Veiled Magic

by Deborah Blake

  She glanced at the notes she’d jotted down during a morning spent hunched over the computer hoping that no one would come in and ask her why she was looking up information on a well-known painter’s obscure son. Apparently Farmingham had been right both about Peter Casaventi not being known as a forger and his keeping a low profile. Damn it.

  All she could find were a few references in the society pages, all concerning his attendance at various high-profile Casaventi family events. Most of the papers referred to him as a “reclusive restorer” and mentioned his “tragic” lack of artistic talent. A few showed pictures of him with beautiful blonde women—all of whom looked more or less alike, and none of whom ever showed up more than once. Not helpful.

  Donata had used all the not-inconsiderable resources available to her as a police officer and hadn’t even turned up so much as a home address. The man had clearly taken secretive to a new level. The address listed on his driver’s license was a condo owned by the family and apparently used as an occasional pied-à-terre by any of the members who might need it. The only phone number in the system was years old and long disconnected. Due to the unusual nature of her work (and the fact that, up until now, she had rarely left the basement to work on a case), she didn’t have the kind of informants network that a typical cop might use.

  She did have her sources, since she’d occasionally had to follow up on information given to her by a victim. But she really didn’t want to use them if she didn’t have to. Really, really, really didn’t want to use them. She could feel her stomach clench at the thought.

  A large fist rapped briskly on her half-open door, and the Chief slid his impressive bulk into her office and settled it into the only other chair available. It wasn’t as though she did a lot of interviews down here, after all—mostly the cop in charge of a case would come down, explain the case, drop off a file with a picture of the vic, and maybe a suspect or two, and skedaddle as fast as possible back upstairs where the atmosphere was a little less oppressive.

  The Chief looked around her office with a dubious expression on his face, shaking his head. He’d seen the room last week, of course, when he’d come down to beg her help in finding his granddaughter, but he’d obviously had other things on his mind at the time. Now she saw him registering anew the dingy walls, lack of windows, and the pipes that ran along the back and clanked in time with the bathroom use on the second floor. Home sweet home.

  She clicked a computer key inconspicuously, closing the search program she’d been looking at, and swiveled her chair to face his. “Hello, Chief,” she said more cheerfully than she felt, “what brings you down to my little slice of paradise?”

  The Chief grunted as he shifted on the stiff wooden chair, trying to find a comfortable position. Eventually he gave it up as a lost cause and got to the point of his visit.

  “Nice job yesterday, Santori,” he said in his usual gruff tone. “Thought you might like a follow-up on the Franco angle, since you were the one who fingered him for us.”

  Right, Donata thought to herself. The boss coming downstairs to give a report to a junior officer. It’s official: hell has frozen over. She bit back the temptation to call him on it—he’d tell her whatever was on his mind eventually, and she didn’t want to screw up a good thing by opening her big mouth.

  “Um, sure, Chief,” she said instead. “Did they bring him in?”

  The big man nodded. “Oh, yeah. Dragged him down here to listen to the EVP tape of our pal Marty’s confession.” His face screwed up like he’d bitten into a lemon. “Him and his high-priced lawyer, sitting there in their suits that cost more than I make in a month. Didn’t even bother to deny the charges once he heard the tape.”

  Donata was confused. Not that this was an unusual state for her these days.

  “You don’t seem too pleased for a man who’s got the guilty party all locked up and tied with a ribbon,” she commented dryly. “I’m guessing that’s not the whole story?”

  “Huh,” the Chief grunted. “Nope, that’s the good news. The bad news is, Franco refused to name the person or persons who actually commissioned the painting theft.” He scowled, making Donata twitch involuntarily. “Franco said he’d rather take his chances with a judge than piss off the guy who hired him.”

  “Is he that scared of the guy?” Donata asked, thinking of the shadowy Cabal.

