Veiled Magic (13 page)

“So could I, Doc,” Donata said, “so could I.” She hung up the phone, thinking hard.

“Well?” Peter asked. “Did Clive Farmingham have blisters on his hands?”

“Huh?” She was way past worrying about the restorer and was back to concentrating on the thief. “Oh, yeah. They just didn't think it was worth mentioning, since it didn't have anything to do with the actual crime.” She drummed her fingers on the countertop they'd migrated back to and looked around the apartment. “Speaking of crimes . . .”

“Whatever it is,” he said, “I didn't do it. I was here all night. I even have an impeccable witness.”

“Oh, shut up,” Donata said with genuine affection. How on earth did he manage to be amusing this early in the morning? “Not you. Someone else.”

Peter looked interested.

“Remember how I said there were five major races and a whole slew of minor ones?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. What does that have to do with this?”

Donata couldn't think of any good way to warn him “Brace yourself for another surprise.”

“Please tell me I'm not part elf or something,” Peter said, with a slightly desperate tone.

She laughed. “No, nothing like that.” She looked around the room, but couldn't see anything out of place. Then she realized her coat was hanging up, instead of slung over the couch where she'd left it. Aha. That's what she'd thought.

“Ricky,” she said firmly. “Show yourself; I know you're here.”

Peter looked puzzled, and then jumped back as the small man appeared, perched on the counter about two feet away.

“Mornin', Donata,” the Kobold said cheerfully. “Something I can do for ya?” His little cap was perched jauntily on his
head, and he'd braided his beard into two neat rows.

Donata choked back a laugh at the look on the forger's face. “Peter, meet Ricky. He's a Kobold, and a friend of the late Clive Farmingham. Ricky, meet our host, Peter Casaventi.”

Ricky gave a polite bow from the waist in Peter's direction. “Nice to meet ya. Lovely place you've got here.” He looked pointedly at their mugs. “Since we're being all open and aboveboard here, mind if I have some of that coffee? It smells just grand.”

Looking slightly stunned, Peter meandered over to the machine and fetched another cup, this one smaller than the two they were already using.

“Has he been here all the time?” Peter asked Donata, handing the cup to the Kobold.

She shrugged. “Don't ask me. It wasn't my turn to watch him.” She swiveled around to face Ricky. “Hey, you got something you want to tell me?”

The little man struggled to paste an innocent look on his homely features, without notable success. “Who, me? What would I have to say?”

Donata scowled at him and crossed her arms. “Oh, I don't know, Ricky. Maybe something you forgot to mention about the night of the robbery? Something to do with the way the thief, Marty Williams, died?”

Peter was obviously confused. “I thought the guy slipped on the stairs and broke his neck. Freak accident. Karma, maybe.”

“Karma my shiny white butt,” Donata said. She gave the Kobold a hard look. “Ricky? Would you happen to know anything about an oil spill that was somehow confined specifically to the area where Williams took his fatal nosedive?”

The Kobold gazed down at the floor, more embarrassed than apologetic. “Oh, that. Well, you know us Kobolds, always playing tricks on people.” He looked up from underneath his bushy eyebrows to check out her reaction. “I only wanted him to fall and hurt himself, maybe drop the painting. He'd just killed my friend, drat it all. I was peeved. But I didn't mean to kill him, honest.” He seemed so downcast, Donata almost felt sorry for him.

Peter, on the other hand, was clearly alarmed to find out that a pint-sized murderer had been skulking around his apartment without him knowing it. He shot a wide-eyed look at Donata. “Well,” he said, “aren't you going to arrest him?”

Donata and Ricky looked at each other for a minute, and then both broke into gales of laughter. The Kobold actually snorted coffee out through his knobby nose.

“Sorry,” Donata said, handing Ricky a napkin, but talking to poor bemused Peter. “A—I'm not that kind of cop. I've never arrested anyone in my life. I'm just the evidence gatherer. And B—I can't bring a mythological creature down to the station and have him booked. But most importantly—”

“That would be C,” the Kobold put in helpfully.

“Right. C—Kobolds aren't murderers. Annoying pests, yes, but murderers, no. I believe Ricky when he says it was an accident. An accident he caused, but under the circumstances, I think I can overlook that.”

Ricky was clearly torn between pride and offense, but came down on the side of pride. Peter, on the other hand, just put his head down on the counter. Donata figured he'd had one shock too many, and gave him a minute to recover. Then she heard muffled laughter from beneath his pillowed hands and stopped worrying. About that, anyway. She had plenty of other things still on her list.

