rest. Other times I tried to sleep. Occasionally, I got lucky and managed both.

Secretly, I was glad to meet with the Chancellor; it gave me something to do beyond ‘be still’ since I just didn’t do ‘behave’.

“Now look, they’re scared,” I protested. “A lich very nearly stole their kingdom—maybe their lives. Everyone’s been questioned twice over. This is more of the same. I’ll be fine.”

“Of course. Which is why I go with hyu,” Atha said calmly as if discussing the weather.

I scowled at him so hard that he actually raised his hands in mock defeat.

“Then again, I could be staying here,” he quickly added.

Mikasi also started to say something, but wisely stopped himself at my glare.

I rubbed a hand over my face. “Really, I appreciate the concern. I do. But I think I filled my quota of near-death experiences three days ago, so I’m safe. Besides, the Trade-Wardens are out in force. Two bits says I get an unofficial escort.”

Kiyosi and Atha took the bet—I won.

Once I left the Lemongrass Inn for the street, Rhen Shotho melted out of the crowd and into my shadow. I grinned.

“Your turn today?” I asked.

He grunted. “Better to escort you in case you kick over a rock and find another conspiracy to solve.”

I stuck my tongue out at him. He laughed.

Arth Prayogar’s Market Square was back in full force after the near-coup. Overhead, the prairie sun was bright and merciless, making me grateful for my tinted goggles.

Faded banners on poles lined the road like a fluttering honor guard. Shade sails in a rainbow of reds, greens, and more, stretched from yellowed, cracked adobe patios. Under the awnings, merchants hawked everything imaginable. There was embroidered cloth from Osidore, fruit from Ishnanor, and all manner of goods from across the Thetari Trade Road.

Scents of cooking meat danced through the air with fresh-baked bread until my mouth watered. I solved that with flatbread-wrapped chicken and peppers I bought from a bald, halfling spice merchant with a weathered smile. He waved a hand when I pulled out coins to pay.

“I recognize you. It’s on the house, Windtracer,” he said with a wizened grin. “You’re the reason the city didn’t burn down while a lich dragged us to the nine hells.”

“Er… you’re welcome?” I replied slowly.

That’s when I noticed a feeling in the air around me; like I wasn’t overlooked anymore. A pair of centaur cloth merchants eyed me warily. It was hard to miss one whispering ‘kingdom-breaker’. I exchanged a brittle smile with them as I went on my way.

They weren’t alone. As I walked through the market, if I didn’t hear whispered remarks of ‘hero’, I saw subtle hand gestures at me to ward off evil. Both hit like arrows, making me flinch.

I tried to ignore it, but I’d never had this much attention before. It was like wearing soaked wool I couldn’t peel off. I hunched my shoulders as I hurried a bit faster. Rhen cleared his throat.

“It’ll get quieter when we reach the Council building,” he assured me.

“By the Lady Deep, I hope so,” I muttered. “All I did was punch a lich.”

He let out a low laugh.

“You did a lot more than that, but I know what you mean. It’s already a holiday—the ‘Day of Ash and Bone’.”

I rolled my eyes with a long sigh, stalking toward the city administration building.

The battered building was on its way back to normal. Masons worked to repair hoof-battered doors or blood-stained broken tiles. A few spared me a glance but kept opinions to themselves; there was too much work to do.

I paused a moment to take in the scene. A pair of workers peeled a torn, bloodied Herd Tolvana tabard off the ground. One sign of many that Rima had cut the kingdom to the bone. Not that she would’ve noticed. People who think that the ends justify the means never stop to see—or care—that the cost is always paid in innocent lives.

“Second floor to the Chancellor?” I asked Rhen, who nodded grimly.

I hurried through the foyer, past its bitter nightmares, for the ramp to the Chancellor’s office. As luck had it, he wasn’t alone.

Rhen held the door open as I stepped in to find Chancellor Fel standing, staring out a window. On the other side of a centaur-sized desk, Liru sat with his snake-like tail curled under him like a makeshift scaly cushion. Prairie wind gusted through the half-open window, carrying a hint of wildflowers and—like always—dust.

“Tela,” Liru said with a smile.

He started to rise, maybe to offer me a hug, but hesitated. Our conversation before the lich bloodbath hung like a pall over everything. Liru had lied by omission to get me to help, which contributed to how bad it had gotten. Still, healing had to start somewhere, so I lightly squeezed his shoulder when I reached the chair next to him.

