“The painting has something to do with Paranormals other than just Witches?” he asked, then said, “It’s called a Pentacle Pentimento—I figured that made it a Witch thing.”
He turned to her, obviously relieved to be back on familiar ground. “So, what did you want me to do with the painting, anyway? You said something about fixing the pentimento underneath?”
“Well, that’s part of the problem.” Donata heaved a sigh. At least she wouldn’t have to try to explain the painting without mentioning the Cabal, Paranormals, and a holy war. But that didn’t simplify things that much.
Peter walked back over and gazed at the picture, a restorer’s fervor in his eyes. “Let’s take it into my workroom, where I can get a better look at it.” He picked it up and started walking toward a door at the back of the apartment.
Donata held her breath when he carried the picture off, but when nothing obvious happened she put her teacup down reluctantly and followed in his wake.
He led her into a large space that ran the entire length of the apartment. There were skylights overhead and more large windows along the far wall. Cabinets lined the inside wall against the back of the kitchen, and various mysterious tools hung from well-organized racks. The room smelled not unpleasantly of turpentine and linseed oil, and the same spicy smell she’d noticed in the restoration area of the museum. Paintings in various stages of completion stood on easels throughout the room, including what looked to her semi-cultured eyes like a genuine Renoir. She blinked and looked resolutely in another direction.
Peter placed the painting carefully on an empty table and turned on a couple of lights directly overhead. He pulled a large magnifier over the piece and sat down on a stool in front of it. Donata had the sudden sensation of being as invisible as the Kobold. She glanced around to see if there was any sign of his presence, but as usual, she couldn’t tell if he was in the room or not. She wasn’t even positive he’d come into the apartment with her.
“You’re sure Clive had actually uncovered a little bit of the underlayer?” Peter asked, startling her out of her tired ruminations. “There’s no sign of it.”
She blinked slowly, trying to jar her brain into life. “I’m sure. In fact . . . wait a minute.” She went back out into the living area and rooted around in the inside pocket of her jacket, which still lay where she’d thrown it on the couch as she’d come in.
She returned to the workroom and tossed a photograph at Peter, the same one she’d shown him earlier in the evening. “There. That was taken right after the attempted robbery. Check out the bottom right corner.”
Peter angled the magnifier so he could see the photo better. “Ha! You’re right—there’s a small whitish area on this photograph that isn’t on the painting now.” He looked down at the painting fondly. “You’re something of a mystery, aren’t you?” Now that they were off the topic of his unexpected Paranormal ancestry and back in the technical world he knew, he was happy as a clam.
“So, tell me everything you know about the picture and what it is we’re trying to do here,” he demanded.
Donata sighed. If it were up to her, the painting could wait until morning. But clearly there was no way Peter was going to agree to put away his new toy.
“Clive Farmingham told me that the Pentacle Pentimentos were used by the Inquisitors to help identify and destroy the Paranormal races. Something to do with information contained in that bottom layer.” She rubbed her eyes again; damn, she was tired. “He also said something about a lost sixth race; that’s what is hiding under that weird black blotch, if what he says is true. Farmingham said this supposed lost race is dangerous, and we have to uncover the information about them to prevent them from destroying the world. Or something like that.”
She looked around for another stool to sit on and didn’t see one. Great. That’s what came of hanging around with loners. Criminal loners. Never an extra chair when you needed one.
“Moore, the guy from the Alliance Council, says the Council wants the bottom layer erased or altered so it is harmless if the Cabal ever gets its collective hands on the painting. Of course, they’d also be happy if we could figure out a way to just destroy the painting, without triggering the curse, although something Farmingham said made me think it is pretty tough to actually destroy one. I don’t know if that means that if someone tries to throw it in a fire, the curse will somehow prevent them, or kill them in the process, or what. And I’m not eager to experiment in order to find out.”
“Huh,” Peter said, looking intently at the subject of all this interest. “So Farmingham wanted the painting rendered harmless, but also thought it was vital to remove that black bit and reveal what’s underneath.” He moved one gooseneck lamp an inch to shine more directly on the no-longer-uncovered section. “And the Council just wants it dealt with, one way or the other. Right?”
“Right,” Donata agreed. “And don’t forget the Cabal, who would like to get their fanatical little hands on it so they can use it to start another Inquisition.”
“Man, popular little painting for something so unattractive, isn’t it?” he said with unholy glee. His fingers twitched in their eagerness to examine the painting. Donata just twitched, period.
He looked up at her for a minute, then did a double take. “Shit, you’re about ready to fall over, aren’t you?” Guilt colored his face. “I’ve been making you give me the short history of the Paranormal world and tell me all about the painting, and all you want to do is sleep. I’m sorry.”
He glanced back down at the painting, as if it was the other pole of a magnet that attracted him without recourse. “I’d really like to take a look at this tonight. Or rather, this morning. Why don’t you go crash on my bed for a few hours?”
Donata might have been exhausted, but she didn’t think she’d get much sleep lying in the bed of a strange man—especially one she knew was a criminal. Besides, she should probably keep an eye on him to make sure the curse didn’t suddenly cause some body part to fall off or something.
