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  The officer, a gangly twenty-year-old trying to look thirty, smiled back at her and snuck a look at her chest. Donata tried not to sigh again.

  “The painting?”

  He blinked, refocusing on her face. “Oh, right. Ya gotta take it out of the wrappings so we can both sign off on the description. Otherwise there could be anything in there, right?” He looked down again.

  “Oh, right.” She wondered if he’d notice if she smacked him upside the head with the crate the painting was packed in, but since she’d decided she might want to keep her job after all, she restrained herself. Instead, she slid the painting out onto the counter.

  “Huh.” The attendant didn’t look too impressed. “So, um, somebody tried to steal that?”

  Donata snorted. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” She wrote on the description page: Gothic landscape with six people, artist Caspar David Friedrich—then handed the paper to the officer. “Will that do for you?”

  He shrugged. “Gothic, huh. Sure, I guess so.” He turned the painting to get a better look and noticed the small area near the bottom where the restorer had started working. “Hey—we better not get blamed for this! It was messed up before it got here.” He shoved it over the counter at her and she had to grab it before it fell on the floor. “You gotta write down that it had that spot on it too . . .” The attendant stuttered to a halt. “Hey, Officer Santori? You okay? You don’t look so good.”

  Donata barely heard him, as her hand locked onto the painting at the section where the underlying pigment had been revealed by the restorer’s work. Her fingers tingled, sending electric jolts of energy up her arm and into her chest. The world before her blurred, the scrawny, pimpled youth replaced by a swirling image of a long wooden table with robed men sitting down one side and a variety of creatures seated on the other.

  The vision made no sense to her, but in the back of her mind, it somehow reminded her of a story her grandmother used to tell her when she was small. She couldn’t remember the story itself, only the feeling of fear, and the nightmares that invariably followed. She shuddered at the memory, and the painting slipped out of her grasp and onto the counter with a clatter.

  The attendant gaped at her. “You okay?” He gingerly put the painting back into its wrappings and shoved it into the crate. “You got kinda spacey there for a minute.”

  Donata shook her head to clear it and forced herself to smile in his general direction. “Sure, I’m fine.” She shrugged. “Probably the aftereffects of two corpses and no breakfast.”

  The young man nodded sagely, as though he spent his days in the field instead of in an evidence room. “Oh, yeah, sure. That’ll happen.” He collected his paperwork and tucked the crate under one arm. “You go get something to eat in the canteen—that’ll make you feel better.”

  Somehow Donata doubted that eating in the precinct cafeteria could improve anyone’s health, but she wasn’t about to stand around and argue about it. Something told her she had more important things to do. Like maybe research what the heck a pentimento was.

  * * *

  Donata shoved her front door shut with one foot and walked through the tiny living room to plop her groceries down on the counter in her equally tiny kitchen. She could have gotten a bigger place, something with a little more light and walls that weren’t painted gunmetal gray, but this apartment was close to work and didn’t take much in the way of upkeep. She kept meaning to put something cheerful up on the walls, but never seemed to get around to it.

  Besides, the horrified expressions on the faces of her mother and two older sisters the first time they came over—and their subsequent refusal to visit—almost made it worth living in a stark, gloomy apartment on the wrong side of town. Not everybody wants to live in some swanky high-rise, after all. She loved her family, and she knew they loved her, but these days, they didn’t have much in common. They lived in two different worlds, in more ways than one. The fact that she was helping people mattered a lot more to her than where she lived.

  Anyway, it wasn’t as though she did a lot of entertaining.

  She changed out of her uniform into jeans and a well-worn sweatshirt, hanging her shoulder holster on its hook by the door. Its presence always made her feel more like a real cop, even if she never got to use it in the pursuit of her duties.

  An urgent meow reminded her that dinner was late, and she put down a dish of wet food for her gray cat Grimalkin while simultaneously rooting around under the counter for her wok. Cats don’t care about excuses like excursions to museums and weird-ass visions—they just want to be fed now, thank you very much.

