Chapter 11
Jasper
Another bout of research at the library has led us to this very spot.
The mouth of a rusted well nestled between gnarled oak roots, its metal grate stained the color of old scabs.
I hang back with my arms folded while Delia crouches by the edge, her fingers finding stones while she mouths incantations no one else can hear.
Once she is done, the stones she collected glow with a subtle light.
Sunset stretches our shadows long across the wet earth, and dread pools in my stomach.
This feels wrong, but what choice do we have?
The heart collector won't pause their spree while we debate our options.
"Planning to contribute, or is brooding your only talent today?" Delia mutters without glancing up.
A strand of copper hair slips across her face, and she huffs it away.
I say nothing, eyes sweeping the treeline for any movement.
This catacomb entrance sits just half a mile from our land—near enough to the haunted trail that strange noises blend with Halloween festivities, yet close enough to our farm for easy access.
No wonder the bastard slipped onto our property so easily the night he murdered me.
"Coming," I finally mutter, moving toward the well.
I grab the edge of the grate, feeling the metal bite into my palms as I lift. It groans in protest, a sound that seems to echo through the clearing.
"Careful," Delia whispers, unnecessarily. "We don't want to announce ourselves."
"Pretty sure anyone down there already knows we're coming," Whiskers pipes up from the stump to my left, his red eyes gleaming in the dimness. "Subtlety isn't exactly this family's strong suit."
I glare at the ferret with enough venom to petrify ordinary creatures. He meets my gaze, blinks once, slowly, then yawns.
Familiars.
Always the last word.
With a final heave, I move the grate aside enough for us to slip through. The opening yawns beneath us, a throat of stone and darkness. Delia hands me one of her spelled rocks, and it pulses with a soft blue glow between my fingers.
I go first, lowering myself onto the narrow iron rung set into the well wall, boots scarping grit from the stones. The ladder creaks beneath my weight, each rung a test of faith as I descend into the chill air below.
My eyes adjust quickly to the darkness, a small perk of my hybrid nature. and I take in details the others might miss. There is scrape marks on the wall, footprints interrupting the dust's even blanket on the floor. The evidence is clear.
Someone's been here recently.
Yet, there is no scent of them left behind.
Delia drops down next to me, her landing nearly silent despite the height. Whiskers clings to her shoulder like a furry epaulette, his beady little eyes scanning the darkness.
The tunnel stretches before us, branching in three directions almost immediately. Moss grows in patches on the walls, glistening with moisture, and the air tastes old, like books left too long in a damp basement.
"Left," Whiskers decides for us.
Delia presses her palm to the wall at the junction, whispering words I can't quite catch. A symbol flares to life beneath her fingers, a glowing rune that pulsates gently against the stone.
"Breadcrumbs," she explains when she catches me watching. "So we can find our way back."
I tilt my head in silent acknowledgment of her foresight.
"Whoever built these tunnels knew what they were doing," I say, studying the precise stonework as we advance. "The layout mirrors the streets above. The design is deliberate, not desperate."
"All the comforts of public transit without the pesky sunlight," Whiskers mutters, his alabaster coat almost luminous against the shadows. "Though the ambiance leaves something to be desired."
Whiskers' complaints fade to background noise as I study the ground.
Fresh boot prints press into the damp earth ahead of us, each impression a calculated distance from the last. Whoever left these wasn't fleeing in terror or stumbling in the dark.
These belong to someone moving with purpose, someone familiar with these tunnels—someone who knows precisely where they're headed.
Delia continues marking our path with runes, the soft glow of her magic casting strange shadows as we venture deeper. The ceiling lowers in places, forcing me to duck my head. The tunnels twist and turn, but there's logic to their construction.
Escape routes.
Defensive positions.
Someone designed these with survival in mind.
The tunnel widens slightly as we round a bend, the walls here rougher, less finished than before. Cobwebs hang in tatters, recently disturbed.
"STOP!" Whiskers shrieks suddenly, his small body freezing in place on Delia’s shoulder. "DON'T MOVE!"
Too late.
Something snags beneath my boot, followed by a deep, mechanical moan that reverberates through the stone around us.
I react without thinking.
