Veiled Magic (14 page)

“Mr. Moore, how nice to hear from you,” she said, violating her rule against lying. “Yes, I saw the lovely Cabal folks and decided to lay low for a while. I hadn't realized I was supposed to be reporting in.”
When hell freezes over.
“Don't worry; I'm still working on the situation.”

“Indeed, I should hope so,” Clement Moore said stiffly. “There are a great many people depending on you.” He paused, and then added not quite casually, “So, is Mr. Casaventi with you? He didn't show up at an expected engagement. You do remember I told you not to contact him?”

“Yes, he's here.”
And no, you are not the boss of me.

“And he is assisting you with your task?” Moore pushed. “Despite my instructions otherwise?”

Donata took a deep breath to keep from losing her temper. “Yes, Mr. Moore. Despite that. You gave me a task, and I'm fulfilling it the best I can. You're going to have to trust me on this.”

Moore made an indeterminate sound, obviously not satisfied by her answer. “And where exactly are you two right now?”

Donata had a moment's gratitude for cell phones. The Council obviously had no idea they'd left the city, let alone the country. “I'm around, Mr. Moore. And I'm working on the problem. That's really all you need to know.”
So there.

The man on the other end of the phone was less than pleased by her lack of cooperative spirit. “I'm not sure you are taking our interest in this matter seriously enough, Ms. Santori.”

No polite “Officer” now
, she noted.

“We are in a position to make life quite uncomfortable for you and those you care about. For instance, your sister Lucia works as a healer at the county hospital. I hear she's very good at her job. It would be a pity if budget cuts were to eliminate her position, don't you think?” Moore paused to let that sink in.

Donata's fingers curled tightly around the phone. It wasn't as though her sister needed the job—she and her husband were very well off, like the rest of the family. But Lucia loved her work as a healer; she'd made all kinds of connections at the hospital with patients and the other staff. If she lost her position because of something her scapegrace younger sister did, it would break her heart—and put another nail in the coffin of their already tenuous relationship.

Nor was it an idle threat. It wasn't common knowledge, of course, but the Alliance Council provided behind-the-scenes funding for many of the Paranormal positions. It was well within their abilities to create or dissolve a job like the one Donata's sister held.
Damn them.

She gritted her teeth and tried to stay polite. She wasn't going to give Moore the satisfaction of knowing he'd gotten to her with his not-so-subtle threats.

“I hear you, Mr. Moore. And believe me, I want to get this painting fixed and off my hands as soon as I possibly can.” She took a deep breath. “So why don't you let me get back to trying to do that. I promise I'll call you as soon as I have any news.”

Moore grunted. “Very well, Officer Santori. But remember that the Cabal is also interested in getting their hands on that painting. And they won't be nearly as nice about it as we are.” With that final shot, he hung up, leaving Donata listening to emptiness and her own racing thoughts.

“Council checking in on you?” Peter asked, making her jump.

“Yeah. Lovely people,” she said. “I'm so proud to be a part of their constituency.”

Peter handed her a glass of wine from the bottle they'd picked up at a neighborhood shop on their way in. “Here, maybe this will get some of the bad taste out of your mouth.” He poured another glass for himself into one of the cobalt goblets considerately provided by their temporary landlady.

Donata took a big swallow, then put the rest of the glass down reluctantly. “Shouldn't we be keeping our heads clear in case your friend Antonio calls us with news?”

Peter gave her a big grin and drank. “Nice to see that being part Dragon is good for something,” he said. He took the rest of the bottle back over to the couch and looked at her smugly. Donata was about to say something snarky in return when her phone rang again.

She looked at the number on the display and took another swig of wine, in complete disregard of her previous statement. Peter looked at her curiously.

“Uh, hi, Chief,” she said in a perky tone. “What's up?”

Peter could probably hear the Chief's thundering rumble from where he sat across the room.

“That's what I'd like to know, Donata,” the stern voice said.

