Veiled Menace

by Deborah Blake

  Donata fought the impulse to ask him if he’d gotten laid recently. She probably didn’t want to know.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said instead, pulling the covers back up over her chest. “I’m fine. It was just a weird dream; don’t make more out of it than there was.” She clicked the light off decisively and rolled over, wanting the conversation to be over. After a few minutes, her breathing slowed and she fell gratefully back into dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Five

  “I can’t believe the stupid broad actually did it.” The ghost’s voice was an almost comical mix of belligerence and reluctant admiration. Under other circumstances, Donata probably would have been amused.

  But since the man in the middle of her ritual circle was describing the way his wife had killed him, she figured he wouldn’t appreciate it if she laughed out loud at his bemused expression.

  One of the other officers at the station had asked her to check into the death of a man whose history of abusive behavior made his wife’s claim that she’d accidentally run him over with his own oversized SUV somewhat dubious. Donata’s sympathies lay with the wife. It was too bad the man’s testimony corroborated the officer’s suspicions.

  Still, Donata’s job wasn’t to judge right and wrong; it was to get the truth from the dead. And she’d done that. She hesitated for a second as she got ready to turn off the EVP, the special recording machine that taped the voices of spirits so they could be used in a court of law.

  “Jonah Livingstone,” she said formally. “Do you accuse your wife, Samantha Todd Livingstone, of purposely causing your death?”

  The spirit nodded, given temporary form by the slowly swirling clouds of incense and Donata’s magic.

  “Yes,” the ghost said in hollow tones. “Yes, the bitch killed me. Ran me down with my own car.” He glared at Donata, the candles at the four quarters of the circle reflecting off the illusion of eyeballs. “Did you see the dent she put in the bumper? I just had the damn car detailed, for Christ’s sake. Stupid woman; that’s why I never let her have a car of her own.”

  Donata clenched her fists at her side and took a deep breath. The newly dead were rarely easy to deal with, but some were more difficult than others. And like many cops, she sometimes found herself liking the criminal better than the victim.

  She thought for a minute, knowing her time was running out. Most spirits could only be summoned for a limited amount of time before she needed to send them onto the next plane of existence. But maybe she could find a use for those few remaining moments.

  “Jonah Livingstone,” she said again, for the benefit of the recorder, and the judge and jury that would eventually listen to it, “did you do anything to provoke this act of violence against you?”

  The ghost snorted, plumes of smoke wafting through the air near his head. “Of course I did, you moron.” He muttered something misogynistic under his breath about female cops. “I beat the damned woman every day for the last twenty years. She deserved it too; the bitch was clumsy and useless and got on my nerves.” He rolled phantom eyes at Donata. “At least now that I’m dead, I won’t have to deal with her whining anymore.”

  Donata suppressed a sigh. One good thing about the dead: they rarely bothered to lie. That was one of the reasons the Supreme Court had passed the laws that allowed Witness Retrieval Specialists’ evidence to be presented at trials. She hoped that the dead man’s statement would at least help mitigate the penalty eventually bestowed on his poor wife.

  Donata went through the remaining steps of the ritual with the ease of many years’ practice. She sent the unrepentant ghost on into the light and whatever awaited him in his next life. Then she thanked the elements of earth, air, fire, and water for guarding her circle, and gave a special prayer of gratitude to Hecate, her matron goddess. Snuffing out the candles and the incense, she opened the circle and returned to the mundane world.

  As she walked around the nearly empty beige-painted cement room reserved for her magical work, she pondered her jobs, both old and new.

  Ironically, now that she was occasionally allowed to be more actively involved in ongoing investigations, it was somewhat comforting to come back here to her regular occupation.

  What used to frustrate her was almost reassuring in its simplicity, compared to the “special” work she did for the Chief. He’d summoned her into his office right before she’d come downstairs to work this ritual. It hadn’t been a pleasant conversation.

  He’d said, “Santori, were you aware that this Jase character was found dead in a ritzy hotel room, along with a note saying he’d killed Carly Williams when she spurned his advances, then made it look like suicide?”

  “Really, Chief?” Donata had replied, trying to keep her face blank.

  “Yes, really, Santori,” the Chief had replied, glaring at her. “There was even a nice neat explanation for his name carved on her stomach—the note said he did it to put his mark on her, show she was his after all. Then it said he was killing himself because he couldn’t live with what he’d done to her and her family.” His normally ruddy face turned a darker red. “Did you happen to know anything about this, Officer Santori?”

  She’d been able to say honestly, “No sir, not a thing, sir.” And he’d had no choice other than to slap the file shut and boot her out of his office. She’d done what he’d asked, after all. It wasn’t her fault that the results made him uncomfortable.

  Still, she thought as she packed away the ritual supplies until the next time she needed them, her regular job was certainly simpler than her new assignments, with less “gray areas” to make her boss twitch.

  She ejected the disk with today’s session recorded on it and clipped it to the case file; she’d drop it off with the officer who’d given it to her on her way back up to her tiny third floor space. The one with the window. She smiled, despite the grim conversations echoing in her head.

