Veiled Magic (9 page)

She shook her head. That explained a few things, anyway. “How is that possible?”

“Our records show that his father, Raphael, had a brief but intense affair with Lily Casaventi, but then lost interest, as Dragons tend to do. As far as we can tell, Lily didn't discover the pregnancy until after the relationship had ended, by which time Raphael had gone into hibernation.” He spelled out the facts dryly, as though actual people and feelings hadn't been involved. “Apparently Raphael had been infatuated enough in the beginning to tell her the truth about Paranormals and some of his Dragon traits, since she seems to have some knowledge of our existence. Fortunately, she was wise enough to keep this knowledge from her son. As far as he or any other members of the family know, Peter's father is Lily's husband, Herman.”

Donata shook her head. Poor Peter. One of these days he was in for a rude awakening.

“So how do you know all this?” she asked curiously. “Does the Council have a file on him too?”

“Of course,” Moore said with smug complacency. “Since Dragon children are so rare, and Human-Dragon hybrids even more so, the Council has kept an eye on Raphael's son.” He shifted on her uncomfortable couch and brushed fussily at a smattering of cat fur now adhering to his previously spotless pants. Donata stifled a laugh.

“Initially,” he continued, ignoring her ill-concealed smile, “we were waiting to see if Raphael would come out of hibernation, discover he had a son, and steal the child.” He didn't say that the Council would have stopped him, Donata noticed.

“And now?” she asked, since that was hardly a worry now that Peter was a grown man. “I take it you are still keeping an eye on him?”

Moore explained. “As much as we can. He has proven to be somewhat elusive, I'm afraid. These days we must content ourselves with watching him when he is out in public with his family, to see if he manifests any Dragon abilities. In which case we would step in and explain his origins to him. Up until now, there hasn't been any need to do so.”

Donata wasn't sure she agreed with the idea of keeping anyone in the dark about such an important part of their life, but it wasn't up to her. Thank goodness. She had enough on her plate without trying to figure out how to tell someone they were part Dragon.

“So it would be okay with the Council if I consulted with Peter about the painting?” she asked. She intended to do so regardless of what Clement Moore said, of course, but it would be a lot easier if the Council approved of her actions beforehand.

“Absolutely not,” Moore said. “There is no need to involve anyone else in this. Simply get us the painting. That is all.”

Donata started to protest, but he held up one manicured hand to stop her.

“I see no need for further discussion.” He glanced at his expensive watch. “It is late, and I should be going.” His gaze became steely, wiping away the civilized façade he usually hid behind.

“Make no mistake, Ms. Santori. The Council considers this matter to be of the utmost importance. And we expect you to deal with it quickly, quietly, and with the minimum of non-Paranormal involvement.”

As he headed out the door, he turned back and gave her another polite half bow, and added unnecessarily, “We'll be in touch.”

Grimalkin hissed as the door closed behind him, and Donata barely restrained herself from doing the same. She wasn't impressed by Moore, his demands, or all his “don't knows.” But she figured she'd better go get the painting anyway, before the freaking Cabal showed up on her doorstep and asked her to steal it too.

She glanced regretfully in the direction of her aborted bath, but dutifully pulled on some fresh clothes, grabbed her jacket, gun, and helmet, and went out to see if she could break into an evidence locker without getting herself arrested in the process.

As the door closed behind her, the tub started to empty and invisible hands began to tidy up the mess she'd left behind.

There was an advantage to being ignored, Donata thought. People around the precinct were used to her coming and going at odd hours, whenever her peculiar talents were needed. And because what she did made them so uncomfortable, most of them had learned to pretend she didn't exist. At a time like this, that was actually a good thing.

Despite the fact that it was past midnight, the desk sergeant hadn't blinked an eye when she'd entered the building. And the late hour meant she hadn't seen anyone on her way down to her basement office to fetch the few supplies she'd needed to concoct a sleepy-time potion. She disliked the idea of using it on one of her fellow officers, but it beat having to hit him over the head with the butt of her gun.

Peering down the hallway that led from her room to the evidence lockers around the corner, she saw the coast was clear and placed a tiny brazier on the floor. Inside was a small piece of charcoal incense, made to burn quickly without any odor of its own. On top of that she'd placed the potion she'd made up: essence of valerian root, chamomile, lavender, and poppy. She'd have to be careful not to breathe any of it while doing the spell, or the morning janitor would find her sleeping in the hallway when he came in. Not good.

