New installments or chapters will materialize every Monday…

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

Previously. Having tracked one of the missing Waterman pens to Professor Halcomb Barnes at Laguna Bay College, Daniel and Cassidy discover more than they bargained for. That the antique fountain pens might be tied to nightmares, folklore, and something far older than just a curse.

Barnes suggested the pen’s theme might be tied to myth and dangerous bargains. Before he could explain, the power died. Barnes, Daniel, and Cassidy nearly did as well when the mysterious figure in black struck again.

Cassidy and Daniel fought their attacker off in time to save Barnes, but not the pen. The figure in black escaped into the darkened hallway, pen in hand, leaving behind a shattered Mason jar and a nagging unease that their best chance for answers lies in an unexpected source… Sheriff Roy Branham.

November 11, 2024. Sheriff’s Office, then Moonlight Curiosities. Never judge a book by its cover. It just might get offended…

“So you know.”

Sheriff Roy Branham’s dark eyes studied us, the sharp silence turning as brittle as cracked paint. Just before I was about to babble, he exhaled sharply, pushing back from his desk. He scrubbed a hand over his hair and stalked to the window, putting his back to us.

“I knew y’all would figure it out.” He paused, shoulders tense. “Just didn’t think it’d be so soon. Still, I should’ve known. Elias didn’t deed Moonlight Curiosities to y’all on a whim.”

The blinds in his window sliced stripes of sunlight across Cassidy’s face as she frowned at me from where she sat. I mirrored her expression from the other visitor’s chair. As usual, the world kept changing the rules without sending us a memo.

Memories from the professor’s office were a wet blanket; cold and suffocating.

Flashbacks needled me when I closed my eyes. Professor Barnes’s scream as the figure in black tried to kill him. The shattering of glass when that Mason jar lamp hit the floor. Barnes on a gurney, with too many students nearby holding too many phones.

I was pretty sure the deputies were tired of seeing us so often. We gave our statements then drove right for the sheriff. Professor Barnes had questions we couldn’t answer because we needed answers of our own.

The silence stretched thin. I broke it first.

“Sheriff, I wouldn’t say we’ve figured it all out,” I said dryly. “A lot’s still a blank page.”

Cassidy turned in her chair, lightly rubbing the worn wooden arms.

“Which is why we need to talk…” She shot a quick look at me then focused on Sheriff Branham, flint beneath her words. “…about everything. Maybe trust us with the missing pieces, because it feels like things are getting worse.”

The big man glanced over his shoulder, eyes measuring and hard. He crossed his office, shutting the tan wooden door with a soft click. After that, he returned to his desk. His wheeled metal chair squeaked with ancient complaints as he sat down.

“A few of us here know, like Marla Keene. It’s only the ones who need to.”

He leaned back, lightly drumming his fingers on his desk.

“People aren’t fond of the idea that they may not be top of the food chain. It tends to end in bloodshed and pitchforks. Nasty either way.”

Branham paused. The rattle-whir of the station’s central heating and air filled the space before he continued.

“So, I’m betting you know about Elias. What else do y’all want to know?”

I rapped my knuckles lightly on the edge of my chair, leg starting to bounce. “There’s a lot. Valeria Moffet. The hidden office. Journals. Special codes. Secret Safes.”

Cassidy rested a hand on my knee, slowing my nerves. Then she raised her eyebrows at the sheriff.

“Why don’t we start with the pens and whoever it is that jumps us when we get near one. Issac Adelyne said Uncle Elias had some theory about the pens.” She gave my knee a reassuring squeeze. “I think the rest can wait until later.”

Branham’s look turned brittle.

“Ah, those damn pens.” His eyes traced the speckled white drop ceiling tiles as if chasing down a memory. “Elias and Meredith studied the hell out of them. The rest of us were busy keeping Nighthunters from burning down the town for their damn ideals.”

I sat forward. “Wait. Meredith? Meredith Rawls? Naomi Adelyne? They were a part of this.” I tapped the arm of my chair. “Right. My uncle quoted Meredith in his journals.”

Sheriff Branham smiled, but it was thin. “Not surprised. She found the pens in the first place. Estate sale for the Altamont or Price families. One of the two.”

Cassidy glanced at me then back. “Really? Here in town?”

The sheriff shook his head. “Over in Craigbrook. We thought the pens were all cursed. Elias and Meredith didn’t agree. They thought they were part of a single curse; each one acting like an anchor.”

I snapped my fingers. “Professor Barnes said the pens looked like they had a theme. Like something out of an old myth.”

Branham nodded, pulling a tablet out of his desk. “Elias said the same thing. He never pinned it down before Meredith passed away, and he vanished.” He thumbed the tablet on, pulling up what looked like video files. “Speaking of vanished… given the attacks, y’all need to see this.”

The video was mid-quality footage from a security system. Walls and doors were painfully sterile; bland paint and institutional efficiency like a polished knife on a table. That is until the camera shifted to the wall of metal drawers. Cassidy flinched. I scowled.

“Morgue?”

Sheriff Branham nodded at my question. “County morgue. This happened last night.”

Then he hit play.

The video showed an eerie, blue-gray room, all charcoal shadows and hard angles. Pale moonlight floated through barred windows, gleaming off the chrome of bare metal tables. It was a rectangular mailroom of the dead. The footage was silent, but I swore I could hear the camera creak as it panned.

Then the digital clock flipped to midnight, and reality turned sideways.

A flicker rippled the video as a shadow peeled itself apart. Slowly, a familiar figure in a long black coat stalked across the room, slick as mist. They approached the metal mortuary drawers, pulling a sickly yellow light from inside their coat.

I saw them hesitate.

Reading the labels.

Searching for a name.

“Sheriff?” Cassidy’s voice cracked like dried plastic.

Branham waved a hand, indicating the recording. The video flickered twice. After that, the mortuary cabinet stood open and empty—and so was the window heading outside. The sheriff stopped the video and zoomed in on the window ledge.

I saw a dead, pale hand with fingers too long to be normal, clutching a glowing Mason jar. It felt as if the world suddenly narrowed to that one moment on screen. I forced myself to breathe, staring at the Mason jar.

“Where do I know that jar?” I whispered to myself.

“That looks like the person who was outside our shop,” Cassidy said, hushed. “Same one who attacked Daniel, and then Professor Barnes. Who is that?”

The sheriff shook his head. “Damn if I know. We got fingerprints… if you can call them that. To make matters worse, that drawer held Fred Spivey’s body.”

I blinked, catching up to the conversation. “Had?”

Sheriff Branham’s flat look said everything. Easing forward, he reached for one of his desk drawers.

“Before his body was stolen, we did some digging into Mr. Spivey’s background. Most of it’s quiet. No nearby family. But Deputy Keene found these in a backpack with Spivey’s name on it stashed in the bushes behind the Rawls house.”

“Spivey knew…” I whispered under my breath.

Branham set down a ragged, blue canvas notebook on the desk between us. It was thick with loose, yellowed pages.

“That notebook gave me a bad feeling, so I set it aside. It looked too much like some papers your Uncle Elias and Meredith obsessed over.” He tapped the notebook. “Those pages in the back? They looked like the ones Meredith kept with her before she died. They’re in her handwriting.”

Cassidy stared hot holes in the notebook. I glanced at her, then focused on the sheriff.

“How did Meredith Rawls die?” I took a slow breath to steady my nerves. It didn’t work. “Was she withered?”

Branham took a long breath, studying his calloused hands. He pressed them flat on the desk.

“No. It was a bloodleech. Valeria Moffet.”

The name landed like a punch to the mouth. Cassidy jerked where she sat, as if swallowing an angry shriek.

Branham sighed heavily, shoulders sagging. “I just wish we’d cornered her sooner. A lot sooner.” He indicated the book. “Your uncle had some of these pages, too. I’ll be honest, I need a different perspective. It’s all connected in a way I can’t pin down.”

He pushed the book across the desk toward us.

“Take a look… just be careful. That bloodleech who tried to kill you two and was cozying up to Elias? She was on someone’s payroll. We just don’t know who.”

Cassidy’s anger flared like a hot stove, nearly making her lose her human appearance.

“What?” she sputtered before she could plug words together. “Who?”

“No idea.” Branham sat forward; sunlight sliced by the blinds washed pale stripes over his dusky skin and concerned expression. “We’re still looking into it. Murder aside, there’s a problem here that human law can’t handle. We need to get in front of it. If you two figure anything out, call myself or Marla. Quick.”

We nodded. The etched date of 1918 on the battered notebook loomed large in my mind.

“No problem, Sheriff.” I tapped the notebook. “We’ll look.”

“Good.” A tired smile reached his eyes. “Also… don’t forget to lock your doors.”

The hum of tires on wet pavement filled the car as we headed home. I drove as Cassidy studied the antique book with an appraising eye. She slowly leafed through the pages as a hint of thunder rumbled gray clouds overhead.

“It’s not a journal or a diary,” she said, flipping another handwritten page. Her scowl deepened. “Daniel, it reads like a story. Maybe fantasy? Romance? I think there’re flying ships.”

I squinted as we pulled up to a stoplight. “Like an old novel?”

Cassidy squinted, staring at the margins. “‘Please let me stop’…” she whispered, words wavering.

The air crisped like ice.

I had a sudden urge to throw the notebook out the window. “Cassie… what?”

She shuddered slightly, quickly flipping through more pages. “It’s in the margins, repeated almost every other page. Someone wrote, ‘please let me stop.’”

The light turned green, and I drove, the first drops of rain spattering the windshield.

“Meredith had a pen and these pages. So did Uncle Elias. She was murdered. He’s missing.” I trailed out a long sigh. “There could be more pages in the downstairs office.” My throat strangled my words, but Cassidy picked up the thought without missing a beat.

“Fred Spivey had the notebook and might have died next to a pen.” Her hands trembled as she closed the book; eyes shifting from human to solid bat-black from nerves. “I wonder if Professor Barnes has any more of these?”

“Does Dorian?” I added with a brittle voice. “Does Dorian’s accountant? He’s got the last pen.”

The heavy drum of autumn rain was all too eager to reply when we didn’t.

At the shop, we ran in through the back, chased by rain and terrible ideas. Cassidy took the stairs up two at a time, but I froze at the bottom, caught by a stray thought. I studied the shop’s shelves with the antiques for sale. A nasty thought skittered to mind.

“Cassie, wait!” I ran for the office, grabbed my inventory tablet, then chased after her.

We searched the shelves in the hidden basement. The Waterman pen glimmered innocently in its locked case, but a quick look didn’t turn up any new pages. That left the desk. Three drawers into our search, we stopped.

“So my uncle did have some of these pages.” I swallowed hard. The spidery scrawl I saw felt like a gut punch. “Some of these…” I fingered the edge of a page, mind sputtering. “Beloved? This is his handwriting.”

Cassidy froze, staring at me.

“The… story?”

Her nerves melted more of her human appearance away; fur appeared and claws tipped her fingers. Warily, Cassidy studied the pages. Lips in a tight line, she placed the notebook from the sheriff next to them on the table. Finally, she stepped back, wiping the palms of her hands against her jeans.

“That same message is in the margin on those new pages.” She pursed her lips with a worried look. “Love, this suggests Dorian and his accountant have pages like this.” Her voice dropped. “Everyone who gets a pen winds up with these pages. It… it has to be part of the curse.”

I clasped and unclasped my hands. “Yeah.”

We both yelped when my phone rang. I snatched it from my pocket as if it had bitten me.

“Text from Dorian,” I breathed, trying to swallow my heart. “Says he’ll be by tomorrow. He’s bringing lunch from Magnolia Cafe, and Valeria’s journals. Says he hears the meat pies will be to die for.”

I texted back that we’d see him tomorrow. Then picked up the tablet with a deep breath. Cassidy’s brow furrowed in curiosity, but I waved a hand, then opened the shop inventory.

