Veiled Magic

by Deborah Blake

  He shot her a glance full of exasperated affection. “These people aren’t going to go away, Donata. And we can’t fight them off forever without someone getting hurt.”

  She looked at his bandages pointedly, and he added, “Well, more hurt.”

  Donata sighed. “I know, I know.” She started pulling her clothes on with a reluctance that was one part due to their odor and state of disrepair and another part longing to stay here in this moment of temporary comfort—no matter how illusory it was.

  “That’s why I’d better get back to Peter’s and make sure he’s working on a copy of the painting,” she said. “And you’d better get back to trying to track down the guy you said you thought might be able to help us.”

  Magnus shrugged in defeat. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. But, ’Nata, before you go, I think you’d better take that shower first. I’m pretty sure I have a few things of yours from when you used to occasionally spend the night.” He wrinkled his nose to make his point. “If you go out looking and smelling like that, one of your own cops is likely to arrest you for being a public menace.”

  “Nice,” she said, stalking off in the direction of the bathroom. “Like I’m not getting enough abuse from everyone else.”

  The sound of his laughter followed her all the way into the shower.

  * * *

  Donata left her motorcycle in a parking garage about two blocks from Peter’s condo and cast a simple cloaking spell before walking the rest of the way. It worked by nudging the eye away, rather than by granting true invisibility (a level of magic well beyond her abilities), but it was almost as effective.

  She didn’t really think anyone had followed her to Magnus’s house, and she hadn’t spotted anyone out in the predawn gloom except one sleepy guy driving a garbage truck, but better safe than sorry. Especially after this latest round of threats.

  Gnawing fitfully on her lip, she tugged at her unappealing clothing as she rode up to the penthouse in the elevator. Magnus had dug out a scruffy pair of jeans that fit better when she’d left them behind three years ago, and she’d borrowed one of his tee shirts, which was so large on her, it looked like a mini-dress. Over the top she wore her beloved black leather jacket, now somewhat battered and smelling of smoke. If her mother could see her, the woman would probably turn her over to the Cabal in disgust.

  Not that she cared what Peter thought, of course. They had way more important things to worry about than her fashion sense, or lack thereof. It was just that he always looked so neat and put together—it made her a little self-conscious. Usually she was content to wear anything as long as it was clean, comfortable, and dark. Or her uniform, of course—that felt like a second skin.

  Thinking about her uniform made her glance at her phone. No more calls from the Chief; she didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad one.

  Tired to the bone, she knocked quietly on Peter’s door after he buzzed her into the building, and then leaned against the wall next to it while she waited for him to answer. Maybe he’d been reasonable and actually lain down to get some sleep. She remembered sleep . . . vaguely.

  She was in mid-yawn when the door opened and Peter stuck his head out. Naturally, he’d showered and shaved, put on a pair of pressed slacks and a pale blue button-down cotton shirt, and showed no signs of the evening’s activities. It made her feel scruffier than ever, and she snapped her jaw shut decisively.

  “Hey,” she said. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be up.” She walked past him into the apartment. “Is your mom okay?”

  He nodded. “Shaken up, of course, and a bit bruised, but mostly unharmed.” The thunderous look on his face made it clear that was a damned good thing for everyone involved. “She made a few calls to tell people she was okay and then went to lie down in my bedroom and catch up on some sleep.”

  He gave her attire an odd glance, but she couldn’t tell if it was because she looked like a refugee from the drunk tank or because he’d noticed she had showered and changed and figured out why.

  Donata tried in vain to suppress another yawn, peering around the room until she spotted Grimalkin curled up on top of a bookcase. There was no sign of the Kobold at the moment, but she was sure he was around somewhere.

  “You should probably be sleeping too,” she said. “Your Dragon physiology might have healed your wounds, but you still need to rest.” She saw the remains of what had probably been six people’s worth of food sitting on the counter, and wandered over to nibble on a piece of cheese.

