Veiled Menace

by Deborah Blake

  A low chuckle sounded in the room behind her, making Donata jump.

  “Ha,” her friend said. “Caught you looking out the window again. Don’t you ever get tired of staring at that stupid parking lot? No one who works here can even afford a decent car; it’s just a bunch of trucks, a few economy cars, and your banged-up old BMW motorcycle.”

  Donata could see Doc Havens’s reflection in the glass, her curvy body currently attired in an official white lab coat.

  She turned around to smile at her best friend. “Hiya, Doc. What brings the coroner to my little piece of paradise? Run out of people to cut up?”

  Doc parked the edge of her bottom on Donata’s battered wooden desk, making a stack of files teeter dangerously. “As if. Folks are killing each other so fast, I can’t keep up. Of course, at least I don’t have to talk to the corpses.” She gave a delicate shudder. “Ugh, I don’t know how you do it.”

  Donata thought it was ironic that even Doc, who could carve out someone’s liver without batting a heavily mascaraed eyelash, found Donata’s job a bit disturbing. Still, at least the coroner hadn’t let that get in the way of their friendship. Most of the other cops keep their distance, never quite feeling like Donata was one of them.

  “So, what’s up, Doc?” she asked.

  The coroner rolled her eyes. “You know, that just never gets old.” She shifted her weight and caught a sliding file without looking. She was used to the chaos that Donata called a filing system, although she didn’t understand why the office was so messy and the basement room Donata still used for rituals was so painfully neat. Of course, Doc wasn’t a Witch, so the entire magic thing still seemed exotic and mysterious most of the time.

  “I was in the building to talk to the Chief about a case and I thought I’d stop by and see if you’d gotten anywhere on that other issue.” Doc glanced at the open door as a uniformed officer passed by. “You know—the disappearances.”

  Donata turned back to the window, grimacing. Sometimes Doc had all the tact of a bull moose. Actually, most of the time Doc had all the tact of a bull moose. It was part of her charm.

  “They aren’t disappearances and you know it. They’re more like, um, non-reappearances.” She shrugged without taking her eyes off the cars below, pretending an indifference she didn’t feel. She knew she wasn’t fooling her friend for a minute, but a girl had her pride.

  “So still no word, huh?” Doc said, sympathy broadening her drawl. “From either of them?”

  Donata muttered a few rude words under her breath in answer. When she’d gotten involved with the rare Pentacle Pentimento, she’d ended up turning to two men for help—Peter Casaventi, a half-Dragon art forger, and Magnus Torvald, a disgraced Shapechanger who was also her on-again, off-again lover.

  In the end, they’d managed to thwart both the sinister Cabal, a fanatical renegade sect of the Catholic Church, and the Alliance Council. But they’d lost an ally in the process, Peter had been badly burned, and the painting had been destroyed. Well, probably. Almost certainly.

  Donata hoped it had been, anyway. The thing was too dangerous to be allowed to exist.

  When it was all over, both guys took off. They had obligations and family matters that couldn’t wait. Donata understood that. And she was sure that she’d hear from both of them soon.

  Of course, she’d been a little more sure of that six months ago.

  Damn it.

  “Donata?” Doc cleared her throat. “I’m guessing your silence and the fact that you’re grinding your teeth means no?” She walked up behind Donata and tugged on the end of her long braid to get her attention. “Earth to Donata?”

  “Oh, sorry,” Donata said, facing her friend and reclaiming her hair. “I’m a little tired, that’s all. I haven’t been sleeping well. Probably just nervous about my new duties.”

  The extra work she’d been doing for the Chief was definitely a challenge. She’d had to work on her magical skills in a way she hadn’t since she was a young Witch receiving her first training. Which reminded her . . .

  “Oops,” she said, glancing at the ugly metal clock that hung slightly lopsided on the institutional green wall. “I almost forgot. I have an appointment. Walk out with me?”

  She grabbed her black leather jacket off the back of her chair and the helmet from underneath her desk. “Come on, I’m already late.”

