Veiled Magic (6 page)

“Farmingham was right about Peter Casaventi keeping a low profile—the man is practically invisible. I'm going to have to go to the Ghouls for info after all.” She stifled a laugh when Ricky made a face. She felt pretty much the same way. “So the pizza's for Dhumavati, their matron goddess. You only bring the best when you're petitioning a goddess.”

Ricky moved away from the good pizza. “Especially that one.” A shudder ran the length of his little body at the thought. “You really gotta deal with that hag? Ugh.” He shuddered again. “Better you than me, doll.”

Donata couldn't have agreed more. The Ghouls were the least pleasant of all the major Paranormal races: they looked Human, but unlike the goddess they worshipped, instead of consuming food, they lived off the by-products of misery and pain. They didn't cause suffering, but wouldn't step in to stop it either, since the end results fed them. Ghouls could often be found where Humans were suffering or unhappy: bars, hospitals, jails, and the like. Faded gray people, they had a protective coloration that helped them to blend in and escape notice. If the bar you hung out in had a sad, quiet guy who always sat at the end of the bar, drinking little and saying less, odds were, he was a Ghoul.

Ghouls were mostly neutral beings these days—their part of the Compact agreement was that they could feed off of Human misery as long as they did nothing to cause it. Pre-Compact, Ghouls had gone out of their way to start wars and disagreements. But they generally agreed it wasn't much of a sacrifice, since Humans were so good at producing unhappiness and tragedy without any help. Still, the Ghouls were fairly bitter about the Compact. Any one of them found breaking the agreement was summarily dealt with by the enforcers from the Alliance Council for fear that their activities would draw attention to other Paranormals.

As far as Donata was concerned, she was happy to leave Ghouls to their wretched existence; they weren't doing any harm, at least, which was more than she could say for a lot of the folks she dealt with, although they weren't exactly fun to
be around either.

But they did have one saving grace, at least in the eyes of Donata and her fellow Witch-cops. Due to their peculiar lifestyle, Ghouls tended to end up at the scenes of crimes and generally hung around in places where they would be in a position to pick up information from the seamier side of life. This made them particularly good police informants, if you knew they existed and were willing to pay the price for contacting them.

Therein lay the catch, of course. You couldn't pick up a phone and call one. You couldn't even just sit down next to one as he sat in a bar or on a hospital waiting room bench. The Ghoul would only disappear before you could talk to him.

No, the only way to speak to a Ghoul was to petition the Ghoul's matron goddess, Dhumavati. And dealing with
her
was not for the faint of heart. Known as “the Smoky One,” because she was always surrounded by the smoky haze of the apocalypse that ends the universe, Dhumavati was the goddess of all those who were wretched, dying, or disenfranchised.

Not
one of the more pleasant deities. She always demanded some of the best food or drink and some form of sacrifice in exchange for summoning the Ghoul who had the necessary information. And heaven help the Witch who shortchanged her.

Donata heaved herself off the couch and went to go pick out one of her few remaining decent pieces of jewelry. It wouldn't do to let Dhumavati's pizza get cold. No, it wouldn't do at all.

The alley was cold and smelled like piss. A jumble of overturned trash cans transformed the back of the dead end into a sea of empty cans, broken bottles, and half-eaten food. Two mangy rats were doing their best to clean up the more edible bits; they gave Donata a casual glance as she walked into the alley, then turned back to their scavenged meal, unimpressed.

Charming company you keep these days
, she thought to herself.
And you wonder why your mother looks down her elegant nose at your job. Sometimes it looks like she's right.

Oh, well. It wasn't as though she had any interest in following either of her sisters' more respected professions. She had little or no talent as a healer, unlike her eldest sister Lucia, and if she had to spend her days psychically predicting stock trends for a big-name Wall Street firm the way her middle sister Gabriella did, she'd jump out a window by the end of the first week.

Donata wasn't sure if her family's criticism was based on a complete inability to understand why she would want to live the life she did, or (as they swore was true) genuine concern for her. Mostly it just stung, and although she tried not to be defensive, she couldn't help but feel like they were embarrassed by her. They might make more money than her—okay, a lot more money—and they might be listed in the Who's Who of Witches in Society, but they didn't get to hang out in back alleys and talk to goddesses, did they?

Donata wished, as she always did on these occasions, that Dhumavati could be invoked in a nice, clean park, like most other deities. An old crate served as a temporary altar. At least Dhumavati didn't stand on ceremony. As long as you brought her some kind of treat, she didn't care if you lit a dozen candles or chanted
The Wizard of Oz
backward. Placing the pizza box where it would be seen right away, Donata recited the short, mostly profane spell used to summon the Ghouls' crone goddess.

Dhumavati made her usual dramatic entrance accompanied by billowing smoke, cawing crows, and a bad smell. Donata was suddenly nostalgic for the clean, homey odor of pee.

“Why do you disturb me, Child of Hecate?” the goddess thundered.

The ground in the alley shook, dislodging debris and scaring away the rats. Donata stood her ground, although every instinct told her to flee.
Never let them see your knees shake
, that was her motto.

