Veiled Menace

by Deborah Blake

  He punched the number for the front desk and barked, “Murphy—Chief O’Malley. Have you heard of anything that might have knocked the phones out around the Pine Bluff area?” His brow furrowed as he listened to Murphy’s answer. “Huh. Yeah, that would do it. Okay, thanks.”

  He put the phone back into its cradle with a thump. “He says there have been reports of a large storm in the area of your friend’s house; major winds and lots of trees down. There was even one report of a tornado, but that hasn’t been substantiated. But all the landlines are down, along with the main cell tower for the district.” Worry creased his brow. “It could be just a weird fall storm; we can get some pretty strange weather patterns around now.”

  Donata jumped up, her whole body shaking. “It’s Anton. He’s out there. He’s going after the painting again. It contains the only remaining instructions for how to destroy a Major Anemoi. He has to get rid of it.” Another ghastly thought hit her. “Oh, goddess—I told him last night that I had to talk to Peter before I would agree to be with him. I told him that Peter was his rival.” Her stomach clenched until she thought she’d vomit. “He’s going to kill Peter, and it’s all my fault!”

  She turned to go, only to be stopped by a thunderous bellow.

  “Santori, are you crazy? You can’t go out there. This thing will just kill you too.”

  The concern in the Chief’s voice might have touched her if she’d had the time to process it properly. As it was, she could only think of getting out of the room and on her way to Peter.

  “I think I know a way to stop him,” she said, looking around wildly. Her glance fell on an object lying on the edge of the desk amid a jumble of pens and mail. “Can I borrow this?”

  The Chief looked confused, but shoved it at her anyway. “Sure, but try to get it back to me, will you? My wife gave that to me for our twentieth anniversary.” He looked at her steadily. “I realize there’s no way to stop you from going, short of throwing you into a cell. But let me send some backup with you. You can’t tackle this guy on your own.”

  She shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, Chief, but it’s not even in our jurisdiction. Besides, what would you tell them?” She tucked the object in her pocket before he could change his mind, and hurried for the door. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

  The Chief heaved his large body out of his chair. “Just see that you are, Santori. If you get yourself killed I will be severely pissed.”

  His only answer was the sound of her running footsteps, echoing down the hall.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  The rain beat against Donata’s leather jacket and the faceplate of her helmet as she broke all the speed limits on her way out to Raphael’s house. The skies had been clear until she’d gotten off the highway, but the closer she got to the area where Peter’s father had lived, the worse the weather got.

  Now, only a mile away, the winds threatened to rip her off the back of the bike, and her muscles ached from trying to keep the heavy machine upright and pointed in the right direction. She veered into the opposite lane to avoid a tree limb that had blocked half the road, thanking the goddess that the bad weather was keeping the traffic to a minimum.

  Screeching to a slithering halt in front of the large metal gates that fronted the house, she could see that they had again been wrenched out of place, leaving the steel sagging and out of alignment. There was barely enough room for her to squeeze the bike through, and she could feel one shoulder catch briefly on a jutting piece of what had once been an ornate latch.

  She flipped the kickstand down as she dismounted, hoping that the gale force winds would leave the motorcycle standing. Hail bounced off her helmet and coated the grass like rocky tears.

  A glance showed her that lightning—or something like it—had fried the security cameras. They hung sightless above the gaping front door, witness to something they would never be able to share.

  She slid through the open entryway, pulling her gun as she went. The hallway was empty and dark, and she tried to be as quiet as possible as she peered into room after room. Nothing.

  She wanted to call out to Peter, but she didn’t dare. From the state of things, it was clear that Anton or one of his Anemoi pals was already on the premises. She didn’t have much going for her at this point; it seemed like a good idea to hang on to the element of surprise for as long as she could.

  A ticking grandfather clock startled her with its chime and almost got a bullet in response. She stopped for a moment and tried to calm her rapidly beating heart. Her martial arts teacher was always advising his students to breathe though the adrenaline rush that came with panic. But she wasn’t sure she remembered how.

  Donata stopped moving, her back against a living room wall. She wouldn’t do Peter any good if she allowed the fear to rule her. In fighting, as in Witchcraft, focus was crucial.

  She consciously slowed her breathing until her inhalations no longer came in ragged gasps. It had the added advantage of being quieter, so she could stop and listen, and hear something over her own madly thumping heart.

  There—a slight noise from the direction of the basement.

  Donata bit her lip. Of course, the painting was down there. Why hadn’t she checked there first? Still, her police training had required her to check the upstairs rooms to start. No point in being trapped downstairs if it turned out the enemy was above her.

  But there had been no sign of anyone. And the sound she’d heard came from the area where she and Peter had worked together in happier days. She set one silent foot down in front of another, gun held in a firm grip by her side but ready to bring up at a moment’s notice.

  The stairs were dim, lit only by pale red backup lights that stained the pale carpeting the color of blood. From somewhere further down, she could hear the low hum of a generator. The storm must have taken the power out. She debated trying to magic up some light, but decided against it, fearing it might give her away. As it turned out, she didn’t have to bother.

