“Yes, Sam was concerned about his physical and mental health. He’s been through a lot the past few days. He asked me to let you know if you have any problems to give him a call, and he’ll bring in a professional to help him. He’s concerned because Mr. Mortan has not been nearly as distressed as everyone believes he should be.” Jacobson ferried more of the filing boxes closer to the bed, taking care not to stack them too high. “I’m putting the oldest cases on top so you can start at the beginning.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry you’ve been assigned to be my gopher for the day.”

  “I’m getting a hazard bonus for being in the same room with someone known to be cursed. Honestly, I don’t think there’ll be a problem.”

  “Why not?”

  “Before you came, I got to handle some of the files, and everything I’ve seen indicates they were crimes already in progress; he was just an unfortunate witness. There were some freak accidents, but they’re all things that would have happened even if he hadn’t been present. Bailey agrees with my theory, but Sam doesn’t. Sam is jumpy, though.”

  “Wait, Bailey is the one agreeing with the sensible theory?” I blurted. “She seems so…”

  “Flaky? She’s really not. She’s wickedly smart, but she came to the force with some significant self-esteem issues. Honestly, I suspect Sam does agree with her, but she’s determined to prove she’s right.”

  Ah. I understood; if she suffered from self-esteem issues and her husband believed she was right, he might be willing to take the fall on being wrong to help her build confidence. “She seemed flighty, but I didn’t really get a sense of self-esteem problems,” I admitted.

  “They’re rampant, but you’ll get used to it. She’s a force of nature, and she’s a huge asset to the NYPD, but she has her moments. Word on the wire is you can handle riding her at her worst, so you’re going to end up doing a lot of extra training. Outside of Sam, most of us can’t handle her for more than a single jump, and if we do, we get sick. Perky spends the rest of the day throwing up after a single jump, but he’s intolerant to teleportation.”

  Well, I was grateful I hadn’t gotten sick, but I worried for the other cops, who knew from bitter experience they couldn’t handle her jumps. “What does she need a rider for?”

  “Let’s just say she’s our resident explosives expert, but the lack of hands means she sometimes struggles with the payloads. Particularly, the removal of the disarmed bombs. If she detonates a bomb, she says it tickles nicely and asks for another one to play with. You would not be in the blast radius while she’s playing with bombs, but you would be asked to help with those sorts of emergencies. You’d also handle recording and gathering evidence when she’s a cindercorn, taking notes, and things like that. It’ll be a good gig for you, because if you’re working a case and need transportation, you have your very own cindercorn to take you to where you need to go in a hurry. Both chiefs will transform for emergencies now, which is nice, but having a good rider for Bailey will be a huge help.”

  “I know nothing about explosives,” I warned.

  “Trust me, you’ll learn,” he replied. “We’ve all learned. Where cindercorns go, explosions happen.”

  “That sounds rather alarming.”

  “It is.” Grinning, he moved a few more boxes into place. “How can I help you get to the bottom of this case faster, McMarin?”

  “Find me the oldest box of files, we’ll split it in half, and we’ll make note of everyone with any involvement, confirm the case’s status, and see what we can learn about this supposed curse.”

  “Supposed?”

  I raised a brown. “The Devil is the Lord of Lies, and even when people tell me he’s rather honest, I’ll search for proof while taking the route of most caution—and I rejected one of his incubi.”

  “Oh, that’s definitely a way to get yourself tricked into marriage but little else,” Jacobson replied.

  “Pardon, but did you say tricked into marriage?”

  “Think what you will of the Devil, but there’s little he loves more than a wedding.”

  Heaven help us all, for we would need all the help we could get. “I got sucker punched by an archangel yesterday, Jacobson. I’m not sure I can handle even more insanity quite yet.”

  “Just be grateful it wasn’t cancer. The cancer patients are usually partway through their battle by the time an angel gets a hold of them. The sucker punch is far better than the cancer treatments. The chiefs typically make cancer patients do traditional treatments first; if those don’t work, the next treatment is a torture session at the hands of an angel. The cancer survivors at our precinct make it pretty clear you do not want the angelic treatments unless necessary or it is to make certain the cancer doesn’t return. All of the cancer patients get that. It also takes an important owed favor to treat cancer. Your issues were minor in comparison—not minor in how much you were suffering, but it was minor to fix in comparison.”

  That I could believe. “Is that why nobody seemed to care about my issues?”

  “Oh, we cared. We have just learned to not wince openly. It makes the newbies nervous. Now, the whole part about telling an incubus no? That’ll go around the precinct in a hurry along with wagers on what sort of man will win you.”

  “I’m hardly a prize.”

  Jacobson chuckled. “I’m going to do you a huge favor and not tell either chief you said that. Let’s just say I’m single, and there was a wager pool out on when I’ll get hitched and whipped. I won it.”

  “You did? How?”

  “I said it would be a cold day in hell first. The Devil brought in some snow for Christmas, so I won the wager. I have not been foolish enough to restart a wager pool. In reality, the right woman is never going to come along.”