Donata winced. “I, um, just took a couple of days off to deal with some family issues,” she said to her boss. “Is there a problem?”

“Damn right there's a problem,” he said. “You don't take a personal day in over five years, and I give you the opportunity of a lifetime and two days later you're just gone? What the hell is that?”

Peter made a face in sympathy as Donata bit her lip. He held up the wine bottle but she shook her head. She was pretty sure he could pour the whole thing down her throat and it wouldn't help at all.

“Look, Chief, I'm sorry I had to disappear on you,” she said. “I swear it was unavoidable, and I'll be back as soon as I can. Was there something in particular you needed me to work on right now?” She crossed her fingers and prayed there wasn't, since she really didn't want to have to explain the whole “I'm in Rome” thing.

He grumbled a negative. “That's not the point, Donata. I know you're up to something.”

She tried to sound less guilty than she felt. “What do you mean?”

“I was down at the morgue earlier, and Doc Havens told me you'd been asking questions about the DB from the museum. I have a clear memory of telling you to stay away from that case, Donata. I'd better not find out you're off on some lone-wolf investigation.”

Donata took a big gulp of her wine without thinking, and then tried not to choke on it. “No lone wolf.”
Not exactly, anyway.
After all, she was working with a forger and a Kobold now. “I just had a thought about the case and figured I'd run it by Doc. You know, tie up a few loose ends.”

“Leave the loose ends to the officer in charge of the case, Santori,” the Chief said. But he sounded a little calmer. “And by the way, did you know your neighbors reported a break-in at your apartment? The desk clerk that took the report passed it on to me, since you were out of the office.”

Crap. Someone must have seen the guys from the Cabal and called to report it.
Nice to know her neighbors were keeping an eye on the place—but their timing sucked.

“Uh, no, I didn't know that, Chief. I've been staying with a friend.” She made the mistake of glancing over at Peter, and he winked at her. She fought down a completely inappropriate laugh. “Was anything taken?”

“Not that the responding officer could tell,” her boss said. “Although he did mention that the apartment looked unusually bare.”

Double crap.
Now everyone at the station was going to know she couldn't decorate for shit. “That's okay, Chief,” she said. “It always looks that way.”

It finally occurred to her that he hadn't called just to ream her out; he'd actually been worried about her. She was touched, but their new relationship made her feel even more pressured to clean up this mess and get back to work. Before he gave up on her and decided to let her stay in the basement forever.

“I'm sorry to be a problem,” she said. “And I'll be back at the precinct in a day or two. Maybe three, if this family thing gets any more complicated.” She hoped against hope that it wouldn't take any longer than that. She wasn't sure how long
she could stall and get away with it.

The Chief grunted. “See that you are, Santori,” he said gruffly. “I'm giving you plenty of rope here. Make sure you don't hang yourself with it.” With that parting encouragement, he ended the call.

What was it with people hanging up on her tonight? Didn't any of them have mothers who taught them manners? Donata put her head down on the table. Then, after thinking about it, she lifted her head up, clicked the phone off, and put her head back down again. She wished she'd thought of that two phone calls ago.

“I take it the conversation didn't go well?” Peter's sympathetic voice said next to her ear. She heard the scrape of a chair as he came over to sit by her in the minuscule dining area. His glass clicked as he set it down.

“Not great,” she said, her voice muffled by her arms.

“Did he fire you?”

“Not yet,” she muttered. “Maybe next week.”

Peter rubbed her shoulders, and she could feel the tight muscles starting to relax. He might be a criminal, she thought, but he could be damned handy to have around. Then the phone rang again.

She picked her head up off the table. “I thought I shut that thing off!”

Peter gave her a conciliatory pat as he walked over to where his coat was hanging on a hook on the chintz-covered wall. “Sorry, this time it's mine. Maybe it's Antonio.”

