Master of the Opera

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “Call me Angie. Just not in front of the family. I’ll help you if you’ll help me. But we have to pinky swear or something. I’m trusting you, here.”

  “Okay, what shall we swear on?”

  “Tell me a secret. That way we’ll be even.”

  Trust your gut. “I’m only pretending to be engaged to Roman. I won’t marry him, even if I have to kill myself to prevent it.”

  Angie grinned and sat on the white coverlet of the massive four-poster bed, bouncing happily. “I knew you couldn’t be that stupid. Careful what you promise, though. It could come to that.”

  Her scalp prickled. “How? It’s the twenty-first century. They can’t force me to say vows or sign contracts.”

  The other girl sobered, a haunted look dimming her vivacious eyes. “You have no idea. The Sanclaros always get their way. Or they’ll make you wish you hadn’t crossed them.”

  Christine sat next to her. “Are you okay?”

  “Hells to the no. But that’s where you come in. They need one of us. I thought maybe when they finally got you here, they’d let me have my own life, but they need a backup. I was willing to let you take the fall for my freedom—sorry about that, survival of the fittest and all—but now we might as well help each other.”

  “I think you need to back up and explain. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you know anything?”

  “Let’s pretend I don’t.”

  Angie flopped back onto the bed with an exasperated sigh and stared at the canopy. “Okay, you know we’re cousins, right?”

  “I suspected.” More than suspected, but hearing it from this snarky teen rocked through her, pricking open the anger she carried. Damn her father.

  “So, according to family tradition, there’s always supposed to be a direct descendant of the first Angelia in charge of the family fortunes. Right now that means you or me, baby. I’m too young still and they don’t dare give you the reins until Roman has you on a short leash.” Angie snickered at her choice of words.

  “But there’s not a woman in charge now.”

  “Exactly!” Angie popped up and pointed at Christine. “My icon of a father scoffed at superstition and put himself in charge when Great-Grandmother died. I was just a baby, but I’ve read the books. Guess what’s happened to the vaunted Sanclaro fortune since then?” She turned a thumb down and made a long, whistling noise that ended with a loud and unpleasant raspberry.

  “I had no idea.”

  Angie shrugged. “I’m sure a smart financial person could dig it out if you need proof. It’s not common knowledge, as you can imagine.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  “I live here, don’t I? They think I don’t listen, but I do. It’s always been the plan for you to marry Roman—in case you didn’t know—but something’s gotten in the way. They did something huge to get you here now. Dad is getting desperate. I haven’t been able to ferret out why, but he’s convinced that getting you on board will stop whatever shit is about to hit the fan.”

  “Why not put you on the paperwork under his guardianship?”

  “’Cuz then I’d have to marry my brother—as my father’s manly pride demands—and even the Sanclaros can’t pull off that shit in this day and age.”

  “So this is all about family superstition?”

  Angie paced over to the window, stared out at the rising moon, then turned around, her fingers knotted together. “Way weirder than that.”

  The angel hairs lifted on the back of Christine’s neck. This was it. What she’d hoped to find. “Tell me.”

  Angie shook her head slowly from side to side. “It’s one of those you-gotta-see-it-to-believe-it things.”

  “Okay, then show me.”

  “Doing this is very risky for me. You’re not supposed to know any of this until after the wedding. First you have to promise to help me escape.”

  “But you’re a minor.”

  “Tell me about it.” Angie held out a hand, looking into her memory and ticking points off on her fingers. “I need you to get me a cell phone and guarantee it for me. I have money I’ll give you—don’t worry. What I don’t have is a credit card. If you’ll co-sign one and let me use your address, as soon as I have the cred, I’ll transfer it to me. Meanwhile, I’ll give you cash for that, too. I have a fake ID worked out—as an adult, thank you very much—but I need a ride to pick it up from the guy, since I don’t have a driver’s license, much less access to a vehicle. I’ll worry about shoring up the rest of my papers later, after—”

  “Whoa, wait, wait, wait.” Christine held up her hands to stop the torrent of instructions. “You’re faking your identity?”

