Chapter 7 Delia
Delia
The morning light filters through our kitchen windows, casting long shadows across Jasper's hunched form.
He hasn't moved from that spot since our argument last night, his white hair disheveled from running his fingers through it repeatedly.
The table before him disappears beneath papers covered in his familiar handwriting—theories and notes about the murders scrawled in that neat, methodical penmanship I once found so endearing.
Now it just reminds me of the man he used to be.
Last night's disagreement still hangs in the air between us, thick as the fog that perpetually shrouds Pennington Falls.
Our theories about the killings had gone around in circles, his logical approach clashing with my intuitive one, until I finally threw up my hands and retreated upstairs.
Whiskers, ever loyal, had scampered after me, his tail twitching, muttering something about, "Even with a heart, that hybrid of yours would be the most obstinate creature in the Falls.”
A loud growl breaks the silence, and it takes me a moment to realize it's Jasper's stomach, not some mystical creature that's found its way into our kitchen.
He's been at this for hours. Apparently even the undead get peckish.
"Could you at least eat something before you collapse?" I ask, already moving toward the refrigerator.
He looks up from his papers, brown eyes narrowed slightly with exhaustion, or maybe from the effort it takes not to glare outright. “I’m not in the mood for food, Delia.”
I ignore him and pull a carton of eggs from the fridge, cradling it close so I don’t drop it. “That’s funny because your digestive tract seems to feel differently.”
He glares at me.
"You need food," I say firmly. "Empty stomachs create empty minds."
His lips twitch with something not quite a smile, but something. "Fine."
That single word carries none of the warmth it once would have. Before, he would have pulled me close, kissed my neck, maybe suggested we forget breakfast entirely. Now, he just returns to his notes while I crack eggs into a bowl.
Still annoyed but not entirely without a sense of duty, I set a pan on the stove and reach for the heavy black cast-iron skillet Jasper insists is superior for everything including, apparently, defending oneself from home invasion.
I whisk the eggs with more force than necessary, and the movement brings Whiskers trotting in from the other room, his little paws silent on the tile. He hops onto a kitchen stool and fixes his pink nose on the counter, expectant.
“Are you planning to help,” I ask him, “or just supervise my culinary skills?”
“I am, as always, the backbone of this operation. Moral support and all that.” Whiskers wiggles his tail and makes an exaggerated show of sniffing the air. “Also, you’re burning the butter.”
He’s right.
I curse under my breath and nudge the flame down, then dump in the eggs, which spit and sizzle like they’re affronted by the request.
Jasper’s back to scribbling, shoulders curled and tense. The only sign of life is the steady tap of his pen. I watch him from the stove, noting the way his jaw works when he’s deep in thought and a small, involuntary thrum of my own heart wonders if he’s even thought about me once.
The silence stretches as the eggs firm up, until I scrape them from the skillet and heap them onto two plates. A third quickly joins the line, because Whiskers glares at me for even considering an omission.
“I prefer cheddar,” Whiskers announces, as if I keep a rotating cheese selection in the fridge just for him.
“You’ll eat what I give you,” I say, but I scrape a sprinkle of shredded cheese from the bottom of a bag onto his plate anyway.
He deserves it after our episode of the return of the undead.
I slide a plate of eggs and toast in front of Jasper, then settle across the table with my own breakfast. Jasper lifts his fork as though it weighs a hundred pounds, shoveling eggs into his mouth with zero enthusiasm.
Glad to know he’s so appreciative.
"I've been thinking about the victims," I say, filling the silence, "All four were supernatural beings, including you. The vampire, the selkie, the werewolf, and now a warlock-frost sprite-werewolf hybrid."
His fingers press against the papers as he nods. "No humans targeted. That can't be coincidence."
I pick up my toast, taking a bite off the corner, "There has to be a reason they are taking the hearts. A magical artifact, a ritual component, some kind of trophy collection." I tap my fingers against the ceramic rim of my plate. "Maybe they're trying to absorb power from them?"
"Or selling them," Jasper says flatly, finally meeting my eyes. "There's a black market for supernatural organs just like there is for humans, and in this economy, people are desperate.”
Sad, but true.
