Veiled Magic (12 page)

“Huh,” Peter said, looking intently at the subject of all this interest. “So Farmingham wanted the painting rendered harmless, but also thought it was vital to remove that black bit and reveal what's underneath.” He moved one gooseneck lamp an inch to shine more directly on the no-longer-uncovered section. “And the Council just wants it dealt with, one way or the other. Right?”

“Right,” Donata agreed. “And don't forget the Cabal, who would like to get their fanatical little hands on it so they can use it to start another Inquisition.”

“Man, popular little painting for something so unattractive, isn't it?” he said with unholy glee. His fingers twitched in their eagerness to examine the painting. Donata just twitched, period.

He looked up at her for a minute, then did a double take. “Shit, you're about ready to fall over, aren't you?” Guilt colored his face. “I've been making you give me the short history of the Paranormal world and tell me all about the painting, and all you want to do is sleep. I'm sorry.”

He glanced back down at the painting, as if it was the other pole of a magnet that attracted him without recourse. “I'd really like to take a look at this tonight. Or rather, this morning. Why don't you go crash on my bed for a few hours?”

Donata might have been exhausted, but she didn't think she'd get much sleep lying in the bed of a strange man—especially one she knew was a criminal. Besides, she should probably keep an eye on him to make sure the curse didn't suddenly cause some body part to fall off or something.

“I'll be okay,” she fibbed. “I just need to sit down.”

“You need to lie down,” Peter corrected, taking her arm and guiding her back into the living room. He shoved her gently down on the couch. “Why don't you just close your eyes for a couple of minutes? I promise to yell if anything unusual happens.”

The soft cushions felt so good. Grimalkin looked down on her from atop a bookshelf without blinking. Surely she could trust her familiar to warn her if anything went horribly wrong.

“Okay,” Donata said, yawning. “But just look at it; maybe run a test or two. Nothing drastic, all right?”

“Sure. Nothing drastic,” Peter agreed. He turned on his heel and walked rapidly back into his workroom, Donata already forgotten.

She leaned back and closed her eyes, listening for the sound of screaming from the other room. But the apartment was silent, other than the faint snoring sounds from the bulldog across the room and a ticking clock on the mantel.

She wouldn't sleep, Donata told herself. It wasn't safe, here in this forger's apartment with a cursed painting just waiting to burst into flames, or whatever it did. She'd just rest a bit so she could think more clearly. Something told her that the day ahead wasn't going to be any shorter or easier than the one behind her. She was going to need all the rest she could get, just to deal with whatever came next.

The smell of coffee brewing finally woke Donata. For a few minutes, she couldn't figure out where she was—goddess knew, her coffee never smelled like nectar with a hint of almonds. Then the events of the previous day came back in a rush, and she sat up abruptly, dislodging the cat at her head and the dog at her feet. Apparently a truce had been declared while she slept.

Donata couldn't believe she'd actually fallen asleep in some strange guy's apartment with the Cabal chasing her and the Council breathing down her neck. Either there was something seriously wrong with her sense of self-preservation or she trusted a man she knew to be a criminal on a gut level she'd only felt once before. Both options sucked.

She lay back on the couch and closed her eyes, seriously considering going back to sleep until the world resumed spinning in some recognizable fashion. But she wasn't sure she could stay asleep that long.

The coffee smell got stronger and she opened her eyes again. Peter crouched in front of her, looking as though he'd gotten more sleep than she had, although somehow she doubted he'd closed his eyes all night. Dragon genes—it just wasn't fair.

“I thought you might need this,” he said in his low, rumbly voice. It was surprisingly comfortable to hear first thing in the morning. Usually Donata preferred silence until she'd had her first couple of cups of coffee, eaten breakfast, and walked briskly to work. Even Grimalkin knew better than to talk to her first thing in the morning.

“Thanks,” she said shortly, reaching out for the mug. Steam wafted gently toward her, promising redemption in caffeinated heaven. “What time is it?”

Peter glanced at the clock on the mantel. “About eight. I would have let you sleep later, but I was afraid you'd be late to work.” He settled next to her on the couch and sipped from his own mug. “I put in a little cream and sugar—wasn't sure how you liked it. I can make you another cup if you prefer it black.”

She took a cautious sip. Ecstasy exploded onto her taste buds. “No, this is good. Great, actually. What kind of coffee is this?”

“Kona,” he said. “It's from Hawaii. Expensive, but worth every penny.”

Donata seriously considered taking up a life of crime just so she could pay to have this coffee every morning, then realized that if she didn't do something about her job, she might have to resort to that just to get the cheap stuff she usually drank.

“Work. Crap.” She thought about the Cabal waiting for her at her apartment. What were the odds they couldn't find her at the precinct? “Double crap.”

“Can you call in sick?” Peter asked.

