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

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

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

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Six hundred feet off Portlethen Bay, Scotland. Shakedown cruise of the HMS Dawn Javelin.

I’ve heard it said a cry for help at sea is the loneliest sound in the world. Hard lessons have taught me otherwise.

They’re more like a clean-cut wound. Some can be treated, others bandaged with care and hope. But then there are those that cut to the heart—the kind that make you wonder if the blade isn’t waiting to strike again.

We’d arrived off the coast of Portlethen Bay in Scotland—the third stop for the Javelin’s shakedown cruise as a hospital dirigible. It was the Royal Navy’s newest experiment of what do with an Aetheric Dirigible fleet that wouldn’t upset the rest of the water-based Admiralty. As the Fates would have it, there was already work to be done—such as patching up the crew against their own bad decisions.

I sighed, closing my notebook with a snap before setting it on a nearby counter. The current subject of the morning’s work, and my mild frustration, sat nearby in a wooden chair. My medical station aboard the Javelin’s bow wasn’t exactly small; it was only a bit wider than a pair of fish carts. But the tall man in the chair added bulk that seemed to shrink the room. Rigging pulled taut against sails and elongated canvas bag above, creaking in time with the subtle roll of the deck as the Javelin’s keel cut the clouds.

“Seaman,” I said, drawing out the word as I rubbed my eyes. “How in the bloody hell did you manage this? We’re in flight.”

Seaman Evan Riley frowned, giving the ragged cut along his forearm a bitter glare. It was a touch sharper than the look he spared me. I’d grown used to it, but it still made my hackles rise. The man was taller than most, broad-shouldered with a clean-cut look and a square jaw that made him the sort the Royal Navy favored.

He also had the sense to rein in whatever it was about me that bothered him. Probably because I was a doctor who had access to plenty of sharp knives.

“Ma’am,” he replied, tamping down his irritation. “Found one of the main gears the hard way. I was inspecting the foresail when I tripped and fell into an open gearbox for the canopy. Someone hadn’t stowed the rigging properly.”

I swapped a quick look with my assistant, Surgeon’s Mate Blake McLaren. Recently of the Glasgow Royal Infirmary, he was a red-headed firebrand with a notion that rules existed for interpretation. But he was as bad a stickler as I was for keeping things stored in their proper place.

“I’ll get the purified vinegar,” Blake said, turning toward the cabinets.

“Thank you,” I replied, then grabbed some cotton and a small bottle of water to wash the wound.

It only took a moment to wash the blood from the wound, leaving an ugly, jagged tear. Most likely not the last Seaman Riley would see in his career. Blake handed me cotton, and I dabbed at the wound. Riley hissed low in his throat as I cleaned the cut, as the sharp scent of red wine vinegar sliced the air.

“Yes, it’ll sting,” I said dryly. “Might make a nasty scar that won’t have a good story to go with it. I’ll see what I can do about making it less obvious—provided you keep still.”

“No stranger to being stitched up, ma’am,” Riley replied, gripping the chair. “Ready when you are.”

I arched an eyebrow at him while Blake grinned.

“Never said anything about stitches,” I replied.

“Er… I don’t follow,” Riley said, worry dusting his words.

Blake quickly strapped the sailor’s limb to the arm of the chair with a stained leather strap. It didn’t improve Riley’s nerves.

“What…?” he sputtered.

Blake patted the man firmly on the shoulders, then stood on the opposite side of the patient from me.

“It’ll keep you from twitching,” he explained in his usual Scottish burr. “The less you twitch, the easier it is for Doctor Thorne to work on your wound.”

Riley’s eyes cut between Blake and myself.

“But it’s just a cut,” Riley protested.

I shook my head a little.

“It’s a deep gash that could turn sour, costing you the arm. Now be quiet and let me hear your blood.”

“Hear my… what?” Riley’s voice rose a half-octave.

Blake grinned—my assistant had a wicked sense of humor. I swore he loved this part most when people had to face my Gift in action. That particular shock and surprise wasn’t the highlight of my day, but I lived with it.

“Your blood. My Gift,” I said. “Now, be still.”

Slowly, I passed a hand over the jagged tear in his flesh. The blood stirred beneath my touch—restless, disobedient, and far too eager to run. It threatened to well up and trail over Riley’s arm at any moment. I wasn’t in a mood to let it.

My Gift stirred with a thought. The seaman’s blood sang back in reply—a soft melody, reminding me of an old, half-remembered sea shanty. I softly hummed along, the wooden creak of the Javelin’s hull in the background, as I brushed my fingertips over the wound, gentle as a spring breeze.

Gifts were new, having only appeared three years ago, if the Admiralty’s ledgers could be trusted. They weren’t common, and mine was rarer than most. A Bloodsinger.

Some claimed it was a curse, others a boon; a few called it dark witchcraft. I had enough problems in my life to borrow the baggage of those labels, so I simply tried to ignore them. Besides, it wasn’t like I asked to be Gifted in the first place.

Riley’s blood welled up under my fingers, rippling like the tide.

“Ah,” Riley hissed, face bunched from pain and no small amount of disgust.

“Shush,” I ordered.

His sputtering didn’t surprise me—most reacted that way. But I kept on, humming with the blood’s song, giving it weight and power. In reply, the blood neatly pulled the wound closed inches at a time.

As it did, Blake crouched down, using a cotton rag to catch the stray blood that inevitably leaked out. When done, it took nearly a minute, but I felt like I’d run a mile by the time I sat back, drawing a long breath.

“Done,” I said with a tight nod. “Not quite good as new, but you won’t lose the arm. Also, you’ll barely have a scar.”

Seaman Riley frowned at his arm as Blake unstrapped him. Once liberated, Riley slowly flexed his arm, testing the motion. The faint scar looked red and raw—after all, the body isn’t pretty when it heals. But the seaman’s wound now looked like a cut that had been healing nicely for weeks.

Blake appeared then with an ample supply of bandages and another grin.

“Unless you like pain, or want to attract the wrong kind of faeries, let’s bandage you up to get you on your way.”

Riley frowned harder, eyes still on his arm. He looked confused, surprised, and a little concerned. The first two made sense; while the last was the boil I wanted to lance. My chair groaned as I sat back, taking another long breath—bloodsinging was a bit draining—but also to set my line of approach.

“So, out with it.” I said, tugging at the front of my officer’s waistcoat. Royal Navy officers who roamed the seas below had to wear blue frock coats. We in the Aetheric Dirigible Corp were a bit more scaled-down for efficiency. “Still embarrassed over having slipped? Unnerved by the bloodsinging?” I paused before I ventured the last one. “Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m a woman officer, a surgeon, aboard a Royal Navy vessel?”

The tall seaman went a little wide-eyed as if he’d taken a hit to the gut. He pursed his lips, color fleeing his cheeks a little as he looked anywhere but at my face. Almost as if he desperately wanted an escape hatch to dive through.

“Well… I… er…” he stammered, then his words tripped over themselves onto the floor. “Begging your pardon, Doctor… ma’am. Women officers are fine, just a woman surgeon is a bit uncommon.” He blinked, face a concerned mask. “Much less one with a Gift like that—with the blood, I mean.”

I’d like to say I was surprised. The Gifted were highly prized, but carefully watched. The Royal Navy couldn’t care a whit if a Gifted was a man or a woman, only what they could do. Still, old dated stigmas in the Royal Navy ran deep.

Riley fidgeted in his seat when the silence stretched too long, but he had the discipline to wait until dismissed. I inclined my head, offering a thin smile.

“It’s quite all right, Seaman. My Gift’s a bit disturbing, but it’s all part of why the crew calls me ‘Banshee’ when I’m not looking, eh?”

Riley winced, while Blake coughed, covering a grin. Blake was the one who’d told me about the nickname. Obviously, Riley had heard it before.

“Yes… ma’am,” the big man replied, sounding a bit lost for what to say. “I doubt anything bad was meant by it…” his words stumbled to a confounded stop.

“Seaman Riley,” I said, sitting forward slightly with a smile. “It’s fine. We all serve at His Majesty’s pleasure in the Royal Navy—each to our own abilities. Just remember, while Captain Vane holds sway across the Javelin, this medical bay is my domain. You can trust that no matter what, I do everything in my power to keep my patients safe. Something to think about while you let that arm finish healing up.” I indicated the door with a nod. “Dismissed, Seaman.”

“Aye, Doctor.”

The man gave me a hasty salute, which I returned, before he scrambled out of the medical bay like all hell was hunting him. With Riley well and gone, Blake stopped hiding his grin behind a cough. I tossed a brittle look at him, then went about cleaning the chair and medical bay.

“Yes, I know, I could’ve been less barbed about that,” I said sourly.

Blake nodded thoughtfully, collecting the last bloody rags to wash.

“Oh, maybe a wee bit,” he replied airily. “You didn’t quite hit him like a hammer, but the man did leave sporting a few new bruises around the ego.”

I stopped scrubbing an errant bloodstain on the floor. It was Riley’s, so I heard the lingering refrains of the old sea shanty. Truth was, the blood was already in the cloth, so all I was doing was working on the wood out of frustration. The sway of the ship smoothed off a few rough edges of my nerves. I felt a soft rumble as the Javelin’s ballasts shifted to bring us to a drift.

Finally, I surrendered my wool-gathering with a sigh.

“You’re right; he didn’t deserve all of that. I’ll speak with him later. It’s just—” I sat back on my boot heels, pinching the bridge of my nose, “—confound it, Blake! I’ve heard the talk saying I’m a walking curse. I thought maybe taking a stand, one crew member at a time, would nip it in the bud.”

Blake set down his rag, turning to lean back against one of the tiny counters. Quietly, he folded his arms, staring at the stained wooden bulkhead across from him.

“That makes a bit of sense,” he said after a moment’s thought. “But would it work?” He shrugged. “Not sure. It’s an uphill climb against superstition, Doctor. You stumbled out half-alive and bleeding from the wreck of an Aetheric Dirigible. Then led the rescuers to anyone still breathing by singing to the dying among the wreckage—saying their blood called you.”

I stood up, tossing my spent rag into a nearby bucket.

“It’s when my Gift appeared. I can’t help how it took hold,” I muttered bitterly, putting my hands on my hips. “At least it kept those bloody resurrectionists at bay when they came hunting the dead and dying as the squall passed.”

Blake shook his head. “Oh, no doubt. You stumbling about covered in blood—and singing—sent them for the hills.”

“None of that means I’m cursed,” I complained.

A mischievous grin brushed his face. “That depends, Doctor. Those resurrectionists thought it bad luck you kept them from stealing any gold teeth!”

I would’ve replied, but the words caught in my chest. A hum trembled under my skin. Slow and quiet, it was a mournful song—lonely and wanting words it’d long forgotten.

“Blake,” I breathed, staring at nothing, “there’s trouble—”

“What?” Blake asked, narrowing his eyes.

Muffled shouts from on deck chased a tawny-haired Junior Petty Officer into view—Miles “Lifter” Perkins. He collided breathlessly against the doorway.

“Doctor Thorne! Mr. McLaren! The fishing town! There’s a problem…”

“Slow down, Mr. Perkins. Take a breath. What’s the trouble?” I asked, reaching for my stained, russet satchel.

“Water leapers hit the village. Several hurt,” the petty officer panted. “Captain’s taking a group ashore, and called for you both on deck.”

I blinked. “Leapers? You mean water leapers?”

Water leapers, or Llamhigyn y Dŵr, were nasty beasts. Giant frog-like nightmares with bat wings, they ambushed the unwary in packs, looking for a quick, juicy meal. Many a fisherman had gone missing to their appetite over the generations—especially since 1815.

The young man bobbed his head vigorously. “Aye, Doctor, I know.”

Blake’s scowl turned thunderous.

“Boil your head, Lifter, you can’t be serious. Here? In Scotland, on the coast? They’re Welsh freshwater problem.”

Lifter shook his head, raising a hand to hold off another outburst.

“Tell those Llamhigyn y Dŵr that. Lookout spotted five of the things leaping over the Portlethen Bay docks. Nearly took a man’s arm off.”

“Five?” I slipped on my satchel. “We’ll figure the why later. Get moving!”

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

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

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

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

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

Just for a brief moment, close your eyes.

Feel that brisk chill in the air? A spray of water from the sea, before you rise up to touch the clouds. There’s the sound of waxed canvas creaking as the gas envelope fills to the brim. A pop as the wind catches the sails, pulling the ship forward. Wood creaking in the deck beneath your feet.

You’re moving—no, sailing—between cloudbanks as if charting a course to new undiscovered countries…

Only to hear a peal of thunder, feel a blast of smoke, realizing it may be pirates, or much, much worse—if you’re lucky.

These are the logs of the hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin. First of her class, she sets sail along the skies to help the infirm, sick, and giving aid to those in need.

Where the Blood Calls

Click for the Table of Contents

Blood Might Be Thicker Than Water, But Her Past Could Drown Them All

On the maiden flight of the Aetheric Dirigible, HMS Dawn Javelin, the crew responds to a cry for help from a Scottish fishing village.

Little did they know it wasn’t a simple mission of mercy.

As the Javelin’s captain and landing party are trapped in the village below, Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne faces a dire challenge in the sky. A tragedy from her past rises from the clouds to threaten ship and crew, testing loyalties, honor, and ingenuity.

In the end, it wasn’t a rescue—but a reckoning.

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

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

New installments or chapters will materialize every Monday…

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

Previously. A meeting in the back office of Moonlight Curiosities, turns over a tempting business proposal. For a modest sum, Daniel and Cassidy would track down any and all information on a set of antique fountain pens. Ones that had belonged to Valeria Moffet—the bloodleech that tried to murder them. After some conversation, the couple warily agrees. Not so much that they want to, but they need to, given the damages to the shop they have to repair. Now all that remains is to dig in to uncover the history behind the antiques but also find two that have been missing for decades.

November 6, 2024. Our apartment above Moonlight Curiosities. Nothing says pie like a little skullduggery…

Dorian’s two-week deadline gave us plenty of motivation, so we dove into the research with a vengeance.

It was four days of clawing through half-forgotten library records, sketchy auction listings, and old estate sales. I wasn’t sure about Cassidy, but I’d read enough fountain pen collector forums to make my eyes cross.

Every time we thought we had a lead, it turned out to be a dead end. It felt like chasing smoke in a dark room. But for every four of those false leads, we’d get one hint of a real one.

Also, there was pie. A lot of pie. Maybe a couple of casseroles, too, but I lost those among the pie.

The soft reopening of Moonlight Curiosities brought a parade of well-meaning neighbors offering sympathy. Every one of them came armed with well-wishes served with a side of casserole. If it wasn’t casserole, it was enough pecans or other pies to build a sugar-powered shrine.

I was caught a little by surprise, but Cassidy handled it in stride.

“It’s fine,” she explained midway through the multi-day meal parade. “Gloamstead handles tragedy like any other small Southern town. You know, feed the survivors, smile politely, and—in our case—don’t get too nosy about the boarded up, scorched front window of our shop.”

I quickly caught on that a little nosy was still fine. After all, town gossip needed its own tender loving care. In any case, by the fourth day into it all, we’d turned it into the world’s oddest taste test.

“This one’s definitely squash,” Cassidy said around a bite, handing me a bowl. “That, or possibly revenge.”

I took it, eyeing the golden crust on top with suspicion. “Squash casserole is revenge?”

Cassidy gestured at the innocent casserole nestled in the white ceramic dish.

“If you grow more than you can store, add a lot of pepper, or both, it is,” she replied, before taking another bite.

I wasn’t entirely convinced, but tried my own bite anyway. At least I didn’t get ambushed by pepper.

“Mrs. Adelyne really didn’t have to do this,” I said between bites.

“Oh, yes, she did,” my wife said with a wry look. “Southern hospitality comes with a body count in the gossip circles.”

I snorted out a laugh, then ate more of the squash casserole.

“Did you get a chance to talk to Maggie Winsom about the pens?” I asked.

Cassidy nodded, pulling her laptop across the kitchen table while we ate. We’d closed the shop for the night, so she’d shed her human disguise for her natural skinshaper human-bat shape. It was her way of ‘letting her hair down’ to unwind. She sighed, combing fingers through her hair and dark fur, before giving a slow stretch of her arm wings.

“I did. Maggie said she had sold one online, but it wasn’t a Waterman. Just a 1942 Parker pen,” Cassidy said. “Looked similar though. Mrs. Adelyne’s story was better. She’s convinced her leaking pen is haunted.”

I nearly coughed on a piece of pecan pie.

“What?” I stammered, wiping my mouth.

“Haunted.” Cassidy grinned. “Not the right pen, but I almost thought it was. Her pen doesn’t have the weird amber lacework.”

Her claws raced over the keyboard.

“But other than that, I found something this morning while you were opening the shop,” she added.

I leaned over her shoulder to see her screen.

“Turtles?” I blinked.

Fur along her cheeks ruffled from a faint flush as she slammed the browser tab shut in a second—she clicked open another one.

“No, those were tortoises. Totally different.” She squeaked then pursed her lips. “Tortoiseshell pens got me thinking about tortoises. I got distracted.”

“You also like tortoises,” I teased.

“Yes, I do. Shut up. You know I do,” she admitted gently, even more embarrassed.

I held up my hands in defense. “Just kidding, honey. I get it. It was like me and ‘how did people make ink in 1722’ rabbit hole.”

“Exactly,” she replied, flicking her ear at me with a sheepish smile. “Anyway, like I said, I think I found our first real lead.”

She tapped the screen, giving me a proud, determined expression.

“Over the last hundred years, pens matching that Waterman pen Dorian dropped off have popped up in estate sales and other places.” She showed me a list of historical auctions. “Mostly in the Northeast. They show up, then vanish. Then a set of four—with one that looks like a perfect match for Dorian’s pen—gets purchased by a bookkeeper named Henry Vanil. He lived in Sleepy Hollow, New York.”

I blinked, setting down my serving of squash casserole before I pulled up a chair next to her.

“Wait. Sleepy Hollow?” I asked incredulously. “The Sleepy Hollow? Headless Horseman Sleepy Hollow?”

“Not making that up,” Cassidy replied with a fanged grin. It was hard to miss the delighted glint in her eyes.

“Was he Ichabod’s cousin?” I joked, grinning back. “Maybe a pen pal?”

“Didn’t say, but wouldn’t that be fun?” She tapped the screen. “It just says he lived there in the nineteenth century and had a thing about wanting to collect these pens.”

Cassidy tapped the keyboard again, pulling up a historical records site. It looked like it belonged to a library in Sleepy Hollow, New York.

“Then… he abruptly died.” Slowly, the amusement drained from her face.

A few clicks later, she dredged up scanned copies of a time-yellowed death notice. There wasn’t any mention of a headless horseman or burning pumpkins—just the date of October 12, 1919, and the method of death.

“Wait, Cassie. Hold on. It says they found his body withered, with his mouth and fingertips stained black?” I said slowly, raising my eyebrows. “That’s how he died?”

The words sat in my stomach like ice water.

“Murder ink,” she quipped morbidly.

The air felt like it chilled two degrees. Even the shadows at the corner of the room seemed a touch longer. Silently, we stared at the laptop for a long, uncomfortable moment, until neither of us could stand the silence.

“Dan, I really don’t like how close ‘withering’ and ‘black mouth’ are to ‘murdered gleefully by a supernatural thing’,” Cassidy said at last, voice thin. “Sure, I’m a skinshaper, but there are a lot of really nasty things out there.”

I reached for her furry hand out of reflex, caressing her fingers.

“Maybe he just chewed on ink sticks?”

Sure, that was unlikely. But it felt safer than the alternative.

Cassidy gave me a pained look, eyebrows bunched.

“Oh sure. Maybe he also died of chronic writer’s cramp.” Then she added with a small, worried look at the screen. “Are you sure we need this work? Supernatural shenanigans aside, do we really?”

I knew that hollow-eyed look, and right where her thoughts were headed. Even her voice held that same thin edge when we were being treated by the paramedics outside the Briarwood murder mansion. Before she retreated into that memory, I lightly kissed the knuckles of her hand, trying to interrupt her train of thought.

“We do,” I sighed. “The front window,” I reminded her solemnly. “All the remodeling we’d planned on to make this place work, so I don’t have to go crawling back to my former toxic tech job.”

Cassidy gave me a wan smile, before sliding a hand along the side of her face and snout.

“I really hate your old job. So. Right.” Her words came out soft, but serious. “We got this.”

“So, where did the pens go after Vanil?” I prompted.

Cassidy pulled up the shared document we’d filled with notes, website links, and more. Scrolling down, she tapped the screen lightly with a stubby claw.

“Yeah, and sorry, love, no trip to Sleepy Hollow. The pens vanish for decades,” she explained. “But then, two pens resurfaced in Gloamstead, 1977, which matches what Dorian told us. They were part of an estate sale for a Professor Martin Altamont.”

On the screen, Cassidy brought up an old black-and-white photo of a balding, mustached physics professor. He had that look of everyone’s favorite, happy uncle. The one who told the best jokes.

“So, who bought them from the estate?” I leaned forward a little toward the laptop. “Any idea?”

Cassidy’s claws ticked out a quick pattern against the table while she scrolled through the shared document.

“I found that,” she murmured. “It was here yesterday. Oh! There. This lady. She was a local collector who purchased them. Records got hazy, but I saw her name come up more than once.”

She stopped on a small entry in our document about a Meredith Rawls. I squinted a little as my mouth went dry.

“Wait. I know that name. She’s a friend of my uncle’s,” I explained in surprise. “I remember her from when I was a kid. She’d always have a box of old antiques with her for my uncle when I saw her.”

Cassidy’s smile faded in favor of a thoughtful nod.

“Sounds like she was your uncle’s antique ‘picker’,” she said. “Daniel, if that’s the same Meredith Rawls, she’s our best real shot at the pens. Not to mention any local history.”

“My uncle did have a Meredith that worked as an antique picker. She’s in one of the photos with him in the office.”

We found Meredith’s obituary online a few minutes later. Neither one of us spoke. We just read, and were a little too unnerved to talk at first.

“So, it was her,” I said softly, knocking the silence aside. “Died last year. Her memorial service was at Gloamstead United. I think I remember a little bit about this. No one wanted to talk about it. Closed casket. All anyone would say was ‘it happened very suddenly’. No one talks about how. Won’t even gossip about it.”

Cassidy turned to me, lightly running a hand softly along my back.

“Everyone who gets these pens dies in a really bad way,” she said, eyes filled to the brim with concern.

The comment hung in the air between us. Thanks to Dorian, we had one of those murder pens here in our shop.

“Everyone but Dorian,” I added in a brittle tone. “He didn’t even blink when he handed it to us. Which isn’t surprising since, well, Dorian’s a,” I waved a hand a little, “you know.”

“A bloodleech,” she replied. “Who’ll think it’s just fun that all the previous owners died horribly.”

Cassidy’s frown deepened.

“Now I wonder how many other cursed things he’s handled without batting an eye.”

“We need better clients,” I moaned slightly, putting my head in my hands.

Cassidy leaned over, touching her forehead against me a moment. I gave her hand a squeeze, relishing in the feeling of the velvety fur there.

“So,” I sighed. “It might help to know how Meredith died. But you know? We might have been sitting on the answers all along.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, squinting at me.

“If Meredith was an antique picker for my uncle, the pen or pens might have gone through here. This shop.” I explained. “My uncle kept alarmingly detailed records. If Meredith brought the pens to him, he’d have a record of it. Not to mention, he’d have some notes about the history of the pens.”

Cassidy sat up straight, wide-eyed.

“If not, surely Meredith Rawls kept her own records. Just to keep up with your uncle.”

“So, we just need to search my uncle’s old records from what? Forty-seven years ago?” I said with a thoughtful, mild frown into the middle distance. “Those won’t be in the shop’s digital records. It’ll be in the store-all. My uncle didn’t digitize records that far back. Said it wasn’t worth it.”

She clasped my upper arm gently with her hands, snout wide with a toothy grin.

“Yes! If that doesn’t pan out, we can dive into Meredith’s records. She died a year ago. Those have to still be stuck somewhere. People here in Gloamstead stash stuff for decades.”

“There’s one other bright side,” I told her with a grin. “We also have an amazing amount of suspicious squash casserole to buffer us against imminent, and gruesome, death.”

Cassidy broke down into a wheezing laugh, shattering the tension like cracked glass.

“Daniel. I love you so much,” Cassidy said, hugging me fiercely. “Seriously, if I die of suspicious causes, I’m haunting you until you die of vitamin A toxicity.”

Suddenly, I had a vision of the world’s most judgmental ghost haunting me with a casserole dish.

I raised my nearby portion of the squash casserole in a toast.

“I love you, too, Cassie. So, to loving spouses, weaponizing beta carotene, and dumpster diving into dusty antique shop records.”

“Maybe with less death?” Cassidy suggested.

