CHAPTER 86: THE SHADOW’S BITE

If Marron hadn’t tried using the bone charm before the diner closed, she might have walked back to the third floor’s inn. To the dimly lit room carved of stone, with its strangely soft mattress and the chipped chest that stored her beloved hot plate.

That gave her pause.

I need to go back and get it.

She had just grabbed food and other essentials earlier, shoving them into her pack before the guard mimic arrived. In her haste, she’d left behind the one thing she couldn’t bear to lose—the hot plate that had saved her sanity more than once.

Even if she was... special now, that didn’t mean she could afford to leave it. So she marched back down the stairwell, bone shard tucked into her apron pocket, and pushed open the inn’s door.

The air smelled faintly of soot and boiled roots. The familiar hush of the place pressed against her shoulders like a worn blanket.

"Good evening, Chef. Back so soon?" The innkeeper looked up from behind the counter. Tonight their face was a round, plump-cheeked woman with gentle lines around the eyes. At least... Marron thought it was a woman. The mimics changed so often, she was never sure if the person she spoke to was the same one she’d seen the day before.

"Left some stuff in my old room," she explained, keeping her voice level.

The innkeeper nodded, a flicker of curiosity tugging at her borrowed features. "Of course. Take what you need. The Lieutenant’s favor... it must feel different."

Marron’s hand brushed the bone charm unconsciously, and she forced a polite smile. "Something like that."

She turned toward the stairs, but the air shifted—just faintly, as though someone had leaned close enough to whisper without sound. A prickle crept up the back of her neck.

By the time she reached her room, she wasn’t alone.

The door shut behind her with a soft click she hadn’t made. Shadows gathered in the corners, too thick, too deliberate.

And then a voice—soft, feminine, almost tender—slid out of the darkness.

"I’ve been watching you for a long time."

Marron froze, her hand hovering inches from the hot plate chest.

The Jilted Lover had finally made herself known.

But instead of rising to the bait, Marron saw past her, looking for her belongings.

Her belongings were exactly as she’d left them. The strangely soft mattress, the stone chest with its faint rune-lock, the scattered odds and ends she’d shoved into place while trying to survive.

She set her jaw and pulled the chest open.

Her hot plate sat nestled inside, gleaming faintly in the low light. Not much to anyone else, but to her, it was a lifeline. A tether to the cooking she loved, not just the cooking she weaponized. She touched it with reverence before sliding it carefully into her pack.

Next was her journal—pages dog-eared and worn, ink blotted from rushed notes in dark corners. Recipes, experiments, thoughts scribbled down in desperate hope she’d live long enough to use them again. She tucked it beneath the hot plate.

When she turned, the shadows near the door rippled. The Jilted Lover leaned lazily against the frame, smug smile sharpening her face into something cruel.

"Plain little thing, aren’t you? No shine, no glamour. If the Lieutenant hadn’t been so desperate for a cook, he’d never have spared you a glance."

Marron’s spine stiffened. She tightened the straps of her pack.

But the mimic wasn’t done. Her voice slid like oil into the cracks of Marron’s composure. "And your food? Forgettable. Tasteless. If your mother cooked the way you do, it’s no wonder I’ve never heard of her. Perhaps she was just as insignificant as you."

The insult pierced deeper than Marron wanted to admit. Her mother’s memory was hers, sacred and untouchable. To hear her mother mocked in this pit of monsters?

No.

Marron felt something inside her snap.

She turned, eyes blazing.

"I have always had bite," she hissed. "But I don’t waste it tearing into everyone who looks at me wrong. Why don’t you actually show the Lieutenant what you can do? Then maybe you would’ve been special instead of standing here sulking in the shadows."

The Jilted Lover’s face flickered violently, rage pulling it into a grotesque mix of snarls and sneers. Her smile snapped back into place, brittle and sharp.

"Oh, dear," she whispered. "You’ve just made this very personal."

Marron shoved past her without another word, her heart pounding.

The door closed behind her with a dull thunk.

But the Lover threw it back open and screeched, "WE AREN’T DONE HERE!"

She was suddenly face to face with Marron--and she saw an incredibly unpleasant banshee. Skin stretched paper-thin over bones so malnourished she was surprised the body hadn’t cracked in two.

Ding!

[You have unlocked the Jilted Lover’s true form: A Screaming Banshee.]

Marron forced steel into her voice. "No, you’re not done here. I am. I have to go to another floor and do my job. You’re becoming incredibly inconvenient."

In truth, she was terrified. But irritation burned hotter than fear.

The Jilted Lover hissed, skeletal fingers curling.

"What makes you think you own this place? Just because you carry one little token—AGH!"

She never finished. Marron had already grabbed a salty rice ball from her pack and hurled it straight into her face.

If she was a ghost, it would’ve passed through harmlessly.

Instead—thunk.

The ball struck solid, and the stench of burning flesh filled the air. The banshee shrieked, staggering, as if the salt seared her like acid.

"She has SALT!" she howled.

"And she has my support," came another voice.

Marron whipped around. The innkeeper stood in the doorway, basin of water in hand. "Catch!"

The basin tipped, splashing the banshee. The liquid hissed like fire. Saltwater. The Jilted Lover screamed, her form unraveling into smoke and vanishing.

Her last cry echoed down the hall. "I can’t believe you’d take her side, Allison! AFTER ALL WE’VE BEEN THROUGH!"

The innkeeper rolled her eyes. "I am not Allison. And you are not welcome anymore. Leave Miss Louvel alone!"

Marron gaped. "...how...?"

The innkeeper’s smile turned sly. "Word spreads quickly. I ate someone from Meadowbrook."

Marron’s jaw dropped. "Then you—"

"Mhm." She smirked. "I want to taste better food than what the other chef was serving. I’m glad you’ve got the Lieutenant’s favor."