  Donata’s stomach grumbled in chorus with the cat’s munching, reminding her that it would like to be fed too. She arranged the ingredients for a Chinese stir-fry on the counter and started chopping vegetables and throwing things in the wok. But she must have been more tired than she’d realized after her unusual day because she kept misplacing utensils and knocking things over.

  Across the kitchen, Grimalkin lifted his head and glared with green eyes at the top of the stove. A low growl emanated from his sleek form.

  “Seriously, Grim,” Donata scolded, “you’ve got wet food. You don’t need my chicken too.”

  The cat stalked out of the kitchen, tail raised high.

  “Unbelievable,” she said to herself, somehow spilling peanut sauce all over the stovetop. “My own familiar won’t even have dinner with me. I really need to work on my social life.” She turned to tempt the cat back with a piece of chicken and out of the corner of her eye saw a bowl sliding slowly toward the edge of the counter.

  “Ha!” she said, grabbing the bowl before it could go over the edge. “That’s enough of that!” She stood back and glared at the counter near where the dish had been, folding her arms over her chest. “Come on—show yourself.”

  Nothing happened, and for a moment she thought she’d been imagining things. Then Grimalkin walked back into the kitchen and hissed again before sitting down next to her feet.

  “Aha. I knew it!” Donata narrowed her eyes. “You’d better come out on your own, buddy. You really don’t want me to go get my broom.”

  A long-suffering sigh sounded from the top of the counter, and a figure appeared where a moment ago there had been empty space. It looked like a small, perfectly shaped man, about three feet tall, with a long brown beard, brown overalls, and an indignant look on his face. He squinted in the bright lights of the kitchen.

  “No need to get nasty, missus,” the little man said, putting his hands on his hips. “I wasn’t bothering you.” He looked around at the mess. “Much.”

  “Right,” Donata replied. “Like screwing with my cooking isn’t bothering me.”

  He shrugged. “It hardly looks like a four-course feast.” He peered at her with his eyes screwed up. “You look more Italian than Chinese—shouldn’t you be making spaghetti or something?”

  “I hate tomatoes,” she said shortly. “Not that it’s any of your business.” She looked back at him evenly. “So, what are you? Gnome? Leprechaun?”

  The little man gave an indignant snort. “Hardly. I’m a Kobold, of course. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a Kobold before.” He hopped down off the counter, helping himself to a carrot as he went.

  Donata cursed to herself. There were five major Paranormal races: Witches, Dragons, Fae, Ghouls, and Ulfhednar. Of those, only the Witches were living openly among Humans. But in addition, there were the so-called “minor races”—too many of them to count. Kobolds were among the more volatile of the various “little people.” Originally Earth spirits who lived underground, they moved into the cities when Humans overran their lands.

  Kobolds tended to be invisible unless they chose otherwise, and mostly stuck to the darker, deeper spaces like subways and basements. Although they were drawn to Humans, they rarely let themselves be seen. The good news was, they were mostly harmless. If
they liked you, they could be quite helpful: finding lost objects and cleaning the house. Of course, if they didn’t like you . . . well, her mangled, half-cooked dinner was evidence enough of what happened then.

  The bad news was, once one decided to attach itself to you, there wasn’t much you could do about it. They didn’t take well to efforts to remove them and could become quite the nuisance when peeved. Donata eyed the Kobold standing in front of her and resolved to get rid of him as quickly as possible—before he decided to move in for good. This apartment wasn’t big enough for any roommate, much less a Kobold.

  “What do you want?” she asked. “I haven’t done anything to you that would justify you turning my kitchen into a disaster area.”

  The Kobold peered critically around the room and through the door into the living room.

  “Missus,” he stated flatly, “this place was already a disaster area. I just made it a little messier, that’s all.” He shook his head in disgust. “Besides, you did plenty to me. You ignored my friend—sent him away when he wanted to talk to you. And I’m not leaving until you give him a good listen, and that’s that.” He sat down solidly on the floor to make his point.

