Cursed - S. J. Harper

CursedFallen Siren - 1byS.J. Harper

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Weve known each other for a long time, but it wasnt until we sat down during Comic-Con and again during DragonCon a few years ago and started kicking around ideas that the notion of working together was conceived. One thing led to another and before we knew it, we had Emma and Zack, a plot, a backstory, and a book!! Jeannes agent, Scott Miller, liked it, sold it and the rest, as they say, is history.

To those of you out there giving Cursed a chance, we hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it.

Samantha & Jeanne

CHAPTER 1

Youve seen one dark, rugged werewolf, youve seen them all.

Thats what I told myself the first time I laid eyes on Zack Armstrong. I was wrong. Dead wrong. And now that presumption has come back to bite me in the ass.

I interrupt my best friend, Liz, in the middle ofsomething. I realize Id lost the thread of our phone conversation the minute I spied Zack weaving his way through the maze of indistinct gray cubicles that make up the bull pen of the San Diego FBI Field Office. Save the hair and nine a.m. four oclock shadow, the man is all spit and polish. Tailored dark blue suit, starched white shirt, blue-and-gold silk tie, and gleaming black shoes. The hair gives him a distinct edgedark brown, slightly longer than regulation, no part. Its swept straight back, accentuating the lines of his square jaw.

I resist the urge to crawl under my desk. Ill call you back later. New partners here. Ive got to go.

Not until I hear the details. Whats he look like?

Liz is forever trying to play matchmaker. Ironically, I rely on her spell casting to make sure a match will never happen.

I turn around and lower my voice a notch. Remember the guy from South Carolina I told you about? The one I was partnered with on that missing persons case in Charleston last year?

Really? New interest sparks in her voice. He looks like him?

It is him, I say. Which youd think Johnson would have mentioned.

So whats the problem? Ill tell you now what I told you then. You shouldnt write off the possibility of a good romp with a guy just because he goes furry a few days every month. Weres have amazing stamina. Hey, did I ever tell you about Walter?

You name it, Liz has dated it. Being a witch with serious magical talent puts her in contact with a wide variety of supernaturals. A strong advocate for equal opportunity love, shes currently dating a vampire.

But Walter the werewolf was decidedly not one of her success stories.

Yeah, Liz. A few dozen times. The problem isnt Zacks nature.

The FBI has rules about fraternization?

No. I wish they did. I wish it could be that easy. Not that getting involved with a partner is encouraged.

What, then?

My eyes squeeze shut. I shouldnt have given Zack Armstrong a second thought in the last thirteen months, seventeen days. But I have. Ive thought of him often. Too often.

Gooseflesh appears on my arms; the hair on the back of my neck rises. A sense of dread washes over me. Thats why hes here. This isnt a coincidence. Its a test the Olympians have their hands in. Or, more specifically, one particular Olympian. Demeter. Im a Sirenone of three. We were banished by Zeus and cursed by Demeter thousands of years ago for failing to protect her daughter Persephonefor failing to rescue her before she was dragged by Hades to the Underworld. Its for this I atone. For this I pay.

And pay. And pay.

Im tempted to make something up, but this is Liz. She deserves the truth. I liked him. More than liked him.

Her tone turns serious. You never mentioned that. This could be bad.

The understatement of the year. Guys I get into meaningful relationships with tend to end up dead, courtesy of my favorite vindictive goddess. Partnering with Zack Armstrong and risking a rekindling of whatever was between us could prove exceedingly dangerous. Even lethal.

For him.

Ive got to go.

I click off, the sound of Lizs protests ringing in my ear, and concentrate on the familiar six-foot-plus werewolf coming toward me. Deputy Director Jimmy Johnson emerges from his office. Heres the memo I promised you about your new partner. Better late than never.

He may be chronically behind with paperwork, but otherwise Johnsons tenacious about his job, a real pit bull. And, despite being only five foot six, hes one of the toughest guys Ive ever met.

I snatch the sheet from his hand and drop it on my desk. Why didnt you tell me it was Armstrong?

I thought I did. His look is quizzical, but it doesnt stay that way for long. Zack! Good to see you again.

The two men greet each other with a hearty handshake.

Good to see you again, Deputy Director. The Southern accent is smooth; the cadence of his voice is, as I remember, low and lilting. It was the first of many things that got to me about Zack Armstrong.

Johnson dives in without preamble. Emma Monroes your new partner. I dont have to waste time with introductions. Whats it been, a year since you worked on that case together?

Just over, Zack answers, flashing a sideways glance in my direction.

