Too bad that hadn’t been enough.
Donata brought the car to a gentle stop and turned the key. They staggered up to the front door, Magnus walking more or less under his own steam, despite Donata’s attempts to help. Once inside, she deposited him on the brown suede couch in the living room and went into the bathroom to get his mammoth first aid kit, a bowl of hot water, and some towels.
Coming back into the living room, Donata stopped for a moment, struck once again by the contrast between the cozy feel of the room, with its dark woods, warm fabrics, and overflowing bookshelves, and the prickly-strong exterior of the man who lived there. He leaned back on the sofa with his eyes closed, looking for all the world like a Viking who had somehow been magically transported forward in time to this incongruously pleasant modern setting.
She cleared her throat. “You okay?”
Magnus opened his eyes; the pain in them was only partially from his physical wounds, and Donata felt guilty as hell. She put the bowl of water down on top of the coffee table and gestured for him to remove his shredded shirt.
“Come on, hot stuff, I can’t fix you up if I can’t see what I’m working on,” she said with a hint of a smile. Seeing Magnus with his shirt off was never a hardship.
He gave her a strained smile back and shrugged out of what had once been a dark brown cotton shirt. It was a rag, now. Donata tried not to flinch when the full scope of his injuries revealed itself, although she probably didn’t look all that terrific herself at this point.
“Ouch,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to a hospital? That knife wound in your shoulder is going to need stitches.” And the rest of him displayed lesser cuts and bruises, with virtually no part of his upper body free of damage. Luckily, his lower half seemed to have escaped mostly intact. But that still left a lot of mangled body.
Magnus rolled his eyes. They’d had this conversation before too.
“Look, just patch me up. You know I’ll be healed up in a day or two.” He pulled the table a little closer to the couch so she could get at the tools easier, and yanked her down next to him. “Ulfhednar can take way more damage than the standard Human—or Witch—can.”
Donata sighed, but started cleaning up the worst of the blood with a damp towel. The bowl of water turned red almost immediately, as if someone had dumped in a batch of dye. She could feel the tension edging into the lines of her body; she was no healer like her sister and had to do most of Magnus’s “patching up” the old-fashioned way. It wasn’t going to be pleasant for either one of them.
“Ulfhednar heal faster, yes,” she rebutted, “but that doesn’t mean you’re impervious to pain, injury, or blood loss.” She inclined her head toward a scar that marked one of the places she’d pulled a bullet out of in the distant past.
He shrugged. “I’ll live. That’s all that matters.”
Donata gritted her teeth. It seemed like the longer he lived as an exile, the less he cared how and why he lived his life. She was afraid that in his efforts to stand by his beliefs, he was losing a little piece of himself every day, without even realizing it. The irony was that in an effort not to become a killer-for-hire, he’d had to resort to a lifestyle that often put him in the midst of violence. He argued that at least this way it was his choice and under his control, but to Donata, it often appeared to be a fine line.
She cleaned the slash that had opened his shoulder and prepared a needle and some surgical thread. But when she pulled out the syringe of topical anesthesia, Magnus held up a hand to stop her.
“Skip it,” he said, a grim look on his face. “Just go ahead and sew me up.”
Donata ignored him, holding the syringe upright and flicking her nail against the side to push any air bubbles to the tip. She was just going under the skin, not into a vein, so it shouldn’t really matter, but her training in first aid made it force of habit.
“Right,” she said, sliding the needle into the skin near the gash and injecting a little of the fluid into a couple of spots. “You think I’m going to work on you without giving you something for the pain, just because you want to punish yourself for almost giving in to your basic nature. Sorry, pal; I’m not playing that game.”
He tried to protest, but Donata paid no attention and just kept on talking as she slapped bandages on his other smaller wounds as she waited for the anesthesia to start working.
“Look—I get it, Magnus,” she said grimly. “I really do. You don’t want to be Ulf. I don’t blame you.” She put a final piece of tape over a dressing and picked up the threaded needle with a deep breath. She hated this part.
“But you have to admit that your gift has some purpose, if used correctly.” She bent her head over the wound and pierced the upper edges as gently as she could. Magnus sat unmoving, his lips white. “Let’s face it—if Peter and I had gone into that warehouse without you, we’d be dead now.”
Magnus made a noncommittal sound, not agreement, but not an argument either. So she continued with both her train of thought and her careful sewing job.
“I know you’re afraid of losing control, but isn’t that something the Ulf training would help you with?” She bit her lip in concentration, trying to make her stitches as small and even as possible. The wound would heal before the threads had finished dissolving as they were designed to do, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have a nasty scar if she did a bad job.
He gave a laugh that contained more bitterness than humor. “Donata, part of the Ulf training is actually directed at making you lose control so that the berserker power is maximized in the time of battle. It is designed to allow you to keep just enough conscious thought to be able to follow commands. Beyond that, the animal spirit an Ulf channels is allowed to take over.” He shook his head. “Once you become Ulf, a part of you is always more animal than human.”
