Just in case he’d fallen asleep on his own, and not because of her magic, Donata cleared her throat a couple of times and practiced looking innocent. But she needn’t have bothered. The attendant slept on.
Sweat pooled under her armpits as she contemplated the magnitude of what she was about to do. Still, did she really have a choice? Glancing around to make sure she was unobserved, she braced her hands on the counter and swung herself over into the area behind it. She landed lightly, with hardly a sound, and she choked back a laugh at the thought that her police academy training instructor would have been proud of her. Other than the whole breaking the law part, of course.
Tiptoeing over to the computer next to the sleeping man, she looked up the location where the painting had been stored and headed back into the bowels of the lockup. If her spell was working correctly, she probably didn’t need to worry about making noise, but she wasn’t taking any chances. The last thing she needed was to have to explain what she was doing wandering around the back of the evidence lockers in the middle of the night, thank you very much.
Row after row of boxes, bags, and unidentified lumps covered the shelves. Eventually she found the one she was looking for and spotted the distinctive crate she’d carted over from the museum. Donata hesitated for a minute, weighing the possibility of something happening to the painting if she carried it around uncovered against the impossibility of disguising the large wooden box. Hell, if the thing was really protected by a curse, she could probably drop it from a ten-story building without scratching the surface. And if she left the crate, it would greatly decrease the odds of someone figuring out the painting was gone. Hopefully, she’d be able to get it dealt with and back in storage before anyone—especially the Chief—knew the difference.
Out of its protective wrappings, the painting was only about three feet by four feet, a manageable size, although a bit awkward to carry. Back at the front desk, she found a large shopping bag, probably left over from a delivery. As she gingerly tilted the painting on its side to slide it in the bag (trying to touch it as little as possible, in case of curses, although nothing had happened when she’d handled it in her earlier blissful ignorance other than that weird vision), she noticed something odd.
Tilting it cautiously to the light, she double-checked. Impossible, but true—the small cleared area she’d seen when she’d checked the painting in the day before was gone. Aw, crap. Well, that was going to make Peter’s job a little more difficult, wasn’t it?
If any part of the top layer he removed somehow magically replaced itself after a few hours, or a few days, how on earth were they supposed to fix the bottom layer? Double crap.
She’d planned on getting the painting out and back in within a week or two, long before the case could come up to trial and they came looking for the thing. But this new wrinkle put a different spin on things. As she stuffed the picture into the bag again, she came up with a plan B: she could have Peter paint something that looked more or less like this one, and sneak the replacement in to take the original’s place. After all, the only ones who’d really gotten a close look at it were her and the attendant who’d checked the painting in. There was no reason for him to remember one unattractive painting when he looked at so much evidence. It wasn’t like the thing looked like the ticking time bomb it actually was.
Donata contemplated clambering back over the countertop while clutching a bulky package in her arms and decided against it. Quietly, she unlocked the door next to the counter and let herself out. There was no way to relock it from the outside, but hopefully the attendant would just assume he’d forgotten to lock it. She hoped he’d have pleasant dreams.
She was going home to try and catch a few hours of sleep, but she doubted her dreams would be that enjoyable.
* * *
Arriving back on her street a few minutes later, Donata came to a stuttering halt across the road from her building. Her heart pounded in her chest as she sank back into the shadows of a large brick warehouse. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what, but you didn’t spend your life as a psychic without learning to listen to that little voice in the recesses of your head.
She was dead on her feet and in possession of stolen property. Every bone in her body wanted to cross that street, climb the stairs, and relax in the boring but safe confines of her own apartment. But still, she hesitated.
Everything looked perfectly normal. She couldn’t see anything out of place that might have triggered her internal alarms. Maybe she was starting to jump at shadows?
“It’s about time you got back,” a voice whispered from the area around her knees.
“Great goddess!” Donata barely managed not to scream out loud. “You have got to stop doing that!”
Ricky the Kobold stood next to her in the alley across from her apartment, where a moment ago there had been only night air. He shook his head, making his pointy brown hat wobble. “So maybe you’d like it better if I let you go upstairs and meet the nice gentlemen who are waiting for you to come home?”
Hades’s balls. She’d known there was something wrong.
“How many?” she asked, not really wanting to know the answer. Even one was too many, after the day she’d had.
“Three,” Ricky answered, speaking slightly above a whisper. She had to strain to make out the words. “They broke through your wards like they were tissue paper. Used some kind of ‘anti-magic’ tools—I haven’t seen anything like them since the Inquisition.” He gave her a rueful grin. “Guess the Cabal isn’t a myth after all.”
Donata nodded grimly. She couldn’t think of anyone else who would use tools like that either. The Church had officially banned such things at the end of the Burning years. Now what the hell was she going to do?
She couldn’t go into the apartment, that much was clear. She wasn’t about to hand the painting over to the Cabal. And she wasn’t too thrilled about handing herself over either. So the apartment was out.
