Crescendo (4 page)

T
he party was all it should be.

Carlton Davis, master manipulator, had managed to dovetail the “special celebration” with a planned cocktail reception for patrons while the public opening-night tailgating festivities ramped up in the parking lot. Tourists and locals alike set up folding tables by their cars, broke out the fine linens, silver, and crystal and ate and drank, enjoying one of the best sunset views Santa Fe had to offer.

It was surpassed only by the opera house loading dock, with its sheer edge dropping over the valley. Christine's father had supplemented the catering with excellent champagne and a string quartet, bribed down from Taos. Quite the expense to assemble all the players in one spot, but he seemed to be enjoying himself.

Christine's father handed her a flute of champagne. “Ah, and the Sanclaro clan arrives. All of them except the wife, who declined, complaining of a migraine. This is going to be fun.”

She glanced over her shoulder to see Domingo Sanclaro, flanked by Roman, Angie trailing meekly behind, clapping shoulders and working the crowd.

“I'm surprised you call it ‘fun.' I can't wait for it all to be over.”

Her father chuckled. “You have to understand, when you've been in big business for a long time, it's like a duel. You find better and better swordsmen—and women—” He interrupted himself to toast her. “—to pit yourself against. To test yourself. What has Sanclaro Corp. done? It's the financial equivalent of going to the schoolyard and hacking up little kids with a machete.”

“Nice image, Dad.” Christine grimaced and he grinned, happy to have gotten her goat.

“Apt one, too. I despise fraud. Especially the kind that takes advantage of people who already have next to nothing. Taking Sanclaro apart before his peers will be sweet indeed.”

“It doesn't bother you that they're family?”

His face turned hard. “They are not my family, or yours. We share a genetic connection, nothing more profound than that. I was spawned by a coldhearted bitch who spread her legs, popped me out, and dumped me like an unwanted puppy at the pound. That's not family. Never forget it.”

He didn't have what she had, however—that racial memory connection to the tribal priestess who'd started it all. Christine wished she could share that with him; tell him that there was something meaningful and valuable in it all. But she kept the secret close.

Davis went on, not noticing her quietness. “If that Detective Sanchez can also nail him and his vile son for murder that will be a bonus. But it's the financial ruin that will hurt him where he lives.”

“About the murder, I don't think—”

“Carlton!” Domingo Sanclaro stepped up next to her, shaking her father's hand and ignoring her completely, little tool that she was. “I haven't seen you in ages. I thought we'd never get you out to our part of the world.”

Sanclaro wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo and scanned her father's not-Armani suit with a barely veiled sneer, completely falling for his gambit.
Never underestimate the power of seeming to be an idiot.
“You remember Roman. Once he and Christy marry, I'm making him VP.”

“He's young for it.” Carlton frowned at Roman, giving him the same dismissive glance Domingo had given Christine. She wanted to kiss her father.

“He's a bright and capable young man. He'll make a fine husband for your daughter,” Domingo replied smoothly. “I assume sweet little Christy here is still your only heir?”

Her father frowned at her, as if just noticing her presence. “Yes, well, though she's only interested in
some
aspects of the business,” he managed to make her sound flighty, “you know how girls are. They try on new occupations like dresses, isn't that right, dear?”

“Oh, Daddy,” she took her cue, “that's just mean. I prefer to say I'm eclectic in my pursuits.”

He ruffled her hair affectionately, something he used to do a long, long time ago. Before they started fighting all the time. “That's my girl.”

“A girl needs a strong guiding hand,” Domingo inserted, glancing at Roman. “I'm as delighted as you are that these two kids have finally seen the light. Given Christy's affection for the opera house, I imagine you'll want to deed that to her—perhaps as an engagement gift.”

She could see her father's point. Sanclaro wasn't even working for this one. Carlton Davis tossed back the rest of his champagne, knitting his brows, looking a bit befuddled. “That reminds me. I have an announcement to make.”

Domingo and Roman exchanged satisfied glances, while her father made his way to the string quartet, tapping on his empty flute with the wire rims of his glasses. Roman moved to slide an arm around her waist.

“What happened to the dress I sent for you?” he murmured in her ear.

“Daddy bought me this one,” she answered, keeping an eye on her father. Not far away, Hally and Angie were deep in conversation. Good. Hally would handle the realities of that situation.