“Mason jars, they looked…” My words withered, swiping three screens in. Ice skittered up my spine. I jerked the tablet around toward Cassidy. “That jar. The one in the morgue, and the broken one in Barnes’s office? Cassie, we sell them. That’s our stock.” My voice broke as I swallowed a scream. “I remember stocking them.”

“Oh. God,” she breathed.

Before either of us could say more, a sound scraped the air—a dry scuff of metal on old paper.

One scratch.

Another.

Then several more before it stopped. The room went as silent as a tomb.

I turned as Cassidy fully shifted into her half-bat form. We stared at each other; taking refuge in the other’s eyes. Then I saw my uncle’s bestiary on the roll top desk. It was opened to a bookmarked page, cast in the algae-green light from the nearby inkwell.

“We closed that book,” I whispered. Cassidy nodded back, wide-eyed.

Together we eased over, holding hands. I reached for the bestiary, paused, then carefully pulled my hand away. A fresh page held a detailed account of what had happened to us—sketches of Mason jars and pens with lines drawn between them.

My voice was as dry as brittle paper. “It’s dated today.”

At the bottom was a list of names. Valeria Moffet. Meredith Rawls. Fred Spivey. Each one slashed with a thin black line, like cutting a throat. A shorter list was below that—Dorian Callix, Halcomb Barnes, Kyle Wilson, Vera James. I didn’t know Kyle Wilson. Vera was the student who’d returned a pen to Professor Barnes.

Then I read the bottom of the list.

Daniel Franklin Hawthorne. Cassidy Gibson Hawthorne.

Our names.

I don’t think we ever climbed stairs that fast in our lives.

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!

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

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. Daniel and Cassidy tried for a quiet Sunday, but peace in Gloamstead never lasts long. Invited to dinner by Naomi Adelyne, they arrived expecting an evening of gossip and small talk. Instead, they got something else entirely. Namely a dinner with the dead.

Ghostly conversation with Naomi’s deceased husband, warnings of cursed pens and more let Daniel and Cassidy the danger is worse than they thought. In fact, possibly cutting right to the bone, given in the end they learn that Sheriff Branham might have known far more than he let on…

November 11, 2024. Laguna Bay College, Craigbrook, Alabama. We got to shed some light on the problem, just not the kind we expected…

Despite the chilly air, the odd conversation stayed as warm as the pie. Cassidy and I finally headed home about the time evening knocked the fall dust off the world. Life had handed us a bittersweet ending to the day with only a few surprise thorns.

Cassidy watched the sunset as I drove. “The sheriff,” she murmured. “He knew.”

“He did.” I frowned a little as streetlights flickered awake. “Not sure what to do with that. I got that Issac wanted us to talk to Sheriff Branham.”

“Yeah,” Cassidy sighed. “Yeah. First, we need to talk to Professor Barnes. After that?” She looked over, raising her eyebrows. “We need to talk to the sheriff.”

I didn’t have a good reply, so I nodded. We skipped over the soul-shattering fact, it was a ghost—a real one—that had told us any of this. It haunted the broken edges of our conversation. We didn’t talk about that.

The silence and the sunset said the rest.

Sunlight slid through the shop windows the next morning, giving the dust a spotlight to dance. I puttered around the shelves, dusting and organizing with the odd urge to whistle. A quiet routine before opening the shop for the day.

It all felt so painfully normal; I wondered if the world had run out of spare weird to throw at us. We made it through breakfast, coffee, and the entire morning without a new dead body, a cursed pen, or yet another visit from law enforcement. I wasn’t sure if I felt productive, caught up, or just a little neglected by life. Cassidy’s voice caught my attention as she walked downstairs to the shop where I lingered behind the front counter.

“… of course, Professor,” she said, giving me a bright grin. “—yes. Absolutely. We’ll both come and bring that 1948 cookbook you want, too. See you then!”

She cut the call, eyebrows dancing as her smile reached her green eyes. With a flourish, she dropped her phone into the pocket of her Crimson Tide hoodie.

“That was Professor Barnes. He wants us to come by later today when we can. Turns out he has the pen back and from what he described—I think it’s the last Waterman pen.”

Her smile melted off a frown. “… he also hasn’t slept much in two nights. Nightmares.”

We swapped a knowing look that said everything. I’d been having nightmares. So had Cassidy. I rapped my knuckles against the wooden counter.

“Close shop early?” I suggested. She nodded as I pulled my phone from a pants pocket. “I’ll text Tobias and let him know we’ll be out so he’s clear to come work on the front window.”

One text exchange later, we waded through a sandwich lunch, then an early afternoon. Our repair guy, Tobias Dobbins, dropped by mid-afternoon and got to work on the busted bay window. Cassidy and I left him to it, flipping the shop sign to ‘closed’ and headed out to meet the professor.

Laguna Bay College was in Craigbrook, the next town over. Normally that’s a fifteen-minute drive, but that day it was more like twenty. The road was busy with delivery vans, a school bus, and at least one yellow-green farm combine taking up both patience and pavement. As we drove, the landscape blurred to beige, green, and the somber pre-gray of winter.

“If he’s having nightmares, and we’ve been having nightmares…” Cassidy sighed from the passenger side, words flatlining while watching the landscape smear past.

I nodded, nervously tapping the fake leather of the steering wheel. “… the pens. I was just thinking that. The nightmares and the pens go together.” A low flush scrubbed my cheeks. “Most of the nightmares, maybe.”

It was going to be a long time before I stopped hearing Valeria Moffet’s insane giggle living rent-free in my head. We let the road noise of the drive fill the dead space in the conversation.

Laguna Bay was a local branch of a community college system that sprawled across the state. They hadn’t skimped on appearance. This branch was spread out, not tall, with the largest building being only four stories at most. Vaguely art déco, tan buildings surrounded both a wide parking lot and a grassy common area sprinkled with wooden benches. Brown fall trees framed everything, including some of the concrete paths.

I navigated the field of parked cars until I tracked down an open space. “So, taking for granted this is the fourth pen, what if it hurt that student?”

Cassidy paused, hand on the seat belt buckle as she pursed her lips. Every thought shone raw in her eyes. “I know nothing about curses,” she admitted.

With the car in park, I unbuckled and stepped out. “You know more than I do. I keep wanting to call… just somebody.”

Cassidy stepped out, and we headed up the nearest walk. “Who, though?” She shook her head. “I could call my folks; they might know someone.”

I winced. “We could ask Dorian.”

She mirrored my expression. “That’s a horrible idea and probably the right one.” She rubbed an eye. “If anyone knows their way around old curses, it’d be a bloodleech.”

We found Professor Halcomb Barnes in his office on the second floor of the Charles Weatherby Hall building. It was the fourth office on the right, complete with an ancient wooden door housing a frosted glass pane. Inside was the portrait of a college professor, from an old coffee aroma to shelves of books along either wall. Rolls of old maps were stuck in an umbrella holder by the door, as dusty blinds muted the air to a soaked sepia.

The professor looked up when we walked inside; tan slacks and a blue shirt were a little rumpled, along with his brown hair. Overall, the man looked a dozen years older to the day since last we saw him, and twice as tired.

Then I spotted what was on his desk. The fourth Waterman pen. I froze.

Cassidy glanced at me before setting the antique cookbook the professor wanted on his desk. Warily, she eased into a nearby chair.

“That’s it,” I breathed, claiming a chair for myself. “Same tortoiseshell casing, but this one looks wrapped in bronze-gold thorn leaves.”

Cassidy reached for the pen, paused, then gingerly lifted it.

“The other pen had turquoise vines around the outside,” she said, hefting the pen as if testing its weight. Even as she did, she studied the chrome-edged casing as if it might bite her at any moment.

I noticed she left out any mention that the turquoise pen was in our hidden basement. After what Issac had told us, I thought that was a fantastic idea.

“Yeah.” I frowned when it looked like the leaves shifted. “The pen Dorian handed us had blood-red veins.”

Tired or not, this caught the professor’s attention. He leaned forward, elbows on his desk.

“I’m no expert on fountain pens. That one I picked up in Sleepy Hollow on a vacation.”

“Cassidy said you mentioned nightmares?” I tensed for the answer.

He nodded. “Those only started when my student gave the pen back. She said she had them, too. Also, she said a bad feeling came over her, and just had to give the pen back.”

Cassidy took a long breath, sparing a brief glance at me. I raised my eyebrows. The professor didn’t notice. Instead, he kept going.

“Now, myths and legends? That is in my wheelhouse, at least from literature and history, or I wouldn’t be teaching. You said bloody veins, turquoise vines, and now that?”

Professor Barnes sat back slowly, pursing his lips.

He gestured at the pen. Light from the office windows cast it in an odd glimmer that made me want to step away.

“That’s folklore theming if I ever heard it,” Professor Barnes said. “Old world. Faeries, dryads, and the bad bargains they made that would get people into trouble.”

I shared a look with Cassidy, then folded my arms.

“Like a curse?” When Professor Barnes nodded, I leaped onto the inevitable next thought. “Really? What kinds?”

Professor Barnes shrugged, a wide smile on his tired face. The enthusiasm of someone taking refuge against the world in their favorite subject.

“Oh, well. For example, over in Scotland—”

The power died with an ugly snap.

Professor Barnes tensed. “What?”

Cassidy stood, holding the pen like a knife. I turned toward the door, feeling an itch between my shoulder blades. That one motion spared me a world of pain for the next two seconds.

The office door flew open with a bang. A hand with fingers too long for comfort grabbed the door frame before a shadow in a dark coat lunged for me.

“Gah—!”

I leaped back, finding a chair the hard way, before tumbling to the floor. Cassidy wasn’t so lucky.

The tall figure in the black coat and wide-brimmed hat shoulder-checked Cassidy into a wall. My wife bounced off a shelf and onto the floor. The fountain pen sailed out of her grip, skittering across the professor’s desk.

I scrambled to my feet as the dark figure snatched up the pen, then produced a sickly yellow light from its coat. They snatched Professor Barnes by the throat.

“Professor!” I glanced around for something, anything, to use as a weapon.

Cassidy shook her head. Extending her claws, she shoved herself upright using the shelves; black bat-eyes glittering with anger. Five feet from us, Professor Barnes shuddered in the thing’s dead-pale grip, eyes wide and staring. A touch of drool trembled on the professor’s lips as the veins stood out on his neck.

Then my blood chilled as the professor’s hair slowly turned white, and his skin withered.

I reached for the nearest thing I could find—an old wooden dowel rod. It was six feet long and braced with metal caps on either end. I swung at the figure—the thing—cracking them across the back. The dark figure hissed like a dying boiler bent backwards out of shape. Cassidy rushed in low, claws tearing long gashes in coat and dead-pale skin. They staggered against the desk, letting go of Professor Barnes, who collapsed in a heap.

Glass shattered against the floor in the dark as the figure whirled to face me, burning eyes glaring from hollow pits. I swallowed, standing my ground as it limped at me in a rush. Cassidy clawed its back, and the tall figure shoved me aside like a doll. They raced for the pitch-black hallway. Cassidy and I charged after them.

The hallway was dark as pitch and twice as thick. Sunlight limped through the nearby windows, but something dark fogged the corridor. Cassidy squinted, bat ears pushing up through her hair. They turned, twisted, then she shook her head at me with a frown.

“Nothing,” she snapped. “Nothing!”

A groan laser focused us on the office.

We bolted inside, Cassidy restoring her human disguise as fast as she was able. The groan was Professor Barnes—hurt, dazed, but alive. He had managed to pull out his phone.

“Security?” he rasped. When he spotted us in the dark, he nodded, looking relieved to see us. Cassidy rushed to the older man’s side as he continued. “Yes. Send someone. My office. Second floor. Charles Weatherby Hall building.”

