Chapter 7 Delia #2
I slow the car slightly, following Whiskers' gaze to where a young witch in training nervously trails after her mentor, clearly late for lessons. "That's just Maeve and her apprentice," I explain, but I appreciate his vigilance.
With a murderer targeting supernaturals, we can't be too careful.
The sheriff's office sits at the corner of Main and Drury, a sturdy brick building with windows tinted to accommodate the vampires on the force whose eyes are extremely sensitive to light.
I park the car just off the main street, the lot already filling with vendors and festival volunteers unloading their wares.
Even here, in the small hours before the crowd descends, the town vibrates with an energy that feels both festive and uneasy,
"Remember,” I say, turning to Jasper, Sheriff Dunmire doesn't know you're…" I trail off, unsure how to phrase it.
"Back from the dead?" Jasper supplies, his voice bitter.
“Yea, that.” I mumble.
"So, what's the plan?" Whiskers pipes up from the cupholder. "Waltz in there and announce, 'Good news, Sheriff! The dead guy's not actually dead anymore'?"
"Just let me do the talking," I take a deep breath and open the car door, a blast of chilly air hitting my face.
The scent of cinnamon and apples wafts from the bakery across the street, mingling with the earthy smell of fallen leaves, as we make our way to the front door of the station.
The moment we walk through the door, Sheriff Dunmire's coffee mug crashes to the floor, black liquid splattering across the worn linoleum like an oil spill. His mouth hangs open, eyes wide as dinner plates as they fix on Jasper.
"Sweet mother of—" He looks between Jasper and me, eyes wide with shock. "Nightshade, you were dead. Stone cold. I carried your body to the morgue myself."
Jasper gives a stiff nod. "Turns out it didn't stick."
Sheriff Dunmire's face pales to the color of moonlight on snow. He backs up, knocking into his desk and sending a cascade of papers to the floor.
He’s in shock.
Can’t say I blame him.
The man whose dead body he personally zipped into a body bag is now standing in his office, looking grumpy but decidedly alive.
The sheriff's deputy peeks out from the back office, her jaw dropping open. "Holy shit," she whispers, "Is that…?" Her voice trails off, unable to finish her question.
"Yes, Margo, it's Jasper Nightshade," the sheriff says, recovering slightly.
"In the flesh," Jasper says dryly, causing Whiskers to snort from his hiding place in my purse.
Margo's eyes narrow, that particular squint one witch gives another when forbidden magic has been worked. Her lips press into a thin line of judgment that says more than words ever could.
Margo's face drains of color. "Delia…" Her voice barely reaches me as her eyes dart between us like a frightened bird. She takes a step back, bumping into her desk. "Tell me you didn't break the Covenant."
I lift my chin, fingers curling into my palms. "What would you have done?" The words come out harder than I intended. "Watch them lower the love of your life into the ground and just…accept it?"
The sheriff's expression shifts, his weathered face softening at the edges.
His eyes take on that particular glassy sheen I recognize too well—the look of someone who understands loss intimately.
I catch a flicker of what might be envy before he blinks it away.
Last year, I'd stood in his kitchen arranging sympathy casseroles in his fridge after the funeral while mourners spoke in hushed tones about his human wife's battle with cancer.
"I would've done the same," he admits quietly, his hand moving to his face to rub his salt and pepper beard. "Besides, what’s done, is done. Fortunately, no one outside this office and the coroner’s office knows about your death, Jasper. We kept it quiet per protocol since your death was ruled a homicide.” He ticks off on his fingers.
"Just me, Margo here, and Dr. Ramirez at the morgue know you were on that metal slab.
Far as the rest of Pennington Falls is concerned, you've been doing renovations to the farm.”
“Good," Jasper says. "Let's keep it that way."
Margo’s eyes flash with panic, “Are you crazy?” she snaps, “You don’t think the Council won’t sense this? They know everything. We might fool the townspeople, but there is no hiding this from them, and we all know it.”
I glance at Jasper, who runs a thumb along his jaw, eyes flicking to the ceiling as if visualizing whatever arcane surveillance grid the Council has currently deployed over us. “I told her she should have left me dead.” he deadpans.
What an asshole.
My teeth clench so hard I taste metal. “I’ll accept whatever fate the Council has in store for me.
” I say, squaring my shoulders despite the flutter in my chest, “I made my choice, and I'd make it again. Now, I didn’t come here to be ridiculed or to apologize for my actions. My only concern is finding out who the hell murdered my husband in the first place.”
Sheriff Dunmire grunts, collecting the coffee-stained shards of his mug in a paper towel.
He’s wrestling with the words, you can tell, and for once it’s not about which donut to eat next.
“Well. The investigation’s gone icy.” He gives Jasper the kind of once-over typically reserved for cursed artifacts before sliding the remnants into the trash.
“No progress. No suspects. Not a single witness or magical trace, and you know we have some damn good scryers on the payroll.”
“We think whoever is doing this is tranquilizing their victims first.” Jasper announces. “The last thing I remember before Delia brought me back, was having some sort of gun pulled on me. Can’t remember anything past that though.”
Margo starts clicking the pen in her hand, “A tranquilizer?” she asks, her brows reaching for the ceiling.
“All the toxicology reports came back clean. There were no traces of anesthetics or sedatives.” She goes to her desk, her fingers typing quickly on the keyboard in front of her, her eyes scanning the file so fast I almost expect the computer to start smoking. “Everything came back negative.”
"Maybe it's something magical then?" I suggest, leaning forward to peer at her screen. "Something that wouldn't show up on standard tests?"
Sheriff Dunmire crosses his arms, his uniform straining slightly against his broad shoulders. "We ran supernatural panels too. Nothing."
“Whoever is behind this, is covering their tracks extremely well," Jasper says, his voice flat and analytical.
My thoughts tumble over each other, restless and desperate, even as I try to make sense of how someone could have erased every trace of their crime—on both the mortal and the magical plane. You don’t just murder a supernatural being, steal their heart, and vanish into the fog.
“See why we’re at a standstill?” Sheriff Dunmire rubs his temples, and I can almost hear the beginnings of a migraine whistling through his skull.
I do.
We've exhausted every lead, every clue. Now we're just waiting for the next body to drop, for the next supernatural to have their heart carved out while we scramble to catch up. The clock is ticking, and we're no closer to stopping whoever's hunting our kind.
The sheriff clears his throat, "Look, Jasper, this whole situation is…
" He gestures vaguely at Jasper's reanimated form.
"Well, it's a damn shame. I wish I had more to tell you.
" His voice drops, taking on the gravelly tone. "But every killer leaves breadcrumbs. This one will slip up eventually. And when they do, they’ll regret ever stepping foot in my town.”
The sheriff's promise hangs in the air for a moment before evaporating.
My fingers twitch at my sides as I catch Jasper's eye.
The police have nothing. No leads, no suspects, just empty reassurances.
I straighten my spine, decision crystallizing.
If the authorities can't solve my husband's murder, we'll hunt down his killer ourselves.
The Council and their precious rules be damned.
I've already resurrected the dead.
What's a few more magical felonies at this point?