Veiled Magic

by Deborah Blake

  “Let me guess: a Dragon trait.” He grinned, like the light coming out after a dark and stormy night.

  “’Fraid so,” she said. “So, now what?”

  Peter pulled the book out of his jacket pocket and put it down on the table between them. Its brown leather cover was worn and stained, and it smelled of dust and the passage of time. In truth, it didn’t look all that special.

  “I guess we’d better see what this thing says, since we went to so much trouble to get it,” he said matter-of-factly. He pushed it in Donata’s direction. “It’s your puzzle. Go for it.”

  She picked it up gingerly and carefully cracked open its spine. Tiny flakes of paper floated in the plane’s recycled air, and Peter suppressed a wince.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I know it’s old.” She looked down at the first page and swore loudly and profligately.

  Peter raised an eyebrow, impressed.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Don’t tell me it’s in some secret code.”

  “Worse,” Donata growled. “It’s in Latin.” She put the book down with a less-than-gentle thud. “Freaking Latin.”

  Peter let out a genuine belly laugh, and Donata glared at him.

  “What? You think that’s funny?”

  He tried to stop, without much success. “Latin isn’t all that amusing. The look on your face, however . . .” He snorted and picked up the book.

  “So you didn’t have to study Latin in Witch school?” he asked, half seriously.

  If anything, Donata’s scowl grew deeper. “Healers and professional spell-casters study Latin,” she said. “I talk to the dead. The recently dead. Latin wouldn’t do me much good, so it wasn’t part of my training.” Under her breath, she muttered, “My sisters can read Latin. I suppose I can ask one of them to translate it for me.”

  Peter smiled. “Don’t worry—it won’t come to that. I can translate it myself.”

  Her gaze shot to his face in surprise. “You know Latin?”

  “I don’t know why you’re so shocked,” he said mockingly. “It’s part of a classical copyist’s education.”

  “Copyist my ass,” she snorted. “So where did you learn Latin—Fagan’s School for Forgers?”

  “Yale, actually,” he said with a perfectly straight face. “The family has a large endowment there.”

  Of course they did. Donata waved a hand at the book. “Well, what does it say, then? Is there anything about the Pentacle Pentimentos and how to remove the curse?”

  “Give me a minute, will you?” Peter bent his head over the book, allowing her a chance to study him while he studied it. She hoped he was learning more than she was.

  He flipped lightly through the first few pages, then raised his head, glancing from her to the book, then back again.

  “It looks like this was written by a Dominican monk, sometime during the earlier years of the Inquisition.” He made a face. “His handwriting is atrocious.”

  “Does it mention the painting?” Donata asked with ill-concealed impatience.

  “Not yet,” Peter replied. “It looks like a journal of sorts. Mostly a kind of running diary-slash-confessional. So far, the worst thing he has to admit to is taking a second helping of bread at dinner.” He bent his dark head back over the book. “Let me see if there is any mention of the Pentimento later on.” He pulled out a pad and pen, and started jotting down a few notes.

  Donata resigned herself to a long wait. But about twenty minutes later, Peter let out a cry of triumph.

  “Did you find something?” she asked, eagerly.

  “I think so,” he said. “He says, ‘Hodie nos utor a novus beneficium pro Deus.’”

  “Which means? Non–Latin speaker here, remember?”

  “Ah, something like ‘Today we use a new gift for God,’” Peter translated. “Wait, there’s more, a few pages later. ‘Is est tantum pro putus of pectus pectoris quod phasmatis.’ ‘It is only for the pure of heart and spirit.’”

  Donata looked aghast. “Does that mean we have to find someone who is pure of heart and spirit to take off the curse?” She shook her head. “I don’t think I know anybody who answers to that description.”

  Peter chuckled. “Hey, don’t look at me. I haven’t been pure since, well—never mind.”

  She looked at him curiously, but decided it was better for both of them if she didn’t pursue that line of thought. “Is there anything else that would help us? Because I’m thinking that right now, our best bet is a four-year-old. And I don’t really want to borrow anyone’s kid to test this out.”

