Blood Magic Is Nothing to Trifle With

By now, you know I submit an original audio short to R.B. Wood’s Wordcount Podcast on the regular. I know podcasts are not everyone’s cup of tea, so here is my last offering, originally recorded for Episode 60 of The Wordcount Postcast. (You can listen here, if you’re so inclined — if I do say so myself, this was a decent take…)

Blood Magic is Nothing to Trifle With

“I grant you, Branna, he’s charming, but why such care?” Corbeau’s voice was a rasp from his perch. “What do you think will happen if he survives?”

Branna only squinted harder at the ornate skeleton key on her worktable, ignoring her brother’s skepticism. The table was littered with the treasures she and Corbeau had collected in their travels, old farm tools, keys, lost jewelry, blades, ribbons, shells and stones, but this key was their prize.

In a bookstand, an ancient leather-bound volume, its once lush pages ragged and thinned, offered up secrets masked in a language neither Branna nor Corbeau fully understood.


Startled by her brother’s screech, Branna looked up from the key, which shivered against the sanded wood.

She pushed her silver blonde hair back from her face and fixed the sleek black raven opposite with her sharp, corvid eyes. “What, Raaf?”

“That’s not my name. It’s a man’s name.” He lifted up his wings, spread them to their full span, cocking his head to one side, then lowering it, a mockery of a courtly bow. “I have not ever been a man. Only a boy… And centuries ago.”

“I am sorry, Corbeau,it slipped out” Branna whispered. The key shivered again, this time of its own accord, and Branna turned her attention back to it. “The key wants its brother back, too.”

“Can you do it? After so long? Unravel blood magic four hundred years old?” They never had caught the knack of grudges, so Corbeau had resumed his perch. He kept his beady raven’s eyes on the key as if it might swallow his beloved sister whole.

“You mastered human speech with a raven’s beak. You’re stronger than you think.” Branna waved her hand over the key, which shivered a third time then lay still. When she spoke again, it was the voice of a sorceress, low and formal. “I have studied and honed my gifts over all these years. I have mother’s grimoire. Our power is deeper now than ever. I only have to decipher the spell which binds the key to the boy.”

“Man.” Corbeau croaked. “He is a man, Branna, which is why you like him.”

“Like is too milky a word,” Branna said, and her voice was a girl’s again. “He is like… strong spirits in my veins.”

“Ugh, enough.” Corbeau stepped from his perch into the air, circling their small cabin and making for the door, open to the mild forest air.

“Going to find Magda?” Branna teased, but if her brother heard her, he didn’t look back.

She was sure Corbeau had gone looking for the young female raven who’d befriended him in the village. Magda was named for their mother, which didn’t bother the beautiful black bird, but sent shivers down Branna’s arms. Magda was the one who’d shown Corbeau what they’d sought: the golden key whose twin lay on Branna’s table.

And so Branna had discovered Eochair and his studio.

Branna traced her mother’s hurried hand along the page, deeply slanted as though the witch had feared she would run out of time. The old magic was there; Branna could see it, but it shivered in and out of her mind from behind the long-dead words. The symbols traced along the margins were like the faces of long-forgotten friends, trying to swim up to the surface of recognition.

If she and her brother were night – silver and obsidian, Eochair was day, all golden and green, and he kept the key. It had taken Branna all summer to work out his lineage, hours in the archives and the library and on Eochair’s own computer tracing her family’s descendants. All to understand how to unbind the key from the young man and free Corbeau.

Just last week, Eochair had touched her pale, feathery hair before turning away with a flush on his neck. If she held her breath, Branna could still feel the way the strands fell from his fingers across the straps of her sundress and over her shoulder.

Once more, she gave the key her attention. She read from her mother’s spell, tracing the shapes with her finger around the key as she spoke.

Perhaps the air around it blushed, crimson like Eochair’s embarrassment. Perhaps the key rippled with ruddy color. She was getting closer, but it couldn’t be clumsily done. Blood magic was nothing to trifle with. Errors might mean Eochair’s life.

If he survives…

Corbeau asked why such care, but how to describe the falling of hair on bare skin to a boy with a raven’s heart?

There is a fully formed backstory here, and I’m tempted to distract myself with the writing of the fairy tale, but there are novels to finish…


Her heart banged. Where was the damn thing? Of all the receipts to lose. No matter. The train’s iron chantey rolled her past the empty platform. He’d never know.

“Lost something?” The proffered slip. Those eyes, dead like a shark’s.

Everything, yes.

Calm As Glass

The Moon in this cover image is layered from this photo via Creative Commons on Flickr. All other image credit Cameron D. Garriepy.