“Ask them to call the sheriff,” Cassidy suggested, helping the professor into his chair.

On the far side of the desk, I followed the hint of a sickly yellow flicker. By the time I got to where I thought it was, the light was gone. Instead, I found broken glass—a shattered Mason jar. Empty. The kind of jar used for candles or storing food. I glanced at the desk and chair-strewn office, then met Cassidy’s worried look.

“They took the pen.” A sigh rattled out of me. “I just know it. They got the pen.”

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!

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

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. With the Waterman pen missing, and nothing broken, Deputy Keene had little to go on other than security footage and worry. She questions Daniel and Cassidy a few minutes longer, then suggests they take it easy, given what they’d been through already. The day was almost quiet save for an unusual customer with an even more unusual request—an antique desk. His description matched the roll top downstairs, leaving Daniel and Cassidy wondering if this Caleb Hayes was related to the dead Professor Altamont. A good question they weren’t sure how to answer, at least not yet. Because in the meantime, there was the dinner invitation for the next night with Naomi Adelyne…

November 10, 2024. The Adelyne house in South Gloamstead. Nothing like dinner with a side of unsettling conversation.

Was I worried? Absolutely. Not that it felt like every shadow in Gloamstead had a knife with my name on it—even though I thought they did. No, yesterday had left a taste in my mouth like moldy bread that I just couldn’t spit out.

Cassidy had said about the same, but she managed to get some sleep. I was up in the night, wearing myself out pacing the kitchen like a caged coyote. Troubles or not, I eventually passed out, my mind tight as a wound spring.

The heavenly scent of coffee lured me out of bed the next day. I wanted to float down the short hall on a flying carpet of aroma, but I settled for walking. What I found in the kitchen brought me up short.

Cassidy, human disguise nowhere to be seen, was already up and had attacked the kitchen. A spread of pancakes, eggs, and fruit was the result. She grinned, setting the jar of maple syrup on the table.

“Wait,” I rubbed my eyes, trying to cold-start my brain. “I thought it was my turn to cook breakfast?”

She brushed her hands over her oversized, powder-blue t-shirt, then gestured with a formal flourish to the table.

“Executive decision.” Her grin turned impish but haunted with a hint of worry behind her wide, black bat-eyes. “You had nightmares last night, and yesterday was… a lot. So, I’m declaring all Sundays as ‘self-care’ days. We keep the shop closed, have a fun breakfast, and ignore that the world’s a bit murder-happy right now.”

“Self-care?” I echoed with a half-smile.

Cassidy nodded. “Self-care.”

I crossed the kitchen and gave her the best kiss I could. “Yes, ma’am. This just means that next Sunday is my turn to cook, Beloved.”

“Perfect,” she grinned.

For a moment, the weight of the world—or just the part with Gloamstead—faded like dew. I wish I could’ve said it lasted.

We ate, discussing town gossip from the new co-working center in the library to why anyone would dig up the mayor’s roses. The latter we blamed on bored dryads, even while we planned to visit the former when time permitted.

I went for a run after breakfast while Cassidy practiced her Tai Chi. My brain felt like a stuck wheel. It spun insistently over the same tired mud of dead bodies, cursed pens, and people hunting things they ought to leave alone. People like us. Still, the day went as Cassidy planned—self-care with low stress. Eventually, we headed out.

Twelve theories later about cursed pens, Dorian, and Nighthunter weirdos, we reached Mrs. Adelyne’s house by five wearing our Sunday visiting best. She lived in the south end of Gloamstead off the sole county highway toward the Florida state line. That area was a picture come to life of a subdivision out of time.

Sixties-style ranch homes were surrounded by azalea bushes, ancient sweetgum trees, and dogwoods. A crust of dried fall leaves carpeted everything from yards to gutters. It was quiet as a mouse’s whisper, broken only by the occasional dog barking or rooster objecting to the day.

Mrs. Adelyne’s house was nestled in the middle with a deeply manicured yard. Two flower beds of late-blooming roses and yellow lantana greeted us as we pulled into the driveway. A pair of old, gnarled dogwoods stood like tall sentinels; branches bracketing the front walk. There wasn’t a fall weed anywhere in sight.

It was a practically perfect mirror of Naomi Adelyne’s proper stance on life.

I watched the thorn bushes for any sign of movement that shouldn’t exist. “Cassie? Did she really say her dead husband was worried about us from the afterlife?”

Cassidy, having pulled on her human appearance for dinner, checked her hair and eyes in a vanity mirror.

“She did.” Satisfied, Cassidy closed the sun visor. “I think you met him only once. His name was Issac; really nice man with a dry sense of humor.” A faint smile appeared for a moment, then vanished. “He died five years ago in the Leatherdown. Officially, it was an alligator attack.”

I paused as we got out of the car. “It wasn’t?”

She shook her head, leading the way to the front porch. “I really don’t know for sure. Two of my cousins swear it was poachers or a bloodleech. Maybe even a dryad having a bad day—which is pretty often.”

“Bad day for the dryad, or whoever she found?”

Cassidy raised her eyebrows with a snort. Before she answered, the whitewashed front door drew open with a soft gasp. Mrs. Adelyne appeared, complete in tan slacks and a cream cardigan. She smiled even as she took us in with a glance over her narrow glasses.

“Right on the dot and prompt as punctuation.” The former teacher stepped back, giving us room. “Just like your uncle, Daniel, or your mother, Cassidy. Glad you both picked up their better habits. Now, supper’s about ready; come in and get settled. The table’s all set.”

Inside was a fastidious time capsule of decor. Some styles echoed the 1980s, like the floral wallpaper. Others were a mismatch across the 1950s to current-day technology. Paintings or copper art of flowers wore their gold-painted wood frames with elaborate vine carvings with pride. Assorted furniture was either padded and preserved, or antique wood polished until it looked bronze.

The atmosphere wrapped us in a steady calm with a light chill from the air-conditioning. I couldn’t shake the idea that even the house held its breath a little. A subtle, soft intake, wondering about the next few minutes. Granted, I had been through a lot and might’ve been a little jumpy. I tried to relax, but noticed Cassidy squinting at shadows herself, so I reached out and brushed her hand.

“Hey.” I smiled when she met my eyes. “It’s just dinner. A nice evening.”

She nodded a little. “Just a nice dinner.”

After a little wandering small talk with Mrs. Adelyne, we gathered at her long dining table. Supper was served promptly at 5:10 pm; so close to the second it would’ve made a stopwatch proud.

There were four places set. Three for the living, and one for the dead. I swapped a subtle look with Cassidy, who gave me a tiny shake of her head. Some things in Southern culture are best left unsaid or ignored.

Which stayed true until I noticed the empty place at the table had food on the plate. One moment the dish was empty; in the next, not. There were steaming servings of ham, collard greens, carrots, and squash arranged in neat order.

I caught Cassidy’s eye between bites. She noticed the plate, froze, then blinked twice. We glanced over at Mrs. Adelyne, who casually unfolded her napkin without a care.

“Thank you both for coming,” Mrs. Adelyne said, eyes peering over her glasses. “Himself was a mess with worry.”

I glanced at the nearby plate in front of the empty chair. Why? I’m not sure, but I instantly regretted it. Some food had been eaten. I cleared my throat, touching the embroidered napkin to my mouth.

“You’re welcome, Mrs. Adelyne. Really sorry anyone was worried.” I glanced at the plate again. A little more food was gone. I noticed Cassidy’s eyes were slowly growing larger by the second. “Right, Beloved?”

Cassidy twitched, pulled on a quick smile, and nodded.

“Absolutely. We should have,” she swallowed a little, “stopped by for a visit sooner.”

Mrs. Adelyne beamed with a smile like spring sunshine. “Oh, that’s too kind. We understand. You’ve got that adorable shop to get back open; especially after that horrible woman made such a dreadful mess trying to kill you both.” She shook her head as if passing judgment on bad manners. “Some people have no manners.”

I massaged the embroidered lilies on my napkin like worrying a blister.

“No, ma’am. Just none at all.” My nerves scrambled for an exit while my smile hid the attempt.

The conversation ambled on at a slow pace. We discussed shop repairs, the painful price of antique glass, and even how Mrs. Adelyne’s pen was doing. Fortunately, it wasn’t one of the cursed Waterman pens, and had apparently settled down. She was glad it had gotten over whatever whim had grabbed it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed even more food had vanished from the plate. It hadn’t disappeared all at once, but in pieces between blinks; bite by bite, in a polite cadence. I noticed Cassidy’s eyes went huge, posture stiff, as she saw the same thing. I twitched when my fork tapped empty porcelain; supper was gone.

Mrs. Adelyne smiled brightly. “Glad you both brought your appetites. Just leave the dishes and head to the living room. I’ll bring the pecan pie. Himself’s always enjoyed a good chat over pie and coffee.”

“Sure, Mrs. Adelyne,” I said with my best ‘everything is fine.’ Cassidy seemed frozen in place.

Our hostess eased from the chair, breezing from the dining room to the kitchen as the air chilled again. She’d barely been gone a second before Cassidy latched onto my thigh under the table. The firm grip and a hint of claws caught my attention.

“Daniel,” she hissed, mouse-quiet and low. “It’s cold. We’re not alone.”

I glanced at her and frowned, clutching my cloth napkin. “It’s probably just the air conditioning.”

The empty chair across from us scraped back an inch from the table.

Cassidy’s grip got a shade tighter; her eyes bled bat-black as nerves rattled her human disguise. “Daniel. We. Are not. Alone.”

“You told me ghosts aren’t real,” I hissed low.

“They’re not supposed to be,” she replied, eyes searching the shadows.

I swallowed. “Does Issac Adelyne know that?”

Finally, we exchanged a measured look, then glanced at the living room. Cassidy managed a tiny shrug, braced with a grimace that tried to be a smile. I pursed my lips uneasily. Then, with a deep breath, I stood up and held out my hand while searching her eyes.

“Beloved, we got this.”

A heartbeat followed as Cassidy’s eyes shifted from bat-black to human green. Slowly, she took my hand in hers and squeezed.

“We do.” She pulled on a thin smile. “So, shall we? Into the living room?”

“Yes.”

We walked together, faking casual, as we followed our hostess’ instructions. In the living room, Cassidy and I sat carefully on the parchment-tan sofa. Manners picked up where courage fainted as the nearby empty rocking chair moved in a soothing, gentle motion. It was almost in time with the tick of the nearby grandfather clock.

Cassidy and I sat stiff as fence posts while the rocking chair marked time. Right before my leg started to twitch, Mrs. Adelyne arrived with a tray of desserts and coffee.

It was four pieces of pie with four cups of coffee.

Cassidy and I picked up our pie and coffee as a whisper fled a shadow across the rocking chair.

“Been worried about you two,” a hushed voice said. “Glad to see you getting by. What happened at your wedding had us worried.”

Mrs. Adelyne simply nodded, easing down into a nearby high-backed padded chair. After a bite of pie, she started to knit. As the voice from the shadows continued, white wisps of a person appeared. It was the floating, hollowed-out face of a man with sunken cheeks and deeply bright eyes.

“Ah. Um.” My words grabbed my tongue for a moment. “Thank you, Mr. Adelyne.”

“Please. Just Issac is fine.” The deep whisper chuckled. “Enjoy the pie. It’s my favorite.”

Cassidy sipped her coffee, as if she needed more tension, while I sampled my slice of dessert. Sharing an evening chat and pecan pie with a ghost hadn’t been on my scorecard for the day, but at least the pie was fantastic.

Issac’s hazy face bobbed as a disconnected hollow hand reached for his own plate. “We knew Valeria Moffet was a problem, just not how much. I’m very sorry we didn’t nip that in the bud. But that’s a story for another day. You both settling into the shop all right?”

