Page 19 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

Chapter 7

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.”