Veiled Magic (27 page)

Donata walked over to where Peter lay on the couch, and cringed at the sight of the blisters and red patches left by his walk through the fire. In contrast, his father seemed largely untouched; only his clothing showed any effects from the flames, and even that was minimal.

“Will he be okay?” Donata asked Raphael, not sure if she wanted to hear the answer.

Peter pulled himself up with a groan. “I'll be fine,” he said, his voice stronger than she would have expected. “It hurts like hell, but I'll heal.” He glanced over his shoulder at the charred entrance to the bedroom, regret written clearly on the streaky mask of his face.

Raphael nodded in confirmation. “I will take him home with me,” he said in a tone that left no room for argument. “I have a salve that will soothe his wounds, and I can show him some techniques that will help him to heal faster.”

He gazed down at his newfound son sternly. “In truth, I have much to teach him about being a Dragon.” He shook his patrician head ruefully at Peter. “If you are going to persist in foolish gestures like the last one, I should at least instruct you on how to survive them.” Despite his harsh words, Donata thought she saw a glint of pride in his eyes.

Peter hesitated, looking at Donata. She gazed back steadily, trying not to display the emotions currently roiling in her heart and mind.

“He's probably right,” Peter said reluctantly. “I can't go around setting things on fire every time I'm in a fight.” He smiled at her. “Especially if I'm going to keep hanging around with you. Trouble seems to follow you around.”

She tried to smile back. “Ha,” she rebutted weakly. “Look who's talking.”

The smile slid off his face as he took one of her hands in his. “You understand why I have to go, right, Donata? Now that my Dragon half has been awakened, I'm a hazard to myself and to others. Besides, I think it is past time for me to learn about who and what I really am.” He blinked rapidly, obviously thinking about Friar Matthew. There was more than enough guilt to go around, but he'd clearly taken on his share.

She made herself look into his eyes one more time. “Of course I understand, Peter. I'm sorry I dragged you into all this. If it weren't for me, you'd still be sitting in the Abyss, leading a quiet life and forging things to your heart's content. You wouldn't even know you were a Paranormal.”

“That's right,” he said. “And no matter how this all turned out, I'm still better off now.” He smiled up at his father, whose mouth moved upward slightly in return. “At least I have my father back, and I can work on discovering who I am—instead of spending my life mourning who I'm not.”

He leaned over and kissed Donata on the forehead; a thank-you, maybe, or possibly a promise of something more in the future. Then he hauled himself gingerly to his feet.

“I noticed that Friar Matthew had a duffel bag under the workbench. I'm going to pack up some of the tools I brought,
before my father and I get going.” His face brightened as he said the word, and he walked toward the mostly untouched workroom area in the rear, moving slowly and carefully, like a man in pain.

Raphael made a small bow in her direction before turning to go help his son.

“I, too, owe you a debt of gratitude.” He handed her a simple but elegant square of card stock. “This is my card. I can be reached at that number at any time.” He looked over at Peter. “I suspect my son and I will be occupied for some time with his lessons, as well as getting to know each other at last.” Surprisingly, he winked at her, so fast, she almost missed it. “Perhaps once he is recovered, you might join us for dinner.”

With another bow, he walked away. Donata sat down heavily on the couch, putting her head in her hands. The seat next to her creaked in protest as Magnus added his weight to hers.

“Are you going to be okay, 'Nata?” he asked, his deep voice filled with concern.

“Sure,” she said from underneath muffling fingers.

He snorted. “You always were a terrible liar, babe.” He pulled her hands away and placed a gentle kiss on her lips in their stead.

“It wasn't your fault, you know,” he said. “Friar Matthew made his choice. He would have done anything to save the world from another Inquisition, and he did—at least for now. He thought the sacrifice was worth the price. And he is with his God. It's what he wanted.”

Donata looked at him, a tiny smile lifting one side of her mouth. “I know.” She pulled out the pentacle she wore under her shirt and held it in one dirty hand. “May Hecate guide him to the Summerlands, and may his next life be as long and fulfilling as this one was.” She sniffed, fighting back tears.

Magnus bent his head and added his own benediction. “Odin keep him. He was a true warrior to the last.” It was his highest accolade, although an incongruous epitaph for a peace-loving monk.

