Veiled Magic (17 page)

Two hours later, the sound of her cell phone ringing woke Donata. She let out a muffled curse, and Grimalkin jumped down off the couch in disgust. Elmyr just lifted his head, whiffled softly, and went back to sleep. Donata wished she could do the same.

She grabbed the phone and flipped it open, hoping to catch it before it roused Peter, who was finally sleeping.

“Santori,” she whispered. “This better be good.”

A stiffly elegant voice replied, “Now, Donata, that's no way to speak to your mother.”

Aw, crap on a stick.
She looked at her watch.
Double crap on matching sticks. In hell.
“Mother, why are you calling me at two a.m.?”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. “I always forget you aren't as nocturnally inclined as the rest of us,” her mother said. “And it was important.”

“I
do
work a regular day job,” Donata said. “Unlike the rest of the family, I can't afford to stay up half the night.”

Her mother said sharply, “Yes, and I tried to reach you at your ‘day job' and I was told you would be unavailable for a few days. For a ‘family emergency,' I believe. Since I am your family, and I was unaware of any emergency, I thought it was best to check.”

Donata yawned and sat up on the couch. “I usually finish work around six, Mother. What time did you try to call me there? Just now?”

Another pause. “Actually, I believe it was around five. But I had a social engagement this evening; your sisters and I were at the Governor's Ball. I only just returned home.”

Donata thought guiltily of the invitation sitting on her inaccessible kitchen table. Oh, well—the dress she'd gotten for the occasion had sucked, anyway. But her mother had her backed into a corner. If she continued to protest the late hour of the call, her mother would only bring up the missed familial obligation.
Triple crap with cheese sauce.

Donata bowed to the inevitable. “So, what can I do for you, Mother?”

Voice crisp with satisfaction, her mother said, “You can give the Council this picture they keep going on about, and get them off my back, that's what.” There was a pause as she audibly took a sip of what Donata could only assume was a very dry martini.

She sighed. “I'm working on it, Mother. But they want the picture fixed, and I haven't figured out a way to do that yet. I'm getting closer, though.”

“You need to work faster, Donata.” Her mother's tone held an unusual tension. “We are getting a certain amount of pressure, you know. Your sister Lucia was accused of stealing medicine at work. She was able to prove she wasn't guilty, but only by a fluke. It could have been very bad.”

Donata had a sudden vision of her mother sitting in the elegant parlor at her townhouse, drinking her martini and indulging in a rare cigarette. Celestina Santori only smoked when she was very stressed or very worried. Donata got the feeling that her usually self-assured mother was currently both.

“I'm sorry, Mother,” she said, a little less belligerently. “I hadn't realized the Council was getting quite so aggressive. They've been threatening to make trouble for you all if I didn't get them what they wanted, but I thought they'd give me more time to accomplish it. And, honestly, I thought the family's long history of service to the Alliance would count for something.” She turned on the light next to the couch, and Grimalkin sprang up lightly to sit next to her. “I'm doing everything I can, really.”

“I'm sure you are, dear,” her mother said, letting out a long breath. “But you need to either do as they ask or just give them this painting soon. Apparently the Council's memory is shorter than either of us anticipated, and our standing in Witch society is at serious risk.”

Donata bit back a sharp retort about the relevance of social standing as compared to being shot at in bars. There was nothing to be gained by having that particular conversation. Besides, in all her adult life, this was the first time she could ever remember hearing her dispassionate mother sound truly rattled. They might not have the same goals and values, but Donata loved her family. She'd be damned if she would let the Council bring them to their knees.

She straightened her spine. “I'll take care of it, Mother. I promise you. Just have everyone try to keep a low profile for the next few days. Hopefully I'll have it dealt with by then.”

“Very well, Donata. I'll rely on that.” Her mother paused for a moment before hanging up the phone. “Watch your back, dear. Every family needs a black sheep. It would be an awful lot of trouble for us to come up with another one, should something happen to you.”

Donata chuckled to herself as she clicked her phone closed. She had a strange and often strained relationship with her mother, but the woman was certainly one of a kind. Resolving to make some kind of progress in the morning, no matter what it took, she turned out the light and went back to sleep.

*  *  *

A too-short four hours later, the phone rang again. This time she tried to ignore it, but it rang three more times. Finally, she gave up and flipped it open. If this was her mother again, she was disowning the woman.

“Santori,” she said hoarsely. “What?”