  “Friend? What friend?” Donata had no idea what the little man could be talking about. She didn’t know anyone with a Kobold.

  The Kobold snorted. “How many people did you ignore today, you can’t even figure out which one I mean? You must be one rude lady.”

  Donata fought the urge to pick him up and toss him out a window—he’d be right back anyway. “I’m no lady—I’m a cop. And I haven’t ignored anyone . . .” Her voice trailed off as she thought of one person she’d given the brush-off to.

  Slowly, she lowered herself to the ground and sat down opposite her uninvited guest.

  “Your friend—he wouldn’t be named Clive Farmingham, would he? The restorer at the museum?” Oh, please, goddess, let me be wrong.

  The Kobold glared at her. “That’s right, missus. Clive was my friend, and he needs to talk to you real bad.” He folded his arms. “And I’m not going nowhere until you call him back and listen to what he has to say.”

  Chapter Four

  For the second time that day, Donata watched the smoke from her incense coil around itself until it assumed a Human form. Within minutes of completing her summoning ritual, Clive Farmingham was standing in her living room. He looked a little hazier than he had earlier at the museum, but still much more solid than your usual ghost. Clearly, there was something important keeping him from moving on. Donata kicked herself mentally for not paying enough attention when he’d tried to speak to her before—if she wasn’t careful, they were going to revoke her Witch license.

  The Kobold leaned against the wall, out of the way but still very much present. Donata had promised him a chance to say good-bye to his long-time companion on the condition that he stopped messing around with her stuff.

  Farmingham had been agitated when he first manifested, but as soon as he realized she was prepared to listen, he calmed down somewhat. At the moment, he hovered an inch or two above the couch, as though he were trying to sit but not quite managing to align himself with the real world.

  Donata thought she’d better start off with an apology and some introductions. She gave a polite bow in the direction of the restorer and nodded her head at the Kobold, just for safety’s sake.

  “Mr. Farmingham, sir,” she said. “I am deeply sorry that I did not give you my full attention earlier. Some unusual pressures distracted me from my job, but that is no excuse. I hope that you will accept my apology. My name is Donata Santori, and I promise, I am ready to listen to whatever it is you need to say now.” She snuck a look at the Kobold and was relieved to see a smile crease his already craggy face.

  The restorer gave her a wavering smile too. “I completely understand, Officer Santori. I confess, I was somewhat thrown by the . . . er . . . bodies . . . and was perhaps not as coherent as I might have been.”

  The Kobold rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the wall, strolling over to stand right outside the ritual circle.

  “Dyin’ will do that to a person,” he said dryly. “She still shoulda paid more attention.”

  Farmingham made shushing motions with one noncorporeal hand. “Now, now, Ricky, the young lady has had a rough day too. Let’s not be rude.”

  “She’s no lady, she’s a cop,” the Kobold corrected. “And I’m never rude. Just direct.” He and the restorer grinned at each other as if that was an old joke between them.

  “You’re Ricky?” Donata exclaimed. “Mr. Farmingham kept mentioning a Ricky, but when I asked his boss, Mr. Turnbull, he didn’t know anyone by that name.”

  The Kobold executed a surprisingly elegant and old-fashioned bow. “Adalrik, actually. It means ‘noble friend,’” he said proudly. “But my pal Clive here kept mispronouncing it, so I told him to just call me Ricky.”

  Donata turned to the older man in surprise. “You knew about him? I mean, you’d actually talked to him?” She’d figured the “friendship” had only gone one way.

  “Oh, my, yes,” Farmingham said, light warming his dead eyes. “I discovered Ricky’s existence many years ago, soon after taking the job at the museum. He’s been a great help to me.”

  The Kobold blushed, much to Donata’s amusement. She hadn’t even known Kobolds could blush. Live and learn.

