Once they were sheltered in Sarah Michelle’s sensible sedan—a vehicle so lacking in personality that Andromeda wondered if it had been specifically enchanted to be forgettable—her roommate finally broke.

  “So,” Sarah Michelle said as she pulled away from the curb. “You know how court sessions are recorded via Mistprint for official records?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, normally those recordings are sealed.” Sarah Michelle’s grin turned downright devious. “But someone in the clerk’s office owed Officer Belmont a favor, and, well… let’s say the highlights of your hearing have become popular around the station.”

  Andromeda frowned. “How?”

  “Someone isolated the part where Malatesta had to repeat the exact wording of your curse. So now there’s a Mistprint projection of Salem’s most arrogant detective solemnly declaring, and I quote, ‘I’m a dickhead. My penis is small.’”

  Andromeda burst out laughing, the sound exploding from her with such force that she had to brace herself over the dashboard. “You’re joking,” she gasped between fits of giggles. “Please tell me you’re not joking.”

  “I am serious,” Sarah Michelle assured her, far too pleased with herself. “It’s been playing on a loop in the break room all afternoon.”

  Andromeda wiped small tears off, her stomach aching from laughter. “Oh hex, no wonder he had murder in his eyes.”

  “I may or may not have programmed it as his personalized ringtone on my phone,” Sarah Michelle continued, turning onto their street.

  “You didn’t!”

  “I did. Want to hear it?”

  “Yes—wait, no.” Andromeda bit her lower lip, an unexpected twinge of sympathy tempering her amusement. “I feel bad for him now.”

  Sarah Michelle gaped at her as she pulled into their driveway. “For Malatesta? The same man who kicked down our door and dragged you to the station in handcuffs?”

  “I know, I know.” Andromeda leaned back against the headrest, surprised by her conflicted emotions. “It’s just… public humiliation is a special kind of hex. And…”

  Sarah Michelle killed the engine to turn toward Andromeda, her expression suspicious. “What did you do?”

  “What do you mean?” Andromeda kept her voice neutral.

  “Don’t play innocent with me, Andy. You have your ‘I’ve done something devious and I’m thoroughly pleased with myself’ face on.”

  Andromeda shrugged, fighting a smile. “Not me.”

  “Andy.” Sarah Michelle’s tone had shifted from amused to concerned. “Please tell me you didn’t curse your parole officer.”

  “I’m not a convict,” Andromeda protested. “So I don’t have a parole officer.”

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “That’s a deeply depressing perspective.”

  “Andy, I’m serious. If he catches you messing with him, it’s your second strike. Judge Templeton isn’t fond of serial offenders.”

  “No proof, no crime.”

  Her roommate didn’t seem convinced. Sarah Michelle rolled her eyes but dropped the subject as they headed inside. The conversation shifted to dinner plans and the latest episodes of their favorite show, the topic of Malatesta and potential curses shelved for the moment.

  Later, as Andromeda prepared for bed, she smiled. The detective thought he was so clever, maneuvering her into working on his case. He had no idea what was coming.

  “Sleep tight, detective,” she whispered as she pulled back the covers. “Tomorrow’s going to be downright magical.”

  ***

  The pounding on their door started before seven. He was twenty minutes early. But Andromeda had expected it. She was already halfway through her second cup of coffee and fully clothed.

  She took another unhurried sip as the hammering continued. Andromeda was about to get up to answer the door when Quill sniffed, his quills bristling with disapproval. “One does not require the gift of foresight to predict this will not end well. Cursing an officer of the law was reckless.”

  “Allegedly cursing,” Andromeda corrected. “And keep your muzzle shut. Plausible deniability, remember?”

  Before Andromeda could stand, Sarah Michelle burst out of her bedroom, tying the sash of her robe. Her dark bob was flattened on one side, and her eyes were still puffy with sleep.

  “What troll spit is this—” Shelly started, then stopped when another series of poundings rattled the hinges. She shot Andromeda a suspicious frown before heading for the door.