Part of The Physician and the Siren. This vignette occurs on board the Siren in the last days of the Captain’s condition:

Calm as glass, Isaac heard a crewman speak so of the flat sea and windless night.

The Captain stands with her face reflected in the leaded windows which grace her cabin. That glass is anything but calm. Her cheeks are flushed and ruddy, her hair unbound in the privacy of her quarters. Her eyes contain storms he fears might blow them both apart, tear the ship asunder, consign the crew to the monsters who dwell below.

All this Isaac knows from the watery reflection in her cabin’s windows, for she has neither turned nor spoken since he announced himself.

There are gifts from the cook who rules the galley on her table–poached fish, cooling, and precious sliced fruit, untouched. Fine silver gleams from the pocked and patinated wood, laid out as if for a duchess. The china, like his Captain, is both delicate and stronger than it might appear; despite appearances, it is completely at home aboard the Siren.

His imagination takes wing in the quiet: this treasure, the heirloom silver of some noble family in pursuit of riches in the West Indies, the china perhaps a second son’s consolation when he was sent to manage the far-flung sugar interests. A drowned bride’s dowry. How the Captain came to have her table settings is yet another secret she keeps close.

She lifts her blazing tangle of hair from her neck and blows a hot breath against the window. Her silence speaks eloquently of frustration, he thinks.


The Captain turns from her contemplation to address him. “She is restless.”

The burden of her belly is no longer something she can conceal, even in ill-fitting men’s clothing. She wears a linen shirt long over loose-laced breeches, but her legs and feet are bare as a child’s. Isaac feels the stain of lust rise in his cheeks at the sight of the soft, gold hair on her lean, muscled calves, just visible like an aura in the candlelight. His gut twists–such thoughts for this woman, for any woman in her advanced condition, shame him. He is her captive, bound to her like a possession since she took him from his ship–spared his life in hopes he would save hers, devoted to her as a hound in the sheltered chambers of his heart.

Still, she keeps him as her physician, so that is the voice he uses to speak to her. “Your time is near, I believe.”

Her hands, worn and cracked with work, stained around the nails with ink and ash, rise to rub the roundness of her child. “She’ll need to be strong if she wants to survive.”

“The sea is a harsh home for a child.” He does not mean to admonish. It is not neither his place nor his privilege to hand out judgement, but he cannot help worrying for a baby born into its pirate mother’s saltwater legacy.

The Captain meets his eyes. Her voice is strained. “I did not mean the sea. I meant the world. A weak woman is a dead woman, even while she walks.”

“You’re certain, then, that the child is a girl.”

When she does not reply, but turns from him to her vigil at the glass, he steps tentatively around the table to join her there. The linen over her belly ripples.

His hand hovers between them. “May I?”

She spreads her arms in a mock bow, opening herself to his inspection. Such shocking informality would never be permitted by his sister or her circle of fine ladies, and yet he cannot help but think again of the Captain as a duchess.

He rounds his palms over her distended figure. The life within strikes out at him with such force that he laughs. He dares a glance up at the Captain’s face, and is rewarded with a slight smile which quickens upon her lips and kindles for a moment in her eyes. He explores the topography of her pregnancy through her shirt, marveling at the fierce and tiny life she carries.

Having granted him this intimacy, the Captain stretches, rolling her shoulders and pressing her hands into the small of her back. A groan of pleasure escapes her, and Isaac is once again conscious of her body. She smells of salt, sweat, and a sweetness he believes to be her milk coming in, and he pulls away.

“All is, as far as I can tell, as it should be, though I am no midwife.”

The Captain strikes an imperious tone. “You will be.”

Conscious of his position, he retreats with a courtly bow to mirror her own. He gestures to her bed, simple, but luxurious compared to the rest of the accommodations aboard, then raps the table top with his knuckles. “You should rest. And eat.”

She says nothing; Isaac accepts this as his dismissal. She is mercurial and accustomed to command.

His hand is on the door when her voice floats across the room.

“You’ve gentle hands. I’ve half a mind to take you to my bed. Perhaps that would tame this terrible unease I cannot escape.”

His fingers clench on the handle. Four long strides and he could do her bidding, take her, be her lover. The silence, once eloquent, is charged like the tempest in her gaze. A moment becomes an infinity over calm seas.

She laughs, quietly, bitterly. “I’ve shocked you. Goodnight, my Physician. Give my regards to the watch this night.”

Isaac dashes through the door, praying his body doesn’t betray him to the crew, to the men who would kill him for far less than his baffled and helpless desire.


If you’d like to hear it read, you can check it out alongside what one of the authors described this way:

Voluntary Amnesia: Fiction for RB Wood’s Word Count Podcast

This story originally appeared as a contribution to R.B. Wood‘s Word Count Podcast, Episode 39. To hear me read it, along with six other authors and their contributions, click the podcast link above.