Dhumavati looked like a tall, skinny old woman draped in moldy rags with a crow on one shoulder. But her eyes were piercing and lit from within by an unholy hunger—no one in range would have ever mistaken her for a mere Human.

Donata executed her best bow, lowering her head almost to the ground (not an agreeable position when one is in an alley). Subtly, she nudged the pizza box closer to the goddess with one foot.

“Oh Great One,” Donata said humbly, “I have come to beseech you for a favor. I would much appreciate an audience with one of your subjects, and so I have brought you offerings chosen especially to please your appetites.”

Dhumavati looked slightly less disapproving after hearing this speech and gestured with one thin, pale hand for Donata to open the box. The goddess's eyes glowed with appreciation as she saw the overloaded pizza, but she maintained her glower at the Witch-cop anyway.

“This is all you brought me?” she asked, her tone querulous. “You wish to speak with one of my chosen. This is no small matter.” One of the crows flew down, fetched her a slice from the cardboard box, and carried it laboriously to her outstretched hand. The old woman opened her mouth wider than a Human could have managed and stuffed the entire slice into her reeking, mostly toothless maw. Chewing noisily, she added, “We have met before, little Witch. You should know by now that I demand a sacrifice of greater merit than this.”

Donata reached into the inside pocket of her leather jacket and pulled out a small velvet jewelry box. Dhumavati stared at it avidly, holding her hand out for another slice of pizza without bothering to check to see if a crow was bringing it. She knew it would be there.

“I would never insult a goddess of your power and grace by only making an offering of food, no matter how good,” Donata said. “Within this box lies a treasure of my family, handed down through the generations and valuable beyond measurable worth.”

She snapped open the lid to reveal an ornate silver pin, sparkling with amethysts and garnets and shaped like a flower. The pin was about the size of her palm, and if her mother knew she'd brought it into a back alley to give to a goddess not their own, she would have disowned Donata on the spot. After all, it was a family heirloom, even if her grandmother had only given it to her because neither of her sisters would be seen dead wearing it. Oh, well, you couldn't please everyone.

And right now, it was more important to please the seemingly old woman in front of her. Dhumavati was a harsh goddess, but if she made a deal, she'd stick to it.

The goddess tilted her head like one of her crows, narrowing her eyes to get a better look at the gleaming ornament. Dhumavati was partial to jewelry—the gaudier the better. She tapped one dirt-encrusted nail against her chin.

“So, you wish to speak to one of my Ghouls, eh?” she said, measuring the size of the request against the gifts offered in exchange. The pizza was just a greasy memory, but she was clearly tempted by the pin. “What is the nature of the information you seek?”

“It is but a small thing,” Donata coaxed. “I need to know where to find a man named Peter Casaventi.”

Dhumavati gazed down her long, crooked nose. “He is Human, this man?”

Donata shook her head. “Half Human, half Dragon, from what I'm told.”

The goddess shrugged, her interest waning. She held out her hand imperiously for the jewelry, and Donata took a cautious step forward to put the velvet box into the goddess's outreached palm. The strong smell of smoke mixed with carrion floated up to Donata's nostrils, and she had to suppress the desire to gag.

“Very well.” Dhumavati snapped the box shut, almost catching Donata's fingers in the process. “We have a bargain.”

The goddess threw her head back and yowled, a high-pitched sound that reminded Donata of nothing so much as a cat
in heat. After a few minutes, a shadowy figure slunk into the alleyway and abased itself at Dhumavati's thin, filthy feet. Gray, androgynous, and smelling to Donata's heightened Witch senses like a mixture of rancid fat and old cheese, the Ghoul knelt in front of its matron goddess until she gestured for it to rise. Then it stood staring at Donata with indifferent eyes, waiting to be told why it had been summoned.

Dhumavati pointed one skinny finger at Donata. “This one requires information on the location of a man called Peter Casaventi. You have this information. You will provide it.”

Not for the first time, Donata thought it must be handy to be a goddess and know instinctively which of your people would know what. Better than a Rolodex, a phone book, and a three-drawer filing cabinet, all rolled into one.

The Ghoul moved its hunched shoulders in a fraction of a shrug, unconcerned with the request. Curiosity was not a Ghoul trait.

“I have seen this man,” it said in a quiet, hollow voice.

Donata had to strain to hear it, even in the relative silence of the alley. “Where?”

The Ghoul looked at its goddess, and Dhumavati gave one sharp nod. “Tell her.”

“He can be found in a bar on Calvin Street, at the edge of the Ridgemont section,” the Ghoul expanded. “The bar is called the Abyss.” It gave an approximation of a smile, making Donata shudder in response. A Ghoul smile is
not
a nice thing. The Abyss must be a pretty dreadful establishment, if it made a Ghoul happy to think about it.

“Does he live near there?” Donata asked, intrigued. Ridgemont was a wealthy part of town, but Calvin Street hovered near the seedy border area that skirted the upscale district. If he lived near the bar, he probably rented an apartment on one of the less expensive streets that stretched out to the west of Ridgemont proper.

Interesting.

