S. Harper: Cursed

We’ve known each other for a long time, but it wasn’t 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!! Jeanne’s 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

You’ve seen one dark, rugged werewolf, you’ve seen them all.

That’s 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 of—something. I realize I’d 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 o’clock 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 edge—dark brown, slightly longer than regulation, no part. It’s swept straight back, accentuating the lines of his square jaw.

I resist the urge to crawl under my desk. “I’ll call you back later. New partner’s here. I’ve got to go.”

“Not until I hear the details. What’s 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 person’s case in Charleston last year?”

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

“It is him,” I say. “Which you’d think Johnson would have mentioned.”

“So what’s the problem? I’ll tell you now what I told you then. You shouldn’t 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, she’s currently dating a vampire.

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

“Yeah, Liz. A few dozen times. The problem isn’t Zack’s 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 shouldn’t have given Zack Armstrong a second thought in the last thirteen months, seventeen days. But I have. I’ve 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. That’s why he’s here. This isn’t a coincidence. It’s a test the Olympians have their hands in. Or, more specifically, one particular Olympian. Demeter. I’m a Siren—one of three. We were banished by Zeus and cursed by Demeter thousands of years ago for failing to protect her daughter Persephone—for failing to rescue her before she was dragged by Hades to the Underworld. It’s for this I atone. For this I pay.

And pay. And pay.

I’m 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.

“I’ve got to go.”

I click off, the sound of Liz’s 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. “Here’s the memo I promised you about your new partner. Better late than never.”

He may be chronically behind with paperwork, but otherwise Johnson’s tenacious about his job, a real pit bull. And, despite being only five foot six, he’s one of the toughest guys I’ve ever met.

I snatch the sheet from his hand and drop it on my desk. “Why didn’t you tell me it was Armstrong?”

“I thought I did.” His look is quizzical, but it doesn’t 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 Monroe’s your new partner. I don’t have to waste time with introductions. What’s it been, a year since you worked on that case together?”

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

What Johnson couldn’t possibly know is that we share more than a past case. We both have secrets—supernatural powers we’ve 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. He’s never revealed it. But of course he wouldn’t, 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. We’d 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 I’m not impetuous when it comes to sex. I can’t afford to be. The potential consequences are too high.

We agreed that after, we’d 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. He’s 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. Zack’s hasn’t changed. It’s confident, firm, and friendly. It’s the handshake of a man who has nothing to apologize for and no regrets.