“Is something wrong, Matthew?” Magnus asked.
The monk sighed. “Both books refer to ‘quod magnum arcanum’ or ‘quis magna tenebra est.’ It means something like ‘the great secret,’ or ‘that which is a great concealment.’” He used an ink-stained finger as a pointer. “Here it says”—he paused to translate the Latin into English—”‘It was decided by those in power’—they mean within the Church, of course, not secular power—‘that it was necessary to hide all knowledge of these creatures. The little ones can be controlled, the great ones only rendered invisible to the eyes of man, so as not to compete with the grandeur that is the Lord our God and His blessed Church.’”
Donata started to gnaw on her finger again and bit into her cookie instead. She chewed thoughtfully for a minute as they all digested the last bit of information.
“So the Church somehow hid the existence of the sixth race? How could that be possible? I mean, to hide an entire race?” She shook her head, inadvertently spraying crumbs on Peter’s arm.
He brushed them off absently. “How could they even do that without the cooperation of the Paranormal races?”
Magnus and Donata looked at each other bleakly.
“They couldn’t,” Magnus stated with assurance. “It must have been part of the Compact. A part none of us has ever heard about.”
Donata’s stomach roiled, making her wish she’d left the cookies where they were. She put the unfinished one in her hand down on the edge of the table. Every time she thought she’d gotten a grip on the situation, it just got bigger and more out of control. Now they were dealing with some huge cover-up by both the Church and the Alliance Council? Great goddess, she was in over her head.
Too late to worry about that now, though. She turned to the sweet-faced friar.
“I don’t like it any better than you do, Matthew,” she said, as gently as she could. “But I think it’s too late for us to walk away from this now. Maybe it is time for the truth to come out.”
“I hope you are right, my child,” Matthew said. “For once it is out, there will be no going back.”
He took a deep breath and clasped the simple cross hanging down the front of his cassock. All the Paranormals took an involuntary step back from the table.
“Don’t you need some special equipment or something?” Donata asked, startled.
The little monk laughed, not unkindly. “Not at all, my dear. Faith comes from the heart, not from candles or incense or any sort of worldly tools.” He favored them all with another of his beatific smiles. “The solution to the curse is really quite simple when you know how it is done. And have the proper faith, of course.”
He bowed his head over the painting and began to pray in Latin. Donata didn’t understand most of the words, but she thought he might have been reciting one of the psalms. Using a trick that sometimes worked when dealing with Paranormal energies, she took another step backward and unfocused her eyes slightly. Just as she’d thought.
Both Friar Matthew and the Pentimento glowed as he prayed—not much, but enough to signify the exchange of power on a non-standard level. Donata rather thought she was witnessing magic, Church-style. Although she knew better than to voice that thought aloud.
After a few minutes, the glow faded, and a moment or two after that, Matthew fell silent. Donata wasn’t sure if he was resting or asking for forgiveness. Either way, she didn’t want to disturb him.
Peter, however, lacked any such compunction.
“Is that it?” he asked in surprise. “Didn’t it work?”
“Of course it did,” Friar Matthew said, a touch of asperity in his usually patient tone. “See for yourself.”
He gestured at the tools on his worktable, and Peter stepped forward and took up a small scraper. He applied it gingerly to the very edge of the painting, smoothing away a miniscule flake of pigment. When nothing happened, he removed a tiny spot over the piece of the painting that represented the Witch race.
Donata held her breath.
“Hey!” Peter exclaimed, peering at his hand closely. “No blisters!”
Matthew looked just the tiniest bit smug. “There you are. Faith. I told you I could do it.”
Magnus clapped him on the back. “I’ve said it before, Friar, and I’ll say it again: you rock.”
The monk grinned widely. “I rather do, don’t I?”
Donata cleared her throat. “Not to interrupt the celebration, but what next? Do we just remove the black mark, reveal the secret race, and then uncover the information under each of the other races and erase it so it can’t be used against them?”
Both Peter and Friar Matthew looked aghast at her suggestion. They spoke at the same time, and the little friar gestured for Peter to explain.
“We can’t just rip into the painting, Donata,” he said. “For one thing, I need to make a copy, in case we have to give a phony picture to either the Cabal or the Council. I’d started making sketches back at the apartment, but they were left behind when we had to make a run for it, so I’ll have to start all over again. And since you want me to put the pictures back the way they were when I’m done—minus the dangerous information now hidden underneath—I have to be able to reproduce the original exactly.”
“Oh,” said Donata.
“More than that, my dear,” Friar Matthew put in, “but if you want to be able to see what lies underneath the black section, it has to be removed very, very carefully. Otherwise, Peter could damage the underlying layer so badly, you won’t be able to make out what was there.”
“Oh,” Donata repeated, suddenly grasping the magnitude of the job. “That sounds like it could take a long time.” She blinked rapidly, fighting back unexpected tears. Silly her—she’d thought they could take care of it all right away, hand over the painting to someone, and go home. Well, go somewhere, anyway, since she no longer had a home. The tears threatened to overflow, ruining her tough-girl image forever.