The more Issac talked, the more of him appeared. Full-bodied and less hollow, he looked more like a person made of mist, old hopes, and dreams wearing jeans and flannel.

Cassidy nodded automatically, manners on autopilot. Mine were too, for that matter. She jump-started her voice first.

“We are,” she replied softly, one leg fidgeting lightly. “We found a few… er… things we didn’t expect. Nothing Daniel and I can’t sort out.”

A twinkle shimmered through Issac’s transparent eye. “So you found the downstairs office then? Good. Sorry Elias and I left things in such a state. There was quite a ruckus going on and all.”

Issac sampled his pie with a reverence that bordered on holy. With a smile he nodded at the pie, then gestured at us with the fork.

“You both will need to keep up the records. Bestiary, too; it’ll enjoy the attention. Just don’t forget to feed it. Most of all, remember that the office is safe for anything up to no good, like those pens.”

I sat up straight, uneasy melting into suspicion. “Pens? Issac, what do you know about the Waterman pens?”

Issac ate more of his pie, spirit rippling solid as he chuckled. “Not enough. Your uncle was busy with Valeria. I had my hands full with a pack of Nighthunters. Still, we figured they might have been cursed, but weren’t entirely sure. I felt there was something angry in there. Bad.” Slowly, he shook his head, staring off into the air. “You two keep that inkwell on the desk close. Elias was sure it had something to do with the problem.”

Cassidy set her half-eaten pecan pie down on a mahogany coffee table in front of us.

“Issac? You said, ‘none of us.’” She paused, looking more measured than nervous. “Did anyone else know about the pens, office, and everything?”

Issac’s smile reached for his eyes with a hint of mischief.

“Why of course, Cassie.” The dead man tapped the edge of his plate. “Sheriff Branham knew about it all, too.”

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!

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

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. Both pie and questions were Dorian over, leaving Daniel retuning to Moonlight Curiosities for a quiet afternoon with Cassidy. At first, it seemed he might get his wish—until he didn’t. He filled in Cassidy on what he learned, which let them both connect pieces to a very unsettling picture. But Cassidy had news of her own such as a strange visitor looking for a desk and a dinner invitation from Mrs. Adelyne. But the worst was saved for last. When Daniel walked into the shop’s office, he realized to his and Cassidy’s horror, someone might have broken in. The only thing missing? The fountain pen Dorian had given them to study…

November 9, 2024. Moonlight Curiosities Antique Shop. Gloamstead, Alabama. Later that afternoon, feeling like we needed a scorecard for all our troubles…

It was mid-afternoon before the sheriff’s office was done searching the premises with a fine-toothed comb. Unfortunately, the results weren’t encouraging.

Deputy Marla Keene reappeared in the shop’s office, snapping her small notebook closed with a sigh. I set my tablet down, exchanging a concerned look with Cassidy, who was in the padded chair next to me. The deputy’s professional smile was worn at the edges.

“I appreciate your patience,” she told us. Her gray eyes traced the room, surveying for any overlooked mischief. “We’ve looked your place up and down. Nothing was forced or pried open.” The deputy glanced between us, gesturing at the now-empty spot on the shelf. “If we recover anything from the strongbox, we’ll let you know, but honestly… are you sure the pen was taken?”

A sigh tumbled out as I stared at the top of the office desk. Life’s recent twists had gotten old.

“Yes,” I said a little too fast. Cassidy put her hand on mine, clearing her throat.

“Positive,” she said. “It’s on loan from a client who wanted us to find the rest of the matched set. It mostly stayed locked up. The pen’s pretty valuable.”

“Right. The sheriff mentioned you two were doing some research about that.” Deputy Keene nodded as if running the details over a mental spreadsheet. “Well, you’ve sent the security footage. That’ll help a lot. Really… y’all ought to make sure your doors are locked—” She didn’t quite hide a sympathetic wince. “—just to be sure. It’s been a little difficult lately.”

That sent up warning flares in my head. “Difficult? Deputy… are you expecting more trouble?”

Deputy Keene’s eyes shone like old steel. It was the same look I saw in the aftermath of our wedding reception nightmare. She pulled off her brown felt hat, smoothing down the side of her hair; dark brown strands had escaped her tight bun in a fit of stress. It was as if her professional mask had slipped in real time.

“Well, there’s been more odd calls in the last three weeks than in the last three years. Small stuff, mostly. Petty theft. Prowlers. Some idiot even dug up the mayor’s prize roses.”

I shared a dryad-sized, suspicious look with Cassidy. Deputy Keene didn’t seem to notice as she continued.

“Then there was the attack on you both, and the recent murder?” She shook her head, rubbing the brim of her hat. “It adds up in a way I wish it didn’t. Speaking of bad moments, that brings me around to the other thing.”

Deputy Keene smiled thinly, tired but genuine. That made me sit up and pay more attention than anything else.

The deputy shifted her weight, boots shuffling quietly against the wooden floor.

“Sheriff’s worried about you two. He’d asked me to stop by and look in on you both when your call came in.” A tight frown crossed her face as the deputy glanced between us. “Look, sorry about the hard line earlier. I didn’t like it that someone made you two feel unsafe. It’s making Gloamstead feel unsafe. Especially since last week at your wedding… y’know?”

“Thank you,” I said with a long sigh. Cassidy simply gave the deputy a soft smile.

“You’re welcome,” Keene said quietly. “All I’m trying to say is maybe think about taking it easy for a few days? Close the shop, do one of those staycation things.” She shrugged, slipping her hat back on. “Think about it, y’hear? Rest sometimes works magic.”

We saw the deputy out the front as a customer walked in.

Rail-thin with a drawn, tan face and wearing a White Sox jacket, he stepped politely aside with a nothing sort of smile. After a brief, interested glance at the deputy then us, he casually wandered the aisles.

I turned toward the counter when Cassidy touched my arm.

“It’s him,” she whispered, indicating the customer with her eyes. “Caleb Hayes. The desk guy.”

Said desk guy in question roamed the shelves with a casual grace. He had his hands tucked behind his back as if taking score over the inventory. Something about him looked familiar, but I couldn’t place from where.

Cassidy gave me a tiny nod. “Go be charming,” she whispered. “I’ll tag the antique letter sorters in the office.”

I tried not to stalk Mr. Hayes, but failed anyway. After what I felt was an appropriate amount of ‘patient shop owner’ time, I strolled in his direction.

“Anything I can help you with?” I asked warmly.

He turned, giving me a soft smile. Brown-eyed and sporting a sandy-brown brush cut, he reminded me of one of those antique pickers from a reality TV show.

“Yes. I heard you might have a good selection of estate finds? Such as desks?” His accent was thin and barely there. Something from up north. “Have any?”

I gave him a sympathetic look. “Sorry, no. Usually, we wind up with smaller items. Desks?” Words failed as my thoughts tabulated the shop inventory. “Nope. Not even any pending to come in soon. But I can make a few calls, Mr…?”

“Hayes.” He stuck his hand out, and we shook. “I’m hunting antique desks about fifty or so years old; maybe a shade older.” Hayes casually shrugged. “I’m tracing my family’s heritage, and supposedly there is a desk that might have some history to it; worth getting pictures of, I’m told. Roll top desk, I think. Green felt ink blotter. Made of teak wood, maybe? Small brass corner fittings on the inside, with a set of cat scratches along the outer left side.”

The details rang like a bell inside my head, but I swallowed my alarm. Nodding, I waved him over to the checkout counter.

“Let me get your email or number. I’ll ask around, see if I can find anything.”

Email was what it was, but the number confirmed what Cassidy said; he was from way out of town. Maybe the other end of the state or farther. I handed him a card for our shop in return.

“So, the sheriff visit?” Hayes asked, waving the card toward the front door. “Sorry to be nosy, but I hope everything’s all right?”

I pursed my lips, wondering how much to say. Finally, I didn’t see the harm in a little honesty. It was probably my time people-herding in tech coming out in me.

“We had a break-in scare. No one got hurt, but things are a bit tense.” I shrugged, hiding behind the words. “Sheriff’s office has it covered. I’m sure they’ll have a car come around more often now that they’ve got the security footage.”

Hayes nodded, giving me a sympathetic look. “Damn. I’m so sorry. The town here looks so,” he glanced around, “calm and laid back. Well, if you hear anything about the desk, I’d really appreciate it.” With a final wave, he headed out the door.

I was in the shop office before the front bell stopped ringing. Cassidy practically jumped out of the desk chair when I charged inside.

“Cassie, we need to lock up fast for an early lunch,” I panted.

She eased out of her chair, nerves making her human disguise slip. All at once, the whites of her eyes bled into a solid, brownish-black as her human ears sharpened into erect, pointed ones pushing through her hair.

“Why,” she asked, feeling out the word.

I bounced on the balls of my feet, tennis shoes abusing the wooden floor. “Hayes. He was describing, you know—” I swallowed, nerves bubbling.

Cassidy’s eyes went huge. “—the desk downstairs!”

With the shop sign flipped and the front door locked, we hurried down the stairs and invaded the basement. Quickly, we inspected the roll top desk with surgical precision. Corners, rolling cover, and even the underside were checked. Nothing was left to chance.

Minutes later, I stood and ran a hand through my hair, knocking away a layer of dust. “He didn’t get into a lot of details, but I have a bad feeling this is the desk he’s after. It’s like a pattern I can’t stop seeing.”

As Cassidy searched the underside with a flashlight, I glanced around the basement office as frustration bubbled in my chest. It was hard to shake the idea that we were being toyed with in a bad way—the kind that gets people killed. I glanced at our last remaining Waterman pen in its glass case on the shelf. Quietly, I stared holes into it, studying the glimmer of light along the thin turquoise vines covering its shell.

“Daniel!”

I twitched when Cassidy touched my arm, calling my name. “Sorry,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

“You were standing there, just staring off into space.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “You all right, love?”

I squinted at her, the room, and back to her. “Yeah, just… lost in thought. Too much happening.”

She rubbed my arm a little. “Then, maybe what I found under the desk will clear a few things up. I’m just not sure if it’s a good thing.”

Opening her phone, she flipped through a series of pictures, zooming in on the last one. It was a snapshot of a brass plate bolted into the wood beneath the desk. It was tarnished with age, but the raised letters were clearly legible.

“Eugene Altamont, Esq?” I blinked, shaking my head a little. “Altamont… wait. Isn’t that—?”

“Yes,” Cassidy said. “That’s the same name as Professor Martin Altamont who owned all four pens before he died. The one who withered with ink stains.”

I blew out a low sigh with a dozen curse words buried underneath. Motion on the desk caught my eye. I stiffened, watching the greenish-gray mist in the antique inkwell churn like a summer thunderstorm. Worse, it glowed a soft, putrid green like eager pond scum.

“Cassie… why is that glowing?”

She turned around to face the desk, then froze. After a moment, we exchanged a brief look as silence answered my question. Upstairs suddenly felt like a fantastic idea.

“Okay, so Caleb Hayes is connected to Professor Altamont. If he’s telling the truth, he’s related,” I said, closing the secret door as we returned to the supposed safety of the second floor.

“Big if.” Cassidy brushed dust off her sundress. “That sort of explains a little about Hayes, but still leaves the people we saw snooping around and just… everything.” She rolled her eyes with a sigh. “We need to whack some of the weeds we’re in over this; it’s a mess.”

I stood still, running down the calculus in my head about what we knew. “Also, one of the two on our security footage looked way too much like the person who attacked me. They have to be connected to the break-in.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Maybe both break-ins. Also, then there’s that bit about the pens compelling people.”

I studied her for a moment, pursing my lips. “Like maybe Dorian was affected? He was compelled to break in and steal the pen from us, but doesn’t remember? Beloved, I hate that idea so, so much.” I snapped my fingers. “That reminds me—Professor Barnes. He said he might have given a Waterman pen to a student.”

