Veiled Magic

by Deborah Blake

  This unproductive train of thought was derailed by the sound of a knock on her apartment door. She couldn’t think of anyone who might possibly visit her at this hour, so she ignored it. Probably someone looking for Mr. Reynolds in 6B. They’d go away in a minute.

  But the knocking persisted—polite, but insistent—so she finally gave a sigh and heaved her body out of the tub, sloshing water on the floor in the process. Wrapping a towel around herself, she grabbed her gun as she went past and looked out the peephole at whoever was annoying enough to bang on her door at eleven thirty on a Monday night. If this was someone selling something, she might just have to shoot them. She could always say it was an accident.

  She didn’t recognize the small, dapper, dark-haired man on the other side of the door, but she did recognize the vibe he gave off: Witch, and official something or other. With another sigh, she kissed any chance of relaxing good-bye and opened the door.

  The man standing on her threshold didn’t blink at being faced with a mostly naked Witch holding a gun. Instead, he gave a polite half bow and handed her a business card.

  “Good evening, Ms. Santori,” he said with the calm air of a man who knew he wouldn’t be turned away, no matter how late the hour or inconvenient the timing. “My name is Clement Moore, and I am a representative of the Alliance Council. May I come in?” He walked inside as soon as he’d finished speaking, leaving her facing an empty hallway.

  With a shrug that threatened the security of her towel’s anchorage, she put her gun down on the table by the front door and gestured him toward a seat on the couch. Some things in life were just inevitable. Unfortunately, the Alliance Council was one of them.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” she said with resignation. “I’ll just grab a robe.”

  When she reentered the room a minute later, her unwelcome visitor was seated on the sofa, one trousered leg crossed neatly over the other. Grimalkin had taken up a position opposite him on the smaller love seat and was giving him a disdainful look. It didn’t seem to be having any ill effect, alas.

  “What do you want, Mr. Moore?” she asked. No point in beating around the bush; the sooner he told her why he’d come, the sooner he would leave.

  “Direct as always, Ms. Santori,” he said with only the slightest hint of disapproval. He was probably expecting her to offer him tea and cookies. Fat chance. “Your file indicated you might be less than thrilled with an official Council visit.”

  Oh, great—she had a file.

  “Is that what this is, Mr. Moore?” she asked. “An official visit?”

  He gave her a grave look. “Yes and no. I am certainly here on business for the Council, with their sanction and approval. On the other hand, we would prefer that this matter remain, shall we say, off the record, for the present time. If such a thing is possible.” The glance he gave her made it clear that it darned well better be possible.

  “And that matter would be . . . ?” she asked. As if she didn’t know.

  “I am here about a certain painting,” Moore stated. “The Pentacle Pentimento.”

  Of course he was. Donata was starting to regret ever wishing she could leave the damned basement.

  “Yes?” she said evenly. “What about it?”

  The man sitting across from her uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, the better to impress her with his earnestness. “The Council is very interested in this particular painting. It first came to our attention when one of our sources at the station informed us of its existence, and, of course, its current location in the evidence locker.”

  Interesting. So they hadn’t known about the painting before the murder either. “Well, if you know that much, you also know I’m no longer on the case. The painting has nothing to do with me.” Well, other than the fact that I’m planning to steal it. But she wasn’t about to share that little tidbit with an official Council representative.

  “Ah, but the Council begs to differ, Officer Santori,” Moore said smoothly. “We are quite concerned about that painting falling into the wrong hands. In fact, the Council considers it to be a major danger to the well-being of the Paranormal races, perhaps the largest threat that has come along in years.” He gave her a pointed look. “If the Cabal got their hands on it, it would be a disaster of epic proportions—possibly even leading to a second Inquisition.”

  Donata started to speak, but he cut her off.

  “I’m sure you don’t want that any more than any other Witch would, isn’t that right, Officer Santori?” He gave a small smile, knowing he had her where he wanted her. “And, of course, your family has a certain position to uphold in the Paranormal community, don’t they? I’m quite certain they would expect your full cooperation with any Council request.”

  Oh, great. Now he was bringing her family into it. She was so screwed. On the other hand, she’d known that the minute she’d seen him on her doorstep.

  “What exactly does the Council expect me to do about the painting, Mr. Moore?” she asked. “And why not have the source you mentioned before deal with it?” No doubt whoever it was had a more accepted position in the police department than she did. Maybe they didn’t want to get their hands dirty?

  He shook his tidy head and all the hairs stayed neatly in place. Probably didn’t dare do otherwise.

  “Our main concern is in keeping the painting out of the hands of the Cabal. And they have undoubtedly heard about it by now, even if they were unconnected to the initial attempt to procure the picture.” Moore’s thin lips twisted. “Clearly, it cannot be allowed to stay where it is. And the Council feels that you are the best person to, shall we say, liberate it, without drawing any more attention to it than necessary.”

  Great goddess—was there anyone who didn’t want her to steal this freaking painting?

