Veiled Magic (23 page)

Oh, hell, no
, Donata thought to herself as Peter rushed across the room to stab at a couple of buttons on a wall-mounted console.
You have got to be kidding me.

“Shit!” Peter muttered. “They're on the roof too.” Donata peered over his shoulder at a bank of flashing lights surrounding a set of four small monitors. On three of them, groups of armed men wearing large crosses could be seen trying to either break in or crack the codes of Peter's keypad entry system.

“Can they get through the doors?” she asked nervously, glancing over her shoulder at the front entrance. The sound of banging resounded through the apartment, now that Peter had silenced the alarm.

He looked grim. “Eventually. Although they're going to find it a lot harder than they expected; those doors are steel an inch thick, with special recessed hinges.” He gave her an ironic smile. “Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that sooner or later someone won't come try to knock down your door.”

Donata grabbed her shoulder holster from the coat tree by the door and fastened it on, slinging her battered leather jacket on top of it. She felt better once she was armed, although they were clearly seriously outnumbered. Grimalkin jumped from the top of a shelf onto her shoulder and clung there, claws embedded in the leather.

“I'll bet burning down my apartment building was as much diversion as it was revenge,” she said, biting her lip and looking around for the best place for them to make a stand. “Now they've got us trapped.”

Peter shook his head and pressed another button on the console. “Not likely. Never underestimate the sneakiness of the truly paranoid.” He grinned at her briefly before running into the back room to grab the Pentimento, shove it into a carry case with a few tools, and then run back out again.

Ricky appeared, carrying Elmyr, a small bag jammed with whatever he could stuff into it, and a knife almost as large as he was, as Donata stood staring at a door that had suddenly opened up in the wall of the living room.

“What the hell?” She gaped at him. “What is that, a safe room?”

“Nope,” he grunted, shoving her toward the entrance, “even better. It's a bolt-hole. No good secret apartment is complete without one. It leads down an insane amount of stairs and comes out into an alley behind the building.”

They tramped into the stairwell, and the door slid shut behind them. Donata shifted the cat to a more comfortable position as the motley band hurried down the dimly lit and narrow risers, making as little noise as possible.

“Well, that ought to confuse the shit out of them,” Ricky said smugly, right at home in a dark tunnel. “It'll drive them mad, trying to figure out where we went.” He chortled quietly.

“More likely, it'll just piss them off even more,” Donata worried. “Peter, they're going to trash your beautiful apartment! And unlike mine, you'll actually be able to see the difference.” She rattled down the stairs at his heels. “Crap in a blender!”

Peter glanced back over his shoulder at her as he led the way down. “On the bright side, they probably won't burn the place down since they can't be sure we haven't hidden the painting in there somewhere.”

“Maybe we should have just stuck the painting in the safe,” she said. “And gone back for it later. This way we risk them catching us with it, if we can't sneak out without them seeing.”

“There's no such thing as a safe that can't be opened,” Peter disagreed. “And there's no guarantee that we'd be able to get back in. We had to take it with us.”

He gave a short laugh. “And I wouldn't worry about them wrecking the place; now that so many people know about it, I was going to have to move anyway.”

“How do you think they found us?” Donata asked, breathing hard as they hit the next floor. “I was so careful whenever I came.”

Peter thought about it as they ran down another flight. “I'm guessing they followed my father. My mother probably didn't think to tell him to cover his tracks, and if the Alliance Council knew enough about him to be watching his hibernation den, as you said they were, maybe the Cabal did too. Or they really do have a mole inside the Council, which would be even worse.”

They reached the bottom of the staircase and crowded together by the exit door. The bulldog whimpered softly and Ricky leaned down to shush him.

“Can you tell if they're out there?” Donata whispered.

Peter shook his head. “There was no one in the alley when I looked at the monitor before we left the apartment, but there's no way to tell if they're out there now.”

Ricky tugged on Donata's jacket. “I can go check,” he said, and disappeared.

