Veiled Magic (8 page)

“Wow,” she said.

Peter smiled at her hesitantly, as if he cared about her opinion, but was afraid to ask. “You like it?”

Donata took a deep breath. It was hard to reconcile the beauty of the apartment with the prickly man who lived here—but the place was somehow quite recognizably his.

“It's lovely,” she said honestly. “Absolutely spectacular.” She felt like she should take her boots off before she walked across the glossy hardwood floors. “But I'm guessing everyone who comes here tells you that.”

Peter shook his head. “I rarely have guests.”

She found that hard to believe, looking the way he did. “Not even women guests?” she teased.

“I much prefer to pursue my occasional liaisons elsewhere. I am very private about my home.” He smiled ruefully. “When I'm not being accosted by beautiful police officers.”

“Right.” Ignoring the compliment, she looked around again. “You must be very good at what you do, Mr. Casaventi. And something tells me that being a restorer wouldn't even pay for the furniture in this apartment. Your side job must be very lucrative.”

“I am, and it is,” he said shortly. “But I thought you weren't here in your official capacity.” He held out one hand imperiously. “Don't you have a picture to show me?”

Donata was reaching into her pocket to grab the photo when she was attacked by a small black-and-white monster with large batlike ears.

She jumped back involuntarily. “What the hell is that?”

Peter laughed, leaning down to fondle the dog's ears. “‘That' is a French bulldog, and his name is Elmyr.” The dog whiffled, sniffing her boots, and danced around in apparent joy at having someone new to explore.

“Elmer? Like Elmer Fudd?” What kind of name was that for a dog?

He laughed again, shooing the dog away from her gently and walking over to the kitchen area to get out a can of fancy dog food.

“No, Elmyr.” He pronounced it
El-Meer
. “For Elmyr de Hory, one of the most legendary forgers in history.” He put the food down on the floor and the small animal attacked it with enthusiasm. Peter guided Donata over to the granite-topped counter and pulled out a wrought-iron stool for her.

“You named your dog after a famous forger?” Donata said in amused disbelief, trying not to laugh. You had to admire the guy's audacity. He spent his time in public trying to pretend he was just a restorer, then in private called his dog after a notorious forger. “Nice.”

He grinned at her, suddenly looking much younger than his thirty-eight years. “I know. Pretty cute, isn't it?”

She looked up into his dark eyes, suddenly distracted. Cute, yeah. You could say that. With an effort, she pulled herself back to the matter at hand and tossed the photo of the painting onto the countertop between them.

Suddenly, he was all business. He picked the photo up and peered at it closely, shifting it back and forth under the lights that hung down over the counter.

“Interesting,” he muttered under his breath, Donata's presence all but forgotten. “Definitely a Friedrich. From his later years, I'd guess. Before he had his stroke, but after he'd lost most of his influence. Hmmm.”

“Well?” Donata said impatiently. “You are clearly familiar with Pentacle Pentimentos, although I'm not sure how, since your friend Farmingham seemed to think that most people have never heard of them. So is it a Pentacle Pentimento or not?”

Peter rolled his eyes at her. “I can't tell that from a photo, Officer Santori.” He waved the offending item at her. “Hell, I can barely tell it's a Friedrich from this. I'd have to examine the painting in person. And it's true that the Pentacle Pentimentos are thought by many to be a myth, but like I said, I am very good at what I do. Part of that means knowing obscure facts about art. All art, no matter how rare. As it happens, I have something of a specialty in Witch art, now that we know there is such a thing.” He flapped the picture back and forth. “The odds of this actually being a Pentacle Pentimento . . . well, they're astronomical.”

Donata shook her head stubbornly. “Your pal was pretty convinced it was, though. Enough so to come back from the dead to talk me into coming to find you.”

That thought clearly gave him pause. “Well, you've got a point there, I'll give you that. Clive wasn't the type to go off half-cocked. If he thought it was something out of the ordinary, it probably was.” He paused. “Tell me again why exactly he thought
I
should get involved in this? Why not one of his more, um, legitimate restorer connections?”

Damn, they were back to the part she was going to have a hard time explaining. “Mr. Farmingham told me he thought there was something dangerous in the painting underneath. Something that shouldn't fall into the wrong hands.”

“Like the hands of the people who tried to steal it, you mean?”