Chancellor Fel nodded once I sat down.

“Thank you for coming, Lady Kioni.”

I shrugged. “Nothing like more conversation around the Day of Ash and Bone,” I said dryly.

Liru winced. Chancellor Fel arched a bemused eyebrow.

“So you’ve heard? Well, that saves me an explanation.” He lightly waved a hand at the window. “It was necessary. Naming it gives people something better to focus on. Hopefully, move on from what happened.”

“Can they?” I asked tartly, remembering people—just bystanders—who were run down by Herd Tolvana soldiers.

Fel’s eyebrows rose for his steel-gray hairline as he sighed, horse-tail swatting the air.

“Fair question. It’ll take work, but I think so.” He turned, hoofs clomping lightly against the wooden floor as he faced us. “Herd Tolvana atoning for their part in this will help. Sadly, their current Magister suffered an unfortunate accident three days ago. The Trade-Wardens assure me he’ll recover, but we’ll see. Until then, his temporary replacement has some hard questions to answer.”

“You mentioned that before Tela arrived,” Liru said. “How soon before they pick one?”

“Better question. Will the rotten lot say anything more useful than ‘oops’?” I asked, my frustration still on display.

The Chancellor shrugged. “I’m expecting real answers. The city deserves that much. So does Jata. Even a little would help me to earn back the people’s trust. Fix the cracks. Nudge the kingdom to something better.”

Liru nodded solemnly. “I hope they find their better nature and atone for their part in all this.”

Fel chuckled deep in his chest. “We’ll see. Jata sometimes rewards honesty with a knife to the back. Still, it’s worth the effort. To which, thank you for what you did, Lady Kioni. Jata came a hair’s breadth from horror.”

I sucked in a quiet breath, squirming in the wooden chair.

“Chancellor, please. It was—” The words caught in my throat. Calling it ‘nothing’ felt insulting. “—it had to be done. If history is any guide, Rima would’ve painted Jata in blood.”

The centaur nodded, folding his hands in front of him.

“So I’ve gathered. All the more reason my people owe you a debt.”

Those words, and the responsibility behind them, burrowed under my skin the worst way. It felt like I was sitting on an angry anthill. Unable to take any more, I stared at the ceiling with a heavy sigh.

“If you really mean that, Chancellor, I’m calling it in.” I met his curious gaze. “Stop the persecution of tieflings, really anyone not a centaur. They’re people, not things.”

“It would be a good start,” Liru advised. “In some ways, it compounded the recent problems.”

The Chancellor’s eyes turned distant as he gazed out the window at the courtyard below.

“If I could only make it happen by decree,” he murmured. “I’ve proposed laws, but they’ll only go so far. Education and time are the real solutions. I’ve plans to work with the Dream-Scribe’s people on education. Time will take care of itself. Sadly, that means at least a generation, but maybe that can be sped up.”

“That leaves the crystals,” Liru hissed softly. “They can’t stay here.”

“They won’t,” I said flatly.

Fel’s mouth pulled into a smile.

“Nor should they. The farther they are from Jata, the happier I’ll be. Is it true they can’t be destroyed?”

Liru shrugged, clasping his scaled hands. “That’s what the ancient texts say—which is why my people keep trying to hide them.”

I folded my hands in my lap.

“If I may? I think they’re from a type of crystal golem called an Automatic Crystal. The lich, Rima, is a member of a group called the Gatekeeper Society that’s obsessed with them. But,” I bit my lower lip in thought, “there might be a way to make them harmless.”

“How?” Fel asked curiously.

“Free the elementals inside them.” I shrugged. “No elementals, no threat. I can handle that with the help of a friend in Ishnanor.”

“That solves two. What about the third one with the gray mist?” Fel asked.

I shook my head. “Different problem. It’s mine to solve.”

“Tela, I’d like to send Skarri along when you free the elementals,” Liru said, turning toward me. Then he smiled a little. “One last task before she leaves my service.”

I blinked. “What?”

The shaman shrugged. “She wants to settle in Ishnanor for a bit, then visit a little town called Banye?”

I grinned. So Skarri had asked Mikasi to show her his hometown after all. Good.

“Of course,” I glanced between the two men. “What about the ruins outside Arth Prayogar?”

