Veiled Menace

by Deborah Blake

  Donata shook her head. “I doubt it. He’s won awards for that stupid wine. Someone else would have noticed if there was such a strong herb in it. No wonder I always thought it tasted bitter!” Brow wrinkled, she tried to think it through calmly. “Could he have thought wormwood would have some other affect? You know, like a love potion or something?” Not that this would make the situation better, really.

  Ricky tapped his forefinger on the front of his teeth. “I don’t think so, Donata. Didn’t the strange dreams start after you and Eastman began going to dinner? I don’t think that is a coincidence.” His scowl deepened. “I think the man was giving you the wormwood to open your mind without your knowing it. Then he sent the dreams somehow. It all adds up.”

  Donata bit her lip. None of this added up. Why would Anton drug her? And how could he send her nightmares if he wasn’t a Witch? But she would have sensed it if he was one. She just didn’t understand any of it.

  The Kobold squinted at her, the morning light bothering his sensitive eyes. “Hey—you said you didn’t have any dreams last night, though. Why didn’t the wine work?”

  “I didn’t drink any,” she said slowly. “I wasn’t in the mood for it; in fact, it turned my stomach just thinking about it. I figured at the time that I was recovering from too many Bend Me Overs with Doc, but now I’m wondering if that wasn’t the anti-nightmare spell working somehow.” She mulled that thought over for a minute.

  Ricky didn’t seem to care about whether or not the spell had helped her. “Then how come you brought it home with you?”

  Donata thought back to the night before. “Anton wasn’t happy when I refused to have the wine; he sent it with me so I could have a glass before bed . . .” Her voice tapered off and they gazed at each other in dismay. “That son of a bitch!”

  “What are you going to do?” Ricky asked. “I mean, I suppose it is still possible he had a good reason—although I admit, I can’t think of anything that would excuse his drugging you and somehow sending you weird dreams.”

  Donata rubbed her forehead where a headache was starting to form. “I can’t think of anything either. But I suppose I’ll give him a chance to explain before I shoot him.”

  Grimalkin meowed at her plaintively and jumped over next to her on the couch to paw at her leg.

  “Don’t worry, Grim,” she said, patting the cat. “I’m not really going to shoot him.” She aimed a reassuring look at the dubious Kobold across from her. “Really.”

  Before she could explain that it would be more satisfying to beat the crap out of him with her bare hands, the phone rang.

  Three pairs of eyes swiveled toward the kitchen wall where the telephone hung.

  Ricky gave her an evil grin. “If that’s Eastman, be sure to tell him I said hi.”

  “Huh. Right.” Donata got up and grabbed the phone off the wall. She didn’t know what she’d say if it was Anton on the other end, but she was pretty sure it wouldn’t be “hi.”

  Just in case it was an innocent bystander, like Doc, she started out polite.

  “Yes?” Okay, reasonably polite.

  A cultured voice said her name and her morning continued its downward slide. And it had started out so well. She heaved a sigh.

  “What do you want, Raphael? I’m a little busy right now.”

  “We are all busy, Donata,” Raphael said with decided lack of sympathy. “This is important.”

  Donata carried the phone back over to the remnants of her cooling tea. “Fine. Spit it out, then.” She wasn’t in the mood to deal with the arrogant Dragon at the moment. Well, ever, really. But especially right now. “To what do I owe the honor of this phone call?”

  “I am calling to ask you if you have reconsidered helping me with the painting,” he said patiently. “Things have taken an . . . interesting . . . turn. I believe it is more important than ever that you assist me in deciphering the symbols on the Pentimento.”

  Donata rolled her eyes and Ricky suppressed a snicker, his Kobold hearing picking up the other end of the conversation easily. “So you’re still stuck, is that it?”

  There was a momentary silence from the other end of the phone. “Indeed, I am, as you so bluntly put it, stuck. But I must be getting close. Unusual events have been occurring recently—too many of them to ignore. It would seem that someone is aware that I am working to solve this puzzle.” He sounded slightly rattled. “Someone who does not wish for me to succeed.”