  “You did say you have another person at the precinct,” Donata said stubbornly. “Why can’t he or she deal with it?” Maybe if someone else was dealing with the painting, it would satisfy her promise to Clive Farmingham—or at least buy her some time to come up with another solution.

  Moore gave the tiniest hint of a sigh, clearly unused to being questioned when handing out edicts from the Council to lowly Witches. But Donata just crossed her arms across her chest and waited him out.

  “Very well,” he said with reluctance. “There is the small matter of the curse.”

  Oh, for the love of— “I’m sorry, did you say curse?” Donata gritted her teeth. If that wasn’t just typical: they were going to send some poor schmuck—in this case, her—into a dangerous situation without bothering to give said schmuck the basic information necessary to actually accomplish the task at hand. No doubt they didn’t consider her qualified for “need to know.”

  “The historical data about the Pentacle Pentimentos—which, frankly, is more mythology than actual fact—indicates that there may have been a curse placed on the paintings to avoid any tampering by Paranormals.” Moore pursed his lips, no doubt in disapproval of such bad-mannered gestures on the part of the Catholic Church. “The Inquisitors who were authorized to use them would have had some way to remove the curse harmlessly, but any Paranormal attempting to alter or destroy a Pentimento would suffer from some form of retribution. It is possible that this curse may have led, directly or indirectly, to Mr. Farmingham’s death.”

  “Oh, great,” Donata said. “So you don’t want to risk your ‘source’ at the department, but it is okay to send me after it?” She scowled at him in case he hadn’t picked up on the fact that she was pissed off. It had about as much impact as when the cat had done it.

  Moore waved a calming hand at her. “Not at all, Ms. Santori. But since you have already handled the painting once with seemingly no ill effects, it was deemed prudent to allow you to continue to be the one who dealt with it.” He gave her a confident smile. “We’re certain that you will continue to be unaffected, since you have experienced no obvious
difficulties up to now.”

  Donata was neither impressed nor reassured by his certainty. Unfortunately, she didn’t really see any way around it. And she had been intending to steal the damned painting anyway.

  “So, if I get the painting out for you,” she asked, “what does the Council intend to do with it?”

  Moore visibly refrained from telling her it was none of her business what the Council did; no doubt this file of hers had mentioned that she wasn’t good at blindly following orders. (She never would have made it in the police force if it hadn’t been for her special circumstances.)

  “We have two aims,” he explained with barely restrained impatience. “Our first goal, obviously, is to keep it out of the hands of the Cabal. Once we have achieved that, we hope to be able to find some way to destroy it, or if that isn’t possible, to render it harmless by altering the information it theoretically contains about the Paranormal races.”

  Well, that was pretty much what Farmingham had asked her to do—maybe this wouldn’t be a problem after all. Or at least, no more of a problem than it had already been, before the Council stuck their collective pointy noses in.

  “What about the blotch that’s covering up the sixth race?” she asked.

  Her visitor gave her a curious look. “What blotch?”

  Interesting. Apparently their source had missed that little piece of information. “There’s a large black blob of some sort covering the face of one of the people in the picture,” she explained. “Clive Farmingham, the expert who was working on it at the time of the robbery, said he believed it hid the identity of a lost sixth Paranormal race. It was his belief that this race posed an even greater threat to us than the Cabal does, and that it is of the utmost importance we find a way to remove the mark and reveal the characteristics that would help us to track down that species.”

  Moore gave her a stare that spoke volumes about his lack of interest in the theories of a dead restorer. “This so-called blotch is of no consequence to us, Ms. Santori. I find it highly unlikely that there ever was a mythical sixth race. And if there was, I have seen no evidence that they are causing a problem.” He gave a dismissive wave. “If there ever was such a race, they probably died out years ago, as it is likely the Fae and the Dragons will do eventually if their reproduction continues to wane at its current rate. No, our only concern is with rendering the painting safe or finding a way to destroy it.”

  Donata wasn’t sure she agreed with this, but she wasn’t about to argue about it at this juncture. She supposed if she was going to be stuck dealing with the painting anyway, she might as well try and keep the Council off her back for as long as possible. At least until she could find out whether or not Peter could remove the black mark.

  “Well,” she said slowly, “I have found someone who might be able to help us with that. Farmingham suggested I take the painting to him, since he has skills in the areas of both restoration and copying. His name is Peter Casaventi.” She didn’t want to seem completely uncooperative, since the Council was so important to her family’s standing in the Paranormal community.

  A look of keen interest crossed Clement Moore’s dour face. “Ah, yes, I am familiar with Mr. Casaventi. A very interesting case.”

  Donata perked up a bit; here was her chance to find out a little more about the mysterious Mr. Casaventi. “Really? In what way?”

  “To begin with,” Moore said, “he’s half Human and half Dragon.”

  “Oh, I knew that,” Donata replied.

  Moore appeared disappointed he hadn’t been able to dazzle her with his bombshell, but went on anyway. “I see. And did you know his Dragon father never learned of his existence, and so he has been raised completely ignorant of his Paranormal origins?”

  She shook her head. That explained a few things, anyway. “How is that possible?”

