Page 24 of Once Upon a Curse for True Love (Paranormal Romance #2)

He Brought a Stunner to a Soul Fight

DONATELLO

Donatello couldn’t stop glancing at Andromeda in the passenger seat.

The sun caught in her blonde hair, outshined by those golden strands.

Last night replayed in his mind on a continuous loop—her whiskey eyes darkening as she’d pulled him closer, the soft sounds she’d made, the perfect fit of her body against his.

He’d woken up this morning with her curled into his side, and something had clicked into place, a rightness that had been missing for years.

The Arcanet case should have been occupying his thoughts.

A lich in Salem. A consciousness-stealing murderer.

A career-making investigation that would normally consume him.

Instead, all he could think about was how Andromeda had looked wearing his sweats earlier—her slender frame swimming in his SMPD hoodie, those long legs disappearing into his sweatpants.

Seeing her like that had awakened something primitive in him, a possessive satisfaction that made him want to see her in his clothes every morning.

And now she was torturing him with tight jeans that hugged her curves like they’d been painted on, and another one of those ridiculously soft sweaters that made his palms itch with the need to touch her.

This one was a deep burgundy that complemented her fair skin, the neckline low enough to be distracting.

“You wore that sweater to torture me?” He forced his eyes back to the road.

She looked over at him, all wide-eyed innocence that didn’t fool him for a second as she shifted in her seat, giving him a better view of that damnable neckline. “You mean the one that’s soft, warm, and cuddly?”

“It’s criminal. I almost rear-ended a Prius because of the low cut.”

“You can discipline me for it later, detective,” she replied sweetly, and the surge of heat that shot through him was enough to make his knuckles go white on the steering wheel.

She had no idea what she was doing to him. Or maybe she did. And that was why she was goading him with that pout and that teasing glint in her eyes.

Luckily, he spotted the Salem Preservation Society’s imposing stone facade up ahead, its gothic spires reaching toward the clear October sky.

The building belonged in the pages of a Victorian horror novel—all gargoyle decorations and weathered masonry, with stained glass windows that reflected the morning light in jewel-toned patterns.

Donatello pulled into a parking space and killed the engine, taking a moment to center himself. He forced himself to switch gears—from sex haze to homicide.

“Ready?” he asked, reaching across to tuck a lock of hair behind Andromeda’s ear.

Her smile softened, a brief glimpse of vulnerability beneath the sass. “As I’ll ever be.”

Inside, the archives were hushed and reverent, with soaring ceilings and silence so thick it put pressure on his eardrums. The reception area was dominated by a massive marble desk, behind which sat a stern-looking witch with silver hair.

Donatello approached with confident strides, pulling out his badge. He flashed it at the receptionist, whose eyebrows rose in response.

“Detective Malatesta, SMPD. We need to speak with Lionel Graves.”

The woman’s nostrils flared, but she reached for an old-fashioned rotary phone. After a brief, hushed conversation, she replaced the receiver with a sharp click.

“Third floor, east wing, office 307,” she said tersely. “Mr. Graves will see you now.”

As they walked toward the ornate elevator, Andromeda bumped his shoulder. “Impressive, Detective Stern. You made her knees quake.”

“Not the time to sass me, Swan,” he replied, fighting the urge to press her against the wall as soon as the elevator doors closed. Instead, he maintained a professional distance as they ascended to the third floor.

The east wing of the archives was a labyrinth of narrow corridors lined with glass cases displaying magical artifacts and ancient texts. They had to traipse all the way to the end of the hall to reach office 307, where a polished brass plaque announced “Lionel Graves, Head Archivist.”

Donatello knocked twice, sharp and decisive, and a voice called for them to enter.

The interior decor was what one would expect from a curator—walls lined with bookshelves, a massive oak desk covered in scrolls and manuscripts, and not a speck of dust in sight, despite the century-old contents.

The air reeked of cloves—heavy, medicinal, cloying. As strong as the smell was, the scent of the spice used to preserve ancient texts couldn’t hide the rotting undertone that lurked beneath it. Something sweet and sickly that turned Donatello’s stomach.

Lionel Graves rose from his seat, a gangly man in his late forties with thinning hair and watery eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses. His tweed jacket had seen better days, and his complexion had an unhealthy, waxy quality that Donatello attributed to too much time spent indoors.

“Detective.” Graves extended an oddly stiff arm. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

Donatello shook the man’s cold and unyielding hand. “We’re investigating the—” Donatello was cut off by Andromeda before he could finish.

“We’re reexamining some inconsistencies in the original Salem witch trials, and we were hoping to access the primary sources,” she interjected, stepping forward with a bright smile.

Donatello turned to her, eyebrows raised in confusion. This wasn’t part of their plan. What the hex was she doing?

But Andromeda barreled on, oblivious to his bewilderment. “Can we access the annotated transcripts from the Loring hearings?”

Graves’s demeanor shifted, his posture relaxing as he turned his attention to Andromeda. “A fascinating read. We have both the mundane records and the magical observations kept secret by the coven.”