“Hey, laughing boy,” she said. “When you're done, do you want to tell me what you think we should do about this painting, now that you've cleverly discovered that the curse really works?”

Peter lifted his head and looked from Donata to the Kobold. Then he shrugged, as another new piece of the rearranging puzzle of his life was accepted and slipped into its place. “Well, I have to admit, I wouldn't like to try and remove any more of the upper layer without finding a way to take the curse off, first.”

Crap.
Donata figured they'd hit a dead end. She could try to use a spell to remove the curse, of course, but she was pretty sure that its designers would have prepared for such attempts. “Great. Now what?”

“Actually, I have an idea,” Peter said, a hint of excitement in his voice. “It occurred to me—after the blisters started erupting—that I know someone who might have access to information that could help us.”

He looked at Donata eagerly, clearly intrigued by the thought of pursuing the mystery. Donata just wanted to stop being pursued by other people, but it didn't look like that was going to happen unless she could do something about the problem of the painting.

“Oh?” She tried not to sound as dubious as she felt. “You really think you might know someone who could tell us about the curse and how to get rid of it?”

He gave her a wide, bright smile. “I do. How badly do you want to know?”

Huh?
Now that was a stupid question. “Pretty badly,” she admitted. “Why?”

He smiled even wider. “Ever been to Rome?”

Rome. Holy crap.

Donata chuckled to herself. Thank goodness she hadn't spoken out loud. She'd already embarrassed herself enough today.

Initially, she'd suggested to Peter that he simply call his friend for the information. Let's face it—normal people didn't just jump on a plane to Rome at a moment's notice. But Peter insisted that it was the kind of thing that was best discussed in person, and his friend wasn't free to travel, while they were. Plus, his friend apparently didn't own a cell phone and had to use a public phone wherever he lived.

It didn't make much sense to her, but hey, she'd never been to Rome. She would have been annoyed by Peter's high-handed mysteriousness, but she was beginning to get the sense that he'd been operating as a lone wolf under the radar for so long, he just didn't know any other way to be.

It had taken her an hour to remember where her passport was, it had been so long since she'd used it. In that time, Peter had packed, put the painting carefully away in his safe, made arrangements with his dog-sitter, and called his mother and asked to borrow the family jet. (A family jet? Donata's family was well off, but they just contented themselves with flying first class. She mentally reassessed Peter's social and economic status upward a few notches.

She'd tried to be supportive when Peter spoke to his mother, thinking he was going to ask about his father and the Big Secret. But he'd just shaken his head at her and said, “That's a problem for another time, don't you think?”

Then she had a long, circular argument with the Kobold about whether or not he could come with them to Rome. The answer was no, but getting him to agree to that had taken twenty minutes, a few choice curse words, and the promise of a bribe in the form of something yummy from the duty-free shop at the airport.

During all of this, Peter had watched her with that cool, amused look and tried to pretend he wasn't laughing at her. She was just grateful he'd been on the phone during the “you're not coming either” discussion with the cat.

After stopping by her bank to pick up her passport from her safe-deposit box, they'd gone to the airport, gotten onto his mother's jet, and taken off for Rome. She'd spent most of the flight fretting about the fact that by skipping out on work she was probably jeopardizing her new rapport with the Chief. And, of course, even if she solved the case (which he'd ordered her to drop), she probably wouldn't be able to tell him or take credit for it, since doing so would involve revealing Paranormal secrets.

In short, she'd been in a lousy mood by the time they'd hit Rome. She was so far outside her comfort zone, she couldn't even remember what it looked like. It hadn't helped when Peter had pointed out that she needed a change of clothing and offered to buy it for her.

On the other hand, then he'd suggested that a more subdued style of clothing than her current leather jacket and
all-black attire would help her blend in better and stop looking, as he put it, like an Amazon on the hunt. This description of her and the new clothes, which she had to admit were pretty damned nice, had tickled her funny bone and cheered her up immensely.

So now they sat in a tiny, dark restaurant in Navona, right outside of Vatican City, sipping strong Italian coffee and eating some of the best pastries she'd ever had in her life. Things were definitely looking up.

Peter's friend, an art historian who worked in the hallowed halls of the Vatican Museums, had been ecstatic to hear that Peter would be in Rome, and had happily agreed to meet them at the restaurant, which he had recommended. Based on the quality of the pastries alone, Donata already liked the guy.