Inside the opera house, the shadows grew deeper as the sun dropped, its rays stretching long and red, splashing the copper surfaces with crimson light. A flutter of movement caught her eye, the sweep of a cape, dark on black. Warmth stirred deep inside her.

Soon this would be over and she and the Master would be together.

“Don't get used to it,” Roman was saying. “I won't have my wife dressing like a slut.”

The music stopped and Carlton Davis cleared his throat loudly into the mike, making everyone cringe and look his way. He grinned, loving every moment.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Let's all make a toast, please.” Waiters passed through, pouring the excellent champagne liberally, and Roman smiled down at her, nearly giddy with his triumph. Carlton Davis held up his now-full flute. “To another fabulous Santa Fe sunset!”

The crowd laughed, then everyone turned to toast the sky. Roman's arm tightened on her waist and Domingo refused the toast. Bad luck, that.

“Now that we've acknowledged nature's contribution to this exciting evening,” Davis continued, “I also want to thank the many, many people who made this opera season happen. From the board,” he held up his glass to the cluster of elegantly dressed board members, who nodded solemnly, “to the talent,” the soprano, already in costume, fluttered her fan, “to the lowest apprentice.” With that last, he tipped his glass toward Christine with a long wink.

“She happens to be my daughter,” he pretended to confess, gaining another laugh. “Today is a very special day for her—seeing the fruits of her labors in her very first job. I wish I could go back and enjoy that again. I'm proud of you, Christine.”

People clapped politely, and she found herself unexpectedly weepy at the words.

“He's taking forever,” Roman complained.

“Hush,” she replied without thinking, and his displeasure manifested in a sharp pinch at her waist. Learned that one from his mother.

“I think we should all have a moment of silence, too, for the tragic events of this season. For the loss of a young woman on the verge of a new life, a new career, senselessly cut short. And for Carla Donovan, longtime loyal employee of this opera, who couldn't be here tonight due to her injuries.” Charlie, in an older-style tuxedo that he probably pulled out every year, acknowledged the words, a deep frown knitting his brows.

“I've come to a decision. Not because of the unfortunate mishaps of this season, but because the world turns and times change. I want you all to hear it first here.”

Domingo Sanclaro rocked from heel to toe, beside himself with excited energy.

“As many of you may or may not know, I came to own this opera house via a trust from my mother, Angelia Sanclaro.”

Gasps of surprise ran through the crowd. Domingo frowned and Roman slid an uneasy glance at her. She tried to look confused.

“Yes—though it's never been common knowledge,” Davis said, acknowledging the shocked response of the gathering. “In fact, it's been something of a deep, dark family secret. But it's time for us to come out of the closet. Christine, honey, you need to know that Roman is your first cousin. While strictly legal in this state, I find such a marriage distasteful and cannot condone it.”

People in the crowd glanced in her direction and away, shaking their heads. She bit her lip for them to see her public consternation.

“As penance for keeping this secret, I have investigated the trust and discovered a way to break the terms. As of today, I've sold the opera house.”

“What is he talking about?” Roman demanded in her ear.

She put a hand to her temple, acting out traumatized grief and shock.

“I can give you all the details later, but as of,” he glanced at his watch, “three-thirty this afternoon, Davis Corporation no longer owns the Santa Fe Opera. An exciting, new company, Star Entertainment Enterprises, will be taking over. I think you'll be in very good hands.”

Roman swore, letting her go hard enough that she stumbled.

“What's the meaning of this, Davis?” Domingo Sanclaro shouted far too loudly. The whites of his eyes seemed to bulge with unbalanced rage. “That trust is ironclad. The land belongs to the Sanclaros. Always has and always will. Besides, you can't make this kind of move without the board and the shareholders.”

Carlton Davis put on his glasses. “Are you referring to your shares, Sanclaro? The ones I bought out from under you?”

Like a lash, Domingo's gaze cut to his son, who shrank back, shaking his head in denial.

“You haven't been watching your financial house, my old friend. And the board convened an emergency meeting today. Upon seeing evidence of the federal investigations underway into Sanclaro Corp., the good people unanimously decided to divorce themselves from your influence.”

Several of the board members nodded in agreement, sending black looks in Sanclaro's direction.

“In fact,” her father looked pleased with himself, “I believe there are some folks from the FBI and the Bureau of Indian Affairs here right now, eager to discuss some of the information I sent their way.”