  Through the archway that connected the kitchen to the living room, Andromeda had a perfect view of her best friend yanking the door open, revealing Detective Not-So-Cocky-Anymore in all his pissed-off glory. He stood on their porch wearing dark jeans, the same leather jacket from yesterday, and a black beanie pulled low over his forehead. His expression was thunderous, hands flexing like he was about to break something—or someone.

  “Where is she?” he demanded, brushing past her roommate without so much as a good morning.

  “Well, hello to you too, Malatesta,” Sarah Michelle replied dryly. “Please, come in. Make yourself at home. Again.”

  But the detective wasn’t listening. His dark gaze had already locked onto Andromeda through the kitchen archway, and he stormed toward her with the determined stride of a furious man on a mission.

  Andromeda leaned her elbows on the table, the picture of casual innocence in her amateur sleuth attire—non-ripped jeans and a cozy sweater.

  Malatesta stopped inside the kitchen. “Get it back to normal,” he hissed.

  Andromeda hid her smirk behind her coffee mug, taking another sip before responding. “Good morning, Detective Malatesta. You’re early.” She kept her voice light, friendly even. Not the tone of a woman who had, hypothetically speaking, cast a curse on a member of the magical law force. And while she was never going to admit that—she didn’t care for jail time—she also wanted to make sure he knew he’d messed with the wrong witch. So she riled him up. “Nice hat. Feeling the cold?”

  Sarah Michelle entered the kitchen. Her best friend was now wide awake and staring between them. “Malatesta, care to explain why you’re behaving like a total caveman in my kitchen at”—she checked the time on her phone—“six forty-five in the morning?”

  “Ask her,” Malatesta growled, jerking his chin toward Andromeda without taking his eyes off her face. “Go ahead, Swan. Tell your roommate what you did.”

  Andromeda clutched her imaginary pearls. “Sorry, detective, I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

  “Don’t play innocent. I know you did this.”

  With a theatrical yank, he tore off the beanie, static electricity sparking through a full head of lilac locks. The shade reminded Andromeda of her favorite lavender body lotion.

  It took heroic levels of restraint not to collapse in laughter. Yesterday, she had no idea what color the curse would turn his hair, and despite herself, she found the lilac charming.

  “A bit early for costumes, detective, don’t you think?” Andromeda poked. “Halloween isn’t for another two weeks.”

  The sound that emerged from Malatesta’s throat could only be described as a growl. An actual human growl. His lilac hair vibrated with the force of his anger, making the pastel shade even more absurdly out of place against his torqued expression.

  “I know it was you.” His voice turned dangerously low. “My scalp froze when you touched me yesterday.”

  Behind him, Sarah Michelle’s face was a masterpiece of conflicting emotions—lips pressed together not to laugh, and eyes narrowed with what might have been reproach. The result was a constipated expression that made Andromeda’s control of her own laughter wobble dangerously.

  She arched a brow and set her mug down with a soft clink, lifting one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug.

  “Wow, detective,” she said. “Jumping to conclusions without evidence? That’s sloppy police work. It’s not my fault if you’re having a bad hair day.”

  Sarah Michelle coughed into her hand, the sound doing a poor job of disguising a laugh.

  “And anyway,” Andromeda continued, “Pastel locks are so in this season. Super on-trend. Very… what would you call it, Shelly? Gen Z?”

  “I—” Sarah Michelle started and stopped. “Nuh-uh, I’m not touching this.”

  “She’s your roommate,” Malatesta protested.

  “Can’t fight your own battles, detective?”

  His dark eyes, even more intensely brown against the lilac of his hair, narrowed.

  “I fight my battles above board. I don’t use tricks. But you know what?” he said, voice deceptively calm. “This is what I expected from someone who thinks cursing someone’s computer is an appropriate response to professional disputes. At least now I know what kind of witch I’m dealing with.”

  “And what kind is that?” Andromeda asked, genuinely curious.

  “The kind who never learned that actions have consequences.” He jammed the beanie back over his head, tucking in the stray lilac strands with furious precision. “I’ll wait for you in the car. Move your ass.”