Peter looked across the room from where they sat at a tiny table tucked into a reasonably private back corner, and a gigantic smile lit up his face. Donata had a moment of envy—she'd certainly never made him smile like that. Then she saw who he was looking at and did a double take.

“Hey,” she hissed. “You never said your friend was a priest!”

Peter gave her a puzzled glance. “I didn't think it would matter. Is there a problem?” He waved his hand so his friend would spot them across the crowded room.

Donata gnashed her teeth. It was bad enough that she was a mile away from the Vatican, the home of the Catholic Church, which wasn't exactly Paranormal friendly, despite the Compact and their theoretical truce. But she was supposed to sit here and drink coffee with a priest?
Note to self: explain difficulty of Church-Paranormal relationship to Peter sometime in the
near
future.

She forced herself to calm down. “No, it's fine. Just surprised me, that's all.”

She got a better look at Peter's friend as he got closer, and she had to admit he looked as nonthreatening as a kindergartener. Despite his black attire and white collar, he looked more like an absentminded genius than a cleric. His black hair was unruly and sticking up in all directions, and his horn-rimmed glasses kept sliding down a narrow, aquiline nose. The beaming smile made him look practically angelic.

Peter stood up and the two men embraced, pounding each other on the back with vigor. The black-clad priest rocked back on his feet a bit under the force of Peter's strength, but his smile never budged. Finally, Peter remembered his manners and gestured in Donata's direction.

“Antonio, meet Donata Santori, my, um . . .”—he stuttered for a second as he realized they hadn't thought to come up with a story to explain her presence—“friend.” He paused as the priest switched his white-toothed grin to Donata, obviously making an assumption about the closeness of their relationship that wasn't warranted. “We're in town for a quick holiday, and I told her we couldn't come through Rome and not get in touch.”

Antonio nodded slightly in Donata's direction and spoke with accented grace. “It is my very great pleasure to meet any friend of my friend Peter. Antonio de Medici, at your service.”

Donata's eyes widened. “Of the famous de Medicis?” she asked. Behind his friend's back, Peter made a frantic waving
motion with his hands.
Oops.

The priest's smile disappeared temporarily. “Yes, those de Medicis. But please, I do not like to speak of them. I am embarrassed to be related to a family of politicians and murderers.”

She laughed—“In that order?”—and was rewarded by the return of his good humor.

“But, of course,” he said, sliding into a chair. “In Italy, it is much worse to be connected to politicians. But you have an Italian name. Surely you know this.”

“Alas,” she responded with wry appreciation, “in my family we have no murderers that I know of—but plenty of politicians.”

“You have my sympathy,
signorina
.” He helped himself to a piece of pastry and groaned quietly in appreciation. “
Magnifico
; they still have the best
pasticcino
in the city.”

“So how did you two meet?” Donata asked, curious. They seemed like an odd pair.

Antonio pointed at Peter, scattering tiny flakes of dough. “Ah, this one, he saved my life when we were only ten years old. We have been the best of friends ever since.”

“He saved your life? When he was ten?” She almost choked on her coffee.

Peter chuckled. “The good father exaggerates. We were in boarding school together in Switzerland, and my absentminded friend here wandered off into the Alps without adequate clothing or supplies, and ended up with hypothermia. I happened to come across him while I was out skiing, and we kept each other warm until help came. If I remember correctly, his excuse was that he was reading a good book and got so distracted, he hadn't realized that night was falling.”

Antonio smiled benignly across the table. “And as I recall, you weren't wearing very much clothing either. But you were warm like a furnace and kept us both from freezing. I have never understood it.” He included Donata in the warmth of his regard for Peter. “My childhood friend is something of an enigma, you know. But a good one.
Un miracolo
, yes?”

She couldn't help but smile back. “Yes, he is something of a miracle, isn't he?” She was rewarded by the sight of a slight blush creeping across Peter's face. “So—you were in boarding school? In Switzerland?”

Peter nodded, happy to change the subject. “Yes, my mother insisted I would get the best education there.” His eyes darkened momentarily when he realized the significance of her sending him to a faraway school—where his father the Dragon wouldn't find him.

Donata watched as he dealt with this newest revelation and flailed around for something to distract him.

