Veiled Magic (11 page)

“That must have been hard,” Peter said softly. “Having to hide what you really are.” He sounded like he had some experience in that area.

She lifted one shoulder. “It wasn't easy. A lot of Witches simply married into Human families and tried to blend in. And since the offspring of a Witch-Human mating have lesser or no powers, much of the magical lineage has been lost. There are hardly any purebred Witches left, and those that remain are pretty elitist and superior.” She made a face.

Peter seemed interested, despite his own issues. “Sounds like you've run into that snobby attitude a time or two. I guess your family is one of the mixed-race ones?”

Donata sighed, looking across the counter at his carefully nonjudgmental mien. “Worse. They're one of the elitist and superior ones.” She gave a little smile at his startled look. “My family line is one of the most powerful, wealthy, and influential in Witch society.”

“Really?” He blinked, taken aback. “And you work as a cop?”

She rolled her eyes. “Now you sound like my mother.”

“Oh, sorry.” He chuckled. “I've got one of those mothers too. You have my sympathy.” A sudden thought struck him. “Wait—my mother knows I'm half Dragon, and she never told me?” His hand reached out automatically toward the phone, then stopped. Dismay colored his face.

Ouch
. “Um, yes, Moore seemed to think she knew. But there are some extenuating circumstances you need to keep in mind.”

Peter gave her a dubious look. She didn't blame him one bit.

“You have to understand; Dragons don't reproduce much, with each other or with any of the races they are cross-fertile
with. So they value children highly. Any Dragon who had a child with a Human would feel entitled to the offspring and likely steal it away with no explanation or recourse.” She watched his eyes widen. “I'm sure your mother was protecting you by keeping you ignorant of your Dragon heritage. It probably just became force of habit after a while. Believe me, hiding can get to be second nature when the dangers are truly menacing.”

“Hmmm. I suppose so.” He looked away to pour himself more tea, although there was still some liquid in his cup. “It certainly explains why my mother encouraged my secretive nature, when everyone else in the family was bitching about my not being part of the Casaventi ‘public presence.'” He gave a laugh tinged with bitterness. “Not that I have any of the Casaventi talent.”

Donata reached across the countertop and hesitantly laid her hand on top of his larger one. “Of course you don't, Peter. You're not a Casaventi. And while you are certainly your mother's son, Dragons don't have the creative essence that Humans do. They tend to love beautiful things, and to collect them. And they're often drawn to artists—like your mother—for their ability to create. But Dragons rarely have any inventive abilities of their own.” She looked at him with a mixture of pity and sympathy. “I'm afraid your Dragon genetics left you with plenty of technical skill, but no original spark. I'm so sorry.”

Peter stared at her across the countertop in silence for a minute, absorbing the information she'd just given him. She could see the emotions clearly written across the landscape of his face.

He blinked rapidly a few times, staring at nothing. To give him time to pull himself together, she continued babbling about the basic elements of Paranormal existence.

“So, you've got Witches, and you've got Dragons.” She held up a second finger. “And then there are the Fae.” She held up finger number three. It was just a coincidence it happened to be her middle finger. Donata wasn't too fond of the Fae.

That got Peter's attention. “Fae? As in Fairies? You mean Tinker Bell is real?”

Donata grimaced. “Gods, no. Fae aren't cute little fluttery things. They don't even have wings.” Suddenly she wished she were drinking something stronger than tea. “The Fae are ‘the Beautiful People.' Literally. They live off the energy of single-minded admiration and adoration. They don't care about human beings, but they have to live around them to survive; mostly, they tend to view Humans as sustenance or amusement, nothing more.” She sighed. “I suppose the Fae don't cause any harm, really, but they don't contribute anything either.”

Peter didn't seem convinced. “If the Fae live among Humans—” He stopped for a second as he realized he no longer fully fit into that category. “If they live among Humans, why haven't I even seen one?”

Donata laughed. “You see them all the time. You just don't realize it. Of all the Paranormal races, the Fae are the best at hiding in plain sight.” She gestured at the remote sitting on the granite and pointed toward the small television that sat at the end of the counter. “May I?”

He looked confused, but pushed the control in her direction. She turned on the TV, then clicked through the channels for a few seconds. Even at four in the morning, it didn't take long to find what she was looking for.

“There,” she said. “You recognize her, right?” She indicated the popular blonde actress whose beauty radiated from the small screen.

“Of course,” he said. “Everyone knows—” He stopped, dumbfounded. “Wait. You mean—”

Donata tried not to snort tea through her nose at the shocked expression on his face. “Yup. Fae. You'd be amazed how many famous actors and models are actually Fae masquerading as regular folks. Well, not ‘regular' folks. That wouldn't do at all.” She gave a rueful chuckle. “They need to be adored to survive, and they are very good at surviving. Underneath, they are cold and shallow, and most of them don't feel genuine emotion, or grasp why the rules should apply to them. Think about any young actor you keep hearing about, someone who is constantly seeking attention and getting into trouble . . .”