Domingo looked as if he wanted to run, torn between keeping his public face and escaping the agents moving in his direction.

A bell chimed and Davis nodded. “And now it's time for the real show to begin—everyone to their seats!”

He held out a hand toward Christine and she went to him, leaving Roman and Domingo conferring furiously in whispers. “That was brilliant,” she told her father, who folded her hand over his arm, patting it. “Though I'm sorry to see the opera house pass to someone else.”

“You love it, don't you?” Her father gave her a keen look. “I could hear it in your voice from the day you arrived.”

She looked up at the soaring roofline, still shining with glints of light against the deepening sky. Like the visible temple on the hill, gateway to the Underworld. “I do, yes.”

“Good. Don't tell anyone yet, but Star Enterprises is yours. I set it up for you. The trust really is ironclad. I just transferred it to you early.”

She gaped at him, at a total loss for words.

“Maybe now that you don't live with your allergic old man, you can get a real cat and throw away that scrappy piece of fur you've dragged around since you were four. Don't think I don't know you brought it here with you.”

“I'm never getting rid of Star. You gave her to me.”

“Only because your mother insisted. She always knew better than I did how to make you happy.”

Christine leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You've done a damn fine job of it today.”

“Well,” he cleared his throat with a loud cough, “let's go watch this show then.”

“C
hristy!”

She turned as Matt came running up to her. “Christy, the fucking magic flute is missing
again
! Hi, Mr. Davis, nice to meet you, sorry for cursing, but we need to find it
right now
. Curtain goes up in fifteen.”

“I thought we had it on the set.”

Matt set his jaw and bugged out his eyes at her. “We
did
. And now it's
not
.”

“Shit!” Christine ran a hand through her hair, only to snag on the spikes Hally had gelled into it, insisting they made her look “extra-specially hot.”

“You go ahead and take of it,” her dad said. “I'll be fine. Don't mind this old man.”

She rolled her eyes at him and took off after Matt, struggling to keep up on the high heels. Following him down the concrete side stairs, she dashed onto the set that would soon rise one story to the theater level. Everything was set and in its place—including the flute.

“Matt! What the—”

A hand clapped over her mouth and a muscled arm clamped over her chest, painfully crushing her breasts and lifting her off the floor. She struggled, flailing behind her with her fists, and her captor swung her around to show her Hally, gagged and round-eyed at the knife pressed against her throat. Matt, his hand wrapped in Hally's hair, pulled her head back and pushed the blade against her fair skin with a hand that visibly shook. “Shut up, Christy, okay?”

She stopped fighting. “Good girl,” Carla crooned in her ear. “Now you're going to give me the Angel's Hand or your friend here will be the phantom's next victim. Understand?”

Unable to do anything else, she nodded. She'd always known Carla was a big woman, but her strength was astonishing. She wasn't supposed to be here or Christine would have made sure to tell someone about the notes. Matt glanced away when she looked accusingly at him. He must have called Carla and told her about the Hand. He'd been her spy all along.

“Mattie, bring the little witch—after all, we can't interfere with the opening, right? Charlie, let the stagehands in as soon as we're gone.”

Charlie, his frown deeper than ever, moved into view.

“Just be—”

“Shut up, Charlie.” Carla's voice sounded weary. “I've done the brunt of sacrificing for this. You can at least get out of my way. March, Christy.”

Setting her down, Carla pressed a knife against the small of Christine's back. “Take me to it. If you fuck around, you lose a kidney.”

They went out and down, Christine and Hally walking ahead of Carla and Matt. Was the Master watching? Surely he'd help her.

“You can't possibly think this will work,” Christine said. “It's a full house out there. People inside and out. You'll be caught. It's all over.”

“It's not over.” Carla cuffed the back of her head and she staggered. “You brought us to this, you stupid cunt. Where are we going?”

“To where I hid the Hand.”

“You'd better be telling the truth or I'll show you where Tara died—and demonstrate the technique on you.”

The truth sighed through her, the puzzle piece fitting. Carla, not the Sanclaros, had killed Tara.

“I am.” Christine unlocked the door to the ballet studio, now quiet with all the dancers off because tonight's opera had no dancing. The roomful of mirrors reflected the four of them over and over, with the bruised Carla looking like the crazed monster in a funhouse. Christine unlocked the door to her old office—the first little closet Charlie had stuck her in.

“I thought the police sealed this room.” Matt sounded confused. A little scared, too. This kind of thing couldn't possibly have been his idea.