With her mind, she shaped a small wind, calling on the power of Air to aid her. As she lit the incense, the artificial breeze wafted the potion down the hallway and through the door of the lockup area. Now there was nothing to do but wait and hope she hadn't forgotten her basic Witchcraft skills in all the years she'd spent primarily using her abilities to talk to the dead.

After about ten minutes, she carefully snuffed out the few remaining embers of charcoal and carried the brazier back into her office. Then she walked down the hall and into the evidence area. Peering over the countertop that separated the inside of the lockup from the hallway, she saw the on-duty officer facedown on his desk. Quiet snores rattled the paperwork under his stubbled chin.
Cool.

Just in case he'd fallen asleep on his own, and not because of her magic, Donata cleared her throat a couple of times and practiced looking innocent. But she needn't have bothered. The attendant slept on.

Sweat pooled under her armpits as she contemplated the magnitude of what she was about to do. Still, did she really have a choice? Glancing around to make sure she was unobserved, she braced her hands on the counter and swung herself over into the area behind it. She landed lightly, with hardly a sound, and she choked back a laugh at the thought that her police academy training instructor would have been proud of her. Other than the whole breaking the law part, of course.

Tiptoeing over to the computer next to the sleeping man, she looked up the location where the painting had been stored and headed back into the bowels of the lockup. If her spell was working correctly, she probably didn't need to worry about making noise, but she wasn't taking any chances. The last thing she needed was to have to explain what she was doing wandering around the back of the evidence lockers in the middle of the night, thank you very much.

Row after row of boxes, bags, and unidentified lumps covered the shelves. Eventually she found the one she was looking for and spotted the distinctive crate she'd carted over from the museum. Donata hesitated for a minute, weighing the possibility of something happening to the painting if she carried it around uncovered against the impossibility of disguising the large wooden box. Hell, if the thing was really protected by a curse, she could probably drop it from a ten-story building without scratching the surface. And if she left the crate, it would greatly decrease the odds of someone figuring out the painting was gone. Hopefully, she'd be able to get it dealt with and back in storage before anyone—especially the Chief—knew the difference.

Out of its protective wrappings, the painting was only about three feet by four feet, a manageable size, although a bit awkward to carry. Back at the front desk, she found a large shopping bag, probably left over from a delivery. As she gingerly tilted the painting on its side to slide it in the bag (trying to touch it as little as possible, in case of curses, although nothing had happened when she'd handled it in her earlier blissful ignorance other than that weird vision), she noticed something odd.

Tilting it cautiously to the light, she double-checked. Impossible, but true—the small cleared area she'd seen when she'd checked the painting in the day before was gone.
Aw, crap.
Well, that was going to make Peter's job a little more difficult, wasn't it?

If any part of the top layer he removed somehow magically replaced itself after a few hours, or a few days, how on earth were they supposed to fix the bottom layer?
Double crap.

She'd planned on getting the painting out and back in within a week or two, long before the case could come up to trial and they came looking for the thing. But this new wrinkle put a different spin on things. As she stuffed the picture into the bag again, she came up with a plan B: she could have Peter paint something that looked more or less like this one, and sneak the replacement in to take the original's place. After all, the only ones who'd really gotten a close look at it were her and the attendant who'd checked the painting in. There was no reason for him to remember one unattractive painting when he looked at so much evidence. It wasn't like the thing
looked
like the ticking time bomb it actually was.

Donata contemplated clambering back over the countertop while clutching a bulky package in her arms and decided against it. Quietly, she unlocked the door next to the counter and let herself out. There was no way to relock it from the outside, but hopefully the attendant would just assume he'd forgotten to lock it. She hoped he'd have pleasant dreams.

She was going home to try and catch a few hours of sleep, but she doubted her dreams would be that enjoyable.

*  *  *

Arriving back on her street a few minutes later, Donata came to a stuttering halt across the road from her building. Her heart pounded in her chest as she sank back into the shadows of a large brick warehouse. Something was wrong. She didn't know what, but you didn't spend your life as a psychic without learning to listen to that little voice in the recesses of your head.

She was dead on her feet and in possession of stolen property. Every bone in her body wanted to cross that street, climb
the stairs, and relax in the boring but safe confines of her own apartment. But still, she hesitated.

