Page 18 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

“There was a giant hole in my chest, Delia. The bullet hole was probably scooped out along with my heart.”

“There was no exit wound, though.” She argues.

I stare at her, a mild irritation burning somewhere in my chest. “What’s your point?”

“My point, “Delia rolls her eyes, her hand moving to rest on her hip, “is that I don’t think they shot you with a bullet. I think it may have shot you with a tranquilizer.”

She makes sense.

I hate it.

But I also have to acknowledge it. If what she’s saying is true, this bastard took the coward's way out. They knew better than to face me with my eyes open and my fists ready. Smart, I guess because they'd have walked away bleeding otherwise.

“You’re saying I got roofied with a mother-fucking dart gun?”

She shrugs, the movement full of casual challenge. “Why not? If you wanted to subdue a supernatural with minimal mess, that’s what you’d do. Isn’t it?”

I cross my arms, glaring at the moon, like it’s somehow responsible. “So, they shot me, I fell, and then they took my damn heart.” The thought of being taken down like some kind of animal on a wildlife documentary makes my jaw clench.

Delia nods slowly, her green eyes reflecting the moonlight. "That's what I'm thinking. Which means whoever did this came prepared. They knew what you were capable of and planned accordingly."

The realization creeps over me like a shadow at dusk. Someone studied me. Watched me. Knew my weaknesses and came with the tools to exploit them.

"We need to figure out who did this," she says, her voice gaining strength. "We need to figure out who did this and why. Someone in this town is killing people and you're the only one who's come back to tell us what happened."

"We?" I turn to look at her fully for the first time since we left the morgue. “There is no we and I sure as hell don’t need your help to find out who did this to me.”

Her mouth hangs open, a little piece of drama she probably doesn't even realize she's doing. “You couldn’t even figure out you weren’t shot by an actual gun,” she laughs bitterly.

You misjudge me," I counter, my words clipped, "if you think I need a soft-hearted hobbyist witch to solve my problems." I can feel my voice, unfamiliar and cold, vibrate through the air between us like a tuning fork struck hard.

Delia’s face goes white, then flushed, the freckles standing out on her nose like they might leap off and punch me themselves. “Okay,” she throws her hands up, pushing past me, her boots squelching in the mud. “You don’t need my help. By all means, figure it out yourself.” She storms off in the direction of the house.

I run a frustrated hand through my hair, “Wait!” The word slips past my lips before I can swallow it back down.

She spins, her arms crossed over her chest, “What?” she glares.

For a moment, I don't know what to say. I didn't plan to call her back, but something about watching her walk away triggers an uncomfortable pressure in my chest. Not emotion, but more like a tactical error I need to correct. Also, I have to admit she caught something I missed. Having her around might be useful, at least until I figure this out.

I exhale through my teeth. "Fine. You're useful. We'll collaborate. But whatever we had before—" I gesture between us with a sharp cutting motion, "—that's gone. This is strictly business."

I can see the pain welling in her eyes at the lash of my words in the soft tremble of her chin, but she levels her gaze at me, hard as obsidian. "Yeah. I got it, Jasper. Message received."

She stalks ahead, not looking back, shoulders squared against the world. I follow, pacing my steps to match hers. Whiskers shoots me a look like he’s torn between feeling sorry for me and wanting to bite my nose off.

“Look.” I start, but don’t know where it’s going. “I—”

How do you explain to someone that their touch feels wrong on your skin? That their love feels like a weight you never asked to carry?

"I know," she says quietly. "You're not the same."

"No," I agree, looking back at the spot where I died. "I'm not. And I don't think I ever will be." The makeshift heart in my chest beats steadily, mechanical and foreign.

It keeps me alive, but it can't make me feel what’s no longer there. And right now, as I stand in the place where my old life ended, I'm not sure that's such a bad thing. Emotions would only get in the way of what I need to do next.

Find who did this.

And make them pay.