Donata perked up. If Antonio had found a solution to the curse, they could go home, fix the painting, and her life could get back to normal. Or something resembling normal. She listened with interest to the side of the conversation she could hear.

“Ciao, Antonio,” Peter said, in the happy tone of voice he seemed to reserve for his old schoolmate. “Really? Already? That's great.” He grabbed a pad of paper and a pen and started to scribble down what looked like an address. “Sure, we can meet you there. When? Right away? Sure, no problem. See you in a few, then.” He hung up his phone and looked at what he'd written. A scowl replaced the grin.

“What's wrong?” Donata asked. “That was Antonio, right? Did he say whether he'd found something?” She couldn't understand why Peter didn't look more pleased, if it was good news.

“Yes, that was Antonio. He said he thought he'd gotten the information I wanted, and told us to meet him at a bar called
Il Sporco Maschilista
. It's a couple of miles from here, an easy ride by taxi.” He turned the piece of paper the address was written on around and around in his hands.

“So what's the problem?” Donata asked. “And don't tell me there isn't one. You're fidgeting. I've never seen you fidget.”

Peter shrugged and stuffed the paper in his pocket. “It's probably nothing. Just not the part of town I'd expect Antonio to be familiar with. Or the kind of bar, for that matter.” He gave a short laugh. “The name means ‘male chauvinist pig' more or less.”

That did seem like an odd choice for a priest. Donata shrugged back. It wasn't as though they weren't going to go, after all. But she missed her gun, left back at Peter's place for the sake of not alarming customs. At least she had her lucky knife, currently tucked into one boot.

“Do you think we should be worried?” she asked as they headed out.

“Would it stop you from worrying if I told you no?” Peter responded, holding the door open for her.

Donata laughed. “Probably not,” she admitted.

“That's what I thought.” He bowed as he waved her in front of him. “Let's go find out how to break a curse, Witch.”

“After you, Dragon,” she said, then watched his butt as he walked out the door.

Il Sporco Maschilista
was about as charming a place as the name suggested: full of rough-looking men and their short-skirted companions, all of them complete with tattoos and leather jackets. Donata felt right at home. Although she wished she was wearing her usual jeans instead of a pair of nice pants and a top Peter had bought her. Still, her jacket, boots, and her tough-girl attitude helped her blend in just fine.

Peter's friend Antonio, on the other hand, stuck out like a sore thumb.

He'd left off the white collar, but he still had “priest” written all over him. In Rome, within a mile of the Vatican, that might not have mattered, but his air of innocence and intelligence made him stand out from the crowd, even in the dark corner he'd chosen to sit in.

Peter heaved a sigh as he spotted his friend and hurried over to the table. Donata followed more slowly, scoping out the room as she went. Nothing struck her as out of the ordinary, but her neck felt vulnerable anyway. She was happier when they were all sitting down and she had her back to the wall.

The guys had gone through their usual hugging and shoulder-thumping routine, but Antonio seemed to have trouble hanging on to his typical smile. Donata glanced at Peter to see if he'd noticed anything, but her companion appeared to think everything was fine. Maybe she was just being paranoid. It had been a rough couple of days.

“So, Antonio,” Peter said after they all sat down at the wobbly-legged wooden table, “I can't believe you found something so fast.” He grinned at Donata. “Didn't I say he was the guy to go to?”

Donata smiled back. “That you did.” She turned to Antonio, who squirmed a little when she shifted in her chair and caused it to creak loudly. “Nice place you picked for us to meet. Any special reason?”

Antonio squirmed again, then rubbed his thumbs on the moisture that beaded up the sides of his glass of soda. Two beers sat on the table, awaiting their arrival. Peter flicked their caps off with his thumbnail and handed one to Donata.

“No reason,” Antonio said, his voice slightly higher than Donata remembered it being. “I know it is not so nice a place, but it is close to work. I hope you do not mind.” He wiped his forehead off with one hand.