“They did, but only from the hallway. Now let Hally go.”

“No way,” Carla sneered, blocking the doorway. “Not until I have the Angel's Hand.”

“How do I know you won't hurt us?”

“We will.” Carla nodded at Matt.

He looked a little green.

“Do it, you little shit, or you'll pay,” Carla growled.

He took a deep breath and stabbed the knife into Hally's arm. A shallow, glancing slice, but she shrieked and clobbered him. He dropped the knife and they fought over it, Hally scratching and pummeling him furiously. Finally he solved his problem by sitting on her and holding the knife point down between her breasts.

“This was a brand-new dress,” Hally hissed at him. “The nicest one I've ever owned and you got blood all over it. Karma will get you for this.”

“Enough already!” Carla snapped, pointing her own knife at Christine. “Where's the Angel's Hand?”

Matt looked worried. “Did you hear something?”

“The show has started,” Christine told him. Then she opened the closet, reached under a pile of old posters, and brought out the box.

Carla took it from her and examined it. Then looked up at the security camera near the ceiling and nodded.

Shit
. A few minutes later, Roman appeared in the doorway to the ballet studio, followed by his father. Domingo strolled up to Carla, took the box from her, and handed it to Roman. Then he smiled, cupped the back of her neck, and kissed her, a savage, sexual kiss. She submitted to it, though it was clear the pressure pained her battered face.

Christine and Hally exchanged revolted looks.

“Well done,” Domingo told Carla. “Though you should never have stolen it from me.”

“I just wanted to be with you.” Carla wrapped her hands in his lapels, crushing the expensive cut. To Christine's shock, the tall blonde wept. “I carry the blood, too. I can be the Sanclaro hand. Please, Dom! Haven't I shown my loyalty?”

Domingo eyed Christine, then backhanded Carla with enough force that she flew off him, despite her apparent death grip. “Yes. I will be forever grateful that you eliminated that foolish girl and brought the prize I'd only dreamed of within my reach. However, because of you and your games, the fucking Feds are breathing down my neck. We need to act fast. They may dare to arrest me if we don't take steps. Roman, bring her. Meet me in the sacred chapel. I'll prepare the wedding ceremony.”

“You can't force me to marry him!” Christine shouted the words, feeling the wild sense of things spinning out of her control.

Domingo smiled at her condescendingly. “With the Angel's Hand restored to me and yours at my disposal—dead or alive, I might add,” he waggled the mummified hand at her mockingly, “I am priest and king. I
will
marry you to my son, under the eyes of the only god that truly matters, and we will both watch you consummate that marriage.”

Roman leered at her, and she imagined herself beneath him as he raped her on the chapel floor, his father watching. “It won't be legal,” she protested.

“Once we have control of our pet god again,” Domingo intoned, his face suffused with an insane light, “I will be above the law. You have no idea the
miracles
I can work. If you obey and are pleasing, we might let you live. At least until you bear a daughter or two.”

He snapped his fingers at Roman, who reached out to grab her arm. She punched him in the nose and he tried to backhand her, but she ducked.

Just then Matt gave out a strangled wail and fell over, clutching his balls. Hally scrambled up, pushing him over, and sat on him, raspberry nails pointed at his eyes. “I'll do it. Don't push me, karma boy!”

Domingo snarled, pushing the box to Roman. “I'll take care of them. Get going.”

Seeing her chance and following Hally's lead, Christine drove the sharp point of her Jimmy Choo heel into Roman's shin, grabbed the Angel's Hand, and ran. On sheer instinct, she ran toward the one person she trusted to save her.

The Master.

Christine
.

If running on the polished concrete floor of the long, curving hallway wasn't easy in the high heels, plunging down the spiraling metal stairs was infinitely worse. One of the soaring arias followed her, the song pitching higher and higher as she descended. She held onto the rail with one hand, going as fast as she dared, holding onto the box with the other.

Heavy feet hit the grid of stairs over her head: Roman coming after her.

Impossible, but she went faster. Her body knew the rhythm of these steps, she'd been up and down them so many times. Round and round she rattled down, going deeper into the darker, unlit levels, careful not to let the spikes of her heels fall through the openings in the grate. Roman had slowed, not as confident as she, but still gained on her. Wishing she'd had time to take off the damn shoes, she imagined she felt his harsh breath and the brush of his fingers, grasping for her hair.

