Veiled Magic (20 page)

Donata pulled out her phone. “Well, that was fun, but I suppose I should get this over with.”

Magnus gave her a look full of sympathy, but didn't say anything. He listened to her end of the brief conversation in silence, grimacing at the appropriate moments.

“Hello, Mother. Yes, it's me. I'm just calling to tell you we got Peter's mom out okay and to thank you for your help.” She gnawed on her lip.

“No, none of us are hurt too badly. No, I don't think they followed us out . . . they were a little busy with the fire.”

High-pitched noises from the other end of the phone made Magnus fight back a smile.

“It's a long story, Mother. I'll tell you later. I need to go get some rest now. But please be careful. I know you and my sisters have extremely good magical defenses set up already, but these people have already proven they will go to any lengths to get what they want, so make sure you all are taking every precaution.”

More forceful comments from the receiver.

“Um, no, I'm not sure when I'll be giving the Council the painting. I still need to— Yes, Mother, I know we agreed— No, I don't mean I won't do it—” Donata finally gave up and muttered a hasty good-bye, hanging up as quickly as possible afterward.

“Well, that went about the way I expected it to,” she said, tossing the phone down on the table next to the bloody towels. “Add one more person to the list of folks who are pissed off at me.” She sighed, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline high slipped away, leaving her feeling vulnerable and on the edge of tears.

“I am so not cut out for this kind of thing,” she said, leaning back on the sofa. “Maybe I should stick with the basement after all.”

Magnus pushed a stray piece of hair out of her face, sliding down next to her. “You're doing fine, under the
circumstances,” he said in a gentle voice. “You got in over your head, through no fault of your own. It happens, 'Nata.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Don't worry—we'll figure a way out of this mess somehow.”

She looked up into his clear blue eyes and saw strength, compassion, and a hint of something else she couldn't quite identify. His smell surrounded her, all musky maleness, tinged with the smoke from the fire and the copper tang of blood. Oddly pleasant, despite the violent undertones.

“I'm still sorry I got you involved in this,” she said.

He moved his lips from her forehead to her cheek, then trailed them deftly down the side of her chin. “I'm not,” he said, voice husky. “I would never have forgiven you if you'd gone off and gotten yourself killed.”

Donata found her arms moving involuntarily to pull him closer. “I'm very much alive,” she said, her own tone lower than usual. “Thanks to you.” She tilted her head up to look him in the eye again. “Do you really think this is a good idea, though?”

Magnus laughed softly, brushing her lips with his own. “I'm not sure anything we've done all day has been a good idea—why change our approach now?” His mouth closed over hers with a hunger that belied the frivolous words.

Donata inhaled his scent and felt the scratch of his end-of-the-day stubble against her skin. In her heart, she knew that nothing could come of this momentary reunion—but after all the confusion and tension and violence, it felt good to do something positive, to feel something joyous and celebratory and comforting.

With a sigh, she gave in to the fervor of his kiss. His arms tightened around her shoulders, and an internal heat bloomed in all the right places. But even as the fire of their passions consumed her, a picture of Peter's face flashed before her eyes.

Donata didn't have as much experience with complicated interpersonal relationships as most people, but even she knew that wasn't a good sign.

Magnus and Donata lay curled up on the sofa together, covered by an afghan he'd pulled down over them after they'd finished. Donata cautiously checked his bandages, but amazingly, none of their recent activities seemed to have reopened any of his wounds. Ulfhednar really were tough.

She smiled to herself. They had other good qualities as well; at least the only one she'd ever known intimately did. All that suppressed animal nature could be quite valuable in non-battle circumstances too.

“What are you smirking about?” Magnus asked, a hint of smugness to his tone.

“As if you didn't know,” she responded, biting him lightly on the shoulder that didn't have a bandage covering three-quarters of its surface.

“We should probably take a shower,” he started to say. “If we didn't stink enough after the fight and the fire, we probably do now—” Then the sound of Donata's phone ringing interrupted him.

In unison, they both turned their heads to look at the cell phone where it sat on the coffee table next to the couch.

“Shit,” Donata said with feeling.

“Don't answer it,” Magnus suggested. He kissed her distractingly. “We could go take that shower together . . . water conservation is a very important issue, you know.”

Donata sat up with a sigh, grabbing at the afghan as it slid off her shoulders. “It's probably Peter, wondering where the hell I am. I told him I'd go back to his place as soon as I finished patching you up.” She looked at Magnus, silently begging him to understand, despite his and Peter's territorial issues. “He's probably worried.”

The Ulfhednar rolled his eyes, but reached over and handed Donata the phone. “Fine. But I'm going to go at least wash around the bandages.”

Donata answered the phone with half her attention, the other half absorbed by watching Magnus's naked butt moving toward the living room door.

“Hello?” she said. “Peter?”

“You will pay for your interference, Witch whore,” a low voice said with coldly venomous anger.

Yeesh. Way to kill an afterglow
, Donata thought, and said out loud, “This would be the Cabal, I assume?”

