Chapter 4 Delia
Delia
Grief makes the world small and loud. I pace my workshop in tight, frantic circuits, every turn dragging another constellation of footprints into the sawdust scattered on the floor. Flickering candles sputter in the updraft of my movement, painting the rough-hewn beams with stuttering shadows.
It’s only noon, but the blackout curtains shut out the day, forcing everything to exist in the glow of beeswax and the pulse of my own headache.
I keep Jasper’s wedding ring gripped so tight in my left fist, it’s practically welding itself into my skin.
Every so often, I catch myself twisting the band, thumb stroking the tiny inscription on the inside, ‘Until the stars go dark’, the words worn half smooth from years of him never taking it off.
Now the stars have gone out, one by one, leaving nothing but this metal circle and the void it frames.
I haven’t slept since…well. Since. My eyes are so raw I could sand furniture with them, and my hair has become a copper corona of knots and flyaways. I want to scream or sleep or dig up the goddamn earth, but instead I just pace and pace and pace.
On my sixth or seventh lap, a tiny voice interrupts, "“If you keep walking in circles, you’ll wear a fosse into the floor.
" Whiskers is draped across the highest shelf, tucked between jars of sage and a dusty bust of Medusa. His red eyes are glossy with concern, but he masks it with sarcasm because that’s how we do things in this house.
"You know what you're thinking is forbidden magic, right?
" he continues, licking a paw with calculated indifference.
"The kind that gets witches exiled to Ohio. Or, more likely, burned at the stake?"
I roll my eyes, the gesture feeling mechanical and stiff. "Don't lecture me on witch law, Whiskers. I know exactly what I'm doing."
"Do you?" He hops down from shelf to shelf like a furry parkour artist, landing on my workbench with a soft thud.
He yawns, exposing teeth so small and sharp they look manufactured.
"Just pointing out that you haven’t even bothered with step one of the Five Stages of Grief. You skipped straight to Necromancy."
I turn away from Whiskers, my fingernails digging half-moons into my palms as I stare at the wedding band, its gold catching candlelight. "Necromancy isn't a stage of grief," I mutter, tracing the band's smooth curve. "It's a solution."
Jasper wasn't supposed to be a headline, a whispered tragedy between neighbors over garden fences, or worse—a sad-face emoji in the town's gossip threads. He was supposed to be beside me, warm and solid and mine. The universe doesn't get to snatch him away and expect me to nod and accept its terms.
Fuck that.
The locked drawer of my workbench groans as I wrench it open, my fingers pushing past safety pamphlets and everyday spell books until they brush against something ancient.
The Nightshade Grimoire. My family's darkest heirloom.
Petrified lilac bark crackles beneath my touch, and the veined vellum pages release their centuries-old breath of wormwood and smoke.
This book doesn't just break rules…it's the reason the rules exist. Since Salem, it has been passed down for thirteen generations, however, the last eight generations of matriarchs have kept it hidden, understanding that its magic demands payment in blood and sanity.
My mother made me swear on my power never to open it.
Her mother extracted the same promise from her.
But vows, it seems, have expiration dates.
I open the Grimoire to the middle, the spine crackling protest. The ink shimmers and twitches like it’s made of live spiders. The page headings writhe until one resolves itself, SANGUINEM ANIMATIO: Restoration of a Soul Vessel.
Whiskers shakes his head, "You’re really going to do this," he says, voice hushed now. "Not even going to try moving on? Netflix and wine? Online dating?"
“I can’t just let him stay dead, Whiskers. He’s my husband, and I don’t want a replacement. I want Jasper.”
The list of ingredients is short and cruel:
1. Vessel for the soul. (Fresh or no more than seventy-two hours past time of death)
2. Personal belonging of soul meant to revive.
3. Wart from a Moon Toad.
4. Rainwater blessed under a full moon.
5. Blood of a sacrifice.
6. Candles.
My eyes dart down the yellowed page, ignoring the cramped script detailing all the ways this spell could go catastrophically wrong, the tedious lunar timing requirements, until I find what I'm looking for; instructions for when death hasn't left you with an intact body to work with.
The margin note makes my stomach lurch.
The missing organ or limb must be substituted with a compatible replacement. Of course, the universe wouldn't make this easy.
I need to find him a new heart.
Whiskers jumps onto my shoulder and leans into my ear, so close I can smell the vanilla residue of the last treat I bribed him with. “You going to murder someone, Delia?” His voice is a tiny hiss, almost sympathetic. “Because that’s a line you can’t uncross.”
I swallow, fighting down the bile rising in my throat.
"I'm not crossing that line. There's…alternative methods.
" My fingers trace the grimoire's margin notes, finding the loophole I need.
"There! A pig's heart. Close enough anatomically to work as a substitute, plus the blood sacrifice is built right in.”
Taking a life has never been on my resume. But then again, neither has resurrecting my murdered husband.
“You’re completely unhinged!” Whiskers accuses.
I stab a finger in his direction. "I prefer to call it determination. Something you wouldn't understand, being too busy creating your little chicken bone museum and critiquing my coping mechanisms."
Whiskers' tail puffs to twice its size and he hops down from his perch on my shoulder. "I'll have you know my bone collection is curated with artistic precision. And I'm only trying to keep you from making catastrophic magical decisions." He retorts.
“I know, okay. But damn it, Whiskers—It’s my catastrophic magical decision to make.
I’ll buy the damn pig a spa day first if that makes it better.
” I snap the book shut and set it on the table, then kneel to pull a canvas duffel from beneath the workbench, "If our positions were reversed, and if I were the one lying cold on that metal slab, you'd move heaven and hell to bring me back, and you know it. "
Whiskers’ eyes go round as marbles, red and glossy. “Not the same.” he mutters softly. “Besides, you’re my entire pension plan, Delia. What would I do with myself?”
I glance at him and almost crack a smile.
Almost.
“Probably starve.”
He sighs, “Yeah, probably. So, what’s your grand plan anyways?”
"You'll help me?" I ask, shoving the ingredients I do have in the bag.
Whiskers sighs, long and theatrical. "Only because I know you'll do it with or without me. And because I haven't forgotten how you fished me out of that Boston dumpster when that pet shop creep tried to dispose of me…Familiar code of honor and all that."
My throat closes around any gratitude I might express. Instead, I drop to one knee and touch my forehead to the crescent shape on his, feeling his whiskers tickle my cheeks as we share a silent moment of understanding.
Then, I toss a fresh candle onto the growing pile in my bag, silently tallying what I still need. The Grimoire said seventy-two hours. Jasper's been gone for thirty-six. The clock is ticking down like a bomb strapped to my chest.
I zip the duffel shut, and straighten up, my knees popping with the motion. The wedding ring goes into my front pocket where I can feel its weight with every step. "First stop, the farm supply store on Route 9. They sell live pigs for roasting this time of year."
Whiskers hops ahead of me toward the door, pausing to look back at me. "And after that?"
"After that, we break into the morgue."