The Chancellor gestured to Liru. “The Trade-Wardens will seal all access until a new viprin delegation arrives. They’ll take charge of the ruins, artifacts and all. I’ll make sure the Merchant Herds keep their hooves out.”

“Good,” I replied.

“Yes,” Fel agreed. Then he studied me. “Lady Kioni, don’t take this the wrong way, but hero or not, I’ll be glad to see you go.”

I laughed softly. “That’s fair. I know having me around adds more headaches than help.”

The Chancellor grinned. “A little, yes.”

I tensed, then glanced at Liru.

“Liru? You asked for my help, and I gave it. But I also did it because you saved my best friend’s life once. I know your people place stock in debts. Does freeing the elementals, even tossing the crystals in the first volcano I find, even things?”

He nodded, giving the floor a sad look.

“By our law, it does.” Then he met my gaze. “But… Tela, I never felt you owed me a debt. Yes, I saved Kiyosi’s life. But we spent days in the Deepland Hollow debating history, sharing findings.” A smile brushed his scaled lips, amber eyes dancing. “It’s a fond memory. Debts aside, I’d rather repair our friendship—if we can.”

I gave him a slight smile.

“Yeah, I’d like that. No more lying by omission, right?”

“Right,” Liru grinned.

I gave Liru a warm hug, then looked between him and the Chancellor.

“If that’s all, I’d best get packed. I’ve one last thing to set right.”

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Windtracer Tales is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In fact, it considers itself rather fancy and quite proud of itself. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Also! Windtracer Tales and Windtracer: Adventures in Awldor is written with much respect to Starfarertheta and their work on the other half of Awldor.

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Previously. The rescue came fast and furious but also arrived with a cost. Valeria Moffet didn’t go quietly, nor was she willing to go alone. With the life of a second victim in the balance nearby, Daniel and Cassidy worked together to end the threat of the bloodleech killer. But victory came hard, with Daniel and Cassidy being hurt in the process. As the dust settled, all that remained was to bandage wounds, call the sheriff, and find a way to less terrifying tomorrows… or so they thought…

November 2, 2024. Morning in our apartment above Moonlight Curiosities. Two days into married life, and already the world refused to mind its own business.

Yesterday turned out to be the champion of a rough day. After twelve hours at Magnolia Regional for treatment, then three interviews with Sheriff Branham over ‘burnt dust’, we were allowed to come home. I crashed immediately to sleep.

Cassidy slept peacefully in bed beside me. Shoulder-length auburn curls made a soft frame around her furry, bat-shaped face. One forearm wing was even draped over me like a shield. I watched her slowly flex her claws while she dreamed. She hadn’t bothered to shift fully human for sleep since Briarwood.

Still, it felt good to be alive.

Sunlight sneaked in around the dark green bedroom curtains, carrying the reminder that we nearly died two nights ago. I took a slow, quiet breath of welcome air.

“I’m sorry, Cassie,” I murmured under my breath. “This wasn’t how I hoped any of this would go. I’ll find a way to make it up to you.”

Memories of what happened ran through my mind in lurid detail. They lingered like a waking nightmare, unwilling to let go. Sure, Cassidy and I survived, but the whole moment was a thorn in my mind.

Especially around Valeria Moffet—my would-be murderer.

I closed my eyes as the memories ran over me. That too-sharp sensation when I was yanked through the antique bay window of our shop. The sting of shattered glass, and the brutal bite of Valeria’s claws, blurred with the echo of my screams. It was a bloody symphony in agony-minor.

All of it because she wanted our antique shop for herself.

Valeria’s skeletal talons, needle-like teeth, and that distorted smile were permanently etched in my mind. Then there were the bodies in the cellar. The horror of what she did to those people as they died was burned into my memory as well.

Monsters don’t let go of you easily—even when you survive, and they don’t.

A gust of autumn wind outside nudged the building, and a loose board somewhere in the attic creaked in protest. Then there was the soft brush of the Spanish moss kissing the bedroom window with a gentle whisper.

It was eerie, but also comforting in its own way. I had grown accustomed to city noises, but this small town life was a welcome change. Taking another deep breath, I watched Cassidy in her sleep.

Even in the morning light, Cassidy’s fine brown fur looked warm and comforting where it wasn’t hidden by bandages. Just seeing her here alive chased the demons out of my head.

Valeria had clawed her up pretty badly as well. But since Cassidy was a skinshaper, she’d heal back up pretty fast. I wasn’t so lucky. We humans tended to heal a bit slower.