She thought briefly about going to her parents’ house or to one of her sisters. They all lived in expensive and well-guarded condos, and undoubtedly had much better wards than the ones she used primarily to keep out rodents and the occasional sneak thief. But she didn’t want to bring this trouble to their doorsteps. And let’s face it; they already heartily disapproved of her job. This could only make things worse. They’d never let her hear the end of it. So that option was out too.
The obvious thing would be to take it to the Council. The problem with that plan was twofold. One, she wasn’t sure she was ready to hand the painting over to them either. Clement Moore hadn’t seemed at all interested in Farmingham’s theoretical sixth race, but the restorer had been adamant about the importance of solving that mystery. If she gave the painting to the Council, she would be giving up any opportunity to fulfill that part of her promise to the dead man. She was already having serious second thoughts about giving them the painting at all.
And two, as much as she hated to admit it to herself, she wasn’t sure she trusted them to keep her safe. The Council looked out for the Council. She wasn’t sure that, even with her family’s high position in Paranormal society, they would care enough to protect her once they’d gotten what they wanted.
Well, crap. Those were the only options she could think of, off the top of her head, at two in the morning, standing in a dark alley looking at the apartment she didn’t dare go home to. She was too damned tired for this.
A small hand tugged at her jeans. “Hey, you decide what you’re gonna do yet? Or are we gonna stand here all night?” The Kobold snorted under his breath. “I’m not getting any younger, you know.” Huh. Said the guy who remembers the Inquisition personally.
Right. A decision. She had to make a decision.
“I’m going up to the apartment,” she said.
“What? Are you crazy?” Ricky stood up on his toes in an effort to look her in the eye. “There are t
hree guys from a fanatical, ultrasecret, radical Church organization up there that think all Paranormals are an insult to God’s laws. Why the hell would you go up there?”
“Because my cat is up there. I’m not leaving him behind.”
Ricky shook his head. “Shit. Stay here.” He pointed at the pavement. “Seriously. Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared, but Donata could hear him muttering as he went around the corner of the building.
She waited impatiently, trying to gauge how much time had passed. If only she’d thought to look at her watch when he’d left. What if they caught the little Kobold? Then they’d have two hostages.
Despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins, she was so tired, she almost dozed off against the brick wall next to her for a minute. But she woke up fast when Ricky came barreling around the side of the building, one pissed-off gray cat under his arm. Grimalkin leaped onto Donata’s shoulder and settled there, clinging to her jacket for dear life. Good thing leather was tough.
“Okay, here’s your cat. Can we please get out of here now?” the Kobold asked plaintively. “Those guys give me the creeps.”
Donata took a deep breath, redolent of alley, and tried to knock her last two working brain cells together into some semblance of thought.
“Yeah, okay,” she said, petting her trembling familiar. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Great,” Ricky said with relief. Then, as they were walking out the other end of the alley, toward the garage two streets over where she’d parked her motorcycle, he added, “Um, where are we going, anyway?”
“The only safe place I can think of,” she said. “Someplace that nobody would think to look for me.”
Chapter Eleven
Half an hour later, Donata knocked on Peter’s door carrying a large wrapped package and a small, irate cat. She was pretty sure she looked like crap, but was almost too tired to care. Almost. Once she got out of the elevator, she leaned the painting against the wall, tucked the cat under one arm, and banged on the entry door to Peter’s apartment.
Belatedly, it occurred to her that he might have company, but it was too late to go away. Besides, she had no place else to go and he’d already buzzed her up. She picked up the painting again and looked over her shoulder at the elevator. What the hell was she doing here, anyway? She swayed, overcome by exhaustion and the desire to be somewhere else. Preferably her own bed.
The door opened and Peter poked his head out. Still fully dressed, he didn’t bat an eye at finding a strange woman standing on his doorstep holding a stolen painting. She didn’t know what the heck that said about the kind of life he led; she figured she probably didn’t want to know.
“Sorry,” she said shortly, “I didn’t know where else to go. There were . . . people . . . waiting for me at my apartment when I got home. I hope you weren’t sleeping. Or, um, busy.” She tried not to blush. Some tough cop she was.
He shook his head. “Nope. I was just reading.” He gestured her into the apartment, only looking mildly startled at the cat. “I don’t sleep much, to be honest. And I told you, I don’t bring women here.”
Hmph. Donata thought about how private he was, and decided she wasn’t surprised. Elmyr the French bulldog came up and sniffed at her, whiffling a little at her companion, who gave a halfhearted hiss in response.
“Cut it out, Grim,” she said. “It’s late, and I’m too tired for this.” She put the cat down in front of the dog, figuring they might as well get it over with. “Grimalkin, meet Elmyr. He lives here, so try and be nice.” She bent down and spoke to the dog. “Elmyr, meet Grimalkin. He’s had a rough day, and he’s a Witch’s familiar, so he can kick your butt. Try and be nice.” The two animals glared at each other for a minute, then stalked off to sit on opposite sides of the room.
Peter stifled a laugh. “Well done. Do you do a lot of interspecies introductions?”