She tried not to jump. “Hecate! I will
never
get used to that.” Then they waited in silence for a few minutes until the Kobold reappeared as suddenly as he'd vanished.

“Looks like we're clear,” he said softly. “But they've got some guys right around the corner of the building, so try and be quiet.”

Donata drew her gun and slipped out in front of the others. Once in the alley, they paused, breathing in air redolent of garbage and decay. She thought she could hear the muffled thumps of the Cabal's invasion efforts, but that might have been her imagination.

She gestured to Peter and Ricky to stay behind her and handed the cat to the Kobold to carry so she'd have both hands free. He grinned at her fiercely and brandished the knife with the hand not holding Grimalkin. Elmyr crouched at his feet, growling softly. Peter winked at her, and a trick of the morning light made his eyes spark like fireflies.

Together, they crept down the alleyway, staying to the sides as much as possible. They'd gotten about halfway without being spotted, when suddenly Donata's phone rang. Loudly.

“Crap!” she hissed, hauling it out of her coat and switching it belatedly to vibrate.
Idiot!

They all stopped in their tracks and waited to see if any of the Cabal goons had noticed the sound.

“Hello,” she whispered, checking the caller ID. “Magnus,
not
a good time. I'll have to call you back.”

Still nothing from the end of the alley.

“But, Donata,” Magnus protested, “I think I found the solution to the curse on the painting!”

“We have more immediate problems,” Donata said in a low voice. “The Cabal tracked us to Peter's apartment and we were trying to sneak out the back way when my phone went off.”

“Shit!” Magnus said with a growl. “Sorry. Hang on. I'm almost there anyway.” He hung up and Donata glared at the phone.

“Then why did you call me in the first place?” she muttered. But the damage was already done.

From around the corner, two impossibly large men entered the alley, pulling equally outsized guns out from underneath their gray trench coats as they came. The one on the left chuckled out loud as he spotted them.

“Excellent,” he said with a smug smile. “We find the rats in an alley.” He gave them an unpleasant once-over, beady eyes lingering a little longer on Donata.

“Put down your weapons and hand over the painting,” the other thug said, fingering the cross around his neck nervously. He clearly wasn't as overjoyed with the situation as his companion was. “None of those Paranormal tricks, now, and maybe you'll even walk away from this.”

“Right,” Smiley said. “Just give us the painting and we'll let you go. And your little dog too.” He roared with laughter at his own joke.

Peter and Donata exchanged glances. Sure. These guys were just going to let them walk away.
Uh-huh.
But what choice did they have?

Donata gripped the butt of her gun tighter as a bead of sweat ran down the back of her neck. She could see Peter's muscles tense as he prepared to leap.

Rustling noises came from the end of the alley behind the men, and the jolly one smiled even wider as he gloated. Then his grin disappeared, lost in the resounding thud that resulted from the impact of his head bouncing off that of his compatriot, as Magnus stepped behind them and knocked their skulls together.

“Hey,” the Shapechanger said. “Someone call for a taxi?”

*  *  *

Donata breathed a sigh of relief once they had all piled into the back of Magnus's van and peeled off down the street. They must have caught the Cabal off guard, since there was no sign of anyone following them as Magnus took a circuitous route toward the freeway leading away from the city.

Even Peter took a few minutes to collect himself, absently petting Elmyr until they were both more relaxed. Donata tucked her gun back into its holster, gave her own animal companion a pat or two, and then leaned over the backseat to talk
to their driver.

“Nice timing, Magnus,” she said with gratitude. “I've never been so glad to see anyone in my life.”

He took his eyes off the road for a minute, long enough to give her his big grin, complete with dimples. “Anytime, 'Nata. Anytime at all.”

He slid the van into the stream of traffic on a roundabout, never taking his foot off the gas pedal. They were all eager to put as much distance between themselves and the Cabal as possible.

Donata sat back and took a few deep breaths, running through the post-confrontation exercises she'd been taught to bring her pulse back to normal. No point in wasting adrenaline you might very well need later. Speaking of which . . .

