But in the final days, there was no question who was winning. The Church was well organized and united in their purpose, whereas the Paranormals—for all their special abilities—were scattered, mostly living underground and often at odds with each other. In the end, the Paranormals had to concede victory to the Catholic Church, and both sides signed the Compact, an agreement that spelled out parameters for each race that limited their powers and guaranteed their safe coexistence with the Church.
“What does the painting have to do with the Inquisition?” Donata asked. Like all Paranormals, she’d been raised with a combination of fear and resentment toward the Compact and the restrictions it had placed on the major races. When Witches had finally come out into the open, that act had marked the first time any of the races had openly defied the Compact’s rules—and even then they’d skirted the edges of the agreement by downplaying the scope of their powers to the general public.
Farmingham shook his head ruefully. “Did you never wonder how the Inquisitors tracked down the Paranormals they tortured and killed? After all, most of us appear just like the rest of the population, unless you know the signs to look for.” He pointed at himself. “I’m a Witch myself, on my mother’s side, although my only talent seems to be in telling true art from counterfeits. A form of dousing, I suppose, although not a very practical one, for the most part.”
Donata wasn’t terribly surprised by this revelation; she doubted the Kobold would have been so open with a regular Human. She thought about the question for a minute.
“I suppose I always figured the Church mostly relied on informers—after all, we know that a lot of the people who died during the Inquisition were innocents, folks who just got caught up in the fever of the times.” She shrugged. “And, of course, there were all those lovely tests once they’d brought someone in for questioning. It’s hard to protest that you’re not a Dragon when your skin won’t burn, no matter how hot the fire.”
The Kobold jiggled nervously in his spot outside the circle. No Paranormal, major or minor, liked to talk about those years. Just about everyone had lost family and friends. Sometimes entire clans had been wiped out. It had been a hellish time.
Farmingham looked gloomy. “Well, those were certainly a part of the equation. But a few of the most powerful Inquisitors also had another tool they used to discover hidden Paranormals: they called them the Pentacle Pentimentos.”
“Hey,” Donata said, “you mentioned that name before. What the heck is a Pentacle Pentimento?”
She pulled out the silver pentacle necklace she wore underneath her shirt and showed it to him. “I know what a pentacle is, of course—the Witch’s symbol: a five-pointed star within a circle, with each point representing one of the five elements—Earth, Air, Fire, Water, and Spirit—and the circle representing unity. But what is a pentimento?”
The restorer put his teacher’s face on again. Donata made a silent bet with herself that if she checked his records, she’d find he’d spent some time as a lecturer at the local arts college.
“Pentimento, the usual kind, anyway, is an art term. It can mean either a technique for restoring paintings by removing a top layer of paint to reveal a second painting underneath, or it can be the name for the revealed painting itself.” He paused for breath, even though he didn’t actually need to do so anymore.
“The Pentacle Pentimentos were special paintings commissioned by the Church to aid in detecting and defeating the major Paranormal races. In recent years, many experts have come to believe that such things never actually existed—but the one you saw today clearly proves that they weren’t just a myth.”
Donata thought back to the painting she had dropped off at the precinct. “So, that corner where you had been working . . . that wasn’t just a cleaned-up bit of the paint? It was actually a piece of a second painting underneath?” She shook her head. “I only caught a glimpse of it, but it didn’t look important.”
Farmingham gnawed on his lower lip, causing tiny bits of incense to swirl in and out around his mouth. “The edges wouldn’t have shown anything. It was the figures that were significant. According to the old records I dug up—with great difficulty, I might add—each of the six figures in the painting represented one of the major races. They were delineated in a way that showed their more ‘public’ faces, like the way the Fae tend to be enchantingly beautiful, and Ghouls are grayish and shabby looking. They provided clues for how to distinguish the Paranormal races from regular Humans, if you knew what you were looking for.”
“How does that work?” Donata asked. “Like you said, most of us don’t look that different. I don’t see how it would help.”
The restorer shook his head. “It wasn’t the top layer that was crucial, Officer Santori. It was the pentimento underneath that caused so much destruction and misery.” His misty eyes filled with phantom tears in memory of those who had been lost.
“Since it was a deep Church secret, the bottom painting could be accessed only by those who were told the secret of its use: a very few specially trained Inquisitors. But once revealed, that layer showed not only the Paranormal traits and abilities of each race, but also symbols that represented what each race needed to survive, and how to destroy them. Think of it as a Paranormal Most Wanted poster, but one which could only be used by people who knew the right way to read it. In the wrong hands, it was a powerful weapon whose magic could be used against the Paranormal races.” He paused for emphasis. “And if you don’t find a way to keep that painting safe, you and all the rest of the Paranormals could be in danger. Could be wiped out.”
Chapter Five
Donata sat in stunned silence for a moment, then shook her head and pulled herself together. “I admit the painting has a certain creepy . . . something.” She remembered the vision she’d had when she touched the uncovered corner. “But you make it sound like the end of the world as we know it. Aren’t you exaggerating?”
