Defiant Diva
Page 1
Diva Behavior or Demon Behavior?
Mezzo-soprano Daylia Fedora is a true diva, an artiste renowned for her operatic mastery. Her problem? Rage attacks against other singers. With her career on the line, Daylia single-mindedly seeks an exorcist to rid her of the demon she’s convinced causes her destructive behavior.
No one believes there’s a demon, not even Dex Morgan, the handsome tech billionaire Daylia meets on a magical night at a charity ball. Dex’s romantic pursuit of Daylia to the Washington, DC, opera house where she’s to sing in Carmen is exciting, but she won’t let romance distract her from her goal of obtaining an exorcism. Daylia’s stubbornness blinds her to multiple omens that a demon may not be the source of all her troubles.
Books by Irene Vartanoff
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Friendzoned Soprano
Defiant Diva
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Captive of the Cattle Baron
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Defiant Diva
Irene Vartanoff
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, organizations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The opera house in which the major events of this story take place is fictitious, as is the opera company.
The uploading, scanning, and distribution of this book in any form or by any means—including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions of this work, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Formatting by Polgarus Studio
Copyright © 2018 Irene Vartanoff All rights reserved.
Published by Irene Vartanoff
www.irenevartanoff.com
P.O. Box 27
Gerrardstown, WV 25420
ISBN 978-0-9985269-2-8 ebook
ISBN 978-0-9985269-3-5 print
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
A Note from the Author
Books by Irene Vartanoff
Chapter 1
“Daylia Fedora, what were you thinking? You can’t go around physically attacking other opera singers.” Ralph, my agent, sighed clearly through the phone. He’d caught me just after I returned from church on Sunday afternoon.
“The demon did it,” I said. “I need an exorcist.”
He brushed off my words. “I got woken up this morning by a call from a New York Times reporter asking about a YouTube video of you from last night. I didn’t know what he was talking about. He was happy to tell me that you freaked out at the Federal Concert Opera and attempted to hurt Abbie Fisher.”
I said nothing, because there was no way to refute the video evidence of the demon’s behavior. The drama had been caught on another singer’s phone and put online.
He sighed again. “We can’t ignore the video.”
“Get me an exorcist, and the problem will be solved.”
“Give me something reasonable. Something the reporters will buy.” He suggested a few white lies.
I sniffed. “They should write about my operatic successes, not about these…hiccups.”
“Physically attacking another singer is not a hiccup. It’s assault.”
He wasn’t helping. It was a short phone call.
***
The demonic outbursts were accelerating. The demon had wreaked havoc in Aida in Philadelphia last week, forcing me to sing over other singers’ lines, upstage them, and worse. Last night, back home in Washington, DC, the demon had dragged me to a new low, causing me to leap at a soprano with my fingernails as talons, trying to do her serious damage. Facing the opera world again tomorrow, when rehearsals started for Carmen, would not be easy.
I had talked to my pastor privately about the demon, but his suggestion was only to pray more. I tried. I spent time on my knees, praying for the Lord’s intervention. If anything, the madness accelerated. Somehow, I must remove this demon that had taken over my life.
Nobody else believed there was a demon. They all thought it was me.
***
Gayle Davis, my best friend, arrived an hour later. Her casual yellow sweater and matching pants were far from her usual sober garb as an assistant district attorney. “Girl, I’ve been telling you to get some help. Now you’re in trouble, right?”
“Ralph wants me to pretend I am bipolar.” I took the wine bottle she carried from a high-end provisioner and set it on my glass dining room table.
Gayle looked interested. “Not a bad idea. Nobody will expect you to give face-saving interviews if you’re sick.”
“I am not sick,” I pulled crystal goblets from my breakfront and poured us each some ruby liquid. “Although what’s happening is crazy.”
She smiled. “But you’re not.”
I lifted my glass in a silent toast to her intelligence. “I am completely sane. Whom can I see to lift this demon off me? Do you know an exorcist?”
She frowned. “Aren’t most exorcists Catholics? You’re a Baptist.”
I inclined my head. “I can be open-minded. I’ll visit a priest rather than a pastor if he will save me from the clutches of the demon.”
The landline phone rang. Startled, I picked it up and said hello. Gayle eyed me as I listened.
“I have nothing to say.” I slammed down the phone on Tim Fox, hoping the pushy New York Times reporter would get an earache.
“What was that about?”
“A reporter saw that awful YouTube video from last night. He must have conned my mother into giving out my private number.” How dare he call me here, on my landline?
