Master of the Opera, Act 4: Dark Interlude (3 page)

It boggled the mind, but the timing was right and it explained so much, including the vague stories about Christy’s grandmother dying in childbirth, leaving her grieving widower to raise the child alone. A child he foisted off on his sister. Domingo Sanclaro, only two years younger, would then be her father’s half brother. Had her father even known?

Domingo only took over the family business—a sprawling empire of real estate, mining, oil drilling, and similar interests—after his grandmother died in 1996. Christy would have been around four or five then, which would match the time when Domingo began visiting. And when her parents began fighting.

It also explained her father’s deeply loyal interest in the Santa Fe Opera House—and how the Davises had managed to obtain an island of property in the vast Sanclaro holdings—which he refused to sell, even during the various economic downturns and despite the fact that all his other businesses were on the East Coast. It had to be a bequest from his mother. A woman who’d left him without a backward glance and later died in a car wreck on the road to Las Vegas, according to a yellowed newspaper article.

All those jokes about betrothing them—and Roman was her cousin, albeit via half brothers. It made her stomach turn.

“Catching up on your research?”

She jumped, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong, slamming the volume closed in pure reflex. Detective Sanchez stood on the other side of the table, smiling in a way he probably thought was friendly but conveyed his suspicion. He surveyed the stacks of books and files.

“Doing a little background check on the new fiancé’s family, huh? Aren’t you supposed to do that
before
you accept the ring?”

“Wow—news travels fast.”

“When the Sanclaro lawyers call our offices to instruct us to leave you be as you’re now family, yes. Yes, it does.”

Always had been family. She couldn’t quite assimilate it.

“Then why aren’t you leaving me be?”

“Free country, right? Museum is open to the public. Mind if I sit?”

Before she could answer, he’d pulled out the wooden chair and made himself comfortable. He spun around a reproduction of an etching thought to be of Salvador Sanclaro, surrounded with Christlike rays of light, noble in his Spanish armor. Sanchez made a rude noise at the image.

“Don’t care for the Sanclaros?”

Sanchez screwed up his face and considered. “Hmm. Rapists, pillagers, robber barons. Not a lot to admire.”

“Is that why you’re harassing me?”
Always accuse first
, her father counseled.

“Just saying hi to a friend.” Sanchez produced the friendly smile again, folded his hands over his ample belly, and tilted back in his chair. “So, tell me—how does a nice
gringa
like you manage to get engaged to the heir to one of the most powerful families in New Mexico within weeks of arriving in Santa Fe? That’s quite a feat, even for an old friend.”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“You are lucky, Ms. Davis. What happened to Carla Donovan—that could have been you when you disappeared. Why her and not you? I wonder.”

“Because she was abducted. I wasn’t abducted. I got—”

“Got lost and fell asleep, right, I know the story. We also both know it’s a lie.”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“
That
, Ms. Davis, is exactly the part that bothers me.”

“Has Carla woken up yet?”

“Why—what do you think she’ll tell us?”

“I want to know as much as you do.”

“I’m betting that much is true. But you want to know for different reasons.”

“We’re all concerned about her.”

“Why didn’t you want your father contacted? Surely he’d be concerned.”

Her stomach clenched and she resisted the urge to reach under her shirt, to touch the scars there. “Because he’ll be worried about me and make me come home. I don’t want to go home.” Was this what her father had been afraid she’d find out? Then why get her the job here at all?

“Yeah.” Sanchez dropped his chair back onto all four feet with a clatter that made her start. “See, Christy, a good liar knows to lie about everything. Mix it up, you know? But you’re not a good liar—and I know that because when you tell the truth, which is most of the time, it’s very clear that you’re being honest. That was the truth right there. Tell me, does your father know about this ‘engagement’ ?”

He actually made air quotes around the word. If she didn’t have the same surreal attitude about it, it would have made her angry. Still, her tone came out irritated.

“No—it’s supposed to be a secret from him for now.”

