Veiled Menace

by Deborah Blake

  “I was just getting to know him,” Peter whispered, his voice cracking. “He had so much to teach me, and now I’ll never learn it. I’ll never be able to truly know who he was—who I am, and where I came from.”

  There was so much anguish in his voice; Donata thought her heart would break. She stood up and put her arms around him so his head rested on her shoulder.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” she said. “I know you’ll miss him.”

  “How can I miss him?” Peter asked, agony spilling out with every word. “How can I miss him when I hardly had the chance to have him at all?”

  Sobs burst out of him like jagged waves, jolting his chest and drenching Donata’s shirt with salty tears. He clung to her as a child would cling to its mother after a nightmare. But for Peter, this was one nightmare from which he could never awaken.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Time seemed to slow to a crawl, then stop altogether. Donata had no idea how long they stood there, her arms locked tight around his broad back as he cried and choked and poured out grief like lava from a volcano. But eventually his tears slowed and time resumed its flow. She was almost sorry when it was over.

  At least in that moment, he had reached out to her and she had been able to be there for him—as she had not been for his father. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  Peter raised his head, swiping at his face with a hand that trembled with spent emotion. He drew in a jagged breath and straightened up, not meeting her glance, then cleared his throat roughly.

  “Um. Sorry about that. I’m not usually so out of control.” He scooted his stool back a couple of inches, putting some distance between them.

  Donata smacked him more or less gently on the shoulder. “Do not apologize for feeling pain because your father died. You’re entitled, damn it. And you can always cry on me, if you need to. Always.”

  Peter scowled and blew his nose. “I don’t know, Donata. Are you sure Magnus won’t object to that?’

  Donata clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms. Now was not the time she would have chosen to have this conversation. But she wasn’t going to lie to him.

  “I don’t see why he would care,” she said evenly. “I haven’t seen him since that day at the monastery. Hell, until earlier today, I hadn’t seen or heard from either of you.” She sat back down on her stool, leaving him the space he’d insisted on.

  A puzzled look crossed over Peter’s face, followed by stunned realization.

  “Are you saying Raphael lied to me? You’re not living with Magnus?”

  Donata snorted. “The only ‘men’ I’m currently sharing my apartment with are a cat and a Kobold. It’s a small place; believe me, I would have noticed a six-foot-four Viking hanging around.”

  Peter perked up for a minute. “Ricky is still with you? Really? I thought for sure he’d be long gone.”

  She laughed. “Fat chance. I think I’m stuck with him for good. Apparently he likes my cooking.”

  He smiled at that briefly, then frowned. “Why would Raphael lie to me about you being in a relationship with Magnus? I don’t understand.” Hurt cast shadows in his dark eyes and he hunched his shoulders.

  She sighed. She was mad at Raphael all over again, only this time for dying and leaving her to try to explain his actions to his grieving son.

  “Look, I’m not Raphael’s biggest fan—especially about this particular issue.” She gazed at him, wanting to make sure he was listening. “But I am certain of one thing; he was trying, in his own autocratic way, to do what was best for you. That’s what fathers do. I didn’t agree with him, but I know he believed he was watching out for you.” She gave a short laugh. “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t anything personal. He just didn’t think I was good enough for his only son.”

  Peter digested that in silence for a minute. “Huh.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Donata said. “Go figure.”

  He bestowed a hesitant smile on her. “Does that mean you aren’t seeing anyone right now?”

  Hell. She had no idea how to answer that question. She still hadn’t had time to talk to Anton. “Yes. No. It’s . . . complicated,” she finally sputtered. Great, Donata, that was coherent.

  The kitchen was so quiet; she could hear the refrigerator hum.

  “Um, what about you? Are you seeing anyone?” Maybe Raphael had lied about the Dragon woman too?

  He lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “Sort of. Not really. It’s complicated.”

  Donata rolled her eyes. Great. What a pair they were.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s life. Complicated.” She swallowed hard. “So, did Raphael tell you he called and asked me to help figure out the symbols from the Pentimento?”

  Peter raised an eyebrow. “No. No, he didn’t. Is that how you knew he’d told me you were with Magnus?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He told me the first time he called and asked for my help.”

  The eyebrow went up even higher. “The first time?” Peter crossed his arms and leaned back on the stool, studying her face. “How many times did he call?”

  Donata tried not to look as guilty as she felt. “Twice. Just twice.” She let out a sigh. “The last time was this morning. Probably not long before he died.”

  “I see,” Peter said without emotion. “And what did you tell him?”

  There was no point in lying. “I told him I’d consider it—as soon as he told you the truth about me not being involved with Magnus.” She looked at her feet. “And then I hung up on him.”

  There was silence from the other stool. She didn’t dare raise her eyes to see the expression on Peter’s face, but she was pretty sure it was anger or disgust, or some variation thereof. Crap on a plate. She’d really screwed up this time.

  Peter made an odd noise; one she finally recognized as strangled laughter. She jerked her head up in surprise. He gazed at her, one corner of his mouth twitching.