  As she came out into the basement hallway, she could see that the once-hidden workroom and treasure lair door was wide open as well. Peter must have been caught working in there, since he never would have given away the location otherwise. She could hear voices as she drew nearer.

  Inside the room, light blazed brightly, coming from the figure that stood over Peter’s prone body. Her lover lay crumpled on the floor in a boneless heap, one hand reaching out as if to grasp the painting that was just beyond his reach. Above him stood the man she knew as Anton Eastman, his skin glowing as if lit from within.

  No one would have mistaken Anton for a Human now.

  Even without the aura of radiance that surrounded him, the Major Anemoi seemed larger and more powerful, as if he had been purposely suppressing most of his essence in order to pass as a lesser being. His eyes shone with an unearthly fervor as he bounced a ball of lightning in the palm of his hand.

  Peter’s more normal, pain-filled eyes fluttered open and then closed again as he fought to hold on to consciousness. Donata felt her heart skip a beat at this sign of life where she wasn’t sure it had still existed. He was still alive. She sent a silent prayer of thanks up to the goddess, along with a plea for strength.

  Now it was up to her.

  Anton hadn’t seen her yet; he was still intent on taunting his rival as she’d heard him doing from down the hallway.

  “So, Dragon-child, not so impressive now, are we?” Anton chuckled. “Neither was your father, in the end. Even the great Dragons are like helpless babes when faced with the might of the Anemoi.” He bounced the ball of electric fire one more time, taking aim at the man lying at his feet. “Time to end this, I think, so I can finally destroy this thrice-damned Pentacle Pentimento and be off to claim my prize. I have waited long enough.”

  Donata aimed her gun at the middle of his chest where she couldn’t miss and cleared her throat. “What i
f your prize doesn’t want to be collected?”

  Anton started, his lightning ball dimming and going out. “Donata! What are you doing here?” For a moment his radiance faded as well, leaving him wearing the expression of a guilty child.

  “Stopping you,” she said, walking forward slowly with the gun held steadily in front of her. “Put your hands up and step away from Peter.”

  Surprisingly, Anton just laughed. “Stopping me with what? That little metal toy? You should know better, Donata. Bullets cannot stop one such as me.” He shook his head at her ruefully. “This would have been so much easier if you had just said yes. I would still have destroyed your lover, of course, and this cursed painting that threatens my people, but at least you wouldn’t have had to watch.”

  Donata glanced from the two men to the Pentimento where it sat on an easel by the worktable. As usual, the black blotch had returned to cover the mysterious symbols underneath it, and it looked like nothing more than a slightly marred, mediocre example of a once-famous artist’s depressed period. There was nothing about it to reveal that it was one of the most dangerous paintings in history.

  Just look where it had gotten her.

  “I won’t let you hurt him,” she said to Anton. “But I don’t want to hurt you either. Please don’t make me. I understand why you’ve done the things you’ve done, but you have to stop now. I know you want to save your people, but I can’t let you keep killing and encouraging others to kill. It has to stop, Anton.”

  He gave her a benign, affectionate look. “Silly girl. You’re in no position to dictate to me what I can and cannot do. My cause is too important to give up simply to please you.” He held out one hand. “But it is not too late for you to come to me willingly. It will be so much easier for you if you do so. Although I have no compunction against forcing you if that is what it takes.”

  The hell you say. Donata tried not to think about the quiet dinners they’d shared, the long walks and evenings spent enjoying each other’s company. That man, no matter how real and charming he had seemed, had been an illusion. How much of what they had together had been real? She might never know.

  She tightened her finger on the trigger. “Last chance, Anton. I’m begging you, don’t make me kill you.”

  He laughed and formed a swirling cone of wind in his palm in answer. The papers on the table nearest him began to rustle and dance.

  “Goddess forgive me,” Donata said softly under her breath and fired off six rounds in rapid succession. The noise was deafening in the underground room and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air.

  Anton laughed again as the bullets passed through him and into the wall behind where he stood. As she watched with horrified disbelief, the holes in his chest knit together and vanished within seconds. There was no blood.

  “Foolish, foolish Witch,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “Did you really think to kill a god with tiny bits of lead? No one has known how to kill a Major Anemoi for over two hundred years—it is one of the benefits of being forgotten by everyone. There is nothing you can do to stop me.”

  He put out the hand with the tiny whirlwind in it and swung it in her direction. “Come to me, my darling. If we are to be mates, there is no point in putting it off; my race is done with waiting.” The wind tore the gun from her hand, then began to suck her in, pulling her inescapably in toward his open arms.

  Donata struggled against the force of the air, struggled against her own panic, struggled against the inevitability of what was to come. But it was clear there was to be no escape.

  “I won’t have a child with you,” she said one last time, “but if you’ll promise me to stop all the violence, I swear I will help your people in any way I can. Please don’t do this, Anton. Please.”

  He threw back his head and laughed as the wind drew her relentlessly into his embrace. He wrapped one arm around her waist and exchanged the ball of air for one of fire. At their feet, Peter gazed blankly up toward them, blood dripping sluggishly from numerous cuts on his face and body. Broken bones jutted from his left leg and his right arm was charred and black. Donata wanted to cry at the sight of all the grievous injuries that hadn’t been visible from across the room.