Magnus came to a halt halfway out of the room, swung around on one heel, and walked back to stand over the sofa. He cocked one eyebrow and mouthed,
Problem?

Donata shrugged. Damned yeah there was a problem, but she didn't see that it was any worse now than it had been before the phone rang. Except for the whole buzzkill thing, of course.

“Indeed,” the male voice hissed, “I represent the Cabal. And I am calling to tell you that you have gained nothing by stealing back the half-breed's mother.” He paused to make sure he had her full attention. “We
want
that painting. And we
will
get
that painting, if we have to go after every member of your family and every friend you have.”

Frustration and hatred oozed out of the phone, making Donata feel like she should hold it away from her ear. She resisted the temptation to argue with the man—clearly the matter was not up for discussion. But for once she was grateful that she didn't really have any friends; they'd have a hard time finding anyone to fit the bill, present company sort of excluded. Hopefully her family was as good at defensive magic as her mother insisted they were.

“Look, whoever you are,” Donata said, “I'm not giving you the painting. In fact, I've already handed it over to the Alliance Council,” she lied. (Surely lying to the Cabal didn't count.) “If you want it so badly, you'll have to talk to them about it.”
So there.

“Oh, I sincerely doubt that,” the voice said with arrogant insurance. “Our sources inside the Council tell us that the Alliance is quite put out that you haven't yet acceded to their demands for the picture.”

The Cabal had sources inside the Council? Surely he was bluffing. She hoped.

“I'm telling you, buddy, I gave them the Pentimento. You'd better go back and check your so-called sources; I think they're giving you the runaround.” Donata thought frantically. “Are you sure they're not really working for the other side? No honor among thieves, and all that, you know.”

There was silence for a moment on the other end of the phone, and Donata held her breath.

“You will gain nothing by these stall tactics,” the Cabal man said. “One way or the other, that painting belongs to us, the rightful heirs of the one true Catholic Church.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. One true blah, blah, blah.
Damn, she hated fanatics.

“Right. Whatever. But I'm telling you, I don't have it anymore. You're being lied to.”

“Hmph,” the man said, unconvinced. “I am being lied to, almost certainly by you.” His voice dropped low, suddenly sounding even more threatening than it had to begin with. “And if I find that to be true, I assure you, you will regret it
most
deeply.”
Click.
Silence.

“Well,” Donata said with mock cheerfulness, “that went almost as well as my conversation with my mother.”

Magnus shook his head, looking serious. “More threats?”

“Oh, sure,” she said. “They're nothing if not consistent.”

“‘A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,'” Magnus quoted.

“Ha! I'd much rather be dealing with hobgoblins, thanks,” she responded. “They at least know when to quit.”

He shot her a glance full of exasperated affection. “These people aren't going to go away, Donata. And we can't fight them off forever without someone getting hurt.”

She looked at his bandages pointedly, and he added, “Well,
more
hurt.”

Donata sighed. “I know, I know.” She started pulling her clothes on with a reluctance that was one part due to their odor and state of disrepair and another part longing to stay here in this moment of temporary comfort—no matter how illusory it was.

“That's why I'd better get back to Peter's and make sure he's working on a copy of the painting,” she said. “And you'd better get back to trying to track down the guy you said you thought might be able to help us.”

Magnus shrugged in defeat. “Yeah, I suppose you're right. But, 'Nata, before you go, I think you'd better take that shower first. I'm pretty sure I have a few things of yours from when you used to occasionally spend the night.” He wrinkled his nose to make his point. “If you go out looking and smelling like that, one of your own cops is likely to arrest you for being a public menace.”

“Nice,” she said, stalking off in the direction of the bathroom. “Like I'm not getting enough abuse from everyone else.”

The sound of his laughter followed her all the way into the shower.

*  *  *

Donata left her motorcycle in a parking garage about two blocks from Peter's condo and cast a simple cloaking spell before walking the rest of the way. It worked by nudging the eye away, rather than by granting true invisibility (a level of magic well beyond her abilities), but it was almost as effective.

She didn't really think anyone had followed her to Magnus's house, and she hadn't spotted anyone out in the predawn gloom except one sleepy guy driving a garbage truck, but better safe than sorry. Especially after this latest round of threats.

Gnawing fitfully on her lip, she tugged at her unappealing clothing as she rode up to the penthouse in the elevator. Magnus had dug out a scruffy pair of jeans that fit better when she'd left them behind three years ago, and she'd borrowed one of his tee shirts, which was so large on her, it looked like a mini-dress. Over the top she wore her beloved black leather jacket, now somewhat battered and smelling of smoke. If her mother could see her, the woman would probably turn her over to the Cabal in disgust.

Not that she cared what Peter thought, of course. They had way more important things to worry about than her fashion sense, or lack thereof. It was just that he always looked so neat and put together—it made her a little self-conscious. Usually she was content to wear anything as long as it was clean, comfortable, and dark. Or her uniform, of course—that felt like a second skin.