What Johnson couldnt possibly know is that we share more than a past case. We both have secretssupernatural powers weve managed to keep hidden from the Bureau, the world, and, as far as Zack is concerned, each other. Unbeknownst to him, I sensed what he was the instant we met. We never discussed it. Hes never revealed it. But of course he wouldnt, not to an outsider.

And then there is the other secret we share. Zack and I slept together.

Once.

It was during our last night in Charleston. Wed celebrated wrapping up the case, indulging in a good meal and too much wine. The attraction had been building for weeks, the sexual tension as thick as the South Carolina air. I wish I could say that one thing led to another. That I was impulsively swept away. But Im not impetuous when it comes to sex. I cant afford to be. The potential consequences are too high.

We agreed that after, wed go our separate ways. There would be no telephone calls. No texts. No emails. No contact. Period. With twenty-four hundred miles between us, it seemed safe.

Johnson startles me with a slap on the back. Show him the ropes. Hes all yours.

I offer my hand. Good to see you again.

Zack takes it.

A woman can tell a lot about a man from his handshake. Zacks hasnt changed. Its confident, firm, and friendly. Its the handshake of a man who has nothing to apologize for and no regrets.

Johnson is already on his way back to his office. Zack doesnt seem to notice. His eyes are on me.

Im pleased to be working with you again, Agent Monroe.

Is he? The handshake. The demeanor. Both seem genuine. But, despite the old-world charm, I cant shake the feeling that something is off.

Maybe coming here isnt something he wanted at all. Maybe its strictly a Bureau-initiated transfer. Maybe hes merely worried about how Im going to react. My curiosity has gone into overdrive. The possibilities ricochet through my mind like bullets in a steel barrel. I want to know how he feels. To taste the truth, whatever that may be. And I could. All it would take is lowering the dampening spell that keeps my powers in check. But giving in to temptation like this would be uncharacteristic. Using my gift comes at a price.

I thought wed moved past you calling me Agent Monroe, I say finally. Emma or Monroe will do fine.

Zack releases my hand, then subtly breathes in my scent before stepping back to continue his appraisal. His gaze, now cool and calculating, sweeps the length of my body. Hes searching for a reaction, sizing me up. He sees what I want him to see, what he saw when we worked together before, a no-nonsense professional who is dedicated, capable, all about the mission. Denying my powers and disguising my beauty has become second nature to me.

Over the centuries Ive become an expert at blending in. My dark hair may be long, but its never loose. I wear sunscreen. No mascara. No lipstick. No makeup. Period. Todays suit, like all of my suits, is black and tailored. The white cotton twill blouse is classic, conservative. I dont accessorize. I dont wear jewelry. I dont wear silk where a man can see it.

Zacks eyes, an intense dark brown, ringed with gold, linger a fraction of a second too long on my collarbone. I cant help myself. For one, fleeting moment, I remember the feel of his mouth there. Suddenly Im conscious of the rise and fall of my chest. My throat is dry. I push the memory aside. The last thing I need to be doing right now is dwelling on what happened in Charleston. I know I should say something. I just have no idea what. Zack breaks the ice.

Its been a while, he says.

Yeah. So, how are you? Before he has a chance to answer, I add, I should introduce you to the others.

Zack lifts his hand in the air and shouts out, Zack Armstrong, new guy.

Theres a collective Hey, Zack.

He turns back to face me square-on. Im itching to get started. What have you got for me?

I take a step closer and lower my voice. Thats it? You have nothing else to say to me?

He matches my tone. I was hoping to postpone the awkward what are you doing here? conversation for as long as possible. At least until lunch?

Since Im not anxious to go down that road, either, I gesture to the desk facing mine. Have a seat. This ones yours.

When he sits, I check my reflection in the window behind him. The glamour I rely on is firmly in place. The lock on my powers under control. He shouldnt be able to see through the wholesome plain Jane facade, to discover whats underneath, whats real. Thanks to Liz, no one should.

You heard what the man said. He leans back in his chair and spreads his arms wide, giving me a glimpse of what I know to be a well-muscled chest under the fabric of his shirt. Im all yours. His look is serious, expectant. What can I do?

A thousand possibilities rush through my mind. Not one of them has anything to do with the case.

Focus, Emma.

I pull a sheet from the file and give Zack the rundown. Amy Patterson has been missing for two weeks. Shes thirty years old, an artist. She lives alone. We got the case this morning.

Zack pulls a pen and a small notebook from his inside coat pocket. What kind of artist?