  With that parting shot, he turned on his heel and stalked out, the sound of the front door slamming behind him echoed through the house.

  “So rude,” Andromeda commented, draining the last of her coffee and setting the mug in the sink. “You’d think someone with such a pretty hair color would have a sunnier disposition.”

  Sarah Michelle covered her face with one hand and shook her head, but her shoulders were shaking with laughter. “You’ll get thrown in jail,” she said between muffled snorts. “And I won’t visit you because you’ll have deserved it.”

  “Please, he’ll get over it.”

  “He’s going to murder you in the car.”

  “He’s welcome to try.” Her voice didn’t betray the uncertainty inside her. “I’ll make his eyebrows match.”

  Andromeda ducked into the hallway to grab her coat and allowed herself the full-body laugh she’d been suppressing since Malatesta had ripped off his beanie. She pressed her hands over her mouth to muffle the sound, shoulders shaking with the effort.

  When the laughter subsided, she checked her reflection in the console mirror and composed her features into a serious expression. She had to at least keep up the facade enough to irritate the hex out of Detective Lilac-and-Livid, who, pastel hair or not, remained criminally, inconveniently hot.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bad Hair Day

  DONATELLO

  He wouldn’t talk to the witch. Donatello was mad at her. She’d cursed him. He’d sit in his car and sulk under his beanie for the entire drive. Even if traffic crawled at a troll’s pace.

  “So what got you into hacking?”

  Curse the ley lines, he was weaker than a half-drowned pixie fledgling.

  Andromeda’s head snapped toward him, surprise flashing across her face before an infuriating smirk tugged at her lips. She’d probably expected his silent treatment to last longer than a coffee break. But his curiosity was stronger than his pride.

  “I thought we weren’t speaking,” she said, eyes gleaming with triumph. “You know, because of your makeover.”

  Donatello’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “That you caused.”

  “I’ve told you already, detective. No evidence I did anything to your…”—she waved a hand at his beanie—“lush locks.”

  “You touched my shoulder yesterday, and my entire scalp chilled over like it had been dunked in liquid nitrogen.”

  “Maybe you’re developing male alopecia?”

  He shot her a withering look. “My hairline is perfect.”

  “Perfectly pastel.”

  Donatello pursed his lips to keep from smiling. Not because she was funny—she wasn’t—but because her expression had brightened with such unabashed delight that it was contagious.

  “Anyway, your curse-work is impressive.” Maybe he could trick her into confessing. “Delayed hit. Left no traces. Elegant craft.”

  “Thank you,” she replied automatically, then caught herself. “I mean, of course, there are no traces. I didn’t curse you.”

  “Sure.”

  Silence fell between them again as traffic inched forward. Boston loomed in the distance, sunlight glinting off glass skyscrapers. Donatello adjusted his beanie, making sure every strand of lilac remained hidden. He’d tried three counter-curses and two magical shampoos this morning, all useless.

  “I stole a broom when I was twelve,” Andromeda said suddenly.

  Donatello glanced sideways. “What?”

  “You asked how I got into hacking.” She shrugged, looking out the window. “It started with stealing a broom.”

  A prickle of interest pushed through his annoyance. “So you were a delinquent even back then?”

  “I prefer ‘independent thinker,’” she corrected, smirking. “It was my neighbor’s racing broom—top of the line, way too advanced for a kid. But I was convinced I could handle it.”

  “Let me guess,” Donatello said, navigating around a delivery truck. “You couldn’t.”

  “I got about thirty feet up before I lost control.” Her voice thinned, stretched taut over the memory. “Fell like a stone. Broke twenty-seven bones—both legs, one arm, several ribs, my collarbone. The healers said I was lucky to be alive.”

  She described that pain like it was nothing, but it twisted in Donatello’s chest. He pictured her as a child—all skinny limbs and wild blonde hair, lying broken on the ground.

  “Your parents must have been terrified.”

