“Well, Detective Marin, Hector Varlam was never really my boyfriend, and he’s been out of the picture for three years now. I spent two of those years in a monastery to get over that part of my story. He did bring quite a few things into my life but, I assure you, tips and tricks to get away with murder weren’t among them.”

  “But an unhealthy obsession was, right?”

  “What do you mean? I wasn’t—”

  “Obsessed with him? Maybe not. But you seem to have sparked obsession in him.”

  The detective motions with his head curtly behind him. “See that woman over there?”

  Glancing in that direction, Leona sees Pavel Tudose’s wife crying and gesticulating between two police officers, right this moment actually pointing at Leona. She can’t hear what the woman is saying, the acoustics in the teachers’ lounge has always been crappy, and now with so many people it’s impossible to hear that far. But her hatred of Leona is alight in her distorted face.

  “According to her,” the detective continues, “her husband has been keeping pictures of you in a box under a plant in his study. The wife discovered them a few days ago and confronted him, but that only led to domestic violence. Apparently, the man was stalking you, and some of the pictures even have traces of semen on them.”

  Leona’s flesh creases, and her nose too.

  “Now, connecting Inspector Hector Varlam from three years ago, tonight’s victim who was obsessed with you, and the acid,” the inspector goes on. “It was said acid that made the victim’s flesh melt off his bones. Those were the words you used when you cursed him, right? Well, at first glance it looked like, in his madness for you, he offered himself as sacrifice to your fantasies, but the stab in the stomach ruled that version out. Someone killed him, someone crazy enough about you to do it, and to stage it in the exact way of your curse. Someone savvy of the police ways, savvy enough as not to leave traces.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Hector Varlam.”

  That someone would be so crazy about her as to kill a man....

  “I can’t imagine Hector being so stupid—If the murderer could have made this look like suicide, why not only use the acid? Why stab the man and make murder only more obvious?”

  “It actually makes a whole lot of sense.”

  She blinks rapidly. “I’m sorry, I’m confused.”

  “I think this murder is an offering to you, and the perpetrator wanted you to know it.” He leans in so close that Leona can smell the scent of cigarettes on him. “I think Hector Varlam was the murderer. I think he killed the victim first, to ensure he doesn’t scream, then poured acid all over him in the fashion of your curse. I also think he is an obsessed stalker.”

  Certainty of the contrary fills Leona’s chest. She shakes her head. “Hector wouldn’t have done this.”

  “Why are you so sure?” the detective inquires suspiciously.

  “Well, first of all, Hector was part of the police force for years. He knows he’d be top of the suspects list in this scenario.”

  “Still, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to—”

  “Actually, she does mind,” a deep voice rumbles from the crowd. That voice is enough to make Leona’s heart jump into her throat.

  She looks up to see Viscount Nathaniel Sinclair make his way among the people in the teachers’ lounge. His overly muscular figure in a black shirt grows larger and larger as he approaches. People move out of his way with open mouths, and some even go, “wow,” “I’ll be damned,” and “what the fuck?” And no wonder, really. The Viscount isn’t your average gym pump, he seems a real-life Hulk, but one with a handsome face and lightly dark skin, making it impossible to place his origin beyond “somewhere exotic.”

  “And who are you, if I may ask?” detective Marin says, doing his best to hide his bewilderment. He gets heavily back to his feet.

  “Tell him, Miss Ignat. Who am I?” Nathaniel’s sparkling eyes meet Leona’s awe-struck face. They make such a contrast to his skin that it’s compelling for any human’s eye. Leona’s throat goes dry. She’s often slapped herself inwardly for the sin of lusting after him, since he’s basically a monk. What a waste.

  “He is—” What is she supposed to say?

  “I am her spiritual adviser and confessor,” Nathaniel says and offers the detective his hand, since Leona is consistently failing to speak.

  “Oh, a priest, then?” The detective measures Nathaniel up and down. Detective Marin is fleshy, and he sports a worthy gut, but he’s half the Viscount’s bulk, and two heads smaller. “You don’t look like a priest.”