  “You have met my family, right?” Angie raised her eyebrows and spoke slowly, as if Christine might not properly understand English. “They don’t let people go. If I’m going to escape, I have to disappear completely and forever.”

  “And you’ve already figured out all the logistics?”

  “Thank the Holy Mother for the Internet, huh? I might be home-schooled, but the state still requires a certain level of socialization. My mother has no idea how easy it is to circumvent parental controls.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  Angie waved a hand at her. “No, if you’d grown up with a tyrant of a father, you’d have figured this out, too. We do what we have to do, right?”

  Right. “Okay. You have a deal. I’ll help you.” She stuck out her hand and Angie, with an impatient shake of her head, folded her fingers over and gave her a fist bump.

  “Girl power!” Angie grinned, then produced Christine’s phone. “Voilà.”

  “How did you get that?”

  “I’ve been taking my brother’s stuff for years. He’s oblivious. But he’ll probably come looking for it in my room, so be ready to call whoever to come get you if we get caught.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d figure out a way to rescue me as soon as possible.” She flashed Christine a gamine grin, but the face behind it was haunted with dark foreboding.

  * * *

  The big house loomed quiet, with sconces along the floor showing their way. Angie led them down the grand stairwell to the entryway, then farther, the way they’d gone to the family chapel.

  The chapel sat at the end of a corridor, the waxed Saltillo tile reflecting the foot-level lights. A sculpture stood outside the closed doors, a female avenging angel with a stern face, naked breasts, and carrying a sword. When Christine had seen it earlier, it seemed to be an odd icon for an ostensibly Christian place of worship—almost pagan. The twisted iron handles were looped with a length of chain and a padlock. But why, with nothing of value inside?

  With an impish smile, Angie produced a ring of keys, trying several before the lock gave. She held a finger over her lips, commanding silence until they were inside, with the doors closed.

  “How—?”

  “I’ve been collecting extra keys for years. My mother keeps nine copies of every damn thing. I figured I’d never know when one would come in handy. And see?”

  “Okay, what next?”

  “Secret passageway!”

  “Really?” Christine surveyed the barren room. “Where?”

  Angie deflated slightly. “Well, I’m not exactly sure how to find it. I’ve been blindfolded every time. I tried to spy on my father and Roman once, when I was eight. Boy, did I get a beating for that.”

  “A beating? You mean a spanking?”

  Angie gathered her hair into a tail and tied it into a knot at the nape of her neck. “I mean a beating so bad I couldn’t get out of bed for a week.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Jesus had nothing to do with it. Whatever god it is my father prays to in here, he has no love in his heart.” Angie’s voice cracked, bitterly sharp as broken glass. “That’s the day I decided to leave. Ten years ago. Freedom will be sweet. Now help me look.”

  She was wrong, Christine thought.
He wasn’t an unloving god. Just an unwilling one.

  Angie knew the general location and thought the trigger must be on the men’s side. Remembering how sternly they’d all told her never to stray from the women’s side, Christine was inclined to agree. They searched the floor, running their fingers along the cracks, then the stone risers that led up to the wall holding the wooden cross.

  In her pocket, Christine’s phone vibrated with a text message.

  Where are you?

  “Shit!” Christine cursed softly. “Roman knows I have my phone.”

  “No, he just knows he doesn’t have it,” Angie pointed out with calm reason. “Your room is locked, as if you’re inside, but he’ll be looking for me. I have to lock you in here, and I’ll pretend to be praying outside. I’ll come back later, once it’s safe, okay?”

  “What if I get in—what do I look for?”

  Angie laughed without mirth. “You’ll know it when you see it. Then if you get me my secret cell phone, we can discuss as much as you like!”

  “Thank you, Angie.”

  “No—thank you. Believe me, I know helping me won’t be easy. I’m glad to pay it forward a little.”