  “What?” he said. “You thought I’d hold that against you? Shit, I would have hung up on him myself, under the circumstances.” He shook his head in bemusement. “I can’t believe he made up that story about you and Magnus. Manipulative son of a bitch.”

  “I should have listened to him,” Donata said with regret. “He told me he thought he was in danger and I didn’t take him seriously. I figured he was just trying to persuade me to help him.” She spread her hands helplessly. “I had no idea he was really being attacked, I swear.”

  Peter stood up. “I believe you, Donata. How could you know he was telling the truth about that when you knew he was lying about other things?”

  She rose too, and took a step in his direction. “If it is any consolation, Doc had already convinced me to call him back and agree to take a look. I wasn’t going to leave you both high and dry.”

  “None of that matters now,” Peter said, frustration etching harsh lines on his face. “I just need to know if you are going to help me figure out who killed him. Even if that means studying every brushstroke on that damned painting.”

  “Of course I’ll help,” she said. “It’s the least I can do. Besides, whoever or whatever did this might come after you next. There’s no way I’m going to let that happen.” The thought made her chest tighten with fear. “Look—until we can come up with some answers, you need to promise me you’ll keep your head down.”

  Peter shrugged, clearly unconcerned about his own safety. “Sure. Don’t worry about it. Besides, nothing has happened to me yet. All the weird occurrences seem to have been centered around Raphael.”

  Donata bit her lip. “Yeah, but now you’re going to take up his task where he left off. And you’re going to be looking for his killer too. That’s almost certain to make you a target.”

  He glared at her. “I can take care of myself.”

  “That’s what Raphael thought,” Donata said. “And he was wrong, wasn’
t he?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Donata closed the door behind her and breathed a sigh that was equal parts relief and exhaustion. The sun was just coming up, breaking through the early morning fog and into her apartment. She was unbelievably glad to be home.

  She and Peter had spent the afternoon making arrangements for his father’s funeral and then stayed up all night studying all the information he and his father had amassed about the painting. Donata had even delved into the online Witches’ database, accessible only by those who knew it was there, trying to see if there was any more information about the Minor Anemoi, the strange symbols from the painting, or any reference to lightning being used as a weapon. As far as she could tell, they’d ended up about where they had started. She felt like she’d put in a marathon session cramming for a test—which she’d then failed.

  Between the late night and all the emotional upheaval of the day before, she felt completely drained. She’d called in to the precinct at one point and left a message for the Chief that she’d been called away to deal with a death in the family. She figured it was true enough, in its own way. If your family was dysfunctional and had Dragons in it.

  The truth was, she had a fair amount of autonomy at her job, and worked somewhat irregular hours anyway. If the Chief needed her for anything in particular, he’d just call her on her cell phone. Other than that, as long as she put in her forty hours a week and got the other officers the information they needed for their cases in a reasonably timely fashion, no one much cared if she wasn’t around nine to five.

  Which was a good thing, since there was no way she was going anywhere until she had a shower, a couple of hours of sleep, and a really large pot of coffee.

  She hung her leather jacket, her helmet, and her holster up on the hooks next to the door and sat down on the red velvet couch, yawning. She’d let Ricky help her pick out the furnishings for the new apartment from used furniture ads online, since she didn’t really care what the place looked like as long as there was something to sit on and enough bookcases. So it was her own fault the place had ended up looking like a slightly shabby Middle Eastern brothel. Oh, well—at least the couch was comfortable.

  Sitting down was a mistake, though. The kitchen looked impossibly far away. Even the promise of caffeine couldn’t get her to her feet again. She’d meant to stop for a cup on her way home, but by the time Peter had dropped her off at the precinct so she could get her bike, she was too tired to do anything but point the motorcycle in the direction of home and hope like hell she wouldn’t fall off on the way. Damn—she was getting too old to pull all-nighters.

  She yawned again, practically dislocating her jaw.

  “Tired, Missus?” a voice said from the kitchen. It was accompanied by the welcome hiss of the coffeemaker and the heavenly smell of dark roast brewing.

  Donata didn’t even jump. “Yeah, I am,” she said. “We were up all night trying to come up with some kind of answers. Peter even spent three hours trying to remove another section of that black blotch so I could look at that piece of the Pentimento myself. But we’re still just as in the dark as we were when we began. I might as well have come home and slept.”

  Ricky came out of the kitchen bearing a large steaming mug and a plate with a buttered whole wheat bagel on it. She’d eaten a lot better since he’d moved in; he always complained about her habit of forgetting to stock up on food and then just ordering takeout, so she actually kept food in the apartment now.

  “Thanks, you’re an angel,” she said, swallowing the coffee so fast she burned her tongue. It was worth it, though, as the heat and energy moved through her body, reviving her enough to take a large bite of bagel.

  Ricky blushed and covered it with a mock scowl. “Nah, angels are wimpy do-gooders. Never met one who could make a decent cup of coffee. For that, you want a Kobold.”

  Donata giggled. Grimalkin strolled out of the bedroom and made a beeline for the kitchen, rattling his empty food bowl with one large gray paw when he got there. Ricky took the hint and went in to open a can of cat food. Tuna flavor, from the whiff Donata caught. Ugh. It was too early in the morning for fish. Unless you were a cat, of course.