  Peter put one finger between the pages to mark his place. “Well, remember that no one with Paranormal blood can use a Pentacle Pentimento, so the user has to be a Human, for starters.” He looked down at the page again. “Here he refers to warriors for God: ‘proeliator pro Deus.’ I think that means the only ones who can use the painting without being affected by the curse are holy warriors. That would explain the whole ‘pure of spirit’ thing.”

  Donata made a face. “Great. So we have to find someone who isn’t a Paranormal but knows about them, who is also pure of heart and spirit. And who would be willing to help.”

  He whistled. “Sounds like a tall order.”

  “Hmmm . . . maybe not, if you know where to look . . .” Her voice trailed off as she thought.

  “And do you know where to look?” Peter asked, doubt clear in his tone, if not his words.

  “Not me,” she admitted. “But I might know someone who would. Do you remember me mentioning my friend Magnus?”

  Peter searched his memory of the conversations they’d had over the last few days. “Was he the Shapechanger who’d dropped out of Ulf training?”

  “Opted out, not dropped out,” Donata said fiercely. “He made a choice. A hard choice. And he’s been paying for it ever since. These days he’s not as averse to using his strength and natural talents as he used to be, but he still isn’t willing to risk becoming a berserker with no control over it either. Magnus gave up his entire world to be true to himself; that’s not an easy thing, you know.”

  “Whoa!” Peter held up one hand. “I didn’t mean to touch a nerve.” He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “You’re involved with this guy, aren’t you?” He didn’t seem too happy with this revelation.

  Donata shook her head. “No, I’m not. We had a brief affair, years ago, but it didn’t last.” She hesitated, and then went on. “You have to understand, Ulfhednar are pack creatures. When Magnus walked away from his old life, he built himself a new one, created a new extended family for himself, so to speak. They’re mostly people who are on the fringe, like him, not accepted by society, whether Human or Paranormal.” She paused, beset by an old ache. “Magnus is reasonably law-abiding, but many of his new pals exist in the gray zone, or are just out-and-out criminals. Our relationship couldn’t survive the strain, me on one side of the law, and too many of his buddies on the other. So we called it off. But we stayed friends.”

  Peter gave her a sympathetic look. “That’s too bad. But I don’t see how this Magnus can help us.”

  “He knows a lot of people, including many of the Humans who know about and accept Paranormals. It just occurred to me that he might know someone who fits our parameters.” She shrugged. “It’s worth a try, anyway. It isn’t as though we have a lot of other options.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know; I’m not happy about entrusting this big a secret to someone who hangs out with the discontented fringes of two cultures. Are you sure it’s safe?” His eyes darkened with remembered pain, obviously thinking of Antonio.

  Donata started to reach out, but stopped herself when he moved away. It was clear he didn’t want either her pity or her compassion.

  “Magnus has been helping me with odds and ends of things for work for a long time,” she said stiffly. “Mostly when something came u
p during a case that couldn’t be handled through normal police channels. He can keep a secret.”

  Peter raised one shoulder and dropped it. “Well, I suppose it’s your secret, really. It’s up to you.”

  Damn right it was—nice of him to remember that. Donata flipped open her cell phone and checked to make sure she had a signal. She punched in the numbers from memory.

  “Hey,” she said when Magnus picked up. “It’s me.”

  Peter scowled when something Magnus said on the other end made her laugh, and she stuck out her tongue across the plane aisle in response.

  “Look, Magnus, I could use your help on something. Can you meet me and a friend tonight? At the usual place?” She glanced at her watch and tried to calculate time changes in her head. “It might be late—ten o’clock okay? Great. See you then.”

  She closed the phone slowly, a pensive look on her face.

  “So, I take it we’re all set to meet your pal Magnus?” Peter asked. He didn’t look thrilled by the prospect.

  “Yup,” she answered. “He’ll meet us at Gordo’s—do you know it? It isn’t that far from where you live.”