  “Our records show that his father, Raphael, had a brief but intense affair with Lily Casaventi, but then lost interest, as Dragons tend to do. As far as we can tell, Lily didn’t discover the pregnancy until after the relationship had ended, by which time Raphael had gone into hibernation.” He spelled out the facts dryly, as though actual people and feelings hadn’t been involved. “Apparently Raphael had been infatuated enough in the beginning to tell her the truth about Paranormals and some of his Dragon traits, since she seems to have some knowledge of our existence. Fortunately, she was wise enough to keep this knowledge from her son. As far as he or any other members of the family know, Peter’s father is Lily’s husband, Herman.”

  Donata shook her head. Poor Peter. One of these days he was in for a rude awakening.

  “So how do you know all this?” she asked curiously. “Does the Council have a file on him too?”

  “Of course,” Moore said with smug complacency. “Since Dragon children are so rare, and Human-Dragon hybrids even more so, the Council has kept an eye on Raphael’s son.” He shifted on her uncomfortable couch and brushed fussily at a smattering of cat fur now adhering to his previously spotless pants. Donata stifled a laugh.

  “Initially,” he continued, ignoring her ill-concealed smile, “we were waiting to see if Raphael would come out of hibernation, discover he had a son, and steal the child.” He didn’t say that the Council would have stopped him, Donata noticed.

  “And now?” she asked, since that was hardly a worry now that Peter was a grown man. “I take it you are still keeping an eye on him?”

  Moore explained. “As much as we can. He has proven to be somewhat elusive, I’m afraid. These days we must content ourselves with watching him when he is out in public with his family, to see if he manifests any Dragon abilities. In which case we would step in and explain his origins to him. Up until now, there hasn’t been any need to do so.”

  Donata wasn’t sure she agreed with the idea of keeping anyone in the dark about such an important part of their life, but it wasn’t up to her. Thank goodness. She had enough on her plate without trying to figure out how to tell someone they were part Dragon.

  “So it would be okay with the Council if I consulted with Peter about the painting?” she asked. She intended to do so regardless of what Clement Moore said, of course, but it would be a lot easier if the Council approved of her actions beforehand.

  “Absolutely not,” Moore said. “There is no need to involve anyone else in this. Simply get us the painting. That is all.”

  Donata started to protest, but he held up one manicured hand to stop her.

  “I see no need for further discussion.” He glanced at his expensive watch. “It is late, and I should be going.” His gaze became steely, wiping away the civilized façade he usually hid behind.

  “Make no mistake, Ms. Santori. The Council considers this matter to be of the utmost importance. And we expect you to deal with it quickly, quietly, and with the minimum of non-Paranormal involvement.”

  As he headed out the door, he turned back and gave her another polite half bow, and added unnecessarily, “We’ll be in touch.”

  Grimalkin hissed as the door closed behind him, and Donata barely restrained herself from doing the same. She wasn’t impressed by Moore, his demands, or all his “don’t knows.” But she figured she’d better go get the painting anyway, before the freaking Cabal showed up on her doorstep and asked her to steal it too.

  She glanced regretfully in the direction of her aborted bath, but dutifully pulled on some fresh clothes, grabbed her jacket, gun, and helmet, and went out to see if she could break into an evidence locker without getting herself arrested in the process.

  As the door closed behind her, the tub started to empty and invisible hands began to tidy up the mess she’d left behind.

  Chapter Ten

  There was an advantage to being ignored, Donata thought. People around the precinct were used to her coming and going at odd hours, whenever her peculiar talents were needed. And because what she did made them so uncomf
ortable, most of them had learned to pretend she didn’t exist. At a time like this, that was actually a good thing.

  Despite the fact that it was past midnight, the desk sergeant hadn’t blinked an eye when she’d entered the building. And the late hour meant she hadn’t seen anyone on her way down to her basement office to fetch the few supplies she’d needed to concoct a sleepy-time potion. She disliked the idea of using it on one of her fellow officers, but it beat having to hit him over the head with the butt of her gun.

  Peering down the hallway that led from her room to the evidence lockers around the corner, she saw the coast was clear and placed a tiny brazier on the floor. Inside was a small piece of charcoal incense, made to burn quickly without any odor of its own. On top of that she’d placed the potion she’d made up: essence of valerian root, chamomile, lavender, and poppy. She’d have to be careful not to breathe any of it while doing the spell, or the morning janitor would find her sleeping in the hallway when he came in. Not good.

  With her mind, she shaped a small wind, calling on the power of Air to aid her. As she lit the incense, the artificial breeze wafted the potion down the hallway and through the door of the lockup area. Now there was nothing to do but wait and hope she hadn’t forgotten her basic Witchcraft skills in all the years she’d spent primarily using her abilities to talk to the dead.

  After about ten minutes, she carefully snuffed out the few remaining embers of charcoal and carried the brazier back into her office. Then she walked down the hall and into the evidence area. Peering over the countertop that separated the inside of the lockup from the hallway, she saw the on-duty officer facedown on his desk. Quiet snores rattled the paperwork under his stubbled chin. Cool.