Not that anything like that had ever happened to Derek. Really. Never. Well, not more than once. Or maybe twice. But he'd made damn sure it had never happened to Quincy.
Wendy finished instructing Quincy on his schedule for the afternoon, then stepped back from the desk. "Do you need my assistance for your meeting with Derek? If not, I'll keep filing in the corner."
Supernatural murder and deadly curses were always best discussed alone, so Derek answered on his brother's behalf. "It would be fantastic if we could have some privacy. We have some family stuff to discuss."
"No problem at all." She flashed them a knowing smile and then strolled out of the room, her sparkly red high heels making her ass sway in a way that no man could miss.
Except his brother, who didn't even look up.
Damn. Had she started using recreational drugs maybe? Something had happened, and Derek wasn't sure he wanted to know about it.
So, instead of gawking at her, Derek set a tossed salad and a chicken sandwich on Quincy's desk, easing down into a chair as he waited for Wendy to exit. "I brought lunch."
"Really?" Quincy looked up, then grinned. "Great. I'm starving." He picked up the sandwich and began unwrapping it. "I forgot to eat."
"I figured that would be the case." The door clicked shut, and Derek immediately leaned forward, all thoughts of the new Wendy vanishing from his mind as he focused on what really mattered. "Les died."
Quincy froze, the sandwich halfway to his mouth. "When?"
"This morning."
He set the sandwich down. "At what time?"
"Nine fifty-four and seventeen seconds exactly. As I predicted." Maybe this would convince Quincy. It had to. Derek needed help to figure out what was going on and how to stop it. Time was almost out, and a lifetime of solo pursuit hadn't gotten him any answers. He needed a partner, and since Quin was the only person who let Derek discuss the Curse without threatening to get him committed, Quin got the nod.
His brother frowned. "You were there?"
"Yep."
"What happened?"
Derek quickly filled in his twin on the details, then waited, hoping that Quin would finally be on board.
Quincy drummed his fingers on his ornate, mahogany desk. "Huh."
"Huh? That's all you can say?"
"Well, what do you want me to say? Oh, sure, I believe all the LaValle men are cursed and you're going to die in a week and I’m going to die two minutes after you?" Quincy shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I still don't buy this paranormal spooky stuff, even after today. There has to be a logical explanation."
Seriously? Derek couldn't have this conversation again. "Math is based on logic," he said through gritted teeth. "Curses aren't. Forget what you know and open your mind. For hell's sake, Quin, it's you and me next. In a week."
Quincy leaned back in his chair and sighed with melodramatic tolerance. "What would you have me do?"
"Do what Carl's journal says."
Quincy's eyebrows shot up. "Carl? You mean our ancestor? The one who left behind a barely intelligible sketchbook filled with ramblings about the dragons, the Goblet of Eternal Youth, and some woman he lusted after who was supposed to be guarding it? You're still trying to decipher that hallucination-induced antiquity?"
"If it weren't for his journal, we would never have known that we're all dying because of a Curse." Derek leaned forward. "According to the journal, to break the Curse, we have to find that Goblet and its Guardian. So, let's do it."
Quin leaned forward, matching Derek's pose. "And then what, genius? Behead the Guardian and steal the Goblet? Because the last time I checked, that journal said we have to do that."
Derek grimaced. "Yeah, well, if we have to—"
"You want to spend the rest of our lives in prison? Because in case you didn't realize it, beheading people is pretty illegal in New York these days."
"Yeah, I know, but what if it's the Guardian's life or ours? You think I should stand back and let us die? Let you die?" It was one thing for him to die, which completely sucked, but his little brother? No way was he going to leave his twin unprotected if he could do something about it.
Quincy rubbed his jaw for a moment, then his eyes lit up. "I have an idea."
"You do?" Hope leapt through Derek. Finally! "What?"
"How about I write up a few equations and show that it's mathematically possible for all twenty-nine LaValle men to have died without any supernatural intervention, which will prove the Curse doesn't exist. It'll give you a chance to finally let this go and move on."