Donata sympathized. With all the people in such a small bar, the atmosphere was hot and marginally claustrophobic. She shifted her chair again, scanning the dim room.

“What did you find?” she asked. The sooner they got the information and got the hell out of here, the happier she'd be. She was starting to get as twitchy as Antonio.

The priest pulled a small leather book out of his pocket, but hesitated before putting it down on the sticky tabletop. Peter gave a small smile and pulled out a handkerchief for his friend to lay the book on. Still, Antonio vacillated.

“So,
mio amico
, you found a good place to stay?” he asked. “Someplace nice?”

Peter looked at the book and then at Antonio. “Of course. I have been in the city many times. There are always plenty
of empty hotel rooms. Not to worry.”

“And this place you stay, is it far from here?” Antonio's knuckles were white around the edges of the book.

Peter exchanged a puzzled glance with Donata. “Not too far.” He held out his hand, palm up. “Can I see the book, Antonio?”

A bead of sweat ran down the priest's face. “Of course.” He started to hold the book out, and a large drunken Italian wearing a huge wooden cross around his neck smashed into Peter's chair, making the entire table rock.

“
Maldestro
!” the man yelled. “You make me spill my drink!” He glared at Peter, but the beer in his massive fist remained noticeably steady.

Donata eased her chair back from the table and raised an eyebrow at her cohort, who nodded slightly.

“I apologize,” Peter said to the man. “I didn't intend to get in your way.”

The man didn't appear to want to be appeased. “You spill my drink, you
stupido
Americano
. You people think you can come to this country and do whatever you want.” He balled up one large fist. “I teach you better.”

Peter smiled up at the drunk. “I'll be happy to buy you another drink, my friend.”

In answer, the man swung his fist.

But Peter was already on the move, ducking out and underneath the swinging arm. He gestured at Donata and Antonio to get up and started backing in the direction of the door—unfortunately all the way on the opposite side of the room.

“Oh, no you don't,
Americano
.” The man gave a shark's grin that displayed one gold tooth. “You are not to leave here in one piece, eh?” He was already aiming the beer bottle in his other hand at Peter's head, throwing a wide arc of golden foam in the process.

Five other men, all different physical types, but dressed in the same uniform of jeans, tee shirts, and large wooden crosses around their necks, suddenly appeared from behind the first.

Crap on a plate
, Donata thought. “It's a setup,” she said to Peter.
Crap on a plate with cheese.

“Ya think?” He responded calmly enough, but she caught his anguished glance at the table, where Antonio sat frozen, a guilty look painted on his cherub's face.

Then the men were on them, and there was no more time for witty banter. Donata hit the floor to avoid the windmill punch coming her way, then pushed herself up off the sticky surface and stuck her hand in her jacket pocket. She grabbed one of the emergency spell bottles she always carried and pulled the stopper out while reciting the trigger words under her breath. Then she tossed the contents into the face of her assailant.

He wiped the fluid off his swarthy face and laughed at her. “You think we are not ready for you and your magic,
Strega
?” He held up the cross that hung around his thick neck. The leather thong was old and dark with years of sweat, but the oversized wooden cross itself gleamed as though it was newly carved. “They would not send us to deal with
Il Demonio
without our sacred protection.”

Cabal. Had to be.
Hecate's tears.
Now they were in for it. Donata took a deep breath and tried to find the warrior's zone
her martial arts teacher was always talking about.
Time to find out if all that practice was worth the effort.

The man let go of his cross and started toward her, one of his friends right behind him. Out of the corner of her eye, Donata could see Peter fighting off the other four with silent determination. There was already a bruise forming under one eye, and blood seeped slowly from a split lip.

“Well,
puttana
,” the man closest to her said, “I guess you should have brought something to fight with besides your evil Witchcraft, eh?”

Donata gave him her wickedest smile, causing him to take an involuntary step backward. “I guess you're right.”