My phone buzzed, shattering the calm mood.

“Oh, now what?” I breathed.

I grabbed the thing, then scrolled through the messages. After a quick couple of replies, I set the phone down to find Cassidy watching me. Her large black bat eyes glimmered with curiosity, interest, and something more mysterious.

“Hey there,” I said softly, laying back down next to her.

“Hey yourself,” she said in her soft Southern drawl. “Who was that?”

“One was Tobias about the repairs to the store downstairs. He’s still looking for the materials he needs for the window frame. It’s pretty messed up, and he wants to match the wood. But he’s got the replacement glass.” I pursed my lips, then took in a small breath. “The other was from work. Well, former work.”

Cassidy scowled at the latter, flicking a pointed ear.

“Why?” She stretched the word until I thought it would snap.

I frowned, trying to wave the topic off.

“No, it’s not pestering me for freelance work, software designs they won’t pay me fairly for, or ‘can you do just one more thing?’. It was just three messages hoping we’re okay, followed by a ‘call us if you’re ever ready to consult.’ It seems state and local news picked up on what happened last night and they all saw it. News media is calling it a ‘serial killer attack’ that was stopped by ‘brave local residents’.”

Cassidy groaned, burying her head in the pillow. Slowly, she flexed her claws against the bed.

“Serial killer?” she muttered, glancing back at me. “Well, at least they’re half-right. Bloodleeches are serial killers, among all the other nasty things they like to do.”

Then she tilted her head at me with a grin, flicking an ear at me once more.

“But that means I mostly get you all to myself today!”

“Yes, you do,” I grinned.

Cassidy slid over, folding her forearm wings back as she wrapped her arms around me. I flinched a little, my body still angry at the abuse I took the other night. Worry flickered across her eyes for a second, but snuggled close when I smiled.

“Good. Because I have plans for you, husband,” she purred. A mischievous glimmer shone in her solid, dark eyes.

“Oh, really?” I teased. “Aren’t we a bit beat up?”

“Careful plans,” she replied with a kiss.

It took at least a full hour to enjoy her plans, and I had no complaints. After that, we dragged ourselves breathlessly out of bed, dressed, then headed for the kitchen. Breakfast was on the menu, along with a start to our day.

We’d only just finished eating, and started on the dishes, when the downstairs shop bell rang. A short, polite knock followed it a few seconds later.

“But we’re closed for repairs,” I muttered, wiping my hands on a dishtowel. “There’s a boarded up, blood-stained hole in the front window and everything.”

“Also, we put a sign up,” Cassidy added suspiciously.

We rushed down the steps from our apartment into the shop.

The shop itself was quiet, with antiques waiting where we left them in locked cabinets or on wooden shelves. But still, the air felt tense, if not heavy. Before we reached the front door, Cassidy had slipped back into her human disguise complete with green eyes and freckles.

Past the frosted glass in the dark wooden door, we saw a tall man standing outside. I swapped a suspicious glance with Cassidy before unlocking it to see what he wanted.

“Daniel and Cassidy Hawthorne?” The man’s manners, even his New England accent, were like silk. “Dorian Callix,” he said with a polite smile.

The man was tall and thin, with slicked-back sandy hair and a gaze that didn’t quite look at you. Instead, he looked through you, or even into you. I had to admit, he was dressed with impeccable taste—somewhere between a low-rent fashion plate and upscale life insurance salesman. His light windbreaker and gray-and-white clothing were perfectly pressed. A faint, sweet scent rode the autumn air around him, like a dusty cinnamon that was just a bit wrong.

Dorian looked more like the idealized idea of a stylish person than a real one. It was a little unsettling. His eyes slid over the antique shop’s blood-stained front window to his right. Then he smiled—thin, polite, and just a little too deliberate to be comfortable.

“If you’ve time, and aren’t too busy,” he said, stretching the word a bit, “I’d like to come in and discuss some matters of interest with you both.”

Cassidy darted in front of me even as Dorian made the request. Her disguise dropped just enough to bare fangs and claws, every muscle in her shoulders coiled for a fight.

“Bloodleech,” she growled, sniffing the air.

The memory of Valeria’s giggles ran through my head. I gripped the door handle hard enough to choke it.

Dorian held up his hands in a peaceful gesture.