“Not much of a secret.”

“Don’t you have to keep it confidential? Like a lawyer or a . . .” She floundered, looking for the right terms.

“Like a priest and the sanctity of the confessional? No, I’m a cop. I’m the one who decides which information to release and which to keep close to my vest. Why do you ask, Christy—do you have something to confess?”

The image of those shadowed, private confessionals in the cathedral flashed through her mind.
You haven’t received absolution
.

“If you do, I swear to protect you,” he pressed. “Help us out here. Carla can’t tell us what happened to her. Tara will never be able to tell us. You’re the only one who can.”

“I can’t tell you something I don’t know.” Her lips felt numb, and she tried to show the shining truth of that—she really didn’t know what had happened to them—but she felt the cloud of the lie, of what she did know and felt a gut-deep loyalty not to reveal.

“Have Roman Sanclaro or his father threatened you?” Sanchez asked in a low voice that wouldn’t carry. “Blackmail, maybe?”

His perception startled her and she felt sure it showed. Not trusting her voice, she shook her head, pressing her lips tightly together.

Sanchez looked disappointed, scrubbed his scalp with it. “Has it occurred to you that an alliance with your father would be greatly valued by the Sanclaros?”

Ha! If he only knew.

“I’m not an idiot, Detective. People have been using me to get to my father all my life.” It came out more bitter than she expected, and she rubbed her arms, chilled in the museum’s careful climate control.

“No. You’re not an idiot.” Sanchez eyed her, as if trying to peer inside her skull. “I suspect you’re even smarter than you seem. Maybe you’re one of those pretty girls who learned early on not to threaten the men around them. Growing up under the thumb of a guy like Carlton Davis would do that.”

“Wow—that was such a mix of insult and compliment that I’m not sure what to say. Do I say thank you or fuck you?”

Sanchez laughed, leaned on the table. “Ah. There’s the real you. And I have a hundred bucks that says you never talk to Roman Sanclaro that way.”

“Keep your bet because it’s none of your business.”

“
You
are my business. You’re neck deep in my case. And there’s something you’re not telling me. I can smell it.”

“I really don’t see how you could think I’m guilty of—”

“Not guilty,” he cut in. “No, I don’t think that. Of course, I can’t completely rule anyone out. But my gut says you’re an innocent. Which is why I can’t leave you to the wolves.”

“I’m not a babe in the woods.” Why did everyone keep implying that she was some virginal ingénue?

“No. You’re no helpless infant. You’re the princess in the tower.”

“What? Is that some kind of police code?”

Sanchez laughed, stood, and tipped his cowboy hat to her. “I was reaching for the story metaphor. You’ve got princes and dragons fighting over you, don’t you? I do believe that makes you the trophy.”

T
he words stuck with her, as Sanchez likely meant them to. They wound together with Roman’s vague threats about her needing the lawyers, and how the Master spoke of needing
her
. In her apartment she pulled out the opal ring from where it had ground uncomfortably against her pelvic bone all day. The polished stone with the bear image had ridden in her back pocket, so she got that out, took off the silver spiral pendant, and set the three together again on the shelf beside the kiva fireplace.

She stared at them, trying to perceive the wordless message there, as in the melody of the song. Though the engagement ring was a lie, it carried a certain truth about the Sanclaros. The Master hid himself behind masks and mystery but swore to be true.

And she? Well, her whole life was pretty much a lie.

 

She mulled her options all morning. Now that she was over the shock, she thought about what else she’d learned from the files at the museum. The Sanclaros, even after all this time, were the invaders. The Master—half man/half bear?—was tied into the tribe that was destroyed, perhaps. The gods of the land before the conquistadors brought Catholicism with them. Princes and dragons.

It all seemed absurd. A fairy story of battles and murders. And yet the pieces fit.

Except for why he seemed trapped under the opera house. Why there?

Christy took her sack lunch out on the back deck, where the opera house looked to the west over the valley. She sat on the edge, dangling her feet over the drop, eating her peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Was Roman the prince and the Master the dragon? Or vice versa?