Friar Matthew came to her rescue, standing up and patting her gently on the arm.
“I’m afraid you may be here for a few days,” he said. “Even if your friend Peter is as good as Magnus says, it will take him that long to paint a copy, not to mention all the rest.”
He steered her back in the direction of the sofa at the front of the workroom.
“I think you have probably had a very trying week, with very little sleep. You are safe here.” He gestured out the window at the bucolic surroundings. “No one will disturb you or your friends. You should rest and regain your strength while Peter works on the painting.”
The friar handed her a snowy-white handkerchief from somewhere in the depths of his robe, and she dabbed at her eyes with it before handing it back.
“I wouldn’t mind a short nap,” she admitted, glad that Peter and Magnus were still across the room studying the now de-cursed picture. “I haven’t had more than a few hours, here and there.”
“Well, then,” the monk said. “You stretch out and get a few winks. I’ll be back with some dinner for you all after evening prayers. It won’t be anything fancy, but it will keep body and soul together for as long as you are here.”
“I don’t know how to thank you for all your help,” Donata said, clasping Matthew’s hand. “You’ve really been wonderful.”
The old friar shook his head. “You are welcome, my dear. I only hope you still think so when this is all over.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Three days later, Donata had had as much rest as she could stand, plus some.
There was very little for her to do, other than lend moral support as Peter and Friar Matthew worked on the painting. Peter divided his time between creating a copy of the Pentimento (when she’d asked him if he could possibly make two copies, he’d snapped, “Even I’m not that good,” and kicked her out of the work area) and trying to remove the black mark, which had proven to be more
stubborn than they’d expected. Peter worked well into the night every day, long after the little friar had gone back to his room in the main dormitory and the others were asleep in the small bedroom attached to the workshop.
The black splotch still persisted in growing back every time they removed a part of it, and Friar Matthew eventually decided, with some reluctance, that a Church-ordered artist must have added it later on. So now he was trying to find additional references to the “great concealment” in any of the many reference books in his studio and in the monastery library.
Magnus seemed content to laze around the workshop and read one of Friar Matthew’s eclectic collections of modern books, and occasionally put himself through a rigorous workout in the small grassy area out behind the building. Ricky tidied up and cared for the animals, on the rare occasions when he appeared at all. Their few pieces of clothing all got cleaned during the night, though, which was incredibly helpful.
Only Donata chafed at their voluntary confinement to the little workshop and the necessity to stay out of sight of the other monks. She wasn’t used to sitting still, that was for sure. By the end of the third day, she was tempted to sneak out at night to the monastery graveyard, just to find someone different to talk to.
Of course, the phone calls didn’t help her twitchiness. She’d had three from her mother and two from each of her sisters, complaining about having to be on guard all the time. Apparently the Cabal had made several attempts to snatch one or the other of them, although still with no success.
After the last attempt, Donata’s mother told her, the Alliance Council had called a secret meeting to discuss the situation. Escalating anger at the brazen pursuit of a major Council family had led to threats against the Cabal. It was apparently one thing for the Council to threaten to blackmail their own and a completely different thing for someone else to threaten their actual welfare. There was even talk of war. Celestina warned Donata that if the situation wasn’t resolved soon, there would likely be bloodshed, one way or the other.
Only her mother, Donata thought afterward, could make a second Inquisition sound like it was all Donata’s fault.
The call from the Chief, late on their first day at the monastery, didn’t go much better.
He said, “I suppose you know your apartment building burned to the ground.” She said something clever like, “Um, yeah, I saw it on the news.” He then countered with, “I suppose you know what you’re doing,” to which she answered, “Oh, I seriously doubt it.” There was a moment of silence, after which he’d added, “Just so you know, Santori, you’re running out of rope.” Then he’d hung up the phone.
She’d had to eat two extra cookies, just to get the taste of that conversation out of her mouth. They still smelled faintly of turpentine, but she was getting used to it.
They’d gotten a call from Peter’s father as well. He was phoning to check on their progress and let Peter know his mother was doing fine. She and the rest of Peter’s family were hiding out in a chalet in the Swiss Alps, where they were apparently painting their little hearts out and having a grand old time, or so Peter related grumpily.
Raphael also reported that he had contacted all the other full-blooded Dragons he could find, although there were fewer left than he had thought. Once he’d brought up the subject of the sixth race, all the Dragons discovered they had gaps in their memories. Not one of them could remember a single thing to do with a sixth Paranormal race, nor could they answer the nagging question of why the Minor Anemoi were called “minor.”
The Dragons were all furious—and an angry Dragon wasn’t a good thing for anyone. A whole bunch of angry Dragons was bad news indeed. As if they’d needed more of that.
According to Raphael, the Dragons insisted that the only way that all their memories could have been tampered with was with the knowledge and assistance of the Alliance Council itself, but when confronted, no one on the Council would admit to anything. The Dragon currently serving on the Council wouldn’t say whether or not his memory had been affected, and refused to discuss the matter any further.
