“Really?” Donata bit her lip. “But that’s no big deal. I need to summon another race’s deity occasionally in order to get information about a case; like when I have to contact Dhumavati so I can talk to a Ghoul informant.” She made a face. Dhumavati was the matron goddess of the Ghouls, and She was as disagreeable and unpleasant as those who worshipped her. That particular goddess tended to manifest as a smelly, toothless hag, and was impossible to deal with unless you brought her offerings in the form of food and other gifts. Ugh. “I thought everyone could do that.”
Tatiana shook her head, causing her white hair to slip into her eyes. She pushed it out of the way with the spoon, leaving a smudge of something green over one feathery eyebrow.
“You really need to talk to other Witches more, dear. Even your mother would tell you that summoning gods other than your own is no mean feat.” She tapped the book in front of her. “And you may not have mastered these spells yet, but you’ve made more headway than most. Your sisters could never work more than one or two of these, for all their trying.”
“Mom says the book is a family curiosity; that the spells are useless and the book itself is only interesting because Great-Great-Great-Grandmother Henrietta was a member of the High Witch society at the time the Compact was signed.” Donata touched the book lightly, impressed by its age, if not its owner.
Tatiana snorted again. “Your mother doesn’t know nearly as much as she thinks she knows. Not about Henrietta, or this book, or about you.” She peered at Donata searchingly. “You have more of your great-great-great-grandmother in you than you think, Donata. In fact—” She hesitated, on the verge of saying something, and then shook her head.
“Never mind. There’s time for that later.” She opened the book to a page with a colored drawing of a hawk sitting in a tree. “Let’s practice this spell for clear vision. That ought to come in handy in your line of work.”
Tatiana walked over to the cupboards to grab some rosemary and muttered under her breath, “And it wouldn’t come amiss in your personal life, either.”
Chapter Three
As she walked into the elegant atmosphere of La Maison Vert, Donata tried to ignore the guilty feeling that threatened to ruin her evening. It wasn’t as though she had actually lied to her friend, after all. She’d told Doc she was going to her aunt’s to practice, and that’s exactly what she’d done.
Of course, she might have forgotten to mention that she was having dinner with Anton Eastman afterward.
Her twitchy nerves, or maybe some subconscious need to punish herself, had led her to walk the eight blocks between her new apartment and the restaurant, and now the high heels she was unaccustomed to were killing her feet.
Donata shook her head at herself as she allowed the black-clad server to lead her to the table where her date waited patiently, a bottle of his special reserve wine already uncorked and poured into two glasses. She could see whomever she wanted; it was unfortunate that her best friend had taken an inexplicable dislike to the man, but that wasn’t enough to stop her from going out with him.
For a few months, she hadn’t dated at all. Initially, Donata had been happy to spend some time alone. She’d needed the space to try and figure out what she wanted. Who she wanted. So she’d be ready to make a choice when the guys came back.
But they didn’t come back. Or call. Or send her e-mails, postcards, or mysterious birds with messages tied to their legs. What had been a welcome respite turned into a lonely and confusing silence.
So when she met Anton Eastman in the park (at a concert his company was funding to raise money for an animal habitat), she was flattered that such a wealthy and powerful man was interested in her. He owned businesses all over the world that specialized in environmentally friendly products and clean energy; he even owned the restaurant they were eating in tonight.
Initially, she’d resisted his overtures, not yet ready to risk her heart on another man. But eventually his polite but persistent invitations wore her down, and they’d been going out a couple of times a week for about a month now. He was a perfect gentleman: gracious, kind, and thoughtful.
To Donata, who had a tendency to be attracted to bad boys and rough-edged cops, he was a novel change of pace. She’d caught a glimpse of a tattoo under the hair on the back of his neck that made her think he might have hidden depths she just hadn’t seen yet. The contrast between the tantalizing symbols of the tattoo and his outwardly conservative designer suits intrigued her, making her think she hadn’t even scratched the surface of this complicated man.