I quickly scan the report. Painter, Expressionist, mixed media mostly.

Kidnapping gone bad? he speculates.

Could be. Shes successful. But theres no known family and, according to her manager, no request for ransom.

Zack sets the pen and notebook down, centering them deliberately on the empty desk. Who reported her missing?

The manager, Bernadette Haskell. Shes known Amy for years. Haskell owns the gallery in La Jolla where Amys art is exclusively exhibited and handles Amys gallery bookings and commissions worldwide. I spoke to her earlier this morning. She said Amy rarely leaves her apartment. She both lives and works there. Plus, she has a huge show coming up in New York. And before you ask, yes, she called there to see if Amy might have gone ahead to check the space out. I shake my head. Shes not in New York, either.

His brow furrows. Why is the FBI involved in a straightforward missing persons case? Shouldnt the local police be handling this?

I nod. They should. They are. But Haskell has a friend in the district attorneys office and hes calling in a favor. The relationship between Haskell and Patterson was more than purely business. Over the years Patterson became like a daughter to this woman. SDPD hasnt made much progress. Officially, were just reviewing the casework.

Unofficially?

The fact that shes missing hit the papers yesterday. The story is getting a fair amount of press. The DA wants us to close the case. Its an election year and hes out to win the hearts and minds of the voters. Something with this amount of visibility, if handled right, could clinch what is sure to be a close election.

Politics as usual. Where do you want to start?

SDPD already covered the usual stuff. They checked the psych wards, hospitals, and morgues. There havent been any recent credit card charges or bank withdrawals.

What about login access for things like email, social networks, and other accounts?

Nothing for a couple weeks.

I almost hate to ask, but could this be a publicity stunt of some kind?

I remember the sense of urgency and concern in Haskells voice when we spoke. My gut says no, but I dont think we should rule anything out.

Zack nods.

According to Haskell, its not unusual for Amy to go incommunicado when shes finishing a project. But its highly unusual that shed up and leave town without telling her. And Pattersons car is still in the buildings parking garage.

I assume they checked local taxi and car services?

Yup. That turned up zip, too.

No signs of a struggle in her apartment?

I push back from my desk. Not according to the police report. I havent personally searched the place yet. It hasnt been declared a crime scene. No sign of foul play. Haskell said she couldnt get away from the gallery this morning. Shes the only one there. But shell give us the keys so we can check the place out on our own. Shes expecting us.

He rises. Want me to drive?

Sure. The Haskell Gallery is on Prospect Street. I can give you directions.

Zack follows me toward the elevator. I know where Prospect is. He punches the call button. The doors slide open instantly. He holds them and waits, allowing me to enter first.

He did most of the driving in Charleston, which made sense. We were in his territory. San Diego is mine.

You arent one of those guys who pretends they know where theyre going because theyre too stubborn to take directions from a woman, are you?

We face forward. The doors close.

Do I look like one of those guys?

The elevator makes its descent. Our reflections stare back at us in the polished steel of the panel door. Zacks expression remains neutral.

Looks can be deceiving. Sometimes you think you know a person, and then you realize you dont really know him at all.

He nods. I suppose thats true. Theres a hint of sadness in his tone. Zacks shoulders tensea reaction so brief I doubt hes even aware he reacted at all. Everyone has secrets.

He makes his way toward the exit and I wonder again what really brought him to San Diego. I wonder why he left his pack behind in South Carolina. I wonder if hes joined one here. Mostly I wonder if hes been wondering about me.

We walk through the foyer of the FBI building into the light of day. I pause, close my eyes, and tilt my face up toward the sun. How many more days will pass? How many more women will I have to save? I silently recite the same words I do every time I go out on a new case. Redemption could be one rescue away.

You coming, partner?

Zack has passed me and is waiting next to one of the Bureaus many black Chevy Suburbans parked near the entrance.

Before I can answer, a silver BMW convertible pulls into the lot. It whizzes by, making a sharp right turn and pulling up to the row of SUVs directly in front of Zack. The cars curves are sleek, its paint job gleaming. A woman steps out of the drivers side. Zacks eyes are glued to her. I cant blame him. Her long legs emerge first, toned and sporting a pair of expensive red heels that boldly accentuate her black-and-white dress. As she approaches Zack, she removes her dark designer sunglasses and the silk scarf covering her head. Shes pretty, even-featured. Her makeup is meticulous. Long blond hair spills out and hangs loose in waves that brush her shoulders.