The Ghoul shrugged again. “I only see him at the bar.” It scowled in memory of something unpleasant. “I think he would be good to feed from. He always looks depressed when he comes to the bar. But he tastes terrible.” It spat on the ground in disgust and Dhumavati cackled. Bits of brick fell off the side of the nearest building.

“He's half Dragon, you fool,” the goddess said to her subject. “You can't eat Dragon emotions the way you can Human ones.”

The Ghoul glowered, but didn't make the mistake of answering back. It could have rebutted that Dragon-Human offspring were rare enough that it couldn't be expected to recognize the aura, but there was no point in arguing with a goddess when she was having a good laugh at your expense. Especially not this one.

Donata felt dirty, as she always did when she had to get her information this way. Giving Dhumavati one last low bow, she nodded to the Ghoul. Deal completed, the crone goddess waved a languid hand in dismissal and vanished in a noxious puff of black smoke. Burning embers fell to the ground where she'd been standing.

Donata looked around for the Ghoul, but he was already gone.
Good riddance.
At least she'd gotten the information she'd come for, even if she'd had to sacrifice her grandmother's hideous old pin to get it. Hell, she'd never liked the damned
thing anyway. The fact that giving it away to Dhumavati while in the pursuit of her duty would piss off her mother was just a bonus.

*  *  *

A Witch-cop walks into a bar
; it sounded like the start of a bad joke. Come to think of it, it probably was. Too bad she didn't feel like laughing.

The Abyss wasn't quite as bad as she'd expected, but it wasn't anyplace she'd want to spend too much time in either. Her BMW Classic motorcycle had looked right at home when she slid it into a spot next to the dozen or so Harleys that shared the cracked asphalt parking lot with a few battered trucks and one old Buick missing a headlight. Her black leather jacket and dark jeans ought to blend in, too, as long as no one recognized her as a cop. One advantage to mostly working with the dead—she wasn't exactly well known among the criminal element.

And there were definitely a few of that ilk present, although most of the scattered Monday night patrons might have simply been tough types who lived in the neighborhood. The Abyss wasn't the kind of bar you went out of your way to go to. Despite the anti-smoking laws, a few of the bikers clustered toward the back held on to cigarettes in whichever hand wasn't occupied by a bottle of beer. Donata doubted anyone would complain. And at least the smell would cover up any lingering Eau de Alley she'd brought in with her.

Donata made her way casually to the bar and put a twenty down on the scarred wooden surface. The bartender, a burly middle-aged black man with a shaved head and a surprisingly cheerful demeanor, came over to stand in front of her, wiping his hands on a less-than-clean rag.
Note to self: do not ask for a glass.

“What'll it be?” he asked. “Shot or a beer?”

Donata couldn't tell if this question was a reflection on her apparent personality, or a statement of the bar's limited repertoire. Not that it mattered, since she didn't intend to drink much of whatever she ordered anyway.

“Beer's good,” she said with a shrug, putting her helmet down on the bar. “Whatever you've got in a bottle that isn't too fancy.”

The bartender laughed, as she'd intended him to. “Yeah, fancy. I like that.” He popped the top off a bottle of Coors and set it down on the bar a little too hard, so it foamed over. Donata cocked an eyebrow at him but didn't say a word, simply moving her helmet over out of harm's way. After a minute, he smirked at her and wiped up the spill with his crusty rag. Clearly she'd passed the test. Donata loved these kinds of places.
Not
. Still, she could do macho with the best of them—that's what came of seven years of working with mostly male cops.

She pushed the twenty toward him and shook her head when he went to give her back her change. He shot her a piercing look, then shrugged and put the money in his pocket.

“Something I can get you besides that beer?” he asked. He gave her a suggestive leer, which she also ignored.

“I'm looking for a guy named Peter Casaventi. I was told he hangs out here sometimes.”

The bartender lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “People aren't so big on names around here, honey. You got a description?”

Donata thought about showing him the picture she'd copied from the society pages of the newspaper: a well-groomed but glum-looking man in his late thirties, about six feet tall, with wavy black hair that brushed the top of his collar, slim hips, broad shoulders, and a slight cleft in his chin. In the photo, he'd been standing next to an elegant older couple, two women, and another man, all of whom had looked more poised and comfortable than he had. He might as well have been holding a sign that said, “Would like to be anywhere but here.”

On consideration, though, she thought it probably wasn't a good idea to flash a picture of the monied set in a place like the Abyss, so she settled for giving the bartender a short description.

He grunted as he thought briefly. “Yeah, I think I know the guy. Comes in for two or three nights in a row sometimes, then I don't see him for weeks. Sits in the back room by himself, minds his own business, doesn't make any trouble.” He glared at Donata. “
You
plannin' on making trouble, sister?”

“Nope,” she said. “It's been a long day. Don't have the energy.”

His mouth stretched in a grin. “I hear ya.” He jerked one meaty thumb to his left. “In that case,” he pointed down the bar toward a door. “Back room's through there. Coupla pool tables, an old jukebox that hasn't worked since 2010, and a few tables for folks who don't like to hang out with the rest of us. Help yourself.”