  “So, you got the message I left you on the answering machine?” she asked. Ricky wouldn’t use the phone; he considered it to be a slightly worrisome newfangled invention. But she had gotten in the habit of leaving a message on the machine to let him know if she wasn’t coming home, so he wouldn’t worry.

  It was like having another mother—except that her own mother didn’t actually care where Donata was, as far as she could tell. She’d called to let him know about Raphael’s death, and to tell him she’d be staying with Peter for the rest of the evening.

  “Oh, aye,” he said, coming back into the room with a satisfied-looking cat. “Very considerate, that was.” He leaned down to scratch Grimalkin under the chin, avoiding Donata’s eye.

  Uh-oh. She knew that look. Now what had the little troublemaker been up to?

  “Ricky?” she said warningly. “What did you do?”

  He gave her an innocent glance, aimed somewhere over her right shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Missus. I just got you coffee and fed the cat.”

  “Ha,” she said, moving to squat directly in front of him so he couldn’t avoid her gaze. “That’s this morning. So what did you do last night that you think I’m going to disapprove of?” She narrowed her eyes. “And don’t try lying to me; you know I can always tell.”

  For a creature with a reputation of sneakiness, the Kobold was a remarkably bad liar. Considering her line of work, Donata kind of appreciated this.

  “Weeelll,” Ricky said slowly, “I might have deleted a couple of messages off the answering machine while I was getting rid of the one you left. Accidentally, like.” He tugged one brown overall strap back into place and straightened his pointed brown hat.

  The fidgeting definitely wasn’t a good sign, Donata thought. And since he hardly ever touched the machine at all, the “accidentally” seemed a little unlikely.

  “I see,” she said, straightening up and grabbing her mug to take into the kitchen for a refill. “And did you happen to listen to the messages when they came in, so you could maybe tell me who they were from?”

  Ricky trailed her into the kitchen and tilted the carafe over her mug, stretching up on tiptoe to reach the counter. She could have gotten it more easily herself, but it was important to the Kobold to feel useful. It had taken her a while to learn that—and to overcome her naturally independent nature. But now she mostly let him do the little things if he wanted to. It was safer than having him get frustrated enough to try to do big things. Like that time he’d tried to reorganize all of her magical supplies. She shuddered at the memory and turned her attention back to the matter at hand.

  “Want more bagel?” he asked.

  “No. Stop avoiding the question. Who called?” Donata put the cup down on the counter and crossed her arms, giving the Kobold a stern look. “I’m going to find out eventually when whoever it is calls back, so you might as well tell me.”

  He grimaced. “It was that Anton person. I don’t like him. Especially after what he did with the wine. He doesn’t deserve to talk to you.” The tiny man wilted under Donata’s glare. “Okay, Missus, okay. Next time I’ll just leave it.”

  She sighed. “I know you’re just trying to look out for me, Ricky. And I appreciate it. But I’m going to have to talk to him eventually.”

  “Are you going to tell him to go to Hades?” Ricky asked eagerly. “Can I be there? I’ll stay invisible.”

  Donata snorted. “We’ll see. Right now I have to try to catch an hour or two of rest before I go in to work. I’ll deal with Anton Eastman later.”

  The Kobold gave her a funny look.

  “What?” she asked, a hint of belligerence in her voice. She was too tired to argue with a th
ree-foot-tall mother hen.

  “Um, Donata . . .” he said.” It’s Saturday. You don’t have to go to work.”

  She blinked at him. Damn, so it was. “Oh. Right. Well, that’s good.” She’d completely lost track of what day it was. She really needed to get some sleep. “At least I can stay in, then.”

  Ricky shook his head. “No you can’t, Donata. It’s the third Saturday of the month.”

  Aw, double crap with cheese. Not the third Saturday. Dear goddess, no.

  Chapter Twenty

  Dinner with the family. Hell. Just hell.

  Every third Saturday of the month, all the members of the Santori clan who were in town were expected to show up for dinner at two o’clock. Sharp. No excuses accepted.

  Donata’s oldest sister Lucia, a healer, actually got scolded once for being late because she had to assist with a difficult delivery that went on longer than expected. So there was no way Donata was getting out of it, no matter how little sleep she’d gotten the night before.

  She sat down on the velvet couch and put her head in her hands.

  “Maybe you could tell them you have to work on a case?” Ricky said, coming over to stand next to her. After living with her for the last six months, the little man had a pretty good idea of how much Donata hated family dinner day. Besides, he’d met her mother.

  “I wish,” Donata said, her words muffled. “I would much rather be dealing with dead bodies.”

  The Kobold laughed. “Yeah, well, maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  The phone on the kitchen wall rang, and Donata looked up hopefully. “Hey—maybe that’s the Chief.” She hopped up and peered at the caller ID and her movement toward the handset hesitated for a moment.

  “Not the Chief?” Ricky said perceptively.

  Donata shook her head. “Eastman.” She glared at the phone. “I was hoping for a dead body. Maybe I’ll start with his.” She picked up the phone and said in a distinctively cold tone, “Hello, Anton.”