  Her boss shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe. More likely he figures he’d be out of business forever if he ratted out his customer. This way, he does a couple of years in jail, the customer gives him some extra compensation for keeping his mouth shut, and once he gets out, it’s right back to work.” The lines carved deep into his craggy face deepened momentarily, then eased again.

  “Truth is, this is just business as usual,” he said with resignation. “You can’t let it get to you. And hey, at least someone is going down for the crime, and that’s what matters.” He eased his bulk up out of the chair and reached across the table to shake Donata’s hand. In her surprise, she almost didn’t remember to get up and shake back.

  “You did a good job out there in the field, Santori,” he added. “I’m starting to think I might have been ignoring an asset that’s been right under my nose all along.” He looked around the room again and shook his head. “I think maybe it’s time to expand your job description a little, don’t you?”

  Shut up and agree with him! a little voice in the back of her head shouted. Don’t rock the boat—not now! Naturally, she didn’t listen.

  “Um, that would be great, Chief,” she said. “But I actually think I have a lead that might get us some more answers about this case. I’d like to follow it up, if that’s okay with you?”

  The Chief sat back down, more slowly, and gave her an inscrutable look. “What kind of lead, Santori? And where did you get it, exactly?”

  She couldn’t tell if he was intrigued or furious. Or just had indigestion from eating the cafeteria food again. Damn, she should have just kept her mouth shut.

  “Well, I, uh, got a visit last night. At my apartment. Um, from Clive Farmingham.” She waited.

  His brow wrinkled. “Farmingham?” The other shoe dropped. “Wait, Farmingham the dead guy from the museum? That Farmingham?” He looked alarmed. “You got ghosts dropping in to visit you all the time, do you, Santori?”

  She guessed he wasn’t going to be stopping by her apartment for coffee anytime soon. The thought made her smile and she coughed to cover it up.

  “No, thankfully, not that often,” she said. “But Farmingham had something major on his mind, and he’d tried to tell me at the museum. When I didn’t listen then, he followed me to my place.”

  The Chief rolled his eyes. “You know, Santori, most people have stray dogs follow them home. You might want to try that instead.”

  Donata laughed. “Well, my cat wouldn’t approve of that, for starters. Besides, if he hadn’t followed me home, I wouldn’t have the additional information he gave me. So it turns out to be a good thing—although I’ll confess, I wasn’t any too pleased when he first showed up.”

  “I’ll bet,” the Chief muttered. “I hope you’re not expecting me to go to your apartment to interview a ghost. I’m trying to give you a little more scope here, but I gotta draw the line at that one.”

  “Not to worry,” Donata reassured him. “Farmingham is long gone now. He said what he had to say and moved on.” She didn’t add that the reason he’d felt free to continue on his journey to the next plane was because he’d laid his problem squarely on her shoulders. She just hoped they were broad enough to carry it.

  “So what was the big news this guy had to tell you? Must have been important if he put off going to the light—or whatever ghosts do—so he could let you know about it.”

  Donata had spent a good chunk of the morning trying to figure out what she could and couldn’t share with her boss. As a Human, he had no idea that Paranormals othe
r than Witches existed or the actual nature of the Inquisition, so she couldn’t mention the painting’s ties to the Inquisition or the threat it posed to the Paranormal races. And she sure as hell couldn’t say anything about the theoretical danger posed by an equally hypothetical missing sixth race. Unfortunately, that didn’t leave her much.

  So all she could do, really, was let him know that they might be able to track down the people who had commissioned the robbery through Franco. Hopefully, that would be enough.

  “Um, well, Farmingham said that if I could find another restorer he knew, that guy might be able to lead us to the folks behind the whole robbery. And that’s who you really wanted, right?” She talked fast so she could get it all out before the Chief stopped her. “If we could find the actual purchasers of the stolen painting, they wouldn’t be giving any extra money to Franco either. All the bad guys would be screwed.” She drew in a deep breath. “I’d really like to pursue this, Chief.”