Peter gazed at her in amazement. “Are they all Fae?”

“No, of course not,” she said. “But a lot. In the old days, before the Compact, the Fae used to steal Humans and enchant their willing captives into giving them what they needed. These days, they find other ways to feed.” Donata shook her head.
“They're dying out slowly, according to many sources. They tend to be so self-absorbed, they rarely take mates; and if they mate with Humans, the offspring are always sterile.”

“Can they er . . . mate . . . with Dragons?” Peter asked, obviously curious about this new world of which he found himself a part.

Donata could feel the blood drain out of her face. “It's forbidden,” she said in a low voice. “For good reason.”

Peter raised one eyebrow in query. “Oh?”

“Dragon-Fae hybrids are insane about fifty percent of the time,” she explained. “But they also tend to be very powerful. If the Alliance Council finds out about a Dragon-Fae child, it is usually hunted down and killed, along with both parents.”

He looked stunned. “That seems . . . a little harsh.”

She shook her head. “Ever heard of Hitler?” she asked.

“Of course,” Peter replied. Then he thought about what she'd said, and hadn't said. “Are you saying . . . ?”

She nodded vigorously. “Yes. Like I told you, I'm not a big fan of the Council, but sometimes there's a reason for the things they do.”

Silence reigned for a few minutes as Peter digested what she'd told him so far. Then his natural resilience kicked in. “Okay, so we've got Witches, and Dragons, and Fae.”

“Oh my,” Donata said, and snorted. She couldn't help it. Not her fault.

Peter laughed with her. “Oh my, indeed. Who else?”

She tried to stop laughing, and mostly succeeded. “The Ghouls. Ugh. You know one of them, too, by the way.” She made a face.

He raised that eyebrow again. “I do?”

“Gray guy, never says anything, sits at the end of the bar at the Abyss?” Donata knew he'd seen the Ghoul, since the Ghoul knew him well enough to describe Peter's habits to her.

“Creepy fellow? Kind of blends in with the furniture?”

Donata nodded. “That's him, all right. Ghouls look Human, but they live off of negative emotions—sort of the opposite of the Fae, I guess.”

Peter grimaced. “Sounds unpleasant. Please tell me they don't mate with Dragons.”

She made a gagging noise. “As far as I know, Ghouls only mate with Ghouls. And I don't even want to think about that.”

Peter counted on his fingers. “That's four. You said there were five Paranormal races, right?”

“Five
major
races,” Donata corrected. “The Ulfhednar are the other ones. They're called Shapechangers, although they're not, really. Well, technically.” She gave a little smile, remembering something pleasant, and Peter smiled back.

“You mean there are really werewolves?” Peter made claws out of his hands and lunged at her in pretend menace.

“Actually, the original Ulfhednar were bears, according to Norse legend,” Donata said. “Supposedly, the god Odin
created them as his own special warriors. In modern times, there are a number of different clans, including the bear, wolf, boar, wildcat, elk, and badger.” She smiled again. “I was, um, friends with an Ulfhednar from the bear clan years ago. It's an interesting culture.”

“There are were-badgers?” Peter sounded dubious.

Donata laughed. “Unlike the legends, Ulfhednar don't actually change into animals. It's more like they channel the animal's spirit in a very intense way; when they do, they're nearly unstoppable in battle. Of course, most Ulfhednar are just stronger, more aggressive, and more pack oriented than most Humans.”

Peter looked disappointed. “Then where do the legends come from?”

“Oh, they're based in truth to some extent,” Donata said. “One out of every hundred Ulfhednar is born with the potential to become a true Ulf, a Shapechanger, who channels the animal spirit of his, or rarely her, clan. Those with the Ulf gene undergo strenuous training and rituals. If they survive the process—and many of them don't—it is considered a great feat and brings honor to their entire family. Historically, the Ulfhednar used to reproduce in great numbers, in hopes of producing a child who could become Ulf.”

She shook her head. “The Compact limited them to two children per couple and mandated that they would serve society. Now the Ulf are usually in the high-risk professions: Navy SEALs, firefighters, SWAT teams, stuff like that. So even the ones who make it through the training usually die young.”

“Wow.” He looked an equal measure of impressed and dismayed. “If so many of them die trying to become Ulf, why don't they just stop doing the training?”

Donata sighed. “It's not that simple. As a species, the Ulfhednar tend to see things in black and white, with no middle ground. And this is part of their culture. They still worship Odin and their animal totem gods, and anyone who turns his back on the possibility of achieving Ulf status is branded the worst kind of coward and banned from the community. For a clan-oriented person, that's about the cruelest punishment you can imagine.”

Peter looked at her with keen interest. “Is that what happened to your friend? Was he too scared to finish the process?”

