Veiled Magic (5 page)

Donata sat in stunned silence for a moment, then shook her head and pulled herself together. “I admit the painting has a certain creepy . . . something.” She remembered the vision she'd had when she touched the uncovered corner. “But you make it sound like the end of the world as we know it. Aren't you exaggerating?”

The ghost stared into her eyes intently. “Am I? What do you think would happen if the Human population—which vastly outnumbers Paranormals—found out about our existence? Not just about Witches, but about Ghouls, and Fae, and Dragons, and Ulfhednar?”

“And us!” the Kobold put in, his chin thrust forward. “Don't forget about all us so-called minor races, like Kobolds, and Sprites, and Nymphs. How do you think Humans would like knowing that there is a Paranormal creature around every corner?”

Donata thought about the riots and uproar that had resulted from the comparatively minor revelation that Witches were real. People had died, even then.

“You're talking about another Inquisition,” she whispered, afraid to even speak the words aloud. “You think this painting could prove the existence of the other major Paranormal races, and it would bring on the Burning Times again.” The very thought made her knees weak. As a cop, she'd seen the mob mentality at work. It wasn't something she ever wanted to witness again, especially not attacking those she loved.

Farmingham nodded. “That's exactly what I am talking about. If the Cabal got their hands on this painting, they would use it to show the world not just that Paranormals exist, but how to destroy them.”

“The Cabal—you mentioned them before,” Donata said. “Seriously? You really think they exist? There's really a renegade arm of the Catholic Church that believes the Compact was a mistake? They're still around? And they think the existence of Paranormals is an insult to God's laws?” Her voice almost squeaked in her disbelief. “You're talking about diabolical figures that skulk in the shadows and prey on unsuspecting supernatural creatures when no one is looking?” She gave a short laugh. “My grandmother used to tell me the Cabal would get me if I didn't finish all my vegetables. I find it hard to envision the veggie enforcers stealing a painting out of a police lockup.”

The restorer shut her down with a stern look. “This is no laughing matter, Officer Santori.” His pal the Kobold glared at her too. “Yes, the Cabal may be used to scare small Witch children—but that doesn't mean that they don't exist. And it is my belief that they are behind this attempt to get the painting—which, for all we know, is the last of the Pentacle Pentimentos. If that is true, they will stop at nothing to get it.”

Donata drummed her fingers on her thigh. “Let's say—just for argument's sake—that I buy into this theory of yours. I mean, obviously someone commissioned this robbery, and I doubt they did it because they lusted after the beauty of the picture itself.” She shot a nervous look at the incense-wreathed figure before her, trying to guess how much longer the ghost
could hold himself together before he dissipated, leaving her stuck with a weird painting and a lot of unanswered questions.

“And let's say I also believe that the Cabal has been hiding out there all this time, even though they are supposedly hunted by both the Paranormals and the Catholic Church.” She shuddered a bit at the thought of her childhood bogeymen actually being real. “If they're after the painting, why don't I just hand it over to the Alliance Council for safekeeping? Won't that solve the problem?” She thought about it for a minute. “For that matter, if you knew what it was, why didn't you just give it to the Council?”

Farmingham quavered a little under her suspicious look, but then rallied. “The Council shouldn't have it either. The painting is too important.” The Kobold crossed his arms firmly over his chest in unspoken support.

“Why not?” she asked. “If anyone can keep it safe from the Cabal—if they really exist—it should be the Council.”

“Did you notice the sixth figure?” Farmingham said, pointing one wispy finger in front of her as if the painting were there.

Donata shrugged. “You mean the one with the black blob where its face should be? I just thought the artist had made a mistake, or decided he didn't like the way that bit turned out and decided to change it.”

The restorer shook his head, bits of incense flying off as he did so. “Not at all. That's the most important part of the painting, that black blob.”

“How can a missing spot be the most important part?” Donata asked impatiently. This whole conversation was starting to make her twitch, and she still hadn't had dinner. If the painting was really as crucial as he said—and she had to admit she was starting to believe him—she'd just turn it over to the powers that be and wash her hands of the entire thing. Gladly.

“It is the sixth race,” he said. Like that was supposed to mean something to her.

“The sixth race?” That same forgotten memory that had niggled at her when she'd first had the vision came back to breathe down her neck, stirring the hairs there in uncomfortable sympathy. “Why does that sound familiar?”