The prompt was: “I was walking on the white sands at Magen’s Bay in St Thomas when…”


Magen’s Bay made everything more beautiful.

Lottie wrapped her arm around my waist, her palm gritty with the fine sand from the beach. She fell into step with me, our feet sinking and rising in the damp beach, our steps vanishing together into the tide. Her pearl skin was smattered with fresh freckles, kisses of sweet Caribbean sunshine.

She pressed her lips to my shoulder before laying her cheek against it, leaning into me while the tide tugged and tempted.

My thoughts meandered with our path along the crescent curve of white. Inevitably, they soared in a northward arc over the Atlantic; without fail they skipped along the stony shores of Maine. Another crescent entirely. I pressed those dull, wintry remembrances deep into the pockets of Before–my other life, shed like a parka under this fair, Equatorial sun.

Paradise was hard won. Best to remain a voluntary amnesiac, to let the past ghost away like our trail into the sea.

“Bart, you’re looking a little pink.” Tilting her chin, Lottie shot me a wicked glance from under her lashes. “Time for some fresh sunscreen… in the bungalow.”

God help me if I ever forgot how her hot gaze brought my body to attention.

Miranda fell in with us, unbidden, on my right side. She held herself a hand’s-breadth from me, though her stride matched ours footfall for footfall. Peering sidelong at Lottie’s milky complexion and wind-tumbled mahogany mane, at her toned form in the pin-up swimsuit, Miranda snorted. “Nice tits. Well done, Bart.”

So much for voluntary amnesia.

I straightened my spine, sucking in what remained of my former paunch. Lottie liked to run; I was a runner now, with the slimmer limbs and flatter belly to show for it. Reinvention is the sincerest form of flattery, and I liked Lottie to know how much I loved her.

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Don’t suck it in on my account, babe. I’m not in a position to appreciate your fleshly delights, am I?”

There was a new softness to her, a hazy quality she’d lacked Before. Her wild curls were tied back, her feet bare. Her swirling skirt and tank top revealed a body bronzed in the garden, muscles tightened by hard work. Had she always looked like that? Even her sardonic expression was appealing.

Magen’s Bay made everything more beautiful. Even, it seemed, Miranda.

Lottie shaded her eyes to examine the horizon, where a line of fluffy clouds was forming over the lush hillside on the west side of the bay. She pouted prettily. “Shade. Boo.”

Miranda chuckled.

I patted Lottie’s arm and pitched my voice low. “Maybe it is time for some sunscreen.”

I couldn’t help but look for Miranda’s reaction to the playful exchange. Just a hooded flick of the eyes in her direction. She sighed loudly, setting her lips in the grim line I recalled most clearly. More like the Miranda who fit the shape of my forgotten life.

Lottie caught my expression and the corner of her mouth turned down. “Barty?”

I squeezed her hand, delighting in Miranda’s radiating disapproval. “Just watching the waves, sweetheart’. Let’s grab some daiquiris on the way back. I want your hands on me. Now.”

Lottie released my arm and clapped like a child. She stretched her arms up, catching her hair in one hand untying the strings that kept her bikini top anchored with the other. She released her hair in a waterfall as the fabric slipped down, nearly baring the most gorgeous breasts I’d ever seen in person.

“I’ll take the rest off for you while you watch, lover. Come on.” With a provocative hip-twitch, she turned back up the beach in the direction of the little place we shared.

“Oh, for Chrissake, Bart. Really?” Miranda hissed her disapproval. “I hope they find my body soon, you miserable sonofabitch.”

I grinned as she faded into the salt spray and followed Lottie’s damp footprints across the dry sand towards the trees beyond, my thoughts already turning to the things she would do to me once we were alone. Voluntary amnesia was really the only way to live.

Magen’s Bay made everything more beautiful. Even murder.

31 Flavors of Fearless: Eleven, The Word Count Podcast Episode 39

#31FlavorsofFearlessI’ve been lurking for some time, listening to episodes of the Word Count Podcast thanks to Eden Baylee‘s frequent participation and promotion of R. B. Wood’s monthly show for and by writers.

When I saw he was calling for submissions, I knew this was the fearless thing to do. It was time to write a response to the prompt and get it recorded and shipped off before I had time to over-think it.

The theme this month was tropical, and who wouldn’t want to escape to a gorgeous Caribbean beach for a while? So I wrote a piece called “Voluntary Amnesia” and made the requisite recording.

Did I mention I hate listening to the sound of my own voice? Or that I’m sure that I flubbed it? Always a bundle of nerves, but determined to push myself to do new things, especially this spring!

Give the show some love?

The Word Count Podcast Episode 39.

Thanks for listening!