  “That’s a little melodramatic,” Donata said. “What kinds of unusual events are we talking about, exactly?”

  Raphael cleared his throat. “You may have difficulty believing me.”

  “Why don’t you try me?” she responded, not sure why she was even listening, but too intrigued to just hang up on him. She gave Ricky a big smile as he handed her a freshly steaming cup of tea.

  “Very well,” Raphael said. “Three days ago, I went sailing with some friends, and there was a freak tidal wave while we were out in the boat. It almost swamped us, and we barely made it back to shore.”

  Donata took a loud slurp of tea. “I think I remember hearing about that. Wasn’t it caused by some strange current from hundreds of miles away?”

  “So the weather experts surmised,” Raphael said dryly. “And I would have accepted that explanation had I not then experienced an earthquake at my house the next day; one that was not felt anywhere else. And then yesterday, a hailstorm hit while I was out driving in my convertible. If I had a less resilient constitution, I would have been severely injured.” His voice with its faintly English accent sounded strained as he finished his recitation. If Donata hadn’t known better, she might almost have thought he sounded . . . frightened. But Dragons didn’t get frightened.

  “Earthquakes happen all the time,” Donata said, not really buying it. “Look at that huge one in Tahiti the other day. All this stuff sounds like nature being nature, if you ask me.”

  The tension in Raphael’s tone was even more obvious now. “I would agree, if they had not all happened so close together and always centered around me. I do not know who or what is doing this, but I fear that if I do not uncover the secret of the painting soon, it may be too late.”

  Oh, for pity’s sake. Now he really was being melodramatic. “And you think I can assist you in figuring out these symbols you’ve uncovered, is that it?” she said. “So you want me to drop everything and come help you?”

  “I would be most appreciative,” he said. “This morning would be best, if you can clear your schedule.”

  Right. Sure. Donata clenched her hand around the phone, struggling to stay polite. “Just one question, Raphael.”

  “Yes?” He sounded slightly more relaxed now that he had pled his case.

  “Have you told Peter yet that you lied about me being with Magnus, just to keep him away from me?”

  Again, there was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Raphael?”

  “I have not, in point of fact, discussed the matter with him,” the Dragon said. “It did not seem pertinent.”

  Donata glared at the phone, and then put it back up to her ear. “Well, guess what? It doesn’t seem ‘pertinent’ to me to come help you out. Maybe you should reconsider having that conversation, if you want my assistance so badly.”

  Ricky moved across the room, wincing at her shrill tone, and began industriously polishing an already clean table.

  “Donata, be reasonable,” Raphael said, clearly unaware that she was already being as reasonable as was possible under the circumstances. “If you will not do it for my sake, then do it for Peter’s. He is living at my home; therefore, if someone is coming after me, he will be in danger as well.”

  “Well, maybe you should have thought of that before you turned your son against me, Raphael,” Donata sputtered. She couldn’t believe he had the nerve to play the “if you value Peter” c
ard. “Or maybe you should tell your son the truth, and then call me back. Because I have nothing more to say to you until you do.”

  She walked back across to the kitchen and hung up the phone with a decisive click. Grimalkin followed her over and stood silently at her feet.

  “Oh, don’t give me that look,” she said crossly. “You know I’m right.”

  The cat stalked out of the room, offended dignity in every rigid line of his body.

  “For Hecate’s sake,” Donata muttered to herself. “And the morning was going so well.” Crap. Just freaking crap.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Doc Havens looked up with a start, scalpel poised to make an incision, as Donata stormed into the morgue. The double doors swung wildly behind her, making a sound like two demented suction cups attaching and detaching.

  Donata ignored the body lying on the table, although she took a minute to point a finger at the ghost hovering above it.

  “You’re dead, dude,” she said in a firm voice. “Go to the light.” The spirit hesitated for a moment and then vanished.

