Inkwell of Shadows 19: Rumors Of Root and Bone

November 12, 2024. Moonlight Curiosities. Another day, another dread. I wondered if calling this ‘business as usual’ was a bad idea…

Author’s Note: Inkwell of Shadows is a serialized fiction story in Moonlight Curiosity Mysteries, set in Blighridge County, Alabama. A quiet corner of the world where old ghost linger, cursed objects refuse to stay quiet, and some secrets never stay buried—at least, for long.

New installments or chapters will materialize every Monday…

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

Previously. Another day, another attack by the figure in black. This time at Laguna Bay College! Afterwards, Daniel and Cassidy confronted Sheriff Roy Branham about events so far, learning more than they bargained for. The pens? Possibly connected as anchors to a curse. Not to mention the figure in black has now taken to stealing bodies from the morgue! If that wasn’t enough, the thief carries glowing Mason jars—the exact kind sold at Moonlight Curiosities. Also, the curse may be forcing victims to act against their will, as long as they live…

November 12, 2024. Moonlight Curiosities. Another day, another dread. I wondered if calling this ‘business as usual’ was a bad idea…

The morning felt like a Monday wearing Tuesday’s old suit, but there was fresh, strong coffee, which seemed like a fair trade. I sipped some as I sat at our kitchen table, basking in the room’s quiet decor of ‘blue country trim lacking dead bodies.’

Rain peppered the yellow-stained windows, tapping out a soothing rhythm for the nerves. I watched it, and contemplated the impressive fact that we weren’t dead yet.

Minutes later, Cassidy padded barefoot and bat-shaped into the room, quiet as moonlight, wearing a rumpled sleep shirt. Black eyes bleary, hair and pointed ears askew, she looked like she’d lost the same bet against bed-hair and nightmares as I had.

“Morning,” she mumbled, frowning as she navigated the table for the coffee pot.

I beat her to it, guiding her to a chair with a kiss on the side of her head. She hummed, sat, then hummed again with an ear twitch once I slid a mug in front of her. The pattering sound of autumn rain outside was the morning soundtrack we needed.

“Breakfast?” I asked gently.

“Oh, God, please, and yes,” she sighed, easing her head into her hands.

I slid Tylenol over, then started some oatmeal.

“How are we not dead?” she asked quietly.

“Life thinks we’re funny?” I suggested, stirring the heating mush.

Cassidy huffed, wiped her snout, then sipped coffee.

“No, love, I mean it.” She combed fingers through her hair. That turned into a whimpered, manic scrubbing until her hair relented. She sighed as she gripped her mug. “Think about it. Valeria tried to murder us on Halloween. Now we find out, oh hey, she was on someone’s payroll? That maybe she wasn’t going to kill us on Halloween for some insane bloodleech reason? Maybe she was a hired killer.”

I nodded, lifting the spoon to check the oatmeal. “Maybe it was because we ignored the death-and-damnation myths about human-skinshaper relations, and married anyway.”

“Those myths weren’t a thing,” she snorted. “My cousin married that really nice dentist in Boston last year. You met her. They’re fine!”

“Yes, I remember.” I spooned oatmeal into bowls with a flourish. “Still, you know, some old traditions keep walking around long after they should’ve been dead and gone.”

Cassidy accepted a warm bowl with a smile, taking a long sniff of the cinnamon scent. “Yeah, but back to Valeria; was she paid to kill us? Get rid of your uncle?”

I joined her at the table, running the calculus in my mind. The memory of Valeria’s taunts shot a chill down my spine.

“She said she wanted Moonlight Curiosities.” I sampled my oatmeal. It was warm and gentle, like a safe hug. “But if it was something here, she could’ve broken in to get it. She didn’t. Unless it’s one of the creepy things in the hidden basement. That stuff sets a new bar for ‘valuable, lethal antiques.’”

Cassidy closed her eyes and shuddered.

“Daniel,” she said after another slow bite. “Dad taught me a lot about defending myself. Always pay attention to my surroundings. Keep my keys handy in case someone jumps me. Never deal with a dryad. Never let a bloodleech get behind you. All the usual.” She shook her head. “Even how to avoid those murder-happy Nighthunters.”

Her hand trembled as she tried to spoon more breakfast. I reached over, cupping her free hand in mine. Slowly, I brushed a thumb along her soft fur. Cassidy let out a shaky breath.

“But bloodleech hired killers, curses, and actual ghosts…?” She clenched her jaw, muzzle tight.

I didn’t reply right away, just let the rain lightly hammering the window have its say as I held her hand.

“It’s pretty deep,” I said quietly. “When I quit my software engineering job, it felt like I could finally breathe. Like I’d finally escaped being fed into a corporate meat grinder of bad decisions, crunch time, and fake coding contests.” I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “That we’d settle here and quietly run my uncle’s shop.”

I returned to my oatmeal, watching the rain through the window.