Gayle gestured toward my balcony. “Let’s go sit and talk this out.”
I released a pent breath. “Okay.” Gayle could always calm me down.
We took our wine out to the balcony where we could enjoy the warm April day and the incredible view from my condo high above Washington, DC’s Anacostia River. I flicked a bit of lint off my designer lounging outfit of orange shantung as I mimicked the reporter’s voice, “‘Do you have any comment on being caught on video trying to scratch out the eyes of world-renowned soprano, Abbie Fisher? Shrieking threats at Abbie?’” I snorted. “Of course I had no comment. Does he think I am a fool?”
“It’s got to stop, Daylia.” Gayle sat in a rattan chair opposite me. She frowned into her glass, then shot me a concerned glance. “Your rage attacks will mess up your car
eer. Other opera singers have been fired for less. Very famous singers.”
I tightened my lips and refilled my wine glass. Usually, my unparalleled view of the DMV—the District, Maryland, and Virginia—was soothing. Not today. “It’s not me. It’s a demon who has taken possession of me.”
Gayle’s expression was disbelieving. “There is no such thing as demon possession.”
“How else can I account for going insane at that concert?” I examined my nails, which I’d already had done in a brilliant red to suit my upcoming role as Carmen, the sexpot gypsy.
“Why were you upset with that other singer?”
“She refused to sing a duet with me unrehearsed.” My fingers tightened on my glass. “I wasn’t upset. The demon was.”
“Was your ego outraged?”
“Professionally, she made the right call. The demon thought otherwise.” I set down my glass with an audible clink on the nearby side table.
She frowned. “You’re trying to distance yourself from moral responsibility.”
“I do not go around planning to do rotten things to other singers. It just happens.”
Gayle rolled her eyes. “I hear that in court all the time and it’s nonsense. ‘Your Honor, I didn’t mean to break my wife’s jaw. It just happened.’ ‘Your Honor, I didn’t plan to have sex with my sister’s husband. It just happened.’” She waved a hand. “You get the picture. Excuses.”
“I am not making excuses. The demonic entity lodged inside me causes the trouble.”
Gayle cocked her head. “Don’t little kids who do something naughty claim their invisible friend put them up to it?”
“I do not have an invisible friend,” I said emphatically. I looked away from the view to stare directly at her. “A demonic foreign entity impels me to behave badly.”
I returned my gaze to the familiar skyline of the nation’s capital, punctuated by the White House and the Washington Monument. Farther out, the Episcopal National Cathedral dominated a hill in the fashionable Northwest section of the city that also contained the spires of Georgetown University. The Roman Catholic Shrine of the Immaculate Conception dominated its own hill a bit east of Howard University. Closer in, along the Potomac River northwest of here, I could make out the Kennedy Center, where I had often sung, and the Potomac Arts Center, where I would sing later this month—unless my wonderful life as an internationally renowned opera singer completely fell apart.
“You’re serious,” Gayle said.
“I am convinced.”
Gayle’s doubtful expression showed that she didn’t agree with me, but as my best friend, she supported me, right or wrong. “I’ll find you someone.” She sat back in a more relaxed manner. “Change of subject. You need a new man. It’s been two years since—”
“Don’t mention his name. He’s still bothering me on and off.”
She shook her head. “If he’s stalking you, let’s file a complaint and activate your protective order. Then you can have him arrested.”
“I can handle him.” I waved a hand to indicate I didn’t want to talk about my ex anymore. “Remind me why you want me to attend a charity ball with you Thursday night?”
“One, it’s a good cause,” Gayle said, ticking the reasons off on her fingers. “Two, it’s an opportunity to see how the one percent live. Three, I hear the sponsor, Dex Morgan, it a hottie.”
“A hottie?” I wrinkled my nose in distaste.
She grinned at me. “You’re always so proper. You act like the definition of stuffy.”
I inclined my head. “People expect an opera diva to be dignified, to represent.”
“But you carry it to extreme. You freeze men out.”
“I am an independent woman.” I’d achieved artistic and financial success on my own. “I do not need a man.”
“They have their uses,” she said in a wicked undertone.
I ignored that. “Who is Dex Morgan? A genius college dropout who wears t-shirts and hoodies and founded a tech company?”
“Close enough. He invented a tech gadget and recently sold his company for billions. Now he’s living the life.”
I frowned. “A weeknight event will interfere with my rehearsals for Carmen.”
“Not buying that.” She wagged a finger at me. “You’ve sung the role dozens of times.” She leaned forward. “Sooner or later, I’ll need backers for my run to become a judge. These people have money and influence. They’re the kind who’ll donate millions to fund an opera production. Maybe one starring you.”
