Page 18 of Once Upon a Curse for True Love (Paranormal Romance #2)

Chapter Fifteen

Live Laugh Lich

DONATELLO

Donatello squinted at his phone screen as he stood in line at the coffee shop, the names of time-sand purchasers blurring before his caffeine-starved eyes. He’d been up since five reviewing everything to make sure he hadn’t missed anyone. But the list was just too long.

He scratched his nape, his hair—still stubbornly lilac—hidden underneath an SMPD baseball cap today so that his scalp wouldn’t boil under the beanie like it had yesterday.

The Witchy Brew was filled with the usual morning crowd of magical and mundane patrons. With Salem’s unique population mix, places like this maintained a delicate balancing act—serving actual potions to wizards and witches while providing bland alternatives to the humans.

As he waited in line at the register, he fired off a quick email to his deputy with instructions to cross-reference the list against all known associates of Arcanet.

When his turn finally came, he asked for the largest to-go cup.

If he was going to face Andromeda Swan again without making a complete fool of himself, he needed a caffeine infusion.

Possibly laced with a flirtation blocker that would make him immune to that mix of dry wit and soul-melting eyes.

Minutes later, Donatello walked out with two cups—his a black dragonfire espresso and for the hacker, a swirling, opalescent unicorn latte that looked like someone had liquefied the aurora borealis, if the northern lights came in pink, and topped it with whipped cream.

It was a ridiculous, beautiful beverage he was positive Andromeda would love, even if he couldn’t explain why this certainty existed in his brain.

Pulling up to her house, Donatello allowed himself a moment to prepare.

Their almost-kiss from the previous night remained a persistent thought, surfacing at inconvenient moments, like during his shower that morning, or when he needed to concentrate on work.

The memory of her body pressed under his, her whiskey-colored eyes wide and challenging, her lips parted—hell, he was doing it again.

He shook his head like a dog would to get rid of water on his fur, grabbed the drinks, and strode to her door, pressing the bell with his elbow. When the door swung open, the several pep talks he’d given himself on the way over flew right out of his brain.

Andromeda stood in the doorway looking like every librarian fantasy he’d never admitted to having.

She wore a modest, purple-and-blue striped sweater that was simultaneously conservative and devastating to his peace of mind, paired with a knee-length pencil skirt that hugged curves he was actively trying not to think about.

Her blonde hair was pulled back into a loose, messy low knot, with a few tendrils escaping to frame her face.

But it was the glasses that did him in—black-rimmed and perched on her nose, giving her an intellectual air that made his mouth go dry.

His first instinct was to kiss her. To step forward, coffee be damned, and pick up where they’d left off the night before. The only thing stopping him was the fear that he’d already pushed too far too fast, that she’d hex his eyebrows to match his hair if he crossed that line without invitation.

Instead, he held out the opalescent drink. “Brought coffee. Thought it might distract you from hexing me again.”

Her lips—painted a subtle shade of pink that had no right being so captivating—curved into a smile. “Depends on the quality.”

“Only the best for you, Swan.” His eye twitched with the effort not to wink.

Something warm flickered across her face as she accepted the cup. “Thank you, detective.”

She was testing his control. Donatello ignored the fire she’d just lit at the base of his spine and gestured at the eyewear. “Are those prescription? Or just part of your academic disguise?”

“They’re my computer glasses,” she admitted, taking a sip of her latte. “I thought they’d help me look the part.”

If she was auditioning for “walking argument to make public decency laws optional,” then yes, she nailed it.

“They work,” he rasped, his voice steady despite the gymnastics his internal organs were performing. “Very professorial. You’ll blend right in.”

The drive to Salem University’s campus was short. Donatello still spent too much of it cataloging how she tucked her hair behind her ear when thinking, or how she traced the rim of her coffee cup with her index finger.

Things didn’t improve as they wound their way through the vast gothic campus.

Despite the impending suspect interrogation, Donatello’s attention was hopelessly tethered to the woman beside him.

Those lips and those glasses further twisted the chopstick she’d already metaphorically stabbed through his chest the previous night.

They were walking close enough that they bumped shoulders whenever they veered too near to each other.

More maddeningly, he couldn’t tell if she was buzzing as he was. Hex, it was going to be a long morning—week, month? Depending on how quickly they cracked the case. Thinking of the murder investigation sobered him up as they reached the building they were looking for.

Professor Esme Blackwood’s office was in the oldest wing of the campus, a stone structure with arched windows and creeping ivy.

To cultivate that air of mystical academia?

Inside, the hallways smelled of old books and something vaguely herbal—sage or vervain.

Donatello flashed his badge at the department secretary, who pointed them toward a heavy oak door at the end of the corridor.

The professor was a woman in her early fifties with vibrant auburn hair pulled into a sensible bun, wearing a navy pantsuit that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a corporate boardroom.

Whatever he’d imagined, her office wasn’t it.

Bright and airy, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a distinct lack of skulls.

“Detective Malatesta,” she greeted him with a firm handshake after examining his credentials. “And…?”

“Andromeda Swan,” Andromeda supplied. “Technological consultant.”

Professor Blackwood gestured for them to sit. “How can I help?”

Donatello asked the scholar about her recent purchase of time-sand, and when the witch told them it was for an academic experiment she had not yet conducted and showed them the vial, still full, sigil intact, he decided to be more forthcoming.

“We’re investigating the murder of Magnus Thorn.” He watched her closely for any reaction. “Also known as Arcanet.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t know him under either name.”

“He died in unusual circumstances,” Donatello confirmed. “Involving a curse that shouldn’t be possible according to current magical theory.”

“Fascinating, from an academic perspective. But troubling, of course,” she added quickly.