  “Huh,” Peter grunted. “Look who’s talking. Besides, I wasn’t going to go to sleep until I made sure you got back here okay.” He paused and added only slightly grudgingly, “Did you get Magnus fixed up all right?”

  “He’s fine,” Donata said, chewing. A small hand materialized next to her holding a steaming cup of herbal tea, and she grasped it gratefully.

  “He was pretty badly hurt, but Ulfhednar heal a lot quicker than Humans. He’ll be as good as new in a day or two—just have another few scars to add to his collection.” She made a face. “Thanks, Ricky,” she added belatedly, too tired for good manners to be automatic.

  She stifled another yawn with the back of her hand. “Look, I’m really wiped out, and I don’t think I should go back to my place. Can I sack out on your couch again?”

  Peter raised an eyebrow. “Of course. Anytime. But I have something you should see first, if you don’t mind.” He gestured in the direction of his workroom. “I’ve been trying to get a look under that black spot on the painting, while we still have the thing. I managed to get a little bit uncovered, but it’s already starting to return to its original state, so you should go in and take a look while you still can.”

  Donata gaped at him, then grabbed his hands and pulled them toward her, palms up. Sure enough, small blisters oozed reddish white over much of the surface.

  “Horned god! Those look terrible. Don’t they hurt?” She heard herself babbling, half concerned and half angry. “I thought we’d agreed you wouldn’t do anything to the painting that would invoke the curse while Magnus was looking for the guy he thought could undo it.”

  He shrugged a cotton-clad shoulder in calm disregard for his own pain. “I wasn’t getting anywhere just examining it, and Magnus hasn’t been able to get in touch with his expert yet because of the distraction with my mother. I knew I couldn’t get very far, but I thought it was worth it to see if I could get us more information about that mystery race you’re so worried about.”

  He turned and started walking toward the back of the penthouse. “Of course, if you don’t come and look, the effort will have been wasted, won’t it? I didn’t expect it to take you so long to get back here.”

  Ouch. Donata felt guilty about what she’d been doing while he’d been risking his hands to get the knowledge she needed. Between him and her mother, she’d probably need therapy before this was all over. Assuming she lived that long, of course.

  She followed him into the workroom and over to where the Pentacle Pentimento lay on a table under a bright spotlight. Various tiny tools were scattered about, discarded when he’d gone to answer the door. A large magnifier on a swivel arm was centered on the black blotch that covered the missing race. An area about one and a half inches long by two-thirds of an inch wide had been removed to reveal a bit of the original painting. As she watched, the black coloration crept back over a millimeter of the reclaimed space.

  “Crap!” she said. “I hope you got some pictures of this, at least.” She bent her head over the picture, holding her braid out of the way with one hand and being careful not to touch anything. Unlike Peter, if she broke out in blisters, she’d have them for a week.

  “Of course I did,” he said with his usual calm. “But I thought you’d still want to take a look at it while there was something to see in person.” He came over to stand by her, gazing over her shoulder with avid interest.

/>   “I think that piece is a stylized feather,” he said thoughtfully. “But I’m not sure about anything else. Can you make any sense of it?”

  Donata picked up a pencil and used it as a pointer, aiming it at the painting as she peered through the magnifying glass.

  “That part looks like a little bonfire,” she said, indicating a jagged-topped red area. “And I think the bit next to it might be the edge of a wave, although I can’t be sure. But it’s blue and curved, and might be the beginning of a series of curved shapes.” She straightened up with one hand on the base of her spine. “Was any more of that section visible in the photos you took, before the black stuff started coming back?”

  Peter picked up a digital camera that had been lying on the table next to a pair of tweezers and a set of miniscule brushes.

  “See for yourself,” he said, clicking it on and handing it to her. “We’ll be able to get a better view once I download it to the computer, though.”

  “Hmmm,” Donata said, gazing through the viewfinder. “It doesn’t look like there’s much more there.” She handed the camera back to him and bent back over the painting, moving the magnifier an inch to the left.

