Page 30 of Once Upon a Curse for True Love
Donatello returned to his work, finding perverse satisfaction in doing something he could control.Cursed hair?Not within his power to fix.Forms submitted in triplicate with the proper department seals?That he could handle.
Three hours later, Donatello’s eyes crossed over the endless list of time-sand purchasers.The regulated magical substance was more popular than he’d expected—used in everything from anti-aging creams to specialty watches for wizards who were chronically late.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing the beanie back from his forehead.The cramped tech lab had turned stuffy and too small for two people charged with whatever undercurrent he and Swan shared.
“Got it,” Andromeda announced after a moment, sitting back with a satisfied smile.“My algorithm has narrowed down the number of potential wizards who could create a lich.”
Donatello stood and moved behind her to look at her screen over her shoulder, struggling to ignore the vanilla–lavender scent that clung to her hair.“And?”
“Five names.”She pointed to the monitor, where the wizards’ profiles were displayed in neat rows.“Three are in Europe and Asia—respected necromantic scholars with questionable hobbies.But two are right here in Salem.”
Donatello leaned closer, his chest nearly touching her back.“Lionel Graves, Head Archivist at the Preservation Society.”He clicked on his profile, ignoring the tingle of the witch’s hair under his chin.“And a declared purist.”
“And the other is Professor Esme Blackwood,” Andromeda finished.“She teaches Necromancy at Salem University.”
“Both names are on my time-sand purchaser list.”Donatello stood up, putting some much-needed distance between himself and Miss Swan as he scanned the entries again.“Along with half of Salem.But Graves’s last recorded purchase was over five years ago.”
“Long premeditation?Or not our guy?”
Donatello frowned, studying the other prime suspect’s file.“Professor Blackwood is a leading expert on the ethical implications of arcane rituals.Not the profile of a deranged witch creating liches.”
“The best place to hide is in plain sight.”Andromeda shrugged.
“We’ll need to interview both of them, but discreetly.If either is involved in lich creation, tipping them off could be dangerous.”
Andromeda nodded.“Are we going now?”
Donatello checked the hour.“No, it’s already past seven.The Archives are closed, and Blackwood won’t be having office hours this late.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, the day’s tension knotted in his muscles as if his body hadn’t gotten the memo that his shift was over.Maybe because tomorrow would be the same, or worse.The prospect of continuing their investigation meant another day of working with Andromeda, a thought that left him with mixed feelings—mostly inappropriate ones.
“We should call it a night.Pick this up tomorrow with fresh eyes.”
“Giving up already, detective?”Andromeda teased, but she was shutting down her computer.“Aren’t brooding alpha males supposed to have superhuman stamina?”
“I’m saving my stamina for things more worthwhile than paperwork,” he replied instinctively, then suppressed a curse as her eyebrows shot up.
“Of course.Wouldn’t want to wear yourself out before your daily sulk-and-scowl routine.”
It took monk-level discipline not to rise to the bait.“Since I drove you in this morning, do you need a ride home?”
She reacted to his attempt at being nice like it was a setup, studying him through narrowed eyes as if reading the fine print of the offer.“Sure.As long as I can sit in the front.”
“No promises,” he replied with a half-smile.“But I’ll keep the cuffs off… unless asked nicely.”
“In your dreams, detective.”
As she preceded him out of the room, Donatello blinked—that was it?He’d expected an argument or at least some token resistance.
When they reached his car, he held the door open for her.“I thought you’d put up more of a fight about spending additional time in my company.”
“I’m numb with secondhand misplaced masculinity,” she shot back, pulling the passenger door shut.
A muscle twitched in his jaw.If she had any idea what parts of hismisplaced masculinityshe was poking at, she wouldn’t be sitting there looking so smug—she’d be running for the hills.Or climbing into his lap.Hard to say.
The drive began in silence.The streets of Salem were already wrapped in shadow and the scent of fallen leaves, a serene contrast to what was brewing under Donatello’s skin.
Despite not speaking, he kept stealing glances at Andromeda’s profile—the stubborn set of her jaw, the dip at the base of her throat, the slight furrow between her brows as she watched the town pass by—when a noise somewhere between a dying cat and a broken trombone filled the car.