“This is your damned boss, that's what,” the Chief thundered in her ears. “And I would like to know why the painting you put into evidence is suddenly missing. At the same time you are out for more days in a row than you've taken since you started work here. That's what, Santori. Now, do you have something to tell me?”

Donata was abruptly wide awake. But she wished she wasn't.
Sure, Chief
, she thought.
I've got plenty to tell you. Like there are a whole lot more Paranormal creatures in the world than you knew about. And that painting might be the key to
the end of our society as we know it. Oh, and by the way, could I have a raise?

She briefly debated just hanging up the phone and pretending it was an accident, but she figured he was too smart to fall for that.

“Look, Chief—”

“Don't lie to me, Santori,” he said, his usual blunt self. “Do you or do you not have possession of that painting?”

She bit her lip. “Yes, sir, I have it.”

There was a moment of silence. “I assume you have a very good reason for such a breach of protocol.” It was a statement, not a question. “And that you will be explaining said breach to me—in full and complete detail—when you have finished doing whatever you are doing.”

Donata didn't know how she was going to explain all of this, but she wasn't in any position to disagree. If he chose to, the Chief would be well within his rights to have her arrested and fired. Not necessarily in that order.

“Yes, sir.”

“One week,” he said.

Her eyes popped wide open. A week? “But, sir, I don't know if—”

Her boss let out a sound suspiciously like a growl. “One week, Santori. You get that painting back into lockup and your ass back into your office chair in one week, or so help me, you will be sorry you ever took this job.”

She squawked out some kind of agreement. Hell, she was sorry already.

“Don't make me regret giving you the chance to make this right, Santori.” He hung up the phone, and she was left listening to empty air. Even that sounded accusatory.

“Problem?”

Peter's voice came from the corner of the living room nearest his bedroom, making her jump. She'd been so focused on the Chief, she hadn't heard him come in.

She sighed. “Nah. The Council is putting pressure on me through my family, and my boss just figured out that the painting is gone from the evidence locker. He's giving me a week to put it back or be out of a job.” She tossed the phone down on the table by the couch and tried to look as though the strain wasn't getting to her. “Nothing I can't handle.”

Peter sat down next to her. “You know, Donata, you don't have to be so tough all the time. I realize you are a woman in a man's world, and a Witch in a Human society, but it's not like you're in this on your own. You have friends.”

“Yeah, friends,” a tiny voice piped up from near her knees, and Ricky appeared carrying a tray with three steaming cups of tea.

She smiled wanly at them both. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate it, really I do.” She took a cup gratefully.

“You know what's weird?” Peter said thoughtfully.

Donata tilted her head to the side. “Having early-morning tea with a half-Dragon art forger, a Kobold, a gray cat, and a French bulldog?”

He laughed. “Well, yes, that too. But I was thinking more along the lines of the fact that you've been threatened by the Alliance Council and by your boss but we haven't heard a word from the Cabal, who is your actual enemy. Don't you think that's odd?”

Donata hadn't thought about it that way. “Well, since you mention it—”

On the table in front of them, the shrill peal of the phone rang out.

Donata glared at Peter. “You just had to say it, didn't you?”
Crap, crap, crap, crap. Crap.

*  *  *

The cool voice on the other end of the phone said, “Is this Ms. Santori?”

It had been too much to hope it was just a wrong number. “Yes. Who's this?” At least it wasn't Clement Moore. She didn't recognize the voice, but it definitely wasn't his.

“My name is unimportant,” her caller said. “It has come to our attention that a man named Peter Casaventi has been aiding you in your misguided attempts to destroy Church property.”

Donata said a bad word inside her head. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

The voice chuckled without any trace of humor. “Nice try, Ms. Santori. You were seen together in Rome. We are aware of Mr. Casaventi's various talents and assume that you are using him to try and alter the painting in some way. That would be inadvisable, I assure you.”

Peter raised an eyebrow at her in question, and she mouthed the word
Cabal
.

“You still haven't told me who you are,” she said to the person on the other end of the phone. But to herself, she thought grimly that whoever it was, they knew altogether too much about her and Peter.

“Nor do I intend to,” he said. “Who I am is completely irrelevant. You know whom I represent, and they want their painting back. Immediately and without argument. Or else.”

“Or else what?” Donata asked. “You clearly don't know where we are, or we'd be having this pleasant conversation face-to-face.”

The voice gave a short laugh. “Also irrelevant. I suggest you put Mr. Casaventi on the phone.”