  “I’m sorry,” Peter said, regret coloring his voice. “I guess it wasn’t any help after all.”

  Donata tore herself away from the picture, blinking a little. “Um, no, actually it’s enough to give us a hint—at least I think it is.” Damn, she really needed to get some sleep. She was starting to sound even less coherent than usual.

  Peter gave her a puzzled look. “It is?”

  She reminded herself that he’d been raised as a Human, not a Witch, and therefore didn’t always have the same frame of reference to fall back on when dealing with the Paranormal world.

  “Well, I could be wrong, of course.” She smiled up at him. “I’m not exactly at my brilliant best at the moment. But look here.” She picked up the pencil again and used it to indicate the red area. “If that’s Fire”—she moved the pencil over a fraction—“and that’s Water”—she tilted the pencil a bit to the left—“and the feather represents Air, then we have three of the four symbols for the elements.” Standing up straight again, she placed the pencil gently down on the table. “How much do you want to bet that somewhere under that black splotchy bit, there’s a symbol to represent Earth as well?”

  Enlightenment dawned on Peter’s face. “I see,” he said with enthusiasm. “So they’re the symbols for Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. Of course!” He peered at the painting for a minute, and then his face fell. “But what does that tell us? Is there some Paranormal creature that is particularly associated with the four elements?”

  Donata scratched her nose, prodding her tired brain to something that resembled thought. “Huh. Well, Witches are tied to the elements. But they’re not exactly lost, are they? And there’s the Minor Anemoi, but I don’t see what they could have to do with this. They’re definitely not a major race. More like a subset with a bunch of smaller races—you know: Dryads, Water Sprites, Kelpies, and the like.”

  “Oh.” Peter sounded disappointed. He leaned over and turned off the spotlight, since he clearly wasn’t going to be able to do any more work on the painting for the moment.

  He picked up the camera and they started walking back toward the living room. Donata yawned again, looking forward to a couple of hours on Peter’s comfortable sofa.

  “Hey,” Peter said, suddenly struck by a question. “Donata, why do they call them the ‘Minor’ Anemoi?”

  “Huh?” Donata was too tired to grasp what he was getting at.

  “I was just wondering,” he said, “why they call them ‘minor’—I mean, compared to what?”

  Donata opened her mouth to answer, when Ricky suddenly appeared at their feet.

  “We got company,” he said in his rough voice.

  Peter and Donata shared an alarmed glance and looked in the direction of the front door.

  “Cabal?” Peter asked the Kobold.

  The small man shook his knobby head. “I don’t think so. One guy, well dressed, looks too relaxed to be evil.” He snorted in disgust. “He’s just standing there, knocking politely. Maybe he’s an Avon lady.”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “Somehow I doubt it.”

  “Who else knows you live here?” Donata asked, suddenly wide awake.

  “Other than you, Magnus, and my mother?” Peter said. “Not a soul.”

  “Crap,” she said, feeling the pit of her stomach drop. “Crap on toast with a side of phooey.”

  * * *

  Peter gave Donata a little shove in the direction of his bedroom.

  “You’d better go get my mother up in case we have to make a run for it,” he said. “I’ll see who’s at the door.”

  “I’ll go with ya,” Ricky said, rolling up his sleeves over surprisingly muscular arms. “Just in case ya need a hand.” He aimed a fierce look at the front entrance, and Donata suppressed a grin. She’d bet on the little guy any day.

  She headed toward the back of the apartment and roused a sleeping Lily Casaventi into anxious awareness.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Donata said as they walked back into the living room, “but there was someone at the door and we weren’t sure if he was friend or foe, and he somehow made it through the downstairs entrance without setting off the alarms—”

  She ground to a halt in the doorway as she was greeted by the sight of Peter conversing with an elegant silver-haired man who bore a startling resemblance to him.

  “Friend, surely, my dear,” the man said smoothly, executing a little half bow. “Lily. It has been a long time. You are just as lovely as ever.”