The ghost shook his head in amazement. “Does no one speak of the lost sixth race anymore? What kind of education do they give you Witches these days?” Disgust colored his slowly ebbing features. “An entire race of Paranormals, simply forgotten. It defies logic.”

“The lost sixth race?” Donata shifted her weight from foot to foot, bone tired after a long day. “My grandmother Nettie used to tell me stories, when my mother wasn't around . . .” Her voice trailed off as she remembered the source of her nightmares. “She never even mentioned their names, just said they were more powerful than the rest of the Paranormal races put together, and could be cruel and capricious.” Donata suppressed a shudder. “I thought they were just tales. Most Paranormals say there was no such thing as the lost sixth race.”

“They also said the Pentacle Pentimentos didn't exist either,” Farmingham said, his grim tone matching the gray incense that made up his temporary form. “The Council are a bunch of old fools—they would rather cling to their power and the status quo with all their might than deal with a possible threat to the entire world—both Human and Paranormal.”

“I don't understand,” Donata said. “Even if the sixth race did exist once, they're gone now. Or so deep in hiding that
no one we know of has seen a trace of them in hundreds of years. Why would they be a threat?” She didn't bother to argue with his first statement about the Council, since she agreed with his sentiments wholeheartedly.

The restorer's ghostly shape wavered, and then solidified again, but to a lesser degree than before. They were running out of time.

He spoke so quietly, she had to move right next to him to hear what he said. “When I was doing my research into the painting, I came across a number of odd and frightening reports. Unexplained incidents involving serious loss of life, both Paranormal and Human. Separately, they don't seem to mean much. But taken together, I believe they indicate that the lost race is on the move again—and that they intend to create widespread destruction and death as their revenge for the Compact that virtually erased them from existence. Since both the Alliance and the Church agreed to the Compact, this lost race is targeting all people, regardless of their species. And a lot of innocent Humans could end up being collateral damage. You have to believe me—all my evidence shows that this threat is real, and very, very dangerous.” He held one ethereal hand out beseechingly toward Donata.

“Before I died, I had hoped to contact someone who could help me work on the painting, both to render it harmless, should the Cabal ever get their hands on it, and also to remove that black blotch to reveal the identity of the sixth race.” Desperation showed clearly on his face, even as the rest of his body thinned. “That painting may be our only chance to find this race and reason with them—if that is even possible—or learn a way to fight them, if it is not.”

He stared at Donata almost fiercely. “I cannot complete my task now. So you must complete it for me.”

“Can't we just destroy it—burn it or something? Then there is nothing for the Cabal to go after.”

The ghost shook his head. “That would not be as easy as you think. But it doesn't matter. You are missing the point. The painting
must
survive. It is the only way to discover the identity of the sixth race and to stop them from creating chaos and destruction on a scale you cannot even imagine.”

Donata opened her mouth to protest, and he held his ghostly hands out before him in an unspoken plea. “Please, Officer Santori. You must believe me. The safety of the Paranormal races, and perhaps the world as a whole, lies with that painting. It is your task now. You must find a man named Peter Casaventi. He is half Human and half Dragon—although he does not know about his Dragon heritage. He is also one of the best restorers and copyists I know. If anyone can help you reveal the secrets of the Pentacle Pentimento, it is Peter.”

Great goddess, why me?
Donata thought, not really expecting an answer.

Did you not say you wished to be of service?
A soft female voice echoed inside her head. The goddess herself? Her own subconscious? Impossible to say. But Witches believe that what you put out into the world was what you got back. She had made the choice to serve Humanity—that didn't mean she necessarily got to choose how she was meant to do so.

Donata sighed in resignation, and she could see the ghostly old man before her sag in relief as he read her acceptance on her face. Even the Kobold seemed to relax, and at her feet, Grimalkin gave a meow of approval. Completely outnumbered, that was her.

“Fine, so how do I find this Peter Casaventi, anyway?” She thought for a second. “And when you say ‘copyist,' do you mean ‘forger'? Please tell me you're not sending me to ask some criminal for help with a painting that's currently locked up in the evidence locker at the police station.”

Farmingham had the grace to look down at his feet, although there wasn't much to see there at the moment. “He's a great talent,” the ghost protested, “one of the best I've ever seen. He comes from a family of famous artists—you've heard of Lily Casaventi, surely?”