She chuckled. “Why, do I look that bad?” Suddenly she was self-conscious. She probably had the worst case of couch-hair in history. And he looked as polished and poised as if he'd had a full night's sleep. Of course, he'd probably gotten a shower—no doubt that helped. He'd even shaved, which left him looking less disreputable (although no less attractive) than
he had when she'd found him in the Abyss last night. Was it really just last night? The days were starting to blur together.

Focus, Donata
, she said to herself sternly.
Stop ogling the forger and figure out what you're going to do about work.
She suppressed a snicker that threatened to sneak out, and Peter gave her a strange look.

“Sorry, not enough sleep,” she said. She thought for a moment. “I've got months' worth of personal leave saved up. I don't take vacations much,” she explained. “I guess I'll call in to work and tell them I've had a family emergency and don't know when I'll be back in.” She shook her head ruefully. “I suppose if you consider all Paranormals to be one big, dysfunctional family, it isn't totally a lie.”

Peter raised one eyebrow. “You have something against lying?”

Donata remembered who she was dealing with. No doubt he thought her some kind of letter-of-the-law goody-goody. Tough shit if he did. She wasn't ashamed of trying to follow the rules, at least most of the time.

“Witches believe in the power of words,” she said briefly. “If words have power, you have to use them carefully. That means not lying, unless it is unavoidable. Also, I just don't like lying.”

“Huh,” he said. “I'll remember that.”

Right.

Donata called in to the desk sergeant and asked him to notify anyone with pending cases for her to look at that she'd be out of the office for a few days. As far as she could recall, there wasn't anything urgent on her desk at the moment, thank the gods.

She sipped at her coffee, hyperaware of the man sitting next to her. There was something very solid about his presence, maybe because of his Dragon half, maybe just because of the man himself. And he smelled even better than the coffee—spicy and clean. Grimalkin seemed to agree, coming over to rub up against his leg, purring.

“Traitor,” she muttered at the cat under her breath. The cat just purred louder. “So,” she said hastily, before she got herself into even more trouble, “did you have any luck with the painting?”

Peter heaved himself off the couch. “Come see for yourself.” He walked off toward the workroom, looking over his shoulder to make sure she was following.

Donata wandered after him, stopping only to grab some more coffee from the high-tech coffeemaker on the counter. Stainless steel, it gleamed brightly and boasted more buttons and knobs than a NASA rocket. The man's kitchen was amazing. And not just because most of her apartment could have fit in it.

Once she got into the workshop, Donata stopped in her tracks, jaw dropping open in astonishment. Where last night there had been only the painting and a clear space surrounding it, this morning there were piles of white gloves, colorful sketches, photos of the painting from various angles, and what looked like the results of tests on the pigments, although she couldn't be sure. He must have been up all night.

“Did you get any sleep at all?” she asked, knowing he couldn't have and still accomplished all this. Hell, she didn't know how he'd managed to get this much done anyway.

He shrugged, clearly pleased at her reaction. “I don't need much sleep. I am always eating, mind you, but don't ever really sleep a lot unless I'm bored.”

“That's the Dragon in you,” Donata explained. “The higher metabolism means you constantly have to stoke the fires, but Dragons can make do with very little sleep if they choose. They do hibernate, though, sometimes for years.”

Peter looked startled. “I could sleep for years?”

“Well, you're only half Dragon, so maybe not,” she said. “But for all we know, your father—your real father—is still in hibernation.”

A shutter came down over Peter's face at the mention of his parentage, and Donata rapidly changed the subject.

“So, did you learn anything from all this?” she asked, gesturing at the cluttered workspace.

“I learned a lot,” Peter said, “although I'm not sure how much of it is going to be helpful.” He shifted into professor mode, reminding Donata of the dead restorer at the museum.

“The painting is genuine, for a start,” he said. “The paint and canvas are both from the right period; the style fits the artist who is said to have painted it, blah, blah, blah.”

Donata's gaze jerked from the items around the painting up to Peter's face. “Blah, blah, blah? Are those technical terms?”

He chuckled. “Sorry. Your eyes were already starting to glaze over. I figured you weren't really interested in the methodology I used to verify the painting's origins.”

She tried not to smile back, and failed. “Um, no, not really. What can I say—I'm a cop, not an art historian. If you say it's authentic, I believe you. But to be honest, I never doubted it.”

“Me either,” he admitted with a wry twist to his lips, “but the restorer in me had to be sure. After all, there are a lot of people chasing after this thing; it would be pretty ironic if it turned out to be a fake.”

“You'd know more about that than I would,” Donata said, the corner of her mouth twitching. “But we're not going there. Tell me what you found that will help us figure out how to fix this damned thing.”

Peter shook his head. “What I learned is more along the lines of what won't work: I tried to clean the surface, as any restorer would, and had no problems. But when I attempted to actually remove some of the top layer of paint . . . well, this happened.” He held his hands up under the lights.