Cassidy winced. “Oh, right. But it’s the weekend, we can’t call him. He won’t be on campus.”

“I know,” I said with a deep breath. “If the suspense doesn’t kill us, we’ll have to wait until Monday. Hopefully, nobody dies before then.”

She walked over, wrapping her arms around me. I replied in kind.

“No dying,” she told me with a small smile. “Not allowed. It’s against the rules.”

I chuckled. “Fair, but I won’t rule out nervous hives. Besides, I’m sure all this with the pen and Professor Barnes is probably a wild goose chase.”

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!

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

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. A conversation over pie opens doors and memories as Daniel and Dorian talk over recent events. But in the middle of the deductions, Daniel gets a hint at the bloodleech’s true motives—which, for now, seemed surprisingly honest. The two compared notes and clues, giving Daniel the hint of a picture he didn’t like at all. As Dorian left to pursue his own angle of questions in his own way, Daniel returned to the shop for peace of mind and life, or so he hoped…

November 9, 2024. Moonlight Curiosities Antique Shop. Gloamstead, Alabama. Catching up with your better half, only to find out you’ve fallen behind…

The brass bell above the shop door was a cheerful distraction from the uncanny gloom that rode my thoughts. It was a homey chime that promised nothing sharper than a quiet afternoon with my fantastic wife.

Honestly, it was the right tonic for what ailed me.

I felt the tension bleed out of my shoulders at the sight of the shop’s brass-and-wood interior. The door had barely shut when Cassidy spun past in a blue sundress, humming a pop tune I almost recognized. She was armed with silver candlesticks and a box of haunted house salt and pepper shakers. With a grin and a quick kiss mid-stride, she danced over to the shelves, storing the candlesticks and box with the care of a museum curator.

“There you are, trouble,” she teased. “Did you find Dorian or have to lure him out with bait?”

“More like tracked him down on the way to bait.” I stuffed my hands into my jeans pockets. “For future reference, pie works really well on Dorian.”

Cassidy snorted, brushing a strand of loose auburn hair out of her face. “Meat pies from Miss Milly’s?” She adjusted the candlesticks into a decorative double row on the shelf.

“No,” I grinned. “It was sweet potato pie. Still worked, though.” My grin wilted as I felt the specter of the conversation with Dorian shade my thoughts. “I learned a lot. Maybe even more than I bargained for.”

She looked over her shoulder at me with a puzzled expression, shoulders tense like a boxer expecting the bell. “That sounds dark.” Her eyes narrowed as she turned to look me over. “Okay, real dark. Damn, nothing’s ever simple with a bloodleech. What’d he say?”

I rubbed the back of my neck, hissing out a tight sigh. “Let me start a little earlier. I headed out to the old Rawls place, hoping to catch him there. He wasn’t, but I saw that he had another break-in. Glass was knocked out of the second floor onto the grass in the backyard.” I frowned at the memory, then raised my eyebrows at her. “I snooped around some and found footprints in the back hedge. They wound through the graveyard and into the cypress trees. I… er… found a clearing back there thick with withered squirrels, footprints, and some torn cloth.”

Cassidy’s face was a freckled mask of worry. “What? Did you tell Dorian any of this?”

“Yep. I did. He admitted someone broke in again, but he doesn’t know why. The rest was new to him.”

Her mask slipped from worry to green-eyed suspicion. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Positive,” I replied, then pursed my lips. “He admitted there had been a lot of bad blood between himself and Valeria. It’s at the heart of why he wants to help us; partly to dance on her grave, but also to pay some mysterious favor forward.”

Cassidy folded her arms. “I don’t entirely trust Dorian, but I trust you.”

I shook my head. “The withered squirrels really bother me, Cassie. Also, I remembered something about the attic attack. That ink stain I saw? It was fresh.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Fresh?” She waved a hand nervously at me. “Dead squirrels are bad enough, but the fresh ink changes things, Daniel. That pen could have been there when Fred Spivey was still alive.”

My expression mirrored her worry. “Exactly. Dorian and I talked that out a bit. If the pen was there when Mr. Spivey was alive, whoever attacked me might have hit Mr. Spivey. Then the curse on the pen might have killed him off.”

Her worry lines doubled. “If that’s true, you walked in not long after the murder actually happened.” Her emerald eyes went distant, tracking through the details. “But you found the safe closed without the pen. Sheriff Branham didn’t mention Spivey having a pen.” Her eyes locked on mine. “So, the killer was trying to kill you because you found the safe? That doesn’t make sense. They could’ve ducked out when you were busy.”

I shook my head a little. “No idea. There was plenty of time for it, too. I got attacked once the safe was open, not before. It wasn’t quick to open.”

Cassidy’s fingers curled nervously at her sides. Had she been in her human-bat form, I’d have expected her ears to be frantically twitching. Nerves won her over, and she paced.

“Okay, the dried-out squirrels are bad. Still, there’s a lot of things that do that. I’ve heard bloodleeches will if they’re desperate.” Cassidy’s frown darkened. “Daniel, I really don’t like this. It feels like that person who attacked you was after something in the safe.”

I nodded a little, then shrugged. “There was a lot more in that safe than just the ink stain.”

Cassidy fixed me with a worried look, then stopped pacing halfway down an aisle. “Yeah, but if the ink was fresh, that means that pen went somewhere. If the killer got the pen, why break in twice?” She pursed her lips. “Did you notice anything else at Dorian’s place?”

For a moment I glanced around, sifting my memory for any loose details.

“The bushes,” I said. “In the clearing, I could’ve sworn I saw some thorn bushes shiver. They didn’t sway with the breeze but on their own. There weren’t any living animals nearby, either. Right when it happened, I had a really bad feeling hit me, so I bolted for the car.”

Cassidy’s worried frown went fierce and protective. “Dryad. That had to have been a dryad. Most of the ones around here are holly or kudzu dryads, but still…” She shook her head. “That doesn’t explain the squirrels. Dryads don’t eat things in that way.”

“Well, it wasn’t Dorian. He said he doesn’t eat squirrels.” I blinked, then a sigh ran after it. “Cassie, when did this turn into the eating habits of dryads versus bloodleeches? We’re supposed to be tracking down a set of old fountain pens.”

She walked down the aisle and rested a hand on my arm.

“When people started dying, and a certain odd bloodleech named Dorian Callix asked for help.”

“There’s that.” I snorted lightly, pinching the bridge of my nose. Then a sudden thought hit me. “Wait… what if Fred Spivey pulled the pen out of the safe but dropped it when he was attacked? That attic’s a huge mess.”

Cassidy tilted her head and squinted into the middle distance. “Maybe. If that’s true, the sheriff’s office might have it as evidence… which, I doubt they’d tell us if they found it.”

I raised my eyebrows at that. “Speaking of which, what do we tell Sheriff Branham? He asked us to let him know if we found anything.”

Silence, save for the ticking grandfather clock, rushed to answer. I decided that was a problem for future us and changed the subject.

“So, um, find anything else in the office downstairs?“

Whether by accident or purpose, the air felt lighter as Cassidy smiled, tugging me by the arm to the front counter. One of my uncle’s journals lay open on top.

“Yes! Daniel, just—” she shook her head “—oh my God, your uncle, I swear. He wrote a lot about Valeria. I’m trying hard not to read between the lines and think they dated for a bit…”

My right eye twitched as I swore I felt my brain reboot. Once we reached the counter, I put my face in my hands.

“Beloved, I did not… just not… need to know that.”

She gently squeezed my arm and giggled lightly, more with nerves than humor.

“Okay, fair.” She flushed and not-so-subtly flipped a few pages in the journal. “Anyway, I think this has to do with that Bestiary of the Uncanny on his desk.” She grimaced at my pained look, wiggling a hand at me. “Now, wait. I’m going somewhere with this. The Bestiary is old; really old. It already had information about bloodleeches in there, but it looked like it had been updated. Two notes were added after Uncle Elias went missing.” She licked her lips. “Daniel, it wasn’t his handwriting.”

“After? Wait. What?” I echoed in stunned surprise, then shook my head. “All right, so someone else knows about the room. Was there anything written there after we changed the locks?”

“No.” The word hung like an omen in the air.

I drew a breath. Thoughts rotated in my head, snapping into place. The whole thing painted one hell of a dire picture. I read the entries Cassidy pointed out twice; my jaw clenched the more I read.

“He could have been talking to Meredith Rawls,” I said thoughtfully. “It would fit with what we found in our storage unit about the pens. But the timeline is wrong because Meredith had passed away by the time he wrote this.”

Cassidy tapped her fingers against the counter.

“Speaking of pens, had a couple of visitors today while you were out. Mrs. Adelyne came by again, really beside herself with worry. She wanted to know if we were all right.” I blinked in surprise as Cassidy added, “She said her husband sent her to check on us.”

“But she’s a widow,” I said slowly, feeling out the shape of the words. “Didn’t her husband die—”

“—years ago, yeah,” Cassidy finished for me. “Died out in the bayou late one night. She, ah, invited us tomorrow night for dinner.” She flushed again. “Given all that’s happened, I agreed. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to check on her. She’s always been really nice.”

I nodded. “Makes sense. Who was the other visitor?”

Cassidy shrugged. “An antique buyer. Sort of a customer. I first thought he was from over in Craigbrook, but thinking back, I’m not so sure. He smelled and sounded human to me, but I think he was from way out of town. Thin guy, a little younger than us. He was really eager to know about any antique desks for sale. Said his name was Caleb Hayes.”

“Hayes?” I frowned a little. “Dorian mentioned somebody named Hayes. That’s… oh, I’m not sure I like that.”

“It could be nothing—”

The bell at the front door interrupted Cassidy with a cheerful jingle as our usual mail carrier, Emily Spenser, grinned and waved. She swept inside, a weathered mail satchel slung over one shoulder.

“Package!” she called cheerfully. For Emily, that was her usual approach to the day.

I exchanged the usual pleasantries, then signed for the large box. Emily departed with another wave, as I headed back to Cassidy.

“A pair of Victorian brass letter sorters,” I explained. “I’ll put them in the office so we can inventory them later.”

Cassidy nodded, looking thoughtful. “Love? Speaking of the office. I was thinking… maybe we should keep Dorian’s pen downstairs?” She paused. “You know… because of Dorian’s break-ins.”

I stopped at the office door, glanced down at my uncle’s journal, then at her. She shrugged slightly in quiet reply.

“Okay. I’ll get it. Out of sight, out of mind,” I said with a smile, opening the door.

I froze two steps inside.

The strongbox on the shelf was open, and the pen—the only thing I had in there—was gone. There was just a small ink stain at the bottom.

“Cassie!”

We searched the office twice. Windows, doors, and anything with a lock at least four times. Just for good measure, we even checked downstairs in the hidden office. Nothing turned up except panic. Finally, Cassidy and I huddled behind the desk in the shop’s main office, reviewing outside security footage from earlier that day and into yesterday evening.

The moment we dreaded happened last night when we were in the hidden basement.

“That thin guy in the blue jacket and cap… it looks like he knows where the cameras are,” I muttered, leaning closer to the tablet’s screen. “Doesn’t show how he got in. I wish the camera had caught his face.”

As the man vanished around the corner, a second figure slipped into view. I instantly went rigid, staring wide-eyed at the screen. Cassidy clutched my arm in a death grip. It was the figure from the attic—tall, impossibly lean, wearing a long dark coat and dark hat, covering its features.

The most we could see were those horrifically pale, thin fingers.

“Cassie…” I whispered, glancing at her.

She had her phone out to call the sheriff’s office before I finished saying her name.

“Yes. This is Cassidy Hawthorne. We’ve got a serious problem…”

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!

Buy Me a Coffee!