  “Of course,” the restorer added, “his biggest gift to me has been in getting you to listen to me. Otherwise, I would have had to resort to haunting you, and I’m not sure I would have been very good at it.” He looked at the ground. “I’m a bit shy, you know.”

  Donata felt guilty from her hair down to her toes. “I am sorry, Mr. Farmingham. I couldn’t understand you, but I should have realized you had something important to say to me. I should have been more patient.” Privately, she still suspected it was likely to be one of those things that seemed overwhelmingly crucial to the dead person, but in reality was only a trivial bit of unfinished business to the living. “Why don’t you just tell me now, and then you’ll be able to move on the way you’re supposed to.”

  “It’s about the painting,” Farmingham started to say.

  Donata gritted her teeth. Not that damned painting again.

  “Sir, I tried to tell you before. The painting is perfectly safe. It’s in a police evidence locker, all wrapped up and tucked away until the case comes up to trial.”

  The restorer shook his head to and fro. “No, you don’t understand. It won’t be safe there. If they found out it was at the museum, they can find out it’s at the police station. And it can’t be allowed to fall into the wrong hands—that painting is like a ticking time bomb, just waiting to go off!” He wrung his hands and the Kobold took a step closer, as near as he could get without disrupting the circle, and glared at Donata.

  Donata gestured at the ghost to calm down. “I’m sorry, Mr. Farmingham, but I don’t understand what’s so special about this painting. I researched the painter, and he wasn’t terribly famous. The painting itself is valuable, but not unusually so. Why would anyone want it?” She didn’t add that the thing was ugly as sin. She figured he’d seen the damn painting, so he knew that. Of course, there had been that weird vision she’d seen when she touched it . . .

  “The painting is not what it seems.” Farmingham made a visible effort to compose himself. “It is one of the lost Pentacle Pentimentos. And either the Council or the Cabal would kill to get their hands on it.”

  Donata could feel herself turn pale. Dear goddess. Nobody wanted to get mixed up in Council business, not if they could help it. The Council was the ruling body for the Paranormal Alliance—each major race had one representative on the Council, and the minor races were all represented by a Protector, who was designated by the Council itself. And then there were other lesser members who acted as administrative or policing personnel. Either a Dragon or a Wit
ch always led the Council, since none of the other races wanted the position of Adjudicator Supreme. As purebred Witches, Donata’s own family had often held high positions in the past, although in this generation they’d stayed mostly on the periphery.

  The Council was a powerful and often arbitrary organization, and Donata wanted nothing to do with them, or anything they were interested in. And as for the Cabal—

  “Isn’t the Cabal just a scary story to tell Paranormal children?” she asked dubiously. “I thought they didn’t really exist.”

  Farmingham looked grim. “Oh, they exist, all right. They’ve kept to the shadows for many years, but I assure you, they are as real as you or I.” He looked down at his translucent body and gave a self-deprecating smile. “Well, you know what I mean.”

  He gazed thoughtfully at Donata. “How well versed are you in your Paranormal history?” The look on his face reminded her of one of her favorite college professors, right before he gave a pop quiz. Great. A test. She was never going to get to eat her dinner.

  “I know pretty much what everyone else knows, I guess,” she answered. “What does Paranormal history have to do with the painting?”

  “The Pentacle Pentimentos date back to the Inquisition,” Farmington said. “They were all thought to have been destroyed, but apparently, this one survived.”

  “They?” Donata questioned. “There was more than one of these things?” It was hard to imagine a bunch of these ugly things.

  “Many, actually,” the restorer said. “Now mind you, they all looked different, and they were painted by different artists, but their purpose was the same: to help the Inquisitors hunt down members of the major Paranormal races and exterminate them.”

  Donata suppressed a shudder. The Inquisition had been the most terrible period in Paranormal history. As far as the Human population was concerned, the Inquisition had been a long-lasting religious witch hunt. The reality had been even grimmer: an all-out holy war between the Catholic Church and the Paranormal races, one that lasted for hundreds of years with terrible losses to each of the opposing forces.