Veiled Menace

by Deborah Blake

“However, you will be pleased to know that Peter and I have made remarkable progress. He has been able to remove most of the top layer of paint now that the curse has been eliminated, and we have uncovered almost all of what lay underneath the large black blotch that had been concealing the clues to the missing sixth Paranormal race.”

  Donata sat up so quickly that a pile of folders slid onto the floor, and the snow globe almost rolled off the desk to join them. She clutched it in suddenly slippery hands as she stared across the space at Raphael, then placed it carefully on the desk for safety’s sake.

  “You’re kidding! You know who the sixth race is? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that before!” You arrogant ass. She and Peter, who was a first-rate restorer and copyist (well, forger, really, but she tried not to think of his sideline in those terms, considering her job) had slaved for weeks to try and reveal the secrets the Pentimento hid before they were overtaken by those who pursued them.

  Raphael had the grace to look slightly abashed. “My dear Donata, I assure you, if I had the answer, I would have informed you.” The “in my own good time” went unspoken. “I merely have a number of clues we did not previously possess.” He gazed at her with deliberate calm. “That is why I need your help.”

  She let out a long breath. “I see. So it was fine to keep this to yourself until you got stuck. Now that you think I can help you, you come in here and tell me. Is that it?”

  He nodded his head, unperturbed by her anger. “Precisely. I believe I am close to an answer; something to do with the Minor Anemoi, perhaps, although I have still not been able to get an answer from the Council as to why they are referred to as ‘Minor.’” He scowled, silver eyebrows drawn together into a rigid line. “Or why none of the remaining Paranormal races, especially Dragons, can remember a sixth race at all.”

  This in particular had always been a sore point for him, since in theory the long-lived Dragon species never forgot anything. Raphael swore he could remember what he had for breakfast on March 2nd, 1803, so it should have been impossible for him—and every other Dragon he contacted—to be unable to recall an entire lost race.

  Donata didn’t give a crap about that. She could feel her back teeth grinding together as she spoke through tight lips.

  “So why come to me now?”

  “I have been unable to decode some of the symbols we uncovered, and it occurred to me that a Witch might have better luck—either through magic or perhaps by having a different frame of reference, should the answers have a nature-based origin.” Raphael seemed quite pleased with his rational line of reasoning, and completely unaware of Donata’s escalating ire. “Since you were already involved with the Pentimento, it made sense to contact you, rather than entrusting the secret to someone new.”

  “Huh,” she said. She was tempted. As much as she didn’t want to get drawn back into the dangerous world of the Pentimento (and seeing Peter again would be tricky, since apparently she was the only one with unresolved feelings), she was intrigued by the possibility of finally exposing the painting’s long-hidden secret.

  After all, she’d been told by the museum’s restorer, Clive Farmingham, that the fate of the world might depend on uncovering the identity of the mysterious sixth race. Not that she believed such a thing, of course. At least not during the daylight hours.

  As she debated with herself, a thought occurred to her. She gazed at Raphael through narrowed eyes.

  “I’m curious,” she said, tapping her fingers on the desk in front of her. “Why did you come talk to me, instead of sending Peter? After all, you had to know there was a much better chance I would say yes to him.” The back of her neck itched with suspicion. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Raphael gave a sigh and shook his head. “Is it really necessary to get into this?”

  In other words, she wasn’t going to like his answer. Tough nuts.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Very well.” He pressed the pads of his fingertips together and pursed his lips as he tried to figure out the best way to say whatever it was he had to say. “You know how important Dragon children are to their parents, since they are so rare.”

  It was clearly a rhetorical question, so Donata just nodded.

  “And, of course, I missed the important formative years of Peter’s life, during which I was in hibernation and unaware of his existence,” Raphael continued. “Which makes my guidance even more crucial now.”

  He looked her with cool appraisal but she kept her expression neutral. Where was he going with this, anyway?