“Maybe that, too,” I agreed.

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

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.

Each installment will be released each week on Wednesdays!

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, I’ve got you covered! Jump on over to the Chapter (ok, Episode) list here!

Previously: With the crisis at the Council building done, Tela setting down for a little peace and quiet. Something that lasted only as long as her patience allowed, and a summons from the chancellor of the Council of Seven. A long walk confirmed Tela’s worst fears, she was both heralded as a hero—and a kingdom-breaker—in equal amounts for her role in what happened. Neither a a title or position she wanted. But the discussion was brief, settling debts and scores leaving Tela one last task to handle involving the ancient Iraxi crystals…

Medilus 16, 1278: Port Side District. City of Ishnanor. Setting something right that was so very wrong…

The long ride from Arth Prayogar to Ishnanor was like a long exhale of breath I didn’t know I held. It was close enough to relief that I felt it counted.

A gray dawn kept me company as I walked out of Ishnanor’s Port Side along the shores of Embercrest Bay. Waves lapped at the yellow-white sands, steaming with sea foam and a haze from the newborn sunrise. The humid air was rich with the whisper of old rain. Amber-gold pinpricks of lantern bugs fizzed in the cypress underbrush, while a marsh squirrel squawked from a branch overhead.

Really, it was just another morning in Ishnanor. Shame I was about to do something pretty stupid to rattle it.

I’d sent word to Skarri where to meet me—a fallen log next to a narrow tidal pool, one hundred Ancient Order meters outside the city. That felt far enough away that no one, myself excluded, risked getting hurt.

She smiled and waved as I walked up, worry creasing the scales around her eyes. That was nothing compared to the person standing next to her. Kiyosi was the portrait of pained concern. My best friend stood with his arms folded, blue-skinned tail slapping an irritated tune against the feather-leaf ferns behind him.

They made a great set of bookends for the topic of ‘things Tela shouldn’t do with ancient relics’.

“I wish you had let me weave a few spell threads to try to crack the crystals open,” he said. “It wouldn’t have taken even an hour to check.”

“How about no,” I deadpanned, rummaging in my shoulder bag for the crystals in question. “Last you told me, no one knows how to really make portals. At least ones that didn’t cut people in half.”

Kiyosi’s face went through four kinds of frustrated before he replied. “There’s jumping out of windows, Tela, then there’s this. It was barely a year ago you nearly killed yourself stabbing a lich with a mind magic storm.”

I pulled the crystals out of my bag, waving them at him.

“This won’t be a mind magic storm,” I snapped. “… probably.”

Kiyosi threw his hands in the air with a wordless grumble, then paced around the log.

Resting on the log, Skarri tugged at her forest-green tunic, war-kilt pleats fanned out below her waist. Slowly, she’d dug a nervous furrow in the sand with the end of her tail. Silent through my argument with Kiyosi, her inner commentary staged a rebellion the moment he started pacing.

“Tela? I want the crystals made harmless as bad as anyone. But…” A sigh escaped in a low hiss. “… you make terrifying tactical choices.” Skarri shook her head as a flush darkened her scales. “I know your improvised plans usually work, but… this time… just how are you planning to do this?”

I drew a long breath. She had a good point. Old me would’ve been angry at the comment about my plans, but I wasn’t old me. They were worried. We’d seen what these elemental-filled crystals could do—which were memories that were going to gleefully haunt me for some time. I knew they didn’t want me to get hurt, and if my guess was wrong? I’d get hurt really badly.

But we needed to take the risk. Idly, I jiggled the crystals in my right hand, making them clink.

“I know this’ll be a shock, but I did think this through. It’s still risky, but this isn’t one of my ‘make it up as I go’ ideas.” I stopped rattling the crystals like dice, clenching them in a fist. “Instead of cracking the crystals—which I don’t think would work—my idea is to draw the elemental out using mind magic threads. Channel them in the way the bracer did, I think.”

Skarri squinted as Kiyosi stopped pacing.

In all fairness, I had left out some of the ‘what ifs’ of my idea.

My threads could fray trying this, or the elemental inside might not see, or care, about what I’m doing. Of course, the fire elemental might care a lot, then try to possess me by following those threads right back into my head.

Still, I’d explained the important part.

“That’s,” Kiyosi paused, nodded thoughtfully, “actually an interesting idea.” He glanced over at me, arching an eyebrow. “It gives the fire elementals a path out that isn’t through you.”

“Thank you!” I replied with a little sass under my words. “I may not practice like I’m supposed to, but I have been paying attention.“

Skarri pursed her lips, eyes tight. “What she catches fire? That’s raw elemental power.”

Kiyosi nodded, staring at the middle distance. “Then you yank her back as I weave some healing salve. It’s not perfect, but it’ll help. Still, using mind magic is a really clever approach… provided you don’t catch fire.”

I raised my eyebrows with a thin smile.

“These are fire elementals. So I’m betting it’ll get as hot as an open oven when I start.” I waved a hand at the water in the bay. “Which is why I pulled a favor or three to send word to a friend who can help.”

Kiyosi frowned at the bay, curious. Skarri simply smiled.

“Oh. That’s why we’re all the way out here,” she said.

I winked at her. “Exactly.”

Moments later, Azure’sella drew up out of the emerald-blue water, then walked to shore. As she did, the robe of jellyfish-like material she wore melted into a modest sky-blue tunic and black trousers. Water cascaded from her cobalt hair, running off her and into the water at her feet. By the time the water elemental reached shore, her long hair and magic-spun clothes were dry.

“Saint’s quiet tides, Tela,” Azure signed to me, smiling brightly.

I grinned, signing back. “Saint’s quiet tides, Azure’sella.”

“Azure is fine,” she replied, cheeks flushing a darker blue. “I was surprised when I got your message.” Her smile faded to a frown, concern flickering over her sea-green eyes. “It mentioned the Bargain, and that you needed help. You haven’t been bound, have you?”

Kiyosi and Skarri exchanged a glance that landed between confused and concerned. I shook my head for everyone’s benefit. Then replied to Azure with sign language, but also aloud for the others.

“No, thank the Lady Deep. I’m not trapped in some mystic Bargain; it’s nothing like that.” I paused, hands caught in mid-sign. “It’s the Iraxi. The crystals can’t be broken, but I’ve an idea how to make them harmless—free the trapped fire elementals.”

Azure stiffened.

“I’m not saying don’t do it, but they’ve been there for centuries. Even elementals feel the pain and passage of time,” she quickly signed. “Are you sure about this?”

After a deep breath, I repeated what Azure said to Kiyosi and Skarri.

“She has a point,” Skarri replied, pushing upright off the log. “Could you…” she hesitated, glancing between Azure and myself. “She can understand us?”

I nodded. “Mostly. Signing is more natural for her. Her name is Azure’sella, or just Azure.”

Skarri inclined her head in thanks, then faced the water elemental and bowed.

“Azure’sella, it’s a valid worry. Tela makes,” she slid a brief look at me, lips slightly curled, “interesting tactical choices.”

Kiyosi snorted softly, while Azure’s grin returned. I lightly rolled my eyes, then gave them all a deadpan look. There’s nothing like close friends to keep you honest. Skarri ignored me and pushed on.

“But that’s why Kiyosi and I are here,” she explained, gesturing at Kiyosi. “He’s a very skilled spellcaster. I’m a warrior. Between the two of us, we could hold off a fire elemental for a short time if we have to.”

Azure listened silently, then signed back as I translated.

“That would make sense. What’s my part?”

“Keep me from catching fire,” I replied. “Also? I’m hoping that when the fire elementals are free, seeing you will keep them from going on a murder spree.”

“I’m a water elemental,” Azure replied dubiously. “They’re fire. It isn’t like they’re a part of my water-clan.”

“Yes, but we look way too much like people who put them in there,” I countered. “You don’t.”

“Fair point,” she replied.

“So when—and how—do we start?” Kiyosi asked, looking at the rest of us.

I held up one of the crystals in question, gesturing with it at the shoreline.

“Easy. I kneel down, pull mind magic threads while you three get ready to grab me, the fire elemental, maybe both.” I grinned at them. “Let’s free some elementals.”

The first part was easy. I knelt down in the sand, then pinched the air in front of my forehead. Like always, I felt that warm push behind my eyes a second before silvery-blue threads trailed off my fingers. Quickly, I wrapped the glowing threads around the pulsing red crystal, like winding thread around a spool, leaving a long trail for me to pull. What I’d wrapped around the crystal sank like melted butter into bread.

“Is it supposed to do that?” Skarri asked, looking over my shoulder.

“Maybe?” I replied. “First time jail-breaking a fire elemental.”

A bright orange light flared from the crystal in my hand. Heat followed a second later. Shoving the stone partway into the sand, I slowly pulled at the silver threads. Fire sparked as the magic threads slid out of the crystal. Sparks turned into tiny gouts of flame before tendrils of molten fire spilled in all directions. It was like what happened with Marius’ lich crystal, only with primal fire—I wasn’t sure which was worse.

But in the end, my idea worked.

While I pulled the threads, the air turned savagely hot. My lungs burned as if they were on fire, but I wiped sweat off my face and kept at it. Time warped like white-hot metal, steam rising as if I were being cooked alive. Maybe I was. I couldn’t tell. In that soup of moments, I felt Azure summon water to keep me cool. Kiyosi wove his own spells to heal me, or draw off as much excess light and heat as he could.

One crystal was swapped for another. I wondered idly, hands and body trembling, if this was how I would die. Maybe so, but roasting alive while freeing two victims from a crystal prison felt worth it.

Finally, I toppled over as both fire elementals took form on the shore. It was a man and a woman. They were tall and human-looking, with sun-yellow hair and broad-shoulders. Both had skin like polished brass and deep orange eyes. Most importantly, they didn’t go on a rampage. If anything, they looked overcome with emotion, eyes filled with an ancient relief as they looked around.

I noticed a tendril of gravedust snake out of my bag while the others dove to haul my battered body out of the sand. It was the gray, powdery mist from the third crystal with the lich spirit inside. I might have been beaten to hell, but I still managed a glare that stopped the tendril cold.

“Not. Now,” I rasped, throat raw.

The gritty tendril recoiled like a snake, hissing before it vanished back into my bag and the third crystal. I would’ve warned the others, but that was when I passed out.

Minutes mixed with hours until time turned into gravy. I woke later—hours, maybe—with Kiyosi arguing nearby with someone about whether I was allowed to walk. Once I got my wits back, I cleaned up, slipping on a fresh blue linen shirt and brown trousers, both soot and blood-free. Boots on, I grabbed my bag, limping out of the Windtracer Company compound before anyone could stop me.

Naturally, I was caught less than an hour later at the Saltwind Tea House, overlooking the bay. Atha walked up with a huge grin on his face as I sat down, dropping my journal next to a cup of tea.

“There hyu are,” he chuckled. “Healer will be so happy. Hyu haven’t gone out to kick over any new kingdoms.”

I shot him a glare; he ignored it. Atha pulled over a chair and sat across from me.

“Ki worries too much. I didn’t burn alive.” I held out an arm, showing off my bronze-dark skin, dotted with bruises. “See? Nothing melted. I’ll be fine.”

Atha chuckled again as a server dropped off a large cup of tea, placing it in front of the minotaur.

“Jasmine?” I asked.

He nodded, sipping with a look of contentment.

I watched him for a moment, then shook my head. “So, Ki’s staying here. Mikasi and Skarri are here for a few days, then off to Banye. What about you?”

Atha gently set down the cup, staring off across the bay.

“Probably collect my brothers, then head to the northern lands. See if aunt has found new laws to break.” He shrugged. “It’s too quiet here… too boring.”

“Too boring?” I snorted. “Liar. You make out like a bandit, but I’m pretty sure I know better. You’re going to find something to fix or someone to help.”

The minotaur’s deep laugh rattled nearby windows.

“Maybe so,” he said with a wink. “Don’t spread it around. What about hyu?”

I sipped my own tea, then shrugged.

“Rest. Recover. Study the Iraxi bracers and spent crystals.” I tapped my journal with a finger. “You know, the more I uncover about the Ancient Order… it feels like the less I know.”

Out in the bay, water churned like a geyser. Fishermen in small boats frantically paddled, did anything to get away, as a certain threadmarrow basilisk broke the surface with a series of playful burbles. The fishermen cut loose with a torrent of curses, but a pack of local kids dove into the water. Both kids and basilisk were delighted. The fishermen, not so much. Atha and I laughed.

“Also, I need to figure out what to do about him,” I said.

Atha shrugged, finishing his tea. “Looks like he already figure it out. But I should go, and hyu have Windtracer things to do.”

I tapped my journal again, nodding. “Good journey, Atha.”

“Until we meet again, Windtracer,” he grinned.

I was quiet for a long time after Atha left, remembering Arth Prayogar, Deepland Hollows, even the odd things with that lich-possessed crystal I carried. Then there was Rima Nimad. I had a feeling she wasn’t gone, but was out there waiting.

Quietly, I pulled open my journal to collect my thoughts. After another sip of tea, I dug out a pencil from my bag, turned to a blank page, and wrote.

“Basysus 12, 1278: City of Osidore, Belari Trade Alliance. River Junction Inn. Where I had something like a plan.”

“It really was a great plan.”

Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. For everyone that is reading Windtracer Tales: Kingdom of the Slithering Maze, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. I hope you enjoyed the ride every step of the way. This story is dedicated to each and every one of you.

But!

Make no mistake…

Tela Kioni WILL return in

Windtracer Tales: Blood from a Stone

Curious about what came before? Book 1 of the Windtracer Tales is out for eBook, paperback, hardback, and audiobook! Click here to learn more!

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, take the plunge over to Legends of the Privateers. But if paranormal mystery is more your style, take the leap over here to Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries!

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Buy Me a Coffee!

Windtracer Tales is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In fact, it considers itself rather fancy and quite proud of itself. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Also! Windtracer Tales and Windtracer: Adventures in Awldor is written with much respect to Starfarertheta and their work on the other half of Awldor.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Monday…

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

Previously. With the bloodleech destroyed, Daniel and Cassidy took a well-earned collapse. It wasn’t the ‘day after getting married’ they expected, but it was far less terrifying than their wedding day. But life decided to spice things up a bit with a visit from another bloodleech. Only this one was less set on murder, but a little monetary mayhem wasn’t quite off the table. One Dorian Callix arrived with a business proposal, one that might help Daniel and Cassidy get the shop back in order…

November 2, 2024. Back office of Moonlight Curiosities. Making the uncomfortable choice…

The back office still felt like it belonged to my uncle. His space. Not mine—not yet. But at least it wasn’t crowded. Compared to the rest of the shop, it bordered on spartan.

An old, wide wooden desk dominated the western wall. It paired well with a refurbished 19th-century banker’s chair. Shelves held a mix of my books and my uncle’s keepsakes, from pocket watches to small ink paintings, and black-and-white photographs. Some were photos of my uncle with antique ‘pickers’ he’d worked with over the years—mostly locals from around the county. I hadn’t thought about them in years.

Last of all, there were three padded, red canvas chairs that kept the office desk company. Dorian Callix was already seated in one of them, directly across from the desk as Cassidy and I walked in. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, admiring the photographs.

“Moonlight Curiosities,” Dorian said thoughtfully, his New England accent stretching the words. “Good name for an antique shop. Has a nice sound to it. Did it always have that name, or was it a recent change?”

Cassidy and I swapped a wary glance. I took the chair behind the desk while she pulled over one of the canvas chairs to my right.

“My uncle named it when he first opened up shop,” I explained. “After the place passed to me, I didn’t see a need to change it.”

“Too many memories?” Dorian asked casually.

“Something like that.” I clasped my hands in front of me, leaning forward on the desk. “So, you mentioned something about a matter of interest?”

Dorian shifted position in the chair. It let out a muffled squeak in protest.

“That I did, but before we get to business, I’d like to offer my congratulations on your wedding.” A smooth smile brushed his face. “Two days ago now wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Cassidy replied. Her voice carried a quiet promise of violence.

Dorian nodded slowly.

“Shame Valeria interrupted your reception, wedding night and all. The woman had no sense of manners—or propriety.”

Cassidy looked ready to leap across the desk and throttle Dorian. I scowled. The last thing Cassidy and I wanted was fresh reminders.

“She had a lot of problems,” I replied, my words as brittle as dry clay. “Mr. Callix, if you don’t mind…”

He raised a hand idly to interrupt me.

“No, no. It’s Dorian, if you please. No need for formality between the likes of us,” he replied, an all too easy charm sliding easily off each word. “After all, we’ve something of a connection. Like I said outside, I owe you both a favor of getting me free of Valeria’s shadow.” Dorian gestured lightly to us with both hands. “So, I’m looking to repay that debt—if I ever can.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Which means what?” I asked carefully.

Dorian interlaced his fingers in his lap.

“Belated wedding gift,” he explained. “Maybe some help with that honeymoon. I can recommend a few nice places. All out of the way, of course, with no prying human eyes.” Dorian nodded to me. “No offense, mind you.”

I managed a thin smile. “None taken.”

Cassidy cleared her throat, staring holes in Dorian.

“Thank you for the congratulations… Dorian,” she said, her words honeyed poison. “But the other night was a bit trying. If that’s all…?”

“Oh, not in the least,” Dorian replied quickly. “Now, as I said I’ve a business offer I wanted to discuss. One I think you two are perfect for.”

He pursed his lips as if gathering his thoughts, eyes shifting between the two of us.

“As I mentioned, after you two had your little adventure with Valeria the other night, I had to tidy the remains. Best to clean that up before your sheriff got too curious.” He raised his eyebrows at us. “Though, two iron spikes? Really, one would have done in Valeria just fine.”

“We were pretty motivated,” I replied in a clipped tone.

I kept to myself that the second one was less ‘strategy’ and more ‘lethal panic attack’.

Dorian hummed, nodding at the statement.

“I suppose. Well, other than disposing of her remains, such as they were, I needed to take ownership of her things. Most I had burned. Some I had sterilized. But one in her personal safe caught me by surprise. Which is where you both come in.”

He reached into an inner coat pocket, producing a dark-toned beechwood box a good six inches long and two inches deep. The whole thing had been polished enough that the edges and corners had been worn smooth. Dorian set it on the desk, then slid it over to us. I exchanged a curious glance with Cassidy, then accepted the box.

Inside, nestled in faded crimson silk, was a fountain pen that made my pulse jump.

The barrel of it gleamed with the smooth, liquid tone of old, polished tortoiseshell. Swirling amber lines wound through the surface like vines, suggesting movement if you stared at it too long. They caught the light in a way that made them seem to move.

I wanted to lift it up but was a little worried to touch it. Beside me, Cassidy sucked in a sharp breath, staring.

“May I?” I raised an eyebrow at Dorian.

He gestured toward the pen.

“By all means,” he replied casually.

“Pre-1930s Waterman,” I explained with a thoughtful nod. “Classic tortoiseshell cover, but these amber lines aren’t typical Waterman design.”

I turned it over with my fingers. Just holding it made me want to scrub my hands with a rough sponge.

But what I said wasn’t a lie. Those amber lines around the pen shell weren’t typical. They were slightly raised, as if added later. I slowly ran my thumb over them. A dull cold settled in the pit of my stomach. I returned the pen back to the wooden case.

“Certainly vintage,” I told Dorian. “But you didn’t need either of us to figure that out. What’s so special about it?”

Dorian gave me a sly smile.

“It wasn’t alone,” he said. “The original box held four pens, two of which are missing. One is there, the other is with my accountant in New York. He’ll be moving down here later in the week as the rest of my estate arrives.”

I filed that away under future problems. Dorian didn’t seem to notice, or mind, that we didn’t comment on his moving plans.

“Waterman’s you say? Hm.”

Dorian’s face was calm, but I could tell the thought picked at him for some reason. Then he met my eyes again.

“In any case, my accountant assures me the last two of this set are here in Gloamstead. I’d like you to track them down for me.”

“Why us?” Cassidy asked suspiciously.

Dorian’s eyes glinted. “Honestly? Beyond your brief and bloody association with Valeria, I believe you two are best suited for the search.”

“We don’t make a habit of doing favors for murderers,” Cassidy snapped, leaning forward with the hint of a predatory posture.

If Dorian noticed, he didn’t let it show. That is one thing about bloodleeches—when they want to be composed, they’re masters at it.

“Which is why I’m wanting to pay you,” he replied smoothly, idly waving a hand. “As I said, it’s Valeria’s, or was. I can’t imagine why she kept them. She wasn’t, as you might expect, all that interested in this kind of history.”

Cassidy and I exchanged a look.

This was a mess. The kind that had already tried to kill us once. But the idea of passing up the work gnawed at me. I could tell by the tension in Cassidy’s shoulders and her jaw, it ate at her, too.

“Suppose we take the job—”

Dorian held up a hand to interrupt again.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll pay quite handsomely,” he explained. “Signed contract, all above board. Let’s say,” he waved a hand around at the room, “enough to rebuild this lovely little shop of yours to your exact tastes. Also, a bit more beyond that for you both to have a proper time away?”

He leaned forward conspiratorially with a smile so smug it made my shoulders twist into knots.

“Come now, you’re both far too clever to turn this opportunity down.”

I saw Cassidy was as tense as a spring. It was obvious, at least to me, that it took all her restraint not to claw either the desk or Dorian.

“And what happens if we don’t take it?” Cassidy asked uneasily, as if she suspected the answer and didn’t like it.

“I’ve been known to sulk,” Dorian replied with a theatrical sigh. “Which likely means impulse shopping therapy at antique stores… daily.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed.

He leaned forward to place his hands on the desk, interlacing his fingers. Again, he looked like an upscale salesman. At least Valeria had looked dangerous. Dorian was exploring new and inventive twists on exasperating.

“Shall we say, oh, two weeks to track down the missing pens?” He raised his eyebrows. “Possibly longer if needed? It really is quite important to me.”

Cassidy and I sat in silence for a moment, weighing our options in the heavy, almost thick moment. I glanced at Cassidy, face tense, eyebrows knitted tight. She sighed a little back, giving me a slight nod. I raised my eyebrows in reply, then matched Dorians’s serious look with my own.

“Fine,” I said. The word tasted like powdered rust on my tongue.

“Wonderful!” Dorian declared, clapping his hands together in pure delight. I almost flinched. That one word sliced through the tension like a silver-plated knife.

He stood, adjusting his immaculate, probably stain-proofed cuffs before he gestured to the door.

“I’ll be staying here in Gloamstead while making arrangements on property,” he explained in a casual tone. “There’s a charming old home near one of the local cemeteries that has completely carved out my heart. We can meet at your convenience. I’ll give you my number.”

He gave us another gracious smile.

“But don’t worry, I’ll check in here now and again.”

Oh, goody. I wasn’t sure if that was a threat. But he was going to pay us, so I decided it wasn’t.

“Keep the pen,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll need it for your research. Let me know when you’ve got a contract drawn up, and I’ll stop by.”

He placed a business card on the desk with his number. Then, with one last, sweeping small wave, Dorian strolled out of our office. We watched him go, then stared at the pen on the desk nestled in its wooden box.

Cassidy turned toward me, arms crossed, wearing that tight-lipped look she saved for really irritating problems she couldn’t swat.

“Well,” she sighed. “Isn’t that one hell of a wedding gift?”

I put my head on the desk and sighed.

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.

Each installment will be released each week on Wednesdays!

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, I’ve got you covered! Jump on over to the Chapter (ok, Episode) list here!

Previously: A quick decision and dive into death mist, put Tela on a slight edge. But it nearly cost her—and Garrik—their lives. Despite that, Tela used a risky gamble to bring down Rima’s plans of conquest once and for all. As for the lich, Rima Nimad? She went up in smoke—or did she? No one knows. But as the dust settled, Tela found herself the focus of concerns and questions… so very many questions…

Medilus 8, 1278: Arth Prayogar. Getting not quite what I wanted, but probably what I deserved.

I finally got that hot bath and nap I wanted. But they came at a price—three days at the Lemongrass Inn, more than one bruise rainbow, and a brutal headache. The last got worse every time I retold what happened to Council officials, sympathetic Trade-Wardens, and more. Admittedly, a visit from one of the Dream-Scribe’s people was a surprise.

That last visit confirmed my worst fear—I’d come down with a nasty case of being called a ‘hero’. No matter how hard I scrubbed, it wouldn’t come off.

“Hero of the city,” the emerald-skinned tiefling said with a polite smile, writing the phrase in his canvas-bound notebook.

“Wait. What?” I sputtered, nearly dropping my cup of coffee.

Zamien Ramode, the tiefling across the table from me, wore the typical gray and brown monk robes of a Dream-Scribe. It was the book-themed red stole around his neck that gave away he was a librarian-priest. Calmly, he set his quill on the notebook, then sipped his coffee with a chuckle. The amusement rippled down to the end of his tail, which twitched like an amused cat’s.