The ghost stared into her eyes intently. “Am I? What do you think would happen if the Human population—which vastly outnumbers Paranormals—found out about our existence? Not just about Witches, but about Ghouls, and Fae, and Dragons, and Ulfhednar?”
“And us!” the Kobold put in, his chin thrust forward. “Don’t forget about all us so-called minor races, like Kobolds, and Sprites, and Nymphs. How do you think Humans would like knowing that there is a Paranormal creature around every corner?”
Donata thought about the riots and uproar that had resulted from the comparatively minor revelation that Witches were real. People had died, even then.
“You’re talking about another Inquisition,” she whispered, afraid to even speak the words aloud. “You think this painting could prove the existence of the other major Paranormal races, and it would bring on the Burning Times again.” The very thought made her knees weak. As a cop, she’d seen the mob mentality at work. It wasn’t something she ever wanted to witness again, especially not attacking those she loved.
Farmingham nodded. “That’s exactly what I am talking about. If the Cabal got their hands on this painting, they would use it to show the world not just that Paranormals exist, but how to destroy them.”
“The Cabal—you mentioned them before,” Donata said. “Seriously? You really think they exist? There’s really a renegade arm of the Catholic Church that believes the Compact was a mistake? They’re still around? And they think the existence of Paranormals is an insult to God’s laws?” Her voice almost squeaked in her disbelief. “You’re talking about diabolical figures that skulk in the shadows and prey on unsuspecting supernatural creatures when no one is looking?” She gave a short laugh. “My grandmother used to tell me the Cabal would get me if I didn’t finish all my vegetables. I find it hard to envision the veggie enforcers stealing a painting out of a police lockup.”
The restorer shut her down with a stern look. “This is no laughing matter, Officer Santori.” His pal the Kobold gl
ared at her too. “Yes, the Cabal may be used to scare small Witch children—but that doesn’t mean that they don’t exist. And it is my belief that they are behind this attempt to get the painting—which, for all we know, is the last of the Pentacle Pentimentos. If that is true, they will stop at nothing to get it.”
Donata drummed her fingers on her thigh. “Let’s say—just for argument’s sake—that I buy into this theory of yours. I mean, obviously someone commissioned this robbery, and I doubt they did it because they lusted after the beauty of the picture itself.” She shot a nervous look at the incense-wreathed figure before her, trying to guess how much longer the ghost could hold himself together before he dissipated, leaving her stuck with a weird painting and a lot of unanswered questions.
“And let’s say I also believe that the Cabal has been hiding out there all this time, even though they are supposedly hunted by both the Paranormals and the Catholic Church.” She shuddered a bit at the thought of her childhood bogeymen actually being real. “If they’re after the painting, why don’t I just hand it over to the Alliance Council for safekeeping? Won’t that solve the problem?” She thought about it for a minute. “For that matter, if you knew what it was, why didn’t you just give it to the Council?”
Farmingham quavered a little under her suspicious look, but then rallied. “The Council shouldn’t have it either. The painting is too important.” The Kobold crossed his arms firmly over his chest in unspoken support.
“Why not?” she asked. “If anyone can keep it safe from the Cabal—if they really exist—it should be the Council.”
“Did you notice the sixth figure?” Farmingham said, pointing one wispy finger in front of her as if the painting were there.
Donata shrugged. “You mean the one with the black blob where its face should be? I just thought the artist had made a mistake, or decided he didn’t like the way that bit turned out and decided to change it.”
The restorer shook his head, bits of incense flying off as he did so. “Not at all. That’s the most important part of the painting, that black blob.”
“How can a missing spot be the most important part?” Donata asked impatiently. This whole conversation was starting to make her twitch, and she still hadn’t had dinner. If the painting was really as crucial as he said—and she had to admit she was starting to believe him—she’d just turn it over to the powers that be and wash her hands of the entire thing. Gladly.
“It is the sixth race,” he said. Like that was supposed to mean something to her.
“The sixth race?” That same forgotten memory that had niggled at her when she’d first had the vision came back to breathe down her neck, stirring the hairs there in uncomfortable sympathy. “Why does that sound familiar?”
The ghost shook his head in amazement. “Does no one speak of the lost sixth race anymore? What kind of education do they give you Witches these days?” Disgust colored his slowly ebbing features. “An entire race of Paranormals, simply forgotten. It defies logic.”
“The lost sixth race?” Donata shifted her weight from foot to foot, bone tired after a long day. “My grandmother Nettie used to tell me stories, when my mother wasn’t around . . .” Her voice trailed off as she remembered the source of her nightmares. “She never even mentioned their names, just said they were more powerful than the rest of the Paranormal races put together, and could be cruel and capricious.” Donata suppressed a shudder. “I thought they were just tales. Most Paranormals say there was no such thing as the lost sixth race.”
“They also said the Pentacle Pentimentos didn’t exist either,” Farmingham said, his grim tone matching the gray incense that made up his temporary form. “The Council are a bunch of old fools—they would rather cling to their power and the status quo with all their might than deal with a possible threat to the entire world—both Human and Paranormal.”