  “Terrified, furious, gutted.” She traced a pattern on the window with her fingertip. “After that, they became super protective. I was basically under house arrest for the next six years. Couldn’t go anywhere without supervision. But I had my computer and darknet access.” Her smile returned, this time tinged with nostalgia. “With that, my bedroom didn’t feel like a cage anymore. My playground moved online.” She glanced at him. “Hacking was… figuring out puzzles nobody could solve. It was a rush to be great at something.”

  Donatello nodded, a little too familiar with that flavor of loneliness. “So you went from breaking bones to cracking firewalls.”

  “Less painful, equally thrilling,” she confirmed. “Your turn, detective. Why law enforcement? You seem too…” She squinted at him appraisingly. “I don’t know, too cocky for a public servant.”

  “Grew up reading detective novels,” he said, surprising himself with the honesty. “My father had this collection of supernatural noir—wizards solving crimes in foggy cities, witches tracking down magical artifacts. I devoured those books.”

  “So you wanted to be the hero?” She was watching him with an intensity that made his skull warm underneath his beanie.

  “I wanted to catch the bad guys,” he corrected. He winked at her, lightening the mood. “Plus, the uniform helps with the ladies.”

  He’d meant it as a joke, but when color rose in her cheeks, his smile sharpened.

  Donatello stared at that blush, mesmerized by the way it softened Andromeda’s resting witch face.

  For hex’s sake. His taste in women clearly included danger, defiance, and minor curses.

  And that was becoming a problem.

  Andromeda cleared her throat, breaking the moment. “Eyes on the road, detective. I’d rather not add ‘caused a traffic accident’ to my rap sheet.”

  Donatello refocused just in time not to miss their exit on the highway. Down the road, the HexaCore building dominated the skyline—sixty stories of gleaming black glass and brushed metal in the shape of a giant hexagonal crystal rising from the concrete.

  “Subtle,” Andromeda muttered as he pulled into the underground parking structure.

  “Nothing says ‘we’re a successful tech company’ like compensatory architecture,” Donatello agreed, earning a genuine laugh from her that coiled deep inside him.

  They rode the elevator in silence, the tension between them shifting from antagonistic to something more… complicated that made Donatello even forget about his hair situation.

  In the lobby, the receptionist barely blinked when Donatello flashed his badge, but her gaze snagged on the beanie, reminding him why he should keep Swan at arm’s length.

  The receptionist led them through a maze of glass offices until they reached a corner suite with sweeping harbor views. A man was already inside, standing by the window like he owned the vista. He introduced himself as Xavier Thornfield, head of cybersecurity, and they got to the reason for their visit fast. Thornfield admitted HexaCore had an ugly history with Arcanet. A manager who was later fired had approached the hacker off the books to embed a secret tracking code in one of their apps. When the CEO found out, he pulled the plug. Arcanet wasn’t compensated and retaliated by locking down their servers and demanding ransom. The company paid it and washed their hands of him.

  Donatello asked a few follow-up questions, but Thornfield had little else to offer. His story seemed consistent—the corporate version of ‘bygones.’ Nothing that would suggest a motive for murder more than a year later.

  Another dead end.

  Just as they were getting back to the car, Donatello’s phone rang. He checked the display—the station calling—and answered.

  “Malatesta.”

  He listened for a minute, his pulse quickening as the lab tech described their findings. “We’ll be right there.” He ended the call.

  “What is it?” Andromeda asked.

  “They may have identified our cursed object.” Donatello couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice as he unlocked the car. “A simple hard drive—they say it’s emitting residual dark magic matching the signature from Arcanet’s body.”

  “Today wasn’t a total bust at least,” she said, settling into the passenger seat.

  “Mmm.” Before he started the engine, he glanced at her sideways. “Could you do me the courtesy of fixing my hair?”

  The smile that bloomed across her face was radiant—not mocking or smug, but genuinely delighted. It transformed her features, softening the sharp edges and lighting up her whiskey-colored eyes in a way that made his chest tighten.

 

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