Page 53 of Once Upon a Curse for True Love
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?”