“You know,” Donata said thoughtfully, tucking the pentacle back into her shirt, “I think he knew it would happen that way. There was something he said to me . . .” She couldn't remember exactly what it was, and put the thought away for another time.

She sighed deeply and leaned her head against Magnus's strong shoulder. “You're leaving, too, aren't you,” she said without looking at him. “Going back home to finish your Ulf training.” It wasn't a question.

He put a muscular arm around her. “I have to, 'Nata. I need to learn how to master my nature so I don't give in to the berserker except when
I
choose it.” She could feel his grin against her hair. “Of course, I have no intention of becoming a warrior for the clan, but that doesn't mean I can't go back and try to finish the training. I can always leave again if I hate it.”

She snuffled against his sleeve, inhaling the familiar smell of musk and cotton under the smoky aroma of the room. “Won't they be pissed if you refuse to serve as Ulf after completing the training? Go back to ostracizing you again?”

Magnus smiled briefly as he tightened his arm around her shoulders. “That's the kicker. There's no rule that says you have to fight if you're an Ulf. There's never been anyone before me who refused to do it; they never had to establish a law
against it. Unlike walking away from the Ulf training itself, there's no reason why I can't still stay in contact with my family if I go back, finish the training, but refuse to be a warrior. If I hadn't been so young and proud when I left the first time, I might have thought of that.”

He moved away from her so he could look her in the face, eyes sparkling. “Of course, they won't be too happy with me. But I'm used to that.” He laughed out loud, the joy from his decision spilling over onto Donata. “And at least I won't be an outcast anymore.”

“That's great,” Donata said. And she meant it. Being apart from his people had always been a tremendous hardship, even when he believed it was his only choice. “I'm really happy for you.”

Magnus put one large hand on either side of her face and looked deep into her eyes, as if he could force her to tell him the truth.

“Seriously, 'Nata,” he said. “Are you sure you'll be all right if we
both
leave?” He glanced across the room where Peter was stuffing some of Friar Matthew's more valuable reference books into a large duffel bag. “I don't know how long the training will take. They might make me start all over again. It could be a year. Or longer.”

Donata followed his gaze and smothered a laugh.
Better he should have them than the damned monks
, she thought, turning her eyes away, along with her policeman's conscience.

“I was fine before I spent all my time hanging around with you two,” she answered, trying for a light tone and almost convincing herself. “I'll be fine when you're both off finding yourselves.” She shrugged. “Besides, you'll be back eventually, right?”

Magnus gave her a hug that made her bones creak and then, after another look across the room to make sure Peter and his father were occupied, planted a searing kiss on her mouth. When he finally pulled away, Donata forgot to breathe for a moment. Damn, that man could kiss!

Dimples showing in his trademark grin, he leaped lightly up from the couch and headed for the door.

“I guess I'd better go see if they left my van in the parking lot,” he said. “I'll take you back to my house before I leave for the compound. You can stay there until you find a new place.”

Whistling lightly, he pushed the remains of the shattered door aside and walked down the path to the main section of the monastery. Donata watched him go, biting her lip to keep from crying. She was a tough cop. Tough cops did not cry just because everyone was leaving.

“Donata?” Peter's mellow voice called her back to the present. “Raphael and I are going now. Are you going to be okay?”

Why did everyone keep asking her that? She'd gotten along fine before they'd both become fixtures in her life. She'd be fine now. Probably.

“Yup,” she said. “No problems here. Magnus is going to let me stay at his house until I can find another place to live. He just went to go check on the van.”

“Oh.” Peter's face fell. “That's great. So does that mean you two are getting back together again?”

Donata gave a short laugh, perversely cheered by the thought that Peter might actually be jealous. “No, no. He's going back to the Ulfhednar compound where he grew up. He decided to give the Ulf training one more try, although he still doesn't plan to be a warrior when he's done.”

“Oh,” Peter said again, more enthusiastically. “I see. Well, that's good, right?”

“You bet,” Donata answered. “You're both going to be off learning things. I can't wait to hear all about it when you get back.” She tried to look excited.

Peter gave her a quick peck on the lips and a radiant smile, only wincing a little as he straightened. “It's a deal. I'll give you a call when I get a chance, but Raphael says the healing process will go a lot faster if he can show me how to go into hibernation for a little while, so I don't know how long it will be.”