Everything looked perfectly normal. She couldn't see anything out of place that might have triggered her internal alarms. Maybe she was starting to jump at shadows?

“It's about time you got back,” a voice whispered from the area around her knees.

“Great goddess!” Donata barely managed not to scream out loud. “You have got to stop
doing
that!”

Ricky the Kobold stood next to her in the alley across from her apartment, where a moment ago there had been only night air. He shook his head, making his pointy brown hat wobble. “So maybe you'd like it better if I let you go upstairs and meet the nice gentlemen who are waiting for you to come home?”

Hades's balls.
She'd known there was something wrong.

“How many?” she asked, not really wanting to know the answer. Even one was too many, after the day she'd had.

“Three,” Ricky answered, speaking slightly above a whisper. She had to strain to make out the words. “They broke through your wards like they were tissue paper. Used some kind of ‘anti-magic' tools—I haven't seen anything like them since the Inquisition.” He gave her a rueful grin. “Guess the Cabal isn't a myth after all.”

Donata nodded grimly. She couldn't think of anyone else who would use tools like that either. The Church had officially banned such things at the end of the Burning years. Now what the hell was she going to do?

She couldn't go into the apartment, that much was clear. She wasn't about to hand the painting over to the Cabal. And she wasn't too thrilled about handing herself over either. So the apartment was out.

She thought briefly about going to her parents' house or to one of her sisters. They all lived in expensive and well-guarded condos, and undoubtedly had much better wards than the ones she used primarily to keep out rodents and the occasional sneak thief. But she didn't want to bring this trouble to their doorsteps. And let's face it; they already heartily disapproved of her job. This could only make things worse. They'd never let her hear the end of it. So that option was out too.

The obvious thing would be to take it to the Council. The problem with that plan was twofold. One, she wasn't sure she was ready to hand the painting over to them either. Clement Moore hadn't seemed at all interested in Farmingham's theoretical sixth race, but the restorer had been adamant about the importance of solving that mystery. If she gave the painting to the Council, she would be giving up any opportunity to fulfill that part of her promise to the dead man. She was already having serious second thoughts about giving them the painting at all.

And two, as much as she hated to admit it to herself, she wasn't sure she trusted them to keep her safe. The Council looked out for the Council. She wasn't sure that, even with her family's high position in Paranormal society, they would care enough to protect her once they'd gotten what they wanted.

Well, crap.
Those were the only options she could think of, off the top of her head, at two in the morning, standing in a dark alley looking at the apartment she didn't dare go home to. She was too damned tired for this.

A small hand tugged at her jeans. “Hey, you decide what you're gonna do yet? Or are we gonna stand here all night?” The Kobold snorted under his breath. “I'm not getting any younger, you know.”
Huh. Said the guy who remembers the
Inquisition personally.

Right. A decision. She had to make a decision.

“I'm going up to the apartment,” she said.

“What? Are you crazy?” Ricky stood up on his toes in an effort to look her in the eye. “There are three guys from a fanatical, ultrasecret, radical Church organization up there that think all Paranormals are an insult to God's laws. Why the hell would you go up there?”

“Because my cat is up there. I'm not leaving him behind.”

Ricky shook his head. “Shit. Stay here.” He pointed at the pavement. “Seriously. Stay here. I'll be right back.” He disappeared, but Donata could hear him muttering as he went around the corner of the building.

She waited impatiently, trying to gauge how much time had passed. If only she'd thought to look at her watch when he'd left. What if they caught the little Kobold? Then they'd have two hostages.

Despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins, she was so tired, she almost dozed off against the brick wall next to her for a minute. But she woke up fast when Ricky came barreling around the side of the building, one pissed-off gray cat under his arm. Grimalkin leaped onto Donata's shoulder and settled there, clinging to her jacket for dear life. Good thing leather was tough.

“Okay, here's your cat. Can we
please
get out of here now?” the Kobold asked plaintively. “Those guys give me the creeps.”

Donata took a deep breath, redolent of alley, and tried to knock her last two working brain cells together into some semblance of thought.

“Yeah, okay,” she said, petting her trembling familiar. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

“Great,” Ricky said with relief. Then, as they were walking out the other end of the alley, toward the garage two streets over where she'd parked her motorcycle, he added, “Um, where are we going, anyway?”

“The only safe place I can think of,” she said. “Someplace that nobody would think to look for me.”