The thought makes my stomach churn, and I set my toast down. "That's bleak."
"That's reality." He takes another bite of eggs, chewing mechanically.
"I could do a locator spell," I offer. “Maybe we can track the killer down that way?”
Jasper's fork clatters against his plate.
"A locator spell?" His eyebrows lift in that condescending way that makes my teeth grind.
"With what, exactly? You need something belonging to the killer, and they were thorough.
While you were upstairs sleeping, I examined every inch of the scene.
No scent trail. No blood spatter. Not even a stray hair.
" He exhales through his nose. "They might as well have been a ghost."
Heat crawls up my neck and into my face, the embarrassment prickling beneath my skin. The most basic rule of locator magic, something I've known since I was mixing potions in my mother's kitchen, and it completely slipped my mind. Some powerful witch I am, forgetting Spellcasting 101.”
I shove a forkful of eggs into my mouth, hoping to cover my flush with a show of chewing, “Never mind.” I mumble.
Whiskers watches me over his plate, eyes bright with barely contained amusement.
I glare at him.
He only grins wider, little fangs flashing. "Perhaps, we can begin with interviewing the last people to see the victims alive and go from there?”
I raise an eyebrow. "That's…surprisingly practical."
"One of us has to be," the ferret says, shaking a piece of loose cheese from his whiskers, "But before that, maybe we should visit the sheriff’s office first before they officially announce Jasper dead."
The corner of Jasper's mouth lifts slightly into that ghost of a smile I once knew so well, and something in my chest constricts. "I hate to admit it," he says, "but the rodent might be onto something."
"Ferret," Whiskers and I correct in unison.
For a moment, the kitchen feels almost normal. Just the three of us planning together as we've done countless times before. Then Jasper stands, gathering the papers into a neat stack, and the distance returns to his eyes.
Right.
Jasper's brow furrows. “What about the festival? The crowd will start any minute now. What are we going to do about that?”
“Oh,” Whiskers and I share a look that screams "busted" before I clear my throat. "About that. I may have called Mayor Bishop yesterday and suggested she announce our farm is closed for renovations until two weeks before Halloween. You know, just a little seasonal refresh."
"Smart thinking, I guess. Well, we should head into town soon," he says, his voice empty of the affection that once colored every word to me. "Time's wasting."
I polish off the rest of the food on my plate, brush the toast crumbs from my mouth, and dump my plate in the sink.
I’ll wash the dishes later.
As Jasper carries his plate to the sink, our fingers brush when I reach for it—a fleeting contact that sends a jolt through me.
Static electricity, I tell myself, though we both pause at the sensation.
His eyes meet mine, searching, and for just a moment, I glimpse confusion there, as if some part of him recognizes something's missing but can't quite identify what. Then the moment passes, and he turns away, leaving me with a dirty plate and the hollow realization that bringing him back isn’t going to be the hardest part.
The real challenge lies in facing what came back in his place.
***
The road winds through Pennington Falls like a ribbon of dark velvet, taking us past storefronts I've known my entire life.
Fall decorations hang from every lamppost—not the plastic ghosts and cardboard witches the tourists expect, but ancient protection symbols woven into harvest wreaths, genuine blessed objects that the supernatural residents recognize with subtle nods.
I grip the steering wheel tightly as Jasper reaches for the radio dial for the fifth time in as many minutes, his fingers turning the knob with unnecessary force.
"This music is unbearable," he mutters, skipping past a peppy pop song. "When did everything start sounding like synthesized garbage?"
“Since you died, old man. Now quit your bitching,” I say, flicking off the radio entirely.
I sense Whiskers vibrating with suppressed laughter from his spot in the cupholder, where he’s curled himself into a fluffy comma and pretends not to be eavesdropping.
Jasper doesn't respond, just glares at me before staring out the window with that flat expression that's become his default.
Grump ass.
His reflection in the glass unsettles me. All the parts that made him beautiful are still there—that sharp jaw that could cut glass, that shock of white hair falling just so—but something vital has vanished from behind his eyes, like someone reached inside and scooped out the light.
Whiskers suddenly pokes his head up from his spot in the cupholder. "Three o'clock. Woman in the purple hat. She's been following that man for the last two blocks."