She grimaced at Peter, put one hand over the phone, and said, “Someone from the Cabal. He won't give his name, but he says they know you've been helping me. He wants to talk to you. Should I hang up?”

Peter thought about it for a minute. “Better not, just in case the guy actually has something pertinent to tell us. Do they know where we are?”

She shook her head. “I don't think so. But they know we were in Rome together, since Antonio inadvertently led them to us.”

Peter winced at the mention of his friend's name. He held his hand out. “I suppose I might as well see what this clown has to say.”

“Somehow I don't think it's going to be ‘Have a nice day,'” Donata muttered.

Peter said into the phone, “This is Peter Casaventi. You wanted to talk to me?” An astonished look slid over his face, and he said, “Mother? Is that you?”

Donata's jaw dropped. “
What?
” she asked, as silently as she could and still be heard.

Peter shook his head at her frantically. “Mother, are you all right?” he said. “Have they hurt you?” He listened for a minute, and then Donata could hear the male voice come back on the line.

“You sons of bitches,” Peter started to say. “If you do anything—” The voice spoke sharply, and Peter's eyes narrowed. He handed the phone back to Donata, reluctance in every muscle of his body. “He wants you to put it on speaker so he can talk to both of us.”

Donata silently complied. She couldn't believe the damned Cabal had actually kidnapped Peter's mother.
Shit.
She held the phone between the two of them.

“What do you want?” she asked through clenched teeth.

“It is quite simple,” the voice said, as if he were ordering a cup of coffee instead of playing with people's lives. “We have Mr. Casaventi's mother. If you do not give us the painting, we will kill her.”

“Some religious group you are,” Donata spat out. “What ever happened to believing that Human life was sacred? I could understand your callous attitude if she were a Paranormal, but she's a Human! And she had nothing to do with this.” She reached out and put her hand over Peter's rigid one, but he pulled away.

“It is indeed unfortunate when an innocent has to suffer,” the man said with indifference. “But one life is nothing compared to the greater good.” He added, “In any case, she consorted with a Dragon. She is hardly unflawed.”

Peter choked. “Hell's bells—did
everyone
but me know about my real father?” His eyes glowed with fury. “You bastards let her go. We'll get you the damned painting!”

Donata looked at him with alarm. He put one finger to his lips, then resumed speaking.

“We don't have the painting here. It's locked up someplace safe. You'll have to give us a couple of days to get to it.” His voice sounded amazingly level, considering the rage she could see smoldering in his darkened eyes.

“You're bluffing,” the man said.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Peter answered back. “I wouldn't risk my mother's life that way. Besides, would
you
keep a priceless painting in
your
apartment?”

Despite the bleak situation, Donata felt a spark of admiration for her half-Dragon companion. Not only was he hanging on to his temper, something Dragons did with great difficulty, but he was also cleverly buying them some time. Of course most people wouldn't keep anything as valuable as the painting in their own apartments—most of them didn't have state-of-the-art security and a huge safe.

There was a hesitation on the other end of the phone. “Fine,” the man said. “You have twenty-four hours. Get us the painting by then or Mr. Casaventi's mother dies. Contact us at this number when you're ready to make the trade.”

Peter and Donata both stared at the phone as if it was somehow responsible for the bad news, and Donata reached out one trembling hand to turn it off.

“You know, for a woman who doesn't like deadlines, I've suddenly got an awful lot of them,” she said. Then she put her head in her hands. “Damn. I've really messed your life up good. I'm so sorry.”

There was a snarling noise from across the room, and she looked up with a start. Peter had moved with his usual silent grace and was standing staring out the window onto the city far below.

He made the strange rumbling noise again, and smoke seeped out of his mouth. He didn't seem to notice.

“They've really crossed the line now,” he said in a low, rough voice. “They should never have brought my mother into it.”

Donata stared at him. “What are you planning to do? Are you going to turn over the painting to them?”

He looked bleak. “And save my mother's life at the expense of every Paranormal on the planet, including you?” He shook his head. “No. We can't do it. Anyway, I seriously doubt they'd just let her go, even if we did hand over the painting.”

“What, then?” Donata asked. “What do we do?”

“We find them and get my mother back,” Peter said. “And then we kick their butts into the next century.” He looked into Donata's eyes and gave her a savage smile that sent a chill down to her toes. “I don't know how we're going to do it, but that's the plan. Are you with me?”

Her heart beat faster and she felt a matching grin stretch across her face. If she could have, she would have growled too. “You bet your ass I am. Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

*  *  *

When going to war—call in a warrior. Once they'd decided to come up with a plan of action, Donata didn't hesitate; she dialed Magnus's number.