The tension in Zacks body tells me the woman is more than a stranger stopping to ask for directions. He knows who she is and hes not happy to see her. His shoulders bunch, his mouth turns down. I cant quite make out what she says to him as she approaches, but his response is clear. He shakes his head and motions her away. The gesture is understated, discreet, but it carries with it a sense of finality. He looks past the woman, at me.

Her head turns, following his line of sight. Her eyes connect with mine briefly before she dons the glasses once again. The fraction of a second is all she needs to convey a warning. All I need to determine that she, too, is Were. One intent on marking her territory? I resist the urge to let my hand slide to my hip, where my gun rests securely in its holster. I choose instead to annoy her further by smiling and waving.

You waiting for an invitation, Monroe? Zack calls out before climbing into the Suburban and closing the door, effectively dismissing Miss Fancy Pants.

As I approach she turns on her heel. A confident toss of her head in Zacks direction says shes gotten her message across. Now that shes seen me, now that shes convinced Im not a threat, she doesnt bother to spare me a second glance. By the time I reach the Suburban, shes returned to her car, climbed inside, and fired up the engine. With a squeal of tires, shes gone.

But not before I notice the license plate. South Carolina. Its reflex to store the number away in the back of my mind.

I open the car door. I get the feeling she doesnt like me.

Zack is waiting behind the wheel, hands at the ten and two oclock position, knuckles white. He avoids looking me in the eye. She doesnt like the fact that we slept together.

He says it casually.

You told her we slept together? I ask, sliding into the passenger seat.

His gaze meets me head-on. Would you have preferred I lied?

She your girlfriend?

He throws the car into reverse and steps on the gas. Ex.

I wonder if the status came before the revelation and how long they were together. Im guessing a few months, a year at most. The breakup seems fresh. In the month we worked together, he never mentioned being involved with anyone. There were no calls to apologize for having to work late and no women showing up at the office. But I did come to know Zacks moods well enough to interpret this one. With one single syllable, hes effectively closing the door on that subject.

Its okay.

Zack can have his secrets.

I certainly have mine.

CHAPTER 2

Zack wasnt bluffing. He gets us from our office in Kearney Mesa to the Haskell Gallery on Prospect Street in La Jolla without a single hesitation or wrong turn. Weve managed to miss the early-morning rush hours on both Highways 15 and 52, so it only takes about twenty minutes.

La Jolla is an enclave of the rich and famous. Prospect Street is aptly named. Its the mother lode. A street lined with boutiques, a luxury hotel, fancy restaurants, and galleries of all sorts, the connecting artery to the center of town. Zack scores a spot right in front of the gallery.

Hes been uncharacteristically quiet on the ride over. I dont recall Zack being one to hold back. I suppose hes still thinking about the unexpected visit from his ex. I am, too. Whats she doing here? Its not exactly an afternoons joy ride from South Carolina. Or he might be bracing himself for lunch and what he anticipates is going to be a major confrontation.

We sit for a minute, facing the gallery. Its located in the middle of a block built of gray cut stone, arched entryways separating one business from the next. We could be in the center of a European village, the intent of the architects who planned La Jollas exclusive shopping areas. The gallery is not the largest storefront. In fact, some of the businesses on either side are bigger. Theres a simple banner reading HASKELL GALLERY above the door, and adding to the old-world charm, flower-filled clay pots sit on either side of the entrance.

Ready? Zack says.

He has a notebook and pen in his hand.

I nod and push open the car door.

We enter into an airy open space broken only by partitions displaying what I presume are Amys works. The walls are painted dove gray, the floor is an oak hardwood, and the partitions are stark whitecolors picked to emphasize the brilliant hues in Amys paintings. They shine like jewels under the subtle lighting.

Abstract Expressionist. Its more of a statement than a question as Zack steps to take a closer look at one of the canvases. Its about three feet by six feet and ablaze with the golds and crimsons of a fiery sunset, all intertwined until the canvas looks more like a piece of woven cloth than a painting. Reminiscent of Jackson Pollock, only more controlled, purposeful, less chaotic, more deliberate. I like it.

Before I can react with surprise to Zacks adept appraisal, a voice calls out, Very good.

The reply comes from just behind the partition weve paused in front of. A woman steps out. Amys most definitely influenced by Pollocks techniques. Incorporating her own individual style, of course. Shes studied many of the Impressionists. Notice the short, intense brushstrokes. She holds out a hand. Im Bernadette Haskell.

Zack grasps it. Agent Armstrong. This is Agent Monroe.

Haskell gives us both the once-over. Im glad to see the DA has taken me seriously.