As she slid into the seat he rose to hold out for her, she couldn’t help but wonder what Anton was hiding. Magnus and Peter had both driven her crazy, each in his own way, but after what they had been through together, she felt like she knew them down to their cores. Anton, though, was more reserved—he rarely spoke about himself, clearly more comfortable when the conversation focused on Donata or their common interest in the environment.
Of course, that didn’t mean he was concealing anything, really. Maybe he was just modest. He was so different from the men Donata usually dated that she didn’t know how to judge his behavior. And for the moment, she didn’t much care. He was pleasant company and a good distraction from worrying about whether Magnus was having problems with his Ulf warrior training back at his family’s compound, or if Peter was still healing and learning about his newly discovered Dragon half from his long-lost father.
And the food at the restaurant was delicious, even if it was a little fancy for her taste. It was more like the meals she’d grown up with than the way she’d eaten for the last fifteen years on a Witch-cop’s salary. She stifled a laugh at the thought of the polished and suave Anton eating at Gordo’s, her favorite Hungarian bistro. His thousand dollar suit would stand out like a sore thumb.
“Care to share the joke?” Anton asked, handing her a glass of wine and gesturing the waiter over with practiced assurance.
Donata bit her lip, trying not to let out an unladylike snort.
“Just a silly thought,” she said, taking a sip of wine and schooling her expression into something that resembled appreciation. To be blunt, she thought the Chablis was too dry and acidic, with strange musty undertones. But Anton was so proud of it—made from grapes grown on his own California estate—she just drank it and said nothing.
“Ah,” Anton said. He seemed to be amused by her quirkiness, rather than put off by her unusual job and her inability to conform. That alone made it worth sticking with the relationship for a little longer, although she had to confess—to herself, if not to Doc—that she still didn’t feel anything for him beyond warm affection.
“I’ve ordered the special for the day,” he said, jarring her out of her reflection. “I assume that is acceptable.” He poured her a little more wine and gave her an affable smile.
Donata nodded, trying not to be irked by his high-handed ways. “Sure, no problem. As long as there aren’t any tomatoes in it.” She made a face; something about tomatoes just gave her the icks, much to the irritation of her Italian mother.
“Anything interesting happen at work today?” Anton asked, a study in polite interest.
Donata didn’t think a gruesome suicide was appropriate dinner-table talk, so she mentioned another case instead. They spent an agreeable couple of hours eating and chatting, and then he drove her home in his limo (which ran on used oil from the restaurant).
At her door, he kissed her good night. His lips were dry and soft, and his technique was flawless. And as usual, Donata waited for her heart to beat faster or her pulse to skip a beat. Nothing. She stifled a sigh as she tried to relax into his embrace. What was wrong with her? After years of getting her hopes crushed by men who walked away from her, here was a perfectly nice guy, and she couldn’t seem to make herself feel a thing. Crap.
Still, she told herself as she stepped back, it’s only been a month. Give it t
ime. She gave him an extra warm smile to make up for her cold thoughts, and he took an eager step toward her.
Oops. Maybe the smile had been a little too warm. Anton had been hinting gently that he was ready to take the relationship to the next step, although he’d been graceful about her rebuffs so far. Still, most men were only willing to wait for so long.
He put an arm around her shoulders as he opened the door for her, a hopeful expression on his face.
“Perhaps tonight—” His hand slid down to the small of her back.
Against her will, Donata let out a huge yawn. “Sorry,” she said, stomping down a giggle. Poor guy. It was a good thing he didn’t have any confidence issues. “It’s been a long day. Thanks again for dinner.”
“I understand,” Anton said. His hand tightened for a minute before he removed it. “Sleep well then, my dear. Pleasant dreams.” He placed one more light kiss on her lips and strolled back to the car.
Donata walked up the three flights to her new apartment. It was nicer than the one she’d lost to a Cabal firebomb six months ago, but it still didn’t feel like home. Except for her roommates, of course.