“Is it true the Puritans miscategorized elemental magic as weather manipulation?” Andromeda pressed, her expression alight with faked scholarly interest.

As Graves launched into a detailed explanation about the misinterpretations of magical manifestations during the colonial era, Donatello’s frustration mounted.

He tried to steer the conversation back several times, but Andromeda kept interrupting with increasingly obscure questions about historical magical practices.

Graves seemed delighted by her interest, pulling books from the shelves to illustrate various points and becoming engrossed in animated discussions of purist philosophy.

After an eternity of useless historical trivia, Andromeda thanked Graves for his time and dragged Donatello out of the office before he could ask a single meaningful question about the case.

The moment the door closed behind them, Donatello turned on her, ready to demand an explanation, but she placed a finger on his lips and shook her head. Her eyes darted to the office, then down the hallway, before she grabbed his hand and pulled him toward an emergency exit.

The stairwell was dimly lit and smelled of dust. Andromeda dragged him down the concrete steps until they were out of earshot of the third floor, then spun to face him, her expression tense.

“What was that?” Donatello hissed, keeping his voice low despite his irritation. “We’re investigating a murder, not seeking a history lesson on colonial magic practices.”

“Did you smell it?” Andromeda ignored his complaint. “In his office.”

Donatello paused, recalling the strange, sickly sweet odor that had permeated the room. “Yeah. What about it?”

“That’s decay,” she whispered. “Graves’s the lich.”

It all clicked into place—the smell. The cold, stiff hand. The waxy complexion.

But not waxy enough for someone dead.

“How?” he asked.

Andromeda’s eyes were wide and serious. “He must be keeping his appearance normal with a spell, but the smell of it rotting was too strong to mask.”

Before Donatello could respond, a voice echoed down the stairwell from above.

“Miss Swan, did you think you had me fooled?”

They both looked up to see Graves standing at the landing above them, his form silhouetted in the dim light. His next words clawed across Donatello’s eardrums. “You know what I am, don’t you?”

Without warning, the stairwell plunged into total darkness—not the absence of light, but an active, swirling cloud of black energy that engulfed them. Flashes of dark lightning crackled through the swarming fog, illuminating brief glimpses of Graves, his skin pulling tight across his skull.

Donatello’s training kicked in. Keeping one hand on the railing to orient himself, he reached out with the other, finding Andromeda’s arm and gripping it tightly. He pulled her close.

“Down,” he commanded in her ear, already moving, dragging her with him along the stairs as rapidly as he dared in the blinding darkness.

A bolt of that strange black lightning struck the wall inches from them, leaving a smoking, crumbling hole in the concrete. The acrid smell of burned stone filled the air, mingling with the fetid odor of decay that now permeated the entire stairwell.

“There’s nowhere to run,” Graves’s distorted voice boomed. “What a delightful surprise—two more minds to add to my collection.”

Donatello yanked his gun free, hands clumsy from adrenaline. Useless against a lich, but it might buy them time. He fired blindly upward, using the sound of Graves’s voice to guide his aim.

The unmistakable sizzle of a stunner connecting with its target was followed by a shriek of rage. The darkness faltered, thinning enough for Donatello to make out the emergency exit door on the landing below them.

“Keep moving,” he urged Andromeda.

Another bolt of black energy crackled past them, nearly singeing Donatello’s cheek. He fired again, two more shots in rapid succession. One must have hit its mark, because the darkness receded farther, giving them time to reach the emergency exit.

Donatello slammed his hip at the crash bar, the panel flying open under his weight.

He threw Andromeda through before following, then kicked the door shut behind them.

His hands moved in a familiar pattern, tracing a complex ward in the air before pressing his palm to the metal surface.

The frame glowed with blue energy as the magical seal took effect, temporarily trapping the darkness—and hopefully the lich—on the other side.

They had emerged on a corridor on the second floor of the archives, surrounded by startled patrons and staff who were staring at them with wide eyes. Donatello was still clutching his stunner gun and holstered it.

“Are you okay?” He scanned Andromeda for any signs of injury.

She nodded, her face pale but determined. “I’m fine.”

Donatello didn’t waste another second. He strode to the wall and smashed the fire alarm with the heel of his hand. Instantly, shrill bells rang throughout the building, and a cool, automated voice instructed everyone to proceed to the nearest exit.

As chaos erupted, patrons and staff rushing toward the exits, Donatello pulled Andromeda close, one arm wrapped around her waist as they joined the exodus. He kept glancing behind them, half-expecting Graves to burst through the sealed door in pursuit, but the lich didn’t appear.

Outside, in the relative safety of the street, they watched as the archives emptied, people spilling onto the sidewalk in confused clusters. Fire trucks wailed in the distance, their sirens growing louder.

“He’ll escape in the confusion,” Andromeda said, her voice steady despite everything they’d encountered.

Donatello nodded. “I couldn’t risk a fight with so many bystanders.” He pulled out his phone, already dialing the station. “We need backup. A lot of it.”