  “I assume the dead guy you were talking to just did what you said? Even a ghost would have better sense than to argue with you when you are in this kind of mood.” Doc stared at her friend in amazement. “What on earth is going on? You never come down here.” She put the scalpel down, moving it carefully out of range of the angry Witch.

  “I am surrounded by jackasses,” Donata asserted, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Complete and total jackasses.” She was so mad, the formaldehyde-cold steel-and-death stink of the morgue didn’t even bother her.

  Doc gazed at her, eyes open wide. “Do tell. Is this something to do with Peter or Magnus? Because you weren’t this mad about them not calling when I talked to you yesterday. Has something happened?”

  “Something happened, all right,” Donata said with a growl. “I found out that Mr. High and Mighty Anton Eastman has been spiking my wine with wormwood, and that he’s almost certainly responsible for all these bizarre dreams I’ve been having—although I don’t know how the hell he pulled that part off. Maybe he hired some dark-side Witch to send me the nightmares.”

  “Fuck a duck,” Doc said. “I knew there was something off about that guy. Are you sure?” She plunked her shapely butt down on a nearby stool, stunned.

  Donata nodded, her expression grim. “Oh, yeah. I’m sure.”

  “Wow.” Doc looked at her over the partially opened corpse on the table. “Why would he put wormwood in your wine? I mean, it’s not poisonous or anything. The herb’s not some kind of aphrodisiac, is it?”

  “No,” Donata said, “although it is supposed to open up the unconscious and make someone more vulnerable to outside influence, so I suppose in some weird way he could have thought it would work like that. But the dreams themselves don’t make sense with that theory; the sexy ones, sure, but dreams about babies?” She shook her head. “I just don’t get it. I keep wondering if it is all some kind of strange misunderstanding.”

  “Huh.” Doc twirled around on the stool, making it go up and down. “That would be one doozy of a misunderstanding, Donata. So are you going to ask him what the hell is going on?”

  “Oh, you bet,” Donata said, giving her friend a humorless smile. “As soon as I’m done kicking his ass.”

  “Ooh, can I come watch?” Doc asked with glee. “I could sell tickets. It would be fun.” A sudden thought hit her. “Hey, wait a minute—didn’t you say ‘jackasses’? Plural?”

  Donata gritted her teeth. “Oh, yeah. It gets even better. Right at the point where I realized that my current boyfriend is drugging me for some unknown reason, I got a phone call from the father of one of my not-boyfriends, asking me for help again. The arrogant ass.”

  Doc blinked rapidly, trying to keep up. “Wait—do you mean Raphael? Raphael called you again? I thought you told him no pretty decisively the last time he asked you.”

  “That’s right,” Donata said. “He called with some nonsense about how natural disasters were following him around and trying to kill him because he was close to solving the mystery of the painting.” Out of habit, she looked over her shoulder when speaking of the Pentimento, but of course, there was no one in the morgue but her and Doc. And the corpse on the table, but he didn’t seem all that interested.

  “Uh-huh.” Doc looked confused. “And I assume you’re not buying his story?”

  Donata scowled at her. “Oh, hell no. He’s just being manipulative, as usual. And when I asked him if he’d told Peter the truth about me and Magnus, he told me he didn’t think it was ‘pertinent.’ Pertinent! The nerve of that guy.” She took a big gulp of air. “Jackasses. I swear. I must have a sign on my forehead that says ‘assholes welcome.’”

  Doc furrowed her brow. “You know, Donata, it’s not that I disagree with you. Hell, I’ve been telling you for weeks that Anton gave me the creeps. He’s definitely a jackass. But somehow I don’t see Raphael asking for help unless he felt he had no other choice.” She gave Donata a concerned look. “I mean, you keep telling me how proud the guy is—do you really think he’d keep calling you if he didn’t think it was really important?”