He gave her one more smile and walked out the back door with Raphael, hefting a suspiciously bulky duffel bag as he went, Elmyr snuffling at his heels.

The room suddenly seemed empty and quiet. Even Friar Matthew's ghost was absent, since he'd undoubtedly moved on into the light right away. Grimalkin came out from wherever he'd been hiding and licked her face with a raspy tongue. Other than the slight smell of smoke on his fur, he seemed to have come out of the entire ordeal completely unscathed.
Cats.

“Well, Grim,” she said to her familiar, “it looks like everyone has gone off and left us. Guess it's just you and me again.”

A small hand patted her reassuringly on the knee and she jumped as Ricky materialized out of nowhere.

“Yeesh!” she said. “You have
got
to stop doing that!”

The Kobold chuckled. “But it's so much fun to watch you jump,” he said. He handed her a glass of water with only a little soot in it and wiggled up to sit next to her on the couch.

Grimalkin started purring and rubbed his head against the Kobold's rough fingers so the little man would pet him.

“Don't you worry, missus,” Ricky said. “I've decided I'm sticking with ya. You did your best to do what my old master wanted, and that's good enough for me.” He patted her knee again before jumping down and starting to collect the few items they'd be taking with them. “So don't you worry none about being alone. You've got me to watch over you now.”

Donata stifled a laugh as she watched the Kobold bustle around.

That's just great
, she thought.
No guy—but I've got my own Kobold. Mother will be so proud.

He wandered back over, carrying her battered leather jacket.

“By the way,” he said, “can you get a nicer apartment this time? The last one was just embarrassing.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Tell you what; why don't we wait to look at penthouses until we see if I still have a job.”

Early the next morning, Donata walked into the station with her head held high and her knees shaking. She was as polished as Ricky could make her, the backup uniform he'd snuck out from her locker pressed, newly purchased shoes shiny—he'd even insisted on French-braiding her hair. She still stank slightly of smoke, but only time and another three or four showers would cure that.

She walked through the familiar corridors; everything looked different. But the only thing that had changed was her point of view. Not so long ago, she had longed to leave, to walk away and never look back. Now she wanted nothing more than to stay.

But not the way she had been. She yearned for a new role, a new place in this familiar landscape. For the moment, though, she would settle for hanging on to the one she used to have. She didn't think the odds were in her favor.

For an hour, she sat at her desk in the basement, waiting. She knew he'd come, eventually. She passed the time by looking through the few case folders that had been awaiting her return, but there didn't seem to be much point in picking one to start with until she knew if she still had a job or not. The rusting clock on the wall ticked the minutes over loudly.

Finally, Donata heard the sound of heavy footsteps down the hallway, followed by a perfunctory knock on the open door. The Chief walked in, nodded at her, and closed the door behind him. He'd only done that once before, on a much different occasion. Donata hoped against hope that he remembered how helpful she'd been then and still counted that in her favor.

She swallowed hard, sitting up straight behind her desk. “Good morning, Chief,” she said in as even a voice as she could manage. “Have a seat?” She gestured at the rickety spare chair opposite her and held her breath.

The older man looked at her for a moment in silence, and then lowered himself carefully into the wooden chair with its bent slats and one slightly short leg. It rocked for a moment as he settled himself into it, then steadied. Donata's heartbeat steadied with it.

“So, Santori,” the Chief said, his face giving away nothing, “I guess this means you're back.”

She nodded, mouth dry.

His weary eyes examined her from underneath bushy gray brows. “Back to stay, or just long enough to hand in your resignation?”

Donata took in a deep breath.
Crap. Leave it to the Chief to get right to the meat of things.
“Back to stay, sir, if you'll let me.” Surreptitiously, she crossed her fingers under the desk.

A minute went by. Then another. The Chief leaned back in the chair, its front two legs lifting off the floor, and looked around the room at the exposed pipes, damp walls, concrete floor, and the cobwebs that had sprung up in her absence. A clanging noise echoed through the ductwork overhead.

“Hmph,” he said.

Donata blinked. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was he going to let her stay or not?