  “You are a capable young woman, and I was quite impressed with the way you handled yourself during the confrontation at the monastery.” He gave her a wintery smile. “I thought that threatening to arrest all of the remaining Cabal and Council forces after the battle was a very nice touch, by the way. Especially since they had us outnumbered.”

  Donata fought not to roll her eyes. Dragons took forever to get to a point, and she was fast running out of patience.

  She waved a hand at him in a “get on with it” gesture. “Thank you. I was somewhat peeved at the time, since a man I admired greatly had just died due to their interference. As you recall, I also considered shooting them all.” She fingered her department-issue shoulder holster suggestively.

  Raphael surprised her by giving a brief hiccup of a laugh. “Indeed. It was one of the highlights of my very long life.” A look of appreciation crossed his face for a moment, only to be replaced by a frown. “But none of that changes the facts: you are a Witch. A Witch from a very respectable family, but a Witch nonetheless. And Dragon blood is diluted enough as it is. You are not a suitable match for my son.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Donata asked, baffled. “We never even dated.” They’d been too busy running for their lives, for one thing. And there’d been Magnus, for another.

  “But you were attracted to each other; that much was clear, even in my limited time with you,” Raphael said. “I did not wish to risk the two of you becoming involved.”

  Donata stared at him and spoke slowly through gritted teeth. “What did you do, Raphael?”

  His eyes slid away from hers. “I may have told Peter that you were involved with Magnus Torvald. Seriously involved.” He cleared his throat. “Living with him, actually.”

  Donata gripped the edge of her desk until her knuckles turned white. “You told Peter what?” She stood up, still holding onto the wooden surface in front of her as if it was her only connection to reality. “But I haven’t even seen Magnus since that day at the monastery. Hell, I haven’t even talked to him on the phone!”

  She glared at the Dragon. “Is that why Peter never called me? Because he thought I was with Magnus?” Her head pounded so hard she thought it would burst. “You arrogant, manipulative, ungrateful son of a bitch!” She drew a deep breath. “And you have the nerve to come asking me for help?”

  He seemed unperturbed by her outburst. “This matter is more important than your bruised feelings, Donata. The entire Paranormal world could be at stake.”

  She pointed a shaking finger at the door. “Get the hell out of my office, Raphael. Right now.”

  He stood up and walked slowly to the door. Opening it, he said, “I really wish you would reconsider, Donata. There is no need to make this personal.”

  Donata closed her hand around the snow globe. “On the contrary, Raphael, when you tell lies about me, I take it very personally. Now. Get. Out. Of. My. Office.”

  He turned back to make one more appeal (no doubt to a better nature she wasn’t very much in touch with at the moment) and she lobbed the snow globe at his head. He ducked and the projectile shattered against the door frame next to his right shoulder, showering him with shards of glass and glitter-filled water. The tiny dragon figurine inside fell to the floor and broke into pieces that lay on the floor in silent admonition.
/>   Chapter Eight

  Donata walked into the bar where she and Doc Havens occasionally hung out and peered across the dim room, trying to find her friend in the stygian darkness that Gary, the owner, considered “ambiance.”

  Benders was one of those rare places that catered equally to Witches and Humans; the name was a play on words, since Gary was a Witch who occasionally entertained his patrons by bending spoons and other cutlery using only his mind. The rest of the time he hung out behind the bar, mixing drinks and chatting up women of both species.

  She finally spotted Doc at a tiny corner table, dressed in a miniskirt and low-cut top. Doc didn’t believe in hiding her considerable assets under a bushel.

  In contrast, Donata was dressed in her usual black jeans, black tee, and black leather jacket. She’d stopped at her apartment after work just long enough to change out of her work clothes, drop off her gun, feed Grimalkin, and tell Ricky she was going out for the evening. She was afraid if she stayed home, she’d explode.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” Doc asked as Donata approached the table and slid into the seat with the beer in front of it. “I usually have to drag you out. It’s not like you to call me up and ask me to meet you here.” Doc lifted her glass of wine in salute. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  Donata took a long swig of her dark ale and looked across the scarred and battered surface at her best (and only) friend. “Rough day.”