  “Peter,” she said softly. “Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry.” If she’d never gone to him for help with the painting, none of this would be happening.

  “How sweet,” Anton sneered. “Time to say good-bye to your lover, Donata. You belong to me now, and I will take pleasure in having you for the first time as you lie flat on your back in a puddle of his blood.” His face contracted in an inhuman fury. “No one takes what is mine. Learn that lesson well, Donata, so you never have to watch another die because of you,”

  He pulled her in closer, his jealous rage causing the arm around her to tighten painfully. But she went willingly, one arm gliding up to curl around his neck.

  His eyes lit up with surprise and satisfaction. “So, you have finally decided there is no point in fighting. Even better.” He bent his head down to bring his lips to hers and then let out a gasp of pain. Stunned shock washed over his face like a tsunami.

  “What have you done?” he cried, shoving Donata away. But it was too late.

  She held up the sterling silver letter opener she’d taken from the Chief’s desk and hidden up her sleeve. With it, she’d sliced through the first symbol on his neck—aleph—just as the Pentimento had shown. And as the old stories she’d read had promised, erasing the aleph had left only mem and tov, changing the word on his neck from “truth” to “death.”

  “I’ve done what I said I would,” she said with tears running down her face. “I stopped you. You left me no choice.”

  He slowly crumpled to his knees, his eyes never leaving hers even as their light dimmed. “You could have been the mother of a new race,” he said, choking as dust began to spew from his mouth. “I would have given you the world.”

  “I never wanted the world,” Donata said sadly, sinking down next to him. “All I wanted was the truth.” She put the knife on the floor next to his trembling body. “You should have just asked for my help, Anton. There was no need for all the killing and the lying. I would have helped you if you had just come to me and asked.”

  He coughed again, his edges blurring like a watercolor in the rain. “You understand so little. Gods do not ask—they take. And we will have our place in the world again. It is only a matter of time.”

  With one last wheezing breath, he shivered and shook and broke apart into a thousand separate particles. Donata closed her eyes in pain, and when she opened them again, the only thing remaining was a pile of dirt, with rills of muddy water oozing out around the edges.

  Chapter Fifty

  Donata called the Chief to let him know she was all right and that the situation was under control. Thankfully, her cell phone was working now. Then she called Doc Havens to come help her with Peter. His wounds were already starting to heal, but the bone in his leg had to be maneuvered back into place before the skin closed up around it, and there was no way Donata could do that by herself. Besides, she wanted the company.

  The storm had ended abruptly as soon as Anton’s life force no longer fueled it, and the power came back on a little while later. The harsh glare of the lights in the workroom shone down on the mess and chaos Anton had left in his wake. Peter sat in a swivel chair, his leg stretched out in front of him and propped up on a box. That and the burn on his right arm were the only remaining physical signs of his struggle with the Major Anemoi. But he was still white with shock, and ill-suppressed anger lent a reddish gleam to his dark brown eyes.

  Doc straightened up from her kneeling position and handed Donata a roll of bandages and a pair of scissors. “There,” she said. “That ought to keep everything in place until the rest of the leg can heal.” She looked at Peter with wonderment. “Which, judging by the rest of his wounds, will be within a day. Amazing.
”

  She walked over to stand in front of the pile of clay that used to be Anton Eastman. Donata trailed silently behind her, her face rigid and empty of emotion.

  “I can’t believe that was a man,” Doc said, shaking her head. “I talked to him. Hell, you dated him. And now he’s a bunch of sand on the floor. Un-fucking-believable.”

  Donata gazed expressionlessly at the remains of the first person she’d ever killed. A boulder seemed to have taken up residence in her chest where her heart had once been, making it hard to breathe.

  Doc looked at her curiously. “So how did you know what to do?” she asked. “Peter told me that his attempts to fight Anton were all useless, and that you shot him more than once with no effect. How did you know that cutting through that symbol would kill him?”

  “It was on the Pentimento all along,” Donata said through stiff lips. “It showed a silver sword crossing the aleph. I just guessed that it was a literal instruction, not a figurative clue, based on the old Hebrew stories about golems. And it turns out I was right.”

  “Lucky for you and Peter,” Doc said.

  “Yeah, lucky,” Donata repeated, looking down at the dusty mess at their feet. “Turns out that Clive Farmingham was right; the Pentacle Pentimento really did hide the secrets of how to identify and destroy all the Paranormal races.” She sighed. “I wish I’d never seen the damn thing. Even with the curse removed, it’s still wreaking havoc.”

  Doc put her arm around her friend, reaching up to compensate for their difference in heights. “I know this must have been horrible for you,” she said, her voice compassionate. “Interviewing ghosts in the basement doesn’t exactly prepare you for having to kill someone. Especially not someone you liked. I’m so sorry you had to go through this.”

  Donata shrugged, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the carefully maintained temperature in the basement room. “It had to be done. He was going to kill Peter and do dreadful things to me. I’m fine with it.”