“Just what I said,” Zamien replied as if explaining how water really was still wet. “Hero. You and your companions. I’ve heard it more than once since what happened in the Council building. But if you prefer something less friendly, there are those calling you a ‘kingdom-breaker’.”

A grumpy moan, ragged as a torn sheet, fell out of me.

“Is there an option here for ‘none of the above’?” I asked, not quite able to keep a tiny whine out of my voice.

The priest chuckled again. I was glad someone was entertained by all this.

“No, there isn’t,” he replied. After another sip of his coffee, he picked up his quill, rubbed it against the ink-stone, then continued to scribble notes about the Iraxi and events three days prior. “A little advice, if I may, Lady Kioni?”

“Tela is fine,” I said, solemnly peering into my coffee for salvation. “You don’t have to toss more titles on.”

Zamien inclined his head. “Tela, then. What’s done is written. Titles? They’re fleeting. Titles can be as light as a flower laurel or heavy as an ox-yoke. The more you dwell on them, the heavier they become. Focus on today, not yesterday. The titles aren’t you.”

I pursed my lips, frowning.

“Thank you, Librum Zamien.” I turned the advice around in my head a bit, chewing on it for the flavor. “It’s… something to think about.”

By late morning, ‘think’ had melted into ‘worry’ with a steaming side of twitchy. It haunted me until an out of breath messenger arrived from the Arth Prayogar council building—Chancellor Fel wanted another private meeting. After they left, I changed into a fresh, cream linen shirt free of blood-stains, and my least-battered pants before I told the others.

They weren’t thrilled to say the least.

“Again?” Skarri hissed. She was still recovering, but Kiyosi had been doing his usual top-notch healing work. Today, Skarri was wearing more clothing than bandages, which was a good sign. “I don’t like it.”

“You’re not alone,” Kiyosi added, folding his arms over his chest with a glare. “Haven’t they asked enough questions? You need rest!”

I fought a very real urge to roll my eyes. They all made it sound so easy to sit, rest, and recover. I tried to rest. Other times I tried to sleep. Occasionally, I got lucky and managed both.

Secretly, I was glad to meet with the Chancellor; it gave me something to do beyond ‘be still’ since I just didn’t do ‘behave’.

“Now look, they’re scared,” I protested. “A lich very nearly stole their kingdom—maybe their lives. Everyone’s been questioned twice over. This is more of the same. I’ll be fine.”

“Of course. Which is why I go with hyu,” Atha said calmly as if discussing the weather.

I scowled at him so hard that he actually raised his hands in mock defeat.

“Then again, I could be staying here,” he quickly added.

Mikasi also started to say something, but wisely stopped himself at my glare.

I rubbed a hand over my face. “Really, I appreciate the concern. I do. But I think I filled my quota of near-death experiences three days ago, so I’m safe. Besides, the Trade-Wardens are out in force. Two bits says I get an unofficial escort.”

Kiyosi and Atha took the bet—I won.

Once I left the Lemongrass Inn for the street, Rhen Shotho melted out of the crowd and into my shadow. I grinned.

“Your turn today?” I asked.

He grunted. “Better to escort you in case you kick over a rock and find another conspiracy to solve.”

I stuck my tongue out at him. He laughed.

Arth Prayogar’s Market Square was back in full force after the near-coup. Overhead, the prairie sun was bright and merciless, making me grateful for my tinted goggles.

Faded banners on poles lined the road like a fluttering honor guard. Shade sails in a rainbow of reds, greens, and more, stretched from yellowed, cracked adobe patios. Under the awnings, merchants hawked everything imaginable. There was embroidered cloth from Osidore, fruit from Ishnanor, and all manner of goods from across the Thetari Trade Road.

Scents of cooking meat danced through the air with fresh-baked bread until my mouth watered. I solved that with flatbread-wrapped chicken and peppers I bought from a bald, halfling spice merchant with a weathered smile. He waved a hand when I pulled out coins to pay.

“I recognize you. It’s on the house, Windtracer,” he said with a wizened grin. “You’re the reason the city didn’t burn down while a lich dragged us to the nine hells.”

“Er… you’re welcome?” I replied slowly.

That’s when I noticed a feeling in the air around me; like I wasn’t overlooked anymore. A pair of centaur cloth merchants eyed me warily. It was hard to miss one whispering ‘kingdom-breaker’. I exchanged a brittle smile with them as I went on my way.

They weren’t alone. As I walked through the market, if I didn’t hear whispered remarks of ‘hero’, I saw subtle hand gestures at me to ward off evil. Both hit like arrows, making me flinch.

I tried to ignore it, but I’d never had this much attention before. It was like wearing soaked wool I couldn’t peel off. I hunched my shoulders as I hurried a bit faster. Rhen cleared his throat.

“It’ll get quieter when we reach the Council building,” he assured me.

“By the Lady Deep, I hope so,” I muttered. “All I did was punch a lich.”

He let out a low laugh.

“You did a lot more than that, but I know what you mean. It’s already a holiday—the ‘Day of Ash and Bone’.”

I rolled my eyes with a long sigh, stalking toward the city administration building.

The battered building was on its way back to normal. Masons worked to repair hoof-battered doors or blood-stained broken tiles. A few spared me a glance but kept opinions to themselves; there was too much work to do.

I paused a moment to take in the scene. A pair of workers peeled a torn, bloodied Herd Tolvana tabard off the ground. One sign of many that Rima had cut the kingdom to the bone. Not that she would’ve noticed. People who think that the ends justify the means never stop to see—or care—that the cost is always paid in innocent lives.

“Second floor to the Chancellor?” I asked Rhen, who nodded grimly.

I hurried through the foyer, past its bitter nightmares, for the ramp to the Chancellor’s office. As luck had it, he wasn’t alone.

Rhen held the door open as I stepped in to find Chancellor Fel standing, staring out a window. On the other side of a centaur-sized desk, Liru sat with his snake-like tail curled under him like a makeshift scaly cushion. Prairie wind gusted through the half-open window, carrying a hint of wildflowers and—like always—dust.

“Tela,” Liru said with a smile.

He started to rise, maybe to offer me a hug, but hesitated. Our conversation before the lich bloodbath hung like a pall over everything. Liru had lied by omission to get me to help, which contributed to how bad it had gotten. Still, healing had to start somewhere, so I lightly squeezed his shoulder when I reached the chair next to him.

Chancellor Fel nodded once I sat down.

“Thank you for coming, Lady Kioni.”

I shrugged. “Nothing like more conversation around the Day of Ash and Bone,” I said dryly.

Liru winced. Chancellor Fel arched a bemused eyebrow.

“So you’ve heard? Well, that saves me an explanation.” He lightly waved a hand at the window. “It was necessary. Naming it gives people something better to focus on. Hopefully, move on from what happened.”

“Can they?” I asked tartly, remembering people—just bystanders—who were run down by Herd Tolvana soldiers.

Fel’s eyebrows rose for his steel-gray hairline as he sighed, horse-tail swatting the air.

“Fair question. It’ll take work, but I think so.” He turned, hoofs clomping lightly against the wooden floor as he faced us. “Herd Tolvana atoning for their part in this will help. Sadly, their current Magister suffered an unfortunate accident three days ago. The Trade-Wardens assure me he’ll recover, but we’ll see. Until then, his temporary replacement has some hard questions to answer.”

“You mentioned that before Tela arrived,” Liru said. “How soon before they pick one?”

“Better question. Will the rotten lot say anything more useful than ‘oops’?” I asked, my frustration still on display.

The Chancellor shrugged. “I’m expecting real answers. The city deserves that much. So does Jata. Even a little would help me to earn back the people’s trust. Fix the cracks. Nudge the kingdom to something better.”

Liru nodded solemnly. “I hope they find their better nature and atone for their part in all this.”

Fel chuckled deep in his chest. “We’ll see. Jata sometimes rewards honesty with a knife to the back. Still, it’s worth the effort. To which, thank you for what you did, Lady Kioni. Jata came a hair’s breadth from horror.”

I sucked in a quiet breath, squirming in the wooden chair.

“Chancellor, please. It was—” The words caught in my throat. Calling it ‘nothing’ felt insulting. “—it had to be done. If history is any guide, Rima would’ve painted Jata in blood.”

The centaur nodded, folding his hands in front of him.

“So I’ve gathered. All the more reason my people owe you a debt.”

Those words, and the responsibility behind them, burrowed under my skin the worst way. It felt like I was sitting on an angry anthill. Unable to take any more, I stared at the ceiling with a heavy sigh.

“If you really mean that, Chancellor, I’m calling it in.” I met his curious gaze. “Stop the persecution of tieflings, really anyone not a centaur. They’re people, not things.”

“It would be a good start,” Liru advised. “In some ways, it compounded the recent problems.”

The Chancellor’s eyes turned distant as he gazed out the window at the courtyard below.

“If I could only make it happen by decree,” he murmured. “I’ve proposed laws, but they’ll only go so far. Education and time are the real solutions. I’ve plans to work with the Dream-Scribe’s people on education. Time will take care of itself. Sadly, that means at least a generation, but maybe that can be sped up.”

“That leaves the crystals,” Liru hissed softly. “They can’t stay here.”

“They won’t,” I said flatly.

Fel’s mouth pulled into a smile.

“Nor should they. The farther they are from Jata, the happier I’ll be. Is it true they can’t be destroyed?”

Liru shrugged, clasping his scaled hands. “That’s what the ancient texts say—which is why my people keep trying to hide them.”

I folded my hands in my lap.

“If I may? I think they’re from a type of crystal golem called an Automatic Crystal. The lich, Rima, is a member of a group called the Gatekeeper Society that’s obsessed with them. But,” I bit my lower lip in thought, “there might be a way to make them harmless.”

“How?” Fel asked curiously.

“Free the elementals inside them.” I shrugged. “No elementals, no threat. I can handle that with the help of a friend in Ishnanor.”

“That solves two. What about the third one with the gray mist?” Fel asked.

I shook my head. “Different problem. It’s mine to solve.”

“Tela, I’d like to send Skarri along when you free the elementals,” Liru said, turning toward me. Then he smiled a little. “One last task before she leaves my service.”

I blinked. “What?”

The shaman shrugged. “She wants to settle in Ishnanor for a bit, then visit a little town called Banye?”

I grinned. So Skarri had asked Mikasi to show her his hometown after all. Good.

“Of course,” I glanced between the two men. “What about the ruins outside Arth Prayogar?”

The Chancellor gestured to Liru. “The Trade-Wardens will seal all access until a new viprin delegation arrives. They’ll take charge of the ruins, artifacts and all. I’ll make sure the Merchant Herds keep their hooves out.”

“Good,” I replied.

“Yes,” Fel agreed. Then he studied me. “Lady Kioni, don’t take this the wrong way, but hero or not, I’ll be glad to see you go.”

I laughed softly. “That’s fair. I know having me around adds more headaches than help.”

The Chancellor grinned. “A little, yes.”

I tensed, then glanced at Liru.

“Liru? You asked for my help, and I gave it. But I also did it because you saved my best friend’s life once. I know your people place stock in debts. Does freeing the elementals, even tossing the crystals in the first volcano I find, even things?”

He nodded, giving the floor a sad look.

“By our law, it does.” Then he met my gaze. “But… Tela, I never felt you owed me a debt. Yes, I saved Kiyosi’s life. But we spent days in the Deepland Hollow debating history, sharing findings.” A smile brushed his scaled lips, amber eyes dancing. “It’s a fond memory. Debts aside, I’d rather repair our friendship—if we can.”

I gave him a slight smile.

“Yeah, I’d like that. No more lying by omission, right?”

“Right,” Liru grinned.

I gave Liru a warm hug, then looked between him and the Chancellor.

“If that’s all, I’d best get packed. I’ve one last thing to set right.”

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Windtracer Tales is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In fact, it considers itself rather fancy and quite proud of itself. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

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Previously. The rescue came fast and furious but also arrived with a cost. Valeria Moffet didn’t go quietly, nor was she willing to go alone. With the life of a second victim in the balance nearby, Daniel and Cassidy worked together to end the threat of the bloodleech killer. But victory came hard, with Daniel and Cassidy being hurt in the process. As the dust settled, all that remained was to bandage wounds, call the sheriff, and find a way to less terrifying tomorrows… or so they thought…

November 2, 2024. Morning in our apartment above Moonlight Curiosities. Two days into married life, and already the world refused to mind its own business.

Yesterday turned out to be the champion of a rough day. After twelve hours at Magnolia Regional for treatment, then three interviews with Sheriff Branham over ‘burnt dust’, we were allowed to come home. I crashed immediately to sleep.

Cassidy slept peacefully in bed beside me. Shoulder-length auburn curls made a soft frame around her furry, bat-shaped face. One forearm wing was even draped over me like a shield. I watched her slowly flex her claws while she dreamed. She hadn’t bothered to shift fully human for sleep since Briarwood.

Still, it felt good to be alive.

Sunlight sneaked in around the dark green bedroom curtains, carrying the reminder that we nearly died two nights ago. I took a slow, quiet breath of welcome air.

“I’m sorry, Cassie,” I murmured under my breath. “This wasn’t how I hoped any of this would go. I’ll find a way to make it up to you.”

Memories of what happened ran through my mind in lurid detail. They lingered like a waking nightmare, unwilling to let go. Sure, Cassidy and I survived, but the whole moment was a thorn in my mind.

Especially around Valeria Moffet—my would-be murderer.

I closed my eyes as the memories ran over me. That too-sharp sensation when I was yanked through the antique bay window of our shop. The sting of shattered glass, and the brutal bite of Valeria’s claws, blurred with the echo of my screams. It was a bloody symphony in agony-minor.

All of it because she wanted our antique shop for herself.

Valeria’s skeletal talons, needle-like teeth, and that distorted smile were permanently etched in my mind. Then there were the bodies in the cellar. The horror of what she did to those people as they died was burned into my memory as well.

Monsters don’t let go of you easily—even when you survive, and they don’t.

A gust of autumn wind outside nudged the building, and a loose board somewhere in the attic creaked in protest. Then there was the soft brush of the Spanish moss kissing the bedroom window with a gentle whisper.

It was eerie, but also comforting in its own way. I had grown accustomed to city noises, but this small town life was a welcome change. Taking another deep breath, I watched Cassidy in her sleep.

Even in the morning light, Cassidy’s fine brown fur looked warm and comforting where it wasn’t hidden by bandages. Just seeing her here alive chased the demons out of my head.

Valeria had clawed her up pretty badly as well. But since Cassidy was a skinshaper, she’d heal back up pretty fast. I wasn’t so lucky. We humans tended to heal a bit slower.

My phone buzzed, shattering the calm mood.

“Oh, now what?” I breathed.

I grabbed the thing, then scrolled through the messages. After a quick couple of replies, I set the phone down to find Cassidy watching me. Her large black bat eyes glimmered with curiosity, interest, and something more mysterious.

“Hey there,” I said softly, laying back down next to her.

“Hey yourself,” she said in her soft Southern drawl. “Who was that?”

“One was Tobias about the repairs to the store downstairs. He’s still looking for the materials he needs for the window frame. It’s pretty messed up, and he wants to match the wood. But he’s got the replacement glass.” I pursed my lips, then took in a small breath. “The other was from work. Well, former work.”

Cassidy scowled at the latter, flicking a pointed ear.

“Why?” She stretched the word until I thought it would snap.

I frowned, trying to wave the topic off.

“No, it’s not pestering me for freelance work, software designs they won’t pay me fairly for, or ‘can you do just one more thing?’. It was just three messages hoping we’re okay, followed by a ‘call us if you’re ever ready to consult.’ It seems state and local news picked up on what happened last night and they all saw it. News media is calling it a ‘serial killer attack’ that was stopped by ‘brave local residents’.”

Cassidy groaned, burying her head in the pillow. Slowly, she flexed her claws against the bed.

“Serial killer?” she muttered, glancing back at me. “Well, at least they’re half-right. Bloodleeches are serial killers, among all the other nasty things they like to do.”

Then she tilted her head at me with a grin, flicking an ear at me once more.

“But that means I mostly get you all to myself today!”

“Yes, you do,” I grinned.

Cassidy slid over, folding her forearm wings back as she wrapped her arms around me. I flinched a little, my body still angry at the abuse I took the other night. Worry flickered across her eyes for a second, but snuggled close when I smiled.

“Good. Because I have plans for you, husband,” she purred. A mischievous glimmer shone in her solid, dark eyes.

“Oh, really?” I teased. “Aren’t we a bit beat up?”

“Careful plans,” she replied with a kiss.

It took at least a full hour to enjoy her plans, and I had no complaints. After that, we dragged ourselves breathlessly out of bed, dressed, then headed for the kitchen. Breakfast was on the menu, along with a start to our day.

We’d only just finished eating, and started on the dishes, when the downstairs shop bell rang. A short, polite knock followed it a few seconds later.

“But we’re closed for repairs,” I muttered, wiping my hands on a dishtowel. “There’s a boarded up, blood-stained hole in the front window and everything.”

“Also, we put a sign up,” Cassidy added suspiciously.

We rushed down the steps from our apartment into the shop.

The shop itself was quiet, with antiques waiting where we left them in locked cabinets or on wooden shelves. But still, the air felt tense, if not heavy. Before we reached the front door, Cassidy had slipped back into her human disguise complete with green eyes and freckles.

Past the frosted glass in the dark wooden door, we saw a tall man standing outside. I swapped a suspicious glance with Cassidy before unlocking it to see what he wanted.

“Daniel and Cassidy Hawthorne?” The man’s manners, even his New England accent, were like silk. “Dorian Callix,” he said with a polite smile.

The man was tall and thin, with slicked-back sandy hair and a gaze that didn’t quite look at you. Instead, he looked through you, or even into you. I had to admit, he was dressed with impeccable taste—somewhere between a low-rent fashion plate and upscale life insurance salesman. His light windbreaker and gray-and-white clothing were perfectly pressed. A faint, sweet scent rode the autumn air around him, like a dusty cinnamon that was just a bit wrong.

Dorian looked more like the idealized idea of a stylish person than a real one. It was a little unsettling. His eyes slid over the antique shop’s blood-stained front window to his right. Then he smiled—thin, polite, and just a little too deliberate to be comfortable.

“If you’ve time, and aren’t too busy,” he said, stretching the word a bit, “I’d like to come in and discuss some matters of interest with you both.”

Cassidy darted in front of me even as Dorian made the request. Her disguise dropped just enough to bare fangs and claws, every muscle in her shoulders coiled for a fight.

“Bloodleech,” she growled, sniffing the air.

The memory of Valeria’s giggles ran through my head. I gripped the door handle hard enough to choke it.

Dorian held up his hands in a peaceful gesture.

“Truce, skinshaper. Truce. I’m here in full good faith,” he said carefully. Dorian’s gray eyes were cold and calculating. Wary. The autumn air turned tense. “Also, I wanted to thank you… both of you… in person.”

“What?” I snapped.

He interlaced his fingers in front of him with a thin smile.

“I’ll explain.” He took a long breath. “Valeria Moffet was what you’d call my ‘maker’—though that term flatters her way too much, and isn’t entirely accurate. She was a bit careless, often caught up too much in her own appetites.”

He shifted his weight, then gestured to us.

“When news of you two spread among the creatures of the night, some believed it, some didn’t. Those that did believe, were upset or curious.”

“They’re jealous,” Cassidy growled, still eager for that fight.

The bloodleech shrugged. “Hm, probably, or thought you had found some advantage they didn’t. Valeria was one of those. She wanted whatever it was, or at least to feast on you two like some new exotic, imported candy. The curious ones? They’re just that. Curious. Especially since this sort of thing is rare enough to begin with.”

“Where do you fall?” I asked sharply, not quite itching for a fight.

“Oh, I’m the latter,” Dorian replied with a soft chuckle. “I try not to be stupid, and stick my fingers in an obvious blender, hm?”

He punctuated that with a glance at Cassidy’s claws, raising his eyebrows.

“You see, you two helped me move up a bit in bloodleech ‘society’, such as it is. So, I’m in your debt. Also—” he hesitated, weighing his words “—Valeria wasn’t working alone, whether she knew it or not. Which means, someone has to clean up the mess, which would be me.”

Dorian glanced up and down the sidewalk as the fall leaves blew along the tree-lined street. A couple of the older locals, on their way to Miss Milly’s diner, slowed down enough to stare.

Cassidy stepped back far enough to be out of sight, but remained close enough to be a very clear and present danger.

The man cleared his throat, before pulling on that too-smooth grin again. He nodded toward the doorway.

“If I may? It’s a bit chilly today. There really is something potentially lucrative I’d like to talk about. We could continue this inside where we’re out of the wind… prying eyes,” he raised his eyebrows, “and ears? Gloamstead is a rather small town.”

I swapped a glance with Cassidy. A silent conversation that said a thousand things and expressed even more concerns.

Dorian’s smile turned tense and worried.

“You have my word. I’m no threat to your little family. Nor is any bloodleech that owes me in any way.”

Cassidy sighed and nodded. We stepped aside to let him in.

“There’s a small office to the left of the checkout counter, over by the vintage lamps.” I indicated a path between shelves of hand-carved wooden boxes, and a few well-preserved, iron railroad spikes.

“Thank you,” he replied with a gracious smile.

Casually, he strolled over to the office, but took great care to avoid the railroad spikes. His eyes traveled over the rust-freckled iron. There was a brief twitch of distaste, like he’d caught a whiff of something sour. Overall, Dorian gave the shelf a wide berth.

“I don’t trust this,” I whispered. “He wants something more than business.”

Cassidy clenched her jaw, then took a long, slow breath. Gently, she shifted all the way human, putting a hand on my arm and squeezing lightly.

“I really don’t trust him either,” she said, voice low. “But he gave his word. For a bloodleech that’s a really big deal.”

She took another long, deep breath, then stroked my arm a little with a hand. I could tell it was to reassure her as much as it was for me.

“I hate this,” she grumbled. “I really do hate this, Daniel. Especially after the other night.”

I resisted flinching at the mention of the fight with Valeria in Briarwood Manor. Instead, I held her hand, kissing her knuckles.

“Me too.” A sigh drained out of me. “But… he mentioned something ‘lucrative’ and we need the money for that window and the other damages.”

Cassidy gave the boarded up bay window the same look you’d give a wedding cake that had collapsed in the middle of your own reception.

“Yeah, I know.”

I frowned at the office. “Cassie? If he gets out of hand, we kick him out. Deal?”

She gave me a quick kiss on the lips with a small smile.

“Deal.”

We crossed the main storefront to see just what kind of trouble our unusual, and mostly unwanted guest, had dropped at our doorstep.

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

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Previously: In a tight spot against Gregori Elkerton, Tela tries a desperate gamble—swap the elemental infused gemstone with a lich’s soul stone. The results were wildly successful, and deeply deadly. Having to fight a two problems at once, Tela attempts to solve one with the other. It nearly works, but Rima isn’t so easily fooled. Which leads Tela to make a dangerous, and desperate, gamble…

Medilus 5, 1278: Arth Prayogar’s Council Building. Nearly getting dead was the easy part.

I had a list of things to do that day. Diving backwards into a rolling fog of murder dust wasn’t on it. Neither was hugging a scheming, walking corpse that kept oddly insisting we were the same—but also wanted to kill me.

There was a lesson in there, but I was a little busy.

My head hit the tile floor when I fell backward. Stars painted my vision with white sparks, and I lost the world for a moment. I came to with a scream wedged like a bone in my throat. That dry fog boiled around me. It was storm-thick, full of charred dust and damp regret.

I gagged, rolling to my right away from Rima and Garrik. It felt like I’d inhaled a tomb, along with bits of its residents. The problem wasn’t just the fetid smell; it was a bitter, gray powder eager to crawl between my teeth and down my throat. While I liked to study history, I didn’t want to swallow it—especially not when it was the powdered remains of a dead nobleman with a grudge.

“Marius!” My voice held a dry rasp that shocked me. “Get out of my throat!”

To my surprise, it did.

“By the Lady Deep and her Saint of Tides, that’s vile,” I swore, spitting a mix of blood and burned spirit dust from my mouth.

I had rolled onto my hands and knees, body shuddering as if from a sharp winter wind. The receding gravedust peeled off my skin, leaving a memory of chalky sludge along with the taste of tarnished coins and cruelty. It swirled around me; a lazy cyclone too bored to move.

Dimly, I realized I still held the Iraxi gemstone. It pulsed warmly. I shook my head, collecting my torn wits.

“Whip,” I sputtered, then found it next to me. I picked up the weapon before shoving myself upright, squinting through my confusion. “Where’s Garrik? Rima? Anyone?”