  Peter nodded. “Small? Dark? Good Hungarian food?”

  “That’s the one.” She laughed. “At least you’ll get to eat.” That perked him up.

  He went back to translating the book, and Donata thumbed through a magazine she’d picked up at the airport shop, along with Ricky’s promised treat. A burst of turbulence rocked the plane, but she hardly noticed. If anything, it seemed fitting, considering the turbulence that had hit her life lately.

  A wry smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Now, on top of everything else, she would be having dinner with a half-Dragon forger and a disgraced Shapechanger. Both of them sexier than all get-out. Her life might not be as rock-steady as it used to be, but it was sure as hell more interesting.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gordo’s was dimly lit, mostly by candles and hanging lamps adorned with red-tasseled shades. Between the many tiny tables crowded close together and the fabric-draped walls, you had the feeling of being in a small gypsy caravan. With about fifty of your closest friends.

  But the smells were heavenly, a mixture of paprika and sautéed onions, and various types of roasting meat. Donata cheered up as soon as they walked in the door. She loved Gordo’s. Of course, she hadn’t gotten back here much since she and Magnus had split, since it had been his hangout first. But she was happy for an excuse to return, no matter what the circumstances.

  Across the room, Magnus waved at them from his favorite corner table. Huge and blond, he looked like a modern-day Viking. His hair was about shoulder length and pulled back with a leather thong, and his broad shoulders strained at his blue denim work shirt.

  His expansive smile turned to into a frown when he saw Peter accompanying her, but he greeted her with his usual bone-cracking hug anyway. Donata winced as he jostled a couple of the sore spots left over from the fight in Rome.

  “Hey, babe,” Magnus said, grinning at her gleefully, “nice to see you.” He eyed Peter. “Who’s your friend?” As he spoke, he pulled a chair out for Donata to sit in and waved a waiter over.

  “Magnus Torvald, meet Peter Casaventi. Peter is assisting me with a, um . . . case I’m working on.” Donata sat down between the two men. “We’d really appreciate your help on this one. It’s important. Really important.”

  The two men shook hands. They both clasped the other’s hand hard enough to make their knuckles turn white, and Donata could hear their bones creak from the strain. She rolled her eyes. Men.

  Magnus raised his eyebrows. “Sounds serious. You know I’ll help if I can.” He looked at her closely. “Have you been in a fight, ’Nata?”

  “You know I hate that nickname,” Donata said automatically. She’d tried calling him “Mag” for a while in retribution, but unfortunately, he’d kind of enjoyed it. “And you should see the other guy.”

  Peter chuckled. “Seriously. She kicked ass. If that one guy hadn’t pulled a gun, I think she could have taken them all.” He gave a small, modest smile. “With a little help from me, of course.”

  Magnus glared at him. “You were there? If you were so damn helpful, then why does she have that big bruise on her cheek?”

  Damn. She’d really hoped her makeup had covered that up. “Actually—” she started to say.

  “Well, there were six of them and only two of us, for starters,” Peter snapped back. “And I’d already taken care of two of them when Donata ran into trouble.”

  “I wouldn’t call having someone pull a gun on her ‘running into trouble,’” Magnus said, a little louder than before. “You could have gotten her killed!”

  “Well, actually—” Donata tried again.

  Peter leaned over the table, his face close to the other man’s. “On the contrary,” he said. “I saved her life. Not that anyone is counting.”

  Donata dug her fingernails into her palms. A girl could die from testosterone poisoning just from breathing the damned air at this table.

  “Maybe if you hadn’t dragged her into trouble in the first place—”

  Donata interrupted Magnus’s rant by gesturing at the waiter standing silently by with his mouth hanging open. She turned to him and said, “Three orders of goulash, please, no tomatoes. And three beers. Anything in a bottle. Thank you.”

  She waited until the waiter left, then turned to Magnus. In a low, furious voice, she said, “First of all, let’s not air our dirty laundry in front of the waitstaff, if you don’t mind. When I said important, I meant important like, ‘really secret, really dangerous’ kind of important.”