Its not hard to understand why he might. Haskells presence screams no-nonsense career woman. Id guess her to be in her early fifties, dressed in an expensive tailored suit made of black lightweight wool. Under the jacket is an open-necked shirt of white poplin. The cuffs of the shirt are adorned with black onyx cuff links, matching her earrings. Black suede loafers and frameless glasses complete the ensemble. Her hair is silver, feathered at the sides to accentuate piercing blue eyes.

She fixes those eyes on me. My office is in the back.

We follow her through the gallery to a door at the very back. Her office is ultramodern, all polished chrome and glass. She motions us to sit in two white leather chairs across from her desk. When we are settled, she starts right in.

Something has happened to Amy. I know it. She would not have left town without telling me. And before you ask, she didnt have a boyfriend she ran off with, either. She opens her top desk drawer and retrieves a set of keys. These are the keys to her apartment. I havent touched anything since the police conducted their search.

When I take the keys from her hand, she slumps back in her chair. The police went through everything on her computer, checked her phone records. They didnt find one single item to shed light on Amys disappearance. But Im certain someones taken her.

What makes you so certain? asks Zack.

Look around the gallery, Agents. Amys career is flowering. She gets so many inquiries regarding new commissions, we have to turn some away. She has a show opening in New York in two days. Her reputation is growing. She wouldnt walk away from it. Its what shes worked for all her life. She draws a quick, sharp breath. And, quite honestly, I cant bring myself to consider the alternativethat something worse has happened to her.

You seem very close to Amy, Zack says.

We are very close, Agent Armstrong. She waves a hand. Amy is reclusive. Doesnt make friends easily. Her work really is her life. I am the only person Amy has let share that life since her parents died two years ago. I do more than manage the gallery. I am her friend, confidante, personal assistant, and, dare I say itshe smiles herebiggest critic. She looks to me to keep her grounded, on track.

When did you realize Amy was missing? I ask.

She answers without hesitation. March twenty-ninth. She had an appointment here at three that she missed. I called her cell, her home number. There was no answer. I left messages, spent the next two hours checking my voice mail. As soon as the gallery closed, I went over to her apartment. Thats when I really started to worry. Her car was there, but no Amy. By that time, my calls to her cell started to roll straight into voice mail. Either Amy had turned it off or shed let it run out of battery. Again, uncharacteristic.

Zack leans forward, listening intently. Is that when you called the police?

Haskell nods. Yes. They told me I had to come to the station if I wanted to file a report. I was torn. I wasnt sure I should.

Did you? he asks.

Not that night. The police suggested I call the local hospitals, the coroners office, the morgue. By daylight I was frantic. I called a friend in the district attorneys office and begged her to convince the police to help. She promised shed get SDPD to come, told me to stay put. I waited for hours. They took my statement, gave the apartment a quick once-over, then left. Theyve done nothing. Nothing. Someone needs to take this seriously. Its been almost two weeks. I had to get you involved.

To Haskell, it would appear that the police have done nothing. But we have their case records to show they had done all the requisite background checks. Small comfort, though, to someone waiting for concrete news of a missing loved one.

I let a beat go by before saying, You mentioned Amy having missing an appointment. Do you keep her schedule?

I do. Haskell punches up something on her laptop, turns the screen so I can see. Here are last weeks appointments. I keep it week to week.

Can you print it out for us? Zack asks. Not only the most recent entries, but for the last two months?

Without replying, Haskell hits a key and the printer on a credenza behind her begins to whir. It spits out a dozen sheets of paper, which she takes from the printer, taps on the desktop to align, and hands to Zack. You will see that Amy never missed an appointment before Her voice drops. Ive managed to put off most of what shes missed. But now that her disappearance has become public knowledge. . . . One manicured fingernail taps a copy of the San Diego Union-Tribune. Its open to the Arts page where a headline reads LOCAL ARTIST MISSING.

I rise. Well head over to Amys apartment. I take a business card from my pocket and hand it to her. Well be in touch as soon as we finish there. We may have more questions for you.

Anything, she replies. Just bring Amy back.

Her telephone rings and she glances down. I expect Ill be busy today answering this damned thing.

Zack has risen with me. Well leave you to it. Wed appreciate if you didnt mention our involvement just yet. Gives us a little time to work without the interruption of inquiries from reporters.

Of course.

She reaches for the telephone and Zack and I take our leave.

Patterson lives downtown in a high-rise at the corner of Kettner and A Street. Im reading from the police report. I look over at Zack. I suppose you dont need directions there, either.