She leaned forward again and looked out the windshield as Magnus took the next exit. None of the town names sounded familiar, but she didn't get out of the city much. Hecate, she didn't even get out of her own precinct much, come to think of it.

“Hey, Magnus,” she said, “where the hell are we going? Do you have someplace in mind, or are we just driving around until we come up with some kind of a plan?” She hoped it was the former, since she didn't even have a glimmer of an idea of what to do next.

“No worries,” Magnus said cheerfully. “I'm taking you to the last place the Cabal will look for you.” He gave a little snort of laughter that made Donata suspicious.

“Want to let us in on the joke?” she asked. Why did she have the feeling she wasn't going to think it was as funny as he obviously did?

“Sure,” Magnus said, and reached one long arm down to the floor of the passenger seat without ever taking his gaze off the road. He picked up what looked like a bundle of black cloth and threw it over the back of the seat at her. “Here—put these on. My contact got me a couple of different sizes, so hopefully there'll be one that'll fit.”

Donata looked at the garments in bafflement. “What the hell are these, bathrobes?”

Peter put the dog down gently on the seat beside him and pulled one of the black masses toward himself. As he opened it up to see it better, he started to chuckle. The chuckle turned into a full-out guffaw, and eventually he was laughing so hard, tears were streaming down his cheeks.

Gasping for breath, he said to Magnus, “Man, I could really get to like you. You are a sick son of a bitch.” Then he laughed some more.

Donata swung her head from one to the other, inadvertently thwacking Grimalkin with the end of her braid. “What on all the planes of existence is so damned funny? Would someone like to fill me in on the gag?” Ricky looked completely lost as well.

Peter wiped his eyes and finally got a grip on himself. “They're monk's robes, Donata.” He grinned. “It looks like your pal Magnus is planning on hiding us from the Cabal inside a Franciscan friary. I'm not sure why he thinks that will work, but if it does, it's pretty clever.”

“A friary?” Donata said. “You mean a
monastery
?” She shook out the hooded black robe. “You expect me to dress up like a monk?” Muttering to herself, she added, “Is it Halloween, and I forgot to mark my calendar?”

Magnus chortled at the look on her face. “Just think about how pissed off your mother would be if she knew; that by itself ought to make it worth doing.”

Peter looked puzzled. “I know Witches aren't exactly fond of the Catholic Church, but why would dressing up as a Franciscan monk make your mother mad?” He paused. “Well, any madder than she already is, anyway.”

“The Franciscans and the Dominicans have reputations these days as being ‘good guys': helping the poor, feeding the birds, whatever.” Donata's mouth turned down in a grimace. “Most people have forgotten the role they played in the Inquisition. Both the Franciscan and the Dominican orders were used as Inquisitors and enforcers. The sight of these black robes would have once meant disaster to a Paranormal.”

Peter raised an eyebrow and met Magnus's gaze in the rearview mirror. “Really? I had no idea. Then why exactly are we going to a Franciscan monastery?” He looked at a sign that marked a turnoff up ahead. “That is where we're going, right?”

Magnus slowed down for the exit. “Yup. And partially, it's because the Cabal would never think to look for you two there. You ought to be safe for a while, at least until we come up with a plan B.”

He steered them onto a bumpy dirt road barely wide enough for the van and any other vehicle. Donata hoped wildly that they didn't meet a delivery truck coming from the other direction.

“But mostly,” Magnus continued, “we're here because this is where I think we'll find the answer to your pesky ‘curse on the painting' problem.” He glanced back over his shoulder at Peter and Donata. “I'm taking you to meet my friend, Friar Matthew. He's a monk who specializes in Church history and old manuscripts. I've talked to him about the Pentimento, and he's pretty sure he can remove the curse for you, using that book you got in Rome. If we're lucky, Friar Matthew may be the solution to all of our problems.”

“You told him about the Pentimento?” Donata sputtered. “Are you out of your furry mind?” Next to her, Peter looked like he wanted to reach out and strangle the Shapechanger.