“Truce, skinshaper. Truce. I’m here in full good faith,” he said carefully. Dorian’s gray eyes were cold and calculating. Wary. The autumn air turned tense. “Also, I wanted to thank you… both of you… in person.”

“What?” I snapped.

He interlaced his fingers in front of him with a thin smile.

“I’ll explain.” He took a long breath. “Valeria Moffet was what you’d call my ‘maker’—though that term flatters her way too much, and isn’t entirely accurate. She was a bit careless, often caught up too much in her own appetites.”

He shifted his weight, then gestured to us.

“When news of you two spread among the creatures of the night, some believed it, some didn’t. Those that did believe, were upset or curious.”

“They’re jealous,” Cassidy growled, still eager for that fight.

The bloodleech shrugged. “Hm, probably, or thought you had found some advantage they didn’t. Valeria was one of those. She wanted whatever it was, or at least to feast on you two like some new exotic, imported candy. The curious ones? They’re just that. Curious. Especially since this sort of thing is rare enough to begin with.”

“Where do you fall?” I asked sharply, not quite itching for a fight.

“Oh, I’m the latter,” Dorian replied with a soft chuckle. “I try not to be stupid, and stick my fingers in an obvious blender, hm?”

He punctuated that with a glance at Cassidy’s claws, raising his eyebrows.

“You see, you two helped me move up a bit in bloodleech ‘society’, such as it is. So, I’m in your debt. Also—” he hesitated, weighing his words “—Valeria wasn’t working alone, whether she knew it or not. Which means, someone has to clean up the mess, which would be me.”

Dorian glanced up and down the sidewalk as the fall leaves blew along the tree-lined street. A couple of the older locals, on their way to Miss Milly’s diner, slowed down enough to stare.

Cassidy stepped back far enough to be out of sight, but remained close enough to be a very clear and present danger.

The man cleared his throat, before pulling on that too-smooth grin again. He nodded toward the doorway.

“If I may? It’s a bit chilly today. There really is something potentially lucrative I’d like to talk about. We could continue this inside where we’re out of the wind… prying eyes,” he raised his eyebrows, “and ears? Gloamstead is a rather small town.”

I swapped a glance with Cassidy. A silent conversation that said a thousand things and expressed even more concerns.

Dorian’s smile turned tense and worried.

“You have my word. I’m no threat to your little family. Nor is any bloodleech that owes me in any way.”

Cassidy sighed and nodded. We stepped aside to let him in.

“There’s a small office to the left of the checkout counter, over by the vintage lamps.” I indicated a path between shelves of hand-carved wooden boxes, and a few well-preserved, iron railroad spikes.

“Thank you,” he replied with a gracious smile.

Casually, he strolled over to the office, but took great care to avoid the railroad spikes. His eyes traveled over the rust-freckled iron. There was a brief twitch of distaste, like he’d caught a whiff of something sour. Overall, Dorian gave the shelf a wide berth.

“I don’t trust this,” I whispered. “He wants something more than business.”

Cassidy clenched her jaw, then took a long, slow breath. Gently, she shifted all the way human, putting a hand on my arm and squeezing lightly.

“I really don’t trust him either,” she said, voice low. “But he gave his word. For a bloodleech that’s a really big deal.”

She took another long, deep breath, then stroked my arm a little with a hand. I could tell it was to reassure her as much as it was for me.

“I hate this,” she grumbled. “I really do hate this, Daniel. Especially after the other night.”

I resisted flinching at the mention of the fight with Valeria in Briarwood Manor. Instead, I held her hand, kissing her knuckles.

“Me too.” A sigh drained out of me. “But… he mentioned something ‘lucrative’ and we need the money for that window and the other damages.”

Cassidy gave the boarded up bay window the same look you’d give a wedding cake that had collapsed in the middle of your own reception.

“Yeah, I know.”

I frowned at the office. “Cassie? If he gets out of hand, we kick him out. Deal?”

She gave me a quick kiss on the lips with a small smile.

“Deal.”

We crossed the main storefront to see just what kind of trouble our unusual, and mostly unwanted guest, had dropped at our doorstep.

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Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries is a work of pure, unabashed fiction. To be honest, it’s a bit creepy, if not spooky, when is isn’t beside itself with nerves. It tends to be a little shy. Did I mention it likes to needlepoint because there’s lots of stabbing? Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Which means, really, he gets all the blame.

Any resemblance to persons living, dead, undead, or why-aren’t-they-dead-YET is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot. Like daily.