  Actually he does, in some weird way. The black clothing he always wears, even his huge bulk that makes Leona think of an archangel. He has a compelling beauty, which gives him the hellish sex appeal of the forbidden fruit.

  “I’m of a less known confession,” Nathaniel rumbles softly.

  “But why are you here? Did Miss Ignat confess to you anything she should now tell me?” Marin looks at Leona with a suspicious frown.

  “No, detective, I assure you. But Miss Ignat has been in the monastery for a reason, and that was to process the trauma Hector Varlam had put her through. As you probably imagine, I’d like to avoid that trauma returning.”

  “Well, I don’t know the details of her relationship with my former colleague, but if it was a traumatic one, shouldn’t she have turned to a shrink instead of a priest?”

  “Mr. Sinclair was all the support I needed,” Leona intervenes, also getting to her feet. Her knees are shaking, and she gathers the blanket tighter around herself to mask it.

  In truth, Nathaniel never spent time with Leona at the monastery, even though she worshipped him like a god and lived for the glimpses she got of him. Every time he’d glance in her general direction she’d cling to hope, but he looked away without a twitch on his face, and she remembers that painfully well.

  “I would like you to stay in town and available at all times, Miss Ignat,” the detective says from behind Leona as she starts pacing towards Nathaniel, blanket even tighter around her. Excitement swells in her chest as he places his huge, warm hand on the small of her back.

  “You will have access to her, detective,” Nathaniel says. “But it will have to go through me.” He hands the man a business card, which the detective flips over and then again over.

  With a cordial smile for the detective, Nathaniel’s warm hand applies a little pressure to the small of Leona’s back, and she starts walking. All her colleagues, their families, friends and police staff are staring as she and Nathaniel leave the teachers’ lounge, his bulk a huge guardian by the side of her slim figure.

  “I gather they never saw you in the company of a man before,” he says in a low voice. It’s the first time she hears it in years.

  “You made it pretty clear that male company is to remain a no-no for me.”

  “I’m glad to see you didn’t disregard my instructions.”

  “Come on, Viscount. You would have found out, and confined me back within the monastery walls in no time.”

  Leona and Nathaniel emerge under the overhang outside the teachers’ lounge, rain pouring down beyond it, thick bubbles splashing onto the cracked asphalt in the small courtyard that surrounds the teachers’ exit.

  “Why didn’t you use this exit when you were leaving the school earlier this evening?” Nathaniel inquires calmly. Leona’s chest tightens, and she turns halfway to look up at his face.

  “The janitor had already locked it. Why? You suspect of me, too?”

  His bright irises fix her face directly, making the muscles in her core clench. “I hear you cursed him in the principal’s office. Considering your talents, a direct influence isn’t excluded.”

  He presses the button on the umbrella stick in his other hand, and the umbrella opens above them. He shields Leona from the rain until they reach his car, where he opens the door for her to get in. His presence strains poor Leona’s starved hormones. She grabs the edges of the blanket tightly and reminds herself that, even if she hadn’t sworn off sex forever, Viscount Nathaniel Sinclair is as off limits as Jesus Christ.

  Still, she masochistically enjoys the prickle in her stomach as he slips into the driver’s seat, making the car tilt. But after only a few minutes she begins to wonder about their destination. The pouring rain leaves thick rivulets on the side windows, blurring the nightly city lights, teaming up with the sound of the wipers.

  “Where are we going?” she says.

  “I’m taking you home. Then we’ll have a talk.”

  “You want to talk at my place?”

  “Where else?”

  Leona turns to the side, with her shoulder against the back of her seat to face him.

  “You mean to tell me that, after you made an appearance worthy of a stage back at school, you want to take it up a notch and make a show at my place, too? You, the very head of the Order of Lords?”

  He frowns at the road. “Your place is safe. I made sure about that.”

  “Made sure? Oh,” she whispers as understanding deepens. “You have me monitored. And I thought you trusted me.”

