Curses & Blood

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  FablePrint

  Curses & Blood, The Dark Files, Book Four

  Copyright © 2020 by Kim Richardson

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction

  in whole or in any form.

  Cover by Kim Richardson

  Printed in the United States of America

  Summary:

  ISBN-13:

  [1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Demonology—Fiction.

  3. Magic—Fiction].

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  BOOKS BY KIM RICHARDSON

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Blood pooled around the head, oozing from the single bullet hole pierced right in the middle of the man’s forehead. His eyes were wide and staring at the ceiling, his face pale with loss of blood. The air smelled of a mix of blood, concrete, and rotten eggs with a faint underlying scent of candy canes.

  And something else lingered in the air, something almost beneath the threshold of my awareness. Something old and dark and deadly.

  The dark energy and the wild magic of the fae.

  Judging by the waxy, gray color of his skin, the blue on the tips of his fingers, and the pale lips, the body was still in the “fresh stage” and hadn’t begun the second stage of decomposition, which put his death around the six to twelve-hour mark.

  Faeries were one of the other half-breed races that could conjure magic, apart from the elves and us witches. Though their magic was powerful and complex, it was wilder, more feral than ours, and closer to a demon’s magic if I had to make a comparison. And by the stirring of the energy still lingering in the air, this dead fae had a crapload of it.

  With his limp brown hair going gray in uneven patches and his eyes touched with crow’s feet at the corners, I pegged the male faerie to be in his late fifties. But I could be off. Faeries didn’t age like the rest of us half-breeds. Lucky bastards. They tended to preserve better, their lives extending at least fifty years beyond that of a witch. Totally unfair.

  Faeries weren’t my favorite half-breed race. I liked them as much as I liked a mosquito. But I did like the pointed ears. I always thought I’d look awesome with a pair of cute, pointy ears.

  Pointy ear cuteness aside, clearly this was an execution. The faerie never stood a chance.

  I moved around the body, but I couldn’t see any signs of a struggle. No defense wounds, no bruises on his skin. His hands were smooth and clean, like the hands of a banker or someone who handled paper and pushed the keys of a computer most of their lives while sitting in important chairs in important board meetings. His nails were short, neat, and clean. These were not the callused hands of a warrior fae.

  Blood spatter stained the front of his gray robe in dark maroon blots. The spray pattern marked the source of the blood as coming only from the gunshot in his forehead, which killed him instantly. But this was no ordinary faerie. This faerie sat on the Gray Council, our paranormal government.

  And I stood inside one of their many secret vaults.

  “Who shot the faerie?” sang a voice in the tune of the Bob Marley song, “I Shot the Sheriff.”

  I turned toward the sound of the singing.

  Faris bobbed his shoulders to the beat in his head and sang on. “But they didn’t shoot the deputy.”

  I rolled my eyes. Mid-demons. Can’t live with them. Can’t kill them.

  Faris, a mid-demon from the Netherworld, was now my newest witch familiar. It was the only way we could keep him on this side of the world so he’d be safe—and alive. If Faris returned to his homeland, his entrails would be pulled out from his nose and mouth, as he’d so eloquently put it.

  Tall and fit, he had a pleasant face and striking dark eyes framed with thick lashes over an olive complexion. Tonight, he wore his usual black shirt and matching black pants, finishing the look with some expensive-looking black shoes that I could practically see my reflection in.

  Faris had a flare for the dramatic. Always had, even from the very first day I’d summoned him in his triangle. Instead of being pissed at me, like any normal demon would have been when trapped in a summoning triangle, Faris, well, he was thrilled. He even clapped his hands and bowed in a way of greeting. Yes, Faris was an odd one.

  And true to his mid-demon nature, he enjoyed the company of human females, gin, selling souls, and of course, his time here on this side of the planes. Even more so, ever since I’d reunited him with his great-great-granddaughter Cassandra, something was visibly different in him. It seemed like a deep wound had been lifted and healed, as though he had a second chance at life to make past wrongs right again. It suited him, but it also made him insufferably annoying. And then some.

  A month had gone by since Vossler and his mages had poisoned and killed some half-breeds and tried to pin it on the witches. I’d killed him, but his actions had left a mark. The paranormal community’s wound was still deep and fresh, and I knew it would take time to heal for the races to trust each other again.

  It gave me pause at seeing the dead faerie. At first, I wondered if this could be retaliation from the witches. Maybe the animosity had risen again. But one look at the hole in the faerie’s head told me this was something different entirely.

  “Does the pointy-eared bastard have a name?” questioned Faris next to me. The scent of his cologne—a mix of musk and lavender—was a welcomed distraction amid the stench of blood. “Can I call him Spock?”

  “No.”

  “No, he doesn’t have a name? Or no, I can’t call him Spock?”

  “No.”

  Faris made a discontented noise in his throat. “Space, the final frontier,” he began as he moved around the body. “To explore strange new worlds, to seek out new lifeforms and new civilizations, to boldly go where no one has gone before.”