Two lunging steps forward, my body colliding with Delia's, pushing her hard against the wall of the tunnel. My arm braces against the stone beside her head just as the ceiling comes down where she was standing.
Rocks and dirt cascade in a thunderous rush, filling the passage with dust and the sharp crack of breaking stone.
In the narrow space between collapse and wall, my body presses against Delia's, pinning her to the rough stone. Our faces are inches apart, her startled breath warm against my cheek. Her eyes widen, her mouth forming a perfect O of surprise.
"You're crushing me," she manages, but her voice sounds tiny in the echoing tunnel.
I don't move, not right away.
Bits of gravel rain down onto my shoulders, the aftermath of narrowly avoided obliteration, but even still, all I can focus on is the strange heat flooding through me.
My skin feels too tight, too warm, despite the chill air. My breath comes quicker, and something flutters in my stomach.
Delia blinks up at me, her cheeks flushed crimson beneath the dirt smudges.
Her rapid breaths come in short puffs against my face.
The scent of her fear hits me first—sharp as vinegar, electric as a storm—but beneath it lurks something honeyed and familiar that catapults me back to my living days.
The frantic rhythm of her pulse visibly jumps beneath the delicate skin of her throat, the sound of it seeming to echo through my own hollow chest. I know I should move away, give her space, but I remain frozen, transfixed by that fluttering lifeline.
"Jasper?" she whispers, and my name in her mouth sounds like a question and an answer all at once.
I don't know what's happening to me. This surge of…what?
Concern? Protectiveness? Desire?
It shouldn't be possible without my heart. Yet here it is, rushing through me like a flash flood, violent, unstoppable, and absolutely terrifying.
"How touching," Whiskers comments, his voice strained but amused. "But perhaps save the longing glances for when we're not about to be buried alive?" The ferret's tail flicks excitedly despite the danger, his red eyes darting between us with what looks suspiciously like hope.
I blink, the spell breaking. "Right," I mutter, pulling back slightly but keeping my body between Delia and the worst of the falling debris. "We need to move. Now." I say, knowing there's no time to analyze the strange feeling that surged through me moments ago.
Survival first, existential crisis later.
Behind us, the passage is completely blocked by debris, cutting off our retreat. Our only option is forward, through whatever other traps might be waiting.
Delia pushes against my chest, creating just enough space between us to raise her hands. Her fingers move in a practiced pattern, words of power spilling from her lips. Light blooms above us, brighter than our stones, forming a shimmering dome that temporarily halts the falling debris.
"It won't hold long," she warns, voice tight with concentration.
My mother's frost-sprite blood stirs within me, a forgotten inheritance I've neglected since returning from the dead. Cold energy surges from my fingertips, crystallizing along sections of the crumbling ceiling. Ice spreads in jagged patterns, temporarily reinforcing the weakest points.
"Good thinking," Delia breathes, watching the frost spread.
There's no time to discuss how seamlessly we've fallen into working together, how our magic complements like it did before everything changed. The ice is already creaking under the strain, and Delia's warding light flickers.
Whiskers scouts ahead of us, his white form darting through the dusty air. "Move, move, MOVE!" he shrieks, "There's a left turn coming up that seems more stable!"
We lunge forward, ducking under a half-collapsed archway. My hand finds Delia's elbow, steadying her when she stumbles on loose stone. The contact sends another jolt through me, but I push the sensation aside.
The tunnel ahead narrows dangerously, forcing us to turn sideways to squeeze through. Dirt rains continuously from above, filling my eyes and mouth with grit. Delia coughs beside me, her face pale in the fading glow of her magic.
"Almost there," I tell her, though I have no idea if it's true.
The tunnel could go on for miles, collapsing behind us the entire way.
"Wait," she gasps suddenly, stopping so abruptly I nearly crash into her. "Look." She points to something half-buried in the soft earth of the tunnel floor.
At first, I think it's just a shard of metal or glass, but Delia is already kneeling, fingers carefully excavating around it.
"Be careful," I warn, eyes darting to the increasingly unstable ceiling.
Her fingers brush away the dirt, revealing a slender metal cylinder with a needle-sharp tip. "A tranquilizer dart," she whispers, her voice catching between dread and discovery.
Well, I’ll be damned.
Delia snatches the dart from the ground just as a large chunk of ceiling gives way beside us.