“Um, Peter, didn't you want to ask Antonio something about obscure Witch art?” she interjected. Peter had told her that his friend was the ultimate expert on such things and the source of most of what he himself had learned over the years. Antonio raised his face from the crumbs of his pastry, looking interested.

“Ah, right, yes,” Peter said, regaining his focus. “Antonio, I was wondering if you knew anything about the Pentacle Pentimentos and the tale of some kind of curse attached to them.” He sounded so casual, even Donata was almost fooled.

Antonio's innocent countenance merely looked pensive as he thought about the question. “Well, I've heard of the
paintings, of course; they're a famous Catholic legend. But I have always assumed they were a myth.” His eyes lit up. “You haven't actually found one, have you?”

Peter shook his head. After all, technically, someone else had found it. So it wasn't as if he was actually lying to his friend. The priest. “I'm just following up on something I heard about,” he said, more or less truthfully. “And since we were seeing you anyway, I thought I'd ask. I know you work with all kinds of old Church documents; I had the notion you might have come across some sort of reference to the Pentimentos.”

Antonio brushed the last few crumbs of pastry from the front of his black shirt. “Nothing comes to mind, my friend, but let me get back to work and I'll poke around a bit and see if I can turn something up
. Potrebbe succedere qualunque cosa
. Anything can happen, yes?” He rose from the table, and he and Peter hugged again. “For how long are you in town?”

Peter looked at Donata with one eyebrow raised in question, and she shrugged. They needed to get back as soon as possible, but they also needed more information about the curse if they were going to make any progress.

“We can't stay long,” Peter said. “A day or two, maybe. But I'd really be interested to see if you could dig up anything about this curse and how to remove it. If it's not too much trouble for you to do the research.”

The priest gave another one of his saintly smiles. “Ah, you know I love the research. It is almost as dear to my heart as our holy Mother Church. Give me a bit of time; if there is anything to be found, I will find it for you.” He nodded toward Donata one more time and then made his gently weaving way toward the front door.

Donata turned to Peter. “He's very sweet, your Antonio.”

Peter looked after his friend fondly. “He is, isn't he? He was exactly like that, even as a child. There isn't a mean bone in his body.”

She tried not to look doubtful. “I don't know, Peter. After all, we've as good as told him we've got a Pentacle Pentimento. And remember what the de Medici family was known for in the past: treachery and backstabbing. Are you sure you can trust him?”

“I would trust Antonio with my life,” Peter said firmly.

Donata felt a shiver run down her spine. “I hope so,” she said. “I think we might have done just that.”

*  *  *

They ended up in a room at a picturesque but anonymous guesthouse, tucked up against the edge of the city. Their diminutive suite included a bedroom with two beds, a small sitting room, and an even tinier bathroom, all of it decorated in chintz. It was clean and pleasant, but not exactly the Ritz.

Donata teased Peter, saying she'd expected something a bit more luxurious, but he explained that the habit of staying hidden was too strong. Under the circumstances, she'd had to agree that they were better off keeping a low profile; they hadn't spotted anyone watching them, but they wanted to keep it that way. She couldn't help wondering to herself how often he traveled to Europe on forgery-related business, but tried to put it out of her mind. After all, it wasn't as though she was
going to arrest him.

She looked at him from under lowered eyelashes, trying to study him without being obvious. He lounged across the room's miniature sofa, legs dangling over one end as he flipped through a newspaper he'd picked up at the airport. Rumpled and starting to show signs of five-o'clock shadow, he looked more attractive than ever. If he'd been part Fae, she would have blamed her fascination on Paranormal glamour, but as it was, she could only think it had been too long between relationships.

Not that there was any chance of a relationship between the two of them—goddess, no. After all, she was a cop and he was a criminal, although certainly a nonviolent, high-class one. She thought about Cary Grant and Grace Kelly in
To Catch a Thief
. Right. Well, she was no Grace Kelly, that's for sure.

The muted buzz of her cell phone interrupted her unproductive musings. Peter looked up as she dug it out of her jacket and looked at the number; not one she recognized off the top of her head. She shrugged at him and flipped it open.

“Hello?” she said.

A smooth voice spoke from the other end. “Ah, Officer Santori, you are still in one piece, I see. We were starting to get concerned, since there has been some, er . . . unusual activity around your apartment, and we hadn't heard from you.”

Donata suppressed a groan and mouthed at Peter,
The Council
, before turning her attention back to the phone. Why on earth had she thought it was a good idea to arrange to have her phone work internationally while she was in Rome?