“What’s more alarming,” Donatello continued, “is that lich blood was used in the spell that killed him.”

That got a reaction—Blackwood’s eyes widened, and she sat straighter in her chair. “That’s impossible. A lich hasn’t been seen in North America in four centuries.”

“The forensic evidence suggests otherwise,” Donatello countered. “The blood was fresh.”

Blackwood removed her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose. “That’s unthinkable. Creating a lich isn’t just illegal—it’s catastrophic. A perversion of the natural order. A being with the power of death magic, untethered from mortality’s constraints…”

“Do you know anyone with both the knowledge and inclination to attempt such a ritual?” Donatello asked.

The professor hesitated. “It would require access to forbidden texts, significant power, and a profound disregard for ethics. I’d say no…”

“Except?” Andromeda prompted.

“Those who believe in preserving the old ways at any cost.” Blackwood’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “Purists.”

“Such as Lionel Graves?” Donatello suggested. At the archivist’s name, the professor’s expression darkened. “Do you know him?”

“Yes.”

“Would he fit the profile of a wizard who might create a lich?”

“Lionel Graves,”—the professor’s voice took on an edge—“is one of the most vociferous advocates for ‘traditional magic’ in New England. He sees any deviation from tradition as a threat to the secrecy and sanctity of traditional rites. He’s vehement about separating magic and technology.

And Graves takes it further than most—he’s argued for the complete segregation of magi-tech practices.

I’ve debated him several times at academic conferences. His views are… extreme.”

“But could he do it?” Donatello asked.

“As the head archivist at the preservation society?” Blackwood gave a humorless laugh. “He has access to the most comprehensive collection of ancient texts in the country. If the knowledge exists anywhere, it’s there.”

Donatello and Andromeda exchanged a look. Either the professor was shifting the spotlight away from herself and pointing the finger, or Lionel Graves was their new number-one suspect.

“Thank you, Professor.” Donatello rose from his chair. “You’ve been extremely helpful.”

“Detective.” Blackwood stopped him with a raised hand.

“If there truly is a lich in Salem, or someone attempting to create one… be careful. The magic involved is ancient and corrupting. It changes people. The legends of old preach that the undead would retain their self in the transformation, but the evil takes root, and eventually overwhelms the host’s intellect. ”

Donatello nodded. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

As they left the building, walking across the leaf-strewn campus quad toward the parking lot, Andromeda broke the tension. “She was unnervingly sane for a necromancy professor.”

“I expected more black velvet robes,” Donatello agreed. “A bubbling cauldron.”

“Yeah, not even a ‘Live, Laugh, Lich’ throw pillow, what a shame.” Andromeda’s eyes danced.

“We could make a fortune selling those on Etsy.”

They reached the parking lot grinning like idiots, proud of a theory that wasn’t even confirmed. But everything pointed at Graves as the obvious culprit—motive, means, opportunity.

“Are we going to arrest Graves?”

“We need proof first and a warrant,” Donatello said, reaching for his keys.

“Oh, so we’re not blowing the archives’ doors, guns blazing?” she teased him.

“No.”

He was about to unlock the car when his phone rang. Checking the display, he saw his deputy’s number and answered.

“Malatesta.”

He listened, his smug, case-solved smile wiping itself from his face as the other officer relayed new information.

When he ended the call, he turned to Andromeda with an incredulous snort. “Plot twist. It might’ve been the intern.”

“What?” Andromeda’s brow furrowed adorably behind her black frames.

“Patrick Ruescher. Arcanet’s mentee. His name is on the time-sand purchase list, and his prints were the only ones on the cursed hard drive besides Arcanet’s. They’re bringing him in for questioning now.”

Andromeda leaned against the car. “So it wasn’t the archivist in the library with the candlestick?”

“Nor the beautiful hacker with the keyboard from her bedroom,” he replied without thinking.

Andromeda’s lips popped in a surprised O. “Are you being cheesy now?”

Donatello moved to open the passenger door for her. “Is it working, or should I dial it up to fondue?”

Her jaw dropped, eyes widening behind those ridiculous, sexy glasses. “Who are you?”

Still holding the door, he grinned down at her. “Your problem. Possibly your type.”

“Definitely not my type if you make cheese puns,” she insisted, dropping into the passenger seat with an eye roll that didn’t hide her smile.

“Don’t complain.” Donatello reached into his jacket pocket.

“The cheesy puns come with crackers.” He tossed her a packet of Cheez-Its, remembering how her stomach had protested yesterday.

He was used to working through meals, forgetting to eat, but he didn’t want Andromeda to go hungry again like she had yesterday.

Donatello winked, playing it off as part of their banter.

“Before your stomach starts making those inhuman sounds again.”

Something shifted in her expression, the playfulness giving way to a guarded uncertainty that was vulnerable and contemplative as she picked up the crackers.

“Thank you.” The whispered words made his skin tingle, only this time, the spark traveled to his chest, settling there like a warm stone.

It was a packet of cheese crackers, barely worth the dollar he’d spent at the gas station that morning. And yet, from the way she was gaping at him—like he’d done something genuinely meaningful—it could’ve been diamonds.

Donatello cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the naked gratitude in her eyes. He wasn’t used to this, to someone seeing past his cocky exterior so easily. He closed her door and circled to the driver’s side, using the moment to regain his composure.

As he settled into his seat, he sneaked a glance at Andromeda, who was already opening the crackers with a small, private smile.

“This interaction is weirdly wholesome for us,” she said.

“Should I say something annoying and restore the natural order?”

“Please do,” she answered, but her eyes told a different story—one that made Donatello wonder if he was getting under her armor more than it was wise for either of them.