Roman had lied to her. About the lawyers protecting her, for sure. Maybe more, if he knew about their shared blood.

She stared out over the breathtaking landscape, remembering when she’d arrived, full of hope, determination, and, okay, quite a bit of naïveté, it turned out. The ingénue enters, stage left.

Well, this was her story. She hadn’t wanted to be locked up in her father’s castle and she wouldn’t be anyone’s trophy.

She dusted the bread crumbs off her hands. No more waiting around—for rescue or abduction.

Time to take matters into her own hands.

 

She performed her trick of pretending to leave but circling back to park behind the Dumpster. This time, fear rode high on the edge of her excitement.
Trust your gut
. Repeating her mother’s mantra helped, but she still felt that tension her mother must feel, stepping into a war zone. Something no damsel in distress ever did.

Amazing how much courage it gave you—the determination not to be a pawn.

With her keys, she let herself in, descending the spiral stairs, the heavy flashlight Charlie had given her in hand, down to the lowest level and the door to his world.

He came without song, without warning. Just a presence in the shadows. Saying nothing.

Silence throbbed between them and, despite her new determination, Christy found she had no idea what she wanted to say. Instead she only wanted to fling herself against him, to feel him wrap his strong arms around her, to hold her tight and close. Why was it that standing here with him in the near total darkness, him a man in a mask and cloak, forever hidden from the light, felt more solid and more real than the last few days had? That she felt no fear of the monster, while terror had filled her at the look in Roman’s eyes?

“Christine.”

The whisper of his voice, full of longing, regret, joy, and grief echoed off the walls, eagerly repeated in a susurrus of sound, like a religious chant. It wrapped around her, melodious, hypnotic, a song without words.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back.”

“I knew why you didn’t come.”

“Did you do it?”

“You wouldn’t be here now if you thought I had. You know the truth in your heart.”

“Do I?”

“It’s in you to know it, Christine. You have to listen.”

“Who are you?”

“I’ve been trying to show you. But I need your trust for that, and I’ve lost it.”

“Who hurt Carla? Who killed Tara? You see everything in this opera house, you say—who dumped Carla’s body on my desk with a rose and a note in your handwriting?”

He stilled, the sudden coiling of a predator hearing the heedless footstep of his prey.

“What note?”

“Like the others you left me. ‘For my love’ this time.”

“I’ve never left you notes.”

“Yes—and two others.”

“No. I can’t write, Christine. Not in your language, anyway. I never learned.”

The fine hairs on her arms stood up, her skin goose pimpling. “Then who did?”

He laughed, dry and unamused. “Someone who escapes my sight.”

“But you said nothing here escaped your notice.”

“Clearly I was mistaken.” He paused and she waited, feeling him consider what to say. “I am not what I once was. I am . . . crippled.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“Beyond the scars. I have been weakened and it has taken me so long, perhaps forever, to find my way again. When you arrived, I thought, I hoped that—”

“That what? Why me? I’m an ordinary girl.”

“No.” He laughed, then rolled into another, deeper laugh. “You are an extraordinary woman, on the cusp of becoming who you will be. You are my muse, my priestess and avatar.”

“This is a very strange conversation.”

“I cannot help that. You are a child of the modern world. These things aren’t part of what you understand.”

“No. They’re definitely not.”

“I need to touch you.”

She took a half step back, the open hallway behind her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I’ve missed you, Christine. I thought you might never come to me again.” His voice came out hollow, devoid of its usual richness. “My life can be a lonely one. I was only half alive before you arrived. Now I feel every moment we’re apart like the keen edge of a knife in my heart. I crave the sight of you, the scent and taste of your skin.”

The earnest passion reached inside her and found its mirror, touching her in a way that none of Roman’s avowals ever had. She responded to him from the core of her being, the desire for him spreading through and suffusing her. Her sex pulsed in answer when he spoke of tasting her.