  Doc followed her out of the room, shutting the door behind her with a decisive click.

  “Please tell me you’re not rushing to meet that Eastman character.” Doc made a face. “Seriously, I don’t understand what you see in him.”

  Donata rolled her eyes at her friend. “And I don’t see what you have against him. He’s a very successful businessman, and the companies he owns all specialize in ecologically friendly power sources. I’d think you’d be impressed by that. Not to mention that he’s handsome, and well educated, and very polite.”

  Doc snorted. “Very polite? That’s the nicest thing you can come up with?” She smacked Donata playfully on the shoulder, but her tone didn’t disguise her unhappiness. “It’s not like you’re bringing him home to meet your parents.”

  “Goddess forbid,” Donata said with feeling. Her parents were both influential and powerful figures in Witch society. To say they didn’t approve of Donata’s career choice would be an understatement. She had as little to do with her entire family as she could manage, outside of the obligatory Saturday night dinners, although she occasionally talked to her sister Lucia, a gifted healer who worked at the local hospital. “I haven’t brought home a guy in almost ten years, and I’m not about to subject some poor man to that experience any time soon.”

  Doc Havens looked thoughtful. “Oh, I don’t know—I think Anton Eastman would get along quite well with your parents. He’s rich and successful, cold and distant, and never smiles unless he’s trying to convince you to do something you don’t want to do. I’m betting they’d love him.”

  “He’s not that bad!” Donata said, scowling at Doc. “And he’s nothing like my parents!” She stopped in the middle of the hallway. “Stop trying to psychoanalyze me; you know it makes me crazy.”

  “Ha. You were crazy long before I met you.” Doc kept walking, and after a minute Donata caught up with her. “And I didn’t even mention that he’s older than you and represents the kind of guy you think you should go out with, rather than the kind you want.”

  “Oh, for Hecate’s sake,” Donata sputtered. “Just because he isn’t a ‘bad boy,’ you think he’s boring. I’ll have you know that he pursued me for two straight months before I even agreed to go out with him. That’s not boring. It’s kind of refreshing, actually.” Especially compared to guys who disappear and never even bother to call and tell you they are still alive. Dammit.

  “Uh-huh.” Doc wasn’t fooled for a minute, of course. “And I don’t think he’s boring. I think he’s creepy.”

  “Creepy?” Donata stared at her friend as they pushed through the front doors together. “Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?” She stopped for a minute to breathe in the crisp fall air. Even in the midst of the city, she could swear she caught a whiff of apples and hay.

  Doc shook her head, causing her short blonde hair to sway back and forth. “Look, I know you think he’s a nice enough guy, and he distracts you from missing your pals Magnus and Peter too much, but I still say there is something wrong with him. I don’t know what—I’ve just got a gut feeling.” She stood in front of the brick precinct building, hands on her hips like a miniature drill sergeant in three-inch heels.

  Donata laughed. “Doc, the only time your gut feelings are reliable is when you are up to your wrists in someone’s abdomen. You have the worst instincts of anyone I know when it comes to actual live people, no matter how good you are with the dead ones.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words.

  “Yeah, well, that may be t
rue most of the time,” Doc admitted, “but this time I’m telling you, there is something off about the guy.” She gave Donata a narrow-eyed look, setting her jaw. “I wish you wouldn’t see him anymore. It’s not as though you like him all that much. He’s just good for your ego, and you’re still smarting because you haven’t heard from either of the guys you really do like.”

  Ouch. Okay, that was a little too close to the truth, Donata thought. Not that she was going to admit it. Besides, it didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to meet Anton Eastman anyway.

  “I don’t have a date,” she said, hoping to change the subject. “I’m going to Great-Aunt Tatiana’s for another magical lesson. I have to hone my skills if the Chief is going to keep sending me out into the field. Talking to ghosts is all very well and good, but I need to practice some of my other abilities; I haven’t used most of them since I went to school. Some of them could be quite handy in police work—tracking spells, psychometry, stuff like that. Aunt Tatiana has this great old family book she’s letting me study, and I told her I’d come over this afternoon and go over some of it with her.”