She went faster. Stilettos clanging against metal.

And then it happened.

Like the dream. Her heel caught on the edge of the step.

For an endless moment, she hung there, overbalanced.

And fell.

Plummeting over the edge and down. Roman yelled out in fear and panic. Surely not for her.

Time slowed. Her lungs clenched in the vacuum of panic. She fell endlessly, down and down, through the infinite shadows, reaching for a name.

“Master!” she cried.

Strong arms caught her.

“Right here.”

She buried herself into his muscular chest, sobs wrenching out of her. He held her close, murmuring comfort in her ear while his warm lips brushed her cheek.

“Watch out!” she warned him, recalling the urgency. “He's chasing me!”

He turned so she could see. Light filtered through the grated steps in lines and squares. No one pounded after her. Only the galloping chorus of the end of Act I followed her, faint strains of the world above that could no longer reach her.

“It's only you and I, my love.”

“As it should be.”

“As was always meant.”

“I want to free you. Free the shadow people so you can't ever be used again. I want to make it right again.”

The breath sighed out of him, holding centuries of waiting. “Yes.” He strode down the hallway, carrying her along, and the solid door dissolved into smoke before them. So that was how he did it.

“Isn't it real?” she wondered.

“What is real in one world is intangible in another,” he replied. “When we pass through the doorway, remember your feeling of submitting to me. Give over. Don't fight it.”

Despite the adrenaline pumping through her, it felt easy to relax against him and go into the state of yielding.

“Good,” he murmured. And they passed through. “Remember—whatever happens—you cannot change the fact that the river flows, but you can change its direction.”

“What do you mean?”

“The things you and I have done—it's like a river of life. You strengthened me and our people.”

“But will it be enough for you to go back to being what you were?”

His face stilled into quiet lines behind the mask, his muscled arms carrying her without effort. “The past is gone. We have only the future.”

She thought about that as he carried her through the maze of tunnels and passages, now on dry land, now wading through hip-deep water. Looking over his shoulder, Christine saw the shadows gather and trail after them, the dark eyes and flowing hair of the people moving in and out of substance as they, too, seemed compelled to follow.

Gradually she recognized the hallways, the ones under the Sanclaro compound that led to the secret room.

“They lost control of some spaces of land,” the Master murmured. “It let me escape some of my prison, to roam my opera house.”

“Angelia,” Christine realized. “When she bequeathed it to my father.”

He nodded. “Her gift to me. Like you, she wanted to do more. But they stopped her.”

With a sick sense of sorrow for the grandmother she'd never known, Christine remembered the article about the car wreck. How she'd died in a freak single-car rollover, leaving behind a son who'd thought she hadn't cared.

They all crowded into the tiny alcove, spilling back into the branching halls, the hosts of the people who'd lived and died on the land long ago. The Master's head nearly brushed the ceiling of the chamber, with awe and a tinge of gratifying fear.

The Master set her on her feet, then framed her face with his gloved hands and kissed her, long and deep. Her body throbbed for him and she regretted that they'd had so little time together.

“Thank you, Christine.” He brushed his thumbs over her cheekbones.

“I haven't done anything yet.”

“For wanting to.”

“What do I do?” She surveyed the pillar nervously. She needed Hally.

“Trust yourself. It's in you. In your true heart.”

Reverently, she opened the box. The scent of dying roses filled the room, full of decay and old bitterness. She hesitated to touch the mummified hand, but the shadow people shuffled, brushing her with whispers of encouragement. It felt like old leather, delicate and dry.

It wasn't easy, but she held long-dead Seraphina's hand against the pedestal, then pressed her turned-in ring into the depression on her side.

“Nothing is happening.” Disappointment, metallic and bitter, flooded her.

“Wait. The magic is already in motion. Like a waterfall down the mountain. Remember: you cannot change the fact that the river flows.”

A whisper of melody and the scent of roses and sunshine. The glass dome over the artifacts misted away, the sense of great power humming into the room, like lightning about to strike. It filled her with a viscerally sexual hunger. Over the pedestal, she gazed at the Master. Longing thrummed between them, but he seemed transfixed, unable to move. His black hat, his mask, his cloak, his suit, shifted and became smoke. He stood, powerfully naked and iridescently white, a shining star in the small chamber. His face, still half melted, became a blank canvas for the numinous blue of his eyes.