“I don’t understand,” Donata said. “Even if the sixth race did exist once, they’re gone now. Or so deep in hiding that no one we know of has seen a trace of them in hundreds of years. Why would they be a threat?” She didn’t bother to argue with his first statement about the Council, since she agreed with his sentiments wholeheartedly.
The restorer’s ghostly shape wavered, and then solidified again, but to a lesser degree than before. They were running out of time.
He spoke so quietly, she had to move right next to him to hear what he said. “When I was doing my research into the painting, I came across a number of odd and frightening reports. Unexplained incidents involving serious loss of life, both Paranormal and Human. Separately, they don’t seem to mean much. But taken together, I believe they indicate that the lost race is on the move again—and that they intend to create widespread destruction and death as their revenge for the Compact that virtually erased them from existence. Since both the Alliance and the Church agreed to the Compact, this lost race is targeting all people, regardless of their species. And a lot of innocent Humans could end up being collateral damage. You have to believe me—all my evidence shows that this threat is real, and very, very dangerous.” He held one ethereal hand out beseechingly toward Donata.
“Before I died, I had hoped to contact someone who could help me work on the painting, both to render it harmless, should the Cabal ever get their hands on it, and also to remove that black blotch to reveal the identity of the sixth race.” Desperation showed clearly on his face, even as the rest of his body thinned. “That painting may be our only chance to find this race and reason with them—if that is even possible—or learn a way to fight them, if it is not.”
He stared at Donata almost fiercely. “I cannot complete my task now. So you must complete it for me.”
“Can’t we just destroy it—burn it or something? Then there is nothing for the Cabal to go after.”
The ghost shook his head. “That would not be as easy as you think. But it doesn’t matter. You are missing the point. The painting must survive. It is the only way to discover the identity of the sixth race and to stop them from creating chaos and destruction on a scale you cannot even imagine.”
Donata opened her mouth to protest, and he held his ghostly hands out before him in an unspoken plea. “Please, Officer Santori. You must believe me. The safety of the Paranormal races, and perhaps the world as a whole, lies with that painting. It is your task now. You must find a man named Peter Casaventi. He is half Human and half Dragon—although he does not know about his Dragon heritage. He is also one of the best restorers and copyists I know. If anyone can help you reveal the secrets of the Pentacle Pentimento, it is Peter.”
Great goddess, why me? Donata thought, not really expecting an answer.
Did you not say you wished to be of service? A soft female voice echoed inside her head. The goddess herself? Her own subconscious? Impossible to say. But Witches believe that what you put out into the world was what you got back. She had made the choice to serve Humanity—that didn’t mean she necessarily got to choose how she was meant to do so.
Donata sighed in resignation, and she could see the ghostly old man before her sag in relief as he read her acceptance on her face. Even the Kobold seemed to relax, and at her feet, Grimalkin gave a meow of approval. Completely outnumbered, that was her.
“Fine, so how do I find this Peter Casaventi, anyway?” She thought for a second. “And when you say ‘copyist,’ do you mean ‘forger’? Please tell me you’re not sending me to ask some criminal for help with a painting that’s currently locked up in the evidence locker at the police station.”
Farmingham had the grace to look down at his feet, although there wasn’t much to see there at the moment. “He’s a great talent,” the ghost protested, “one of the best I’ve ever seen. He comes from a family of famous artists—you’ve heard of Lily Casaventi, surely?”
Donata nodded. “Of course, didn’t the city commission her to paint that huge mural at the new capitol building?” She searc
hed her memory. “I’ve heard of Lily, and aren’t there a couple of daughters and a son who are also famous artists? Is Peter the famous son?”
The ghost gave her a doleful look. “No, he’s not. In fact, he’s the only one in the entire family without a speck of artistic talent. It was quite the disappointment, apparently.”
“But you just said he had great talent,” Donata protested.
“As a copyist and a restorer, yes, indeed,” Farmingham said. “He can reproduce anyone else’s work flawlessly. He just hasn’t got the gift for creating anything new, alas.” He started to fade again and brought himself back into focus with increasing difficulty. “I’m afraid I lost touch with him years ago and have no idea where he lives at present. He keeps a very low profile, both to reduce his association with his family and because of his . . . er . . . sideline.”
“You mean, because he’s a forger,” Donata stated bluntly. “Great. So now I’m going to have to go dig through the records at the station to find the address and phone number of a known felon. Terrific. The Chief ought to really love that.”
Farmingham shook his head. “You won’t find him in any official records, Officer Santori. He’s never been caught, as far as I know. And while he occasionally surfaces for some sort of family gathering he can’t get out of, other than that he seems to vanish from society.”
“Well, that’s just great,” Donata said with a scowl. “So how am I supposed to find this mysterious forger?”
“Copyist,” Ricky the Kobold corrected, and then added helpfully, “I guess you’ll just have to use the Ghouls.”
Aw, crap.
Chapter Six
Donata chewed on a ragged cuticle and clicked through to another page in the municipal database. Nothing. Add that to all the other information she’d tracked down about the elusive Peter Casaventi and she had, well, nothing. Squared.
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