  He studied her carefully for a moment before speaking. “I’ll admit, Santori, I’m impressed. It’s good to see you show a little initiative.” Then he shrugged. “But it’s not your problem anymore. Donaldson is in charge of the case—so pass your info on to him, and he’ll follow up if he thinks it’s pertinent.”

  He rose out of his chair again and headed for the door. “I wouldn’t expect much of anything to come from it, though. Most of these things turn out to be dead ends.”

  “But, Chief—”

  He looked back over his shoulder. “Let it go, Santori. You did good. Better than I expected, to be honest. I’ll probably be putting you out into the field again soon, see if we can find some ways you can be useful that don’t involve sitting in this hellhole.” He grimaced as he glanced around the room one more time. “If the other cops eventually get used to having you around, maybe we can find you an office upstairs. Something with windows, even.”

  He gave her a stern look. “In the meantime, just be patient, do your job, and stay out of trouble.” With that parting remark, he walked out and shoved the door closed behind him.

  Donata sank slowly back into her chair.

  The Chief had just given her great news: at last she was going to get a chance to really do her job, become a real cop . . . maybe even eventually be accepted by the other cops she worked with. If she did well enough, she might even finally get out of this damned basement. All she had to do was keep out of trouble.

  So why did she have the sinking feeling that there was no way on earth she was going to manage to do both?

  * * *

  It was next to impossible to juggle two pizzas, a purse, and a briefcase full of case notes and open the front door at the same time. Especially when the door in question was old, slightly warped, and had a cranky lock.

  Donata tried it anyway and nearly dropped one of the pizzas. Then the doorknob slid out from under her hand and she almost fell into the living room. Small fingers lifted up to steady her and grab the pizza boxes. What the heck?

  “About time you got home,” Ricky the Kobold said cheekily. “A fellow could starve to death in this apartment.”

  He plopped the boxes down on the scratched wooden table that sat in front of the couch and went to hang up her black leather jacket in the closet. Donata just stared at him in amazement.

  “Did you know that the only things in your refrigerator are a jar of mayonnaise and a few slices of old cheese?” he continued, ignoring her gaping mouth. “Oh, and you’ll need to get more cheese.”

  Donata finally found her tongue, if not her wits. “What are you still doing here?” she asked the Kobold. “I thought you were going to leave when Farmingham moved on.” Wasn’t her life complicated enough? Now she had a Kobold too?

  He shook his head and lifted the cover of one of the boxes to peer in at the pizza. “Nah. I decided you needed my help. One Witch against the Council and the Cabal? Hardly seems fair. So I figured I’d stick around and give you a hand. You know, help fulfill the old guy’s last wish, and all that.” He made a face. “What is this, white pizza with broccoli? Who the hell eats white pizza with broccoli?”

  Donata didn’t bother to mention that she didn’t figure a Witch and a Kobold had any better chance at success than a Witch on her own; Kobolds weren’t known for their penchant for logic.

  “I eat white pizza with broccoli,” she responded instead. Always choose your battles, that’s what her father taught her. “And you can have some, too, if you want. But leave the other one alone.”

  Ricky flicked open the second lid with one gnarly finger and let out a cry of joy. “Now that’s more like it! Tomato sauce, extra cheese, peppers, onions, sausage . . . this is a pizza!”

  Donata slapped his hand away (gently) and handed him a slice of the white pizza she’d gotten for herself. If she’d known she was going to share, she’d have gotten a larger pie.

  “Sorry, but that one’s not for us. You’ll just have to make do with this one.” She made an effort to be polite. “I don’t like tomato sauce. Hence the white pizza.”

  The Kobold took a large bite and asked around a mouthful of cheese, “So who’s the other pizza for, and how come they get one with the works and we don’t?” A chunk of broccoli hit the floor, but he just grabbed it back up and tossed it into his mouth.

  Donata noticed that the floor was a lot cleaner than it had been when she’d left for work. Apparently her uninvited guest had been busy. That was something, anyway. Especially if he was going to keep dropping food.