  “I can’t trust anyone who knows the Order’s secrets, Leona. Not after everything that happened with the Executioner, and sure as hell not after I found you in bed with the chief villain, Inspector Hector Varlam.” He glances at her. “That’s how we first met, remember?”

  The shame from that night weighs like a stone in Leona’s chest. She drops her eyes to her shoes. The motion of the car makes her sick, but she can’t look at Nathaniel right now.

  “Well, I suppose I should thank you for watching over me. If it weren’t for you, I would have ended up in police custody tonight for sure. But, as you may know, I live with my aunt in an old house in the peninsula, which we share with a big gypsy family. Everyone would see you, plus that I’m not allowed to bring men home.”

  She still can’t look at Nathaniel, but she feels his sparkling gaze on her head. “I know who you live with. As I know that you’re not allowed to cross the threshold in male company, and that you’re not allowed to spend nights out.”

  Leona looks up at him as she understands more and more of this. “I never actually had a chance, vow or no vow at the monastery, did I? The gypsy family, they’re your people, right?”

  “We can talk here, if going to your place makes you that uncomfortable.” Nathaniel pulls over in front of the old dilapidated building that is Leona’s house. He lets the engine run, probably because it’s obvious she needs the heat by the way she keeps the blanket about her and makes herself small in her seat. Thank God he doesn’t know she’s shivering because of him.

  “How come you stepped in personally, Viscount?” she says. “Your identity is such sensitive information. A few years ago you wouldn’t have intervened for matters much more serious than this.”

  “This matter is way more serious than you imagine.” Gravity deepens his gaze. “In one thing I agree with detective Marin. Whoever killed your colleague, they did it for you.” He pauses, giving his following words more weight. “Either a secret admirer of yours killed the man out of jealousy, out of obsession, or you killed the man yourself. These are the two scenarios that detective Marin would choose from. To me, there’s also a third possibility. One that has to do with your curse directly.”

  “The curse? The man was stabbed in the gut! It was clearly murder.”

  “Magic doesn’t work the way people expect it to,” Nathaniel says. “It makes things tie together, often in very logical ways. Your curse could have put the murderer in there with Mr. Tudose. It could have attracted the murderer into his life, so to say. Anyway, I’m glad to see you got over the shock of the discovery.”

  “I’d be lying to say Tudose’s death makes me in any way sad. Since you’re so well informed regarding my life, did you know he tried to force my head into his lap once when he brought me home in his car?”

  The muscles in Nathaniel’s arms flex, and his eyes gleam like a panther’s ready to attack. It lights a spark in the pit of Leona’s stomach, seeing him so ready to protect her.

  “Why didn’t you notify the Order?” he demands, his tone now hard, contrasting with the soft-spoken giant from moments before.

  “What would you have done?” she whispers, searching his eyes. She hungers for his answer. How would he have defended her?

  “I would have sent my men to extract him from your life. You don’t have to put up with abuse.”

  The expectation in her chest deflates. Not exactly the answer she dreamed to hear. She forces herself to look away from him before he can read the disappointment in her face. But the moment she shifts her gaze she notices two strange figures at the entrance to the neighborhood bar.

  The Gossip Parlor is a meeting place for wild students and some older drunks seeking to impress the youngsters with made-up adventure stories. Loud rock music shakes the bar, and cigarette smoke floats so thick you could cut it with a knife. Leona has only been there once or twice to get vodka for her aunt late at night when all other stores were closed, but the patrons are regulars from the neighborhood. They all know her, and she knows them. All wild and loud, but decent, really. Which is why the two hooded figures looking like dealer and client surprise her. She catches a glimpse of one of the men as he looks anxiously over his shoulder, and her jaw drops.

  CHAPTER II

  Suspects

  LEONA

  Leona hurries up the narrow stairs to the Gossip Parlor, Nathaniel right behind her. Music thuds louder and louder as they approach the door, and cigarette smoke attacks Leona’s eyes and lungs as she opens it and walks into the boisterous crowd.