Donata nodded. “Of course, didn't the city commission her to paint that huge mural at the new capitol building?” She searched her memory. “I've heard of Lily, and aren't there a couple of daughters and a son who are also famous artists? Is Peter the famous son?”

The ghost gave her a doleful look. “No, he's not. In fact, he's the only one in the entire family without a speck of artistic talent. It was quite the disappointment, apparently.”

“But you just said he had great talent,” Donata protested.

“As a copyist and a restorer, yes, indeed,” Farmingham said. “He can reproduce anyone else's work flawlessly. He just hasn't got the gift for creating anything new, alas.” He started to fade again and brought himself back into focus with increasing difficulty. “I'm afraid I lost touch with him years ago and have no idea where he lives at present. He keeps a very low profile, both to reduce his association with his family and because of his . . . er . . . sideline.”

“You mean, because he's a forger,” Donata stated bluntly. “Great. So now I'm going to have to go dig through the records at the station to find the address and phone number of a known felon. Terrific. The Chief ought to really love
that
.”

Farmingham shook his head. “You won't find him in any official records, Officer Santori. He's never been caught, as far as I know. And while he occasionally surfaces for some sort of family gathering he can't get out of, other than that he seems to vanish from society.”

“Well, that's just great,” Donata said with a scowl. “So how am I supposed to find this mysterious forger?”

“Copyist,” Ricky the Kobold corrected, and then added helpfully, “I guess you'll just have to use the Ghouls.”

Aw, crap.

Donata chewed on a ragged cuticle and clicked through to another page in the municipal database. Nothing. Add that to all the other information she'd tracked down about the elusive Peter Casaventi and she had, well, nothing. Squared.

She glanced at the notes she'd jotted down during a morning spent hunched over the computer hoping that no one would come in and ask her why she was looking up information on a well-known painter's obscure son. Apparently Farmingham had been right both about Peter Casaventi not being known as a forger and his keeping a low profile.
Damn it.

All she could find were a few references in the society pages, all concerning his attendance at various high-profile Casaventi family events. Most of the papers referred to him as a “reclusive restorer” and mentioned his “tragic” lack of artistic talent. A few showed pictures of him with beautiful blonde women—all of whom looked more or less alike, and none of whom ever showed up more than once. Not helpful.

Donata had used all the not-inconsiderable resources available to her as a police officer and hadn't even turned up so much as a home address. The man had clearly taken secretive to a new level. The address listed on his driver's license was a condo owned by the family and apparently used as an occasional pied-à-terre by any of the members who might need it. The only phone number in the system was years old and long disconnected. Due to the unusual nature of her work (and the fact that, up until now, she had rarely left the basement to work on a case), she didn't have the kind of informants network that a typical cop might use.

She did have her sources, since she'd occasionally had to follow up on information given to her by a victim. But she
really
didn't want to use them if she didn't have to. Really, really,
really
didn't want to use them. She could feel her stomach clench at the thought.

A large fist rapped briskly on her half-open door, and the Chief slid his impressive bulk into her office and settled it into the only other chair available. It wasn't as though she did a lot of interviews down here, after all—mostly the cop in charge of a case would come down, explain the case, drop off a file with a picture of the vic, and maybe a suspect or two, and skedaddle as fast as possible back upstairs where the atmosphere was a little less oppressive.

The Chief looked around her office with a dubious expression on his face, shaking his head. He'd seen the room last week, of course, when he'd come down to beg her help in finding his granddaughter, but he'd obviously had other things on his mind at the time. Now she saw him registering anew the dingy walls, lack of windows, and the pipes that ran along the back and clanked in time with the bathroom use on the second floor.
Home sweet home.

She clicked a computer key inconspicuously, closing the search program she'd been looking at, and swiveled her chair to face his. “Hello, Chief,” she said more cheerfully than she felt, “what brings you down to my little slice of paradise?”

The Chief grunted as he shifted on the stiff wooden chair, trying to find a comfortable position. Eventually he gave it up as a lost cause and got to the point of his visit.

“Nice job yesterday, Santori,” he said in his usual gruff tone. “Thought you might like a follow-up on the Franco angle, since you were the one who fingered him for us.”

Right
, Donata thought to herself.
The boss coming downstairs to give a report to a junior officer. It's official: hell
has
frozen over.
She bit back the temptation to call him on it—he'd tell her whatever was on his mind eventually, and she didn't want to screw up a good thing by opening her big mouth.