Needless to say, this hadn’t gone over well with Raphael and his friends. There was even discussion of trying to get all the remaining Dragons to withdraw from the Alliance in protest, although Raphael wasn’t sure how likely it was that they’d ever get all the staunchly independent Dragons to agree on anything. He promised to get back to Peter if he heard anything more definitive on the issue.
Donata hoped he wouldn’t, and seriously contemplated throwing her phone out the window, rapidly followed by Peter’s. The only thing that prevented her from doing so was the fear that something horrible might happen and they wouldn’t hear about it until they finally emerged from the isolated world of the monastery.
* * *
After Friar Matthew brought them over some cheese, bread, and vegetables for dinner, he and Peter went back to working on the Pentimento. Bored half out of her mind, Donata followed Magnus outside when he went out for his exercise and asked him if she could spar with him.
He gave her his usual grin, dimples flashing. “So, you think getting the crap beaten out of you will ease the monotony, eh, ’Nata?” He backed up a few paces to make room and made a “bring it on” gesture with one hand.
She rolled her eyes at him and took her boots off, followed by her cotton button-front shirt. The black tank top and jeans this left her with were too cool now, but she knew from experience she’d be warm enough in a few minutes. Besides, it was the only decent shirt she had out of the few things Ricky had been able to grab as they fled Peter’s apartment; she didn’t want to risk it ripping while she sparred.
Still grinning, Magnus stripped down to his jeans. His bare chest rippled with muscle and a dusting of blond hairs; he looked more like a Viking than ever. Donata had a brief thought about a more private form of exercise, but shoved it out of her head. There was no way she was going to have sex in the woods with a Shapechanger in the midst of a monastery—no matter how juicy he looked standing there in the ebbing sunlight.
Instead, she flipped her long dark braid behind her back, planted her feet in a traditional beginning stance, and bowed politely in his direction. Then she dodged rapidly to the left as he ignored her gesture and raced toward her, shoulder bent into a ramming position.
Well, all right—so that’s the way we’re going to play it. You’re on. Donata could feel a matching smile split her face. It felt good to be moving again. And she and Magnus had always been good sparring partners. He was considerably larger, of course, and had been brought up in a warrior society. But Donata was fast and agile, and had spent years on strength and martial arts training. Over the course of their now-defunct relationship, they’d worked out together many times—and Magnus wasn’t always the winner.
Donata feinted a kick to his shoulder as he went by, then scooped down and knocked his legs out from underneath him instead. He hooted with laughter as he rolled back up to a standing position, and the sparring began in earnest.
Some time later, Donata wiped sweat off her face before it could drip into her eyes and noticed that they’d acquired an audience. Friar Matthew and Peter stood in amiable companionship at the back door, and Ricky watched openmouthed from a nearby window. Apparently Donata hadn’t been the only one who was starved for entertainment.
Magnus took advantage of her momentary distraction and caught her with a blow to the sternum that rocked her back on her heels and made it hard to breathe for a second. A worried look crossed his face, but she shook her head and resumed her place. A minute later, she managed to connect with a sideways kick to the gut, and it was his turn to grunt and gasp for air.
Peter applauded, and the Shapechanger grimaced, his natural competitive nature suddenly tweaked. He came at Donata with a flurry of blows that had her scrambling to get out of his way. They’d never sparred with an audience before, and it suddenly occurred to her that it might n
ot be such a good idea to do so now. His Ulfhednar instincts had always been under control when it was just the two of them—but moving from friendly exercise to battle in front of witnesses could easily change all that.
She tried to turn and gesture to Peter to go inside—or at least stop showing his support of her—but she was abruptly too driven to defend herself to have the chance. Over and over, Magnus came at her with strikes she just barely avoided, driving her back toward the trees behind the workshop. The wind whistling by her head as she ducked the last one told her he’d stopped pulling his punches. He was in Ulfhednar mode, fighting for real now.
Crap.
Perspiration drenched her tank top, and her braid slapped wetly against her sweaty back. Muscles cramped in her calves as she crouched, kicked, and rolled. She could smell the stink of her own fear over the resin of the trees behind her, and acid filled the back of her throat.
Over by the building, she could hear Peter and Friar Matthew muttering together in distressed tones, but she couldn’t spare the time or energy to look in their direction. All of her focus centered on the huge man in front of her as he wavered on the edge of going berserker. If he slipped over, she wasn’t at all sure she could bring him back to himself before he did some serious damage.
What to do? What to do? she thought furiously as she executed a leap she hadn’t known she’d had in her in order to dodge a savage kick aimed at her knee. How do you get a warrior to stop fighting? Before he kills you, that is.
Magnus’s eyes bored into her from across the clearing, a frightening reddish gleam visible around the iris as he prepared to make another run at her. He was barely sweating at all and looked like he could keep up this insane pace for another hour or two. Donata wasn’t sure she could make it through the next five minutes.
So she did the only thing she could think of—nothing. Throwing herself on the ground before he could attack again, she dropped to her knees and bared her throat in the classic submission pose. Then she prayed she’d guessed right and hadn’t just left herself open to a blow she couldn’t defend against.
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