  Donata glanced at her companion, who turned a becoming pink and clutched at Donata’s arm as if it were a life raft in a tumultuous sea.

  “Raphael,” Peter’s mother said, lifting one palm in a vain attempt to cover her multicolored eye. “You came.”

  Peter spun around to confront his mother. “You called him? Why?”

  Lily fluttered her hands, suddenly nervous despite her relatively calm demeanor during the earlier crisis. “Sweetheart, there are things you don’t know. Things I could never figure out how to tell you . . .” She indicated Raphael. “After what happened at the warehouse, I thought you needed . . . well, I thought someone should explain . . .”

  Raphael took pity on her and interrupted. “Your mother thought you needed to know that your parentage was not exactly as you had always assumed. That you are, in fact, half Dragon.” He made another small bow, this time in Peter’s direction. “Because of me, I’m afraid.”

  Peter rolled his eyes. “Old news. Donata told me days ago.” He gave her a halfhearted smile. “Of course, she didn’t mention the whole spitting-fire bit, as it happens.”

  Donata winced. “Sorry about that. Honestly, I didn’t know you could do it. Most half-Dragon children can’t.”

  Raphael turned his patrician face toward Peter’s mother, black eyes steely. “He can produce fire? You didn’t tell me that.” He glowered at her. “In fact, you didn’t tell me much, other than the fact that I had a son you’d never bothered to inform of my existence, and that he was in trouble. Perhaps you would be kind enough to fill in the blanks now that I am here?”

  Ricky suddenly appeared in their midst, bearing a tray with a teapot almost larger than he was and a stack of cups. It was starting to become a habit.

  “Why don’t we all sit down and get better acquainted?” he said, obviously trying to defuse the tense atmosphere. “I have some nice strong Russian Caravan tea, just the thing for a predawn confab.” He put the tray down on the coffee table with a clatter and started pouring. The rest of the people in the room slowly moved into the seating area and sat down—Donata, Peter, and his mother on the sofa, and Raphael and Ricky on the chairs opposite. Ricky was so short, his legs swung an inch or two above the
floor. But that didn’t stop him from acting as “mother.”

  “There’s milk or lemon,” he said in a determinedly chipper voice. “Anyone?”

  “Milk, if you please,” Raphael said. “I’m afraid I am still somewhat groggy from my long hibernation; a good strong cup of tea will go down rather a treat.” He spoke with a slight English accent that went well with his reserved, formal manner.

  Peter accepted a cup absently, looking with bemusement from his mother to his newly discovered father.

  “I don’t understand what you’re doing here,” he said. “How did you find me?”

  Raphael gave Lily a wintery smile. “Your mother called me. I gave her a number years ago that she could use to reach me, anytime, should she have a need.” He frowned. “Of course, I would have expected her to use it to tell me she was pregnant with my child, rather than waiting until thirty-eight years later.”

  Lily spoke at her shoes. “You were hibernating.” Then she pulled her head up and made herself look him in the eyes, in a show of courage that made Donata want to cheer. “Besides, you would have taken him. And he was my child, and I loved him.” She set her jaw defiantly. “Now he’s all grown up and it’s too late for that. But it isn’t too late for you to teach him what he needs to know.”

  Peter made a small sputtery sound, and Donata patted him on the thigh. This couldn’t be easy.

  Raphael scowled, his silvery brows drawing together. “That was not your decision to make. You should have informed me.”

  Lily stared him down. “You told me about how Dragons regard children, how rare and treasured they are. Are you saying you wouldn’t have taken him?”

  A moment passed in silence. Then Raphael shook his head. “No. Of course I would have. No Dragon child should be raised by a mere Human.”

  Peter choked on his tea. “Excuse me? That’s my mother you’re talking about. And she did a great job raising me!”

  “Indeed, so it would seem,” Raphael allowed graciously, casting a glance around Peter’s beautifully appointed penthouse. “You seem to have turned out rather well, all things considered.”