“Chief?” she asked, hoping for clarification.

“It sucks down here,” he said. “I can't believe you let me keep you in this pit so long.”

She blinked again.
What the heck?
She was afraid to respond; did he want her to agree or disagree? She couldn't figure out where he was going with this, so she just kept silent.

“Tell me something, Santori,” he said.

“Yes, sir?”

He looked across the desk at her, lines forming between his brows. “Do you like your job?”

Donata was completely lost. She had no idea what the right answer was, so in the end, she went with the truth.

“I like
parts
of the job, sir,” she said. “I like solving crimes, and helping people, and I don't mind talking to the dead. I'm good at it.” She sucked air into her diaphragm and braced her hands against the desk.
What the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“But you're right; it sucks down here.”

She gazed back at the man who held her future in his blunt-fingered hands. “I hate having to hide from the rest of the precinct when I'm doing work that benefits us all. And I'd like to get out more—find more ways to really make a difference.” She waited for his response, heart beating hard against her newly ironed uniform.

He dropped the chair back down with a thunk, and she only kept herself from jumping by force of will. That and a week spent with a vanishing and reappearing Kobold.

“It's about damned time,” the Chief said, emotion finally seeping into his voice.

Donata looked at him in amazement. “Excuse me?” Then, belatedly, “Sir?”

The Chief heaved a sigh that gusted the papers on her desk, and locked his eyes on hers. “Santori, I've been on the force for a long time. And I figured out years ago that there were a whole lot of things out there besides Witches. Things I couldn't understand. Things that can't be handled by normal police work. I've been waiting for someone to come along who could help me with these, shall we say, extraordinary situations.” He watched her, waiting for her response.

She didn't know what to say. Was he actually saying he wanted her to do the job she'd been hoping for all along?

“Sir? Do you mean me?”

He rolled his eyes, reverting to his usual gruff self. “Yes, damn it, Santori, I mean you. Do you see anyone else in this room who is better qualified for the position?”

She gulped. “But I didn't bring the painting back.” Now she'd done it. He probably hadn't realized yet that the painting was still missing; she'd screwed herself out of a job for good. But he would have found out eventually, even if she hadn't told him.

The Chief wrinkled his forehead in puzzlement. “What the hell are you talking about, Santori? It was back in the evidence locker first thing this morning—I checked before I came down here.”

Donata clenched her fingers into her thighs behind the cover of her massive desk. “Uh, oh, sure. I knew that. Just making a joke, sir.”

Her boss scowled at her and thumped one meaty fist on the desktop. “Well, don't do it again. You know perfectly well I have no damned sense of humor.” He heaved himself up and walked toward the door.

“You realize that most of the time you'll still be doing the same old Witness Retrieval crap, right?” he said, turning back. “I can see about getting you a real office upstairs—one with a window, maybe—but you'll still have to come down to the basement to work the magic stuff with the dead people. It creeps everybody out.”

She nodded, speechless. She was grateful she still had a job at all. To have an office upstairs . . . and the promise of the occasional intriguing case? It was more than she could have hoped for.

The Chief clomped his way out the door and up the stairs, and Donata sat at her desk for a moment and let the conversation sink in. Then she got up and walked down the hallway to the evidence locker.

She stood looking at the painting for a long time. Finally, she reached one hand out and touched it with shaking fingers.

Nothing.

No tingle. No sense of magic or importance.

Braver now, she pulled it out farther and looked more closely at the black blotch marring the surface.
Huh.
She scraped at it gingerly with the tip of one fingernail.

Paint. It was just black paint.

She relaxed for a second, relieved. Peter must have painted a second copy at some point during those long nighttime hours when everyone else was asleep. Clearly, he (or maybe his father, or one of his father's connections) had somehow snuck into the police station and put the copy back in place of the original so Donata wouldn't get in trouble.

Great.

Or was it? She looked down at the painting thoughtfully. So Peter had painted a second copy without telling anyone. Not even her. That stung. And if he'd created one extra copy, was it possible he'd made more than one? Had
either
of the pictures destroyed in the fire been the real Pentacle Pentimento? Or was it still out there, holding on to its secret of the lost sixth race?

Donata didn't know for sure . . . but she had a feeling she was going to find out, sooner or later.