Chapter 5 Delia
Delia
The pig doesn't understand the honor I'm bestowing upon it, but I thank it anyway, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. Its eyes, small and intelligent, follow the athame in my grip as I stroke its bristly head one last time.
"Your sacrifice will not be in vain," I whisper, the words of gratitude falling from my lips like raindrops into mud.
Candlelight catches the edge of my blade, turning silver to liquid gold as I inhale deeply, willing my hands to stop their betraying tremor.
This is the first step toward bringing Jasper back, and I cannot falter now.
The pig lies motionless, eyelids heavy under my spell, unaware of its fate as the knife trembles between my fingers.
A life for a life.
The universe demands balance.
I position the blade against its throat and draw it across in one swift motion.
Blood pools dark and sticky across the plastic-lined table inside the old shed behind the house.
The metallic tang fills my nostrils as I murmur a prayer of passage, something my grandmother taught me about respecting the animals that sustain us.
The pig's eyes go glassy, its final breath escaping in a soft whuff.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, meaning it more than I expected to.
"You know," Whiskers remarks from his perch on the shelf above, "most people just go to the butcher." His voice is light, but I hear the strain beneath his attempt at humor.
"Most people aren't trying to resurrect their murdered husbands," I reply, my fingers already slick with blood as I make the first incision down the center of the pig's chest. "Besides, a store-bought heart wouldn't work. The sacrifice has to be mine."
My knife sinks through layers of flesh and gristle, my hands moving with the detached efficiency of someone who's gutted far too many pumpkins.
The heart sits nestled in its chamber, a fist-sized engine still warm to the touch.
I cup it in my palm, feeling two final, defiant beats before it surrenders.
Carefully, I sever the last connecting tissues and lower the organ into my waiting jar, where it floats in preservation fluid like a strange, sacred fruit.
I can't waste the rest. I never could stand needless death.
With a flick of my wrist, the pig's body lifts slightly off the table as invisible hands cleave and separate. The carcass divides itself into neat cuts—chops, bacon, roasts—each piece wrapping itself in brown paper before flying into the waiting cooler.
"That's efficient," Whiskers notes, his tail swishing back and forth.
"Waste not, want not," I mutter, wiping my hands on a towel. "I'll donate some of it to the food bank tomorrow."
If there is a tomorrow where I'm not being burned at the stake for necromancy.
I take a shuddering breath, heft the jar with Jasper's new heart, and wrap it in a layer of runic cloth before placing it inside the ritual bag I prepared yesterday afternoon. The weight of it pulls at my shoulder as I sling it across my body.
"Ready?" I ask Whiskers, who's been watching me with an expression that looks distressingly like pity.
"No, but let's do it anyway," he sighs, jumping to the floor. "Just to be clear, I still think this is a terrible idea."
"Noted and ignored." I pull on my black beanie, tucking my copper hair beneath it, then slide on gloves. "The morgue should be nearly empty at this hour."
The drive to the Pennington Falls Coroner Office is tense and silent.
I park three blocks away, in the shadow of an abandoned warehouse.
We move through back alleys, the night air crisp against my face, autumn leaves crunching beneath my boots.
Whiskers rides in my bag until we reach the morgue's rear entrance, then hops down to the ground.
"Security camera at two o'clock," he whispers, nose twitching.
I duck my head, flattening my silhouette against the brick, and whisper a small concealment charm. The world blurs at the edges, sound thinning to a cotton hum. Whiskers darts ahead, a streak of white against the shadows, and I follow, every nerve thrumming with adrenaline and dread.
Abruptly, Whiskers halts, “I smell coffee.” he says. “Someone is definitely awake in there.”
I fumble in my pocket for a small vial of shimmery powder. "Sleeping dust should take care of that."
The morgue's loading dock door is propped open a crack, likely from a guard sneaking a smoke break. I slip through, making as little noise as possible. The antiseptic smell hits me first, then the underlying scent of chemicals that fail to mask death.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering like they're struggling to stay awake, and two guards sit at a desk near the entrance, one scrolling through his phone, the other filling out paperwork. Both look bored beyond human endurance.
I uncork the vial and blow gently, sending a fine cloud of dust toward them.
It catches on my spell and whispers through the air, invisible except for the faintest sparkle when it catches the light.