  Doc’s sweet face creased in sympathy. “Bad case? The Chief on your butt again?”

  Donata shook her head. “Worse.” She gulped some more beer, setting the bottle back down with a thud. “Do you remember me mentioning Peter’s father, Raphael?”

  The coroner furrowed her brow in thought. “Dragon, gorgeous, ancient, powerful, arrogant as hell?”

  “Yup, that’s the one,” Donata said. “He showed up at my office today.”

  Doc perked up. ‘Really? Why? Was Peter with him? That must have been awkward.”

  Donata tried not to growl at her well-meaning friend. She wasn’t in the mood for sympathy.

  “No. No Peter,” she said. “But Raphael told me—” She lowered her voice and glanced around to make sure no one was paying any attention to their conversation. “He told me he has that painting.”

  Doc’s eyes widened.

  Donata went on. “And he wants my help with it. Oh, and by the way, he told Peter I was living with Magnus, which is why Peter never called me, and now Peter is dating some more suitable Dragon chick.” She took a breath and another pull on her beer.

  “I didn’t think I should go home and drink alone,” she added. “Especially since I already had a hissy fit and broke something.”

  Doc opened and closed her mouth for a minute like a beached fish before she managed to say anything coherent.

  “Wow,” she said finally. “You never lose your temper.” She gave her friend a considering look. “What did you break?”

  Donata kept her eyes on a small crescent-shaped stain on the table before her. “I threw that snow globe you gave me at him.” She sighed. It wasn’t as if she had that many people who gave her gifts. “I’m really sorry.”

  Silence.

  She eventually looked across the table at Doc, who grinned back at her.

  “Just tell me you hit him,” Doc said.

  Donata shook her head. “Nope. But I think I got glitter on his really fancy suit.”

  Doc let out an exuberant laugh and high-fived her. “All right, then. It was worth it.”

  Donata smiled. This was one of the reasons she loved Doc; the woman always made her feel better, no matter what the issue was.

  Doc rose to her feet in four-inch stilettos. “I’ll be right back,” she said, moving in the direction of the bar.

  “Wait, where are you going?” Donata asked. They both still had half their drinks in front of them.

  Doc grinned. “Are you serious? This is major—way too big a deal to cope with by drinking beer or wine. I’m going to get us a couple of Gary’s specials.”

  She sashayed her way over to where the owner was manning the bar, and Donata watched with envious admiration as her friend said something that made Gary laugh and blush beet red. There was no denying it; the petite blonde definitely had a way with men.

  Doc came back bearing two tall drinks with multicolored levels of various fluids. They were the specialty of the house, something Gary called a “Bend Me Over.” Made from vodka, rum, triple sec, and blood orange juice, they were as pretty as they were potent. Gary said that they were a kind of alchemy: once you drank one, your troubles magically disappeared.

  Doc plopped the drinks down and reclaimed her seat, ignoring the many interested male gazes that had followed her progress back to the table.

  “Here you go, kiddo,” she said. “Drink up. If ever anyone deserved a magical drink, it’s you.”

  Donata took a too-large sip and winced as the strong liquor hit her stomach. Then she took another one. “Thanks, Doc. I needed that.”

  “Consider it medicinal,” Doc said with a grin. Then she gave Donata an assessing look. “So, are you going to help him?”

  “Are you serious?” Donata asked. “I told you what he did. Why would I help him?” She swigged some more of her Bend Me Over, and added, “Asshat.”

  Doc raised one eyebrow questioningly.

  “Not you,” Donata added, putting her glass down. “Him. Raphael.”

  “Ah,” Doc said. “It certainly sounds like he is one. An asshat, I mean. But Donata, from what you told me, it sounded like the Penti—” She stopped short as Donata glared at her in warning. “Sorry. Um, the painting. It sounded like the painting was really important. Shouldn’t you try and help him uncover its secrets?”