“Murder wasn’t on my list.”

Suddenly, my phone buzzed, shattering the calm. Cassidy squinted suspiciously as I scooped it up. Two texts. I answered one, rolling my eyes at the second. Cassidy gave me a look of, ‘do I want to know?’

“The first was Tobias,” I explained, setting my phone down. “Window frame has some dry rot. We’ll owe a bit more so he can fix that.” She raised her eyebrows when I hesitated, struggling to keep my hand from shaking as I grabbed my spoon. “The second was from Kevin. Wants me back temporarily at my old job.” My voice fell. “Help take up the slack for the team on a touchy project. I was just going to… ignore it.”

Cassidy’s eyes turned stone-hard. She scooped up my phone. “Yep. Okay. Gimme. Wife attack mode engaged.”

Claws tapped the screen with a staccato intensity of a knife on a cutting board. I swore I felt the heat from across the table. She glanced at me while typing.

“Love, you know Kevin doesn’t do ignore. He tried to call you into the office once when you were physically sick. Told you to ‘just take aspirin’ then go in anyway. Which you did and made yourself worse.”

I shoveled the spoon into my oatmeal and paused, staring haunted holes in the cinnamon mush. “Yeah, I know. I need to face that down at some point.”

Cassidy finished with my phone, reaching over to hold my hand.

“You will.” Her muzzle split into a soft grin. “When you do, I’ll be next to you, cheering.”

I nodded, feeling a shade of tension melt off, which left about a dozen more.

“Speaking of facing things… what if Valeria was being blackmailed?”

Cassidy tilted her head with a frown, ears flicking the air. I ate more oatmeal, then gestured at nothing with my spoon.

“Think about it. The Briarwood estate has been abandoned for years, but remember the furnishings? It was like a bad horror movie. Everything felt staged, as if she were performing an act for an audience. Except for the college kid she tortured; that felt horribly real.”

Cassidy nodded thoughtfully, then tapped her chin with a knuckle before taking a bite of oatmeal. “The college kid could have been more ‘set dressing,’ only he obviously didn’t agree to it. Still, town gossip says he’s doing better. He’s got a good doctor and therapist over in Craigbrook.”

I furrowed my brow in thought. “Valeria’s journals might have something about it.” When Cassidy squinted at me, I shrugged. “Dorian hinted they were spicy.”

“Feels odd to think about a hired killer being into journaling,” Cassidy murmured.

A thought struck me. “Oh, I realized this morning if the person in the black coat bought Mason jars from us, we’d have a record of it. Likely a purchase over the past month.”

“That’s an easy check,” she said, scooping the last of her breakfast. “We find that, then let the sheriff know.”

We eased into the day after that, chasing down normalcy at a fast walk. Cassidy shifted human as we got to work. Shelves dusted, inventory checked, we navigated the routine of opening the shop with ease. A few customers later, I grabbed the shop tablet at the counter, pulling up the purchase records for Mason jars over the last month.

The list was short. I tapped the edge of the device as the names stared back at me.

“Cassie? Only ten Mason jars were purchased recently. Four people.” I pushed the tablet across the checkout counter toward her. “We know Halcomb Barnes and Marla Keene. Look at the other two.”

She pursed her lips. “Two for Caleb Hayes, and three for Morgana Vale. I remember selling jars to Mr. Hayes. Who’s Morgana Vale?”

I stared at the name, shuffling through my memory. “The other customer when Professor Barnes was here the other day. She asked about the Mason jars when she saw he had a couple.”

Cassidy’s eyes went wide. “I remember her. She couldn’t find them, so I showed her where they were. Then she asked about 19th-century candlesticks. She seemed… nice enough, I guess?”

My eyes hadn’t left the list, which felt like a digital lineup of suspects.

“We can rule Professor Barnes out since we saw him get attacked.” A long breath billowed out of me. “It feels unfair to go all conspiracy theory on Marla Keene, given she knows about skinshapers, bloodleeches, and all.”

“Yeah,” Cassidy pursed her lips. “That leaves Caleb Hayes and Morgana Vale. Caleb was really interested in a roll top desk like ours downstairs.” Her eyebrows knitted, lowering her voice. “Really interested.”

I nodded. “Morgana Vale is a big question mark.” I slowly pressed the heel of a hand against my face. “Maybe we could ask Sheriff Branham? Deputy Keene?”

Cassidy jumped when her phone buzzed, yanking it out of a back pocket. “Oh right. Lunch with Dorian at Magnolia Cafe.”

I turned off the tablet. “Let’s go.”

The Magnolia Cafe was no more than a block down the road from the shop. Rain had eased off, leaving everything chilly and damp. Water glistened on the pavement and sidewalk in the clouded daylight. A light sigh of autumn wind stirred Spanish moss and amber leaves in nearby trees alongside the road.