  The chain rattled in the iron bars of the doors, sealing her in. Without Angie’s spunky presence the narrow chapel seemed to press in on her. With only the floor sconces and a recessed ceiling light shining on the cross, the stark room felt dim and forbidding. At least this cross wasn’t the sharp, silver spear of her vision—or the one on the gates. Odd, actually, that it wasn’t, since the Sanclaros seemed to cling so fiercely to that symbol. Several replicas of it graced the house above.

  So, why this simple monk’s cross here?

  Stepping carefully, because it felt like a bit of sacrilege, she climbed the prayer steps and touched the rough, red-black wood. A thrill of revulsion went through her as she imagined for a moment that it had been stained with blood. She nearly yanked her hands back but controlled her fear. When she pushed, nothing happened. So she pulled.

  And with a low, grating sound—much like the entryways to the Master’s domain—the entire wall moved, pivoting and opening to a short hallway, and a brilliantly lit alcove beyond.

  She stepped over the threshold and found a handle to pull the door closed behind her, just in case Roman checked the chapel, despite the chained doors and Angie’s likely interference.

  The passageway was narrow enough that she trailed both hands along the walls as she walked toward the light. Halfway down, her fingers met empty air on both sides. Additional hallways led off in other directions—all pitch black. She continued toward the lighted room. Stopping at the doorway, she surveyed the circular alcove. A spotlight, recessed into the high ceiling, illuminated the room. In the center, a pedestal was affixed with a silver dagger, like the old sword in the stone. Three silver crucifixes—the Sanclaro cross—hung on the walls, to the sides and directly opposite the door, each with a different stone inset where the arms intersected.

  The floor, inlaid with an intricate mosaic, echoed the pattern. A solid border outlined the circle, with silver crosses below the ones on the walls, reflections in a lake of tiles. One stretched out from the doorway, too, presumably echoing the one over the door. The long legs of the crosses stretched to the central pedestal, as if pinning it in place.

  In between the mosaic crosses were animals—a bear, like the one on her stone, along with several others. Instead of their usual depictions, in movement, these lay quiet and still. Everything in the room pointed toward the pedestal. That was the center of it all, and she had to see what was there.

  Wary but seeing no way around it, she stepped inside the circle.

  If she had expected the room to shake or arrows to fly out of the walls or lightning to strike, the result was disappointing. Like walking on any other floor, into any other room. Except for the dread that ran down her spine and the persistent smell of blood—a dusty, metallic trickle.

  She crept up to the pedestal, steeling herself against what she might see. The pedestal seemed to be a pillar of red sandstone, the silver dagger buried nearly to the hilt. In between the two lay a withered paw. Bits of white and golden fur had fallen away, barely clinging to threads of ancient sinew here and there, but the other parts were clean. Claws. Shards of bone.

  Revulsion crawled through her. She knew who had done this. She had been there, in a way.

  The ancient priestess, desperate to save some ghost of her people, had created this altar, anchoring her god and the restless spirits of the slaughtered tribe here. She could taste the memory in her vision. The fields full of blood, the bear spirit breaking with the loss of the people who’d called him Master.

  Preserving what she could, perhaps to restore them someday.

  But the priestess had died in childbirth, hadn’t she? Unable to teach her daughters what they needed to know. Inadvertently giving them the power over a harnessed god that kept the grass unnaturally green and the family fortunes rich.

  As long as one of her daughters held the bear’s leash.

  Well, if her hand could hold him there, then she should be able to break the circle.

  The other option—suicide—would also work, but that would require Angie’s death, too. At this point, Christine felt comfortable shedding her mortal body, if it meant she could be with the Master forever, but Angie was young. And sane, still.

  She grasped the knife, ready to pull it free. She pulled, yanking with all her strength. But unlike the vision or the ritual, here she seemed to lack the power.

  Disrupt the circle, Hally had said. See if you can find some sort of encircling marks and break the borders. Remove the guardian stones. Anything like that.

  Ruefully, Christine examined the room. She’d found the damn circle, all right—circles within circles—but they could hardly be broken. She fingered one of the silver crosses on the wall. It seemed to be embedded there, deeply sunk into the stone of the walls. The chamber might as well be made of poured cement.