Past the lively haze, I couldn’t see Rima but did see Garrik. The elven thief fought like a cat fleeing a bath. Ribbons of charcoal-colored gravedust clenched at his arms, legs, neck—anywhere to get purchase. He’d swat a gust away, earning singed skin, only for two more to grab him elsewhere. Both his boots and legs had vanished under the dark mist.

Then a familiar tail lashed through the choking dust—it was Skarri.

“Go!” she hissed, voice rough with overuse.

Mikasi appeared next to her, tossing a vial through the dead haze. It splattered, chasing back the mist long enough for the pair to grab Garrik. They pulled—the gravedust yanked back harder. Garrik yelled.

I shoved at the dust cyclone around me to get through, but it pushed back. After that, I punched and swore it winced.

“Hells and high tide, Marius Apollinare! Dead or not, I’ll kill you again. Let me out!” I yelled, though my voice was barely louder than crumpled paper.

Again, it—no, he—cooperated. I tucked that away for later under ‘future problems’, then charged forward as if chasing my own death. Death wisely kept out of my reach, but Rima Nimad had not.

In the time it took with my misadventures with the dead dust from the lich soul crystal, Rima was back on her feet. Somehow she’d pulled Garrik’s dagger from her back, then started flaying the thick mist with her flaming whip. A wet pop slapped a hole in the dust, leaving the stink of burned blood behind. It was surprisingly effective—even if her whip was dying like old embers. But the death mist wasn’t to be outdone; it scorched her too-pale skin like acid in long strips.

Then the dust cyclone circled me again. Understanding—a shred of it—penetrated my fatigue.

“It isn’t trying to hunt me. Not really,” I muttered, watching the chaos with a calculated look. “The gravedust coming out of the lich crystal… that’s Marius, but he’s just reacting like a wound does to salt.” My eyes cut over to Rima “As if reacting to something irritating.”

Rima glared knives in Garrik’s direction as the others pulled the thief loose. She lashed at the dust again as it tried to swallow her. It parted, and I filled the gap.

“What? Not hurt enough people yet?” I said with a glare.

Rima sucked a ragged breath, hurling the same look back.

“This from the same woman who drags her enemies to the grave, so she doesn’t die alone,” she said icily.

I gave her a casual shrug, sliding the whip beside me like the tail of an irritated cat.

“I thought you’d feel at home in a grave, Rima.” My smile fled. “You won’t get what you want out of this. This stupid plan of yours failed centuries ago when you tried it the first time. Admit it, you’ve lost.”

Rima circled me in the bitter dust as her flaming blood-whip sputtered out. Letting the ragged embers scatter to the floor, the lich slid a dagger from her belt—the same one she’d cut me with before. I drew a deep breath, trying to remember our fight last time.

The lich lunged, her knife a flashing blur. I cracked my whip but missed, getting sliced along my upper arm for the trouble. Hissing, I darted away to avoid being stabbed. We circled each other, the Iraxi bracer with the lich soul stone on the floor between us. Rima smirked, eyes dancing over me in a way that made me cringe.

“Lost? For now, but so have you.” She inclined her head toward my arm, punctuating the point. “That has to really hurt.”

I spared a glance at my latest wound. The gravedust and smoke curled around me like a shawl or some perverted death armor. Where Rima had cut me turned a shadow-slate gray; the blood a reddish-black. The horrid effect spread over my skin like a demented sunburn. I grimaced. Kiyosi, Mikasi, and the others were going to have a fit.

“Maybe,” I replied. “But the longer I keep you here, the better my friends can kneecap your bad idea.”

“Then we shouldn’t waste time,” she countered with a twisted smile.

Rima thrust low, but I was waiting. The slice caught air and dust, parting both. I side-stepped, flipped the whip in my hand, using the handle like a bludgeon. It smashed along the lich’s jaw, snapping her head to the side. Wet gravedust—what passed for her blood—spilled over her lips. Rima staggered aside as I stepped behind her.

Suddenly I was all too aware of the elemental-possessed gemstone in my hand. The gem was a dull, insistent heartbeat of power—warm, steady, and so inviting.

“It could fix this,” I murmured as Rima winced, resetting her jaw. “Just open myself up to it. One pull of magic could end this.”

But I knew what that meant, and I’d been on the wrong side of it before. I touched the side of my head beside my goggles that protected my permanently altered eyes. Ghostly dust of a dead lich—one I’d killed before he killed me—brushed my skin, caressing my hands. A ragged breath fell out of me.

“No,” I told the crystal. “No, I won’t do it.”

My eyes flicked between it and the gemstone I’d stuck in the bracer. “Wait,” I murmured. “Is that why the Iraxi can’t be destroyed? They’re pieces of a shattered Automatic Crystal golem?”

I realized I’d been wool-gathering when Rima faced me with a glare so hot; I swore it burned the air.

“You’ll pay for that. For all of this.”

She darted in low again, dagger aimed for my guts, as I threw myself at the bracer on the floor.

I was faster.

The blade sliced past, cutting a new hole in my shirt. I rolled, grabbed the bracer, slamming the Iraxi crystal against the lich soul stone. They connected with a gentle click, as if part of the same structure. Immediately, both stones glowed in unison as if… talking?

I glanced up too late to see Rima looming over me. The lich hauled me up by my shirt collar as her dagger plunged. I reached to pull mind magic threads and failed—they frayed; I was too rattled. Desperate, I rammed my shoulder against Rima’s knife arm. Her dagger tip brushed my back as I shoved the Iraxi bracer and its pair of crystals against her gut.

The air felt as if it had ripped open and the world exploded at my feet.

Dark, brownish-black gravedust erupted around us like a hurricane. Red bolts of fire-touched lightning scored the clouds like cracks in the fabric of life.

“Tela!” I heard Kiyosi shout over the maelstrom. “Someone grab her!”

“We can’t get close!” Atha replied from nearby, yet painfully far away. “Storm will tear us apart!”

“Toss her a rope! Something!” That was Rhen Shotho.

I clenched my jaw. It was too late for last-ditch rescues. All that was left was to hold on and ride the storm.

Chaos raged. Rima screamed as if being torn apart. My legs shook, knees giving way, but I tensed to keep myself standing. For a moment, I thought I felt a pair of spectral hands steady me, then vanish.

All at once, the world felt too tight. Then it snapped like a frayed bowstring with an obvious, painful pop. Dust, false wind, all of it vanished as if it’d never been there.

I stumbled forward wide-eyed, accidentally kicking the burnt bones of Gregori Elkerton clattering across the floor. The Iraxi in my hands steamed.

Rima was gone.

Where the lich had been, there was the burned outer jacket of her monk’s robes and a mangled Fateweaver pin. I coiled my whip, hooking it onto my belt before I knelt. On the pin’s tarnished brass, the symbol of three daggers bound by a cord was twisted into a barely discernible mess. Almost as if the pin had an unexpected fight with a forge and lost.

“Gone,” I wheezed, drinking clean air. “No lich. Nothing.”

The area around me felt twisted. As if the air had been unexpectedly robbed, leaving a feeling of physical absence behind. I couldn’t place what to call it other than what nothing might actually feel like.

A gallop of hoofbeats yanked me back to the moment. I slipped the Fateweaver pin into my bag before I stood. Seven Council guards—all centaurs—galloped over to surround me with drawn weapons. I eyed them warily with one hand on my whip, the other clutching the Iraxi bracer.

“Yoi T’kalo, boys,” I greeted them casually, eyes drifting between them.

“You,” a centaur snarled. I recognized him from the inspection to get inside earlier, and braced to be grabbed. “Windtracer! You’ll…”

“… be still while I summon a healer,” a deep, older voice behind the guards interrupted.

Every Council guard went stiff as a board, like a collection of kids caught with their hands in a basket, stealing muffins. They parted, as the royal-robed Chancellor Fel, speaker and head of the Jata Council of Seven, walked over. The most powerful centaur in the Jata kingdom wasn’t flanked by Council guards. Instead, Nurkes and a certain Trade-Warden I’d come to know, Rhen Shotho, stood in those positions.

“You’re beat to hell, and I’d rather you not be bleeding everywhere,” the Chancellor continued. The centaur gestured to somewhere past the wall of guards, and I heard a scurry of footsteps. “I want answers, and Trade-Warden Shotho says you’re the best to ask. Also, he says I owe you my hide.”

I snorted softly. It might not have been polite, but it was where my mind rested as a headache took hold. For a moment, I didn’t say a word, just sighed as I looked at the Iraxi with its twin glowing crystals. Rima’s words haunted me again. I’d shaken Jata to its foundation—even cracked it a little—just to save its people. Did the ends justify the means? Silently, I wondered if Rima had been right all along, that she and I weren’t any different.

“Chancellor…,” I said with a rough rasp, before my throat gave up.

One of the Council building’s attendants, human by the look of him, appeared next to me with a bottle. I uncorked it, swallowed some water, then nodded. The dark-haired young man, barely old enough to shave, nodded back with a bright grin. Then he set about cleaning the wound on my arm.

“…there’s a lot,” I continued. “But I’ll bundle it up for you. A lich wanted to use Gregori Elkerton and Herd Tolvana to wipe out the Council of Seven. She—the lich—wanted to rule it all. Elkerton had his own plans to rule instead. He double-crossed her, and… well… here we are.”

No one spoke for a moment. Then the Chancellor nodded sagely, folding his arms across his chest.

“I… see. Can anyone back these claims?”

Rhen cleared his throat. “Respectfully, Chancellor, I can on behalf of the Trade-Wardens…”

Another voice, as ragged as mine, interrupted Rhen Shotho.

“Save it,” Garrik said. The elven thief looked beat to hell and back, with dark circles under his eyes. “I can explain all about Rima Nimad and her Fateweaver cult.” He shook his head. “Before anyone gets jumpy, no, I’m not a cultist, but I was on the inside before I picked a better path. So I can explain what Tela Kioni here can’t.”

“Go on,” Chancellor Fel said, looking from Garrik to myself.

I rubbed a hand over my face as another sigh spilled out of me. Quietly, I looked down at the Iraxi bracer with its twin gemstones glowing like a sunrise or maybe sunset. Then I looked up to see Mikasi and Skarri not far behind Garrik. Kiyosi and Atha joined them a moment later. They all looked worried, but still gave me smiles and nods of encouragement.

That told me all I needed to know. No, I wasn’t like Rima. Not in the least.

“Chancellor?” I said in a stronger voice. “How are you on history? Because this really started nearly a thousand years ago, in a land not far from here…”

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Windtracer Tales is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In fact, it considers itself rather fancy and quite proud of itself. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Also! Windtracer Tales and Windtracer: Adventures in Awldor is written with much respect to Starfarertheta and their work on the other half of Awldor.

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Previously. After being kidnapped and killed, Daniel Hawthorne set out to escape the rotten walls of the Briarwood Manor Estate. But plans changed once he heard the wailing cries of a second victim in the nightmarish home. Someone else trapped in the claws of the monster, Valeria Moffet. Escape became survival, then turned to hope as Daniel’s own personal avenging angel arrived—his shapeshifting wife, Cassidy.

October 31, 2024. Seconds later in the Briarwood Manor Estate’s old library. Gloamstead, Alabama. Sometimes violence is an option…

“Daniel!” Cassidy yelled, sliding the bag across the floor to me.

She leaped forward with inhuman speed. There was a wet popping sound—like celery snapping inside a burlap sack.

Soft brown fur pushed out of her skin as a furry snout extended from her face. Delicate fangs reached below her lips, peeking out as they only did when she was so very pissed off. Her eyes turned a deep, onyx-black as wings snapped open under her arms, shredding more rents in her loose cotton shirt.

In the time it took her to reach the bloodleech, Cassidy had changed completely. A moment ago, she’d been entirely human. Now, she was a lean, humanoid-animal shape—a perfect blend of woman and human-sized fruit bat.

One very angry humanoid fruit bat.

The instant she reached Valeria, dark brown claws snicked out the ends of her fingers, slicing deep gashes along the fiend’s mummified face. Valeria screamed as if stabbed by hot needles, stumbling back as Cassidy advanced like a predator going for the kill.

On the floor, I crawled away from the fight dragging the canvas bag and candlestick. The bag was heavy, but my head was too muddled to figure out why. There was something important about the bag, but I felt too much like a battered sack of old potatoes to remember.

I finally found the nearest wall. Putting my back to it, I turned to face the chaos, barking out a dry cough from getting choked. Barely five feet away, the two women slashed, stabbed, and bit each other with savage abandon.

A dim thought in my head screamed to get up and help. Do something—anything useful.

“Up… Get up!” I snarled between clenched teeth and aches.

Pressing a shoulder against the wall, I shoved myself to my knees, then got unsteadily to my feet. I held up the bent candlestick, grimacing.

“This won’t do. All she did was giggle, and probably thought I was flirting or something,” I wheezed, tossing the holder aside. It clanked to the floor like a bad foregone conclusion. I rubbed my throat, thinking through pain. “Need better. Something sharp… pointed.”

I shifted my weight. When I leaned my back against the wall facing the bloody fight, I heard the solid clunk of metal in Cassidy’s dirty canvas bag. I yanked it open, hoping for jars of napalm garlic or something equally impressive.

What I found was so much better.

Inside the bag rested a pair of rusted, iron railroad spikes. A tired smile brushed my lips as I stared at them.

A memory flashed through my mind. One, not long back, where Cassidy had explained over dinner about bloodleeches and iron—they hated raw iron, especially with rust. It burned them like being boiled in acid. Funny enough, she said they called it ‘cold iron’ like in the old myths about faeries.

“Why is it always iron with brain-sucking monsters and faerie tales?” I murmured.

Also, it struck me that Cassidy and I had the strangest dinner conversations.

But, cold, rusted, or not, this was still a spike. Last I knew, everyone was allergic to getting stabbed—especially with a railroad spike. I grabbed one, dropping the bag to the floor.

“Valeria!” I yelled.

She spun around, claws up.

I slammed the spike into her upper chest.

Valeria jerked from the impact, then screamed loud enough to shatter glass two houses away.

Smoke boiled from the wound like an open fire as the acrid stench of burned meat and cooked rot flooded the air. I gritted my teeth and shoved again, pushing the spike deeper. The bloodleech went wild with an insane shriek, her claws leaving light gashes along my forearms.

“You! I’ll… rip you… apart!” she rasped.

I let go and ducked her claws, long enough to grab the second spike.

“Cassie!”

I tossed the spike. Exhausted and bleeding, Cassidy snatched it out of the air. She thrust, but Valeria twisted aside. I lunged and hammered both hands down on the spike—a frantic, staccato rhythm of death. Whose death I wasn’t sure, I just hoped it was hers. More smoke spilled out of the bloodleech like a rancid fog.

Valeria grabbed me by the throat and squeezed hard. My eyes watered, darkness frayed the edges of my vision. Just as I thought she was about to rip open my throat, Valeria jerked hard from behind, mouth open in stunned shock. Fresh fetid smoke burned up from behind Valeria.

Cassidy was suddenly there right behind Valeria.

“I said hands off my husband,” Cassidy hissed into Valeria’s ear.

Valeria’s scream landed somewhere between rage and agony.

Then it was over.

Suddenly, the room felt enormous and eerily quiet.

The entire nightmare lasted less than a minute as the rusted iron did its gruesome work. With one final, garbled shriek and rattled breath, Valeria Moffet—serial killer, bloodleech, and a literal walking terror—dissolved into a pile of charred dust and cracked bone.

I half-expected the dust to twitch. Reform. Maybe whisper something final and creepy. But no, it was just gray-black dust, bone, and the smell of overcooked evil.

Exhausted, Cassidy and I stared numbly at the smoldering heap with its sour stink of burned rot.

A second or two passed, then I looked over at my wife, giving her a lopsided grin. Then my knees gave way, and I fell like a discarded puppet. My vision blacked out for a second, before I realized that I never hit the floor. That seemed somehow wrong, like I’d broken gravity.

Then I realized Cassidy had caught me as I fell.

Carefully, she lowered me the rest of the way down, leaning me against a wall. Panting hard, she collapsed against me, gently pressing her soft, fox-like muzzle against my cheek. Blood matted the fur in her arms from long, thin slashes that mirrored the cuts I had.

“Good catch,” I murmured painfully.

Darkness dissolved the edges of my vision again and I felt myself starting to go limp. Cassidy clutched at me, as if she could hold me together by force of will. She stroked my hair, and I dimly felt her furry hands trembling.

“Daniel! No! Honey, no! Please. Oh, please, no. Don’t leave me. Blink. Breathe. Please, love… breathe…”

That sounded like a really great idea, so I did.

One breath led to a cough. I blinked, then reached up to run a hand through that wonderfully soft brown fur on her cheek.

“Hey, sunshine.” I rasped. A cough chased the words. “Just a thought. How about if we get married again, we just elope? Justice of the peace, secret honeymoon, and all that? Maybe skip all the blood and murder?”

Cassidy choked back a sob underscored with a soft bat’s twitter. A tear trailed through her fur.

“Deal,” she whispered, then cradled me gently.

I jerked as my pain-addled mind remembered the college kid.

“Couch!” I coughed, pointing at the sofa. “Kid. She grabbed a college kid. Did something to him.”

I tried to get up, but Cassidy sternly shook her head.

“No, and I mean it! I’ll go check on him, then find something to rip into bandages,” she sighed. “You stay here.”

“Good idea,” I said, then coughed.

She gave me a light kiss on the forehead, then hurried off to the couch. I tried to sit with my back against the wall, imagining I was comfortable—mostly, I was just trying to catch my breath.

Once my head cleared a little more, I pushed against the wall to stand up, then searched the room. There had to be a way to call for help. After all, she’d called the shop dozens of times before tonight already.

It turned out there was a way. My phone, along with fifteen more, lay in a bowl on a nearby bookshelf.

“She collected the phones of the people she murdered? Oh no, that’s not unsettling at all…” I muttered, tapping the screen of my phone. Miraculously, it still worked.

Cassidy hurried by with an armload of unexpectedly clean sheets and a pair of scissors. Dropping the bundle next to the couch, she winced a little as her fur receded to skin. Bones adjusted as she pulled on her human disguise again. Then she savaged one of the sheets with enthusiasm, pain blending with worry in her eyes.

“The kid on the sofa is as pale as a ghost, but breathing,” she said, tearing sheets.

“She clawed his scalp, then I think bit him?” I explained between coughs.

Cassidy nodded grimly, eyes stern.

“Yeah. Bloodleeches do that.”

She quickly bandaged the kid, then went to work wrapping my forearms, grimacing at the sight the entire time.

“Love? How are we going to explain any of this to Sheriff Branham?”

I let out another dry cough, trying to remember how phone numbers and thumbs worked.

“Wedding crasher from hell?” I quipped, then winced as far too many cuts and bruises needled me.

Cassidy secured the last bandage, then wrapped her arms around me in a gentle, secure hug. A kiss came right after that.

I dialed. The sheriff’s office answered the phone, and I let out a long sigh.

“Yeah, this is Daniel Hawthorne. My wife, Cassidy, and I are at the old Briarwood Manor estate. Sheriff Branham needs to get over here right away with an ambulance. We, ah, found where the missing tourists went.”

I glanced at the pile of flaky, burnt dust that was once Valeria Moffet, murderous drama queen and bloodleech.

“He also might want to bring a shop vac, and some little baggies, too.”

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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.

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Previously: Dead tired and down to the wire, Tela confronts Rima Nimad. The confrontation becomes a duel of words and philosophy, with lives in the balance. But it was all a smoke screen, distracting Rima while Tela’s friends put their plan into motion. The plan nearly worked, until Auditor Gregori Elkerton enacted a plan of his own to double cross Rima and overthrown the Council of Seven! Chaos breaks out, and Tela charges the auditor with a desperate plan in mind that might stop the madness, or get them all killed…

Medilus 5, 1278: Arth Prayogar’s Council Building. It’s what you don’t see that can kill you…

I held onto the abused shield for dear life. If I let go even for a second, it meant someone I cared about would die. That wasn’t going to happen—not today.

Auditor Elkerton snarled in pain, eyes burning with hot rage. Heat boiled off the ancient dark leather bracer in searing waves.

It felt like I’d stuck my face next to an open oven.

The shield smoldered where it touched the Iraxi bracer. Overheated tar-stained wood stank of burning rot, even as the metal frame warmed and warped out of shape in my hands.

“You!” Elkerton spat in my face. “I should’ve killed you myself on the road, or shattered your bones, leaving you to die alone in the Deeplands.”

I flashed a sharp smile. “Aw, and here I didn’t think you cared.”

The kneeling centaur grabbed for my throat with his free hand. I shoved the bent shield forward, ramming it against his fingertips. A dull, wet pop filled the air as Elkerton yowled in pain. One of Herd Tolvana’s soldiers galloped toward us, glaring twisted rage at me as he reached for his sword. I gripped the ruined shield and braced for the pain—it never arrived.

Before the centaur was on top of us, Atha smashed into the soldier like a muscled hammer with horns. I missed the rest when Elkerton slammed a fist into my jaw.

Stars exploded in my vision. I instinctively ducked, avoiding a second punch.

“Just die!” he screamed.

“Not a chance!” I growled.

A third hit from the centaur went low, around the shield and into my ribs. I wheezed out precious air. Then it hit me—my mind magic threads! I still had a bundle wrapped loosely around my right hand.

“Right. Those,” I murmured around the ache in my jaw.

Elkerton drew back his bruised fist. I slammed the heel of my hand right between his eyes. His head jerked back, eyes crossed, but more importantly—the glimmering magic threads grabbed his skull in the mother of all headaches.

The magic storm in his mind instantly went to work. I almost felt sorry for him.

Elkerton clawed at his hair, eyes wide and glowing silver, as he sputtered ragged nonsense that fell short of coherent words. Frantically, I yanked out a scrap of cloth from my bag, a dagger from my belt, then lunged for the Iraxi.

I pinned the auditor’s right arm with my entire body, slapping cloth over the steaming gemstone. The cloth immediately sizzled as I stabbed the metal prongs holding the stone in place. My dagger scraped metal as I gripped the gem.

“Come on! By the Lady’s Nine, cooperate!” I growled, fighting the bracer and Elkerton, who kept flailing.

Then everything exploded into pain when Elkerton backhanded me across the face. I went flying off the centaur, tumbling over the floor. My dagger clattered away, somewhere out of reach. Nearby, Elkerton kept screaming as my silvery threads wrung his deepest nightmares dry.

The tiles were cool against my cheek. I was battered and singed; there wasn’t a part of me that didn’t hurt. For the moment, I lay on the floor, gulping dry air. A surreal eye of calm in the room’s storm of bloodshed.

Finally, I blinked, scrubbing wetness from my cheeks, as the world swam lazily in front of me. Ten Ancient Order meters to my right, Kiyosi worked feverishly to heal a badly bleeding centaur. It was one of the locals. Some merchant who’d gotten swept up in the fighting. In the other direction, Liru and Chancellor Fel hurried for the nearest door to safety. Behind them, Skarri and Nurkes fought a hard battle against Herd Tolvana soldiers.

We were on the wrong side of a losing battle, even if for the right reasons.

I’d lost track of Mikasi and Atha. There were just too many people moving around, and most wanted us dead. Then I caught sight of Rima. She’d just stabbed a Trade-Warden to death, pulling a fistful of dripping red magic threads from his dying breath and blood. My own blood chilled as she narrowed her eyes at Kiyosi with a wicked smirk, winding the blood threads into a hellish mockery of a flaming long knife.

Kiyosi was too absorbed in his work to notice. I tried to yell, but the best I managed was a rough croak. Rima’s words rattled around in my head.

“How many people would die today because of me?” I asked myself, echoing the memory.

I touched my forehead against the stone floor. Somehow the battle kept ignoring me.

“Too many,” I answered, then angrily spat blood onto the floor. “Get up,” I ordered myself. “Get the hells up and stop this.”

My blood sang in my ears as I slammed a fist against the floor.

“Why do these jobs always turn out to be so painful?” I murmured.

With a hard breath, I struggled upright, getting my feet under me. Everything ached. I grunted as I slammed a boot against the floor, relishing the solid feeling through my legs.

“By the Lady Deep, I refuse to be done… not by a long shot,” I snapped, picking up my whip.

Rima paused, looking sharply in my direction as I got to my feet. I shot her a bloody grin, then planted my feet to face Auditor Gregori Elkerton—the consistent pain in my backside.

The centaur had somehow stumbled to his shaking hooves, knee still ruined by my whip a moment ago. Strands of my silvery-blue mind magic crumbled away from his head. They hadn’t lasted long, but they didn’t have to for what I had in mind.

My eyes flicked to the bracer, then locked onto Elkerton’s murderous gaze.

“I’ll enjoy making you scream,” he sneered, baring his teeth at me. The Iraxi bracer on his arm sputtered white sparks in reaction.

I stood my ground, whip in one hand and a fistful of cotton cloth in the other. Casually, I shrugged. A dark, lopsided smile spread across my face as I drew a deep breath.

