Page 28 of Once Upon a Curse for True Love (Paranormal Romance #2)

Not Dead

DONATELLO

Eyes still closed, Donatello tasted copper in his mouth while a high-pitched whine filled his ears.

His brain rattled loose inside his skull, shaken hard and unfastened.

Darkness pressed against his eyelids—not the natural blackness of night, but something thicker, more oppressive.

Was he dead? He moved and immediately regretted it as pain lanced through his side, sharp and unforgiving.

Not dead then. The deceased didn’t hurt this bad, did they?

His eyes snapped open to a world shrouded in murky gray.

Air swirled in a heavy shroud that drained the world of color, reducing it to the faded hues of a sun-bleached photograph.

He was lying on his back, the ground a slab of ice beneath him, chill threading into his spine.

Above him, a sliver of sky was visible between buildings—he was in an alley.

The knowledge seeped in, slow as sand filtering through water.

The narrow gap flanked the pharmaceutical facility where Graves had been hiding. Where everything had gone wrong.

Donatello sat up, gritting his teeth at the white-hot burn in his side.

Blood slicked his fingers as he touched his side.

His uniform was charred. The fabric melted into a blackened hole that exposed raw, bleeding flesh underneath.

The wound looked like he’d been struck by a lightsaber.

But the laceration was courtesy of one of Graves’s lightning bolts.

The memories flickered back, disjointed and hazy.

The shadows erupting from the lich. Callidora’s voice, tight with controlled fear as she deployed the containment net. The blinding flash of dark energy as Graves hurled lightning at them both. The searing, unimaginable pain as it tore through Donatello’s side.

Sarah Michelle.

Where was she? A jolt of adrenaline shot through his system, dulling the ache. Had she escaped? Was she—

A pitiful moan cut through the ringing in his ears, coming from somewhere ahead of him.

Donatello forced himself onto his elbows, squinting through the thinning darkness.

At first, all he could make out were shapes—the hulking outline of a dumpster, the angular edges of a fire escape climbing the building walls, and trash scattered across the alley floor.

Then he saw them.

Two figures crouched about twenty yards away. One lay flat on the ground, the other hunched over, their faces nearly touching. Through the murky haze, Donatello recognized Graves even if most of his humanity had leeched away.

The prone body was Sarah Michelle.

Another soft wail drifted through the alley. Hex, the lich was feeding on her. Black tendrils connected Graves’s mouth to Sarah Michelle’s face, pulsing with an oily light as he sucked the very essence from her body.

Cold fury washed over Donatello, clearing the fog from his mind.

He locked his jaw, riding out the wave of pain that threatened to split him in half, and reached for the tactical sphere at his belt.

Every SMPD officer on the perimeter had been given an energy containment net.

Sarah Michelle had deployed hers and missed.

Donatello wouldn’t make the same mistake.

His fingers closed around the cool metal, relief coursing through him when he found it intact.

He drew a shaky breath and rose to a crouch, moving as silently as he could.

The pain in his side was a living thing now, clawing at his insides with each movement, but he compartmentalized it—locked it into a box in his mind and threw away the key.

There would be time to hurt later. If they survived.

The lich was focused on feeding, so lost in the act of consumption that he hadn’t noticed Donatello regaining consciousness. That was his one advantage. Once the net was deployed, it would lock onto the dark magical signature and close around it, leaving Sarah Michelle unharmed.

But he had to get closer.

Donatello crept forward, staying low, using the shadows—ordinary ones cast by dumpsters and fire escapes, not Graves’s unnatural darkness—as cover. Each movement sent shockwaves of agony through his body, but he kept his jaw clenched tight, refusing to make a sound that might alert the lich.

Fifteen yards. Ten. Five.

He could see Sarah Michelle clearly now. Her dark hair was bleeding color, turning an unnatural white-blonde—lifeless as the rest of her. Her skin was ashen, her lips bloodless. Was he too late?

Donatello’s next breath came wrong. Shallow. Out of sync. But he had no time for despair, her chest was rising and falling with shallow breaths. She was alive—barely. He had to move fast.

Donatello positioned himself behind a pile of discarded pallets, close enough to ensure the net wouldn’t miss, but concealed from the lich’s direct line of sight.

With trembling fingers, he activated the containment sphere.

It hummed to life in his palm as the runes etched into its surface glowed with a soft blue light.

One chance. That’s all they had.

He rose to his full height, ignoring the protest of his wounded side, and hurled the sphere at Graves.

Time slowed as the globe arched through the air, its arc perfect, its trajectory unwavering.

It struck the ground at Graves’s feet and erupted in a flash of blinding white light.