Disappointment settled like a cement weight in Derek's gut. "You want to write an equation to prove the Curse doesn't exist?"
"Yeah, I think it'll be good for you." Quin sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, making the disheveled mop even more unruly. "I love you, bro. I really do. I'm worried about you. Obsessing over this Curse is not a good way to live."
"It's the only way to make sure we live."
Quin shook his head. "You've spent your whole life on this project. You've searched down every lead. There's literally nothing left to discover. You've done it all and come up with nothing. It's time to acknowledge that the journal is nothing more than the rantings of a madman."
Dammit. He didn't have time to dance around this with Quin anymore, trying to convince his brother of a truth that Quin refused to see. "You know what? Fine." Derek stood up and spread his hands in defeat. "Go write your equations."
Quincy grinned. "Excellent. And then you'll let this go?"
"Not a chance." He walked out, ignoring Quin's protests as he strode down the hall, barely managing a civil nod at Wendy as he passed her carrying a stack of exam booklets.
He bunched his fists in frustration as he jogged down the steps toward the quad. Even after Les's death, his own brother still didn't believe him. How was that even possible? He'd really believed Quin would finally acknowledge the truth. He'd needed Quin to believe him, because his brother was a brilliant guy with an amazing mind. He could make a difference in the quest that had eluded Derek his whole life. He could have been the key.
But it was apparent Quin still wasn't going to help.
And since Derek wasn't about to let another LaValle man die from the Curse, he was going to have to finish this on his own.
So, what could he do? Self-defense had been a complete bust this morning. He was out of time to find a generic way to break curses. So, there was only one option left, and that was to find the Guardian, kill her, and steal the Goblet.
But Quin was right. Swinging an axe at some unsuspecting woman and decapitating her wouldn't go over too well in the courts. Plus, murder in the first degree wasn't exactly befitting of a pretzel mogul. And, if he was honest with himself, he wasn't sure he could kill someone in cold blood, even if it was to save his life and his brother's at some future moment. Besides, what was the point of dodging the Curse if he had to spend the rest of his life in prison dodging...well...yeah. Probably best not to think about that.
But self-defense was a legit reason to kill someone. So, he'd have to convince the Guardian to try to kill him first. Then he could behead her with a clean conscience, and all would be well. Based on what Carl had written, all he had to do was try to steal the Goblet, and then her Guardian duties would require her to kill him.
He was pretty sure he'd be okay with beheading her if she was about to shove a sword into his chest. So, yeah, it was a plan. Maybe not the most solid one, but it was the best he had, so he was going to make it work.
First things first. Find the Guardian. Yeah, the same one that had successfully eluded him for too damn long, despite near-constant searching.
But now he had run out of time. He had to find her. Immediately.
The beheading thing? He'd figure that out later.
But not too much later.
Because he had one week.
After searching for answers for decades, he was down to one damned week.
Chapter Three
Justine Bennett
thrived under the pressure of being single-handedly responsible for preventing the downfall of all human and supernatural beings.
She had no problem beheading people in pursuit of the aforementioned job duties.
She was even on board with having daily one-sided conversations with an espresso machine.
What she couldn't handle was another two hundred years of…this.
Absolute. Unending. Overwhelming. Boredom.
She leaned back in her stainless-steel dining room chair and groaned, pressing her palms to her eyes. "I can't take this anymore, Mona. I really can't."
The espresso machine, as usual, said nothing, which was a little rude, given that she was so much more than a mere espresso machine.
"Would it get me put on probation to admit that I wouldn't mind if someone tried to steal you so I could defend you to the death?" Justine stared at the ceiling, wishing that there were at least cracks to count. But no, the ceiling was in perfect repair, aside from a few scorch marks from her roommate. "Yeah, I'd probably get in trouble, so, I won't say it."
But she couldn't stop from thinking it, as traitorous as it might be.