  The biggest problem with the Chief’s special assignments—or anything to do with the Paranormal world, for that matter—was that Human rules didn’t always apply.

  When he’d started having her look into crimes that seemed to have an element of the unexplainable about them, Donata had given the Chief (and Doc Havens, as their eyes in the coroner’s office) a brief overview of Paranormal history. That act alone could have gotten her killed. And still might, if anyone on the Alliance Council ever realized she’d done it.

  When the Paranormal races conceded the war to the Catholic Church, and signed the Compact that limited the activities and abilities of all Paranormal creatures, the one thing both sides had agreed upon was secrecy.

  The Church wanted to keep the general population ignorant of the existence of beings that challenged both religious doctrine and the glory of their One God. Not to mention they’d prefer most Humans not realize that the entire bloody Inquisition had been a battle for power between the Catholic Church and the five major Paranormal races.

  Probably five, Donata corrected herself absently. Unless Clive Farmingham had been right about the lost sixth race.

  She walked through the noisy halls of the precinct, ignoring the institutional green walls, the shouting of angry criminals, and the ever-present odor of sweat, overheated coffee, and pine-scented cleaner that lingered at the back of her throat. After fifteen years, she barely registered any of it anymore.

  She paused on the first floor to give the Livingstone paperwork to Bob Carmichael, then hit the stairs, still thinking about the issue of secrecy.

  Part of the Compact agreement had been to compel the Paranormal races to go even further underground than they had been before the war. No longer allowed to mix openly with Humans, the stories about the Fae and Dragons and such slowly devolved from living legend to fairy tales.

  And while some Paranormals resented their enforced anonymity (Witches being the exception, these days), the majority believed that the safety of all de
pended on the Humans’ continued ignorance. First and foremost among that group was the Alliance Council, which was made up of representatives from each of the major races, as well as a Protector who was the delegate for all the minor races (who, even collectively, had very little voice or power).

  Unfortunately for Paranormals who crossed the line, the Council took their secrecy rule very seriously. And those like Jase, who committed crimes so blatant that they threatened to expose the Paranormal world, were dealt with swiftly and irrevocably. Donata had realized this when she’d turned the Fae in to the Council rep, even if the Chief hadn’t. Once she’d reported him, Human justice no longer took precedence.

  As she walked down the hall to her office, Donata shivered at the thought of how close she’d come to being a victim of that same thinking. When the Pentacle Pentimento had surfaced, with its ticking time bomb of hidden Paranormal secrets, both the Council and the Cabal had gone after it—and Donata—with a vengeance.

  The Cabal was worse, of course; a fanatical offshoot of the Catholic Church that believed the Compact was a mistake and that all Paranormals should have been eradicated. The Cabal wanted the painting (a sort of early multilayered magical “wanted poster” for the Inquisition) in order to expose Paranormals, their identifying traits, and the weaknesses that allowed them to be killed. Maybe even start a second Inquisition that would have finished the work of the first one, once and for all.

  The Council had theoretically just wanted to take custody of the painting and keep it safe. But that hadn’t stopped them from threatening and manipulating Donata to get their hands on it.

  She shook herself as she came to a halt in front of the plain wooden door bearing a metal plaque with her name and title—DONATA SANTORI, WITNESS RETRIEVAL SPECIALIST. Thankfully, all that was behind her.

  She reached up and touched the plate on the door, as if for luck. The painting was gone. It couldn’t mess up her life anymore. She was safe to enjoy her new duties and her new place in the world.

  She sent a small “thank you, Lady” to Hecate at the thought, and walked into the room. As always, her eyes were drawn to the window across from the entrance, but her usual smile at the sight faltered and then disappeared as she spotted the man standing in front of it, blocking the light—the last person she would ever have expected to find in her office.

  Aw, crap. She thought. I am so screwed.

  Chapter Six

  Donata closed the door softly behind her and said, “What are you doing here, Raphael?” The lack of welcome was clear in her tone and she didn’t care.

  It felt odd addressing Peter’s father by his first name; the regal full-blooded Dragon was not a man given to easy familiarity. But she didn’t know his last name. Peter’s name, Casaventi, came from his mother’s husband—the man he’d always assumed was his father, until Donata came along with the Pentacle Pentimento and the unwelcome knowledge of his real parentage.

  Raphael ignored her rudeness and gave a small bow in her direction. Silver hair glinted in the sun streaming in from the window behind him and his uncanny resemblance to Peter made Donata’s heart skip a beat. Even more handsome than his son, he radiated an aura of suppressed power that intimidated even those with no knowledge of his Paranormal abilities.

  He’d been hibernating since before Peter was born, and Lily Casaventi had purposely hidden the results of their tempestuous affair for fear the Dragon would take her child away should he learn of Peter’s existence.

  Six months ago, Raphael had taken his badly burned son away with him to show Peter how to heal and to introduce him to other aspects of his Dragon heritage.

  Donata hadn’t gotten so much as a phone call, and now here was Raphael, standing in her tiny, stark office, acting as if it were no big deal. Donata glanced around the room surreptitiously, but there was no sign of Peter.