The lich’s head jerked up, those terrible glowing eyes widening in surprise as strands of luminous energy shot upward and tightened around him.

The tendrils connecting him to Sarah Michelle were caught in the net and snapped like cut strings, dissipating into wisps of shadow.

A shriek tore from Graves’s throat—a sound no human vocal cords could produce, the screech of metal being torn and twisted beyond its limit. The net constricted, recognizing his death magic and homing in on it, wrapping itself tighter and tighter around the lich’s form.

Graves thrashed within the energy cage, his body contorting in ways that defied human anatomy. His eyes locked onto Donatello, burning with hatred so pure it was tangible.

“You,” the lich hissed, his voice a symphony of discordant whispers layered atop one another. “I’ll enjoy sucking the heroics out of you, Detective Malatesta.”

Donatello ignored the taunt, already moving toward Sarah Michelle. He dropped to his knees beside her, the impact sending fresh waves of agony through his wounded side. He gathered her into his arms, cradling her to his chest as he checked for a pulse.

It was faint and thready, but present. His vision swam and his knees nearly buckled with relief.

“Sarah Michelle. Can you hear me?”

No response. Her head lolled over his arm, pale hair spilling across his hand where raven strands used to be. Donatello fumbled for his radio, praying it had survived the attack.

The device crackled to life when he pressed the transmit button. Hexing, yeah!

“This is Detective Malatesta.” His voice was strained but clear. “Eastern perimeter. Officer down. I need a magimedic team.” He paused, glancing at the contained lich, who continued to writhe and shriek within the energy net. “And backup. The target is secured but hostile.”

“Copy that, detective,” came the immediate response. “Medical team is en route. ETA three minutes. Containment unit right behind them.”

“Tell them to hurry,” Donatello urged. “Officer Callidora is critical.”

He set the radio down and checked Sarah Michelle’s pulse again. Still there, but weaker now. Whatever the lich had done to her, it was continuing to drain her even after the connection had been severed.

“Stay with me, Callidora.” He brushed the pale strands of hair from her face. “Help is coming. Hold on.”

In the containment net, Graves had gone eerily still, those terrible eyes fixed on Donatello with calculating malice.

“You’re too late.” His voice was both a whisper and a shout. “I’ve taken all that made her special. The body is a shell now.”

“Shut up,” Donatello snarled.

“I can smell your fear, detective.” Graves’s tone was conversational, despite the inhuman quality of his voice. “And your pain.” His head tilted at an unnatural angle. “You’ll taste even better.”

Before Donatello could respond, the sound of approaching sirens filled the air.

Red and blue lights strobed on the alley walls as vehicles screeched to a halt at the entrance.

Heavy boots pounded on concrete as the feds poured in, weapons raised, followed closely by a magimedic team in white uniforms.

“Here!” Donatello called out, waving an arm to guide them.

The agents surrounded the contained lich, their faces grim behind tactical visors. Agent Zane—having survived the initial attack—approached, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the scene.

“Great work, detective.” He nodded at the containment net. “We’ll take it from here.”

Donatello barely registered the words. His attention was on the magimedics now crouching beside him, their hands moving in practiced motions as they assessed Sarah Michelle’s condition.

“She’s hanging by a thread,” one of them said. “We need to get her to the hospital.”

“Will she—” Donatello couldn’t finish the question.

The magimedic met his eyes. “We’ll do everything we can.”

Two of them lifted Sarah Michelle onto a hovering stretcher, while a third attempted to examine Donatello’s wound.

“You need medical attention too, detective.” She frowned at the charred hole in his uniform. “That’s a severe magical burn.”

Donatello shook his head. “Later. I’m going with her.”

The magimedic looked like she wanted to argue, but something in his expression must have convinced her otherwise. She nodded. “At least let me stabilize it for transport.”

While the feds secured Graves, the magimedic applied a cooling gel to Donatello’s wound and wrapped it in a bandage infused with healing magic. The pain dulled to a manageable throb.

Behind them, the lich continued to watch with those dead eyes, even as they moved him, still contained within the energy net, toward an armored vehicle.

“This isn’t over,” he called, his voice reaching Donatello despite the distance. “We will meet again, detective. I promise you that.”

Donatello ignored him, focusing instead on following the stretcher bearing Sarah Michelle toward the waiting ambulance. The magimedics loaded her, the interior of the vehicle already humming with magical life-support equipment.

Donatello climbed in, dropping onto the bench just as the doors slammed shut. The ambulance lurched into motion, siren wailing as it sped across Salem’s leaf-strewn streets.