“You first,” I taunted.

Elkerton’s eyes burned a hateful orange as he summoned the power of the Iraxi. The centaur shoved a hand in my direction, intent on frying me alive. The relic instantly responded, only it wasn’t a red-hot glow from the gemstone, but a ghostly, yellow-white light with a smudge of shadow-black in the center.

A corpse-light from a lich’s soul stone.

The auditor looked in horror at the enchanted relic on his arm. Tendrils of oily smoke dripping gravedust, snaked out from the gem. They wrapped around his arm, crawling eagerly for his neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rima stiffen, eyes wide and round with startled recognition. She started to move, but hesitated—a tremor of nerves rippled through her expression.

I lifted a hand, holding up a particular gleaming hot gemstone with the essence of a fire elemental. The very stone that had been in the bracer a moment ago, and key to Rima’s murderous plan. It steamed, slowly heating the ragged cloth—and my fingers—as it pulsed like a burning heart. Scents of burnt cotton rolled around me in the air like a harbinger of things to come.

“Looking for this?” I asked, rotating the stone so it caught the sunlight off its facets.

“How did you…?” Rima stammered in shock, taking a step toward me.

My grin widened in dark glee.

“Rima? Always bet on a Windtracer when lives, and a relic, are on the line,” I quipped.

“By the Nine… you put Marius’ soul stone in the bracer,” Rima breathed in disbelief. “Are you insane?”

Even as Rima’s words tripped over themselves, the fight in the room staggered to a confused stop as Elkerton shrieked in blood-curdling terror. All eyes turned toward the auditor, who yanked uselessly at the bracer on his arm while experiencing the destructive consequences of his bad decisions.

Ribbon-like tendrils poured from the lich’s soul stone. They’d already swallowed his arm and latched onto his neck and chest with a starving need. Everywhere they touched, Elkerton’s skin crumpled and cracked like an old painting left to rot.

“Give me that!” Rima yelled, lunging for me—really, the gemstone—with a free hand.

Aches or not, I darted aside just out of reach, bouncing a little on the balls of my feet. Fear kept me moving past the pain, even though I knew I’d feel it all later. But, so long as Rima stayed focused on me, she’d stop her murder spree—giving me a chance to end this nightmare.

“Not a chance,” I said, closing my hand around the crystal. “Especially since I’ve figured out how to destroy it,” I lied.

“You’re lying!” she exclaimed.

“Am I?” I asked with another bloody smile that made Rima narrow her eyes at me.

Behind me, I heard Elkerton’s shuffling hoofbeats as he staggered closer—a lot closer. Past Rima, the fighting had died down. Kiyosi stared at this unfolding bad idea in open horror, tail swatting the air. I knew from his expression that he’d figured out what I was going to try.

“Tela! No!” he shouted at me with a terrified expression. “Don’t!”

“Windtracer!” Nurkes bellowed, belting a Herd Tolvana soldier across the jaw. Quickly disarming him, the temple guard nodded to Skarri. She tore off across the room toward me. But Skarri was too far away to reach myself, Rima, or Elkerton anytime soon. Mikasi appeared in a doorway, saying something I couldn’t hear before he, too, ran in to help.

I stepped back from Rima, stumbling in the attempt. Some of that was a ruse, but not all of it. An icy chill caressed my back. Out of the corner of my eye, tendrils of ghostly death magic powdered with gravedust eased around me. I felt it curl around my ankles, even while it spread misty fingers over my shoulders from behind—a loving caress promising cold death. The foul, powdery mist swirled like a demented pixie swarm.

A glance behind me told me too much. Elkerton was dying, turned into a ragged memory of a centaur made of gravedust and bone. The crumbling corpse shambled toward me with a flicker of hate; just lingering memories of Elkerton drowning in a bad death. He wasn’t within arm’s reach—not yet—but that greedy ghostly essence pouring from the crystal was.

Atha bashed a nearby Council guard into surrender, found my lost dagger, then started forward. I caught his eye, giving him a tiny shake of my head. The minotaur paused, eyes flicking between Rima, myself, and impending, ugly death behind me. He inclined his head respectfully in a stern reply, but looked ready to leap.

To my right, a shadow moved wrong in a nearby doorway—way too deliberate to be part of the chaos. I knew that shape. It was what I had been waiting for. After all, that man owed me—as much as I owed him—and this was a fantastic way to settle our debt.

“I didn’t want to kill you,” Rima said coldly, stalking toward me. “Really. I didn’t. You would’ve been a wonderful ally. But… if you won’t give me the gemstone… I’ll take it off your corpse.”

The lich grabbed her flaming long knife, pulling the magic threads apart. One moment it was a blade, the next it was a burning whip. I snorted. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I readied my own whip beside me, practically feeling the last scraps of safety evaporate as Rima and whatever was left of Elkerton closed in.

“Come and get it,” I growled, standing my ground.

Rima’s eyes flicked between the tendrils of dust-laden smoke oozing around my shoulders like a shawl, then back to my eyes. Slowly, her mouth pulled into a sharp smile.

“Do you really think I’m that big a fool?” she asked coolly. “I’m not about to chase you into death mists spilling out of a lich crystal, even if I am a lich.”

“A fool? No, not really,” I replied with a casual shrug. “I figured you’d need a little push.”

“What?” Rima snapped.

Then she jerked upright, spine straight, with a sharp grimace on her face. Garrik twisted the knife harder in the lich’s back.

“Hello, my lady,” the cloaked elven thief said with fake elegance. “Remember me?”

Rima staggered off balance, but her hands were a blur of motion. She raised the burning whip to lash either Garrik or myself alive; I wasn’t sure.

So, I didn’t give her a chance.

I threw myself at the lich, grabbed her by the lapels of her outfit, and bodily yanked backwards. The overheated gemstone sizzled as I shoved it flush against her collarbone.

“No!” she yelled.

Her cry cut off as the death mist swallowed the three of us whole.

Curious about what came before? Book 1 of the Windtracer Tales is out for eBook, paperback, hardback, and audiobook! Click below to learn more!

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Windtracer Tales is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In fact, it considers itself rather fancy and quite proud of itself. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Also! Windtracer Tales and Windtracer: Adventures in Awldor is written with much respect to Starfarertheta and their work on the other half of Awldor.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Monday…

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October 31, 2024. Abandoned Briarwood Manor Estate. Gloamstead, Alabama. Beating a brain-sucker at her own game…

Married three hours ago. Kidnapped two hours ago. Tortured one hour ago for my antique shop.

It’d been one hell of a day.

Consciousness hit me like a fist to the jaw. I jerked awake, tied to a chair, my best blue suit torn and bloody. Gasping air like a drowning man, I fought down panic. After that, I fought with the ropes.

I didn’t actually plan to get kidnapped, or almost murdered, on my wedding day. That was the serial killer’s idea. Having all that take place in an abandoned estate was icing on the death cake. Finally, the knots at my wrists came loose.

“Damn it!”

I hissed in pain, yanking my bloody, scraped hands free. The other bonds were easier to shake off, but I was still careful. Getting stabbed by a jagged, rotten splinter from the chair I sat in was the last thing I needed. I had enough problems.

Honestly, it was a pretty old chair. But while I probably could’ve snapped the wood to get loose, my murder-host, Valeria Moffet, had already worked me over. She’d sliced thin cuts across my chest and one shoulder. They stung like hell.

I eased out of the chair, tossing the ropes aside. Carefully, I rubbed my legs, desperately trying to get some feeling back. Pain pricked at me where the dried blood tugged at the edge of my cuts. I grimaced.

“That hurts like hell.” I shuddered out a sigh. “But I’m still alive.”

A pins-and-needles sensation shot through my legs, making my knees tremble as I glanced around.

“Alive is good. Need to stay alive.”

The air was thick with every festering scent no one wanted to smell. Mold, mildew, and rotten carpet had mixed into a sharp stench that assaulted my nose. I coughed, nearly falling over, then searched my pockets for my phone to call for help. The most I found was damp pocket lint.

“Shit!”

I clenched my jaw, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“No phone. Nothing. She took it all. I’ve got to find help. There has to be a phone… something.”

I eased across the forgotten bedroom, lightheaded from pain. Warped, loose floorboards slowed me down, but terror kept me moving. Once on the other side of the room, I knelt by the bedroom’s only door out, listening for threats. Thunder crashed outside, while rain beat against the cracked and stained windows. Somewhere in the house, wind moaned through exposed rafters that creaked at the abuse. It was a haunted house soundtrack in real time.

But there weren’t any footsteps, screams, or high-pitched giggling—not even heavy breathing outside my own. That bled some tension out of my back. I sighed.

“Weapon. I need a weapon,” I murmured between waves of pain. “Crowbar. Pipe. Something.”

I glanced around the bedroom, clenching my jaw. There wasn’t much.

Valeria had stripped the room down to a chair, battered and stained mattress, and a dilapidated dresser. Nerves pricked goosebumps along my skin like hot needles.

“It’s like some sick stage play for a ritual murder,” I huffed bitterly. “Maybe I could hit her over the head with a drawer? I do not want to die here.”

Slowly, I pushed to my feet, ignoring the hot pain from the bloody gashes under my clothes. Darkness frayed at the edges of my sight, making the world swim. I closed my eyes.

“Cassie.” I breathed my wife’s name like a prayer. “Please be safe—I’m coming.”

I gave up on the drawer idea, since it was rotten anyway, and eased out of the room. The hallway outside was draped in long shadows, spilling across a heavily stained brass-gold carpet that made my eyes spin.

Dark wood-paneled walls with the occasional wallpaper trim didn’t help the lighting—not that there really was much. It was just sporadic bursts of lightning outside, flashing through the second floor windows. There were paintings I didn’t care about, and the occasional thin table that held something decorative, like a mummified flower arrangement.

My memory of the place was a lost cause, so I picked a direction and eased forward. I jerked at motion in the corner of my eye, then relaxed with a shudder. It was me in a yellowed window pane nearby—dark hair bloodied, skin paler than I liked. I looked like a refugee from a mortuary.

A haunting giggle tickled the air before a soul-tearing scream slapped it. My blood froze.

It was her.

Valeria Moffet—elegant and graceful as smooth marble, but as twisted as rusted barbed wire.

“God, she’s already at it again,” I rasped, voice trembling. “Another body for the stack in her basement.”

I leaned against the wall for support as that scream split the air again, needling a headache into me. This time, sobbing chased after it.

“Please don’t let it be Cassie,” I prayed selfishly.

Cassidy or no, I didn’t want it to be anyone. Still, I hurried down the hall, where I finally found the front stairs to the foyer, and the way out.

“Sheriff. I need the sheriff,” I wheezed. “If I can…”

Another sharp scream and sobbing shattered my thoughts. I twitched and nearly tumbled down the staircase. That shriek felt like it battered everything, from me to the dying art déco wallpaper trim. I sucked in a sharp, putrid breath to clear my head.

“All right, think, Daniel. That can’t be Cassie. The pitch is all wrong. Whoever that is, they’re as human as me.”

But that didn’t make it better—just different. It was still someone Valeria had dragged into this playtime horror show of hers. I glanced down the stairs to the stained foyer, then at the closed front door.

Valeria’s giddy giggle trembled the air, toying with my nerves.

I squeezed my eyes against tears.

“Shit,” I muttered bitterly. “Just… no. I can’t leave whoever that is. Just can’t, even if I’m beat to pieces. There’s no way I’ll get help in time.”

A knot of terror rose in my throat—it was time for a bad idea.

“Cassie?” I prayed quietly. “Please find me. I’m about to be so very stupid.”

A quick, desperate search of the hallway turned up a heavy, antique silver candlestick from atop a nearby wooden hutch. The metal holder was ornate and old, carved with delicate 19th-century filigree.

Valuable? No doubt. But at that moment, it felt better as a metal club than an expensive antique.

“You’ll do,” I growled at the candlestick, then stalked down the hallway. “Cassie said Valeria was a bloodleech. Well, now I’ve got a candlestick. Let’s see who wins.”

It was a great speech—I hoped it wouldn’t be my epitaph.

I eased downstairs, avoiding the worst of the loose boards, and followed the screams. They wailed like warbling ghosts from the manor’s old sitting room, turned personal library, on the first floor. A limp, infected yellow light spilled out of the room’s open double doorway.

Another scream. It sounded like a young man having his soul torn out of his lungs.

This needed to stop one way or the other. I’d curl into a ball and cry later, if I lived. Everything about this plan of mine centered on Valeria being too occupied to hear me over the noise.

But that murder mansion had way too many loose boards. One past the doorway squeaked when I stepped on it. I swung and missed—she didn’t.

The world became an ugly smear. I slammed into a wall at top speed after Valeria threw me like a meat rag. Old wood paneling cracked behind me. I collapsed into a heap, air knocked from my lungs. A moldy avalanche of books poured from an overhead shelf. I dimly realized that somehow I still had my candlestick.

A blonde, college-age, young man lay nearby bound up like a fresh-catch. He was stretched out on his stomach across a battered, bloodstained Victorian sitting sofa. If he wasn’t screaming, he sobbed. Next to him sat an old black grand piano that played host to a lit set of yellow-white candles.

It was yet another of Valeria’s picturesque horror scenes for murder.

The madwoman herself tapped three out-of-tune piano keys while she stopped next to the young man.

Valeria Moffet—elegant as a thin stiletto—stood like she owned the room. Glossy dark hair framed a face too perfect and too pale to be anything but wrong. Her eyes were a washed-out blue, cold and distant as moonlight over ice. The look she gave me was clinical, almost curious, as if she hadn’t decided what part of me she wanted to keep.

Her dead-blue eyes slid over to the young man on the couch when he groaned again.

“Quiet, you,” she sneered icily. “Snacks don’t interrupt.”

The young man replied with a wet, mumbled whisper. Nothing more than mangled pain and sobbing dressed up like words. Valeria scowled.

In a flash, long, sharp, ebony nails snapped out of her fingers before she scraped his scalp. Blood welled up in long lines. He screamed. Her lips curled in a faint smile before she leaned down, planting a soft kiss on the back of his neck.

He spasmed.

She inhaled.

I stared wide-eyed and trembling.

The young man collapsed, unearthly still. Once Valeria straightened, she wiped a clear fluid from her pale, black-veined lips. Her chilly smile was all sharp edges. A cold humor that didn’t quite reach those watery, solid black eyes.

“Now, Daniel, where were we? Oh, you were giving me your antique shop,” she said as smooth as poisoned oil.

I rolled to my right, ignoring the pain that danced along my cuts. Using the wall as support, I got to my feet, brandishing my now-warped candlestick like an all-too-short baseball bat.

“Get bent. Where’s Cassidy?” I rasped while my knees trembled.

Valeria drifted away from the sofa with an inhuman grace that defied the laws of physics. Every primal instinct I had screamed to run, find a deep cave, and hide.

“Your little bat is hiding,” she said coolly. A smile tugged at her mouth. “Which is clever of her, even if she was stupid enough to follow you here.”

A shudder punched through me. I didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, I glared.

Valeria tilted her head a little, considering me like a venomous snake debating a tasty meal.

“Still, she’ll be a lovely keepsake. So will you.” Her smile sharpened. “Isn’t that what you do at Moonlight Curiosities? Offer lovely ‘keepsakes’? You should’ve given me what I wanted, Daniel.”

She rushed at me before I could spit back some half-baked remark of desperate bravado. Quickly, I swung the candlestick. She ducked, and I missed. Again. Sadly, she didn’t, knocking me backwards.

Wood paneling snapped once more when she bashed me against the wall. I slid down, leaving behind a me-shaped crater as my body kissed the floor with an ugly thump. Pain told me to stay down. Instead, I lurched to my feet with a roar, candlestick at the ready.

I swung wildly as Valeria stepped back, wide-eyed. Candlestick met jaw at top speed—a wet crack of bone followed. The fiend lurched to one side, then reset her jaw with an ugly pop. She giggled as if it were the best joke in the world.

“Oh, I was hoping you’d fight. It’s so boring when my guests just let me drink them down.” She ran a tongue over her lips. “This way there’s struggle. A delicious, awful panic.”

“Get a therapist,” I wheezed.

She darted forward, a snarl cutting the air.

This time her skin shriveled like overheated paint bubbling off polished wood. Reddish-purple veins weaved erratically through her withered skin. Her almost too-perfect marble elegance, like an ideal image of a person, melted away like rancid candle wax.

Valeria’s eyes rolled fully back into her head, replaced with void-black orbs as her fingers stretched long and skeletal. Ebony-dark claws snapped out of her fingers again, aimed for my chest.

I darted aside, but her claws found my shirt. She jerked, and the room flipped sideways around me. Mold and plaster dust filled the air when I hit the wall… again.

“So delicious.”

The words slithered out of her warped, sucker-like mouth, ringed with needle-like teeth.

“I can’t wait for you to watch while I suck your precious Cassidy dry. All before I eat you.”

She hauled me off the floor, one hand on my shirt, the other at my throat.

I should’ve been terrified. But Valeria underestimated my rapidly diminishing sense of self-preservation. With a manic zeal, I slammed the candlestick against the bloodleech until the metal—and her jaw—bent out of shape.

“Let. Me. Go!” I rasped with each hit, turning purple while I slowly lost air.

Valeria savagely snapped her jaw back into place with a free hand, as a shadow stretched across both of us.

I managed a limp grin.

“Oh, you’re gonna get it now,” I croaked.

It was my wife.

Cassidy stood in the doorway, clutching a small canvas bag—jeans and shirt as torn as my suit. Red hair, wild and unkempt, framed a face with livid emerald green eyes. She was a five foot eight bundle of delightful, righteous fury.

“Drop him right now!”

Her command sliced the air like a scalpel. Heat flashed in her eyes like torches from a thousand angry villagers.

“Oh. The bat,” Valeria hissed with a bored, sucking sneer.

The bloodleech dropped me like yesterday’s garbage. But she barely had time to turn around before Cassidy was already in motion.

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.

What’s it about? I’m glad you asked!

If Books Could Kill… They’d Start with Him

Doctor Pedro Sangre thought it would be simple: recover an old book, the Codex Luminari, from a half-sunken ruin, survive the swamp, then walk away.

But it was never really that simple.

When the Codex Luminari is stolen, Pedro finds himself at the center of an impossible plot with a horrific conclusion. Unless he can uncover who’s behind it all first.

As necrotic magic spreads across Jamaica, Pedro and his companions find themselves hunted by murderers, pirates, and death golems. Worse still, a mysterious figure stalks them from the shadows, eager to tear through anything in his way… maybe even death itself.

It can be found at the following locations:

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But, wait! There’s more! In the above copy is a bonus story not seen on Substack… The Alchemist’s Apprentice! This is a prologue to future serial stories I call The Alchemist Papers.

So while they set off for shores known and unknown, I’ll be getting back to the next story in Legends of the Privateers… the Tidebloom Covenant! (and a few others stories as well…)

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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Until next time!

-Kummer Wolfe

Each installment will be released each week on Wednesdays!

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Previously: With the plan in motion, Tela waits in a slow line to suspected disaster with Liru and the others. While there, she quizzes the shaman about the truth, starting with the Iraxi and how it actually works. The truth is grim, with anyone who uses the Iraxi is horribly altered, twisted into a nightmare. But once they are allowed inside the council building, the stage is set, even—to Tela’s wary surprise—the appearance of Rima Nimad. Worried the plan is about to come apart, Tela advances across the room to face Rima, even as the others put their plan into motion…

Medilus 5, 1278: Arth Prayogar’s Council Building. Some called it a building. I called it a volcano ready to explode…

I was tired. Not take-a-nap tired, but right to the bone tired. It’d been days of staying two steps ahead of death like I owed him a debt. All I wanted was to be cocooned in a warm blanket with a fresh cup of coffee and a good book. But no—I had to deal with this buffalo dung.

This wasn’t archeology. It was babysitting pit vipers.

I navigated the stream of people that flowed through the Council building foyer. They moved in clumps, like schools of land-based fish. Some drifted between influential people for opportunity, or the real currency of the realm—information. Others wandered past, basking in the glow of a trade-city’s inner workings, like watching a heated game of dice.

Then there was Rima, the undead shark among the fish.

We approached each other, stopping barely an Ancient Order meter or two apart. Close enough for conversation—or killing if the moment needed. Rima’s thin smile was like a sharp razor. The swish of her red and black monk’s robes was the perfect promise of death, topping off the moment.

“Tela, I’m almost surprised to see you here,” she crooned.

I clasped my hands behind me and rocked a little on my heels. It wasn’t helpful—beyond giving my nerves something to do.

“As opposed to sitting on my backside in a moldy cell? Maybe chasing down my journals you swiped only to meet a cutthroat you sent to kill me?”

Rima chuckled, idly waving a hand at my remarks like shooing a fly.

“Please, my dear. Allow me some credit. I understand how dangerous you are. It’s three assassins, not one.” She interlaced her fingers in front of her. “Though I did bet my mage, Sherkus, that three wasn’t quite enough.”

I shot her a tart smile.

“Well, it’s good to be noticed.” I glanced to my right, staring a quick hole into Gregori Elkerton, who was lost in some bombastic explanation to a crowd. Then I locked eyes with the lich. “Your plan with the overblown ego on centaur legs over there isn’t a secret.”

Rima sniffed haughtily, crossing her arms.

“It’ll be over in minutes. The Chancellor will be replaced. Your viprin shaman burned. Two Iraxi would’ve made this easier, but one will do fine. Elkerton will still be melted inside out, just like the Jata kingdom. Then both can be reshaped like fresh clay.”

She lanced a wicked look at me.

“But you knew that, since we’re really the same.”

“We’re nothing alike,” I glared, feeling her words sizzle under my skin.

“No?” Rima’s smile turned slick. “You’ve murdered one of my fellow liches, used dangerous lost knowledge to accomplish your goals, even manipulated people and situations to get what you want…”

“Improvise isn’t the same as manipulate,” I snapped back.

Rima inclined her head. “Fairly called. Maybe you’re not seasoned enough… yet.”

I fought back a hot remark. The damn lich got to me, knocking me off the plan. I swallowed a shudder, taking a slow breath.

“Sure, I take risks. But that’s because preserving history should support people, not dominate them. People choose the better path if given a chance and the truth. Power comes with responsibility. It doesn’t justify itself, Rima.” I grinned. “Also, I’m not an egotistical walking corpse.”

Nearby, I heard Elkerton’s voice explode in a tirade. A glance told me everything I didn’t want to know. The gemstone—the heart of the Iraxi on his forearm—glowed a hellish red. By the Lady Deep, it was happening, and all I could do was banter with a lich. Inwardly, I willed Mikasi to already be there, pouring slime over Elkerton’s bracer.

I glared at Rima and palmed a thin dagger I kept hidden in my sleeve. The lich cast a dismissive look at the blade, arching an eyebrow at me.

“How many people will die today because of your stubbornness?”

I gave her a casual shrug.

“As few as possible—though for you, I’m glad to make an exception.” A frown darkened my face as I pinched the air in front of my forehead. “After all, I’ve killed a lich before.”

Rima tensed, reaching for a tiny vial of blood she wore on a chain around her neck. The woman’s fingers tingled as blood magic threads swirled around them.

“With what, a dagger? Your untrained mind magic?”

A clatter of metal and swearing erupted from Elkerton’s direction. I stepped away from Rima, dagger in hand, giving the commotion a quick look.

In the middle of the small knot of people, Kiyosi had tipped, sending mugs of ale everywhere. Most of the ale splattered across the floor, the rest bathed the crowd—particularly one Gregori Elkerton. As the auditor verbally abused Kiyosi’s shape, intelligence, and ancestry, Mikasi quietly got to work.

The little halfling inventor slipped up beside Elkerton and, quick as a wink, emptied his vial of green goo across the bracer. As soon as the slime touched leather, the gemstone flared a furious red. Elkerton didn’t notice until two heartbeats later.

I threw a wicked grin at the lich, giving her a mock salute.

“No. Just by getting you to talk. See, I only had to buy time. I think your pet centaur’s having some magical performance problems.”

Rima’s eyes went wide as she shot a startled look at Elkerton. I saw she wanted to step in and stop Mikasi, but couldn’t—not without giving away her involvement.

Elkerton sputtered, eyes blazing, as he tried to summon the Iraxi’s power. The crystal glowed a furious red, smoke curling off the bracer like overcooked meat. Orange sparks shot from the thing as if born from hot, hammered metal. The bitter scent of rancid, fried eggs wasn’t the smell of victory I expected, but I took it anyway.

“What did you do?” the lich snarled at me, face a mask of rage.

“Me? Solved a problem by being one. Rima, those Iraxi belong in a museum.” I tossed a lopsided smile at her. “Technically? So do you.”

I really should learn to quit when I’m ahead—because that was when everything went sideways.