“I’ll be okay,” she fibbed. “I just need to sit down.”
“You need to lie down,” Peter corrected, taking her arm and guiding her back into the living room. He shoved her gently down on the couch. “Why don’t you just close your eyes for a couple of minutes? I promise to yell if anything unusual happens.”
The soft cushions felt so good. Grimalkin looked down on her from atop a bookshelf without blinking. Surely she could trust her familiar to warn her if anything went horribly wrong.
“Okay,” Donata said, yawning. “But just look at it; maybe run a test or two. Nothing drastic, all right?”
“Sure. Nothing drastic,” Peter agreed. He turned on his heel and walked rapidly back into his workroom, Donata already forgotten.
She leaned back and closed her eyes, listening for the sound of screaming from the other room. But the apartment was silent, other than the faint snoring sounds from the bulldog across the room and a ticking clock on the mantel.
She wouldn’t sleep, Donata told herself. It wasn’t safe, here in this forger’s apartment with a cursed painting just waiting to burst into flames, or whatever it did. She’d just rest a bit so she could think more clearly. Something told her that the day ahead wasn’t going to be any shorter or easier than the one behind her. She was going to need all the rest she could get, just to deal with whatever came next.
Chapter Thirteen
The smell of coffee brewing finally woke Donata. For a few minutes, she couldn’t figure out where she was—goddess knew, her coffee never smelled like nectar with a hint of almonds. Then the events of the previous day came back in a rush, and she sat up abruptly, dislodging the cat at her head and the dog at her feet. Apparently a truce had been declared while she slept.
Donata couldn’t believe she’d actually fallen asleep in some strange guy’s apartment with the Cabal chasing her and the Council breathing down h
er neck. Either there was something seriously wrong with her sense of self-preservation or she trusted a man she knew to be a criminal on a gut level she’d only felt once before. Both options sucked.
She lay back on the couch and closed her eyes, seriously considering going back to sleep until the world resumed spinning in some recognizable fashion. But she wasn’t sure she could stay asleep that long.
The coffee smell got stronger and she opened her eyes again. Peter crouched in front of her, looking as though he’d gotten more sleep than she had, although somehow she doubted he’d closed his eyes all night. Dragon genes—it just wasn’t fair.
“I thought you might need this,” he said in his low, rumbly voice. It was surprisingly comfortable to hear first thing in the morning. Usually Donata preferred silence until she’d had her first couple of cups of coffee, eaten breakfast, and walked briskly to work. Even Grimalkin knew better than to talk to her first thing in the morning.
“Thanks,” she said shortly, reaching out for the mug. Steam wafted gently toward her, promising redemption in caffeinated heaven. “What time is it?”
Peter glanced at the clock on the mantel. “About eight. I would have let you sleep later, but I was afraid you’d be late to work.” He settled next to her on the couch and sipped from his own mug. “I put in a little cream and sugar—wasn’t sure how you liked it. I can make you another cup if you prefer it black.”
She took a cautious sip. Ecstasy exploded onto her taste buds. “No, this is good. Great, actually. What kind of coffee is this?”
“Kona,” he said. “It’s from Hawaii. Expensive, but worth every penny.”
Donata seriously considered taking up a life of crime just so she could pay to have this coffee every morning, then realized that if she didn’t do something about her job, she might have to resort to that just to get the cheap stuff she usually drank.
“Work. Crap.” She thought about the Cabal waiting for her at her apartment. What were the odds they couldn’t find her at the precinct? “Double crap.”
“Can you call in sick?” Peter asked.
She chuckled. “Why, do I look that bad?” Suddenly she was self-conscious. She probably had the worst case of couch-hair in history. And he looked as polished and poised as if he’d had a full night’s sleep. Of course, he’d probably gotten a shower—no doubt that helped. He’d even shaved, which left him looking less disreputable (although no less attractive) than he had when she’d found him in the Abyss last night. Was it really just last night? The days were starting to blur together.
Focus, Donata, she said to herself sternly. Stop ogling the forger and figure out what you’re going to do about work. She suppressed a snicker that threatened to sneak out, and Peter gave her a strange look.
“Sorry, not enough sleep,” she said. She thought for a moment. “I’ve got months’ worth of personal leave saved up. I don’t take vacations much,” she explained. “I guess I’ll call in to work and tell them I’ve had a family emergency and don’t know when I’ll be back in.” She shook her head ruefully. “I suppose if you consider all Paranormals to be one big, dysfunctional family, it isn’t totally a lie.”
Peter raised one eyebrow. “You have something against lying?”
Donata remembered who she was dealing with. No doubt he thought her some kind of letter-of-the-law goody-goody. Tough shit if he did. She wasn’t ashamed of trying to follow the rules, at least most of the time.
“Witches believe in the power of words,” she said briefly. “If words have power, you have to use them carefully. That means not lying, unless it is unavoidable. Also, I just don’t like lying.”
“Huh,” he said. “I’ll remember that.”
Right.
Donata called in to the desk sergeant and asked him to notify anyone with pending cases for her to look at that she’d be out of the office for a few days. As far as she could recall, there wasn’t anything urgent on her desk at the moment, thank the gods.