  It took me all of three seconds to take the hint. “You’re looking for the right man.”

  “Indeed I am.” Jacobson shrugged. “So far, it has not been going well.”

  I tilted my head in Alec’s direction. “What do you think of him?”

  “I’d date him if he rolled that way, but he doesn’t.”

  Interesting. “In good news, that doesn’t stop you from admiring the scenery, right?”

  “You got it in one, McMarin. Buckle up, this is going to be a wild ride.”

  No kidding.

  Within four hours, I accepted the reality of the situation. It would take months to fully register the cases and discover the commonalities between them. Or, as the case was, the utter lack of commonalities.

  Nothing matched, from murder method to cause of death to culprit. The only apparent common thread between them was the sole witness, one Alec Mortan. While location overlapped, I suspected it had more to do with Alec’s presence than anything else.

  I blamed the Devil for having inserted the concept of a curse into my head.

  The subject of my thoughts sat beside me, working on his laptop. I wondered what he did to fill the time, as he did his best to keep from interrupting me or Jacobson. I hoped he was able to do something fulfilling, something that let him escape from the reality of his situation.

  In his shoes, I doubted I would handle the stress even half as well.

  Then again, considering my promotion, I would find out how well I handled the stress soon enough.

  I considered asking heaven for some help, but having met the Devil, I worried He might answer—and a brush with an archangel decided me. Divine intervention might seem like a good deal on the outside, but everything came at a price.

  In my case, a fist to the gut and sore ribs.

  Forcing my concentration back to my job, I ordered my growing spreadsheet by cause of death. “Until today, I didn’t know there were so many different ways someone could die from a knife wound. A severed carotid. A severed jugular. A knife to the heart. A stab to the thigh. A punctured kidney. A punctured lung. Multiple lacerations leading to death through bleeding out. A lobotomy via steak knife. If anything, this case is the start of a horrific guidebook.”

  “101 Ways to Die?” Jacobson asked, holding up his notepad. “I’ve been making a list of causes of death, too, and while there are multiple counts during the same incident, I’m finding the same. If our lists fail to have any overlap, I’ll be impressed. How many causes of death do you have so far?”

  “Twenty-nine. You?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  I handed Jacobson my laptop. “Input yours into the spreadsheet. It’s worth looking into, mainly because the only connecting link we have is our primary witness. A lot of these cases are cold, too.”

  “Get used to that,” Jacobson warned. “Our precinct is where cold cases go to languish in the freezer until a lead is discovered. Bailey doesn’t care if the case is thirty years old. If we have the resources to look into it, we do. She’s seen the anguish of cold cases, and she can’t abide by it, so she tries to get closure for the victims whenever possible. Have you been given the speech yet?”

  “About what?”

  “How we are to handle cold cases.”

  “Considering I was just made a detective before being handcuffed to our witness, no.”

  Alec chuckled. “While I’m sorry you’re having such a rocky start to your promotion, I am grateful I’m not handcuffed to one of the other detectives. Ignoring that we’re not technically handcuffed right this moment. Hands are useful things.”

  They really were. “It’ll be a little annoying when we have to go out, but I think we’ll be able to cope. But if I have to drive, we will not be cuffed. It’s too dangerous.”

  “That is reasonable. I wouldn’t want you driving while cuffed, either. But if we were to get into a car crash, I’d be at a high risk of death right along with you. Maybe we should avoid cars altogether for a while? How much of this investigation can we do from this hotel room?”

  That was a good question, and I eyed Jacobson with interest. “How much can we accomplish from here?”

  “A surprising amount. We have the transcriptions of all the witness questioning, so unless we find something unusual with the work already done, we won’t need to question anyone for a while. It’s a matter of piecing together what we do have and figuring out how this potential curse ticks. Once we figure out how it ticks, it might be possible to identify who created the curse, and why.”

  “I really can’t think of anyone I’ve angered that badly,” Alec muttered. “I try to fly under the radar. I mean, I’ve annoyed members of my family over the holidays, but that’s normal, isn’t it?”

  “Unless you have a major rivalry or are loathed by a family member, it’s unlikely they cursed you,” Jacobson replied. “Now, it’s possible there is someone in your personal life behind it, but everything I’ve heard in my briefings implies that your family or closer associates lack the general resources or power to accomplish this sort of curse. The chiefs believe it is strong enough to on par with the divine, so unless you know some divines or have pissed one off, it’s unlikely. We’ll look into it, of course, but it’s unlikely. You can interview your witness extensively if you wish, however.”

  Somehow, I’d landed in a precinct filled with matchmakers. While I read into Jacobson’s comment, Alec seemed oblivious or immune. Either worked for me.

  The last thing I needed was to break whatever ethical rules there were about becoming involved with a witness. If the curse broke and he proved available and interested, I could see myself diving over the line, especially after rejecting an incubus.

  “But why the variety of deaths? What is the point of cursing someone so they witness the various ways someone can die? What’s the point? That’s what I don’t understand.” While Jacobson worked at inputting his information into my spreadsheet, I shuffled through the most recent papers, organizing them based on their general cause of death. “And why multiple deaths of the same type in one incident?”