And yet . . .

Wasn’t that only physical? The cravings of the carnal flesh the priest on Sunday had spoken of with such derision. Not to be trusted. To be rejected as the work of the devil.

She felt so alone. Like him. Crippled. As if a piece that should make her whole had been stripped away early in life.

“Would you . . . hold me?” she tendered. “Only that?”

“Yes.” Like a vow of love, the affirmation breathed out of him. In the shadows, he opened his arms.

She slipped inside his embrace, relaxing as his arms folded around her, holding her close, like something to be cherished. As if she was as precious to him as he claimed. She wanted to stay right there forever. She wanted him to sweep her up and carry her off, to take her away from the jangling world and all the petty annoyances and looming horrors.

But that would be fleeing to the tower. Just another one, where she’d be kept safe. A pretty trophy for the mantel.

So she pulled away from his reassuring heat, the solid comfort of his body. She missed him immediately, as if she’d left a layer of skin behind, leaving her exposed to the cold world.

He seemed to feel it, too, his arms still outstretched, embracing the space she’d left behind. “Christine . . .” he said on a long, musical breath. “I love you.”

The confession emptied him, and his arms dropped. The deep, primal part of her wanted to fling herself at him again. To make him wild promises. She held herself back with the bare fingernails of reason.

“Why me?”

“It’s always been you. Only you can make me whole again.”

His words uncannily echoed her thoughts.

“I don’t understand.” Her frustration welled up. “Why are you trapped in the opera house? What can I possibly do to help you?”

“It’s not something I can explain in words. You must experience it to understand.”

“What kind of experience?” She had to ask the question, but she knew. Her sex flared to life, responding instantly to the thought of being with him again.

“Like we did before, yes.”

“I can’t trust you that way again.” Besides, she wanted it too much. It couldn’t be right, wanting that, his dark world and cruel-edged sexuality. Was it the Sanclaro blood that made her want this? Her fingers drifted to the opal ring in her coin pocket.

“What do you have in your pocket?”

She started, guiltily. “Are you a cat, to see in the dark?”

“The night is my domain. I may be weakened in many ways, but the dark serves me. I can see you clearly, yes, and the conflict on your face when you touch what’s in your pocket. What is it?”

“A ring.”

“Show me.”

Honesty wasn’t the easiest path to take, but she’d resolved to it. She dragged out the ring, the prongs holding the circle of diamonds catching on the seam. Laying it in the center of her palm, she held it out for him to see.

His breath hissed out, followed by a grunt of pain, as if she’d plunged a sword into his heart.

“Angelia’s ring.”

“You know it?”

“Why do you carr y it if you don’t know?”

“It . . . was a gift.”

“Ah. I should have known. You will learn the ways of your blood and you will serve those who keep me trapped for their gain.”

“I won’t do that. I don’t even know what you mean.”

“Christine.” He sounded weary now, the vitality bleeding away, all music gone from the dry husk of his voice. “You cannot halfway vow. It makes no difference that you carry the ring in your pocket instead of on your hand—you are fooling only yourself. You cannot serve two masters. It will tear you apart.”

“I don’t serve any master,” she shot back, stung.

“We all serve someone or something. The trick is in knowing who or what it is. Some spend their whole lives discovering that.”

“What do you serve?”

“When you learn my true nature, you will know the answer.”

“But I can’t be with you that way.”

“Not while you’re engaged to another man, no. I may not have much, but I have my integrity.” A whisper of a footstep as he turned away.

“That’s it? This is good-bye? I’m doing the best I can here.”

“No, your best lies in
your
true nature and you don’t know it yet. Until you do, you’re as crippled as I am.”

“How am I supposed to find that out, though—it’s not like I can Google it.” The joke, a desperate attempt to alleviate the tension, fell flat.

“Go in peace, Christine. Know that I love you and I wait for you, should you be free to love me in return.”

“Wait!” She could no longer see or hear him. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

Only silence answered her plea.