She shook her head, but didn’t argue. After all, he knew the Ulfhednar way of life better than she did. And now probably wasn’t the time for this discussion, anyway.
“Well,” she said instead, “I’m just grateful you were with us.” She sighed as she knotted the thread and cut it off. “And I’m not exactly in a position to criticize. Look at the mess I’ve made of all our lives. I was just trying to prove to the Chief that I could be useful somewhere other than the damned basement. And now I’ve stolen evidence from the lockup, the Chief is on my case, the Cabal and the Council both want me to turn the painting over to them, my family is being harassed, and I got poor Peter, his mother, and you all caught up in an instant replay of the Paranormal wars.”
She cleaned up from her efforts and put her head in her hands. In a muffled voice, she added, “And I still have to call my mother and tell her we’re safe but I’m not handing the painting over to the Council right away.” She gave a strangled laugh that ended in a hiccup. “Hecate’s tits, I’ve really screwed everything up.”
Magnus chuckled. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” He slung his arm around her shoulders, ignoring the bandages when they got in the way. “We should start some sort of Paranormal misfits support group.”
Donata laughed back, turning her head into his strong shoulder. After the uncertainty of the last couple of days, it felt good to have something solid to lean against.
“We could call ourselves the Paranormal Pathetiques—has a nice Continental ring to it,” she said in a bad French accent.
He mussed up her hair. “I always did admire your ability to make bad jokes under any circumstances, ’Nata.”
She sat up and punched him lightly on the arm, avoiding any of the wounded bits. “My jokes are not bad,” she protested. “And how many times do I have to tell you not to call me by that stupid nickname?”
Magnus grinned at her. “Could be worse,” he said. “As I recall, there were a few other things I called you back in the day that you liked even less.”
Suddenly more serious,
he reached out a gentle finger to touch a bruise on her chin. “That looks like it hurts. Is there anything I should be patching up on you?”
Donata shrugged. “Honestly, I think you and Peter got the worst of it. I have some spots that are going to be pretty sore in the morning, but I came out of the fight fairly lightly.”
Magnus’s grin returned like the sun coming out on a cloudy day. “You did well in there. I saw you inflict some serious damage on a few of those guys.”
An uncontrollable smile stretched over her face. “We did kick some major Cabal butt, didn’t we?” They grinned at each other gleefully and did a high-five, full of post-battle adrenaline.
Donata pulled out her phone. “Well, that was fun, but I suppose I should get this over with.”
Magnus gave her a look full of sympathy, but didn’t say anything. He listened to her end of the brief conversation in silence, grimacing at the appropriate moments.
“Hello, Mother. Yes, it’s me. I’m just calling to tell you we got Peter’s mom out okay and to thank you for your help.” She gnawed on her lip.
“No, none of us are hurt too badly. No, I don’t think they followed us out . . . they were a little busy with the fire.”
High-pitched noises from the other end of the phone made Magnus fight back a smile.
“It’s a long story, Mother. I’ll tell you later. I need to go get some rest now. But please be careful. I know you and my sisters have extremely good magical defenses set up already, but these people have already proven they will go to any lengths to get what they want, so make sure you all are taking every precaution.”
More forceful comments from the receiver.
“Um, no, I’m not sure when I’ll be giving the Council the painting. I still need to— Yes, Mother, I know we agreed— No, I don’t mean I won’t do it—” Donata finally gave up and muttered a hasty good-bye, hanging up as quickly as possible afterward.
“Well, that went about the way I expected it to,” she said, tossing the phone down on the table next to the bloody towels. “Add one more person to the list of folks who are pissed off at me.” She sighed, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline high slipped away, leaving her feeling vulnerable and on the edge of tears.
“I am so not cut out for this kind of thing,” she said, leaning back on the sofa. “Maybe I should stick with the basement after all.”
Magnus pushed a stray piece of hair out of her face, sliding down next to her. “You’re doing fine, under the circumstances,” he said in a gentle voice. “You got in over your head, through no fault of your own. It happens, ’Nata.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Don’t worry—we’ll figure a way out of this mess somehow.”
She looked up into his clear blue eyes and saw strength, compassion, and a hint of something else she couldn’t quite identify. His smell surrounded her, all musky maleness, tinged with the smoke from the fire and the copper tang of blood. Oddly pleasant, despite the violent undertones.
“I’m still sorry I got you involved in this,” she said.
He moved his lips from her forehead to her cheek, then trailed them deftly down the side of her chin. “I’m not,” he said, voice husky. “I would never have forgiven you if you’d gone off and gotten yourself killed.”
Donata found her arms moving involuntarily to pull him closer. “I’m very much alive,” she said, her own tone lower than usual. “Thanks to you.” She tilted her head up to look him in the eye again. “Do you really think this is a good idea, though?”
Magnus laughed softly, brushing her lips with his own. “I’m not sure anything we’ve done all day has been a good idea—why change our approach now?” His mouth closed over hers with a hunger that belied the frivolous words.