“Stop the car,” Peter said through gritted teeth. “If I kill you while we're driving, we might crash.”

Magnus waved one hand languidly over the back of his seat in their direction and kept driving.

“Keep your robes on,” he said with a chuckle. “There's nothing to worry about.”

Peter and Donata both started yelling at him at once, and Elmyr woke up from his nap and started barking. Magnus sighed and slowed the van to a halt on the edge of the narrow road so he could turn around and talk to them.

“Look, not everyone in the Catholic Church is a crazy fanatic,” he said, a little crossly. “That's why the Cabal is a secret fringe organization. They may have connections throughout the Church, but that doesn't mean that everyone Catholic is out to get you.”

Donata gritted her teeth. “You still shouldn't have told him about the painting. Your little monk friend probably doesn't even know Paranormals exist. How could you possibly explain the significance of the painting, not to mention what we want to try and do with it?”

Magnus leaned his arm on the back of his seat and scowled at her. “Remember when I said Matthew was an expert on Church history? He's known about the real story behind the Inquisition for years. The Inquisition—the real Inquisition—is his specialty.
That's exactly why I called him
.” He subsided, arms crossed over his chest, obviously miffed that they were yelling at him instead of congratulating him for a job well done.

“How do we know your friend won't tell someone about us or the painting?” Peter asked. “Even if he isn't involved with the Cabal, he might spill the beans to someone who is.”

“Monks don't go around gabbing,” Magnus said with a put-upon sigh. “But I've already told him how important it is to keep your presence here a secret, and he's promised to do so.”

“But why would he help us?” Donata wanted to know. “Why would he risk getting involved in this mess? Just because you're old friends?”

Magnus shook his head. “No, not really.” He turned around again and gave her and Peter an earnest look. “You have to understand Friar Matthew's point of view here. He knows the history well enough to be fully aware of his order's role in the Inquisition. He'd like to help in part as a chance to atone for the actions of his predecessors.”

Donata cast a doubtful glance at him. “Really?”

“Really,” Magnus said. “It's a monk thing.” He smiled, just a little. “Besides, he's a canny old guy; he realizes that if this painting brings about another Inquisition, he and his order will be dragged out of their quiet existence and back onto the front lines. He doesn't want that any more than we do. It would mean he couldn't spend all day bent over musty old books,
and he'd hate that.”

Peter and Donata exchanged looks. It wasn't as though they had any other options, after all.

“What makes you think he can take the curse off of the painting?” Peter finally asked.

“I'll let him explain that to you himself,” Magnus said. “That is, if I have permission to keep driving so we can get there sometime before the end of time.” His grumpy tone sounded suspiciously like a bear's growl, reverberating in the enclosed van.

“Fine, fine,” Donata said, trying not to growl back. She hated not having control over a situation—and she hadn't had control over this one since she'd first set foot in the museum. Now she had to wear a monk's robe, on top of everything else? Was that the sound of the wind through the trees, or was Hecate laughing at her? “Go ahead and drive. But what are you planning on doing when we get there, walking us through the front door and introducing us to everyone?”

She started pulling her robe on over her clothes, and Peter followed suit. Ricky looked at the Human-sized outfits unhappily.

“Those'll never fit me,” he said, morose at the thought of being left out. “Don't tell me I have to stay in the car. I can make myself vanish, but what about our furry friends here?”

Magnus rolled his eyes, including the entire backseat in his annoyance. “Don't be ridiculous.” He slowed the car as they approached a large gravel parking lot set amidst a number of low buildings. A sign out front said
St. Francis of Assisi Monastery
, and about a half a dozen friars moved purposely in and out of what looked like an office and a chapel.

“Here's what we're going to do,” Magnus said in a decisive voice. “We wait until everyone goes in to lunch, which should be any minute now. Then the three of us pull our hoods up and we walk down that path on the right. It leads to Friar Matthew's workshop. No one ever uses it except him, and he'll meet us there as soon as he can get free.”