She glared at him. “It wasn't a matter of fear. Magnus was no coward!” Then she caught herself. “Sorry. It was hard for him, because he couldn't even speak to his family. His mother used to call him secretly and beg him to return and finish the training. But he's a pacifist, and he was terrified of becoming a berserker and losing control. It was really sad.”

“A pacifist bear Shapechanger,” Peter said, a little bemused. “You do hang out with the most interesting people.”

Donata smirked in his direction. “Case in point,” she said. “A few years ago, a pacifist bear Shapechanger. Today, a half-Dragon forger.”

A slight hint of panic slid into his eyes and they darkened for a moment. Peter got up from the counter and walked over to the huge picture window that looked out over the city. It was still night, but the faintest tinge of pink could be seen to the east, heralding the new day to come.

“I can't believe there's this whole world I didn't even know about,” he said quietly, his back to Donata. “That hardly
anyone knows about.”

“It's a lot to take in, isn't it?” she said sympathetically. “I'm sorry to dump all this on you so suddenly. But to tell you the truth, it is going to make it a lot easier to try and explain the painting to you.”

“The painting has something to do with Paranormals other than just Witches?” he asked, then said, “It's called a Pentacle Pentimento—I figured that made it a Witch thing.”

He turned to her, obviously relieved to be back on familiar ground. “So, what did you want me to do with the painting, anyway? You said something about fixing the pentimento underneath?”

“Well, that's part of the problem.” Donata heaved a sigh. At least she wouldn't have to try to explain the painting without mentioning the Cabal, Paranormals, and a holy war. But that didn't simplify things that much.

Peter walked back over and gazed at the picture, a restorer's fervor in his eyes. “Let's take it into my workroom, where I can get a better look at it.” He picked it up and started walking toward a door at the back of the apartment.

Donata held her breath when he carried the picture off, but when nothing obvious happened she put her teacup down reluctantly and followed in his wake.

He led her into a large space that ran the entire length of the apartment. There were skylights overhead and more large windows along the far wall. Cabinets lined the inside wall against the back of the kitchen, and various mysterious tools hung from well-organized racks. The room smelled not unpleasantly of turpentine and linseed oil, and the same spicy smell she'd noticed in the restoration area of the museum. Paintings in various stages of completion stood on easels throughout the room, including what looked to her semi-cultured eyes like a genuine Renoir. She blinked and looked resolutely in another direction.

Peter placed the painting carefully on an empty table and turned on a couple of lights directly overhead. He pulled a large magnifier over the piece and sat down on a stool in front of it. Donata had the sudden sensation of being as invisible as the Kobold. She glanced around to see if there was any sign of his presence, but as usual, she couldn't tell if he was in the room or not. She wasn't even positive he'd come into the apartment with her.

“You're sure Clive had actually uncovered a little bit of the underlayer?” Peter asked, startling her out of her tired ruminations. “There's no sign of it.”

She blinked slowly, trying to jar her brain into life. “I'm sure. In fact . . . wait a minute.” She went back out into the living area and rooted around in the inside pocket of her jacket, which still lay where she'd thrown it on the couch as she'd come in.

She returned to the workroom and tossed a photograph at Peter, the same one she'd shown him earlier in the evening. “There. That was taken right after the attempted robbery. Check out the bottom right corner.”

Peter angled the magnifier so he could see the photo better. “Ha! You're right—there's a small whitish area on this photograph that isn't on the painting now.” He looked down at the painting fondly. “You're something of a mystery, aren't you?” Now that they were off the topic of his unexpected Paranormal ancestry and back in the technical world he knew, he
was happy as a clam.

“So, tell me everything you know about the picture and what it is we're trying to do here,” he demanded.

Donata sighed. If it were up to her, the painting could wait until morning. But clearly there was no way Peter was going to agree to put away his new toy.

“Clive Farmingham told me that the Pentacle Pentimentos were used by the Inquisitors to help identify and destroy the Paranormal races. Something to do with information contained in that bottom layer.” She rubbed her eyes again; damn, she was tired. “He also said something about a lost sixth race; that's what is hiding under that weird black blotch, if what he says is true. Farmingham said this supposed lost race is dangerous, and we have to uncover the information about them to prevent them from destroying the world. Or something like that.”

She looked around for another stool to sit on and didn't see one.
Great.
That's what came of hanging around with loners. Criminal loners. Never an extra chair when you needed one.

“Moore, the guy from the Alliance Council, says the Council wants the bottom layer erased or altered so it is harmless if the Cabal ever gets its collective hands on the painting. Of course, they'd also be happy if we could figure out a way to just destroy the painting, without triggering the curse, although something Farmingham said made me think it is pretty tough to actually destroy one. I don't know if that means that if someone tries to throw it in a fire, the curse will somehow prevent them, or kill them in the process, or what. And I'm not eager to experiment in order to find out.”