Mona was precious, a special kind of precious that required her to be hidden, camouflaged, and guarded by an immortal badass like Justine. Mona had been created by a talented witch of great power and a regrettable lack of foresight. Seriously, who's dumb enough not to suspect that creating a real-life fountain of youth could result in the most evil, power-hungry asshats in existence wanting to kidnap it and wreak havoc upon the earth? Apparently, a certain witch named Desdemona was that stupid, because she went ahead and whipped up her self-titled Desdemona's Temptation, known to enemies and wannabes as the Goblet of Eternal Youth, known to friends and family as Mona.
Mona had a special gift, the kind of gift that could change the entire trajectory of human existence, and the earth overall. The kind of gift that you never, ever turned over to certain, power-hungry, amoral evil-doers…or even the average numbnut from the next apartment, because of that whole "power corrupts even the most innocent" thing that was oh-so-true.
Many centuries ago, Mona had been magically created as a jewel encrusted goblet who would bestow immortality and eternal youth onto anyone who drank from her three times. Of course, every girl likes to be up to date, right? Jewel-encrusted goblets were so two centuries ago. Thanks to her chameleonic ability to change form, Mona was currently maintaining a low profile as an espresso machine, hanging out in Justine's New York City condo.
Honestly, if you have to be a never-ending source of liquid in the twenty-first century, what's better than coffee, right? Coffee wins.
Or maybe a frappe machine. An extra-thick chocolate milkshake could be serious competition for dark roast caffeine. Not that chocolate or caffeine would be enough to ignite Justine's life.
No one had come after Mona in two centuries. Two centuries of sitting by Mona's side, waiting…waiting…waiting. As Mona's Guardian for the last two hundred years, it was Justine's duty to stay close, ready to protect, if something happened.
Nothing. Had. Happened.
Like, nothing.
"We need some action, Mona. Anything." Please. Anything.
"Pouting again?" The door from the kitchen popped open. "You have to work on your attitude, babe." Justine's roommate and backup Guardian, Theresa Nichols, stuck her blue-scaled head into the main living space, blinking her golden eyes as if she'd just woken up from a nap, or an extensive sexting binge with her latest Tinder beau. "Bitterness never leads to a good life."
Theresa was an eleven-foot, winged dragon who favored cherry red lipstick, glitter eyeshadow, and designer clothes. The kind of dragon who sashayed her five hundred pounds of gloriousness whenever she entered the living room in their luxurious penthouse condo.
She was Justine's best friend, her only friend, and her successor, if Justine ever got killed in the line of duty and was unable to guard Mona.
Theresa was fiercely loyal, and she adored violence, sex, and shiny things, like any decent dragon. She also cherished her human form and detested shifting into her dragon state. Unfortunately for her, she hadn't been able to shift into her human form in almost two hundred years, ever since she took the Oath as Justine's successor and took the three sips from Mona that made her immortal, and permanently scaly. Being stuck as a four-footed, blue-scaled, fire-breathing monster was enough to make any girl cranky, and Theresa was no exception.
"I'm not pouting," Justine said, flipping her favorite black pen between her fingers. "I'm bored."
"Me, too." Theresa moved her horned tail aside and settled on the micro-fiber cranberry-colored couch. Leather was a total no-go. Scales and clawed feet were hell on natural materials. Worse than a herd of destructive cats on speed. Certain synthetics, on the other hand, were impervious to snags and tears. Simply fabulous for the living comfort of dragons. "What do you say we go bar hopping tonight?"
Justine couldn't keep from grinning at the idea. "Sure. You can freak out the entire city of New York, and I'll pick up a cute guy who'll drink from Mona and then I'll have to behead him. Sounds like a blast." Been there. Done that. Lesson learned. Unfortunately, most of humanity had no idea dragons were real, which made it a little awkward for Theresa to go for a morning run around Central Park.
"Hey! If anyone deserves to be pouting, it's me. At least you have breasts, fingernails, and the ability to walk out the door and into real life." Theresa blew a puff of black smoke, the dragon equivalent of a dramatic sigh. A few sparks dropped on the flame-resistant throw rug, which was delightfully impervious to fire. Theresa had burned down their first six houses, which made it a little tricky to remain off the radar of nosy law enforcement and neighbors. Thankfully, fire retardant products had become available just as the local fire department had begun to keep an eye on them.