Each installment will be released each week on Wednesdays!

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Previously: In a tight spot against Gregori Elkerton, Tela tries a desperate gamble—swap the elemental infused gemstone with a lich’s soul stone. The results were wildly successful, and deeply deadly. Having to fight a two problems at once, Tela attempts to solve one with the other. It nearly works, but Rima isn’t so easily fooled. Which leads Tela to make a dangerous, and desperate, gamble…

Medilus 5, 1278: Arth Prayogar’s Council Building. Nearly getting dead was the easy part.

I had a list of things to do that day. Diving backwards into a rolling fog of murder dust wasn’t on it. Neither was hugging a scheming, walking corpse that kept oddly insisting we were the same—but also wanted to kill me.

There was a lesson in there, but I was a little busy.

My head hit the tile floor when I fell backward. Stars painted my vision with white sparks, and I lost the world for a moment. I came to with a scream wedged like a bone in my throat. That dry fog boiled around me. It was storm-thick, full of charred dust and damp regret.

I gagged, rolling to my right away from Rima and Garrik. It felt like I’d inhaled a tomb, along with bits of its residents. The problem wasn’t just the fetid smell; it was a bitter, gray powder eager to crawl between my teeth and down my throat. While I liked to study history, I didn’t want to swallow it—especially not when it was the powdered remains of a dead nobleman with a grudge.

“Marius!” My voice held a dry rasp that shocked me. “Get out of my throat!”

To my surprise, it did.

“By the Lady Deep and her Saint of Tides, that’s vile,” I swore, spitting a mix of blood and burned spirit dust from my mouth.

I had rolled onto my hands and knees, body shuddering as if from a sharp winter wind. The receding gravedust peeled off my skin, leaving a memory of chalky sludge along with the taste of tarnished coins and cruelty. It swirled around me; a lazy cyclone too bored to move.

Dimly, I realized I still held the Iraxi gemstone. It pulsed warmly. I shook my head, collecting my torn wits.

“Whip,” I sputtered, then found it next to me. I picked up the weapon before shoving myself upright, squinting through my confusion. “Where’s Garrik? Rima? Anyone?”

Past the lively haze, I couldn’t see Rima but did see Garrik. The elven thief fought like a cat fleeing a bath. Ribbons of charcoal-colored gravedust clenched at his arms, legs, neck—anywhere to get purchase. He’d swat a gust away, earning singed skin, only for two more to grab him elsewhere. Both his boots and legs had vanished under the dark mist.

Then a familiar tail lashed through the choking dust—it was Skarri.

“Go!” she hissed, voice rough with overuse.

Mikasi appeared next to her, tossing a vial through the dead haze. It splattered, chasing back the mist long enough for the pair to grab Garrik. They pulled—the gravedust yanked back harder. Garrik yelled.

I shoved at the dust cyclone around me to get through, but it pushed back. After that, I punched and swore it winced.

“Hells and high tide, Marius Apollinare! Dead or not, I’ll kill you again. Let me out!” I yelled, though my voice was barely louder than crumpled paper.

Again, it—no, he—cooperated. I tucked that away for later under ‘future problems’, then charged forward as if chasing my own death. Death wisely kept out of my reach, but Rima Nimad had not.

In the time it took with my misadventures with the dead dust from the lich soul crystal, Rima was back on her feet. Somehow she’d pulled Garrik’s dagger from her back, then started flaying the thick mist with her flaming whip. A wet pop slapped a hole in the dust, leaving the stink of burned blood behind. It was surprisingly effective—even if her whip was dying like old embers. But the death mist wasn’t to be outdone; it scorched her too-pale skin like acid in long strips.

Then the dust cyclone circled me again. Understanding—a shred of it—penetrated my fatigue.

“It isn’t trying to hunt me. Not really,” I muttered, watching the chaos with a calculated look. “The gravedust coming out of the lich crystal… that’s Marius, but he’s just reacting like a wound does to salt.” My eyes cut over to Rima “As if reacting to something irritating.”

Rima glared knives in Garrik’s direction as the others pulled the thief loose. She lashed at the dust again as it tried to swallow her. It parted, and I filled the gap.

“What? Not hurt enough people yet?” I said with a glare.

Rima sucked a ragged breath, hurling the same look back.

“This from the same woman who drags her enemies to the grave, so she doesn’t die alone,” she said icily.