  Doc paused, and then added, “Even though he’s an asshat.”

  Donata shook her head. “Hey, as long as neither the Cabal nor the Council knows he’s got the thing, it ought to be safe enough. He’s so sure he’s got all the answers, let him figure it out for himself.” She took another sip; a smaller one this time. The damned thing was already making her brain buzz.

  “What about the sixth race?” Doc asked, her voice low against the backdrop of bar noises.

  Donata shrugged. “Maybe Clive was wrong. Maybe they’re not the threat he said they were. Hell, maybe they don’t exist at all. After all, nobody remembers them. Not even the damned Dragons.” She scowled at the thought.

  “And hey, if you’ll recall, the last time I got involved with that freaking painting, someone I liked died, my family was threatened, and I almost lost my job. I’d just as soon stay out of it, thanks.” She glared across the table in the dim light.

  Doc held up a hand to stop the tirade. “I’m not arguing with you, hon. I’m just saying you might not have a choice.”

  Donata gave her friend a weak smile, trying to let go of the knot of anger churning in her belly. “Sure I do, Doc.” She raised her glass in a mock-toast. “I choose to have another drink.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Ghouls,” Donata said decisively, trying to breathe through her mouth so the smell in the alley didn’t make her throw up in front of her boss. That third Bend Me Over last night had definitely been a mistake.

  “Are you sure?” the Chief asked. He gazed dubiously around at the ten or so bodies lying in a variety of uncomfortable-looking positions.

  Of course, their positions didn’t matter, since they were dead. The survivors of the spontaneous gang war had already been carted off in ambulances. The remaining emergency vehicles had flashing lights but no sirens; any need for urgency here was long over. Uniformed police officers took notes, mapped out the location of the bodies, or bagged evidence.

  Donata and the Chief stood off to one side, watching the others work. He had called her in because something about the unexpected eruption of hostilities bothere
d his cop’s instincts, but he didn’t look as though he was buying her theory.

  “What makes you think it was Ghouls, Santori?” he asked. “I thought you told me they were harmless. Like the Fae.”

  She shrugged, and then swallowed hard as the careless motion made her stomach roil. “Usually harmless, I said. Most Paranormals are usually harmless. Ghouls survive on Human misery; they eat it up like you and I eat pizza.” Ugh. She shouldn’t have mentioned pizza. “Before the Compact, they were known to cause conflict and upheaval, just to harvest the results. But these days they mostly just hang out in bars and hospitals and jails and absorb the free vibes. Not pleasant, but not a problem, either.”

  The Chief glanced around at the carnage. “Then what makes you think they’re responsible for this mess? The folks who live around here say the two different gangs just went crazy and lit into each other. How would a Ghoul do that? Hell, why would a Ghoul do that?”

  Donata tried not to look directly at any of the bodies; fifteen years in the basement didn’t do much to prepare you for multiple gunshot wounds and a stabbing victim whose head was barely attached to his neck.

  “Why is easy—this would be like an all-you-can-eat buffet to them. The how is a little tougher.” She followed his gaze reluctantly. “Nobody knows exactly how Ghoul powers work, but the theory they taught us in Witch school was that the Ghouls somehow get into the minds of their victims, inciting them to violence and aggressive behavior.” They both eyed the two distinctive sets of gang colors. “I’m guessing with groups like these, that wouldn’t have been that hard. The Ghouls would have just stood out of the way, and blended in with the innocent bystanders with that gray camouflage they have.”

  The Chief’s jaw had a stubborn set as he scowled down at Donata. “I still don’t understand what makes you so certain it was Ghouls, and not something—or somebody—else.”

  Donata pinched her nostrils together with the hand not holding her notebook. “Can’t you smell that?”

  He looked at her like she was crazy. “We’re in a damned alley, Santori. It’s not supposed to smell like roses.” He crossed his beefy arms across his chest; the man might be close to retirement age and spend much of his days behind a desk, but he hadn’t let himself go like some of the older cops at the precinct did.