Thinking about her uniform made her glance at her phone. No more calls from the Chief; she didn't know if that was a good sign or a bad one.

Tired to the bone, she knocked quietly on Peter's door after he buzzed her into the building, and then leaned against the wall next to it while she waited for him to answer. Maybe he'd been reasonable and actually lain down to get some sleep. She remembered sleep . . . vaguely.

She was in mid-yawn when the door opened and Peter stuck his head out. Naturally, he'd showered and shaved, put on a pair of pressed slacks and a pale blue button-down cotton shirt, and showed no signs of the evening's activities. It made her feel scruffier than ever, and she snapped her jaw shut decisively.

“Hey,” she said. “I wasn't sure you'd still be up.” She walked past him into the apartment. “Is your mom okay?”

He nodded. “Shaken up, of course, and a bit bruised, but mostly unharmed.” The thunderous look on his face made it clear that was a damned good thing for everyone involved. “She made a few calls to tell people she was okay and then went to lie down in my bedroom and catch up on some sleep.”

He gave her attire an odd glance, but she couldn't tell if it was because she looked like a refugee from the drunk tank or because he'd noticed she had showered and changed and figured out why.

Donata tried in vain to suppress another yawn, peering around the room until she spotted Grimalkin curled up on top of a bookcase. There was no sign of the Kobold at the moment, but she was sure he was around somewhere.

“You should probably be sleeping too,” she said. “Your Dragon physiology might have healed your wounds, but you still need to rest.” She saw the remains of what had probably been six people's worth of food sitting on the counter, and wandered over to nibble on a piece of cheese.

“Huh,” Peter grunted. “Look who's talking. Besides, I wasn't going to go to sleep until I made sure you got back here okay.” He paused and added only slightly grudgingly, “Did you get Magnus fixed up all right?”

“He's fine,” Donata said, chewing. A small hand materialized next to her holding a steaming cup of herbal tea, and she grasped it gratefully.

“He was pretty badly hurt, but Ulfhednar heal a lot quicker than Humans. He'll be as good as new in a day or two—just have another few scars to add to his collection.” She made a face. “Thanks, Ricky,” she added belatedly, too tired for good manners to be automatic.

She stifled another yawn with the back of her hand. “Look, I'm really wiped out, and I don't think I should go back to my place. Can I sack out on your couch again?”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Of course. Anytime. But I have something you should see first, if you don't mind.” He gestured in the direction of his workroom. “I've been trying to get a look under that black spot on the painting, while we still have the thing. I managed to get a little bit uncovered, but it's already starting to return to its original state, so you should go in and take a look while you still can.”

Donata gaped at him, then grabbed his hands and pulled them toward her, palms up. Sure enough, small blisters oozed reddish white over much of the surface.

“Horned god! Those look terrible. Don't they hurt?” She heard herself babbling, half concerned and half angry. “I thought we'd agreed you wouldn't do anything to the painting that would invoke the curse while Magnus was looking for the guy he thought could undo it.”

He shrugged a cotton-clad shoulder in calm disregard for his own pain. “I wasn't getting anywhere just examining it, and Magnus hasn't been able to get in touch with his expert yet because of the distraction with my mother. I knew I couldn't get very far, but I thought it was worth it to see if I could get us more information about that mystery race you're so worried about.”

He turned and started walking toward the back of the penthouse. “Of course, if you don't come and look, the effort will
have been wasted, won't it? I didn't expect it to take you so long to get back here.”

Ouch.
Donata felt guilty about what she'd been doing while he'd been risking his hands to get the knowledge she needed. Between him and her mother, she'd probably need therapy before this was all over. Assuming she lived that long, of course.

She followed him into the workroom and over to where the Pentacle Pentimento lay on a table under a bright spotlight. Various tiny tools were scattered about, discarded when he'd gone to answer the door. A large magnifier on a swivel arm was centered on the black blotch that covered the missing race. An area about one and a half inches long by two-thirds of an inch wide had been removed to reveal a bit of the original painting. As she watched, the black coloration crept back over a millimeter of the reclaimed space.

“Crap!” she said. “I hope you got some pictures of this, at least.” She bent her head over the picture, holding her braid out of the way with one hand and being careful not to touch anything. Unlike Peter, if she broke out in blisters, she'd have them for a week.

“Of course I did,” he said with his usual calm. “But I thought you'd still want to take a look at it while there was something to see in person.” He came over to stand by her, gazing over her shoulder with avid interest.

“I think that piece is a stylized feather,” he said thoughtfully. “But I'm not sure about anything else. Can you make any sense of it?”

Donata picked up a pencil and used it as a pointer, aiming it at the painting as she peered through the magnifying glass.

“That part looks like a little bonfire,” she said, indicating a jagged-topped red area. “And I think the bit next to it might be the edge of a wave, although I can't be sure. But it's blue and curved, and might be the beginning of a series of curved shapes.” She straightened up with one hand on the base of her spine. “Was any more of that section visible in the photos you took, before the black stuff started coming back?”