  “Farmingham was right about Peter Casaventi keeping a low profile—the man is practically invisible. I’m going to have to go to the Ghouls for info after all.” She stifled a laugh when Ricky made a face. She felt pretty much the same way. “So the pizza’s for Dhumavati, their matron goddess. You only bring the best when you’re petitioning a goddess.”

  Ricky moved away from the good pizza. “Especially that one.” A shudder ran the length of his little body at the thought. “You really gotta deal with that hag? Ugh.” He shuddered again. “Better you than me, doll.”

  Donata couldn’t have agreed more. The Ghouls were the least pleasant of all the major Paranormal races: they looked Human, but unlike the goddess they worshipped, instead of consuming food, they lived off the by-products of misery and pain. They didn’t cause suffering, but wouldn’t step in to stop it either, since the end results fed them. Ghouls could often be found where Humans were suffering or unhappy: bars, hospitals, jails, and the like. Faded gray people, they had a protective coloration that helped them to blend in and escape notice. If the bar you hung out in had a sad, quiet guy who always sat at the end of the bar, drinking little and saying less, odds were, he was a Ghoul.

  Ghouls were mostly neutral beings these days—their part of the Compact agreement was that they could feed off of Human misery as long as they did nothing to cause it. Pre-Compact, Ghouls had gone out of their way to start wars and disagreements. But they generally agreed it wasn’t much of a sacrifice, since Humans were so good at producing unhappiness and tragedy without any help. Still, the Ghouls were fairly bitter about the Compact. Any one of them found breaking the agreement was summarily dealt with by the enforcers from the Alliance Council for fear that their activities would draw attention to other Paranormals.

  As far as Donata was concerned, she was happy to leave Ghouls to their wretched existence; they weren’t doing any harm, at least, which was more than she could say for a lot of the folks she dealt with, although they weren’t exactly fun to be around either.

  But they did have one saving grace, at least in the eyes of Donata and her fellow Witch-cops. Due to their peculiar lifestyle, Ghouls tended to end up at the scenes of crimes and generally hung around in places where they would be in a position to pick up information from the seamier side of life. This made them particularly good police informants, if you knew they existed and were willing to pay the price for contact
ing them.

  Therein lay the catch, of course. You couldn’t pick up a phone and call one. You couldn’t even just sit down next to one as he sat in a bar or on a hospital waiting room bench. The Ghoul would only disappear before you could talk to him.

  No, the only way to speak to a Ghoul was to petition the Ghoul’s matron goddess, Dhumavati. And dealing with her was not for the faint of heart. Known as “the Smoky One,” because she was always surrounded by the smoky haze of the apocalypse that ends the universe, Dhumavati was the goddess of all those who were wretched, dying, or disenfranchised.

  Not one of the more pleasant deities. She always demanded some of the best food or drink and some form of sacrifice in exchange for summoning the Ghoul who had the necessary information. And heaven help the Witch who shortchanged her.

  Donata heaved herself off the couch and went to go pick out one of her few remaining decent pieces of jewelry. It wouldn’t do to let Dhumavati’s pizza get cold. No, it wouldn’t do at all.

  Chapter Seven

  The alley was cold and smelled like piss. A jumble of overturned trash cans transformed the back of the dead end into a sea of empty cans, broken bottles, and half-eaten food. Two mangy rats were doing their best to clean up the more edible bits; they gave Donata a casual glance as she walked into the alley, then turned back to their scavenged meal, unimpressed.

  Charming company you keep these days, she thought to herself. And you wonder why your mother looks down her elegant nose at your job. Sometimes it looks like she’s right.

  Oh, well. It wasn’t as though she had any interest in following either of her sisters’ more respected professions. She had little or no talent as a healer, unlike her eldest sister Lucia, and if she had to spend her days psychically predicting stock trends for a big-name Wall Street firm the way her middle sister Gabriella did, she’d jump out a window by the end of the first week.