  Damn he was annoying tonight. “Don’t start, Faris,” I grumbled. I looked over his shoulder to see the two Council officers parked outside the vault’s steel door, watching us with identical frowns like they thought we were going to steal something. I pegged them as a male vampire and a male werewolf by the smell of old blood and wet dog.

  The officers were dressed in gray uniforms that screamed Star Trek officers, hence Faris’s sudden love for all things Trekkie.

  These gray bastards weren’t your normal, everyday officers or agents. They were known as GHOSTS: Gray Council Higher Officers Supernatural Tactical Security. A mouthful, yes. They were more like the Gray Council’s paranormal police squad. GHOSTS were made up of every half-breed race. The Gray Council didn’t discriminate when it came to choosing new officers. Their motto was “The crueler the better.” They were brutal, and it was their mandate to enforce our laws. Being part of the GHOSTS meant you were just a few steps down from being up on the Coun
cil and wrapped in a heavy gray robe. It made them feel superior to everyone else, not to mention violent and nasty.

  They loved to boss me around, and I just loved to tell them off. Judging by how they were giving Faris and me hard stares, I’d say that opportunity was fast approaching.

  I glanced around the vault. We stood in a ten-by-ten concrete box with shelves running along three walls. They were all crowded with boxes, glass jars with questionable body parts, containers with a vast array of magical ingredients, crystal balls, tarot cards, enchanted pendants, collections of every sized wand, sculptures of various naked pagan and Christian gods, long gleaming swords and bejeweled daggers, two taxidermy imp demons (truly appalling), several bleached bones and werewolf skulls, and countless musty old books, journals, and scrolls. I even spotted a few laptops and a box full of USB flash drives.

  Some of the old books with the label-less spines piqued my interest but not enough to venture into a little thieving. Besides, I was here on Court business, not pleasure.

  “His name is—was Sarek,” I told Faris, after a moment. “He was an appointed member of the Gray Council.”

  “Ah, yes. The elite governing body of half-breeds and angel-born.” Faris put his hands on his hips. “Guess he’s regretting his decision of joining right about now.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Precisely.” Faris kneeled next to Sarek’s head and examined the hole in his forehead. “I can still see the bullet. Looks like a nine-millimeter.”

  I leaned over the body, impressed. “How can you tell?”

  “Because it says 9MM LUGER on it.”

  Right. “Not bad, for a demon. I’m still not paying you. So, don’t get any ideas.” Crap. I should have caught that.

  Faris straightened, a self-satisfied smile growing on his face that made me want to punch him. “If I were to guess, I’d say a semi-automatic pistol was used. Possibility a Sig Sauer nine-millimeter.”

  I raised a brow. “You know about guns?” Faris never ceased to amaze me. But he didn’t have to know.

  He turned his dark eyes on me, his smile turning devilish. “I know about a lot of things.”

  Not this again. “This faerie was powerful. By the amounts of residual magic I’m feeling, I’d say, he was more of a Thor than a Superman, but still very powerful.”

  “You’re comparing this dead faerie to a couple of Marvel and DC comic characters?”

  “I am,” I answered. “I’m guessing whoever did this took him by surprise. He never saw it coming.”

  “Why they’d kill him?” asked Faris.

  Good question. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. To investigate.”

  “Insufficient facts always invite danger,” expressed the mid-demon. “The danger of unsolvable cases.”

  True. The killer or killers didn’t leave any clues, apart from the dead faerie with the bullet hole in his head. “But it wasn’t personal. Not with how he was killed. And only a few half-breeds actually use guns.”

  “Not witches.”

  “Not witches,” I agreed. “We use our magic. Not unreliable metal contraptions designed by humans. A witch wouldn’t be caught dead with a gun, but vampires and werewolves occasionally have them. I saw a troll use a shotgun once. He blew the arm of a leprechaun right off after he caught him cheating at a poker game.” I looked down at the body. “The way he was killed was cold. It means something. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”

  “Angel-borns use guns,” said Faris, his voice carrying a whisper of accusation.

  He was right. Their armory was packed with all manner of guns, shotguns, rifles, and everything else that went pow-pow. Could an angel-born have done this?

  As if on cue, my phone buzzed in my bag. I pulled it out and smiled. Logan’s name flashed on the screen. I turned it off and slipped it back in my bag. I’d call him later.

  “Let me guess,” drawled Faris. “Boy Scout?”

  “Yes.” I pulled my eyes away from Faris’s patronizing gaze.

  “So, things are going well between the two of you? You and your amour?”

  I sighed and gave him a look. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. We’ve actually been on three dates.” Three real dates, with the usual dinner and lots and lots of wine. Logan had chosen three different human restaurants, all with marvelous food but nothing too fancy. I was not that girl. And yet, he’d picked them all outside of our paranormal community.