  Likewise the mosaic floor. She knelt, digging her fingernails between the tiles, the opal flashing with obscene splendor on her hand. Her nails splintered and her fingertips snagged on the sharp edges, blood smearing on the glassy colors. Aware that she was breathing frantically now, she scrabbled around, a desperate crab searching for some way to disrupt this circle of metal, stone, and glass.

  She stilled, listening. Was that the sound of voices, shouting in the distance? Working faster, she searched around the bottom of the crystal dome, feeling for a seam. A brass ring—or solid gold—seemed to hold the entire assembly in place.

  It wasn’t made to be breached. It was made to last forever, to bind and contain a god and the combined power of his people.

  Then her fingers slipped into a groove, her left hand finding a place that seemed made for it, fingertips and palm fitting into the side of the carved pillar. She peered at it, temporarily perplexed by the round divot in the center. With a burst of realization, she rotated the ring so the egg-shaped opal faced in—like a key in a lock.

  Sure enough, a similar handprint showed on the other side. Also for a left hand, with a place for a matching ring. Made for twins.

  But where was the other ring?

  Voices cut into her reflection, sending her pulse racing. Roman and his father, arguing bitterly from the other side of the chapel wall down the hall. Stone grated, and she knew she was out of time.

  So close. So very close to fail so utterly.

  But she couldn’t let them find her here.

  She ran back down the hall, every instinct shrieking against going toward them, which she ruthlessly overruled. So she turned on instinct down one dark alley. With her shoes in one hand, she ran silently, listening to their voices escalate as the door allowed them in.

  Then she stopped, pressing herself flat against the stone wall, grateful for the utter darkness.

  First Domingo, then Roman strode past the opening. Straight into the alcove.

  “See?” Roman
sounded relieved. “No one has been in here. She probably walked out and is back in town by now. She can’t affect anything with only the one ring anyway.”

  “You had better hope she doesn’t find the Angel’s Hand,” Domingo Sanclaro snarled, all urbane gentleman gone from his voice.

  “You’re the one who let that fucking Carla steal and hide it.”

  “She’s not exactly in a position to give it to anyone, is she?” Domingo’s voice oozed sarcasm.

  “That’s not my fault.” Roman sounded petulant, repressed anger coming out on a whine.

  “You need to learn damage control—starting with your fiancée. A man who can’t control his woman is no man at all. I’ll handle Carla. Go talk to the cops—tell them you two had a fight and she might be hysterical. Hint that she’s unstable and you’re worried about her. She could be anywhere, and who knows what wild tales she’s spreading.”

  Christine didn’t dare linger a moment longer. Creeping on all fours along the floor, in case of a sudden drop, she felt her way, being as quiet and speedy as possible. Her skin crawled with the anticipation that the lights would flick on, exposing her in all her subterfuge.

  She forced herself to keep going, praying that she wouldn’t end up trapped or, worse, fall into some dank hole and slowly die with broken bones. She had to see this through, to rescue Angie and to make right what had gone so wrong. To somehow turn the horrible events of the past into something good. She wasn’t crazy. All of this was.

  She needed to survive this, too.

  A warm breath seemed to flow over her, a wordless song soothing and guiding her. The scent of blood faded. The dread dropped from her shoulders, replaced with the sweet promise of love and home.

  It reminded her of a friend she’d had, back in early high school. They’d walked to her friend’s house when school had closed early for the day due to a sudden, intense snowstorm. Her driver hadn’t been able to get through the traffic and her feet had been cold and wet, so she’d gone to her friend’s place to warm up and wait for the car.

  The brownstone hadn’t been much—narrow, and the furnishings weren’t great—but her friend’s dad had met them at the door, setting their wet things out to dry. He’d offered them hot tea and he’d made cookies by slicing some premade dough from the freezer and sticking it on a pan. She and her friend had sat at the breakfast counter while her friend’s dad asked about their day and they griped together about the city’s inferior plowing plan.