We walked under the cafe’s faded crimson awning with its weathered Christmas lights, then ducked inside. Warm, polished walls of aged wood paneling framed the restaurant, while a hum of local conversations ghosted the air. We spotted Dorian right away. He sat at a lacquered table among unsuspecting patrons with an all-too-pleased smile.

“He looks way too happy,” Cassidy whispered as we navigated the room. “He’s either murdered someone, or learned something.”

I raised my eyebrows with a half-grin. “Both could be true.”

She snorted.

At the table, a server breezed by with water, tea, and some coffee. With a polite smile, he vanished with an order for two lunch specials and a meat pie for Dorian. The bloodleech leaned on the table with the look of a cat who’d eaten all the canaries.

“I just adore this place.” A delighted smile glimmered in his gray eyes. “Flavorful food and such interesting people. So memorable.” He put his hands flat on the tabletop. “So. I’ve a backpack of evil with me for after lunch. Spicy reading. Also, I asked around and learned a few things.”

“That’s certainly vague,” Cassidy said, furrowing her brow. “Good or bad?”

Dorian lifted his iced tea, swirled it with a light flourish, and sipped. “That depends on your point of view. After what you two uncovered, I got in touch with an old dryad acquaintance to see where the bodies are buried, as the saying goes.”

A cold knot settled in my gut. Across from me, Cassidy’s shoulders went rigid. I took a sip of coffee to calm my nerves. The brew was delightfully dark, stout, with sharp opinions about life. It almost worked.

“This is already horrible,” Cassidy murmured, covering her mouth with both hands. “Never deal with dryads.”

“Dorian,” I cleared my throat. “I’m not sure ‘terrified’ is good enough to cover that you have a murderous dryad friend on speed dial.”

He sipped his tea, nodding as our lunch arrived. “Thank you, sir,” he said before our server hurried off to another table. Dorian offered something close to an innocent look, wearing a too thin, perfect smile.

“Bear in mind, I fully understand this was a horribly bad idea. Also, ‘friend’ might be a stretch. As for murder? You recall that I do that too, only more selectively with better care and taste.”

I rolled my eyes while Cassidy covered her face with her hands.

“Dorian…” I sighed.

He sliced into his meat pie with obvious delight, then gestured at us with a fork. “My ‘friend’ is a wisteria dryad. Better than most, though still cryptic. I explained what had been happening, and the pens. She thought it over and gave me her assessment. First, ‘roots and leaves remember what people bury’. The second was ‘what walks now wears grief like a borrowed coat.’”

“Leaves.” Cassidy glanced at me. “Daniel. The pen’s theme.” Dorian opened his mouth, halfway smiling, but she waved him quiet. “No. Not now… just no. We’ll explain at the shop.”

I nodded. “Yeah, the theme. So we are looking at a dryad-sized problem.”

Dorian ate, then waved his fork again like a conductor. “Not even close. My dear Cassidy, Daniel’s ignorance I can overlook, but surely you were taught more about dryads than just ‘scary plant people.’”

“Never deal with the Dryad Court. Never meddle with a dryad,” she deadpanned. “When those fail? Fire.”

Dorian snorted. “Such a skinshaper reply. Brilliant. Lovely. Direct. Anyway.” He graced me with a professor’s smile. “So Daniel, fire aside, dryads have a certain style to these things. Elegant, and yes, lethal.”

I exchanged a look with Cassidy, my jaw tightening. “Yes, I’m aware.”

Dorian grinned. “Ah, good, so you know the basics. Dryads tempt, corrupt, manipulate, and then… feed gradually over time. Well, save for wisteria dryads who skip a few steps. My point is, and my acquaintance mentioned this, these murders don’t feel right for that.” He chomped another bite of his meat pie. “Dryads play the long game, Daniel. This is ham-fisted at best.”

“Too direct,” I said, frowning as I remembered the attacks in the attic and Professor Barnes’s office.

Cassidy gave a short, sharp nod. “Dryads don’t often go after someone directly. That’s true. They have others for that.”

Dorian spread his hands wide. “Exactly. The killings and the attempted ones feel too frantic. Like abruptly weaponized heartbreak. Tasty with the right seasoning, but not a dryad’s style.”

“Weaponized heartbreak,” Cassidy murmured.

“The pages,” I breathed. “The message in the margins.”

“Yes,” she said, then narrowed her eyes. “Dorian, do you have any loose, handwritten pages from an old notebook? They might have part of a fiction story?”

The bloodleech gracefully raised his manicured eyebrows. “It’s possible. I do love to read. Valeria had several stories among her belongings.” He pursed his lips. “Now that you mention it, I do remember a handwritten story among her mess that seemed mildly interesting. Why?”

Cassidy and I exchanged a dark look. I leveled my fork at Dorian.

“Dorian, have we got something to show you…”

The bloodleech’s smile was as sharp as a knife.

“Oh? Do tell…”

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!

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.