  Raphael settled himself gracefully in the chair in front of Donata’s desk without waiting for an invitation. Which was probably a good thing, since she wasn’t planning to offer one. He raised a silvery eyebrow at the stacks of casework spread across the dusty surface of her work space and the complete lack of decoration in the room, but didn’t say a word. Also a good thing.

  “What are you doing here, Raphael?” she asked again, crossing the room to sit behind her desk.

  “Would you believe me if I told you I was in the neighborhood and just stopped by to say hello?” The subtle remnants of an English accent made his voice sound as sophisticated and exotic as the rest of him.

  “No,” Donata said. “Try again.”

  He gave the tiniest of sighs, clearly exasperated by her attitude.

  Good, she thought. Now we’re both annoyed.

  “Very well, then,” he said, a barely perceptible edge to his voice. “I wished to speak to you on a matter of some importance.” He looked across the desk at her, a serious expression on his patrician face. “I wish to ask for your assistance, in point of fact.”

  Donata blinked. “My assistance,” she said. “You came here to ask for my assistance.” She shook her head. “I’ll tell you what—why don’t you tell me how Peter is, and then we’ll get to whatever it is you think I can do for you.”

  “Ah, of course,” Raphael said with a decisive nod. “I forgot you did not know.”

  Donata felt her heart stop in her chest for a brief second. Had he come to bring her bad news?

  He went on. “Peter is doing quite well. He had to enter a partial state of hibernation for a few weeks to aid with the process, but the Dragon part of his genetic makeup healed him with very little after effects. A few tiny scars from some of the worst of the burns, that is all.” His smug smile made it clear he considered Dragon physiology to be highly superior.

  A pent-up breath whooshed out of Donata’s chest, and she resisted the impulse to throw something at the man for making her panic like that. Peter had been so badly burned trying to rescue Friar Matthew, she’d been afraid that even his half-Dragon genetics wouldn’t be enough to heal him.

  “Oh, well that’s good to hear,” she said. And added casually, “So what is he doing with himself these days?” And why in Hades’s name hasn’t he called me?

  “Ah,” Raphael shifted slightly on the uncomfortable wooden chair, his only indication that he would rather not be having this particular conversation. “He is primarily spending his time pursuing the study of what it is to be Dragon. And making some strides, I am pleased to say.” He gave her another wintery quarter-smile. “I am tutoring the daughter of a friend as well, and the two of them are getting on famously. I believe they will make quite a suitable match.”

  Oh. Donata swallowed hard. Well, that was more information than she’d wanted. Although it certainly explained a thing or two. Damn it.

  She picked up the one item on her desk that had nothing to do with work—a snow globe with a whimsical dragon figure in it that Doc had given her on her birthday. Turning it over and watching the tiny faux flakes drift down gave her something to do with her hands and a minute to collect herself. The man across from her waited with the patience of one who has lived for centuries.

  Eventually she looked back over the desk at him, hoping he hadn’t noticed her shock at the news of Peter’s involvement with someone else. She might as well not have worried. Dragons were notoriously self-centered.

  She cleared her throat. “Okay, so what can I do for you, Raphael?” One of the folders on her desk slid off the pile it was on, reminding her of how much work she had to do. Hopefully, whatever the Dragon had in mind was minor and wouldn’t take much time to deal with.

  Raphael sat up even straighter, if that was possible, and folded his hands together on his lap.

  “It concerns the Pentacle Pentimento,” he said, with no change in his calm demeanor. “I have the painting, of course. And I would like you to help me uncover the last of its secrets.”

  Aw, double
crap. On toast. With a side of phooey.

  Here we go again.

  Chapter Seven

  Donata placed the snow globe carefully on the desk in front of her and tried not to lose her temper.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” she said through gritted teeth. “You’ve had the painting all along?” She shot an involuntary glance at the door of her office to make sure it was closed. This was one conversation she didn’t want anyone to overhear.

  Raphael lifted one stylishly clad shoulder in a negligible shrug. “Indeed. Peter thought you might have guessed that he made a second copy.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Am I to presume you did not?”

  Donata took a deep breath. “It occurred to me, yes. But I thought you or Peter would have told me if that was true.” She glared at him, with no visible effect.

  “We thought it best you not be told. For your own safety, of course.” He waved a slim hand at her surroundings. “You may be a police officer, but as you found out, that does not protect you from the Cabal.” He looked grim. “Or the Alliance Council, for that matter.”

  “My own safety. Right.” She picked up the snow globe, shook it, and put it down again with a decisive click. Water and glitter sloshed inside, mimicking the current state of her stomach. She’d really hoped the nightmare was over. Crap. Crap. Crap.

  “So why are you contacting me now?” she asked. “I’m assuming the threat is still as great as ever, should either of those organizations figure out you have the painting.”

  “Indeed,” Raphael said with a frown. “And I am not completely certain that one or the other hasn’t become suspicious.” He shook his head briskly, dismissing that line of discussion before Donata could say anything.