  Drunkards with messy hair and beards caked with booze move out of the way, “what in the freakin’ hell” imprinted on their faces as they see Nathaniel. The younger ones try to be less obvious in their gawking, but their sudden silence and lingering stares speak volumes. They’re all precariously cradling their pints and bottles, forgetting themselves.

  Leona spots the man she and Nathaniel are following, his hooded head making way among the gathering, moving further towards the back of the bar. She points at him and turns to Nathaniel.

  “He may exit through the back if he realized we’re after him.” We need to move faster, she wants to add, but Nathaniel’s war-like expression stops her mid-word.

  “Don’t forget we need to talk to him, not kill him,” she reminds Nathaniel as he takes one big stride by her. He extends his muscular black-clad arm, and grabs the fugitive by his shoulder. It takes one flick of the giant Viscount’s wrist to turn the guy around and push him into a chair by the wall. The patrons at that table jump up, everybody staring.

  The guy’s hood drops to reveal a young gypsy, about the same age as the one he’s been dealing to or buying from. Feeling protective, Leona places herself by his side, should Nathaniel go violent on him. But she doubts it, the Viscount doesn’t give off the brutality that the Executioner does. He’s more of a paternal archangel.

  “Who are you, and how do you know Armando Gabor?” Nathaniel’s voice rumbles from his massive chest.

  The young gypsy shivers, licks his lips, starts talking, blabbers, starts again. Nathaniel takes his hand off him, giving the boy more space. But then he squares his shoulders, which gives his bulk even more volume.

  “Holy Mary mother of God,” the young gypsy breathes as he stares Nathaniel up and down.

  “I won’t hurt you, boy. I only want to know your name and business with Mr. Gabor.”

  The boy licks his dry lips again. “I, I just handed over the letter.”

  “Letter?” Leona scoffs. “In the age of Silicon Valley and Snapchat people exchange letters in dark corners?”

  The boy looks from her to Nathaniel with big eyes. “He said technology can’t be trusted, too easily hacked.”

  “Armando said that?” Leona says.

  “The guy at the garage did, the one who gave the letter to me. It was just a letter, I mean, fuck, they could have been gay lovers for all I know.” He looks up at Nathaniel. “I shouldn’t have run, but then I saw you after me, I mean sure I got scared. What would you do if you had yourself on your trail?”

  “Can you describe the man for us?” Leona asks. He looks at her like she’s an imbecile.

  “I could describe him. Or I could give you his name.”

  “Oh.”

  “We’ll have the name,” Nathaniel says gently. The boy turns his eyes to the giant man, scanning him up and down.

  “Pavel Tudose.”

  Leona and Nathaniel glance at each other.

  “You say he approached you at the garage,” Nathaniel says to the boy. “Was he a regular there?”

  “The man plays dice every evening with my boss.”

  “When exactly did he come to you with the letter?”

  “Yesterday evening.”

  Nathaniel bends over the young gypsy, making him flinch and scrunch his eyes expecting a punch, but what the giant does is open the back door right by the young man’s side.

  “Thank you, you’re free to go.”

  The boy doesn’t wait for a second invitation. He jumps from the chair, stumbling twice and knocking it down before he makes it through the door, but Leona jolts forward in an attempt to stop him. She fails, and stumbles over the chair right into Nathaniel’s strong arms.

  “What are you doing?” she shrieks. “We need to know so much more!”

  “Keep your voice down, and trust me,” Nathaniel slurs, steadying her with bear-like hands on her shoulders, and motioning for her to sit down in the chair opposite to where the boy had sat. She does, bewildered, while he takes the boy’s seat, with his back to the wall and his eyes towards the bar.

  “We got what we needed, there’s no point in traumatizing him,” he says quietly. They wait a little until people start going about their business again, still keeping one corner of their eyes on the eccentric couple that Leona and Nathaniel make. An almost skinny gypsy and a guy so big he must have won Mr. Olympia at least once this decade.

  “Well, nobody is going to take our orders here, one of us will have to go to the bar,” Leona says. “If you want us to stay, that is.”

 

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