  The first time didn’t bother me. Hell, I even enjoyed it and drank an entire bottle of Pinot Noire by myself. When the second time came along, I played it off as though it was nothing, that perhaps all our best restaurants in Mystic Quarter were booked. But after the third date at a similar human restaurant in Manhattan, I began to wonder if Logan was embarrassed to be seen with me. Maybe he wasn’t ready to tell the world about our relationship. I didn’t like that.

  Faris’s smile widened, a curious gleam in his eyes. “Was there any dessert afterward? You never brought Boy Scout back home. It left me wondering if you had a good time with him. Unless the dessert was at his place? It was… wasn’t it? You dirty, little witch. Was there enough spring in his mattress? Where does Boy Scout live anyway?”

  I knew exactly what he meant by that. “I’m not discussing my sex life with you.” Cauldron help me if I sought advice from a sex-addicted mid-demon. I wasn’t that desperate. Well, not yet.

  Faris laughed. “Whatever you say, Sammy darling. But as your familiar…” The rest of his words died in his throat.

  “What?”

  Faris’s gaze moved behind me, his mood guarded. “I thought you said you decided to work for the witch Court again?”

  “I did.” I wasn’t a fool. The money was good. And for a witch like me, I didn’t have that many available options. My pride could take a few hits. No problem. Especially when I had mouths to feed and bills to pay. Besides, the Court paid well, even though they’d been total assholes with me. I think I’d proven myself more than capable to deal with the jobs they threw my way.

  Faris made a sound deep in his throat. “So why is that one here?”

  I spun around, and a growl escaped me.

  A man stepped into the vault as the light from the ceiling reflected off his bald head. He wore dark jeans and a shirt under a black leather jacket spread over his broad shoulders. His hands were large and strong with scars marring his knuckles. His four-day-old stubble was dark, except for just enough silver peppered through it to announce a man in his late forties and in his physical and mental prime. Even under his clothes I could tell he kept himself in good shape. His features were regular and rough though he was by no means handsome. His light eyes projected strength and competence like he was accustomed to giving orders.

  The mixed smells of vinegar and earth with a dab of cheap cologne that came gushing in with him gave him up as a witch. But not just any witch. This was the witch known as Raynor.

  And my competition.

  CHAPTER 2

  Faris leaned over next to my ear and muttered, “And do we like him?”

  I clenched my jaw hard. “Hell no.”

  Faris flashed his pearly whites. “Excellent,” he said and rubbed his hands slowly together. The gesture somehow reminded me of a mad doctor preparing to undertake a heavy, experimental procedure on a patient without sedation.

  This was going to get interesting.

  My eyes followed Raynor as he moved toward the dead faerie’s body, hard muscle moving beneath his jeans. Like I’d always thought, the dude was more werewolf than witch, and I still despised his ass. He gave me a contemptuous look, barely acknowledging Faris as he moved about the vault.

  I’d met the big witch on several occasions, and every single time, he tried to downplay me and dominate me, as though he was the alpha witch. News flash, dumbass, I’m also an alpha witch—or I’d like to think so. Maybe that’s why we never got along.

  But it didn’t explain what he was doing here.

  A black beet
le, the size of my hand, sat on his right shoulder, and its two eyes shone with blue demonic energy. Malark. His familiar.

  Faris moved before I could stop him. He stepped in front of Raynor and stopped him with a hand on his chest. Damn. This was not good. “This is a private party,” expressed the mid-demon. “I don’t remember inviting Mr. Clean.”

  Black tendrils of demonic magic coiled around Faris’s hands and fingers. What little air we had in the vault was thick with the cold prickling of demon energy. Crap. I didn’t want Faris to fry this witch. Okay, well, maybe a little. I’d taken the time to explain at length that hurting half-breeds and humans was out of the question as my new familiar, but I might make an exception with Raynor.

  “Faris, leave him be,” I warned, knowing he knew me well enough to hear the “stand down” in the tone of my voice. “There’s room enough for Raynor in here. But there’s no way his ego can fit in such a tight space.”

  Faris’s smile was truly serpentine. “You sure?” asked the mid-demon, the hopeful sound of a fight loud in his tone.

  “I’m sure,” I answered, and Faris pulled his hand away. A wave of energy pulsed, bending the bubble of force that emitted from him, and then vanished.

  Raynor looked at Faris with a superior smile, the kind the rich and powerful reserve for those they believe to be below them because of a few extra digits in their bank accounts. His eyebrows were high and mocking when he turned around and slipped past Faris.

  Tension pulled my shoulders tight. I hated that slippery bastard, but I hated even more that he was here, pissing all over my crime scene and polluting my air with that cologne.

  I moved and put myself right up to Raynor’s face. He was maybe two inches taller than me, and a lot thicker. “This is my case,” I practically growled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  A smile twitched on Raynor’s face as he moved past me and knelt next to the faerie.

  Bastard. A flash of irritation surged through me and I had to refrain from kicking him. “You’ve got no business here, Raynor. Get the hell out before you contaminate my crime scene.” And before I spell your bald head to grow some weeds.