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.”
Someone from the other end up the bar held up an empty glass and the bartender moved away to do his job. Donata got up slowly, tucked her helmet under one arm, and carried her beer with her as she moved to the back room. She hoped that Farmingham was right about this guy being the one they needed to deal with the painting. If she’d spent the evening in a filthy alley and a crappy bar for nothing, she was going to be really put out.
Chapter Eight
Donata spotted Peter Casaventi as soon as she walked through the door. He sat alone at a table in the back, a little older and a little scruffier than the picture from the paper, but still slim and muscular. He was dressed in well-worn jeans and a soft blue cotton shirt, and he needed a shave and a haircut. He was also startlingly attractive in a way that hadn’t come through on the printed page.
A dozen overturned shot glasses sat in a neat stack in front of him, and he was methodically working on the next one while flipping through a beat-up paperback copy of The Prince.
Oh, that’s just fabulous, Donata thought to herself as she crossed the room. A drunken forger who reads Machiavelli. My mother was right: I really have to start hanging out with a better class of people.
She slid into the seat across from him and put her beer down on the table next to her helmet. Its twin rested on the chair next to Casaventi. He must have arrived on one of the Harleys out in the lot. When he looked up from his book, she flashed him a bright smile.
He smiled back involuntarily at the sight of an attractive woman and stuck a bar napkin in his book before laying it down. Dark brown eyes glinted from underneath slightly bushy eyebrows, looking almost black in the dim light. The sound of clicking balls echoed from the pool tables across the room, a sharp counterpoint to the muted voices of the players. A few serious drinkers occupied other tables, but the room was mostly empty otherwise.
Casaventi gave her a surprisingly charming grin and gestured toward the chair her butt already rested on. “Care to sit down?” He looked ruefully at the empty glasses on the table and added, “I’d offer you a drink, but I seem to have finished them all off. Sorry.”
Donata raised her beer bottle in salute. “Already got one, thanks.” She glanced curiously at the dead soldiers. “You seem pretty sober for a guy with twelve empty shot glasses in front of him. You been here all day?” Not that it was any of her business.
Peter gave an ironic laugh. “Nope. About two hours, actually.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t really seem to matter how much I drink; apparently I have a cast-iron constitution.” He slugged down the rest of his remaining shot. “Doesn’t keep me from trying, though.”
Must be the Dragon half of his heredity, she thought to herself. Dragons had notoriously fast metabolisms; they were immune to most poisons and illnesses, and healed from all but the most serious injuries incredibly fast. Thought to be a genetic offshoot of dinosaurs that survived the Ice Age, Dragons lived very long lives, but tended to be solitary, moody, and unpredictable. There weren’t many of them around these days—they were less fertile than most of the other Para
normal races, and many of them had gone into hibernation during the long dark years of the Inquisition and never reappeared.
Donata wondered about Peter’s father, clearly the Dragon parent, since the photo from the newspaper had revealed a distinct resemblance between Peter and his mother, the famous Lily Casaventi. The man identified in the caption as his father, however, looked nothing like him at all. The Casaventis were too well known for there to have been a Dragon in the bloodline without anyone knowing, so that left out Lily. No doubt there was an interesting story behind it all—Dragons were notoriously possessive of their few offspring and usually stole any half-Human babies from their mothers to raise them in the Paranormal world. That clearly hadn’t happened in this case, and she wondered why. But she had bigger mysteries to deal with at the moment.
“Well, I’m just as glad you can still see straight,” Donata said. “Because there’s something I’d like to have you take a look at.”
Peter smirked across the table at her. “I’m impressed so far, but feel free to show me anything else you like.”
She resisted the urge to pull out her gun, safely holstered under the bulk of her leather jacket, and shoot him with it. Heck, in a bar like this, a little thing like a gunshot probably wouldn’t even put a halt to the pool game.
Instead, she pulled her ID out of her pocket, flipped it open on the table for a minute, then put it away before any of the other patrons could take note of it. “Officer Donata Santori, Central Gates Precinct.”
A scowl replaced the friendly smile. “What can I do for you, Officer?” His eyes seemed to darken to black and his posture became still and stiff.
Donata sighed. This was not going exactly the way she’d planned. “Don’t worry, Mr. Casaventi, I’m not here on official business.” She thought about that. “Well, at least not exactly.”
He raised one eyebrow in question and looked regretfully at his empty glass. “Oh? You obviously went to some trouble to find me, since I don’t make that easy to do.” He nudged the pile of shot glasses, making them teeter precariously for a moment. “So why don’t you tell me what I can do for you so I can get on with my evening’s entertainment.”
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