I gave her a casual shrug, sliding the whip beside me like the tail of an irritated cat.

“I thought you’d feel at home in a grave, Rima.” My smile fled. “You won’t get what you want out of this. This stupid plan of yours failed centuries ago when you tried it the first time. Admit it, you’ve lost.”

Rima circled me in the bitter dust as her flaming blood-whip sputtered out. Letting the ragged embers scatter to the floor, the lich slid a dagger from her belt—the same one she’d cut me with before. I drew a deep breath, trying to remember our fight last time.

The lich lunged, her knife a flashing blur. I cracked my whip but missed, getting sliced along my upper arm for the trouble. Hissing, I darted away to avoid being stabbed. We circled each other, the Iraxi bracer with the lich soul stone on the floor between us. Rima smirked, eyes dancing over me in a way that made me cringe.

“Lost? For now, but so have you.” She inclined her head toward my arm, punctuating the point. “That has to really hurt.”

I spared a glance at my latest wound. The gravedust and smoke curled around me like a shawl or some perverted death armor. Where Rima had cut me turned a shadow-slate gray; the blood a reddish-black. The horrid effect spread over my skin like a demented sunburn. I grimaced. Kiyosi, Mikasi, and the others were going to have a fit.

“Maybe,” I replied. “But the longer I keep you here, the better my friends can kneecap your bad idea.”

“Then we shouldn’t waste time,” she countered with a twisted smile.

Rima thrust low, but I was waiting. The slice caught air and dust, parting both. I side-stepped, flipped the whip in my hand, using the handle like a bludgeon. It smashed along the lich’s jaw, snapping her head to the side. Wet gravedust—what passed for her blood—spilled over her lips. Rima staggered aside as I stepped behind her.

Suddenly I was all too aware of the elemental-possessed gemstone in my hand. The gem was a dull, insistent heartbeat of power—warm, steady, and so inviting.

“It could fix this,” I murmured as Rima winced, resetting her jaw. “Just open myself up to it. One pull of magic could end this.”

But I knew what that meant, and I’d been on the wrong side of it before. I touched the side of my head beside my goggles that protected my permanently altered eyes. Ghostly dust of a dead lich—one I’d killed before he killed me—brushed my skin, caressing my hands. A ragged breath fell out of me.

“No,” I told the crystal. “No, I won’t do it.”

My eyes flicked between it and the gemstone I’d stuck in the bracer. “Wait,” I murmured. “Is that why the Iraxi can’t be destroyed? They’re pieces of a shattered Automatic Crystal golem?”

I realized I’d been wool-gathering when Rima faced me with a glare so hot; I swore it burned the air.

“You’ll pay for that. For all of this.”

She darted in low again, dagger aimed for my guts, as I threw myself at the bracer on the floor.

I was faster.

The blade sliced past, cutting a new hole in my shirt. I rolled, grabbed the bracer, slamming the Iraxi crystal against the lich soul stone. They connected with a gentle click, as if part of the same structure. Immediately, both stones glowed in unison as if… talking?

I glanced up too late to see Rima looming over me. The lich hauled me up by my shirt collar as her dagger plunged. I reached to pull mind magic threads and failed—they frayed; I was too rattled. Desperate, I rammed my shoulder against Rima’s knife arm. Her dagger tip brushed my back as I shoved the Iraxi bracer and its pair of crystals against her gut.

The air felt as if it had ripped open and the world exploded at my feet.

Dark, brownish-black gravedust erupted around us like a hurricane. Red bolts of fire-touched lightning scored the clouds like cracks in the fabric of life.

“Tela!” I heard Kiyosi shout over the maelstrom. “Someone grab her!”

“We can’t get close!” Atha replied from nearby, yet painfully far away. “Storm will tear us apart!”

“Toss her a rope! Something!” That was Rhen Shotho.

I clenched my jaw. It was too late for last-ditch rescues. All that was left was to hold on and ride the storm.

Chaos raged. Rima screamed as if being torn apart. My legs shook, knees giving way, but I tensed to keep myself standing. For a moment, I thought I felt a pair of spectral hands steady me, then vanish.

All at once, the world felt too tight. Then it snapped like a frayed bowstring with an obvious, painful pop. Dust, false wind, all of it vanished as if it’d never been there.

I stumbled forward wide-eyed, accidentally kicking the burnt bones of Gregori Elkerton clattering across the floor. The Iraxi in my hands steamed.