“Um, sure, Chief,” she said instead. “Did they bring him in?”

The big man nodded. “Oh, yeah. Dragged him down here to listen to the EVP tape of our pal Marty's confession.” His face screwed up like he'd bitten into a lemon. “Him and his high-priced lawyer, sitting there in their suits that cost more than I make in a month. Didn't even bother to deny the charges once he heard the tape.”

Donata was confused. Not that this was an unusual state for her these days.

“You don't seem too pleased for a man who's got the guilty party all locked up and tied with a ribbon,” she commented dryly. “I'm guessing that's not the whole story?”

“Huh,” the Chief grunted. “Nope, that's the good news. The bad news is, Franco refused to name the person or persons who actually commissioned the painting theft.” He scowled, making Donata twitch involuntarily. “Franco said he'd rather take his chances with a judge than piss off the guy who hired him.”

“Is he that scared of the guy?” Donata asked, thinking of the shadowy Cabal.

Her boss shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe. More likely he figures he'd be out of business forever if he ratted out his customer. This way, he does a couple of years in jail, the customer gives him some extra compensation for keeping his mouth shut, and once he gets out, it's right back to work.” The lines carved deep into his craggy face deepened momentarily, then eased again.

“Truth is, this is just business as usual,” he said with resignation. “You can't let it get to you. And hey, at least someone is going down for the crime, and that's what matters.” He eased his bulk up out of the chair and reached across the table to shake Donata's hand. In her surprise, she almost didn't remember to get up and shake back.

“You did a good job out there in the field, Santori,” he added. “I'm starting to think I might have been ignoring an asset that's been right under my nose all along.” He looked around the room again and shook his head. “I think maybe it's time to expand your job description a little, don't you?”

Shut up and agree with him!
a little voice in the back of her head shouted.
Don't rock the boat—not now!
Naturally, she didn't listen.

“Um, that would be great, Chief,” she said. “But I actually think I have a lead that might get us some more answers about this case. I'd like to follow it up, if that's okay with you?”

The Chief sat back down, more slowly, and gave her an inscrutable look. “What kind of lead, Santori? And where did you get it, exactly?”

She couldn't tell if he was intrigued or furious. Or just had indigestion from eating the cafeteria food again. Damn, she
should have just kept her mouth shut.

“Well, I, uh, got a visit last night. At my apartment. Um, from Clive Farmingham.” She waited.

His brow wrinkled. “Farmingham?” The other shoe dropped. “Wait, Farmingham the dead guy from the museum? That Farmingham?” He looked alarmed. “You got ghosts dropping in to visit you all the time, do you, Santori?”

She guessed he wasn't going to be stopping by her apartment for coffee anytime soon. The thought made her smile and she coughed to cover it up.

“No, thankfully, not that often,” she said. “But Farmingham had something major on his mind, and he'd tried to tell me at the museum. When I didn't listen then, he followed me to my place.”

The Chief rolled his eyes. “You know, Santori, most people have stray dogs follow them home. You might want to try that instead.”

Donata laughed. “Well, my cat wouldn't approve of that, for starters. Besides, if he hadn't followed me home, I wouldn't have the additional information he gave me. So it turns out to be a good thing—although I'll confess, I wasn't any too pleased when he first showed up.”

“I'll bet,” the Chief muttered. “I hope you're not expecting me to go to your apartment to interview a ghost. I'm trying to give you a little more scope here, but I gotta draw the line at that one.”

“Not to worry,” Donata reassured him. “Farmingham is long gone now. He said what he had to say and moved on.” She didn't add that the reason he'd felt free to continue on his journey to the next plane was because he'd laid his problem squarely on her shoulders. She just hoped they were broad enough to carry it.

“So what was the big news this guy had to tell you? Must have been important if he put off going to the light—or whatever ghosts do—so he could let you know about it.”

Donata had spent a good chunk of the morning trying to figure out what she could and couldn't share with her boss. As a Human, he had no idea that Paranormals other than Witches existed or the actual nature of the Inquisition, so she couldn't mention the painting's ties to the Inquisition or the threat it posed to the Paranormal races. And she sure as hell couldn't say anything about the theoretical danger posed by an equally hypothetical missing sixth race. Unfortunately, that didn't leave her much.

So all she could do, really, was let him know that they might be able to track down the people who had commissioned the robbery through Franco. Hopefully, that would be enough.