The seven members of the Jata ruling Council headed for their inner chamber. Not one cast a glance at Elkerton or his embarrassing display. At least, not until he started yelling for the Council guards.

“Guards! Arrest Chancellor Fel!” the auditor yelled.

“No,” Rima hissed. “Not now, you pompous idiot. It’s too soon!”

All seven representatives stopped in their tracks in a clatter of hooves, stunned as the rest of us. They turned, murmuring angrily, as gasps and conversations rippled through the crowd. One dapple furred centaur stepped away from the group, expression dark as a thunderstorm.

He was an older man in a dark, wine-red tunic, salt and pepper hair cropped close. Like the rest of the representatives, he wore a powder-white scarf of office littered with gold and silver trade symbols—which I took to be Jata marks of authority. Given the way the others looked at him with surprise or unease, I knew that was Chancellor Fel.

“On what charge?” Chancellor Fel demanded, stomping the stone floor with a hoof.

“High treason against the kingdom and its purity!” Elkerton snapped back, jabbing a finger at the chancellor, then at Rima. “Conspiracy with a lich to overthrow the Council—and concealing foreign grave-robbers inside sacred ruins! Grave-robbers such as the Windtracers!” The auditor reached into a belt pouch, yanking out a tied bundle of documents. “I’ve reports and incidents here going back months!”

Elkerton punctuated this with a savage grin at me. “Arrest them all. Especially her.”

“We could both stab him?” I offered to Rima. The lich ignored me.

Council guards in blue tabards rushed from either side of the room, invading the crowd. They headed for Chancellor Fel, me, Rima—basically anyone Elkerton accused. Hooves cracked like thunder against the floor. The onlookers went from calm to screaming panic in seconds.

“Aile Shavat!” I swore.

Glaring at Elkerton, I sheathed my dagger and yanked loose my whip. Before I could use it, one of the Council guards found me.

He sliced for my head. The guard missed—I didn’t. After a step back, I snapped my whip against the centaur’s side.

The guard screeched in surprise, rearing back as his front hooves kicked the air. Screams rattled around me as the serving staff ran for anywhere safe. Two more pops of my whip made him give ground—granting me a moment’s peace to get my bearings.

In short? Everything was a ripe mess.

Blue-tabard Council guards were everywhere. Some had attacked Rima, others fought against the Trade-Wardens who had surrounded the Chancellor. Nearby, Elkerton had finally noticed the goo on the Iraxi and was desperately trying to wipe it off—which, since it was basically slime, smeared across him. That last would’ve been fun to watch, had my life not been on the line.

The worst part of all were the locals who’d come to watch the Council of Seven proceedings. Spectators had turned into a panicked mob, scurrying everywhere in harm’s way.

“Rima and Elkerton are the real problem. How do I solve one with the other?” I hissed under my breath.

Then I saw Elkerton’s eyes glow a bright orange, drawing on the Iraxi’s power to try to burn off the slime.

The Iraxi.

I stared at the finger-sized crystal glowing the same orange-red as Elkerton’s eyes.

“Oh, I’ve such an incredibly stupid idea,” I muttered, grinning, while bounding on the balls of my feet.

I started toward Elkerton, but he spotted me first. The slime was only half-gone—enough to let Elkerton summon a trickle of the Iraxi’s fire elemental power. He snarled something I didn’t hear, then galloped over to a newly arrived Council guard, stealing a crossbow.

“Crossbow!” I shouted, diving for cover under a long, honey-colored wooden table carved with ornate scrollwork against a wall. A crossbow string sang before a bolt stabbed the table a second later. Another clattered across the tiles with a hard crack.

I scrambled to the edge of safety under my makeshift barrier in time to see a Trade-Warden—another centaur—crash into Elkerton. He grabbed for the crossbow as Elkerton unleashed a blast of bright, orange-white magic threads from his hand. The Trade-Warden screamed as the searing-hot magic tried to boil him alive.

“Oh, that’s got to stop,” I muttered. “He’ll burn his way right to Chancellor Fel.”

The Trade-Warden and the auditor were too far to reach with my whip. Rushing out from under the table, I looked around for something I could use. I grabbed a nearby serving tray, hurling it like a discus. Mugs went flying, washing the floor in ale.

Elkerton turned toward me in time to take a hardwood serving tray to the mouth. The man stumbled sideways, eyes crossed. All around us, panicked locals turned into a mob running for the doors. Their screams echoed off the stone walls in deafening waves.

Purple-garbed centaurs of Herd Tolvana appeared in the doorway, shoving the innocent aside or trampling them as they charged into battle.

We were now outnumbered two to one by Herd Tolvana soldiers and Council guards. Worse, Elkerton wiped blood from his mouth, yelling in rage. The Iraxi burned sun-bright in reaction, cooking off the goo.

In the other direction, Rima stabbed one of the Council guards. As the life left the centaur’s eyes, she yanked blood magic threads from his wounds with a savage glee.

Everywhere in between was a sea of bodies—some running for safety, others fighting or dying. I rubbed a hand over my mouth, looking for a path through. There wasn’t one.

At least, not yet.

“Ki! Atha! Skarri! Make a hole!” I yelled. Grabbing a discarded shield from the floor, I ran toward the center of the chaos.

Time flowed like cold syrup. I ducked a sword aimed at my head, then sidestepped around another. A Herd Tolvana soldier galloped into my path with a sneer. I charged right at him, armored by faith in my friends.

Turns out, my faith wasn’t misplaced.

Atha crashed into the soldier like a one-minotaur stampede, knocking the centaur aside with a crack of bone. A Council guard tried to run me down before Kiyosi beat the man about the head and ears with a spear. That guard quickly decided he had better places to be.

Mikasi hurled small green stones with a hand sling at nearby soldiers and guards that got too close. The stones shattered like eggs on impact, splattering more of that foul-smelling goo over whatever they hit.

Skarri slithered past me, cutting into two guards before slamming a third with her tail. As I ran, I winced each time she moved—especially as blood welled up along her bandages.

Then I was through.

Gregori Elkerton was ahead of me, stalking toward the Chancellor. The madman wasn’t in a hurry, each hoof step sizzled the stone floor with raw heat. Ahead of him, Rhen and Nurkes made a two-person wall of muscle, protecting Chancellor Fel. Behind them, Liru was urging the Chancellor to leave.

“Elkerton!” I bellowed.

The auditor, drunk on raw magical power, wheeled around in a rage. He stepped toward me as I lashed out with my whip, hitting him in the knee.

A sharp pop slapped the air, leaving Elkerton screaming in pain as he stumbled forward. When he went to rise, I slammed the shield against the side of his head with a sharp whack. His eyes rolled for a moment, and the burning, molten magic threads sputtered out.

I glanced over my shoulder at Rima. She’d just murdered one of the Council guards with a blast of blood magic, and locked eyes with me. I bashed the shield down twice on Elkerton’s arm where he wore the Iraxi. Heat poured from the stone like a searing river, warping the shield’s metal and wood like beeswax.

The auditor grunted in pain, then roared in my face—eyes burning like a hot forge. I pinched the air in front of my forehead, pulling silver mind magic threads to life.

I grinned at him.

“Hey there. Miss me?”

Curious about what came before? Book 1 of the Windtracer Tales is out for eBook, paperback, hardback, and audiobook! Click below to learn more!

Available at the following retailers…

Amazon!

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Bookshop.org!

For more about Windtracer Tales, Hoist the Colors, 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’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors, for Windtracer Tales and the world of Awldor, take take the leap at the link here: Windtracer.

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Windtracer Tales is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In fact, it considers itself rather fancy and quite proud of itself. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Also! Windtracer Tales and Windtracer: Adventures in Awldor is written with much respect to Starfarertheta and their work on the other half of Awldor.

Each installment will be released each week on Wednesdays!

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, I’ve got you covered! Jump on over to the Chapter (ok, Episode) list here!

Previously: Dirty, tired and worn out, Tela confronts Rhen Shotho about what is really happening in the Temple of the Slithering Sun. Just why were the Trade-Wardens secretly killing themselves to try—and fail—to seal off the ancient temple? Tela and her crew got the answers but didn’t like what they were. To counter a disaster in the making, the group invents a great big plan. Brilliant? Time will tell…

Medilus 5, 1278: Arth Prayogar’s Council Building. One hour before the Council convenes. Plans rarely survive first contact with anything…

There’s a certain kind of magic that blooms from buildings meant to house a city’s lawmakers. A special kind that makes a person want to tear their hair out from boredom while waiting in line—a very slow line.

“What if I poked a guard with a stick?” I whispered to Skarri.

“Please don’t,” she whispered in a withered voice.

I felt my plan had merit to at least ease the boredom, but I decided to save it for later.

We stood in line for the Council Chamber with what felt like a third of the city. The line stretched out from the double doors of the soft-cornered building, wrapping around the side. At least that stretch was shaded by sloping sand willow trees just starting to bloom purple-white blossoms.

“There’s twice as many guards at the doors today,” I muttered.

“It’s the emergency meeting,” Liru whispered back. “That set people on edge when it was announced yesterday.”

I grunted, studying the guards at the head of the line. They checked everything with a sharp eye. Anyone—or anything—suspicious was hauled away out of sight.

Liru and I stepped forward as the line snaked closer to the door. Skarri and Liru’s other guard, Nurkes, followed close behind us in the small entourage. The rest of my crew trailed a few respectful steps behind.

Kiyosi had done a fantastic job on the disguises. Fortunately, not all tieflings are born with tails. The fake horns, blue-purple skin dye, and a few other tricks made Mikasi look remarkably like a tiefling. Atha was more or less himself. Kiyosi had used a temporary illusion that made the minotaur’s horns curl like a ram’s and tinted his fur a light, dusty blue.

I looked back at the trio and got two nods and one bright grin from Atha. The last drew a snort out of me before I fixed my attention back on the guards ahead.

“This has to work,” I sighed. “Ki said the disguises won’t survive anyone getting too curious. Except maybe Atha; he looks more like he’s being fashionable.”

“Have faith. It’ll work,” Skarri whispered. “You trust us. So now, trust yourself and your plan. If it unravels, we’ll improvise. We’re getting good at improvising.”

That drew a small, crooked smile out of me. Trust myself. Azure had told me the same thing the other evening. I inclined my head a little.

“Fair point.”

The air was crisp and dry that morning. It tore down the bricked alleys and dusty roadways of Arth Prayogar with a vengeance. Sunlight glinted off the stained glass windows of nearby buildings, turning the clay walls to the golden color of baked bread.

Around us, the air buzzed like bees with locals gossiping about the Council of Seven and the emergency meeting. The gossip ranged from speculation about trying a rogue tiefling to whispers of charges against one of the council members.

“Feels like we’re in line to see a gladiatorial fight, not a dry city council meeting,” I complained softly.

Liru sighed, nodding as he smoothed his bead-trimmed outer tunic.

“Every meeting has been like this—no exceptions. One of the Council servants said the Merchant Herds considered it more open and honest for the people.”

“Right, and I’m a delicate, dainty flower girl,” I scoffed.

Nurkes grunted. “I didn’t need that horrible idea stuck in my head today.”

I shot a feral grin at the temple guard.

The shaman stretched his neck, looking weary and aged by months.

“Yes, the Council of Seven does play to the crowd a lot.”

“Samal, it sounds more like stirring up a mob,” Nurkes growled in a low voice. “Cracking a few Council member heads could fix this.”

Liru breathed a world-weary sigh, pinching the bridge of his snake-like snout.

“Nurkes? No one is cracking anyone’s head,” the shaman replied thinly.

The guard grunted, watching the line ahead.

I swapped a glance with Skarri but said wisely nothing—neither did she.

Two steps later toward the door, I watched food vendors nearby set up their carts for the crowd. I grimaced. The locals coming to watch the spectacle were a complication we hadn’t counted on. But then I remembered my conversation with Rima in the Shackle and her comment about ‘fear being healthy’.

“People could get hurt if things go wild,” I admitted. “But I think it’s part of Rima’s larger scheme.”

“What do you mean?” Liru asked.

“Fear,” I replied in a low voice. “That’s Rima’s real weapon. This crowd, the Iraxi, the Council of Seven being picked apart… it’s all about manipulating the locals, turning fear into a weapon. Revealing or using the Iraxi? I bet that’s the kindling to start it off.”

The line advanced a little closer to the stern-faced centaur guards.

“Which reminds me,” I said, a little more perturbed than I intended. “Liru, you left out a few things when you got me to sign onto this mess back in Ishnanor. Now’s a great time to come clean, given those spectators are in serious danger.”

Liru frowned a little, a flush hitting the scales on his cheeks.

“I did…” His words stumbled as I glared at him. Then he sighed. “Before I traveled to Ishnanor, the Trade-Wardens sent a courier saying the temple wards were failing. That Toshirom Ifoon could fall.”

“Go on,” I said, words tight.

“I really didn’t know what was inside the temple.” He waved a hand in the rough direction of Toshirom Ifoon outside the city. “Not many records survived. But I’d read enough to know it was lethal to anyone who tried to use it—no exceptions.”

Massive black bells, stored in small towers atop the corners of the Council building, rang. They chimed seven times—a musical announcement that the Council of Seven was about to begin. A trio of centaur guards walked past with a scowl hinting they’d not seen a good day in years.

“Samal, how does the Iraxi actually work?” Skarri asked her shaman. “Did the records explain that?”

He slightly inclined his head.

“Some. The Sun-Bonded seemed fine at first, drawing down magic threads and other spells through the Iraxi. It didn’t last long. The power twisted them physically, much the way a magic storm can change people from birth into tieflings, nightmarked, and worse.” Liru pursed his lips. “It was horrible. They became twisted. Misshapen. Craving the power like a drug, even as it melted them from the inside out.”

I swapped an uneasy look with Skarri.

“That giant skeleton in the temple.”

She nodded. “The Iraxi did that.”

“Some of the Sun-Bonded did turn into giants,” Liru replied. “But they all quickly went power-mad. If Gregori Elkerton uses it, the horror will start again.”

“Liru, you should have led with that back in Ishnanor,” I said with a hard look.

To his credit, he winced.

“I know I saved your friend, Kiyosi, but still—would you have helped? Knowing everything, would you?”

It was a good question, but—for me—the answer was obvious.

“Oh yeah,” I replied with a slight smile. “Absolutely.”

Liru smiled back. “Thank you for that.”

My smile faded. “So it seems your people were duped by the Gatekeeper liches centuries ago. Fooled into this mess by fear until they weren’t any better than a cult.” I shrugged, gesturing around us. “Like what’s happening with the centaurs.”

“Yes,” Skarri whispered. “There’s a lot of dishonesty lately.”

Liru’s expression landed somewhere between sad and worried.

“It’s why the Iraxi bracers need to be anywhere but here. Hopefully destroyed, but I’m just not sure it’s possible.”

I stared at the line ahead of us as it grew shorter.

“Don’t bet on that. I’ve a few ideas…”

It was another few slow moments before we reached the Council building doors. We were checked twice for weapons or anything that seemed a threat. I tried to look innocent, but the guards didn’t seem to believe me.

“Don’t try anything inside, Windtracer,” a broad-shouldered centaur growled. “We’ve heard stories about you.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I lied with a sweet smile.

He grunted, waving us inside.

We gathered in the building’s cathedral-like foyer, our group one of many in attendance. It was full of those waiting either to speak to the Council of Seven or to be allowed up to the audience gallery.

“Best behavior?” Mikasi asked suspiciously.

“Yep. About like a greedy kobold loose in a pastry shop.” I glanced around the building’s foyer.

It was wide, tall, but not very deep.

The floor was a colorful mosaic of stylized trade caravans crossing rolling hills. Similar scenes played out along the walls, but the subjects were all depicted as if moving toward the main council chambers. Which was about as subtle as a hammer in a trade-obsessed kingdom.

The important part was the army of serving staff. They moved nimbly in and around the crowd, offering water or slipping quietly through the room unnoticed. Some were centaurs or humans, but many were tieflings. I nodded to a pair that exited through a near-concealed door in one of the wall murals.

“Ki? You, Mikasi, and Atha go get lost among the serving staff.”

I paused when the crowd shifted, and I caught sight of the target of my overall discontent. On the other side of the room stood Auditor Gregori Elkerton, resplendent in a stylish tunic, a purple robe, and a white-gold auditor’s scarf of office. He already wore the Iraxi bracer on his right arm—the gemstone on it shone a dull, lurid red.

The man smiled as if he didn’t have a care in the world while he chatted up another richly dressed centaur.

“There’s Elkerton,” I told the trio. “Got the slime?”

Mikasi tapped a belt pouch with a grin. “Fresh-baked this morning.”

“There was… baking?” I blinked.

“He made me help,” Kiyosi told me with a long-suffering sigh. “No, you really don’t want to know the details.”

“Fair,” I grinned. “Get moving. Distract Elkerton with food, his ego, just something—then slime him.”

Atha chuckled. “Hyu no worry. We take care of his new toy.”

“No severing arms,” Skarri hissed in a low voice.

The minotaur rolled his eyes. “Fine. We do it slow way.”

I let out a long breath as they merged with the serving staff and drifted through the crowd like ghosts. Outside, I heard the massive black metal bells toll again. Conversation rolled around me like a hum of insects. Deeper in the foyer, someone laughed.

“Tela…” Liru murmured.

That was a warning if I’d ever heard one. Slowly, I turned around, tense and ready for someone to take a swing at me. Maybe dart aside if they tried to stab me.

Instead, I locked eyes with Rima Nimad on the far side of the room. The woman’s smile was all sharp edges as she strolled toward us.

“By the Lady Deep and her Nine Misbegotten Children,” I swore under my breath.

It turned out there was more than one trap in motion. We’d walked right into one of them.

Damn it.

“Get an audience with the Council,” I murmured to Liru.

I squared my shoulders. If Rima wanted a conversation, I’d give her one. Right between the eyes, if needed.

Then I walked away from the others to meet the lich halfway across the room.

Curious about what came before? Book 1 of the Windtracer Tales is out for eBook, paperback, hardback, and audiobook! Click below to learn more!

Available at the following retailers…

Amazon!

Barnes and Nobles!

Kobo!

Bookshop.org!

For more about Windtracer Tales, Hoist the Colors, 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’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors, for Windtracer Tales and the world of Awldor, take take the leap at the link here: Windtracer.

Subscribe now

Buy Me a Coffee!

Windtracer Tales is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In fact, it considers itself rather fancy and quite proud of itself. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Also! Windtracer Tales and Windtracer: Adventures in Awldor is written with much respect to Starfarertheta and their work on the other half of Awldor.

Each installment will be released each week on Wednesdays!

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, I’ve got you covered! Jump on over to the Chapter (ok, Episode) list here!

Previously: Returning after a night on the run, Tela and Atha find the others at the Lemongrass Inn—along with complications! Skarri was hurt. One of the Iraxi bracers has been taken by Herd Tolvana. All of it adding up to a potentially painful problem in the making. But Tela and her crew only knew the half of it, until Trade-Warden Rhen Shotho arrived to drop the other proverbial shoe…

Medilus 3, 1278: Upstairs in the Court of Lemongrass Inn. Arth Prayogar—a few minutes later. Truth doesn’t like being denied, even by history…

I gave the centaur a sharp-edged smile. He tensed. Flipping my dirt-stained braid over my shoulder, I crossed my arms.

“Talk? Good idea! Why have the Trade-Wardens been killing themselves in secret trying to seal off the Temple of the Slithering Sun?” I raised my eyebrows at the Trade-Warden. “I thought local law put all those ruins off-limits. Let’s start there. That’s a good spot.”

All eyes turned toward Rhen Shotho as he fidgeted under the attention—pawing the wooden floor with a hoof. Then the Trade-Warden sucked in a slight breath, narrowing his eyes with a fragile smile.

“Well… er… that’s not—”

I cut his hesitation off at its brown, furry knees. There wasn’t time for that sort of nonsense. Besides, I felt like I’d left my patience alone in a room for two days until it turned a little feral.

“Oh, no.” I shook a finger at him. “For days we’ve been poked and prodded like funny-shaped bread dough. So, I think that is a great place to start. Especially since no one was supposed to know how to get in there!”

The Trade-Warden glanced at the others around the room. Muffled calls from vendors in the market below hummed in the air. It wove together with scents of grilled vegetables and passing livestock—life moving forward as if nothing was wrong. My stomach wanted to comment on the lack of attention, but I ignored the complaints.

A web of silence slowly stretched between us until it almost snapped. Rhen pinched the bridge of his nose, blowing out a weary sigh—one that came from carrying something heavy. His smile frayed at the edges.

“Ladies? Gentlemen? Pardon me,” he said, crossing over to the balcony of Skarri’s room.

He eased the cream, gauzy curtains aside, nodding to the market below. Across the road, past the mid-morning crowds, a pair of Trade-Wardens nodded back. They split up, watching the crowd. I’d seen this before. They were keeping the inn under close guard.

Rhen turned around, letting the curtain fall back into place. With a grunt, he stamped a hoof lightly against the floor, tail swatting at the air. The centaur had a pinched look like he’d eaten a fresh lemon.

For some reason, I had the impression he was about to share that feeling.

“I would’ve preferred to do this someplace more secure than the Lemongrass.” He pursed his lips with another look around the room.

Kiyosi clasped his hands behind him, tail swishing the air.

“Oh, you mean like the Shackle?” he deadpanned.

“That place is not very secure,” Atha rumbled, sipping tea with a scholarly expression. “I only help two—maybe three—guards take good nap to rethink their lives. Then we walk right out. It was very disappointing. I do not recommend.”

Rhen rolled his eyes.

“Most don’t know this, but the Trade-Wardens lost control of Shendril Fortress some years ago.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the prison. “We’ve a token force there, and really only have sway over one block of cells near the gate. The Merchant Herds subdivided the rest for themselves. Large sections of Shendril are poorly guarded or abandoned.”

Tension made my right eye twitch, and I desperately wanted a bath. Sleeping on the floor of an abandoned warehouse did that to a person.

“Fine. That explains why no one saw me get locked up in there. But back to the point, just why have your people been killing themselves off in Toshirom Ifoon?” I said, dragging the conversation back on topic.

The centaur’s mouth pulled into a thin line.

“There’s a lot but I’ll make it quick…” he indicated Skarri “…and her shaman knows some of this already. The Trade-Wardens were formed by the surviving viprin shamans before there was a Jata kingdom. We were told to keep Toshirom Ifoon’s wards intact, and the temple sealed. We’ve been at it in secret for centuries.” He shook his head. “The Merchant Herd doesn’t know—neither does the ruling council.”

I really didn’t know what to say to that. Neither did anyone else.

That admission swept over us like a cold draft of air. Kiyosi raised his eyebrows, letting out a low whistle as his whip-tail swayed. Others, like Skarri, gave the Trade-Warden a tense stare. I scowled like a thundercloud. Atha, well, didn’t seem that bothered.

After a moment, Mikasi nodded thoughtfully, scratching the salt and pepper stubble on his chin.

“For centuries?” He echoed. “But not now? What changed?”

“We’re not sure.” Rhen shuffled his hooves as if he wanted to pace, but the room—with us in it—wasn’t quite large enough. “They’ve been failing over the past year. We’ve sent Trade-Wardens in to reset the wards…” he pulled in a heavy breath, lightly stamping a hoof “… you saw the result. It’s as if something is eroding them faster than we can restore them.”

That struck a minor chord in my head, dredging up the unpleasant conversation I’d had with Rima.

“The lich,” I said, frowning. “It has to be her. We all know Rima Nimad has been running a Fateweaver cult here in Arth Prayogar. She didn’t know where the Iraxi bracers were stashed—just that they were here somewhere. Now I’m thinking that cult was her using death and blood magic to erode those wards.”

“But you said she didn’t know where they were,” Rhen countered.

I shook my head. “Not sure that mattered. I’d bet she’s been releasing death and blood magic threads into the ruins outside the city. Not that I’m an expert… but those would be drawn to the Iraxi since they’re tuned for that.”

The air went still as if the world forgot to breathe.

“Tuned for death and blood magics?” Kiyosi asked slowly.

“Er… yeah,” I winced. “Rima didn’t tell me the details, but the Iraxi are based on her formula to make a lich.” I mimed plucking something from the palm of one hand, then tossing it aside. “Only it was done to fire elementals.”

If the world had forgotten to breathe before, now it wheezed. I tried for an uneasy smile.

“What?” Skarri hissed, wide-eyed in horror.

Kiyosi pinned Rhen Shotho with a hard stare. “That. Maybe your Trade-Wardens could have warned us about that.”

In his defense, Rhen looked just as horrified as he raised his hands in front of him.

“How could we? That’s not in any of our Trade-Warden records about the thing.”