She nodded. “Among others. Mr. Farmingham thought you might be able to remove the top level, somehow neutralize the underneath so it was no longer dangerous, and then use your . . . other skills . . . to repaint the top so that no one could tell the painting had been altered. That way if the people who were after it actually got their hands on it, they would think they'd gotten what they wanted.” She gave him a hard look. “Could you do that? So that the painting ended up looking exactly the same as when it started?”

“Of course I could,” he said scornfully. “Piece of cake. The question is, why should I?”

“Because a lot of people might die if you don't?”

He shook his head. “I don't care much for most people. Try again.”

“How about because doing it would frustrate the people who killed your friend,” she asked.

His eyes turned a steely black again and seemed to gleam with a reddish tint for a moment under the harsh lights overhead. “Okay. I'll take a look at it.” He tapped his fingers on the countertop. “I'm not promising anything, mind you, but I'd like to get a look at this painting. If it really is a Pentacle Pentimento, now that would be worth seeing.”

He shoved the photo back toward her. “When can you bring it here?”

“Bring it here?” she asked.

He looked at her like she was stupid. “Of course, here. Here is where all my tools and painting supplies are. Where did you think I was going to work on it?”

Damn.
She really hadn't thought this through well enough, had she?

“That could be kind of a problem,” she said.

“Oh?” he asked. “Where is it now? At the museum?”

She shook her head. “Not exactly.” She paused before giving him the bad news. “It's at the precinct. In the evidence locker.”

He surprised her by bursting into gales of laughter. She scowled, not seeing the joke, and waited for him to stop, wiping the tears of mirth away from his eyes.

“Well, then, Officer Santori,” he said, and winked at her, “I guess you'll just have to get it out, won't you?” and laughed even harder at the expression on her face as she realized what he meant.

Donata walked into her apartment and dropped her helmet and jacket by the front door with a sigh of relief. Her place might not be as classy and comfortable as Peter's, but it was home. And after the day she'd had, home was the only place she wanted to be.

“Hey,” she called, looking around for the Ricky. It felt weird having a roommate, even a temporary (and invisible) one. She didn't see him anywhere, but when she got to the bathroom, the tub was filled with scented water, and the tee shirt and shorts she slept in were hung over the towel rack. Grimalkin sat on the back of the toilet tank, licking one paw contentedly, so apparently the Kobold had taken care of feeding him.

The bath looked like heaven on earth, and smelled even better. Donata could make out the scent of lavender and roses, and something spicy—maybe rosemary to relax her tired muscles. She said a brief spell to bring the water back up to piping hot, stripped off her malodorous clothing, and slid beneath the surface of the warm water with a sigh of relief.

A sudden thought gave her pause, and she said loudly, “You had better not be in here, Ricky.” There was no answer, but the cat gave her a sleepy look and settled down to nap, so she took that as a sign that they were alone.

Lying back again, she felt her tired body finally letting go of the tensions of the day. And what a day it had been. Getting actual praise from the Chief, talking to a goddess, and chasing down an elusive forger. A really cute elusive forger, at that. And it was just Monday. Who knew what the rest of the week would bring?

The very thought made her muscles tighten up, and she forced herself to relax again. After all, things weren't so bad. She'd impressed her boss enough that he'd promised to give her more challenging work, and maybe even eventually let her out of the damned basement. Of course, that was before she'd realized she was going to have to steal a piece of evidence from the station lockup. That might put a crimp in her new career path, by golly. The irony of it all made her want to sink under the water and stay there indefinitely.

This unproductive train of thought was derailed by the sound of a knock on her apartment door. She couldn't think of anyone who might possibly visit her at this hour, so she ignored it. Probably someone looking for Mr. Reynolds in 6B. They'd go away in a minute.

But the knocking persisted—polite, but insistent—so she finally gave a sigh and heaved her body out of the tub, sloshing water on the floor in the process. Wrapping a towel around herself, she grabbed her gun as she went past and looked out the peephole at whoever was annoying enough to bang on her door at eleven thirty on a Monday night. If this was someone selling something, she might just have to shoot them. She could always say it was an accident.

She didn't recognize the small, dapper, dark-haired man on the other side of the door, but she did recognize the vibe he gave off: Witch, and official something or other. With another sigh, she kissed any chance of relaxing good-bye and opened the door.

The man standing on her threshold didn't blink at being faced with a mostly naked Witch holding a gun. Instead, he gave a polite half bow and handed her a business card.