“I don't understand what you think he can do that we can't,” Peter protested, jaws clenched.

Donata rolled her eyes as she waited for Magnus to pick up. “Well, let's see—I'm a cop who never leaves the precinct and you're an art restorer. Magnus, on the other hand, is an Ulfhednar who spent most of his life training to plan, execute, and fight battles. Which one of us would you rather have masterminding your mother's rescue attempt?”

He conceded her point with a scowl as a masculine voice answered, “Yo, 'Nata. Twice in twenty-four hours; to what do I owe the honor?”

“I need your help, Magnus. Can you meet me and Peter at my apartment in an hour?” She tersely explained the situation, and then added, “I wouldn't expect you to go with us, if we get a lead on where Peter's mother is. I know you don't fight anymore. We just need help coming up with a plan.”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. “Let's just take it one step at a time, Donata. We have to find the woman first.” He hesitated, knowing she wasn't going to like what he had to say next. “I think you'd better call your mother.”

Donata seriously considered “accidentally” dropping her phone on the floor and jumping up and down on it a few times. “Are you serious? I can't call my mother! For one thing, she wouldn't help us. She's not exactly known for her altruism. For another, if she did help, she'd never let me live it down. Argghhh.” She settled for banging her fist against her forehead instead.

Magnus laughed at her. “Sorry, 'Nata; I know you and the old lady have issues. But you said the Council was putting pressure on her to get you to hand over the picture. You can use that to get her to agree to help. Have her bring your sisters too. We need all the resources we can get working on this, but we don't dare involve anyone who isn't already in the mix.”

“But we don't want to give the painting to the Council yet either,” Donata protested.

“I told you,” he said, “one step at a time. Get them to meet us at your place, and we'll figure something out. Oh, and tell Peter to bring something of his mother's if he has such a thing. It might come in handy. See ya in a bit, toots.” He chuckled again and hung up.

Donata glared at the phone. “Great. Just great,” she muttered.

“What did he say?” Peter asked, pacing back and forth. Elmyr trotted at his heels, whining softly.

“He said to see if you could find something that belongs to your mother. Maybe he wants it for scent or something, I'm not sure.” Then she added in a lower tone, “And he suggested I ask my mother and sisters to help.”

“Ah, that would explain the head banging,” Peter said with a hint of a smile. “Are you going to do it?”

Donata grimaced. “I can't very well ask Magnus for advice and then not do what he suggests, can I?” Tempting though it was. She dialed the phone again.

“Ah . . . bummer . . . voicemail.” Her expression couldn't quite hide the relief her voice denied. “Hi, Mother, it's Donata. We have a situation with the painting. The Cabal have snatched my friend Peter's mom and are threatening to kill her if we don't hand over the Pentimento. We're trying to come up with a plan to get her back without doing that, and we could use your help. I know you would much rather I give the painting to the Council. If you, Lucia, and Gabriella could come to my apartment, maybe we can all come up with a solution that will satisfy all our goals. Bring your tools, just in case. Thanks. Bye.”

She clicked the phone shut with a decisive snap of her wrist.

Peter stared at her in amazement. “Nice job of summing up. I notice you didn't exactly promise to hand over the picture to the Council either.” He snorted. “But do you really think they'll come?”

Donata nodded. “As fast as their little broomsticks can carry them. The Council has really been breathing down their necks. Besides, I guarantee you my mother and sisters will adore an opportunity to come to my rescue. I've been insisting on doing things my way—without any support from the family influence or power—for too many years. They're going to love the fact that I've had to come crawling to them for help. Believe me; they wouldn't miss it.” She sighed.

“I'm sorry you had to call them in on this,” Peter said. “I know you're calling in a lot of markers to try and rescue my mother.”

“Hell, I should be the one apologizing. Your mother wouldn't need rescuing if it weren't for me.” She bit her lip. “If I hadn't brought the painting to you in the first place, your mother would be safe at home.”

To her surprise, Peter let out a laugh. “Seriously, Donata, this is the most fun I've had in years. As long as everything works out okay, I'm happy to be involved.”

Donata stared at him in amazement. Then his eyes darkened, along with his mood, in typical volatile Dragon fashion.

“Of course,” he added, “if anything happens to my mother, they're going to wish this half Dragon had never awoken to his Paranormal heritage.” A thin wisp of smoke curled from one nostril and drifted toward the window. “I guarantee you that too.”