“Um, well, Farmingham said that if I could find another restorer he knew, that guy might be able to lead us to the folks behind the whole robbery. And that's who you really wanted, right?” She talked fast so she could get it all out before the Chief stopped her. “If we could find the actual purchasers of the stolen painting, they wouldn't be giving any extra money to Franco either. All the bad guys would be screwed.” She drew in a deep breath. “I'd really like to pursue this, Chief.”

He studied her carefully for a moment before speaking. “I'll admit, Santori, I'm impressed. It's good to see you show a little initiative.” Then he shrugged. “But it's not your problem anymore. Donaldson is in charge of the case—so pass your
info on to him, and he'll follow up if he thinks it's pertinent.”

He rose out of his chair again and headed for the door. “I wouldn't expect much of anything to come from it, though. Most of these things turn out to be dead ends.”

“But, Chief—”

He looked back over his shoulder. “Let it go, Santori. You did good. Better than I expected, to be honest. I'll probably be putting you out into the field again soon, see if we can find some ways you can be useful that don't involve sitting in this hellhole.” He grimaced as he glanced around the room one more time. “If the other cops eventually get used to having you around, maybe we can find you an office upstairs. Something with windows, even.”

He gave her a stern look. “In the meantime, just be patient, do your job, and stay out of trouble.” With that parting remark, he walked out and shoved the door closed behind him.

Donata sank slowly back into her chair.

The Chief had just given her great news: at last she was going to get a chance to really do her job, become a real cop . . . maybe even eventually be accepted by the other cops she worked with. If she did well enough, she might even
finally
get out of this damned basement. All she had to do was keep out of trouble.

So why did she have the sinking feeling that there was no way on earth she was going to manage to do both?

*  *  *

It was next to impossible to juggle two pizzas, a purse, and a briefcase full of case notes and open the front door at the same time. Especially when the door in question was old, slightly warped, and had a cranky lock.

Donata tried it anyway and nearly dropped one of the pizzas. Then the doorknob slid out from under her hand and she almost fell into the living room. Small fingers lifted up to steady her and grab the pizza boxes.
What the heck?

“About time you got home,” Ricky the Kobold said cheekily. “A fellow could starve to death in this apartment.”

He plopped the boxes down on the scratched wooden table that sat in front of the couch and went to hang up her black leather jacket in the closet. Donata just stared at him in amazement.

“Did you know that the only things in your refrigerator are a jar of mayonnaise and a few slices of old cheese?” he continued, ignoring her gaping mouth. “Oh, and you'll need to get more cheese.”

Donata finally found her tongue, if not her wits. “What are you still doing here?” she asked the Kobold. “I thought you were going to leave when Farmingham moved on.” Wasn't her life complicated enough? Now she had a Kobold too?

He shook his head and lifted the cover of one of the boxes to peer in at the pizza. “Nah. I decided you needed my help. One Witch against the Council
and
the Cabal? Hardly seems fair. So I figured I'd stick around and give you a hand. You know, help fulfill the old guy's last wish, and all that.” He made a face. “What is this, white pizza with broccoli? Who the hell eats white pizza with broccoli?”

Donata didn't bother to mention that she didn't figure a Witch and a Kobold had any better chance at success than a
Witch on her own; Kobolds weren't known for their penchant for logic.

“I eat white pizza with broccoli,” she responded instead. Always choose your battles, that's what her father taught her. “And you can have some, too, if you want. But leave the other one alone.”

Ricky flicked open the second lid with one gnarly finger and let out a cry of joy. “Now that's more like it! Tomato sauce, extra cheese, peppers, onions, sausage . . . this is a pizza!”

Donata slapped his hand away (gently) and handed him a slice of the white pizza she'd gotten for herself. If she'd known she was going to share, she'd have gotten a larger pie.

“Sorry, but that one's not for us. You'll just have to make do with this one.” She made an effort to be polite. “I don't like tomato sauce. Hence the white pizza.”

The Kobold took a large bite and asked around a mouthful of cheese, “So who's the other pizza for, and how come they get one with the works and we don't?” A chunk of broccoli hit the floor, but he just grabbed it back up and tossed it into his mouth.

Donata noticed that the floor was a lot cleaner than it had been when she'd left for work. Apparently her uninvited guest had been busy. That was something, anyway. Especially if he was going to keep dropping food.