“Good evening, Ms. Santori,” he said with the calm air of a man who knew he wouldn't be turned away, no matter how late the hour or inconvenient the timing. “My name is Clement Moore, and I am a representative of the Alliance Council. May I come in?” He walked inside as soon as he'd finished speaking, leaving her facing an empty hallway.

With a shrug that threatened the security of her towel's anchorage, she put her gun down on the table by the front door and gestured him toward a seat on the couch. Some things in life were just inevitable. Unfortunately, the Alliance Council was one of them.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said with resignation. “I'll just grab a robe.”

When she reentered the room a minute later, her unwelcome visitor was seated on the sofa, one trousered leg crossed neatly over the other. Grimalkin had taken up a position opposite him on the smaller love seat and was giving him a disdainful look. It didn't seem to be having any ill effect, alas.

“What do you want, Mr. Moore?” she asked. No point in beating around the bush; the sooner he told her why he'd come, the sooner he would leave.

“Direct as always, Ms. Santori,” he said with only the slightest hint of disapproval. He was probably expecting her to offer him tea and cookies. Fat chance. “Your file indicated you might be less than thrilled with an official Council visit.”

Oh, great—she had a file.

“Is that what this is, Mr. Moore?” she asked. “An official visit?”

He gave her a grave look. “Yes and no. I am certainly here on business for the Council, with their sanction and approval. On the other hand, we would prefer that this matter remain, shall we say, off the record, for the present time. If such a thing is possible.” The glance he gave her made it clear that it darned well better be possible.

“And that matter would be . . . ?” she asked. As if she didn't know.

“I am here about a certain painting,” Moore stated. “The Pentacle Pentimento.”

Of course he was. Donata was starting to regret ever wishing she could leave the damned basement.

“Yes?” she said evenly. “What about it?”

The man sitting across from her uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, the better to impress her with his earnestness. “The Council is very interested in this particular painting. It first came to our attention when one of our sources at the station informed us of its existence, and, of course, its current location in the evidence locker.”

Interesting. So they hadn't known about the painting before the murder either.
“Well, if you know that much, you also know I'm no longer on the case. The painting has nothing to do with me.”
Well, other than the fact that I'm planning to steal it.
But she wasn't about to share that little tidbit with an official Council representative.

“Ah, but the Council begs to differ, Officer Santori,” Moore said smoothly. “We are quite concerned about that painting falling into the wrong hands. In fact, the Council considers it to be a major danger to the well-being of the Paranormal races,
perhaps the largest threat that has come along in years.” He gave her a pointed look. “If the Cabal got their hands on it, it would be a disaster of epic proportions—possibly even leading to a second Inquisition.”

Donata started to speak, but he cut her off.

“I'm sure you don't want that any more than any other Witch would, isn't that right, Officer Santori?” He gave a small smile, knowing he had her where he wanted her. “And, of course, your family has a certain position to uphold in the Paranormal community, don't they? I'm quite certain they would expect your full cooperation with any Council request.”

Oh, great. Now he was bringing her family into it. She was so screwed. On the other hand, she'd known that the minute she'd seen him on her doorstep.

“What exactly does the Council expect me to do about the painting, Mr. Moore?” she asked. “And why not have the source you mentioned before deal with it?” No doubt whoever it was had a more accepted position in the police department than she did. Maybe they didn't want to get their hands dirty?

He shook his tidy head and all the hairs stayed neatly in place. Probably didn't dare do otherwise.

“Our main concern is in keeping the painting out of the hands of the Cabal. And they have undoubtedly heard about it by now, even if they were unconnected to the initial attempt to procure the picture.” Moore's thin lips twisted. “Clearly, it cannot be allowed to stay where it is. And the Council feels that you are the best person to, shall we say, liberate it, without drawing any more attention to it than necessary.”

Great goddess—was there anyone who didn't want her to steal this freaking painting?

“You did say you have another person at the precinct,” Donata said stubbornly. “Why can't he or she deal with it?” Maybe if someone else was dealing with the painting, it would satisfy her promise to Clive Farmingham—or at least buy her some time to come up with another solution.

Moore gave the tiniest hint of a sigh, clearly unused to being questioned when handing out edicts from the Council to lowly Witches. But Donata just crossed her arms across her chest and waited him out.

“Very well,” he said with reluctance. “There is the small matter of the curse.”