Not that it had been that bad. Some of the members of the fire department were pretty hot, flirtatious, and charming. Not that the Guardian rules of decorum allowed Justine to date. Ever.
And none of the men, burly as they might be, were quite a match for an eleven-foot dragon who would very possibly incinerate them in the heat of passion. Which meant the two roomies were celibate together, until and unless Theresa could find a cure for her four-footed form. There was no hope for Justine's nun-like existence to end, though, so she was hoping she could someday live vicariously through Theresa. "You have any luck today?" she asked the dragon. "Any interesting tips on how to get back into your human form?"
"Nothing!" Theresa sighed deeply. "The Internet is full of crap. With all those websites, you think at least one of them would have a legitimate spell for turning me back into human form, but no. They all seem to be run by idiots who think magic and dragons are a joke." She scowled, which entailed flaring her cavernous nostrils and scrunching her gold-flecked eyes until they were barely open. "When I finally figure it out, I'm personally going to go out there and kick the butt of every fraud on this planet who claims to practice magic. It breaks a little piece of my heart every time I get a little hopeful, and then have my dreams crushed because the website was a farce."
Justine sighed. "I'm sorry, sweetie." She knew how badly Theresa needed to be back in human form, and she was in awe of how her friend never gave up searching for answers.
"What about you? Tell me something good, girlfriend."
Justine wrinkled her nose, glancing down at the sketchbook on the glass top dining room table. "Sorry. I got nothing."
Theresa held out a claw. "Let me see."
Justine passed over her sketchpad. "I'm supposed to design a creature from Mars who looks harmless but is actually a deadly assassin. Blues, greens, and silver. Male. Maybe a military background. He has to be able to pass as human if he wants to, but is clearly an alien when he's in full kickass form. A bit of shapeshifting, but not extreme." Justine's day job was as an animation designer for a major movie studio. They sent her specs, and she created the creatures. Being old school (like two hundred y
ears old school), she always started with sketches before transferring them to her computer and tightening up the 3D image.
It was one of the only jobs she could do and still stay at home with Mona. She liked it well enough most days…except when she could not, for the life of her, come up with a good idea.
This project was one of those brain-exploders.
Her job wasn't the best, but she'd never give it up.
Financially, the daily stipend she received as Guardian meant she could get away without having a job, but emotionally? As frustrating as her job was, without it, she knew she would have lost her mind from the absolute boredom of her life. Theresa was fully occupied with trying to find her way back to her human form, which gave her a purpose. They weren't technically allowed to work and divide their loyalties, so Justine had kept her job low profile, while Theresa had been relentless defending her right to search for a cure for her scales.
Being a Guardian didn't come with a paycheck per se, but they were lucky enough to have an excellent property manager named Graham Winthrop and centuries of Guardians who had made savvy real estate investments. Renting out their many safe houses provided a livable income, even if it had resulted in a few emergency evictions of tenants when she and Theresa needed to relocate in a hurry. Their current lair was the top floor of a posh condo building filled with rich residents who guarded their privacy zealously. Perfect, but oh-so-mind-numbingly-dull.
"Draw me." Theresa pulled her lips back in a dragon grin. "I'm bluish green, and I kick ass. I could be your alien assassin."
"I already used you two years ago for the remake of Puff the Magic Dragon. I can't reuse you so soon." Justine glanced at the date on her phone. "Oh! The Puff movie advertising campaign was supposed to launch this week. Have you seen any of the trailers? We have to find a way to smuggle you in to the theatre so you can see yourself on the big screen."
"That's just cruel to even suggest." Theresa scowled. "You know I can't go. I'm a dragon, remember? No public appearances for me." She sighed with melodramatic self-pity. "Draw this new alien to look like me so I feel better. To give me a purpose in life. A reason to exist."
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