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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. Questions were popping up like daisies, but as mysterious as the hidden office was, it lacked answers. Daniel and Cassidy knew just where to find some of those answers—the bloodleech, Dorian Callix. The trick was tracking him down. No small task by any means, even in a small rural town like Goamstead. Where to start? Why Dorian’s old house next to the the graveyard…

November 9, 2024. Magnolia Cafe. Gloamstead, Alabama. Just a spoonful of pie makes the bitter truth go down…

I could have said there was too much, but I was afraid even the summary would need cliff notes. Sitting back, I blew out a sigh, then snagged a bite of my pie to steady my nerves. It didn’t work, but the pie was good.

“All right.” I gently set down my fork. “Like I said, we think something about the pens is killing people—has been for a little under a century. Henril Vanil stood out because he’s the earliest record we found of one person with all four Waterman pens.”

Dorian’s eyes had shifted back to a very human gray. They also sparkled with delight like an unsupervised kid in a candy store. He bit off some of his own pie, then waved the spoon at me.

“Who died in a delightfully interesting way, which makes me think this curse is well over a century old. Maybe even something transferred into the pens.” He paused. “So, all the victims were withered?”

I frowned, wondering if it said something about Dorian that he found ‘death by withering’ interesting? For that matter, I wondered what it said about me, since I agreed with him.

“At least all the ones we’ve read about so far.” I paused to eat some pie and recheck my thoughts. “Yes. They’ve all been withered like an old mummy with ink-stained fingers, like Henry Vanil.”

Dorian slowly nodded, staring into the middle distance. I swore I saw the calculus running through his mind about both curses and pens. He took a delicate bite of his pie, then arched an eyebrow at me.

“What did he do?”

“Oh, a bookkeeper.” The pie and conversation seemed to untie a knot inside me. A sip of coffee to chase down the pie helped me sort fact from guesswork. “The pens more or less vanished for a time, then two resurfaced later in 1977 here in Gloamstead. It was at the estate sale for Professor Martin Altamont, a physics professor.”

A pause settled over us as a pattern materialized in my mind. The murmur of nearby cafe conversation filled the air, chased by a puff of fall breeze. It hovered in my mind’s eye like a will-o’-the-wisp from the bayou, just out of reach.

Dorian nodded, eating more pie as he squinted at the air. “If an estate sale, that’d be where your uncle came in.”

“Yes,” I replied warily. There wasn’t much use in hiding that, or how Cassidy and I discovered it. Now, Uncle Elias’ hidden office was a different story entirely. It felt better to keep quiet about that part. “My uncle had them listed on his inventory for a while. It’s why we came over to your house to search—”

Then it dawned on me. The Waterman pens. Ink. There was fresh ink on the cloth I found in the hidden attic safe. I remembered what Cassidy had read from the journals downstairs. About when the pens would leak and why. I stared at my half-eaten pie in horror, then met Dorian’s gaze.

“… a suitable victim,” I murmured.

Dorian’s grin was like twisted sunshine.

“Why, Daniel, I’m flattered! But I like to think I’m more careful than that at my age,” he replied, taking another bite of pie.

I drew a small breath, silently cursing myself for getting lost in my thoughts.

“No, that’s not what I mean.” I shook my head.

Words caught on my tongue. How much to tell Dorian warred with what was safe to tell him. I cleared my throat, lightly tapping my fork against my plate. One question might finally settle what clawed at me.

“Dorian.” Another pause crept in, holding the fall air hostage. “You said the other evening that you’re on mine and Cassidy’s side here. That you just want to help.” I let out a slow breath. “Why are you so hot to help us? Sure, you’re fascinated by the pens. But it’s almost like you’ve been throwing yourself at us at every turn. What’s your stake in this?”

It was a gamble. Dorian could lie to my face right now, but he could also come clean. I hoped for the latter.

Dorian looked away from me and the cafe, gray eyes clouded. A serious expression wiped away every trace of the morbid grin and quick remarks.

“You know, Daniel, life doesn’t play favorites. It’s quite fair in the pain it gives out.” The bloodleech slowly shook his head. “Humans complain about life being hard. Humanity doesn’t have that market cornered.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but stopped. He was going somewhere with this, and it felt heavy. Important.

“Daniel, hard as it may be to believe, I meant what I said the other night about finding a peaceful middle ground.” The bloodleech idly gestured at nothing with his spoon. “I’ve a sordid, bloody past with Valeria. Nothing I want to get into. Mind you, some cuts linger more than others.” He huffed bitterly, looking over at me. “We were allies because neither of us could find a way to successfully murder the other one. You know, I even took an ax to her once?” Dorian lightly snorted, looking away with a disgusted grimace. “She got better.”

I nodded. “So, helping us is a way to dance on her grave?”

He chuckled deep in his chest.

“Maybe a little,” he admitted with the hint of a malicious grin. “But mostly I’m honest about wanting to help. It’s letting me pay a favor forward for an unexpected moment of generosity a long time ago.”

While he talked, I saw shadows bleed over his eyes until they were solid black orbs. No one seemed to notice but me. Oddly, I also wasn’t worried. There was something in his expression. Not a predator’s stare, but a moment of genuine sadness as he studied something I couldn’t see, like an old wound. It struck me that some monsters have fangs; others have corporate smiles and a mortgage. Maybe grief was the real monster that hunted us all.

I let the moment slide past us in respectful silence.

Once the quiet turned awkward, I ate a little more pie, then pulled the square of torn black cloth from my pocket. I rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger before putting it on the table next to Dorian. His eyes melted back to human gray as he arched an eyebrow.

“Have you seen that material before?” I asked, tapping the cloth.

Dorian picked it up, turning it over in his fingers.

“Can’t say I have.” He gave it a sniff, then returned it to me. “Where did you find it?”

“Your backyard,” I explained, gesturing at him with the cloth. “Well, really behind it. A little grove back in the cypress trees.”

He frowned, looking a little confused, so I pocketed the scrap and continued.

“I found some footprints in the hedges at the back of your yard. That led me through the graveyard, then into the cypress trees behind them.” I sipped my coffee. “There’s a small clearing back there. I’m no detective, but there’s something wrong with that spot. That’s where I found the torn cloth. I also found four withered squirrels that looked as if they were sucked dry.”

Dorian leaned forward on the table with interest, the pie almost forgotten. “Oh my, this sounds delightful! I’ve not wandered out there myself, what with being busy getting moved in. Sucked dry? Well, I’m not one for fresh squirrel. Too hard to catch and way too gamey. But as for being a detective, you’re doing it right in my book. Did you find anything else?”

I considered mentioning the holly and other thorn bushes shivering on their own, but decided against it for the moment.

“Nothing too interesting, but I’d watch where you step out there,” I warned him. “It’s right at the edge of the wetlands. Speaking of interesting, remember when I told the sheriff about an ink-stained cloth I found that hidden safe?”

Dorian nodded, eating the last of his pie before chasing it with some coffee.

“I remember,” he said. “Damn frustrating, if you ask me. Says one of the pens might have been there, and I missed my chance to grab it.”

Frowning, I lightly tapped my fork against the dessert plate. “Maybe. I think it also means the pen might have been there before Fred Spivey died.” Thoughts churned in my head, pieces locking together. “Perhaps even when he died.” I narrowed my eyes at Dorian. “There’s obviously someone after your pens. I’m also wondering if Fred Spivey found the pen, this other person tried to kill him, and the curse finished Fred off.”

To my surprise, Dorian didn’t try to turn this into a chance for more dark humor. Instead, he sat back in his chair with his coffee, scowling into nothing.

“But the hidden safe was closed again, just with no pen inside. After that, you were attacked.” He thoughtfully rubbed a finger along the edge of his coffee cup. “So the killer might have the pen. That’s a worrisome wrinkle, but it makes a lot of sense. It doesn’t explain the break-ins I’ve had into my attic, though. Why bother coming back?” He pursed his lips slightly. “Have you told the sheriff your idea yet?”

I shook my head. “No, not yet. I’m… er… trying to figure out how to explain, ‘Sheriff Branham? I went and played amateur detective and found something.’ He might not like it; authorities get cranky about that.”

Dorian chuckled. “Human authorities do get that way. Well—”

His phone vibrated in his coat, interrupting the conversation. Dorian pulled it out, then gave me a tiny nod before answering.

“Kyle, good to hear from you. Still on your way?” A pause, then Dorian sipped his coffee and set it down. His eyes cut over to me. “Good, good. Once you’ve settled into Gloamstead, I’ve some people I want you to meet. Thank you for letting me know that you’ve got things wrapped up with that Hayes fellow, and are heading down. See you when you’re here.” He ended the call, dropping the phone into an inner pocket. “Pardon about that. It was my accountant, the one I want you and Cassidy to meet. He should be here by next Wednesday, the thirteenth.”

“He’s the one with the other Waterman pen you own?” I asked, a little concerned.

“The same. Once he’s here, we’ll check if he’s feeling well and get the pen back from him. I don’t want to lose a good accountant.” Dorian tapped the edge of his ceramic cup. “Also… those squirrels, that cloth. That reminds me of something I read in Valeria’s journals. I’ll make a few calls and bring her journals by. The three of us can dig through them, if you think you’re up to that.”

I ate the last of my pie, wrestling with the ugly idea of reading the private journals of a monster. Finally, I nodded.

“Have to be,” I admitted. “The way all this is going, I’ve a funny feeling it’ll get worse if we don’t.”

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!

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

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. Caught between wreck, ruin, and a fate worse that death, Doctor Thorne tries a desperate gamble to buy time. The ploy worked but pitted her against her own personal nightmare: Caleb Rourke. It was a battle of wits, grit, and blood that came down to who understood their own Gift best! Which, in the end, left the pirate captain on shore while Rebekah escaped with her companions back to the safety of the HMS Dawn Javelin. A safety that was both fleeting, and temporary; mere calm before the real storm…

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Six hundred feet off Portlethen Bay, Scotland, aboard the HMS Dawn Javelin, healing the hurt among the dogs of war…

I dove from the hatch as a cannon shot from Poseidon’s Pearl nearly ripped my head off. A storm of shattered wood lunged at me as I went flat. The world spun, smoke clawing at my lungs. I blinked. One moment I was on my face. The next I was partly upright against the door frame. My ears rang from the abuse of combat as Blake grabbed the next wounded sailor in line. The medical station had grown hot; the air thick with the stink of stale sweat and old blood.

“Inside.” I coughed against the back of my wrist. The blood-song was like a symphony. With a deep breath, I focused on the loudest notes. They were usually the people hurt the worst. “Get him in the chair,” I said, already using a knife to cut open the man’s sleeve, then widen the hole in his shirt. “Bullet graze. Arm and left side. Deep, but not serious. Hold still.”

The midshipman, a dark-haired young man barely old enough to shave, nodded; skin pale as a sheet. He watched me wide-eyed while I cleaned the wound, then sang with his blood. The wound knitted obediently. Blake already had a strip of bandage ready when I reached for it.

“I can’t decide if Caleb’s pirates are bad shots, bloodthirsty lunatics, or what,” I grumbled. “How ugly is it on deck?”

The Javelin shook again, and I patted the nearby wooden hull out of reflex. It never hurt to let the ship know I was thinking of her. Pops knocked against her wood from small arms fire.

Blake reached over to finish the bandage while I grabbed a bottle of willow bark extract.

“Rough,” the Scotsman replied with a ragged breath. “We’re a hospital dirigible, not a warship.”

I tapped some of the yellowish-brown powder into a cup of water, mixed it, then shoved it into the injured sailor’s hands.

“Drink.” I ordered him, then looked past Blake to the way out of my medical station. “Damn Caleb Rourke to the backside of hell. I should’ve ended him.”

Blake checked the sailor’s bandage once more. Satisfied it was secure, he took the cup from the young man before ushering him out.

“Ease off any lifting if you can,” he told him, then shot a sour look at me. “Ach, Doctor? That’s a load of pish if I’ve ever heard it! It’s not who you are.”