Oh, for the love of—
“I'm sorry, did you say curse?” Donata gritted her teeth. If that wasn't just typical: they were going to send some poor schmuck—in this case, her—into a dangerous situation without bothering to give said schmuck the basic information necessary to actually accomplish the task at hand. No doubt they didn't consider her qualified for “need to know.”

“The historical data about the Pentacle Pentimentos—which, frankly, is more mythology than actual fact—indicates that there may have been a curse placed on the paintings to avoid any tampering by Paranormals.” Moore pursed his lips, no doubt in disapproval of such bad-mannered gestures on the part of the Catholic Church. “The Inquisitors who were authorized to use them would have had some way to remove the curse harmlessly, but any Paranormal attempting to alter or destroy a Pentimento would suffer from some form of retribution. It is possible that this curse may have led, directly or indirectly, to Mr. Farmingham's death.”

“Oh, great,” Donata said. “So you don't want to risk your ‘source' at the department, but it is okay to send me after it?” She scowled at him in case he hadn't picked up on the fact that she was pissed off. It had about as much impact as when the cat had done it.

Moore waved a calming hand at her. “Not at all, Ms. Santori. But since you have already handled the painting once with seemingly no ill effects, it was deemed prudent to allow you to continue to be the one who dealt with it.” He gave her a confident smile. “We're certain that you will continue to be unaffected, since you have experienced no obvious difficulties up to now.”

Donata was neither impressed nor reassured by his certainty. Unfortunately, she didn't really see any way around it. And she
had
been intending to steal the damned painting anyway.

“So, if I get the painting out for you,” she asked, “what does the Council intend to do with it?”

Moore visibly refrained from telling her it was none of her business what the Council did; no doubt this file of hers had mentioned that she wasn't good at blindly following orders. (She never would have made it in the police force if it hadn't been for her special circumstances.)

“We have two aims,” he explained with barely restrained impatience. “Our first goal, obviously, is to keep it out of the hands of the Cabal. Once we have achieved that, we hope to be able to find some way to destroy it, or if that isn't possible, to render it harmless by altering the information it theoretically contains about the Paranormal races.”

Well, that was pretty much what Farmingham had asked her to do—maybe this wouldn't be a problem after all. Or at least, no more of a problem than it had already been, before the Council stuck their collective pointy noses in.

“What about the blotch that's covering up the sixth race?” she asked.

Her visitor gave her a curious look. “What blotch?”

Interesting. Apparently their source had missed that little piece of information. “There's a large black blob of some sort covering the face of one of the people in the picture,” she explained. “Clive Farmingham, the expert who was working on it at the time of the robbery, said he believed it hid the identity of a lost sixth Paranormal race. It was his belief that this race posed an even greater threat to us than the Cabal does, and that it is of the utmost importance we find a way to remove the mark and reveal the characteristics that would help us to track down that species.”

Moore gave her a stare that spoke volumes about his lack of interest in the theories of a dead restorer. “This so-called blotch is of no consequence to us, Ms. Santori. I find it highly unlikely that there ever was a mythical sixth race. And if there was, I have seen no evidence that they are causing a problem.” He gave a dismissive wave. “If there ever was such a race, they probably died out years ago, as it is likely the Fae and the Dragons will do eventually if their reproduction continues to wane at its current rate. No, our only concern is with rendering the painting safe or finding a way to destroy it.”

Donata wasn't sure she agreed with this, but she wasn't about to argue about it at this juncture. She supposed if she was going to be stuck dealing with the painting anyway, she might as well try and keep the Council off her back for as long as possible. At least until she could find out whether or not Peter could remove the black mark.

“Well,” she said slowly, “I
have
found someone who might be able to help us with that. Farmingham suggested I take the painting to him, since he has skills in the areas of both restoration and copying. His name is Peter Casaventi.” She didn't want to seem completely uncooperative, since the Council was so important to her family's standing in the Paranormal community.

A look of keen interest crossed Clement Moore's dour face. “Ah, yes, I am familiar with Mr. Casaventi. A very interesting case.”

Donata perked up a bit; here was her chance to find out a little more about the mysterious Mr. Casaventi. “Really? In what way?”

“To begin with,” Moore said, “he's half Human and half Dragon.”

“Oh, I knew that,” Donata replied.

Moore appeared disappointed he hadn't been able to dazzle her with his bombshell, but went on anyway. “I see. And did you know his Dragon father never learned of his existence, and so he has been raised completely ignorant of his Paranormal origins?”