One guard yawns, then the other. Their heads droop, chins touching chests as they slump in their chairs.
"Two down," I murmur, stepping from the shadows. "Now we find Jasper."
We slip past the unconscious guards and into the morgue's inner sanctum.
The corridor stretches before us, metal doors lining both sides like silent sentinels.
My heart hammers against my ribs with each careful footfall.
Whiskers prowls several paces ahead, his alabaster fur catching the harsh fluorescent light as he navigates the clinical wasteland of polished floors and antiseptic air.
The corridor branches, and I hesitate.
Left, or right?
The layout of this place is a mystery to me.
"This way," Whiskers takes the left hall, his nose twitching. "I smell more formaldehyde coming from there."
I follow, and we've barely turned the corner when Whiskers freezes, his wee body going rigid. Footsteps echo ahead.
Shit.
Someone's coming.
I press myself against the wall, heart hammering so hard I'm certain it's audible. A security guard rounds the corner, flashlight beam sweeping the corridor.
Whiskers doesn't hesitate. He darts forward and, with a flick of his tail, knocks a metal tray off a nearby cart. It crashes to the floor, instruments scattering across the tile with a cacophonous clatter.
The guard swings his flashlight toward the noise. "Hello? Who's there?"
While he's distracted, I slide behind him, uncorking the vial once more. One puff, and the guard wobbles, then crumples to the floor.
"I told you this was a terrible idea," Whiskers hisses, scampering back to me as the guard's snores fill the corridor.
"Yet here you are," I whisper back, struggling to drag the guard's body into an empty exam room, positioning him in a chair so it looks like he nodded off on duty.
We continue deeper into the morgue, the temperature dropping with each step. Dread pools in my stomach, not from fear of getting caught, but from knowing what awaits me.
Jasper’s body. The shell that once housed his laugh, his touch, his love, his…everything.
"For your future reference," Whiskers says as we approach a set of double doors marked: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, "if this works, and we somehow don't get caught, I'm going to demand gourmet treats for the rest of my natural life."
"If this works," I reply, pushing through the doors, "you can have whatever your furry heart desires."
The refrigeration units stretch before me in neat silver rows, each one housing someone's grief.
I drag my fingers across the name tags, scanning for Jasper.
The cold metal bites at my fingertips through my gloves, but I barely notice.
My breath clouds in front of me, mingling with the fog of preservative chemicals and stale air.
Behind me, Whiskers' claws click softly against the floor as he paces, his nervous energy a counterpoint to my focused desperation.
I check another drawer, and another, until finally—there.
J. Nightshade. My pulse falters, a rabbit caught in a trap.
The latch resists my trembling hands at first, but on the second attempt, it gives way, and the drawer glides outward with a sound like metal scraping against bone. It’s a cold, hollow echo that fills the morgue and announces my trespass to the dead.
And there he is.
Jasper lies still and gray, a sheet draped over him up to his chest, leaving the ragged cavity exposed.
Someone has cleaned the wound, making it look almost surgical, a perfect, empty circle where his heart should be.
His skin has the waxy pallor of fresh death, not yet gone yellow with time.
His white hair fans out against the steel tray like a halo.
If I squint, he looks like he’s just napping, playing a practical joke, waiting for the punchline.
But I know he’s further away than any dream I could reach.
"Oh, Jas," I whisper, my voice breaking. My fingertips hover over his cold cheek, not quite touching. "I'm here now."
Whiskers' tail twitches nervously as he stands sentry by the door. "The Witches' Council executes necromancers, you know," he hisses through clenched teeth. "They'll have our ashes scattered before sunrise if anyone finds out what we're doing."
"Then they better not find out," I say, unpacking my ritual bag with unsteady hands.
I arrange black candles at Jasper's head and feet, carefully lighting each one with a whispered word.
The flames stand unnaturally still in the air-conditioned chill.
I grab the moon water and begin tracing sigils on his arms and legs, then I sprinkle the toad warts around his body.
Finally, I remove the pig's heart from its jar and place it gently over the hollow in Jasper's chest. It sits there, obscene and hopeful all at once, its dull red surface already darkening as it touches the air.
"Last chance to back out," Whiskers says, his voice smaller than usual.
He’s afraid.