Then everyone started talking at once, turning the room into a tornado of noise. I tensed as aches and fatigue roared back to life. A headache threatened to join them. After a deep breath, I let out a shrill whistle. Quiet slammed down onto the room as everyone looked at me. I grimaced at the attention, but got on with the moment.

“Given how Rima acted when I was in the cell with her, I doubt anyone who isn’t a lich knew. So, yes, it’s horrible—really horrible—but we’ll fix it later.”

“How?” Kiyosi asked slowly, tail swatting the air.

“I have no idea,” I sighed. “But right now, Herd Tolvana has one of the Iraxi bracers. I just know Auditor Elkerton will be stupid enough to use it.” I rubbed both hands over my face. “Last time that man ranted at me, it was pretty clear he intends to put Herd Tolvana—and himself—in control of things around here.”

Rhen nodded, jaw tight.

“I know Gregori Elkerton, and yes, that would make sense. Especially since Herd Tolvana is Second Herd right now.”

The rest of us swapped a confused look. Rhen waved a hand to fend off questions as a fresh breeze off the market fluttered the curtains behind him.

“The Council of Seven elects a chancellor. Tanis Fel of Herd Calandras is the current one. That makes them First Herd. Tolvana nearly won the seat, so they’re Second.”

“Oh.” Skarri nodded wearily, reflexively massaging the scales of a forearm. “So if something happened to the current chancellor…”

Rhen finished her thought. “… Herd Tolvana would become First Herd, selecting a new chancellor from their auditors.”

“Elkerton,” I growled, saying the name like a curse.

“There’s a good chance of that.” The Trade-Warden sighed heavily, resting his hands on his belt. “Especially if he takes credit for recovering a near-priceless viprin relic.” He shrugged. “It would open a lot of powerful doors.”

“What if they selected him as the next chancellor?” Mikasi asked, worry shading his face.

The centaur shook his head, pawing a hoof on the floor.

“Nothing good. As chancellor, he could suspend the Council of Seven in a crisis.”

“You mean a coup,” Kiyosi said, words tight.

Atha grunted thoughtfully. “How does lich fit in all this? She just an evil-bodied advisor?”

The conversation with Rima played out again in my mind, feeling like an itch I couldn’t scratch. Pieces I’d missed before suddenly stood out in stark relief.

“Fear,” I said after a moment.

“What?” Skarri asked, scaled eyebrow ridges pinched.

“Fear,” I repeated. “Rima won’t ever use the Iraxi herself, but she’ll talk Elkerton into using the thing. Then, once he’s chancellor, she’ll kill him or have him killed. After that, I bet she steps in to take his place,” I said darkly. “That is, if Elkerton hasn’t found a way to destroy her first.”

“She has your journals,” Kiyosi said, gesturing at me. “I bet that’s a distraction to keep you out of the way. You’re the biggest threat she has. She knows you’ve killed a lich before, but not how you did it.”

“It’s worse than that,” Rhen said. “There’s been an emergency meeting called for the Council of Seven in two days. Members who aren’t already in Arth Prayogar will be on their way from Arth Calelos and Arth Akeall by now.”

“Joy,” I grumbled, clenching my jaw.

“Could we still sneak in disguised?” Mikasi asked.

“Your shaman could still get an audience with the Council,” Rhen said thoughtfully. “Him and anyone known to be in his retinue.”

I sucked in a long breath, rubbing the sides of my head. Nerves churned my stomach like a rattling waterwheel.

“All right, how about this? I go in with Liru and guards. They know me as part of his retinue, and I’ll be a fantastic distraction,” I suggested.

“I’m going as well,” Skarri added. Before I said a word, she slapped the end of her tail against the bed. “Don’t you dare say it,” she snapped with a hiss. Then she gestured to the bandages around her scaled right arm and those that vanished under her tunic across her chest. “I’m hurt but not made of glass. They’ll expect me to be there because I’m one of the Samal Liru’s guards. Besides, I will not just sit here while all of you take the risk.”

I might have a habit of jumping out windows, but I knew when to back down.

A sly smile crept over her scaled lips. “Also, they’ll underestimate me because I’m bandaged.”

Mikasi glanced at Skarri, eyebrows slammed together. “Be careful?”

“Oh, of course,” she replied gently.

I smirked a little at the two of them, but got back to our half-baked plan at hand.

“All right,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “Ki? That means just a disguise for Atha, Mikasi, and… well… Garrik if he cooperates.”

Kiyosi eyed both Mikasi and Atha appraisingly.

“It shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Good,” I said with a nod. “Once inside, mingle with the staff. Get close to Elkerton and clog the Iraxi with… whatever Mikasi mixes up.”

Rhen cleared his throat. “I’ll have Trade-Wardens in the Council chambers. It’s normal for emergency meetings like this. Once Herd Tolvana tries anything, we’ll step in to try and escort the chancellor out.”

“What about lich?” Atha rumbled. “No way she stand by and just applaud.”

No one replied, not even me.

I reached up, tugging at my braid as I glanced at the ceiling. The scuffle I had with Rima in the Mandami Hills loomed large in my thoughts—that fight had been rough.

“Leave Rima Nimad to me,” I said, staring off into the middle distance. “I’ve an idea that might work.”

A tiny sigh bubbled out of my chest. I’d killed one lich a year ago. Somehow I knew stopping a second one wouldn’t be easier.

I looked around the room at my group of co-conspirators.

“So, everyone ready to steal a coup?”

Kiyosi shook his head a little, but I saw the ghost of a smile on his face.

“We’re really doing this?” he asked—I could tell it wasn’t a real question.

I grinned back at my oldest friend in the world.

“Yes, we are. Preserve history to secure the future.” My grin widened. “Maybe also applying the boot of common sense to the backside of evil.”

“It’s the Windtracer way…” Kiyosi chuckled dryly.

Curious about what came before? Book 1 of the Windtracer Tales is out for eBook, paperback, hardback, and audiobook! Click below to learn more!

Available at the following retailers…

Amazon!

Barnes and Nobles!

Kobo!

Bookshop.org!

For more about Windtracer Tales, Hoist the Colors, 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’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors, for Windtracer Tales and the world of Awldor, take take the leap at the link here: Windtracer.

Subscribe now

Buy Me a Coffee!

Windtracer Tales is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In fact, it considers itself rather fancy and quite proud of itself. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Also! Windtracer Tales and Windtracer: Adventures in Awldor is written with much respect to Starfarertheta and their work on the other half of Awldor.

Each installment will be released each week on Wednesdays!

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, I’ve got you covered! Jump on over to the Chapter (ok, Episode) list here!

Previously: Caught by Rima Nimad and her enforcers, Tela was tossed into a cell under Shendril Fortress—otherwise known as the “Shackle”—for questioning. But said questioning takes a different turn when the lich, Rima Nimad, visits Tela with an offer… join her and aid her efforts to manipulate the Jata Kingdom, or watch her friends die. A choice that Tela ultimately refuses. Once left alone, Tela tries to make her escape only to get unexpected help in the form of Atha and Garrik!

Now, on the run, they return back to join the others, only to find things may not be as hoped…

Medilus 3, 1278: Court of Lemongrass Inn, Arth Prayogar. Nothing like getting caught off guard to get you going…

Escape is never calm and orderly. Neither were we. Atha, Garrik, and I had bolted out of the Shackle, making ourselves scarce among the abandoned buildings in Prayogar’s Old Quarter.

It was rough. But sleeping on the musty hardwood floors of a half-forgotten warehouse was an improvement over a prison cell. It helped that we’d stolen most of my belongings back—like my bag and boots. I still felt one bad step away from disaster.

But the next day, the yellow clay walls with white trim of the Lemongrass Inn were a happy sight for my bleary eyes. My nerves didn’t agree.

“This doesn’t feel right,” I murmured, lingering in the alley shadows near the inn.

Sunrise had painted the broad, tiled back courtyard of the Lemongrass in old-penny gold. Blue and green tiles winked among the shine like signal flares. Last night’s rain left a gentle, watery shimmer. Not to be left out, a prairie breeze brought a soft chill.

Even muted slightly by my sun goggles, it was impressive and supposedly relaxing. It didn’t work. The chilling conversation with Rima Nimad murdered any enthusiasm for the architecture.

Atha patted me lightly on the shoulder. I knew it was supposed to be reassuring—I twitched anyway. Nerves are bastards like that.

“Is fine,” he rumbled. “Hyu been through a lot. Not to worry, Healer made a deal with the Trade-Wardens. They know who to bribe or blackmail to make everyone behave.” The minotaur gave me a broad, toothy grin. “Besides, Herd Tolvana’s busy bothering other districts by now, and lich is off wondering how hyu get out of cell.”

I scrubbed a hand over my face, blowing out a sigh.

“Right,” I relented. A pair of stray sand-toned house cats and a fuzzy gray rat eyed us curiously. I stuck my tongue out at them, then waved a hand at Atha and myself. “It’s not like we stand out, anyway. We look more like survivors from a hard night of carousing, not escaping the ugliest prison in three kingdoms.”

Atha chuckled.

“True! Besides, looking rode hard and put up wet make good disguise sometimes. Come! Today needs more excitement. Let’s go get tea and get clean. Healer has to have some brewed by now.”

We crossed the inn’s courtyard, slipping in through the back like a pair of embarrassed teenagers late for curfew. A few patrons in the lobby stared, but I ignored them. The innkeeper shot us a pained look, but wisely kept his comments to himself. I refused to believe we were the strangest thing that had ever walked through the Lemongrass Inn.

I walked up to my room, Atha in tow, feet aching with every step as if they’d turned to iron. The scents of lemongrass oil and wet stone drifted around us as we passed. Relief washed over me the moment I saw the inside of my room, along with its current occupant.

“Ki!” I said raggedly.

Kiyosi jerked up from a wild mess of papers, drawings, and a fresh pot of tea on the table. One of the Iraxi bracers sat in front of him—the centerpiece of his chaos. He erupted out of the chair, racing over to me. I’d barely managed a step before he swept me up in a hard hug—I gave back as good as I got.

“Gods and tides, you’re intact,” he said, relieved. Kiyosi pulled back with a frown, running a hand through his unruly reddish-brown hair. “You are intact, right? No missing fingers?”

I wiggled my fingers at him with a lopsided grin. “All here, and I didn’t bring any severed or mummified ones with me, either.”

“Small favors,” he replied. “I see you got out with your bag and everything, too.”

“No,” I scowled. “Bag, whip, all that… yes. Rima kept the journals. Probably has them on her. She left Baron Marius’ soul crystal in my bag, though.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose with a small groan.

“Of course she left the evil crystal thing in your bag,” he grumbled. “She’s probably using it to track you.”

A warm pulse of… something… behind my eyes countered his complaint. I shook my head.

“No. Don’t ask me how I know, but no, she isn’t.”

He grimaced, forcing on a tight smile.

“Still, I’m glad you’re back and safe.”

Atha chuckled, walking over to help himself to the tea.

“I told hyu I’d bring her back, Healer. No troubles. Guards had nap. Windtracer is free to cause problems to centaurs,” he shrugged. “Now I have tea. All is right in the world.”

Kiyosi opened his mouth to reply, but instead shook his head.

“Where’s Garrik?” he asked.

Atha sniffed his tea, smiling.

“Tracking down Herd Tolvana. Lich, too. Say he knows where lich hides in Old Quarter. Garrik say he let us know.” Atha indicated me with a nod. “He say he owes Tela, so wants to pay back the favor.”

I yawned, waving a hand at Kiyosi when he studied me with that physician’s look.

“Sorry, Ki. Just tired. We slept in an abandoned warehouse when we weren’t running through the worst of Old Quarter. I know I need at least a bath and some hard sleep in a bed. But before I fool with that, what’ve you figured out? Where’s everyone else?”

He looked uneasy, beckoning me over to the table.

“I’ll make it quick so you two can clean up and rest.”

The way he said that unnerved me, but I kept my mouth shut. Kiyosi shuffled through several pages he’d made about magic flow and threads, along with sketches of the Iraxi bracer. Then he opened the old artificer’s journal. Like most Ancient Order books, the page gave off a soft glow, backlighting the letters. Kiyosi tapped the book.

“So, the crystal matters, but it’s the bracer that makes it dangerous. Magic threads inside it bond to the wearer, letting them bleed the trapped elemental for power.” He shook his head, sighing. “It’s both brilliant and disgusting.”

I skimmed his notes. Magic—my stupid mind-magic aside—wasn’t my area. But I knew just enough to understand what he wrote. I gingerly picked up the bracer, turning it over in my hands. Sunlight glimmered through the crystal, and the center danced a lurid reddish-orange—a hint of the fire elemental trapped inside. Delicate lines were carved in the brass bracer like blood grooves. Each was worn smooth from use, lined with amber-like dragon-glass.

“Channels to siphon the magic?” I asked.

Kiyosi nodded solemnly. “Like a vampire sucking blood from a victim.”

I shuddered, putting the bracer back on the table.

“Is the other bracer with Skarri like this one?”

Kiyosi narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips. Atha froze mid-sip, then was really interested in the nearby sheer cotton curtains. I frowned at the two of them.

“What?”

Kiyosi drew a deep breath—which never meant anything good.

“Not sure. We don’t have it.” He quickly held up his hands before I started ranting. “Wait. Listen. We slipped through the groundwater lift ruins like agreed, following some ancient tunnels to the surface.” He ran a hand through his hair, then across his curled tiefling horns. “That’s when we ran straight into Herd Tolvana. It was all really bad luck. Skarri was pretty hurt in the fight. One of the soldiers grabbed the other Iraxi bracer…”

I bolted out the door, aches forgotten.

“Tela! Wait!”

I charged into Skarri’s room—a disheveled, one-woman invasion.

“Skarri?”

The temple guard in question was on her bed, snake tail curled protectively around her. She wore a forest green tunic, war kilt, and way too many bandages. There was enough of the latter that I flinched in sympathy. Her leather armor, sword, and the rest of her gear lay in a neat pile at the foot of the bed.

Mikasi jumped up in alarm from a chair next to the bed, nearly dropping his tea. Skarri’s mouth pulled into a thin line, her cobra-like hood around her head pulled tight back, eyes downcast.

“Tela… I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “Herd Tolvana has one of the Iraxi bracers. I tried, but we were badly outnumbered. They were on us so fast…”

“No,” Mikasi firmly said, setting aside his teacup for safety. “It was my fault. Atha and I got there about that time and I called out like an idiot. It distracted them when they crawled out of that half-collapsed cave mouth. If I hadn’t yelled…”

Skarri gave him a shy smile. “We were still outnumbered. I knew you and Atha were there; it wasn’t your fault.”

I rubbed at the grime on my forehead, crossing over to both of them.

“Stop,” I breathed, frustrated. “Both of you, just stop. This happens, and it’s not anyone’s fault.” Tense and tired, I studied Mikasi and Skarri, bleeding out a sigh. “Blame keeps you standing still, if not chasing your own backside,” I said.

Skarri nodded as Mikasi’s smile returned.

“Herd Tolvana has one of the Iraxi,” Mikasi replied. “They might give it to Rima Nimad. But they also might try to use it, too. From what Ki said, it channels elemental fire. I was thinking that if the channels in the bracer were clogged, it might stop the bracer from working for a little while.”

I paced at the foot of Skarri’s bed, wiggling a finger at Mikasi. Kiyosi and Atha appeared in the doorway.

“Ki knows better than I do, but elemental fire is stupid hot. So whatever we use has to be thicker than water. Also, we’d have to get close. Real close. Still, good idea.”

Kiyosi crossed his arms.

“A thick oil would do, probably laced with sand. It’d smother the fire for a while, but that only delays the problem.”

Atha sipped his tea.

“Then we cut arm off,” he nodded sagely.

Kiyosi slowly turned to look at Atha with a look of pure physician’s horror.

“What?” the minotaur protested. “Hyu thinking same. Besides, they should not put it on in first place.”

I ignored them.

“Rima said both crystals contain fire elementals, shoved in the same way a person becomes a lich.”

The others stiffened as Kiyosi turned a bit green.

“Wait… what?” he sputtered.

I waved a hand at him.

“It’s what she said before she tried to get me to join her in this lunatic plan.”

It was Mikasi’s turn to sputter.

“Isn’t that what Baron Marius tried—”

“Yes, it was,” I interrupted quickly. “I told Rima no. In any case, if Herd Tolvana has the other Iraxi bracer, things are about to get real nasty. Remember Auditor Elkerton?”

Skarri glowered. “Hard to forget someone so pompous.”

I nodded, still pacing.

“True, but he’s got it in for Rima Nimad. Somehow thinks he’s got a plan to kill her. I’d bet he’ll add that Iraxi bracer to whatever dumb idea it is.”

Atha stared off into the middle distance, then caught my eye.

“Three-way war,” he rumbled.

I stopped pacing and nodded in agreement.

“Maybe. Probably.” I frowned, recalling conversations. “Rima wants Arth Prayogar—really all the Jata kingdom. Elkerton wants Rima’s head and Jata for himself. The Council of Seven isn’t going to tolerate either one trying.” I rubbed my chin, eyeing everyone. “Just like during the Brass and Gold Crusades centuries ago, the Iraxi are at the center of this mess. History’s repeating itself.”

No one spoke, so I pushed on.

“Rima has my notes and journal. Herd Tolvana has the other bracer, so Elkerton will try to use it. We need my notes back, and that bracer… er… clogged.”

Mikasi frowned, sitting back down in his chair.

“That’ll delay what they’re doing.” He looked over at me, concerned. “It won’t stop it.”

I pursed my lips, narrowing my eyes. “We’ll need a way to prove to the Council of Seven they’re in danger… and keep the Iraxi bracers out of it.”

Skarri shifted in bed, wincing.

“We’d need to get past the lich’s guards and Herd Tolvana,” she said. “So we slip in at night?”

I shook my head. “Sort of… but you can’t.”

“But—” she protested, but I cut her off.

“No. We’ll have to move at the same time to pull this off, then get access to the Council of Seven.” I gestured at Skarri. “Talk to Liru. Get him to set up an audience for us with the Council. He also owes us some serious explanations for what he didn’t tell us about all this with the Iraxi. The rest of us? We’ll need to slip in unnoticed to get the journals and the other bracer.”

“A disguise,” Atha said as calmly as ordering a drink. “We get disguise, we walk in.”

I blinked. He glanced at me, then at Kiyosi, before sipping his tea. A half-grin spread across my face.

“Yeah, we do. Ki? Can you make the rest of us pass as tieflings? The centaurs overlook you here—and we need that.”

Kiyosi scrubbed a hand slowly over his face.

“Oh, of all the… you know what? Yes, I can do that. But it won’t be perfect. We’ll still need a way to move around without getting harassed by the locals.”

Slow hoofbeats and a deliberate throat-clearing from the hallway shattered the planning. Kiyosi and Atha parted like curtains to either side as a centaur filled the doorway.

“Tela Kioni… you have a knack for interrupting my day.” Rhen Shotho sighed wearily. With a look around, the Trade-Warden folded his arms over his chest. “But from what I’ve overheard, you’ll need help from the Trade-Wardens. Also, we need to have a talk about the Iraxi… all of it.”

I gave the Trade-Warden a lopsided grin.

“That’s music to my ears.”

Curious about what came before? Book 1 of the Windtracer Tales is out for eBook, paperback, hardback, and audiobook! Click below to learn more!

Available at the following retailers…

Amazon!

Barnes and Nobles!

Kobo!

Bookshop.org!

For more about Windtracer Tales, Hoist the Colors, 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’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors, for Windtracer Tales and the world of Awldor, take take the leap at the link here: Windtracer.

Subscribe now

Buy Me a Coffee!

Windtracer Tales is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In fact, it considers itself rather fancy and quite proud of itself. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Also! Windtracer Tales and Windtracer: Adventures in Awldor is written with much respect to Starfarertheta and their work on the other half of Awldor.

Each installment will be released each week on Wednesdays!

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, I’ve got you covered! Jump on over to the Chapter (ok, Episode) list here!

Previously: With a desperate moment calling for a desperate plan, Tela leads Kiyosi and Skarri over the top of the sliding rooms. Leaping from one to the other they outpaced the fire salamanders, but not the skeletons. Delayed by the undead, their lead vanished—but not their determination. A last-ditch effort severed one of the support ropes, giving them the break they needed to race for the exit. But instead of safety or freedom, they found a greater threat—the lich, Rima Nimad—who took Tela captive…

Medilus 2, 1278: Maybe imprisoned beneath the Shackle in Arth Prayogar. It’d been a long night…

“No—!”

I snapped awake with a full-body jerk, nearly falling off the rope cot. The stench of forlorn sweat and wet livestock yard rose off the yellowed mattress like a rancid caress. Panic fogged my head; I had no idea where I was.

It lasted only a few seconds until my sideways understanding of the world snapped back into place. I’d been tossed into a dark, half-lit stone room that had bold aspirations of civility. But old dungeon cells were like that, even the nicer ones—this just wasn’t one of those.

My eyes tracked a limp shaft of sunlight leaking between gray metal bars high on one wall. It wasn’t much, but for my altered eyes it was plenty; not that there was much to see.

I pushed up onto one elbow, scrubbing a hand along the side of my face. A brisk cold radiated off the brick walls, which the gray-green mold in the corners didn’t seem to mind. I swung my feet to the floor, listening to the distant rattle and rasp of wagons beyond the barred window.

A choir of aches sang today’s laundry list of complaints—and I’d added one or two new verses.

“I can’t believe they took my boots,” I grumbled, wiggling my toes against the stone floor. “All I did was kick that skinny mage twice in his pride, before I stomped on his tail.”

Drawing a breath, I winced at the new bruises along my ribs.

“Even my hair hurts,” I exhaled. “So, they took my boots, socks, and vest, along with my bag and whip, too. I’m surprised they didn’t stick a sackcloth bag over me. They must be new to this ‘humiliate a prisoner’ thing.”

I looked down at my bare feet, then up at the barred window. Memory of the trip from Toshirom Ifoon rolled in like morning fog—insults, then questioning, and finally a brawl once I got loose. I gingerly touched a scrape on my cheekbone.

“If they hadn’t outnumbered me, I could’ve taken them,” I grumbled. “At least I dropped two of Rima’s bruisers before they tied me up again.”

I clasped my hands in front of me, rocking a little from leftover nerves.

“They didn’t ask me anything,” I whispered to the bricks. “Not really.” Slowly, I pursed my lips, staring at the strips of weak sunlight. “At least Kiyosi, Skarri, and the others got away.”

A thread of tired relief and sadness worked through me, warring with my aches.

“My plans really are terrible. Maybe splitting up was a bad idea.” I chewed a little at my lower lip. “No, it was fine. Maybe Ki’s right, and I need to quit charging off to play human bait.”

I shook my head.

“All right, damn it, get it together. Wallowing in a problem isn’t solving it. Get up,” I ordered myself. “The only time you can’t escape is when you don’t try.”

I shoved to my feet, stretched my back, then looked at my oppressive brick surroundings.

Methodically, I paced the cell. It wasn’t so small that I’d need to step outside to change my mind, but I wouldn’t have passed up the offer. The brick was a dark, quarried gray—older than the yellow-sandy clay Arth Prayogar loved to use. Green-gray mold kept me company in the corners, and fuzz had claimed damp patches of stone.

“The floor’s pretty wet. I could be near the Ordess River,” I murmured, keeping my bare feet away from the fuzzy green spots. Carvings at knee-height decorated the walls—crude centaurs, half-forgotten symbols, and other things whispering a desperate need to be remembered. Besides the rope cot, the only other feature was the swollen wooden door with its own tiny barred window.

“Charming. This has to be Shendril Fortress.” I slowly shook my head. “How in the nine watery hells did they get me into the Shackle without the Trade-Wardens stopping them?”

Out in the hallway, I heard rats trading rumors in the dark. After another look around my cell, I glanced between the door and the window. The window won my attention. I stalked across the grimy floor to the back wall, jumping up to grab the bars.

They were plain, solid iron bars mortared into brick. I pulled myself up for a better look.

My window wasn’t really one. It was a stone shaft that angled up to somewhere above ground. I could almost see clouds at the top of the shaft.

“No wagons or people, so it’s not opening at the street,” I mused. “The brick at the top looks more like Arth Prayogar’s usual baked clay. So… the Shackle is built on top of an older building. That could mean loose bricks, and any number of forgotten servant’s tunnels.”

I shifted my grip to the bars on my right, trying for a better look up. As soon as I did, one gave a little under my weight—barely the width of a finger. I stared at it, dumbfounded, then peered close, heart hammering my ribcage.

The bar itself was solid—round, thick as two fingers, and freckled with rust. But the mortar was less secure. One tug, and the lower end worried the weathered mortar to powder, making a shallow rut of dust and hope. Carefully, I brushed aside the grit and smiled.