She moved toward Antonio, still sitting glued to his chair, and shoved him under the table. He might have set them up, but she still didn't want to see him get hurt. As she pushed him down, she reached into her boot and pulled her knife out of its built-in sheath. Magic was unstable and occasionally backfired. A razor-edged piece of steel, on the other hand, could always be depended on.

Her opponent's eyes widened at the sight of the long, vicious blade. She took advantage of his momentary shock and sliced a long, deep hole into his abdominal muscles. He dropped to the floor, howling in pain. His companion pulled out a knife of his own and made a rude gesture in Donata's direction, which she ignored.

Instead, she grabbed a bottle of wine off a nearby table hastily vacated by its occupants when the fight broke out. She tossed it clumsily with her left hand, not taking the time to aim. The man facing her ducked it easily and grinned at her, his stringy mustache bobbing. His grin vanished, however, when Donata followed up her phony attack with a real one and kicked him squarely in the nuts. Hard. The knife dropped out of his hand as he grabbed himself and fell to the floor beside his friend.

Donata let out an involuntary yell of triumph and was slightly appalled to discover she was actually enjoying herself. She turned to Peter and saw the same unholy glee on his face. What a pair they were. Two of his adversaries were also down, one of them in a heap that spoke of unconsciousness. The other clutched an arm that bent in the wrong direction, a jagged end of bone sticking out from the break.

Then, as if in slow motion, she saw the large man who had started the fight pull a gun from under his jacket. Apparently he'd decided it was time to give up on maintaining the illusion of a common bar brawl and just get the job done. He swung the pistol around in her direction.

Donata could see everything so clearly. The dark stubble on the man's livid face. The scraped skin of his knuckles as he pulled the trigger. The shocked look on Peter's face as he saw the gun go off.

Then there was a large explosion of noise and confusion. Donata felt herself hit the floor, driven down by the impact of a large body barreling into hers. Had she been hit? She waited for the pain, but it didn't come.

Instead, Peter pulled himself up off of her prone body and surged into the air with a single powerful motion that thrust him across the room and into the space in front of the two remaining attackers. He let out a roar that echoed through the raucous bar, silencing the patrons who had been enjoying the fight, and promoting a swift exodus by many through the
nearest exits.

Those who remained watched with awe as he picked up the two men by their necks and bashed their heads together with a meaty thunking sound. His eyes gleaming black, he held them up, their feet dangling helplessly off the ground as he let loose another bellow of primal fury. Around the area where his fingers wrapped around their necks, there was the faintest smell of roasting meat.

Donata finally got her breath back enough to stagger across the floor to where Peter stood. She placed one hand on a rigid, muscular arm and spoke quietly into his ear.

“Peter.” There was no response, and one of the dangling men let out a pitiful moan. “Peter. You're
killing
them. You have to let go.”

He gave a ragged sigh, and the uncanny glow faded out of his eyes. With obvious reluctance, he opened his fingers and dropped the men to the floor. Across the room, one of the drunker women started applauding and then stopped abruptly when her date yanked her out of her chair. Donata stifled a laugh. To be honest, she felt a little like applauding herself.

Sirens sounded in the distance, closing fast. Time to go.

“Come on,” she said, still pulling on his arm. “We've got to get out of here.” She looked around at the bodies strewn at their feet. “I don't know about you, but I really don't want to have to explain this.” That would really go over well with the Chief—creating an international incident while a guest of a country she wasn't even supposed to be in.
No thank you very much.

Peter hesitated, then started to move. In the opposite direction of the door.

“Just give me a minute, okay?” He walked over to their former table, where Antonio still crouched, partially hidden behind a cracked wooden chair.

Peter held out one battered hand. “It's all right. You can come out now.”

Antonio began to get up, then froze, a horrified look on his face. Donata followed his line of sight and swallowed hard when she saw what he was looking at: blood, running freely from the large and ugly hole a bullet had torn in Peter's side.