  “Psychometry,” Doc said, rolling the word over her tongue with a slight emphasis on the first two syllables. “Is that the one where you can touch an object and sense things about the person it belonged to?”

  Donata nodded. “That’s right. If I can master that, think how useful it could be in police work.”

  Doc shook her head sorrowfully. “I can only think about how depressing it would be if you could never buy used clothing again. Now that would be a crime.”

  Donata gave Doc a rare hug, moved by her concern. “I’m fine, Doc, really. You worry too much. Believe me, Anton Eastman is just a nice, normal guy.” She turned and walked briskly down the street, braid swinging as she headed for her motorcycle. Time to go learn some magic.

  Chapter Two

  Donata held her breath as an iridescent bubble formed within the cauldron in front of her and floated up to sit lightly above the rim. The size of a large melon, the bubble glowed faintly as it rose; within its translucent interior, she could almost glimpse . . . something. The smell of sage and mugwort tickled her nose.

  “Odin’s buttocks!” she said, frustration making her forget where she was. “I just can’t seem to make it clear enough. Is that a thunderstorm, or just a bunch of fuzzy cloth?”

  “Language, dear,” her great-aunt Tatiana said, expression stern. “And you know I can’t see anything in a bubble you conjure up any more than you can tune in to the visions I see in my crystal ball.” She leaned forward anyway, one gauzy sleeve of her dress coming perilously close to the fire under the large cast-iron pot. “Witchcraft just doesn’t work that way.”

  “It doesn’t work for me at all,” Donata muttered. “Even when I use Great-Great-Great-Grandmother’s special book.”

  “Don’t be defeatist, dear,” Tatiana scolded. “You know how important attitude is to success with magic. Besides, maybe we just need to tweak the spell a little bit. After all, the book is almost two hundred years old; even magic changes over time.”

  Donata felt her eyes widen in shock. The book was practically the equivalent of the Holy Bible in her family—no one ever suggested changing any of the spells it contained. Most of the spells might not work well—or at all—but it was a family heirloom, and therefore sacrosanct.

  “Tweak the spells? Can we do that?” She gave her favorite relative a dubious glance. Great-Aunt Tatiana might still be as slim and straight as a birch tree and as tough as old shoe leather, but she was one hundred and seventeen years old—even for a Witch, that was considered elderly. Maybe she was finally losing it.

  Her aunt sniffed indignantly. “Would I say it was possible if it wasn’t? Of course we can make changes to the spells.” She tapped the book with one slightly bent finger. “I’m not suggesting we disrupt the original intent of the spell, merely that we try substituting an herb or two. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

  Donata grinned. No wonder she loved the old bat so much. In a family full of uptight rule followers, she and Tatiana were the only ones who consistently insisted on coloring outside the lines. They had to stick together in self-defense.

  “It’s not that I’m not willing to experiment, Aunt Tatiana,” Donata said, casting a disheartened glance at the bubbling cauldron. “But you have to admit, I’ve never been good at spellcasting beyond the basics all Witch-children master by the time they’re ten. Other than my ability to summon the dead, I haven’t got much in the way of magical talent.”

  Her aunt flipped through the pages of the book, careful not to damage the antique binding. It rested on one of the many scarred wooden counters that ran around the outside of the stone basement room Tatiana used for her magical work. The space was so old, the mortar between the stones was crumbling and a fine layer of gritty dust lay on the flagstone floors beneath their feet. Swaths of cobwebs swung from the wooden beams that ran overhead for the length of the room, blackened by time. In the center of the room, the huge metal cauldron sat on top of a fire pit that had been built into the floor. A fine haze of smoke meandered out through the cleverly designed ventilation system in the ceiling.

  “Darling, you have more power in your little finger than most Witches have after a lifetime of practice. You’re just a late bloomer, that’s all.” She gave Donata a secretive smile. “Just you wait, dear. You’ll see. We merely need to start stretching your magical muscles a little.” Tatiana peered over the top of her half-moon glasses. “You’re not usually this testy. Did something happen at work today?”