He turned to Ricky. “You'll have to wait until dusk, but then you can bring the animals and come join us, okay?”

Ricky nodded happily. “Gotcha. No problem.” He looked at Grimalkin and Elmyr, who were studiously ignoring each other. “We'll all just nap until then.” He yawned to emphasize his point.

Donata felt a brief surge of jealousy. She'd much rather stay in the van and sleep than walk across a monastery in broad daylight, on her way to meet a scholarly monk. She fingered her gun wistfully, feeling even more out of her depth than usual.

Magnus caught her at it and smirked. “Planning on shooting someone, 'Nata? This is hardly the place.”

“Hmph,” she grumped. “Only you, if you don't stop calling me that stupid nickname.”

Peter cleared his throat. “What about the painting?” he asked. “We can't just stroll around carrying a midsized framed picture.”

Magnus thought for a second. “Why don't we take it out of the frame and roll it up carefully? Then we can tuck it under a robe until we get to the workshop.”

Peter winced. “It's a priceless piece of art. You can't just ‘roll it up,' for god's sake.”

The Shapeshifter shrugged. “The whole point of the curse is that it can't purposely be harmed, right? If you can't tear
it up or burn it, I doubt that rolling it up—carefully—is going to hurt it.”

“Fine,” Peter agreed with reluctance. “But you can stick it under your robe, just in case the curse decides you're trying to do something destructive.” He cheered slightly at the thought. “If anyone is going to end up with blisters in unmentionable places, I'd much rather it be you.”

*  *  *

Magnus led them down a carefully raked path to a small wooden building about half a mile away. He explained that the monks tended to pursue their specialties in solitude so that they might better contemplate God while going about their tasks. Some of the friars raised bees, made wine, or produced cheese that was eaten by the community or sold to support the order. Friar Matthew was, like Peter, an art restorer, but his area of expertise was old religious documents.

According to Magnus, Friar Matthew was internationally renowned for his ability to restore aging or damaged books, scrolls, and hymnals, and Catholic organizations across the world sent him their precious documents to be cataloged and repaired. He could have worked anywhere, but he preferred to stay at his own monastery, hiding out from the distractions of the secular world within his workshop retreat.

“You'll like him,” Magnus commented to Peter, opening the unlocked door to the small isolated building. “He's a bit eccentric, but the Church leaves him more or less alone, because his work brings in money for the order and gives them something to brag about.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “So you think I'll like him because he's a little odd? What are you implying?”

Donata snorted. “I think he means you'll like him because you're both interested in restoration,” she said, then added, “But I wouldn't mention the bit about being a forger, if I were you.”

They trooped into the low, wood-shingled building. Peter took a deep breath, taking in the familiar scents: the musty odor of old paper, the sharp tang of fresh ink, the acrid sweetness of paint pigments and turpentine. A smile crept across his face as he noted the orderly bookshelves, less neat easels with their various works in progress, and the familiar pile of white gloves. He probably felt at home already.

Donata was smiling, too, but for a different reason. She'd found the pot of coffee left for them on a warming pad and the plate of huge, raisin-studded oatmeal cookies sitting beside it, with a note that read, simply:
Make yourselves comfortable.

She grabbed a cookie and shoved it into her mouth, savoring the bite of cinnamon and a hint of nutmeg.

“I like him already,” she said around a mouthful of crumbs. She plopped onto a couch in the sitting area of the cabin. “Although I think my cookie tastes a little like turpentine.”

Magnus cracked the back window open a little, wrinkling his sensitive nose. “That smell gets into everything. The last time I visited him, I had to shower three times when I got home.”

They all jumped a little as the door creaked open and a light voice said, “Maybe if you hadn't knocked the can over, it wouldn't have stunk so much.”

Donata looked up as a figure clad in robes like the ones they wore came into the room. That was where the resemblance ended, however. Unlike them, Friar Matthew had the bearing of a true monk, seeming to be a part of the world, yet somehow separate from it. She'd met one or two Witches with that same air of arcane wisdom and connection with deity. They always made her vaguely uncomfortable, as if they knew something she didn't—and that lack made her in some way lesser.