  “Collateral damage,” Jacobson suggested. “Or perhaps making certain us investigators are aware it’s intentional. Someone getting flattened by a steamroller could, in theory, be an accident. Multiple people dying the same way is intentional. It removes the possibility of people interpreting it as a freak accident.”

  “That seems overly generous for someone laying a curse meant to make their victim miserable.”

  Alec chuckled. “I wouldn’t call myself miserable, really. Concerned, baffled, and traumatized, certainly. But while I am saddened by the death around me, it also forces me to appreciate life more, I think. The therapy has helped.” He handed me a notebook. “This is my journal, and it has notes on what my therapists helped me with. I don’t know if it’s useful, but I started it at their suggestion. I show it to them every session, too. I think I concern them because of how well I’ve adapted to my reality. I won’t lie, however. I’ve grown almost numb to the death.”

  “It’s not uncommon with people who see death often,” Jacobson said. “It’s common with cops, too, especially the homicide detectives. It’s very common in hospitals. Nobody is truly immune to death—at least not somebody who is mentally sound. But people learn to adapt as a survival method.”

  I frowned, narrowing my eyes. “But that’s another angle we should look at. Let’s assume the curse isn’t meant to harm but to help him adapt to death through exposing him to the many ways people might die. Why would he need that level of preparation?”

  Jacobson blinked and stared at me. Alec raised a brow.

  “You know,” my co-worker said, and he fell silent, his expression puzzled. “I really don’t know. Why would a forensic accountant need to be prepared to accept and cope with the realities of death?”

  I stared at Alec, who shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I never wanted to become a doctor or a nurse. Who else would need that sort of preparation?”

  I had no idea, but if it meant getting to the bottom of the case sooner than later, I would find out.

  Chapter Eight

  Who would need to be prepared for the realities of death outside of those in the medical field? While law enforcement had some need of resilience, especially among homicide detectives and medical examiners, Alec hadn’t expressed any interest in joining those fields.

  He enjoyed numbers. He appreciated the thrill of the chase, too. Those traits made him ideal for law enforcement. Working with financials would become a daily part of my life in the near future, once I learned more tricks of my trade and dealt with an investigation requiring me to examine every element of a victim’s life—or a suspect’s life.

  Alec’s financials might be in my future if I couldn’t find the missing link in his case.

  I hadn’t even been promoted for a week, and I already understood the haggard appearance of the detectives in my former precinct. An easier case, one with fewer moving parts, possessed the potential to drive me insane. The requirement to keep company with our witness, who stood a high chance of witnessing even more death in the upcoming days, tested my patience, forced me to question my profession, and resulted in a rather strong dislike of the Devil’s meddling ways.

  A knock at the door offered a welcome distraction from the relentless papers also waging war against my sanity. Jacobson got up and answered it, and when he opened the door, the Devil strode in wearing a suit and masquerading as a human—mostly.

  The diminutive horns peeking out of his flaming hair gave him away.

  “You’re not going to lose your virginity if you don’t stay cuffed to your witness and get rid of the sidekick,” Lucifer announced.

  “If my virginity was of any importance to this case, I might be concerned, but as it isn’t, I’m not,” I replied, making a mental note to never again welcome distractions during a busy and stressful day.

  The Devil might show up.

  “She’s already ahead of the game,” the Devil informed Jacobson. “Imagine if I had said that to Bailey.”

  “She would have fainted from mortification, even after having kids,” my co-worker replied with a grin. “Once she got off the floor, she’d remember she isn’t a virgin thanks to her gorgon-incubus doohickey, resulting in even more chaos, as she would do her best to convince her gorgon-incubus doohickey to keep her around.”

  “Pardon, but did you just say gorgon-incubus doohickey?” I asked.

  I’d heard the phrase before, but I hadn’t thought anything of it. I’d been aware both chiefs could transform into cindercorns, but what did gorgons and incubi have to do with Samuel Quinn?

  “Sam has diverse genetics,” the Devil replied. “His primary shapeshifting form is a hybrid of a gorgon and an incubus. He needs every advantage he can get herding his cindercorn. Bailey is a genuine cindercorn, where Sam uses his shapeshifting talents from his incubus genetics to cater to her species. You’ll get used to it.”

  “I will?” I blurted, horrified that I would adapt to the strange and the stranger.

  “You handled my brother sucker punching you quite well. I see you have figured out the general loophole regarding the handcuffs. You’re ruining my fun.”

  “Your fun was barring us from making any progress,” I replied. “How can we help you?”

  “I come bearing a gift of information.”

  After my first and brutal brush with an archangel, I’d learned gifts could hurt—or came at some price. “Is this information a double-edged sword?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Damn it. “Okay. Is the double-edged sword lethal for anyone in this room?”

  “Not necessarily, although you may find yourself inconvenienced and at risk of death if you decide to indulge in acts of blatant stupidity. As you’re not the kind to indulge in acts of blatant stupidity, you should be fine.”