As she let herself in the front door, she yelled, “I’m back,” and hung up her dress coat on the hooks by the door that already held her black leather jacket and department-issue shoulder holster.
Grimalkin, her gray cat and familiar, strolled over and wound sinuously around her ankles. He knew she always brought treats home for him on the nights she went out to dinner, which might have had something to do with his affectionate greeting. Of course, it was possible he’d just missed her. Right.
“So, you sent him home again, eh Donata?” a voice said from the area around her waist. A second later, Ricky the Kobold popped into view; all three feet of him, with long brown beard neatly combed and brown overalls tucked into soft leather boots.
Donata schooled herself not to jump when he appeared out of thin air. He’d been staying with her since the death of his friend, the museum art restorer who discovered the Pentacle Pentimento that had so upended Donata’s world.
Now she, Ricky, and Grimalkin shared a tiny two-bedroom walk-up a few blocks closer to work than the tiny one-bedroom she’d had before all hell broke loose. It wasn’t much fancier, but at least the walls were a sunny yellow instead of gunmetal gray, and thanks to the Kobold’s presence, it was always neat and tidy.
Donata had originally been resistant to the idea of being patron to a Kobold—one of the minor Paranormal races, who had adapted to Humankind’s intrusion into their lands by moving into basements and subways and remaining invisible most of the time. Not that she had much say in the matter, since once a Kobold decided to adopt a person, there wasn’t much chance of changing his mind.
But after six months, she had to confess that she’d grown attached to the little man. At least when he wasn’t being annoying, which was about half the time.
“I can’t believe you still won’t bring the poor guy up here, Missus,” Ricky was saying. “How am I ever supposed to meet anyone new if you don’t let down your hair a little?”
She sighed and plopped down on the comfortable suede sofa she’d bought to replace the ratty, lumpy one that had burned up the night of the fire. In truth, there wasn’t much she missed from her old apartment. Which was kind of sad, really.
“To begin with, my hair is just fine the way it is, thanks,” Donata said, starting to pull it out of its braid. “And besides, it’s not as though I could introduce you if I did bring him up. He’s a Human; he’d probably have a coronary if you did your little appearing act.”
Ricky chuckled and reached over to pull off her beautiful but painful shoes. He sauntered over and put them away in the closet as she sighed with relief.
“Maybe so,” he said over his shoulder. “But it would still be more interesting than hanging around here all day watching Grim sleep.”
The cat gave an indigent meow and stalked out of the room. Donata laughed, happy to be home where she could relax and be herself. She knew Ricky would give him the treats later and put the cat back in a good mood.
“You know, Ricky,” she said, stifling another yawn. “I don’t mind being wined and dined, but I do sort of miss going to Gordo’s in my jeans and leather jacket. This fancy stuff just isn’t my style.”
The Kobold clambered onto the couch next to her and gave her a knowledgeable look. “I think you miss Magnus and Peter,” he said. “Formal dating is what isn’t your style, Missus. You’d rather be dodging mysterious enemies and running for your life with them than sitting in some high-class restaurant with anybody else.” He sniffed. “Since you asked.”
Donata scowled at him. “I didn’t ask, you little Troll,” she said grumpily. “And I hated running for my life. I’m blissfully happy to be back to my usual boring routine.” Back stiff, she stalked out of the room in an unconscious imitation of her cat.
“I am not a Troll,” the Kobold muttered. “A Troll would have eaten you months ago. And if you’re so happy, how come you’re biting my head off?” He disappeared from sight, but added to the air, “If anyone’s a Troll, it’s you, Missus.”
Chapter Four
She walked down to the ocean and lay in the surf, half in and half out of the water as if caught between the land and the sea. The waves curled between her thighs and slid up to caress her breasts, tender and salty like a lover’s tears.
It was as if she was drawn to a magical place outside of space and time. There was no fear. There were no questions. Only the waves, and her.