“All I’m saying is if I had killed him, maybe we wouldn’t be in a slugfest with a pirate ship!” I threw my arms up in frustration. A growing headache and shoulder pain suggested that was a bad idea. My stubbornness told them both to go to hell. “Damn it, Blake! Like you said—we’re a hospital dirigible, not a brawler!”

A roar of cannons from the deck above us punctuated my outburst. Another thunderous peal replied; obviously Caleb’s ship returning fire. Shouts rose in sudden alarm. Blake and I exchanged a sharp look; my gut tightened.

“Confound it,” I muttered, bolting from the medical station.

I’m the ship’s doctor. As such, that was normally my station during a fight. But a hospital dirigible shouldn’t be in a battle, so nothing about this was normal in the least. I reached the hatch at a dead run, scaling the ladder to the deck. Above, the Javelin was a nightmare of ruined wood and a haggard crew caught in mid-motion of a bloody fight. Lieutenant Angwin, gunpowder-stained from head to boots, noticed me first.

“Doctor? You shouldn’t be on deck!”

“I’ve got her, Leftenant,” called a familiar voice. I tore my eyes away from the horror, looking into the brassy metal eyes of Corporal Maddock. A thin smile crossed my face.

“Babysitting isn’t required,” I told him with a faint edge to my words.

“But bodyguarding certainly is, given who we’re fighting,” Blake said, appearing behind me. “Speaking of… where’d the bloody bastard get to?”

A lookout shouted, pointing just off the bow. I glanced that way in time to see Caleb’s ship, the Poseidon’s Pearl, brush the bottom edge of a gray storm cloud with its gasbag, then vanish. A fresh wave of alarmed shouts drowned the deck, thicker than the gossamer fog of gunpowder and smoke.

“Gone.” Maddock shifted his rifle to his offhand, pointing at the clouds. “Brushed that storm cloud and just… gone.”

I squinted at the clouds, but I didn’t look with my eyes. A dozen songs of the blood hummed around me, some fast, others slow. I memorized who on deck needed me soon, but turned my attention outward, away from the ship. Concentrating. Listening. Guided by my Gift.

Then I heard it. A seductive song like poisoned honey.

“There!” I yelled, following the song and pointing off starboard. Then the song grew louder—much louder. Nearly against our hull. “Confound it! Leftenant! We’re about to be boarded!”

“Where?” Angwin’s eyes snapped hard to starboard, rifle at the ready.

Caleb’s ship appeared out of the mist like a specter from hell. Gasbag tight, the pirate’s sails rode the wind. The second the Pearl appeared, grapple lines shot out in a swarm. Some latched onto our rigging, others the hull.

“Repel boarders!” Captain Vane yelled from the wheelhouse. “Cut the lines!”

“Bayonets! Make each shot count!” Angwin ordered his marines.

I retreated to a nearby stack of barrels for cover. Maddock stood out in the open beside me like a living metal fact of life.

Blake darted off, returning with a knife and a boarding ax. “How did they do that?”

I snatched the knife from him, testing the weight. “A Gifted. Has to be.”

Maddock hunched as two bullets pinged off his skin, slamming into the wood nearby. For every line that was cut, the pirates threw two more. Wood and rigging creaked as the Javelin was hauled alongside the Pearl. Hull slammed against hull, and it began.

The battle turned ugly in seconds. Everyone fought; no one quit. Pirates swarmed over the rails while Caleb stalked behind them. The bastard used his Gift at every turn like a knife to the mind. Crew hesitated. Orders were confused or mangled. Panic spread like wildfire.

If I said my blood turned cold, I’d have lied. Because all I saw was red. Blood-red.

“Come on!” I darted out from cover and ran right at Caleb. Maddock and Blake were on my heels.

We charged amidships. Maddock backhanded pirates aside, while Blake was a demon with the ax. I kept my eyes on Caleb Rourke.

He must have seen us coming, as he turned in our direction. Rourke snatched a knife from his belt. Maddock slapped it out of his hand. Quick as a wink, Rourke locked eyes with the tall corporal.

“You’re falling through.” Rourke’s words sliced the air like a hot knife. Maddock’s metal eyes clouded over. With a cry, he tripped over his own boots, falling to the deck in a panic. “You can’t breathe,” the pirate added.

The corporal choked, wide-eyed.

“Maddock!” I shouted.

Rourke swung around to face me. He glanced at the knife in my hand before meeting my eyes.

“That for me?” His words wrapped around my mind like soft silk. I shook my head, but that voice, those eyes felt everywhere at once. “Bring it here, Rebekah. Then follow me aboard. We’ll work things out in private.”

I shook my head, hearing the blood-song around me as my Gift pulled me in all directions at once. It was a weak shield at best, but I clung to it.

“No,” I replied, then hummed along with the blood I heard nearby.

Rourke tilted his head, holding out a hand. “That trick won’t work twice. I’m not wounded.”

Blake suddenly appeared out of the crowd behind Caleb.

“You could be!” The Scotsman slashed at Caleb with the ax.

Rourke yelped, darting aside at the last moment. His coat suffered the cost, ax cutting a gash in the fine fabric.

“Stop!” he commanded Blake.

The Scotsman grinned as he tapped the side of his head. “Sorry, what? Must have blinked when I put beeswax in my ears!”

Mesmers couldn’t befuddle more than one or two at best with their Gift; even if the attempt failed. Maddock was one. Blake was two.

I charged Rourke.

The point of my knife sliced through that fancy blue long coat like butter. Blood slicked the blade.

“Care for a song, sailor?” I snarled. Then I sang at the top of my lungs.

Caleb screamed.

The raid stumbled. Faltered. Then turned into a full rout as our people got their bearings. Pirates are brave against the weak and the wounded. Suddenly, we were anything but that. Caleb’s pirates broke and ran.

They didn’t get far.

Our Royal Marines swarmed the pirates, save for Maddock, who snatched up Caleb Rourke. As he did, I sliced a snatch of cloth from the pirate’s shirt and gagged him straightaway.

“Hobbles his Gift slightly,” I explained.

Lieutenant Angwin nodded, then stared daggers at Rourke.

“Good to know. Corporal? Take the pirate below.”

Maddock nodded to the lieutenant but spared me a single, brief look. Concern glimmered in those metal eyes. I nodded. It was going to be fine.

“Ma’am,” he said, voice layered with more than I had time to guess about.

“Rebekah!” Rourke yelled from around his gag.

Maddock hauled the struggling pirate along by the coat collar, but Rourke held his ground long enough to give me a rough, wicked smile.

“Reunions are so hard,” he mumbled through the cloth.

Blake glanced at me with concern, and I frowned. I knew one of Caleb’s damn ploys when I saw it.

“Watch him, he’s—!”

My words caught in my throat as a ghostly gray mist swirled around Caleb like a fast-rising fog. A knife appeared out of nothing, blade slicing through the pirate’s long coat. It slashed Maddock’s hand, which did nothing more than awaken his Gift again. Maddock still jerked his hand back out of instinct.

As the blade fell, my world shattered. Not because of Caleb’s Gift; he was still gagged. It was because of who saved him.

Thin, with long brown hair pulled back in a braid, I’d know that face anywhere. It was a face I grew up seeing across the table most nights, at least until I left to join the Royal Navy.

It was my sister.

She shot a final glare in my direction before they vanished from sight, giving Caleb a wistful, adoring look.

Blake and Maddock were at my side in an instant.

“Ma’am? Who was that?” the corporal asked.

“She’s the Gifted!” Blake exclaimed, glancing around. “Leftenant Angwin!” he shouted and ran off.

“Doctor?” Maddock tried again. Then he lowered his voice, professional veneer slipping aside. “Are you all right?”

I clasped a hand over my mouth, staring holes where my sister had stood. Water welled in the corner of my eyes. Words wouldn’t come; just wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not yet.

Caleb had my sister. She was helping him.

A frantic search turned up nothing until I found myself lost in my work. Wounded followed wounded until I knew I’d hear blood-songs in my dreams. Hours later, by the time I was done, scuttlebutt among the crew claimed a jolly boat had fallen off the pirate’s airship. Word was it looked empty, and we were too low on ammunition to waste the shot.

Empty was a lie. I knew it in my heart.

By late afternoon, the worst of the wounded were confined to their bunks to rest. Others worked double duty as the Javelin got underway with repairs. She put down in the waters off Portlethen Bay. Those who could be spared took a jolly boat over to fishing town to help get things in order.

I leaned on the rail, staring at nothing with a tin of dried fish in my hands. A now-familiar four-legged figure squatted barely a foot away. The mottled gray-green Llamhigyn y Dŵr shifted its feet, looking for all the world like a frog-faced meatloaf with wings. It tilted its head with a curious expression, eyes darting between me and the tin.

“You’ll get too plump to fly, you know?” I said, tossing a bit of dried fish in its direction.

The water leaper caught it midair with its tongue, then happily chewed. An odd sound, between a rumble and the faint groan of a spent bagpipe, filled the air. I shook my head, then tossed another bit of fish. A shadow brushed over me, shading me from the afternoon sun.

“Ma’am.”

I gave Maddock a weary smile.

“Corporal,” I replied. The leaper tapped its feet against the wood, which earned it a bit more fish. “Sent to check after me?”

The tall Welshman leaned against the railing next to me.

“Mr. McLaren’s idea.” Maddock cleared his throat. “Told me you’d likely not rest as you should, and I needed to stay nearby in case you needed anything. Leftenant Angwin thought it was a good idea. Said you were too valuable to leave wandering about… er… without an escort.”

I wasn’t sure who I needed to glare at, but I decided to figure that out later. Instead, I nodded.

“So, I suppose I owe some explanation about what happened there at the end?” I asked.

Maddock didn’t say a word, just found the nearby clouds on the horizon fascinating. Though the flush on his cheeks told me everything. I pulled on another sad smile, then fed the leaper more fish.

“The young woman who freed Caleb?” I paused, feeling out the words. They tasted bitter. “That was my little sister, Maeve. She was supposed to be home. We were close as girls, but after my Gift appeared, coupled with Caleb, things went brittle. When I left for the Royal Navy, she was with our parents near Galway.” My voice cracked. “I never knew she was Gifted. A Fadeborn of all things, under Caleb’s sway.”

“Ma’am? I don’t know that one.”

“Fadeborn?” I smiled bitterly. “Most don’t. Another surgeon mentioned it to me. Half-rumor, half-ghost. Usually can take things with them, though a ship is a stretch.” I stared into the middle distance. “It probably almost killed her.”

“Captain Vane knows?” he asked.

“He does,” I sighed. “That won’t be the last we see of Caleb Rourke either. We’re a hospital dirigible. He steals bodies to sell.”

Corporal Maddock gave me a shy smile that made his face light up ever so slightly.

“Well, next time we’ll be ready. Hopefully, free your sister, too.”

I returned the smile.

“Next time,” was all I could say, then tossed the last bit of fish.

The Llamhigyn y Dŵr neatly caught it and chewed. Then, with a last bagpipe-like bleat, took flight. It tipped a wing in our direction, then dove for the sea.

“Next time,” I echoed, staring at the clouds, memories, and maybe tomorrow. “Maeve, where are you?”

Like I always say, all stories have a beginning, middle, and an end. This is the conclusion of Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies. For everyone reading, thank you from the bottom of my heart, and thank you for inviting me to do this! This… all of this… has been a great ride. I hope everyone has enjoyed it as much as I have. Like I always do, I dedicate this story to everyone who read along.

Now, is this the end?

Well, I say with a grin and a wink, who knows?

The future’s always uncertain, which is probably why I won’t say “the end”. Instead, I’ll just say… that’s all for now.