“Someone tried to fill the gap between the old and new bricks, but it’s still a bad fit. If I can just wiggle this, maybe I can work the bar free.” I braced my bare feet against the wall, tugging at the bar. “That might give me a hole big enough to crawl through.”

A muffled jangle of keys and heavy footsteps from the hallway interrupted my plan.

I dropped down from the barred window, brushing at the mortar dust on my clothes. It didn’t come off, but smeared with the existing soot, sweat, and other grime. Grumbling, I crossed over to my rope cot with its questionable mattress, flopping down with a frustrated sigh. I tried to appear dejected and forlorn, but I suspected I looked more like a feral woman raised by wolves ready for a meal. That last part wasn’t far wrong.

Keys rattled with a metallic echo as the stained wooden door swung outward. A broad-shouldered man with shaggy tan hair, a gray quilted leather jacket, and a fresh scowl glared at me. He didn’t seem moved by my attempt at forlorn. So I leaned into feral with a thin smile hinting at kneecap-biting violence. That made him step back.

“M’Lady Nimad?” he stammered in a low, scarred voice. “Are you sure about this…?”

Rima Nimad appeared in the doorway as if summoned, idly gesturing at her retainer’s chest. The lich looked much the same as before—only this time, there was less blood splatter on her charcoal clothes and blood-red shirt. Rima strolled inside as if for afternoon tea with a knife-sharp smile across her bone-pale face. The air chilled around us.

“Oh, it’s fine, Charles. Tela just woke up on the wrong side of the ruins.” She lightly waved a hand. “Close the door. She doesn’t actually bite.”

“Yes, m’lady,” he rumbled.

Charles brought in a stained chestnut chair, setting it just inside the cell. Then with one last narrow-eyed look at me, he returned to the hallway and shut the door. With a casual smile, Rima sat down as if gracing the chair with her presence.

“At least, I’d prefer you didn’t bite my retainers,” she said casually, folding her hands in her lap. “I have precious few with me in this frustrating city.”

Really, as conversation starters went, it was as good as any.

“As long as they keep their fingers to themselves, I won’t bite any off,” I replied. “So, is this where you torture me until I answer your questions?”

Rima arched a delicate black eyebrow. For a moment, her eyes wandered over me, taking in my disheveled, barefoot condition.

“Hm, no,” she said flatly. “I don’t condone torture. It’s rather useless and a waste of time. I prefer negotiation.” The lich tilted her head, a predatory gleam flickering in her eyes. “Which of my people did all of… this?”

I met her gaze, jerking my chin toward the door.

“Mostly your combat mage,” I replied bitterly. Slowly, I rubbed my hands against my thighs. “The donkey’s ass took my boots, bag, and all… probably in revenge for what happened in the Mandami Hills temple.”

“Sherkus?” Rima’s eyebrows reached for her hairline. “Well, he does have a mean streak. It seems I need to stomp on it again. You’ll have most of your things returned.”

We stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. Finally, I sighed.

“While I appreciate the concern, you’ve tried to knife me before. So what do you actually want?”

Rima crossed her legs, smile sharpening. “Same as anyone, Tela… peace and order.”

I scowled. “A little blood and fear, too?”

The lich shrugged.

“A little fear is healthy,” she said, as if discussing the weather. “It keeps the powerful obedient and the reckless polite.”

“You mean you do,” I countered.

“If a city benefits from my ambitions,” Rima replied, studying her nails, “is that truly a crime?” Her eyes slid to me. “By the way, I’ve browsed your journal. Interesting reading. You’re quite good at what you do.” She folded her hands in her lap again. “I had an idea this morning. What if we leave the past where it is, and start fresh as collaborators over the Iraxi?”

Traps came in all shapes and sizes; I’d triggered enough to know.

“Oh, so this is where you murder me with blood magic, then bring me back as a lich? Life eternal as your mindless whatever? Baron Marius tried that. Didn’t work.” I wiggled fingers at my face. “Got the messed-up eyes to prove it. Just like I told him, the answer’s no.”

The lich sighed as her smile melted.

“Be reasonable, Tela. I’ve my own retainers and Herd Tolvana scouring the city for your friends. They’re here somewhere, and I know they have the Iraxi crystals. Once I catch them, they won’t walk away—unless you agree to work with me.”

It was my turn to grin. While it probably wasn’t smart to goad an ancient undead creature like a lich, sometimes I couldn’t help myself.

“I get why it’d be hard to find Ki… trust me, he’s damn hard to catch. Mikasi? Skarri? Sneaky when they want to be. But one of my friends is a minotaur. Your retainers can’t find a minotaur in a city of centaurs? Are you kidding me?”

Rima wasn’t smiling. Since I never know when to quit, I pushed on. I crossed my legs, mimicking a little of her pose.

“Since we’re chatting… why did you Gatekeepers trap fire elementals in crystals then leave them out for the viprin tribes? It didn’t wreck the Ancient Order—it forced them to join the viprin tribes to stop the nightmare you unleashed.”

The lich narrowed her eyes with a sour expression.

“I’ll admit my brethren and I… miscalculated. But in all fairness, it wasn’t the whole fire elemental. My process extracted the essence of the elementals, imbuing them into the crystals.”

My jaw fell open, eyes wide.

“You ‘liched’ two fire elementals?”

Rima sighed, lightly waving a hand at the idea.

“Roughly. It mostly worked. If I can get the Iraxi back, perhaps I can… adjust… the two in there. Give them some guidance so they won’t possess whomever is wearing the bracers so… painfully.”

“No,” I growled, fists clenched. “Those elementals should be set free. The journals, crystals, and all belong in a museum… not used to topple kingdoms.”

Rima studied me for a moment, then exhaled as she stood.

“Well, I see we need time to think. If you agree to help me, I will call off Herd Tolvana and your friends will stay unharmed.”

I shot to my feet, quivering with rage.

“Auditor Elkerton won’t call it off. He’s out for himself, planning on taking down anyone in his way—especially you. Acts like he’s got the means to do it.”

Rima Nimad’s face went still, eyes glittering.

“Hm, is that so?” The ghost of a smile returned. “Well, either way, think about my offer. Oh, and please don’t ambush anyone bringing you food. It’s not helpful.”

After a soft knock on the door, Rima breezed out of my cell with Charles in tow, carrying the chair. The door shut like the seal on a tomb. My heart sank. I could’ve sat down on that horrid mattress and sulked—overthinking all my mistakes.

Instead, I ran for the loose bar in the window, frantically grinding it against the broken mortar.

“Come… on…!”

After a few minutes, the bar popped loose, sending me to the floor. I caught the rod before it hit the stone, and none too soon. Keys jangled in the door’s lock.

Anyone would’ve expected an ambush from beside the door, so I didn’t hide there. My only other choice was under the rope cot, which wasn’t a lot better. I dove under as the door opened. A lean figure in travel-worn boots casually walked inside.

I rushed from hiding, swinging my iron bar with all I had. My intended victim shrieked like a siren before a meaty, fur-covered hand caught the bar, stopping it in mid-swing.

“Garrik?” I blinked in surprise, then focused on the furry hand. “Atha?”

“I told you she’d try to cave my skull in!” the elven thief snapped, glaring at me.

Atha ignored him, letting go of my iron bar. A warm smile spread over his broad minotaur snout like morning sunshine.

“Windtracer! This is no place for hyu. This is boring place… not nearly deadly enough. Come. Let’s go. Guards are having a good nap to rethink their lives.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but hugged Atha instead—Garrik, too, but mostly Atha—hard enough to leave bruises.

“Okay,” I breathed. “On the way out, can we steal my boots and bag back?”

Curious about what came before? Book 1 of the Windtracer Tales is out for eBook, paperback, hardback, and audiobook! Click below to learn more!

Available at the following retailers…

Amazon!

Barnes and Nobles!

Kobo!

Bookshop.org!

For more about Windtracer Tales, Hoist the Colors, 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’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors, for Windtracer Tales and the world of Awldor, take take the leap at the link here: Windtracer.

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Windtracer Tales is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In fact, it considers itself rather fancy and quite proud of itself. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Also! Windtracer Tales and Windtracer: Adventures in Awldor is written with much respect to Starfarertheta and their work on the other half of Awldor.

A Letter In an Envelope that reads, “Introductions”

Welcome Stranger!

Looks like you’ve found our quiet little county along the Alabama-Florida line here in the Southeastern US. Our tiny little corner of the world. Let me be the first to say…

Welcome… and don’t forget to lock your doors at night.

Blighridge County, which holds the little towns of Gloamstead and Craigbrook, isn’t much. But those of us living here call it home. Folks here keep to themselves, mostly. But you’ll find we’re all good company… provided you mind your manners, and watch where you step.

You see both Gloamstead and Craigbrook have got their quirks. A bit of personality, you might say. See, shadows linger a bit longer than they ought to. Those soft voices on the wind? That’s just Leatherdown Bayou whispering louder than the wind should carry it. Don’t worry, it’s probably just saying hello. Probably. And anyway, you’re new here, you’ve got nothing to worry about.

Oh! If you’re for history, you don’t want to pass up Briarwood Manor. It’s a landmark, sure, but after dark? You might meet the family. And not in the way you’re thinking. But they might be glad to see you. Real glad.

Now, life here in Blighridge County might seem a bit old-fashioned. Sure, we know mankind went to the moon, and people are now talking a lot about going to Mars. That’s all fine. Here, we keep a bit to the old ways. A lantern in the window at the bayou’s edge. Salt by your doors. Oh, and if you think you hear a strange knocking after dark? Unless you’re expecting someone, best you ignore that. It’ll pass.

You see, the cypress, the moss, the bayou itself—they all remember things. Old things that chuckle over walking on the moon. Things that might be best left forgotten.

So stay sharp, keep your eyes open, and don’t trust every kind word you hear. You see, some shadows might have a soul… and a few teeth to along with that.

But now, you enjoy your stay!

Ah, one last thing… don’t miss out on Miss Milly’s meat pies!

They’re to die for.

See you in the morning!

Don’t forget to lock your door...

Roy Branham, Blighridge County Sheriff

P.S. If you get a little lost and need some help, stop by Moonlight Curiosities in Gloamstead. I knew Daniel’s uncle back in the day before he vanished. Daniel and Cassidy Hawthorne, who run the place now, are good people. They’ll help you out if they can. Just… watch what you touch there. That shop runs itself on more than just money…

Season/Book 1: Inkwell of Shadows

Click for the Table of Contents

Newlywed, but not newly-dead. At least, not yet…

Daniel Hawthorne thought marrying his long-time fiancée, Cassidy—a shapeshifting bat-creature called a skinshaper—would be the hard part. Especially compared to quitting his workaholic job as a software engineer to run his late uncle’s antique shop in a quiet Southern town.

Sadly, not so much.

After a supernatural enemy crashes their wedding night with blood and fire, Daniel and Cassidy barely escape with their lives. The old storefront is smashed. Their honeymoon? Ruined. To rebuild, they’re forced to take a dubious job investigating a set of antique fountain pens. Ones with a long and deadly history in their wake.

Now they find themselves caught up in a century-old problem steeped in ink and blood. At the same time, a mysterious figure is also looking for the pens—and is willing to kill anyone to get them. Worse? It all might have ties to the monster that nearly murdered them.

To protect home, sanity, and each other, Daniel and Cassidy must uncover the truth—at least before their names are written in blood.

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Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries and Curses by Darklight 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.

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Each installment will be released each week on Wednesdays!

Missed a chapter? (or ‘Episode’ if you like!) Well, I’ve got you covered! Jump on over to the Chapter (ok, Episode) list here!

Previously: Chased by fire salamanders and murderous skeletons, Tela devises a risky plan… don’t run through the shifting maze, but instead over it. But the plan is far from foolproof. The trio still have to leap between stone platforms, risking a fall to the death each time. Along with that, comes a slight miscalculation over the threat chasing them and how fast they move…

Medilus 1, 1278: Minutes later, in the Temple of the Slithering Sun—only a few steps ahead of death…

I took two steps back and ran for the next doorway with a sideways grin. Beyond the opening, another platform of rooms descended, dust curling like a hungry fog. I kicked off the edge, vaulting the ravine.

In the humid, musty air between platforms, the temple’s guts were on display.

The entire complex lay inside a giant cavern. Curved blue-gray walls were worn smooth by centuries of moving stone platforms. Tarry black ropes and pulleys—a nightmarish spiderweb in motion—held it together.

Far below, at a drop so deep I heard my ancestors cackle, the bottom gaped. Diverted sections of the forgotten Bromcour River split the world along ancient, rocky seams. Water turned the metal waterwheels that cranked lime-coated gears, keeping everything in motion.

It was machinery so old, I could taste the rust and history of the thing.

I landed on the flagstones of the other platform with a hard thump. My boots skidded. I pinwheeled my arms, stumbling forward to safer footing. My heart hammered against my ribs like a manic blacksmith as I wiped cavern dust from my mouth.

“Now!” I rasped. “Jump now, before it moves too far!”

Kiyosi’s eyes flicked between me, the platforms, and the near-death gap.

“Are you kidding me?” he yelped.

Skarri didn’t waste a second. The viprin warrior snatched the healer by the shirt, bodily dragging him along.

“No time!” she shouted, propelling Kiyosi into a run.

Skarri coiled her tail under her, then slithered fast for the edge. The glossy tarred ropes groaned as the platform swayed.

She leaped, snake-like body stretching out over the gap toward me. I grabbed her arms as she arrived, keeping her on the right side of a deadly fall.

Kiyosi arrived a second later—subtle as a landslide—shrieking through the jump. But he landed in a tight shoulder roll as if he’d made that jump every day.

“How will we know where to go?” he wheezed, wiping at the smears of black grime on his cobalt cheeks.

“Follow the sun,” I panted, thrusting a finger toward the next platform rising up to meet us. Crudely carved on the outside was the face of the Storm-shed Sister. “Remember the model? We followed the sun’s path from Sister to Sister to get in…”

“Quick, it’s almost here!” Skarri hissed, already slithering to leap for the next platform.

Kiyosi, bruised but wide-eyed and breathing, ran after her with me beside him.

“So we follow the faces to get out. What about the salamanders?” he rasped.

A salamander clawed its way onto the ceiling of the platform we’d left behind. It ripped gray-brown flagstones away, leaving an orange, half-molten maw in its wake. Four skeletons joined it a moment later. The salamander hissed furiously at us. I raised my eyebrows at Kiyosi, tilting my head at our pursuers.

“Unless they fly, they have to wait for the right time to jump,” I said. “We bought ourselves some time.”

My smile faded like dew against the morning sun when the four skeletons leaped with unearthly abandon. They breached the gap, landing on our platform like brutal, bony gazelles with a murderous grudge.

“Make that very little time. Run!” I snapped, sprinting for the next edge like a madwoman.

“I really hate necromancy and the undead!” Skarri snarled, leaping over to the next stone rooftop.

It was a desperate, mad relay race across ancient platforms, wobbling like drunken ships. But my insane plan partly worked. The fire salamanders were too large to quickly leap after us. It made the platforms sway too wildly, scaring the beasts.

The skeletons didn’t harbor any such idea of self-preservation. They landed hard and charged before we could escape.

Kiyosi snagged magic threads from the air, tangling one of the skeletons in a net. It wriggled, tearing at its bonds. Skarri crossed swords with another, as the last two rushed at me, blades gleaming.

I sidestepped wide and snapped my whip at bony ankles. Kiyosi bound the pair in golden threads, and we shoved them over the edge.

A sharp hiss of pain got my attention. I spun around as Skarri snarled, flaring the cobra hood around her head. She bobbed twice, then lashed forward like a snake striking prey. Parrying the skeleton’s blade, she hacked twice at the thing’s bony neck—it collapsed like a broken puppet.

Panting hard, Skarri touched the fresh bruise along her snout and winced. Then she looked back the way we’d come with dismay. I followed her gaze, seeing six more skeletons crawl like deranged spiders up the side of a nearby platform.

“They’re so fast. We can’t fight them all,” she hissed wearily, then stood up straight. “Wait.” She pointed at one of the glossy, leg-thick ropes attached to our platform. “Why not sever most of a rope right before we jump again?”

I shook my head, crushing the skull of the skeleton still with us under my boot.

“Those look like Ancient Order work. It’s some kind of silky thread, not hemp or flax; stuff is hard to cut.”

Three platforms back, one of the fire salamanders leaped forward, claws skittering over the flagstones. It would’ve careened over the side if one of the thick ropes hadn’t stopped it. Instantly, the glossy material turned red, melting slightly. I narrowed my eyes.

“Heat.”

I snatched up a nearby discarded sword—a short Ancient Order saber that wasn’t all that short for me. The brassy metal gleamed like new between dark stains. Lucky for me, the frayed leather on the grip was somehow more or less intact.

“Ki! Can you heat this? I mean, really hot.”

He blinked, eyes flicking between the saber and myself.

“Ah, yes?” he said uneasily. “I think? Not something I’ve done too often outside of heating a skillet.”

A manic, dry tapping against stone got our attention. The six skeletons we saw before had reached the top of their platform, and were heading for us. They leaped, but three missed—spiraling toward the underground river and giant gears below.

The other three breached the wide gap, skidding to a stop, burning orange-yellow orbs sizzling in their eye sockets. Then they charged.

“Aile Shavat!” I tossed the saber to Kiyosi. “Try hard! Imagine you want to burn some bread.”

He caught the saber in mid-air with both hands, stunned.

“What?”

I jabbed a finger at the ancient sword, running off with Skarri to get rid of our new uninvited guests.

“Bread! Burning bread! Really hot!”

He rolled his eyes, snapping his tiefling whip-like tail back and forth—a portrait of pure exasperation.

Skarri and I crashed into our attackers—I went low, Skarri high. On a moving platform against animated skeletons, it was risky, but it worked. A skeleton sliced for my neck, but I dropped under the blow, kicking at its bone-ankles with both heels. It stumbled off balance into Skarri’s waiting claws. She yanked it in front of her as a second skeleton tried to slice her open.

Metal splintered bone as one skeleton hit the other, shattering it. I snatched up a saber, and we set to work. Bruises, cuts, and two broken animated skeletons later, we managed to survive.

“One morning, I’m going to wake up sobbing over the priceless history we keep destroying,” I muttered, scrubbing at the grime on my chin.

“Yes, but you’ll be alive to do that,” Skarri countered wearily.

I grimaced. “That’s a fair point.” I rolled my eyes skyward. “Lady Deep, is it too much to ask to study history without the ‘might get dead’ part?”

Skarri let out a tired chuckle. “I think you’d be bored.”

I snorted, giving her a sideways grin.

“Done!” Kiyosi called out.

We hurried to his side of the platform. Kiyosi, sweat pouring off his face, held the Ancient Order saber in both hands by the hilt. Its blade held a white-hot edge that shimmered in the muggy air. He carefully handed the saber over, avoiding burning either of us.

I studied the nearest black rope holding up our platform, then looked at our pursuers. The fire salamanders were perched on the edge of their stone platform, drooling eagerly—if it was even drool. I didn’t want to know. Six more skeletons on another platform swayed in creepy unison with the infinite patience of the murderous dead.

A sigh tumbled out of me as I met their stern expressions. I didn’t have to explain my plan. They already knew.

“Jump,” I told them, jerking my chin toward an incoming platform. “It’s the next in order. I’ll be right after you.”

“No,” Kiyosi replied flatly.

Skarri shook her head, echoing Kiyosi’s clipped reply. If the lady had feet instead of a snake tail, she would’ve planted them.

I groaned and walked over to the massive black rope. The platform swayed like a ship sailing the air.

“This is not the time…” I protested, but Kiyosi interrupted.

“It is exactly the time,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “We can talk about this more later, but really? This is one of your ‘make it up as you go’ plans. You can’t do this one alone.”

I glanced back at the other platforms with their passengers of painful death, then gave my friends a ragged sigh.

“It makes sense.” I sliced at the thick black rope. It sizzled, melting strands popping loose with an angry vengeance. “You two can catch me when I jump. I’m smaller and lighter.”

Kiyosi drew the centaur short sword that he, by some miracle, still had with him. Skarri hefted her saber, giving it a careful swing.

“Those skeletons jump farther than the salamanders. They’ll keep you busy while at least one salamander tries the leap. We’ll hold off the skeletons. You cut the rope.”

I winced as one of the black cords snapped with a sharp twang, painfully whipping my upper arm. When I turned to snap at Skarri, Kiyosi fixed me with a hard gaze.

“Like you’ve told me, what? Hundreds of times? We came in here together; we leave together.” He pulled on a thin, warm smile. “Now cut the rope. We’ve got your back. It’s what a crew does.”

Water stung the corner of my eyes, and I wiped it away. Then I sliced all nine watery hells out of that rope. Moments later, the skeletons hurled themselves at our platform. Two missed the edge, but four didn’t.

I focused on the rope, but every clang of metal, grunt, or hiss of pain from Kiyosi or Skarri made me wince. It was the abrupt silence that jerked me away, wide-eyed from my frantic work, brandishing the saber.

Skeletons lay in shattered pieces across the platform. Four against two are lethal odds, but somehow Kiyosi and Skarri turned it into a success—though they came away with fresh bruises and light cuts in the process.

Kiyosi grimaced at a razor-thin cut along his upper arm, then jerked a thumb behind him.

“Tela, the salamander platform is almost here. How’s the rope coming?”

I jammed the overheated blade into the deep, melted gap I’d sawed into the rope. Acrid smoke bubbled up from ruined threads around the blade, flooding the air with the stench of burning beans.

“Good enough, let’s go!”

We leaped for the other platform just before the salamander arrived. As we landed, I turned to stare at the savaged rope, willing it to break.

“Come on… come on…” I muttered.

At first the rope held, smoking like an overcooked dinner—until it didn’t. It popped with a ragged tear and snapped completely. The platform abruptly tilted sideways. Off-balance, the salamander scrambled against the flagstones, then slid off the side. With a long, sharp hiss, it fell to the glowing water below. The other salamander hissed, looking around in confusion at how to reach us.

With a tired sigh, I followed Skarri and Kiyosi across the platform as we ran for the exit—and found a different problem.

Outside the temple, I brushed my fingers over the smoking, char-blasted bricks of the doorframe into Toshriom Ifoon itself.

“More salamanders?” Skarri hissed in a low voice.

“No,” I shook my head. “What little I know is they aren’t this precise.”

Kiyosi frowned at the scorch marks.

“Blood magic,” he said with a facial expression like he’d eaten a rotten pear, worm and all. “I can taste it in the air. Also, more water magic. Someone tried to pry that door open to get in.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tela, we need to get out of here. That other salamander can’t be that far behind, and whoever did this is still nearby. These burns are too fresh.”

“Saint’s Tide and damn toes,” I spat, turning to look at the door, then the ancient dam. “I hate saying this, but split up…”

“No!” Skarri hissed emphatically.

“Absolutely not,” Kiyosi added firmly.

I spun, fixing them with a firm glare.

“Yes! Don’t fight me this time.” My hands clenched into fists. “You two, Mikasi, Atha… all of you mean something to me, damn it! So, quit arguing and just trust me. That dam looks like an ancient groundwater lift, so it’ll have tunnels inside it. Take those. I’ll head over the dam. We meet up above ground with Atha and Mikasi.”

Kiyosi and Skarri tensed with wooden expressions, but they nodded.

After a silent look of farewell, they set out for any way to get into the dam. I took off running over the top. Out in the open, I figured the salamander would chase me, or not, if the underground river scared it off.

I made it to the other side before I realized it wasn’t the salamander I needed to worry about.

A muscled mass of human in leather armor tackled me the moment I left the dam. I kicked, bit, and punched, but my attacker was joined by a second. Clad in gray, they pinned my arms hard behind me.

“Hey! Watch the hands!”

When they turned me around, Rima Nimad cupped my chin in her dead-cold, pale fingers. Her mage, that red-skinned tiefling, gleefully took my shoulder bag and whip.

“Well, good day, my dear. Fancy meeting you here.” The lich’s smile was all splinters and sharp edges, able to curdle milk at ten paces. “So, you and I are going to have a long conversation. I doubt you’ll enjoy it.”

Curious about what came before? Book 1 of the Windtracer Tales is out for eBook, paperback, hardback, and audiobook! Click below to learn more!

Available at the following retailers…

Amazon!

Barnes and Nobles!

Kobo!

Bookshop.org!

For more about Windtracer Tales, Hoist the Colors, 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’re wanting a deeper look at Hoist the Colors, take the plunge here at the link: Hoist the Colors, for Windtracer Tales and the world of Awldor, take take the leap at the link here: Windtracer.

Subscribe now

Buy Me a Coffee!

Windtracer Tales is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In fact, it considers itself rather fancy and quite proud of itself. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or reanimated is coincidental. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author tend to disagree a lot.

Also! Windtracer Tales and Windtracer: Adventures in Awldor is written with much respect to Starfarertheta and their work on the other half of Awldor.