“You have no idea,” Donata said. After a slightly awkward pause, she added, “If you offered me a cup of tea, I wouldn’t say no.”
Peter blinked. “Oh, right, sorry. I’m not used to playing host.” He walked toward the kitchen area, but his attention was clearly focused on the package under her arm. “Is that the painting?”
“Yep,” she answered, figuring there was no point in making excuses about theft to the forger. “I, um, borrowed it, earlier. So you could take a look at it. But when I got back to my apartment, there were these guys from the Cabal there, and I couldn’t go in. So I came here instead.”
Peter peered at her closely from across the granite-topped counter. “You look dead on your feet, if you don’t mind me saying so. Why don’t you sit down and have your tea and tell me about these Cabal people. Sounds like the mob or something else decidedly unfriendly.” He put a beautiful oriental porcelain teapot and matching cups down on the counter in front of her, and pulled out one of the wrought-iron seats.
Donata blinked at it tiredly for a second before realizing he was holding it for her. “Oh, thanks.” She inhaled the floral aroma of the tea gratefully. “What is this? Jasmine?”
He nodded, pleased that she’d recognized it. “Can I look at the painting?” he asked eagerly. “I can listen at the same time.” He pulled the other stool over next to where she sat and poured himself a cup of tea.
“Sure,” Donata said, figuring she’d have to show it to him eventually anyway. That was why she’d stolen the damned thing, after all. “But be careful with it.” She started to pull away the wrappings gingerly. She’d tucked cardboard around it so she could safely tie it to the carry rack on her bike, then tucked the poor cat into one of her saddlebags with only his furry head sticking out. It was going to take a lot of treats to make up for that one. But at least they—and the painting—had made it here in one piece.
Peter looked offended. “Of course I’ll be careful with it,” he said, indignantly. “I’m a professional!”
Donata waved one hand in the air, leaving the other to hang on to the delicate teacup for dear life. “No, no, I wasn’t worried about you hurting the painting, Mr. Casaventi. It’s more the other way around.”
He gave her a curious look. “Call me Peter. We’re partners in crime now, after all.” The tiny lines around his eyes crinkled with amusement as she made a face. “And what the hell are you talking about?”
Donata swallowed a mouthful of too-hot tea and tried to make more sense. “The painting has a curse on it. At least that’s what the guy from the Alliance Council said.”
“The Council? They’re kind of like a parliament for Witches, right? Is that the same as the Cabal?” he asked, looking confused.
“Gods, no. Opposite sides. Good guys and bad guys.” She stopped and thought for a minute. “Well, the Council is mostly the good guys; I’m not a big fan, personally.”
Peter didn’t look any less befuddled, and she couldn’t really blame him. She was sure she could explain it a lot more clearly if she could just get a couple of hours of sleep. She’d barely slept for two days now, and it was really catching up with her.
“So you had visits tonight from both the Council and this Cabal?” Peter said. “You have had a busy night.”
Donata gave a halfhearted laugh. “You don’t know the half of it. I’ve been working magic on and off all day.” She swigged more tea. “That can really take it out of a girl.”
Her accommodating host poured additional steaming ambrosia into her cup. “So tell me more about this curse.” He peeled away the rest of the paper wrapped around the painting so it lay exposed on the counter between them. “It looks okay to me.”
Donata poked at it gingerly with one fingertip. “Well, I handled it before, and it didn’t do anything to me except give me the tingles and a weird-ass vision. But Clement Moore, the guy from the Alliance Council, he said there’s supposed to be some sort of curse on the thing, to prevent tampering by Paranormals.”
“What’s this black blotch?” he asked, examining it through the glass. “It doesn’t seem to be paint. Was it done during the robbery? I remember seeing it in the photo you showed me, but I thought it was just a spot on the photo itself. I can’t believe someone did this to a painting.” He looked indignant at the thought of someone purposely marring a work of art.
“No, that was there already,” Donata said. “In fact, it was part of what I wanted you to work on—hey, watch it!” She knocked his hand away as he rubbed one finger gently across the surface of the black material. “As far as I can tell, the curse only gets activated if you try to make some kind of change to the painting, but let’s just take it slow and careful, okay?”
Peter gave her a curious look, but withdrew the offending digit. “You really believe in this curse, Officer Santori? And why would it be a problem for me? I’m a boring old Human.”
“Donata,” she corrected absently. “Partners in crime, and all that. And I’m not sure what I believe, exactly, other than you’re anything but boring, and you never know who exactly is in your family tree. But I can tell you there is something odd about this painting.” She pointed at the lower right-hand corner. “See that spot?”
“What spot?” Peter asked. “I don’t see anything.”
“Exactly,” she said. “When I first saw that painting, Clive Farmingham had cleared away a small piece of the top painting and revealed the—what did you call it?”
“Pentimento.”
“Right. The pentimento underneath.” She swallowed the last of her tea. “But when I got it out of the lockup tonight, I noticed that the empty section had filled itself back in again. I don’t know if that’s part of the curse or not, but it’s pretty freaky.”
Veiled Magic Page 9