  Magnus started to speak, and she held up her right hand. “Second, I dragged him into trouble, not the other way around. And he did save my life—took a bullet that had my name on it, to be specific.”

  Peter looked smug and began to say something that might just have been “I told you so,” but Donata held up her left hand and glared at them both.

  “Third, there is a lot riding on this, and we don’t have time for your stupid alpha-male posturing.” She put her hands down, but gave them equal shares of her best evil-eye look. “I freaking mean it. I realize that Ulfhednar and Dragons traditionally don’t get along, but I need you both to solve this damn thing, and there is too much at stake for you to screw it up with a lot of chest beating and mine-is-bigger-than-yours-manship. So cut it the hell out.”

  The waiter banged three beers down on the table and beat a hasty retreat. For a moment, silence reigned.

  Then Magnus spoke to Peter. “She’s pretty cute when she’s riled, isn’t she?”

  Peter shrugged and toasted his rival with his drink. “Sure. If you like that kind of thing.”

  Donata sighed and debated pouring their beers over their heads. But then the poor waiter would have to clean it up, and that hardly seemed fair. So she settled for kicking them both under the table. One at a time. Hard.

  “Ow.”

  “What he said. Ow.”

  “Fine,” Donata said. “Are you done now?”

  Magnus broke into laughter. “I have missed you, babe.” He looked across the table at Peter. “A Dragon, huh?”

  “Half, apparently,” Peter said glumly. “I just found out, though, so don’t expect me to know the rules.”

  “Ah, family issues?” Magnus lifted his beer bottle in a mocking salute. “I’ll drink to that.” Then a serious look settled on his face.

  “So what’s this all about, Donata? Your job can get you involved in some pretty strange shit, but as far as I know, none of it has ever gotten you shot at before.” He pulled his chair a little closer to the table and spoke in a softer voice. “What in the name of all that’s holy have you gotten yourself into?”

  Donata and Peter exchanged glances.

  “Funny you should put it that way, Magnus,”
Donata said. “Since ‘holy’ is why we came to you.”

  Magnus looked appalled. “I beg your pardon?”

  She snickered. “Not you, you doofus. Nobody who has ever met you would mistake you for a holy man, I assure you.”

  Even Peter snorted at that one, then picked his head up in amazement as the waiter put three heaping platters of heavenly-smelling food down in front of them. “Oh, my god. Now that’s divine. I don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything this good in my entire life.” He stuck his fork in and started eating as if he hadn’t just had a huge meal two hours before.

  Magnus chuckled. “Gordo’s goulash has another convert.” He dived into his own plate, talking with his mouth full in his eagerness to share his enthusiasm for the food. Donata sighed to herself and ate a little more slowly, but with equal relish. She’d almost missed Gordo’s food more than she’d missed Magnus.

  “Gordo makes two different kinds of goulash: the true, traditional Hungarian kind, and a version with tomatoes and peppers, for Americans who don’t understand the difference.” He cast an affectionate look at Donata. “Of course, Donata hates tomatoes, so she’d order the traditional version even if it wasn’t better.” He grinned at her. “Your tomato aversion still driving your Italian mother crazy, ’Nata?”

  Peter scowled at this display of intimacy. “Look, we’ve been on a plane all day. And I haven’t slept since Monday.” He paused. “Or was it Sunday?” He pointed at Donata. “Anyway, why don’t you bring your Shapeshifter friend here up to speed so we can finish our food and get back to the animals. And see if Ricky has left anything standing in my apartment.”

  Magnus glowered back. “On a plane all day? Animals, plural? I thought Donata just had a cat. And who the hell is Ricky?”

  Donata raised her eyes to the ceiling and asked the goddess for patience. Of course, her matron goddess was Hecate, who was sometimes depicted wearing a necklace of testicles around her neck, so on second thought, maybe she wasn’t the right one to be calling on under the current circumstances. Or maybe she was.