December 04, 2018

PodCastle 551: The Blue Widow

1 hour 8 minutes

* Author : J. P. Sullivan

* Narrator : Tanja Milojevic

* Host : Setsu Uzume

* Audio Producer : Peter Behravesh

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Originally published by Baen Books, grand prize winner of their 2017 Fantasy Adventure Contest.

Rated PG-13, for betrayal and vengeance.

A word from host Setsu Uzume: In the host outro for “The Blue Widow,” I talked about how being a professional means you can get away with stuff. I meant that in terms of modeling more liberating and inclusive behaviors; not using your power to oppress other people. It’s an important distinction.

The Blue Widow

By J. P. Sullivan

It was good tea, all things considered, and I really did admire his efforts at being a good host — but the fact was, I was there to kill him. This was, unfortunately, something of a trend in the profession.

He spoke with the confidence of his kind. “You’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“You’ve poisoned me,” I agreed.

That gave him pause. “You knew?”

“It was a necessary professional consideration,” I told him.

He didn’t have much to say to that. A clock ticked somewhere in the back of the parlor. A very fashionable parlor, full of the most fashionable things. Flock wallpaper, teakwood furniture, a sideboard from somewhere in the unpronounceable east. Beyond the damask curtains I heard carts and voices echo over widening streets. Master Zaleski was a well-heeled fellow.

He was also a monster.

“I’ve made a good life for myself here,” he said. “I’m an upstanding member of the community.”

I set the teacup down. “You ate that choir boy.” I’d found his bones in a church-side grotto. “Do you even remember?”

Dark streaks bloomed like ink at the corners of his clear blue eyes. “Do you remember all your loaves of bread?”

Well, I suppose he had a point.

“This was my week,” he went on. “My year. My work’s in the most exclusive salons.” His skin, at first too pale, turned now to charcoal grey. “But you.” The voice now grated like grinding stone. “You’d ruin it all. I know what you are.” Claws extended from his fingertips, one at a time. The flesh split audibly. “You’re a Blue Widow.”

My order has a reputation among creatures like him. Not a vampire . . . some kind of striga, I thought. “I suppose this means finishing my fitting is out of the question?”

“You’ll be dead in three minutes.”

On the table I placed my very particular sword. “How fortunate. I only need two.”

I drew ancient steel.

Two howls filled the room: the cry of the striga, and the keening of a King’s Blade.

The striga struck first. He came fast as bowshot, low and hunched and hungry. I pivoted; claws caught; the bustle of my dress shredded in their wake. Pain bloomed where one claw’s edge lanced my thigh.

I liked that skirt, I thought, then cursed myself for indulging the complaint. The striga was coming back again. Even with the sword’s power, an unfocused moment could be deadly. Even an armiger, even a Widow, would die to a striga’s bite. I’d seen it happen.

So I urged the sword for power. Reluctantly, it yielded. I felt the thrill of it, the seductive heat. Time slowed, ever so subtly, as I watched the striga lunge. Thin and bloodless lips revealed his razored maw.

My sword caught his claws. Light flashed at the impact. We both screamed defiance.

I twisted in, pushing for leverage.

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