  Donata hesitated, not wanting to burden her great-aunt with the more gory details of her job, but longing for someone to talk to about it. In the end, she stuck to generalities, asking the question that had been gnawing at her liver like a giant eagle since her discovery that morning.

  “Auntie,” she said, still staring into the depths of the cauldron, “why would a member of one of the major Paranormal races break the rules of the Compact?” She turned to look at the older woman. “Wouldn’t they have to know they’d eventually be caught and punished? I mean, it’s not like we’re talking about a slap on the wrist here; most Paranormals who are caught committing crimes against Humans are summarily executed for risking exposure of the Paranormal world. Why would they do it anyway?”

  Her aunt sighed and sat down on a nearby stool. “I take it you ran into a rough one.” She patted the seat next to her and waited for Donata to sit before she continued.

  “Well, dear,” she said, cocking her head to the side as she thought about it, “the problem with most Paranormals who commit crimes is that they never really believe the laws apply to them. We do, as a group, tend to feel a bit superior to Humans, I’m afraid. All those centuries of relatively unlimited power can have that effect.”

  Her faded blue eyes were shadowed by sadness. “You are part of a younger generation, Donata, one that grew up under the Compact. For you, this is the way things have always been. But for some, it has been hard to adjust to hiding in plain sight and playing by someone else’s rules.”

  Donata had never thought of it that way. “Still, that doesn’t make it right for a Paranormal to exploit a Human, just because they can. It wasn’t right before we signed the Compact, and it isn’t right now.” She scowled at the older Witch.

  Tatiana patted her hand. “Of course it isn’t, dear. I was just trying to explain why some Paranormals might have a difficult time making that distinction.” She shook her head. “Besides, there are always a few bad apples in every bunch.” She stood up and walked back over to the workbench. “Which is all the more reason for you to hone your skills, so you can stop those miscreants who give the rest of us a bad name. You have abundant gifts; you just need to figure out how to apply them.”

  Donata gave her a look that was equal parts gratitude and exasperation. “Aunt Tatiana, you have always been the only one in
this family who believed in me, and I appreciate that. But you know perfectly well that Lucia and Gabriella have ten times the talent I have.” She tried not to sulk over the lifelong disappointment of coming in second to both her older sisters in everything.

  Tatiana lifted a wooden spoon in mock threat and let loose with one of her trademark cackles. “You are such a ninny sometimes. Your sisters are very good at what they do—and healing and stock prediction are respectable trades that your parents approve of—but just because they did better than you in Witch school doesn’t make them more powerful.” She gave Donata a dark look. “Just better at sticking to assignments they didn’t particularly enjoy.”

  Donata sighed. “It is hard to enjoy being the worst in every area of spellcraft. It was easier to just stick to the one thing I was good at.”

  “That’s a cop-out and you know it,” her aunt said. “I’ve always known the power was in you somewhere. You just haven’t been ready to use it until now. But you’re finally breaking out of that rut you’ve been in, and about time too.”

  Donata tilted her head, eyeing her aunt curiously. “You know something you’re not telling me, don’t you?”

  The old woman cackled again, startling her parrot familiar from his perch in the corner. He flew around the room for a minute, imitating her mirth, before settling back down in a flurry of ruffled feathers. Donata choked back a laugh. With her fluffy white hair and colorful flowing garments, the elderly Witch bore an uncanny resemblance to her exotic bird.

  “Donata, my dear child, I know a great deal I’m not telling you.” She snorted. “But I will tell you this: you have one ability that is both rare and a sure sign of power, which is why I always knew you had potential you had yet to tap into.”

  “What in Hecate’s name are you talking about?” Donata asked. “I don’t have any rare talents.”

  “No?” Her aunt tapped the side of Donata’s nose with the end of the spoon. “What about the fact that you can call on any god or goddess, not just the ones you worship? No one else in this family can do that; not even your mother.” She looked smug. “No one besides me, that is.”