Page 9 of Once Upon a Curse for True Love (Paranormal Romance #2)

Payback is a Witch

DONATELLO

Donatello shouldered his way through the double doors of Salem’s Magical Police Department with a satisfied grin. The hearing had gone as planned—Judge Templeton had gifted him the witch on a silver platter.

His swagger died the moment his boots hit the polished floor of the bullpen and the usual chaos of clattering keyboards and lively chatter fell into a silence so complete he could hear the ancient heating system wheezing through the vents.

Every head turned toward him with identical shit-eating grins that made his triumph curdle into suspicion.

“What?” He glanced at the Chief, who stood next to him equally perplexed.

No one answered. Instead, the air in the middle of the room shimmered, condensing into a swirling cloud of silvery mist. Donatello recognized a Mistprint projection starting up, and his stomach dropped to the floor.

The fog coalesced into a translucent, ghostly version of himself standing in Judge Templeton’s courtroom.

The misty Donatello cleared his throat, his expression serious and professional—until his mouth opened to say, “I’m a dickhead.

” His hologram glitched where the speech had been cut, only to solidify again, and add, “My penis is small.”

Donatello froze, flaring his nostrils. The Mistprint looped, repeating the phrases while the entire department erupted into howls of laughter.

“I’m a dickhead. My penis is small.

“I’m a dickhead. My penis is small.”

All court sessions were recorded via Mistprint and uploaded to the Department’s enchanted cloud server, but how did his colleagues get their hands on it so fast?

“Well,” Chief King murmured beside him, cracking a rare smile. “You wanted to remark how crass the curse was.”

Donatello’s face burned. That decision was now dancing on his ego in steel-toed boots.

“Which one of you comedic geniuses got their hands on a Mistprint?” Donatello called out, forcing his lips into a casual smirk while his dignity got flushed.

Officer Belmont—tech wizard and aspiring court jester—raised his hand with zero shame. “Judge Templeton’s clerk owed me a favor. Promised this was too good not to expedite.”

“You’re hilarious,” Donatello said dryly, walking straight through the Mistprint to get to his office. “My sides are splitting. I might need you to call a magimedic.”

He kept his stride confident, his shoulders relaxed. Years of undercover work had taught him that the best defense against humiliation was to wear it like armor. Besides, if he showed how much it bothered him, they’d only enjoy it more.

His colleagues hooted and clapped as he passed. Detective Reyes mimed measuring something tiny with her thumb and forefinger. Donatello flipped her off without breaking stride, which made her laugh harder.

The Mistprint continued its loop, filling the station with echoes of “I’m a dickhead. My penis is small.” until Chief King raised his hand.

“Alright, keep it short and sweet, guys,” Riley admonished. “The joke’s over. We’ve got actual police work to do, in case anyone’s forgotten.”

The misty apparition dissipated like fog in sunshine, and the normal sounds of the department resumed—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, suspects complaining from the holding cells. But the occasional snicker still followed Donatello as he retreated into his office.

He had to exert all his self-control not to slam the door as he let his smile drop and added the Mistprint prank to the growing list of offenses he had Miss Swan to thank for.

Donatello sank into his chair, pulling at the straps of his chest holster.

The office was small but private—a perk of making detective that he’d never appreciated more.

The walls were bare except for a map of Salem with colored pins marking active investigations.

His desk was cluttered with case files and half-empty coffee cups.

A window behind him overlooked a brick wall, which matched his stony mood.

He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes until Swan was due to report. Plenty of time to second-guess himself about having her assigned to the case.

Yes, they needed her expertise. The department’s tech unit was competent with standard magi-tech, but what had happened to Arcanet was unprecedented. And Swan was the only witch he knew with the right combination of skills in magical coding and hacking who could give them some answers.

But he could’ve recruited other hackers. None as qualified, perhaps, but someone less inclined to challenge every word out of his mouth—and considerably less distracting while doing it.

Donatello groaned. The case was complex enough without adding an inappropriate attraction to the mix. But from the moment he’d kicked in her door, he hadn’t been able to look away. She’d short-circuited his good judgment.

And she deserved to be sentenced to community service instead of a simple fine she wouldn’t remember paying. But somewhere beneath his logical justifications lurked the uncomfortable truth: he also wanted to see her again.

Which was ridiculous. And unprofessional. And unethical, given that he’d arrested her less than twenty-four hours ago.

The door to his office flew open without a warning knock.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Andromeda Swan stood at the threshold.

Her blonde hair was loose over her shoulders, and she was wearing the same cream sweater she’d worn to court.

But she’d swapped the tailored trousers for light-wash ripped jeans.

Her lips were set in a thin line, her eyes narrowed, and her arms crossed over her chest as she regarded him from the doorway.

She was even more beautiful when she was pissed off. A fact that Donatello acknowledged with another mental groan before pushing it aside.

“Ah, Miss Swan.” He leaned back in his chair, offering her a deliberately provocative smile. “How refreshing to see you fully clothed today and ready to report for duty.”

