Page 30 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

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.