  Donata sat down on another stool, shoulders slumping. “I know, I know.” She sighed. “I suppose I should at least go take a look at what he’s got. I just hate to—”

  Her cell phone rang, interrupting their conversation. She pulled it out of her pocket and checked the caller ID, giving Doc a stunned look.

  “What?” the coroner asked.

  “It’s Peter,” Donata said. She flipped the phone open. “Peter, hi!” The smile slid slowly off her face as she listened to what he was saying. “What? When? How?”

  Doc screwed up her face in frustration. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

  Donata gazed at her in shock. “It’s Peter,” she said unnecessarily. “His father is dead.”

  * * *

  As Doc sat there with her mouth gaping open, Donata hastily returned her attention to the phone.

  “But I don’t understand,” she said to Peter. “I just talked to him earlier this morning. How is this possible? What happened?” Dragons were extremely difficult to kill. Raphael himself had been around for hundreds of years, probably more. And even Peter, who was only half Dragon, had healed from a gunshot wound almost instantly.

  “He was playing golf with some business connections,” Peter told her, his voice bleak and a little crackly from the cell phone’s distortion. “One minute he was standing in the middle of the fairway, and the next, a bolt of lightning came out of nowhere and struck him square in the chest. As far as the medics can tell, it virtually vaporized his heart. Even a Dragon can’t come back from that.”

  Donata had never heard Peter sound so bitter and defeated—and he’d been chronically depressed when she’d first met him.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “You were only just getting to know each other; it seems so unfair.”

  There were no windows in the morgue, which was located in the basement of the building next to the precinct, but when she’d come over a few minutes ago, it hadn’t even been raining.

  “Was there a storm?” she asked. “It’s calm enough here.”

  “No, no storm,” Peter said. “But one of the ambulance guys said he’s heard of this kind of thing happening before. It’s not common, but it does happen.” He took a deep breath. “That’s why I’m calling.”

  She was completely lost. “I’m sorry? You’re calling because there wasn’t a storm?”

  “No, no. Sorry. I’m not being very coherent.” Peter sucked in a deep breath that Donata could almost feel resonating through the phone. “I’m calling because of the ambulance guys.” He took another breath. “I know I shouldn’t be bothering you, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Donata would have cursed Raphael out if he wasn’t so c
onveniently dead. She couldn’t believe Peter didn’t feel like he could call her, no matter what happened.

  “Peter, we’re friends. And your father—” Belatedly, she decided this wasn’t the time to tell him his father had lied to him. “Anyway, you can always call me. You can definitely call me when your father dies, for heaven’s sake.” She took a deep breath herself, feeling like she was going to hyperventilate. “Is there something I can do to help?”

  “I don’t know,” Peter said, a desperate edge to his tone. “I don’t know what to do. The EMTs are insisting they have to take his body to the hospital; they say he has to be officially declared dead by a doctor.” He lowered his voice. “I don’t know that much about Dragon physiognomy . . . if there is anything that will show up as . . . abnormal. I thought, maybe because you’re a cop, you could talk to them . . .”

  Donata though for a minute. Peter was clearly in shock, barely functioning. And his concern was legitimate. But her being a cop wasn’t going to help them. She turned to Doc.

  “Look,” she said, “Raphael was apparently hit by lightning out on the golf course. The paramedics are telling Peter that they have to take his father’s body to the hospital to have him pronounced dead by a physician. But they might turn up something that shows he’s a Paranormal if they do more than a cursory exam.” Donata had no idea if a Dragon body had ever fallen into Human hands, or what it would show if it did. “Any ideas?”

  Doc held out her hand for the phone wordlessly.

  “Peter?” she said. “This is Doc Havens, Donata’s friend.” There was a pause as Peter drew a blank; understandable under the circumstances. “The coroner.”

  “Oh, right, she mentioned you when we were stuck together at the monastery,” Peter said into the other end of the phone. “Um, hi.”

  Doc rolled her eyes. “Peter, give your phone to the paramedic in charge, okay?”