She sipped at her coffee, hyperaware of the man sitting next to her. There was something very solid about his presence, maybe because of his Dragon half, maybe just because of the man himself. And he smelled even better than the coffee—spicy and clean. Grimalkin seemed to agree, coming over to rub up against his leg, purring.
“Traitor,” she muttered at the cat under her breath. The cat just purred louder. “So,” she said hastily, before she got herself into even more trouble, “did you have any luck with the painting?”
Peter heaved himself off the couch. “Come see for yourself.” He walked off toward the workroom, looking over his shoulder to make sure she was following.
Donata wandered after him, stopping only to grab some more coffee from the high-tech coffeemaker on the counter. Stainless steel, it gleamed brightly and boasted more buttons and knobs than a NASA rocket. The man’s kitchen was amazing. And not just because most of her apartment could have fit in it.
Once she got into the workshop, Donata stopped in her tracks, jaw dropping open in astonishment. Where last night there had been only the painting and a clear space surrounding it, this morning there were piles of white gloves, colorful sketches, photos of the painting from various angles, and what looked like the results of tests on the pigments, although she couldn’t be sure. He must have been up all night.
“Did you get any sleep at all?” she asked, knowing he couldn’t have and still accomplished all this. Hell, she didn’t know how he’d managed to get this much done anyway.
He shrugged, clearly pleased at her reaction. “I don’t need much sleep. I am always eating, mind you, but don’t ever really sleep a lot unless I’m bored.”
“That’s the Dragon in you,” Donata explained. “The higher metabolism means you constantly have to stoke the fires, but Dragons can make do with very little sleep if they choose. They do hibernate, though, sometimes for years.”
Peter looked startled. “I could sleep for years?”
“Well, you’re only half Dragon, so maybe not,” she said. “But for all we know, your father—your real father—is still in hibernation.”
A shutter came down over Peter’s face at the mention of his parentage, and Donata rapidly changed the subject.
“So, did you learn anything from all this?” she asked, gesturing at the cluttered workspace.
“I learned a lot,” Peter said, “although I’m not sure how much of it is going to be helpful.” He shifted into professor mode, reminding Donata of the dead restorer at the museum.
“The painting is genuine, for a start,” he said. “The paint and canvas are both from the right period; the style fits the artist who is said to have painted it, blah, blah, blah.”
Donata’s gaze jerked from the items around the painting up to Peter’s face. “Blah, blah, blah? Are those technical terms?”
He chuckled. “Sorry. Your eyes were already starting to glaze over. I figured you weren’t really interested in the methodology I used to verify the painting’s origins.”
She tried not to smile back, and failed. “Um, no, not really. What can I say—I’m a cop, not an art historian. If you say it’s authentic, I believe you. But to be honest, I never doubted it.”
“Me either,” he admitted with a wry twist to his lips, “but the restorer in me had to be sure. After all, there are a lot of people chasing after this thing; it would be pretty ironic if it turned out to be a fake.”
“You’d know more about that than I would,” Donata said, the corner of her mouth twitching. “But we’re not going there. Tell me what you found that will help us figure out how to fix this damned thing.”
Peter shook his head. “What I learned is more along the lines of what won’t work: I tried to clean the surface, as any restorer would, and had no problems. But when I attempted to actually remove some of the top layer of paint . . . well, this happened.” He held his hands up under the lights.
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br /> Donata gasped. His fingers and palms were covered with small, round blisters. Reddish and sore looking, they wept pinkish ooze around the edges.
“Odin’s buttocks!” she said. “I thought we agreed you were just going to look at the damned thing!” She put one hand out tentatively but stopped just short of touching him. “Do those feel as bad as they look?”
He shook his head ruefully. “Believe it or not, they were a lot worse an hour ago. Now they mostly just itch.”
Even as she watched, the outermost sores started to crust over and heal, although the palms and fingertips were still bright red.
“You’re lucky you have Dragon blood and heal fast,” she scolded. “On anyone else, those would probably have lasted for days.” She had a sudden thought. “Hey!”
“Hey what?” Peter asked. “Hey, can I make breakfast since your hands are so mangled?”
Donata barely heard what he said. “No. That’s what you get for messing with the damned painting when I told you not to. My ‘hey’ was more along the lines of ‘Hey, if Clive Farmingham was half Witch and he tried to remove some of the top of the painting, why didn’t he have burns on his hands?’”
Peter looked thoughtful. “Are you sure he didn’t?”
She stared at him for a minute, then went back into the living room to fetch her cell phone out of her jacket. She dialed the number for the morgue while refilling her coffee cup one more time. Yup—still heaven.
“Hey,” she said when the attendant picked up. “This is Officer Donata Santori, Witness Retrieval. Can I talk to Doc Havens if she’s there, please?” A short, busty, and adorable blonde, Doctor Havens was the best coroner in the state, and one of Donata’s favorite people. She loved their occasional nights out on the town, mostly for the double takes when guys who hit on Doc found out she cut up dead bodies for a living.
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