Rima was gone.

Where the lich had been, there was the burned outer jacket of her monk’s robes and a mangled Fateweaver pin. I coiled my whip, hooking it onto my belt before I knelt. On the pin’s tarnished brass, the symbol of three daggers bound by a cord was twisted into a barely discernible mess. Almost as if the pin had an unexpected fight with a forge and lost.

“Gone,” I wheezed, drinking clean air. “No lich. Nothing.”

The area around me felt twisted. As if the air had been unexpectedly robbed, leaving a feeling of physical absence behind. I couldn’t place what to call it other than what nothing might actually feel like.

A gallop of hoofbeats yanked me back to the moment. I slipped the Fateweaver pin into my bag before I stood. Seven Council guards—all centaurs—galloped over to surround me with drawn weapons. I eyed them warily with one hand on my whip, the other clutching the Iraxi bracer.

“Yoi T’kalo, boys,” I greeted them casually, eyes drifting between them.

“You,” a centaur snarled. I recognized him from the inspection to get inside earlier, and braced to be grabbed. “Windtracer! You’ll…”

“… be still while I summon a healer,” a deep, older voice behind the guards interrupted.

Every Council guard went stiff as a board, like a collection of kids caught with their hands in a basket, stealing muffins. They parted, as the royal-robed Chancellor Fel, speaker and head of the Jata Council of Seven, walked over. The most powerful centaur in the Jata kingdom wasn’t flanked by Council guards. Instead, Nurkes and a certain Trade-Warden I’d come to know, Rhen Shotho, stood in those positions.

“You’re beat to hell, and I’d rather you not be bleeding everywhere,” the Chancellor continued. The centaur gestured to somewhere past the wall of guards, and I heard a scurry of footsteps. “I want answers, and Trade-Warden Shotho says you’re the best to ask. Also, he says I owe you my hide.”

I snorted softly. It might not have been polite, but it was where my mind rested as a headache took hold. For a moment, I didn’t say a word, just sighed as I looked at the Iraxi with its twin glowing crystals. Rima’s words haunted me again. I’d shaken Jata to its foundation—even cracked it a little—just to save its people. Did the ends justify the means? Silently, I wondered if Rima had been right all along, that she and I weren’t any different.

“Chancellor…,” I said with a rough rasp, before my throat gave up.

One of the Council building’s attendants, human by the look of him, appeared next to me with a bottle. I uncorked it, swallowed some water, then nodded. The dark-haired young man, barely old enough to shave, nodded back with a bright grin. Then he set about cleaning the wound on my arm.

“…there’s a lot,” I continued. “But I’ll bundle it up for you. A lich wanted to use Gregori Elkerton and Herd Tolvana to wipe out the Council of Seven. She—the lich—wanted to rule it all. Elkerton had his own plans to rule instead. He double-crossed her, and… well… here we are.”

No one spoke for a moment. Then the Chancellor nodded sagely, folding his arms across his chest.

“I… see. Can anyone back these claims?”

Rhen cleared his throat. “Respectfully, Chancellor, I can on behalf of the Trade-Wardens…”

Another voice, as ragged as mine, interrupted Rhen Shotho.

“Save it,” Garrik said. The elven thief looked beat to hell and back, with dark circles under his eyes. “I can explain all about Rima Nimad and her Fateweaver cult.” He shook his head. “Before anyone gets jumpy, no, I’m not a cultist, but I was on the inside before I picked a better path. So I can explain what Tela Kioni here can’t.”

“Go on,” Chancellor Fel said, looking from Garrik to myself.

I rubbed a hand over my face as another sigh spilled out of me. Quietly, I looked down at the Iraxi bracer with its twin gemstones glowing like a sunrise or maybe sunset. Then I looked up to see Mikasi and Skarri not far behind Garrik. Kiyosi and Atha joined them a moment later. They all looked worried, but still gave me smiles and nods of encouragement.

That told me all I needed to know. No, I wasn’t like Rima. Not in the least.

“Chancellor?” I said in a stronger voice. “How are you on history? Because this really started nearly a thousand years ago, in a land not far from here…”

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Windtracer Tales is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In fact, it considers itself rather fancy and quite proud of itself. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Also! Windtracer Tales and Windtracer: Adventures in Awldor is written with much respect to Starfarertheta and their work on the other half of Awldor.