Donata inhaled his scent and felt the scratch of his end-of-the-day stubble against her skin. In her heart, she knew that nothing could come of this momentary reunion—but after all the confusion and tension and violence, it felt good to do something positive, to feel something joyous and celebratory and comforting.
With a sigh, she gave in to the fervor of his kiss. His arms tightened around her shoulders, and an internal heat bloomed in all the right places. But even as the fire of their passions consumed her, a picture of Peter’s face flashed before her eyes.
Donata didn’t have as much experience with complicated interpersonal relationships as most people, but even she knew that wasn’t a good sign.
Chapter Twenty-three
Magnus and Donata lay curled up on the sofa together, covered by an afghan he’d pulled down over them after they’d finished. Donata cautiously checked his bandages, but amazingly, none of their recent activities seemed to have reopened any of his wounds. Ulfhednar really were tough.
She smiled to herself. They had other good qualities as well; at least the only one she’d ever known intimately did. All that suppressed animal nature could be quite valuable in non-battle circumstances too.
“What are you smirking about?” Magnus asked, a hint of smugness to his tone.
“As if you didn’t know,” she responded, biting him lightly on the shoulder that didn’t have a bandage covering three-quarters of its surface.
“We should probably take a shower,” he started to say. “If we didn’t stink enough after the fight and the fire, we probably do now—” Then the sound of Donata’s phone ringing interrupted him.
In unison, they both turned their heads to look at the cell phone where it sat on the coffee table next to the couch.
“Shit,” Donata said with feeling.
“Don’t answer it,” Magnus suggested. He kissed her distractingly. “We could go take that shower together . . . water conservation is a very important issue, you know.”
Donata sat up with a sigh, grabbing at the afghan as it slid off her shoulders. “It’s probably Peter, wondering where the hell I am. I told him I’d go back to his place as soon as I finished patching you up.” She looked at Magnus, silently begging him to understand, despite his and Peter’s territorial issues. “He’s probably worried.”
The Ulfhednar rolled his eyes, but reached over and handed Donata the phone. “Fine. But I’m going to go at least wash around the bandages.”
Donata answered the phone with half her attention, the other half absorbed by watching Magnus’s naked butt moving toward the living room door.
“Hello?” she said. “Peter?”
“You will pay for your interference, Witch whore,” a low voice said with coldly venomous anger.
Yeesh. Way to kill an afterglow, Donata thought, and said out loud, “This would be the Cabal, I assume?”
Magnus came to a halt halfway out of the room, swung around on one heel, and walked back to stand over the sofa. He cocked one eyebrow and mouthed, Problem?
Donata shrugged. Damned yeah there was a problem, but she didn’t see that it was any worse now than it had been before the phone rang. Except for the whole buzzkill thing, of course.
“Indeed,” the male voice hissed, “I represent the Cabal. And I am calling to tell you that you have gained nothing by stealing back the half-breed’s mother.” He paused to make sure he had her full attention. “We want that painting. And we will get that painting, if we have to go after every member of your family and every friend you have.”
Frustration and hatred oozed out of the phone, making Donata feel like she should hold it away from her ear. She resisted the temptation to argue with the man—clearly the matter was not up for discussion. But for once she was grateful that she didn’t really have any friends; they’d have a hard time finding anyone to fit the bill, present company sort of excluded. Hopefully her family was as good at defensive magic as her mother insisted they were.
“Look, whoever you are,” Donata said, “I’m not giving you the painting. In fact, I’ve already handed it over to the Alliance Council,” she lied. (Surely lying to the Cabal didn’t co
unt.) “If you want it so badly, you’ll have to talk to them about it.” So there.
“Oh, I sincerely doubt that,” the voice said with arrogant insurance. “Our sources inside the Council tell us that the Alliance is quite put out that you haven’t yet acceded to their demands for the picture.”
The Cabal had sources inside the Council? Surely he was bluffing. She hoped.
“I’m telling you, buddy, I gave them the Pentimento. You’d better go back and check your so-called sources; I think they’re giving you the runaround.” Donata thought frantically. “Are you sure they’re not really working for the other side? No honor among thieves, and all that, you know.”
There was silence for a moment on the other end of the phone, and Donata held her breath.
“You will gain nothing by these stall tactics,” the Cabal man said. “One way or the other, that painting belongs to us, the rightful heirs of the one true Catholic Church.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. One true blah, blah, blah. Damn, she hated fanatics.
“Right. Whatever. But I’m telling you, I don’t have it anymore. You’re being lied to.”
“Hmph,” the man said, unconvinced. “I am being lied to, almost certainly by you.” His voice dropped low, suddenly sounding even more threatening than it had to begin with. “And if I find that to be true, I assure you, you will regret it most deeply.” Click. Silence.
“Well,” Donata said with mock cheerfulness, “that went almost as well as my conversation with my mother.”
Magnus shook his head, looking serious. “More threats?”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “They’re nothing if not consistent.”
“‘A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,’” Magnus quoted.
“Ha! I’d much rather be dealing with hobgoblins, thanks,” she responded. “They at least know when to quit.”
Veiled Magic Page 20