“I don’t need a backer. I need an exorcist.”
Gayle made an exasperated noise.
Chapter 2
No one at the Potomac Arts Center brought up the demon attacks when I arrived to begin rehearsals, which was a relief. We began working in a small rehearsal hall on bits and pieces from the first act of Carmen, usually with only a pianist to accompany one or two singers. We’d get to bigger run-throughs with more of the cast and the entire orchestra later.
Within a day, Gayle found me the name of a psychologist in Friendship Heights, at the border of DC and Maryland. “I hear she knows about exorcisms. She’s your intermediary to get to Marcus O’Flaherty, a professor at Catholic U. who’s written a book about exorcism. He doesn’t accept appointments directly, but I’m told she can get you in.”
I called to arrange a consultation. To my shock, I was treated like a person in need of mental health therapy. “I am not a patient,” I told the young woman on the phone in my most frosty tone. “I merely wish to arrange a consult.”
She insisted I was a new patient and that she would email me a questionnaire. I held my peace. My rule when dealing with people who did not show intelligence was to stop arguing with them. I did not fill out the questionnaire when I received it.
I arranged to skip an afternoon rehearsal in order to meet with the therapist. I hardly needed rehearsals to sing Carmen anyway. I participated in the sessions mostly to convenience the other singers and humor the director and maestro. Although there were always little wrinkles to be digested, new ways of interpreting the role, Carmen was Carmen, the sexy gypsy who seduced a soldier away from his upright life and paid with her own.
When I arrived at the psychologist’s Friendship Heights office, I expected to be greeted by the same officious person I had encountered on the phone, but the outer office was unattended. A large computer touch screen invited me to sign in and explained that the therapist would see clients at the appointed hour. Fascinating.
No one left, but exactly at two p.m., the inner door opened and a pleasant-looking woman of middle age called my name enquiringly. She was medium height, with shoulder-length light brown hair, dressed in beige pants and a slightly fussy blouse that toned with it, plus a cardigan sweater. Clearly she did not intend to compete with her patients through wardrobe. She introduced herself as Hannah Lochte and invited me to sit in a comfortable upholstered chair opposite her. The blinds were tilted to block bright sunshine.
I stated my situation as succinctly as possible, ending with, “I need an exorcist. I understand you might be able to put me in touch with Professor O’Flaherty.” I looked directly at the psychologist as I spoke.
“Could you describe why you think you are possessed?”
“I could, but you cannot help me.”
She shrugged. “I can’t in good conscience recommend a connection to an exorcist until I know more about you. I don’t do cold referrals. I’ve reserved this time for you. We can talk or not, as you like, Ms. Fedora.”
I considered that. “You may call me Daylia. Not Dahhh-lia, please. My name is short for Vidalia, like the town in Georgia where the onions come from.”
The therapist nodded knowingly. “I imagine you have explained that many times.”
“I have. I was a child when we moved up north to DC. Most people around here know very little about Georgia.”
“Did you get teased?”
“Why is that relevant to anything?”
&nb
sp; The therapist blinked. “Part of the process of getting to know a person is to learn something about their emotional background.”
I spoke precisely. “Although I offered you an explanation for how to pronounce my name correctly, I do not like the idea of describing every little detail of my childhood. I did not come here for therapy. Only for a referral.”
She nodded. “I can see that you are very motivated to get exactly what you want from people. In the past, has being this direct been useful, or has it stood in your way?”
I had to concede the point to her. “I have been told I have all the finesse of a rock hitting another rock.”
She gave me a sympathetic smile. “Oh, dear. That must have hurt.”
I shrugged. “I prefer honesty to guile.”
Hannah Lochte eyed me thoughtfully. “Since we are being honest, let me reiterate my position. I can only refer you to another professional if you will let me assess your current situation. Will you answer a series of screening questions?”
I needed her referral to the exorcist, so I told her to proceed. I recognized most of her long list of boilerplate questions about depression, anxiety, and neurosis from my own online research. I answered no to all of them. When she asked if I’d had any panic attacks recently, I laughed without humor. “I would not call wondering if the management could find a soprano in time for the performance a panic attack. Without her, we could not even start the opera.”
Hannah tilted her head. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand. Aren’t you a soprano?”
I shook my head. “I am a mezzo-soprano, which means I sing in a lower vocal range than a true soprano. We were doing Aida and we had no one to sing the starring role. I was to sing Amneris, her rival. Eventually, they found someone.”