I grab her arm, hauling her up and forward as the passage behind us collapses with a deafening roar. "Go!" I shout, pushing her ahead of me.
The tunnel is alive now, howling and rumbling all around us, the ceiling as unstable as my mental state since my resurrection. We sprint through the chaos, rocks slamming down behind us, the tunnel now little more than a jagged slit.
The killer must have somehow known we were onto them. There’s no other reason to leave a loaded trap that risks their own getaway routes.
"There!" Whiskers cries out, his voice barely audible above the rumble. "I see light!"
Up ahead, moonlight spills down a vertical shaft, silvery fingers reaching into our darkness. The stone tube stretches straight upward, its walls weeping moisture and wearing the grime of decades. Rusted rebar protrudes at irregular intervals lending the whole thing a makeshift ladder quality.
Delia reaches it first, shoving the dart into her pocket before grasping the first handhold.
"Climb," I order, hands at her waist to boost her upward. "I'm right behind you."
She doesn't argue, scaling the makeshift ladder with desperate speed. Whiskers leaps, clinging to my shirt with his claws, and I wince as he scrambles up to my shoulder. The tunnel's death throes intensify behind us; a wave of destruction that's nearly at our heels.
My hands find the rusted metal bars, muscles burning as I pull myself up after Delia. Above, I hear her grunt with effort, followed by the scrape of metal against stone as she pushes aside another grate.
Fresh air hits my face like a blessing. I emerge into the night, dragging myself over the edge of the hole just as the final collapse occurs below, sending a plume of dust up through the opening.
We lie on our backs in the alley behind town hall, gasping like drowned things returned to shore. The stars wheel above us, impossibly bright and distant.
Whiskers sprawls across my chest, his tiny sides heaving with exertion. "That," he announces between pants, "was not worth the adventure points."
Delia sits up first, leaves and twigs tangled in her copper hair, dirt smudged across her cheek.
Despite everything, I find myself noticing the flush of her cheeks, the way the moonlight catches in her eyes, how she looks less terrified and more alive than I’ve seen her in weeks.
There’s a laugh trapped in my chest that wants to claw its way out, but I cough instead, turning it into a ragged exhale.
“Look.” Delia checks her pocket for the dart, fingers trembling. “We have evidence.”
I force myself to sit up, Whiskers sliding into my lap with a disgruntled squeak. The dart is a sleek metal that gleams dully in the moonlight, the chamber empty of whatever drug it once contained.
"This confirms it," I say, examining it without touching. "The killer's been using some kind of tranquilizers on their victims. Explains why none of us could fight back, why there were no signs of struggle."
"They must be using something that metabolizes quickly and obviously can't be detected by any standard or magical testing methods." Delia says, turning the dart between her fingers. “Now, we just have to figure out what that something is.”
“Easy peasy.” Whiskers chides.
Delia holds the dart out to me. "Jas, does this bring back any memory of that night? Anything at all?"
I reach for it, my fingers brushing against hers as I take the metal cylinder. That same inexplicable warmth floods through me at the contact, and I jerk my hand away too quickly, nearly dropping our evidence.
"Sorry," I mutter, confused by my own reaction.
Delia notices.
She’s always noticing it seems, but she doesn’t call me on it. Instead, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and studies my face with a look I can’t quite decipher.
"I can’t say I remember the dart itself," I admit. "A sharp sting, sure, then nothing. Woke up with you standing over me, in that godawful black get up like the Angel of Bad Decisions." I attempt a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.
Delia snorts, the tension in her frame relaxing by degrees. "Speak for yourself. I looked fantastic. Definitely the best-dressed necromancer in the tri-state area." The quick banter helps, but only a little.
"We should get back to the farm," I say, standing and brushing dirt from my clothes. "Bag this properly and figure out our next move."
Whiskers climbs to Delia's shoulder, giving her a look that seems loaded with meaning. His tail flicks against her ear, and I catch the slight nod she gives him in return.
They see it too.
Something is changing in me.
I may not fully understand it what that something is, but what I do understand, tonight, pressed against the tunnel wall with the world crumbling around us, something flickered alive.
Not a flame.
No.
Nothing so dramatic.
Just a faint, traitorous ember, burning in the space where my heart used to be.