The water should have been cold, but felt as warm as a living man would; touching strongly but gently, ebbing and flowing with a passionate embrace. The waves kissed the delicate flesh between her legs, easing in and out to mingle with her own dewy fluids.
It was as if she was filled with the perfectly fitting flesh of a lover who had been formed by the sea just for her pleasure. And that pleasure grew until her body could no longer contain it. Still held by a strange calm, the liquid climax seemed to go on and on—at once overwhelmingly intense and oddly distant.
Her whole being was suffused with a feeling of serene well-being, and she could feel herself melt into the sand, into the ocean, into the sky.
For a moment, she thought she saw a glimpse of something above her, as if the full moon overhead had glinted, just for a moment, off of soft green eyes and white teeth shining in a satisfied smile. And then there were just the waves, softly stroking, and murmuring her name. Donata. Donata. Donata.
* * *
“Donata,” a voice said in her ear. “Donata, wake up.”
Gasping, Donata bolted upright in her bed, tendrils of the strangely erotic dream still slithering through her mind. Her clothes were drenched with sweat and her body felt . . . satiated. Goddess. What was that?
She looked toward the foot of the bed, trying to orient herself, and saw two glowing eyes, floating about six inches above the comforter. She shrieked and the light came on, blinding her momentarily and revealing a hissing Grimalkin, the fur raised on his back and his puffed-out tail in the air.
“Oh, shit.” Donata tried to catch her breath. “Sorry, Grim. I thought . . . sorry.”
The cat glared at her, then curled up to go back to sleep. Donata doubted she could do the same.
Ricky squinted at her from next to the bed, his hand still on the lamp switch. He’d clearly turned on the lamp for her, since Kobolds saw better in the dark than they did in the light.
“Hey, Donata,” he said, concern coloring his gruff voice. “Are you okay? You were moaning. I thought maybe you were having a nightmare.”
A flush warmed Donata’s face. “Um, no, not a nightmare, Ricky.” She wiped one shaking arm across her moist forehead. “Just a really intense, really weird dream. But thanks for waking me up.” I think.
The little man gazed at her doubtfully, his brown beard i
n two neat braids and an old-fashioned nightcap perched on the top of his head.
“You’re sure you weren’t having that one about the fire again?” he asked. “I know that one really gets to you.”
They shared a moment of silence as they both remembered the horrible day gentle Friar Matthew sacrificed himself; burning to death to keep the Pentacle Pentimento out of the hands of two opposing factions whose possession of the rare painting could have led to disaster.
Donata shook her head. “No, thankfully, I haven’t had that one in a few months. These dreams are . . . different. Not nightmares. Just . . . different.” She faltered, not having the words to adequately describe the oddly haunting and sensual images.
Ricky hopped up to perch on the edge of the bed, short legs dangling in the air.
“Different how?” he asked, scratching his chin. “Bad? Good?”
She blushed again. “Good mostly, I guess. But strange. Not like normal, um—”
“Sex dreams?” the little man said helpfully.
Hecate’s tits. She couldn’t believe she was sitting here discussing erotic dreams with her live-in Kobold. When had her life gotten so bizarre?
“Yes, sex dreams,” Donata admitted with reluctance. “But they’re different.”
“Yeah, you said that,” Ricky said, a skeptical look on his face. “So who are they about? Magnus? Peter?” He paused. “The new guy?”
“None of the above,” she said. “I don’t really know how to explain it. This one was the ocean. I had one a few nights ago that had flames in it; but they didn’t burn in the usual way.” She shrugged. “I guess I just need to stop eating all that fancy food. I think it upsets my system.”
“Hmph.” Ricky snorted. “Maybe you have these dreams after your dates because your body is trying to tell you to get laid, not because it doesn’t like the food.” He eyed her damp and bedraggled state. “It’s been a while, after all. That’s just not natural. You Witches have a strong sex drive. You can’t just ignore those kinds of things.”
Veiled Menace Page 3