He shouldn’t have referenced the flimsy state of her clothes during her arrest. Or used that tone. But something about her brought out the worst in him—or at least, the most reckless.

“Try not to faint from excitement,” she retorted, stepping into his office not waiting for an invitation. “I’m here to do my time, not stroke your ego.”

“I assure you, my ego is robust without your help,” he replied, his smile widening at the fire in her eyes. “Let’s get right to it, then.” Donatello stood up, reaching for his jacket. “You must be eager to work off your debt to society.”

“More like working off your manipulative courtroom performance,” she shot back.

“I only presented the facts of the case,” he said innocently.

“Objective much, huh, detective? Totally unrelated to your department being desperate for free tech work.”

“We could’ve paid you for your trouble, Miss Swan.” Donatello shrugged. “I offered the carrot this morning, but if you prefer the stick. Here it is. We have a complex problem that requires a unique skill set. Yours. The judge saw the logic in matching your punishment to your actions.”

“I don’t care for your small stick.”

“Another poor dick joke, Miss Swan? Repeat offender?”

“If pranks are crimes now,” Andromeda said, following him as he headed for the door. “Your department’s inability to solve a murder isn’t my problem.”

“It is now,” Donatello replied, his hand on the doorknob. “Payback’s a witch.”

She flashed him a smile so devilishly sweet, Donatello shivered. “Oh, I know.”

They walked in charged silence through the bullpen, where several officers eyed Andromeda keenly.

Donatello noticed more than one appreciative glance directed her way, and something possessive flared in his chest. He tamped it down.

She wasn’t his to act territorial about, and the last thing he needed was to fuel the rumor mill.

“Where are we going?” Andromeda asked as they approached a door marked “Special Investigations—Authorized Personnel Only.”

“To see what’s left of Magnus Thorn,” Donatello replied, swiping his ID card. “Or as you knew him, Arcanet.”

The door swung open to reveal a dark gray room devoid of windows.

In the center, a plain table supported a large computer screen.

As they entered, the monitor flickered to life, displaying a three-dimensional face made of shimmering green alphanumeric characters cascading down in a continuous waterfall pattern.

“What the hell?” Andromeda whispered, stepping closer to the table.

“This,” Donatello announced, “is what remains of Arcanet’s consciousness after it was sucked out of his body and into his computer system.”

Andromeda circled the table, her gaze never leaving the screen. Her earlier hostility had evaporated, replaced by an intensity of focus that Donatello found oddly compelling. Her fingers hovered near the computer without touching it, as if sensing the energy emanating from the digital cascade.

“Can you talk?” she asked the face.

The flowing green characters reorganized, the random letters and numbers transforming into a uniform stream of ones, repeating endlessly down the screen.

Donatello stiffened. “That’s new. It’s never done that.”

Andromeda side-eyed him. “Has anyone asked it a question before?”

“Well, no,” Donatello admitted. “We’ve been treating it as evidence, not as… whatever it is now.”

She turned back to Arcanet. “Are you talking in binary? One for yes, zero for no?”

Again, the screen filled with a digital rain of ones.

“It talks.” Andromeda breathed, a smile spreading across her face. “Do you know who killed you?”

The pattern shifted, ones transforming into zeros that flowed downward in an endless stream.

“No,” Donatello translated unnecessarily. “That’s disappointing.”

“But not surprising,” Andromeda replied. She turned to him, vibrating with energy. “Is there something specific you’d like my hands on?”

Donatello’s throat constricted, his mind conjuring several inappropriate places he’d looove her hands on. Did she always talk this way, or had his brain sunk into the gutter because she was around?

He forced his thoughts back to the case.

“The desktop station.” He gestured to where two additional computers were positioned against the wall.

“We suspect the victim’s consciousness was ‘uploaded’ after he opened a cursed email or program.

But we’re having trouble identifying the technology in the curse, and our techs aren’t sure it’s safe to reopen it without risking one of our agents being sucked in. ”

Andromeda arched an eyebrow. “But you’re okay with me being sucked up?”

Donatello resisted the urge to pass a hand over his face. “I’m confident you know how to put safeguards in place before anyone gets…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the phrase.

“Sucked,” she supplied helpfully, and he wasn’t sure if he was imagining the slight emphasis she placed on the word.

Donatello nodded, his jaw tensing as he struggled to maintain his professional demeanor.

In response, Andromeda grinned at him, the expression transforming her face from beautiful to radiant.

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”

She patted his shoulder like it was a setup.

Because with her, it probably was. In fact, the moment her fingers connected with his body, a shock of cold electricity shot through him, racing from the point of contact up his neck and spreading across his scalp.

It was as if someone had poured liquid nitrogen on his head.

It wasn’t painful—more similar to the shock of plunging into icy water after a hot sauna. He gaped at her, wondering if she’d experienced a similar sensation. But Andromeda Swan was already sitting in the chair.

She flexed her fingers, cracking her knuckles. “Let’s see what we got here.”