The diminutive friar, on the other hand, just made her want to grin. He was a small, meek-looking man with wispy white hair and faded blue eyes. He looked like he would blow away in a strong wind. All except his beaming smile, which could have outpowered the sun.

“Greetings, my friends,” he exclaimed. “Welcome to my humble workshop.”

He nodded at Donata and Peter, and walked over to shake Magnus's hand vigorously.

“Magnus, it is so good to see you again,” the little monk said. “Please, you must introduce me to your companions.” He turned, encompassing them all with his broad smile.

“Ah, Friar Matthew, this is Peter Casaventi, the art restorer I told you about, and my friend Donata Santori.” Magnus gestured from one to the other. “And this is Friar Matthew. He is passionate about God, the Franciscans, and history.”

The blue eyes twinkled. “Not necessarily in that order,” Matthew said. “Although, of course, God always comes first.”

Donata returned his grin involuntarily. Being in the same room with Friar Matthew was like breathing pure oxygen. She hadn't felt this energized in days.

“So,” he said, slightly more serious. “Come, show me this painting you think is one of the long-lost Pentacle Pentimentos.” He led them over to a corner of the studio that held a table with a light above it, not unlike the one at Peter's apartment.

Magnus pulled the painting out from under the skirts of his robe and unrolled it on top of the table. Friar Matthew made a tsking noise.

“Shame on you, Magnus,” he said. “You should know better than to treat an old painting so carelessly.” He smoothed out the canvas with age-spotted hands that trembled slightly.

Peter gave Magnus an “I told you so” look but fairly said to the monk, “It doesn't appear to be possible to harm this painting in the usual ways.” He pointed to the area around the black splotch, which had returned to its original size and shape. “I managed to remove a little bit of that paint yesterday, but today it is back to looking exactly the way it was before I started.”

Friar Matthew's fluffy white eyebrows edged up toward his receding hairline, but he didn't argue. Instead, he took a magnifying glass and looked at the section in question, then stepped back and looked at the painting as a whole. Finally, after a few minutes, he put one gnarled finger gently on top of the black spot.

Donata reached out to stop him. “Friar! Be careful—” She didn't want to see this gentle man covered with blisters, or whatever other strange effects the painting decided to mete out.

He gave her a small nod of thanks. “Magnus told me about the picture's effects on Peter, which are certainly in keeping with a genuine Pentimento. But you needn't worry about me; the curse is only meant to affect Paranormals. As a mundane
Human, I should be quite safe.” He went back to peering at the painting, an intent look on his surprisingly youthful face.

Donata flushed. “Oh, of course. I didn't think of that.” Then she added, “And I think you are anything but mundane, sir.”

The old man aimed another of his stunning smiles at her. “You are a considerate and gracious young woman, Donata. Please just call me Matthew.”

Magnus stifled a laugh at hearing Donata called gracious, and she surreptitiously kicked him on the ankle. Peter ignored them both to look over the friar's shoulder.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Is it genuine?” His tall, muscular frame made a strong contrast with the smaller figure of the monk next to him. “All the tests I managed to do on it seemed to prove it was the right age and pigment composition, anyway. And it certainly doesn't look like any normal pentimento I've ever come across.”

The friar nodded. “Oh, I believe it is, although I must admit, I had never expected to see one in my lifetime.” He shook his head, his white hair floating through the air like snow. “How amazing.”

“Do you really think you can take the curse off of it?” Donata asked, eagerness making her impatient. “We really need to find out what's under that black mark. And figure out a way to make it safe afterwards, if that's possible.”

“Hmmm.” The old man looked pensive. “I do hope there is a way to preserve the painting while still rendering it harmless should it fall into the wrong hands.” He and Peter shared a moment of silent appreciation for its age, if not its beauty. Donata just tried not to grab the sweet-natured monk and shake him until he answered her question. She
really
wanted this particular monkey off her back. Like yesterday.