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. A trip into the wall, turned into a long flight of stairs to a hidden basement. The hidden office was filled with books and knick-knacks of questionable lineage. On a roll top desk, Daniel and Cassidy uncover recent journals and more by Daniel’s uncle. Clear evidence that not only did Elias Hawthorne know about the supernatural goings on, but actively tracked it… along with elements that may not have wanted to be tracked at all. Which brought the couple back around to their employer, Dorian Callix, and how much did he—or did he not—know?

November 9, 2024. There and back again in Gloamstead, Alabama. Sometimes it takes a piece of sweet potato pie to cut fact from fiction.

The next morning we talked the idea to death over breakfast and coffee; resurrected it, then murdered it again. Tracking down Dorian was the best way to get some answers, even if ‘best’ was miles away from ‘good’.

Then there was the shop, and my uncle’s hidden office below it. One kept a roof over us. The other might help unravel this mess without us winding up dead—or worse. After all, sleepy town or not, in Gloamstead, there’s always worse.

So naturally, we split up.

I took Dorian. Cassidy took the underground office and our shop. If I hadn’t found him by noon, we’d swap. Which was how I wound up on a lonely drive that wanted to be more pothole than road.

Gravel crunched under my tires like brittle bone as I slowed to a stop in front of the weathered Rawls’ house. The old Victorian home watched me approach with a dead-eyed stare. Not to be outdone, I stared back, daring it to try something. A crow on the porch railing chatted with the light wind off the graveyard.

When nothing leaped out at me, I drew a long breath, stepping out of the car. The crow tilted its head, letting out a squawk.

“Thanks for the commentary,” I told the crow. It cawed back, ruffling its feathers, apparently pleased at being noticed.

The only car in front of the house was mine, which made me wonder if Dorian had a car. I didn’t see one the other night. But a dim yellow light wept around the living room’s sheer curtains, suggesting life—or Dorian—might be home. I crossed the dark, damp grass to the porch, then knocked on its whitewashed front door.

No one answered.

“Dorian?” Still no reply.

I peered in the front parlor window, then prowled along the porch to the amusement of the bird. It cawed again as a larger one joined the first to watch my one-man show. Finally, I threw up my arms and sighed.

“Damn, where is he?” I asked aloud. The idea of searching Dorian’s attic crawled into my mind. I frowned, glancing at the door, then nearby windows, as if testing them with a look.

“Attic’s a bad idea, but maybe Dorian wouldn’t mind if I looked around the grounds,” I said to the crows. They didn’t offer any comment.

I walked the length of the wraparound porch until I reached the back. Crabgrass off the porch’s back steps crunched under my hiking shoes. I crouched down—it was broken glass. Frowning, I carefully examined the shards, then looked over my shoulder. There was a boarded-up, broken window on the second floor.

“That wasn’t there the other night,” I mused. “That window’s in sight of the attic access. Cassidy and I would’ve noticed it smashed open.” Then I paused, narrowing my eyes at the memory. “Dorian would’ve, too. All he said was that a window was open.”

I stood, wiping my hands on my jeans, as I looked around. The Rawls’ home came with a spacious backyard that complemented the building’s Italianate style. It wasn’t that wide, but it was certainly long. Like the house, the yard had seen brighter, better days.

Formerly manicured hedges braced the property, partially obscuring both the cemetery and the nearby bayou’s cypress trees. A small sitting area with a rusted bench and a round, mold-stained fountain with a leering satyr was a short walk from the porch. Beyond that, a feral collection of lilies and roses fought for control of round flowerbeds, with no clear victor.

To say it all needed a trim was an understatement.

“I bet whoever attacked me ran for here. Two steps into this jungle and anyone could vanish.”

A light gust of damp wind off the bayou brushed the tall, green strands of goosegrass between the flowerbeds. The faint, musty odor of fresh cemetery soil drifted in its wake. I inhaled. Memories of being attacked in the attic lingered like an unwanted ghost.

“It sure was interesting I got attacked the moment I opened that safe.” I put my hands on my hips and stared into the middle distance. “There was an ink stain in there, too.” I squinted at the yard. “That’s really interesting.”

Goosegrass whispered against my jeans as I picked my way across the yard, studying anything out of place. Hints of the original property lay here and there. Rotten, narrow buildings peppered the line where yard met cemetery; the occasional forgotten tool shed or chicken coop put to rest with the long dead.

Then something caught my eye near the back corner of the yard. A small patch of dirt, no wider than my hand, had been disturbed under the chaos of the hedgerow. I knelt down.

“It’s almost half a footprint.” I nearly touched the indentation, but decided against it. “Not a tennis shoe… maybe a boot?”

The print was narrow, far smaller than my own footprint. It wasn’t like I had experience at tracking anything that didn’t involve a digital map and a coffee shop. But this looked as if someone had run out of the yard. I glanced in that direction.

“Right into the graveyard,” I sighed dryly. Tension skittered up my spine with a thousand tiny legs.

I stood, navigated a cleft in the hedge, and followed the tracks. The path wound between the faceless headstones and into the oldest part of the cemetery. A musty wind picked up as the graves gave way to stone-gray cypress trees under a cloudy sky. The trail opened into a waking nightmare trying to pass for an old campsite. Desiccated squirrel corpses were an unwelcome touch. An uneasy sigh drained out of me.

“Four squirrels. I really could do with a lot less mummified corpses in my life, please and thank you so much,” I grumbled uneasily at the world.

Dead animals or not, I carefully poked around the little clearing. The four squirrels were like so many flat, furry raisins scattered around the space. Other than the wreck of the ground, nothing else leaped out at me, alive or dead. Small favors.

“What’s this?” I murmured when I turned to leave.

A torn bit of black cloth dangled from a low clump of thorn brambles near a tree. No larger than my finger, I plucked it off the hooked brown thorns, rubbing it between my fingers. It was thin like silk but felt like cotton.

“Black linen?” I frowned, rubbing the cloth as I stood.

Wind stirred the trees, making the Spanish moss sway overhead. Leaves shifted behind me as the wind died down. I turned, squinting at the cypress trees. There were vines, holly bushes, and other plants with more thorns than I was comfortable with.

Each one shivered—there wasn’t any wind.

I licked my lips, then bolted for the car.

Tension relaxed its death-grip on my nerves by the time I turned my Corolla down the main road through Gloamstead. Ancient oaks and elms, heavy with curled gray fronds of waving moss, lined the middle median between traffic lanes. Long branches scattered shadows over my car while I drove.

“Where is he?” I muttered. “It isn’t like Gloamstead is that large.” A traffic light later, I sighed. “Fine, I give up. Cassie can have a turn at playing Where’s Dorian.”

As luck would have it, that’s when I spotted him.

Dorian strolled down the sidewalk on the other side of the street. Styled as if starched for a fashion cover, he was a thin, gray-clad predator wandering among knots of unsuspecting victims as if studying a buffet. With an uneasy breath, I pulled into the closest parking space, then hurried to catch up. He casually turned on the sidewalk toward me before I was even ten steps away.

“Good to see you, Daniel!” All smiles, Dorian spread his arms wide. “I was going to stop by in a bit, seeing as I was curious if you and Cassidy had dug up anything else delicious. But first, I thought I’d hunt down a bite of something tasty.” Dorian’s gray eyes twinkled with a feral gleam. “Care to join?”

“Anyone I know?” I deadpanned with an arched eyebrow. Between corpses, crows, and bushes with the shivers, my patience had headed home for a blanket and a hot tea.

Dorian belted out a rich laugh that earned him a few suspicious looks from people nearby; not that he cared.

“No one alive,” he winked. “Just normal food. I do eat like everyone else; it’s just that I need to nibble on brain food delicacies from time to time.”

Grinning, he patted me on the shoulder, guiding me along the sidewalk. A block down the street, we snagged an outside metal table at the Magnolia Cafe—also called Miss Milly’s. Two glasses of water and coffee later, Dorian glanced up from the menu, setting it down casually on the white tablecloth. He sipped some water, eyebrows arched.

“Daniel… not that I mind the company, but I’ve the feeling food isn’t what brought you by.” Dorian set the glass down, fingers brushing the sides. “If you’d care to share, I’m a good listener.”

I sipped at my coffee, squinting at the well-dressed bloodleech across from me and his offer. It wasn’t so much what I wanted to say or ask, but where to start. The fact that a needle-toothed horror lurked behind that calm, human exterior didn’t help me decide. I glanced up at the faded, dull red cloth of the overhead awning with its merry string of Christmas bulbs lining the edge.

“Just a moment,” I said, pulling a tiny, clear plastic pouch from my jeans pocket. “Pain pills. It’s only been a week since your friend tried to claw Cassie and I to shreds.” I tapped a wrap of gauze on my left arm for emphasis, then swallowed the pills with water. “Cassie heals a lot faster than I do, but I’m alive and getting there.”

Dorian scoffed. “Calling her a ‘friend’ is being generous. I gave enough lip service to her ego for it to count as ‘loyalty’, as far as that went. Valeria Moffet was more interested in control and a body count to feed her appetites.” He swapped from water to coffee, taking a slow sip. “Ah, now that’s a lovely dark roast.” He gestured at me with the cup. “So, back to the topic… this isn’t chance, is it?”

Sometimes the only way out is right through. So I picked the middle of my thoughts and dove in.

“It’s about the fountain pens, Dorian. Remember when we mentioned that most of the past owners died badly?” I pursed my lips a moment. “It was nearly all of them, all the way to the first owner of record we can find, one Henry Vanil.” A pause settled at the table. “How are you on curses?”

Dorian’s eyebrows rose gracefully. “Vanil? Curses?”

The smile didn’t leave his face, but I noticed his fingers tense against the coffee cup.

Dorian was a bloodleech, so no less dangerous than Valeria was. But damn, did the man have a fantastic poker face. I almost couldn’t read him… almost. There was something in his eyes. As if he wasn’t surprised at what I said, just that I’d said it. I couldn’t tell if it was over the name Henry Vanil or mentioning curses.

“So you knew,” I said in a flat voice, because nothing says ‘questionable life choices’ like verbally poking a bloodleech. Fortunately, Dorian still didn’t seem inclined to plan my untimely demise.

He gave me a measured look, then chuckled, waving a hand.

“Oh, not as much as you’d expect. Valeria mentioned the name, Vanil, once or twice. Not enough that I cared. I was busy keeping her away from my rare book collection because I was afraid she’d tear pages out as napkins. Now, the curse?” Dorian raised his eyebrows with a ghost of a smile, sipping his coffee. “I’d heard plenty of rumors, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up.” His eyes shone with delight. “So the pens are cursed? Well, your uncle did have a rare eye for detail.”

I paused as my thoughts screeched to a halt. “Wait. You knew my uncle?”

“If only,” he replied, shaking his head. “Valeria did, though. Way too well. She wrote quite a lot about Elias Hawthorne in her journals. Seems she tried all manner of bribery to get something out of your uncle. Some of it spicy.” My spirit withered at the saucy grin he gave me, but he pushed on. “But from what I read, your uncle was a man of firm principles. That frustrated Valeria to no end, mind you. She never wrote why, though.”

I squinted, remembering the few times I’d met Valeria Moffet. There were conversations, even offers for the antique shop, before I was nearly a body in her basement. I thought about the pens, then my uncle’s hidden office.

Did Valeria know? I studied Dorian for a quiet second. Did he suspect, or even care?

A server arrived with two slices of sweet potato pie, distracting me from those dark thoughts. Dorian grinned at the slice, then gestured at me with a fork like a conductor.

“So, tell me everything,” he prompted with a mischievous grin.

Everything was a dangerous word, from dead bodies and curses, to me snooping around his house.

I wasn’t sure what to say. So, once again, I picked the middle and dove in—even if it felt like I’d gone off the deep end.

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.

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.

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!

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

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.

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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.

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. 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.”

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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.

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!

Buy Me a Coffee!

Subscribe now

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.