Page 13 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

Chapter 5

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.