Donata gasped. His fingers and palms were covered with small, round blisters. Reddish and sore looking, they wept pinkish ooze around the edges.

“Odin's buttocks!” she said. “I thought we agreed you were just going to look at the damned thing!” She put one hand out tentatively but stopped just short of touching him. “Do those feel as bad as they look?”

He shook his head ruefully. “Believe it or not, they were a lot worse an hour ago. Now they mostly just itch.”

Even as she watched, the outermost sores started to crust over and heal, although the palms and fingertips were still bright red.

“You're lucky you have Dragon blood and heal fast,” she scolded. “On anyone else, those would probably have lasted for days.” She had a sudden thought. “Hey!”

“Hey what?” Peter asked. “Hey, can I make breakfast since your hands are so mangled?”

Donata barely heard what he said. “No. That's what you get for messing with the damned painting when I told you not to. My ‘hey' was more along the lines of ‘Hey, if Clive Farmingham was half Witch and he tried to remove some of the top of the painting, why didn't he have burns on his hands?'”

Peter looked thoughtful. “Are you sure he didn't?”

She stared at him for a minute, then went back into the living room to fetch her cell phone out of her jacket. She dialed the number for the morgue while refilling her coffee cup one more time. Yup—still heaven.

“Hey,” she said when the attendant picked up. “This is Officer Donata Santori, Witness Retrieval. Can I talk to Doc Havens if she's there, please?” A short, busty, and adorable blonde, Doctor Havens was the best coroner in the state, and one of Donata's favorite people. She loved their occasional nights out on the town, mostly for the double takes when guys who hit on Doc found out she cut up dead bodies for a living.

“Yo,” Doc said when she came to the phone. “What's up? If you're calling to make plans for this weekend, I'm free. That last doofus I picked up turned out to have a weak stomach.”

Donata snickered. “Doc, you always end up with the wimpy ones. Try picking up a guy who isn't wearing a pocket protector the next time.”

“I
like
geeky guys,” Doc Havens said, full of righteous indignation. “Hell,
I'm
a geek.”

“Yeah,” Donata said. “But you look like a goddess. A short goddess, but still. Nobody expects a goddess to make her living carving up corpses.” She got back to the point, reluctantly. Doc was always good for her spirits. “Actually, I'm calling for info on a dead body from one of my recent cases. Can you pull a file for me?”

Doc switched to her professional persona, and Donata could hear the click of fingernails on a keyboard. “Sure thing—what's your DB's name?”

“Clive Farmingham,” Donata said. “He was the restorer killed at the museum break-in on Sunday.”

“Oh, right. Didn't you actually get to leave the building for that one?” Doc's voice was bright with interest. “Why didn't you call me? Weren't you psyched?”

“It's complicated.” Donata felt guilty not being able to let her friend in on all the major happenings in her life. On the other hand, she sure as hell didn't want to get anyone else involved if she didn't have to. “I promise I'll fill you in later. About Farmingham—can you tell me if the autopsy turned up anything unusual on his hands?”

“Huh.” Doc sounded interested all of a sudden. “Funny you should mention it. The guy had blisters all over his right hand, and a few starting on the left. Looked like it happened right before the burglary. It's in the report, but you probably didn't hear about it because there was no indication that it had anything to do with the murder.”

Or she didn't hear about it because no one thought to keep the Witness Retrieval Specialist in the loop, dang it all.

“Okay. Thanks, Doc. It wasn't important, just tied in with another piece of info from the case. I'll give you a call later about this weekend. I'm not sure what I'll be doing.” Donata got ready to hang up the phone.

“Hey, Donata, there was something else, if you're still looking into this one,” Doc interjected. “Now where did I see that . . . ?” Donata heard more typing in the background. “Oh, yeah, here it is. Something weird about your thief.”

“The thief?” Donata was confused. “You mean Marty ‘the Sneak' Williams? Was there something wrong with his autopsy results?”

“Not the autopsy itself,” Doc said slowly. “But we found something odd on his clothing . . . what did I do with that note? Oh, right:
Subject had oil on one shoe that matched oily substance on stairs
.”

“So what?” Donata didn't see what the big deal was. “We already knew he slipped on the stairs and broke his neck.”

Doc sounded hesitant, something unusual enough for her that Donata paid attention. “It's probably nothing, and I don't suppose it matters anyway, but the thing is, the report from the officer on the scene said there was oil just on that one step. No drops leading up to or away from it, like there would be if someone had been carrying something that dripped or spilled. Just struck me as odd, that's all.” She sounded relieved to have told someone in authority, even if that someone hardly ever left the basement, and her voice returned to its usual chipper tone. “So call me about this weekend, eh? I could use a good laugh.”