Master of the Opera, Act 5: A Haunting Duet (4 page)

T
hey drove out to the Sanclaro compound without speaking. Of course, with Roman’s techno music blaring at top volume, conversation wouldn’t have been possible. He seemed in fine good spirits now. Now that he figured he’d won.

He’d made her change three times, clearly enjoying putting her through her paces, like he was training a dog—
sit, stay, roll over, beg
—until he was satisfied with the dress she chose. Long-sleeved, with matching ruffles at the wrists and high collar. With the black stockings he’d insisted on, he’d managed to make her look like a maiden aunt.

The cops followed behind, and Christine wondered what they made of her and all this.

Inside, she trembled.

So much for her warrior-priestess self. One slap and she crumpled in fear. She hated herself for it. She could no more stand up to Roman than she could to her father. Just the tone of voice Roman had used had turned her into a crumbly thirteen-year-old again. Nothing had really changed.

She tried to firm her resolve with the image of the Master—not his bear self, but the man she’d made love with—speared through with the Sanclaro silver cross . . . even though it filled her with a paralyzing dread.

A tear escaped and ran down her cheek. Roman saw it and turned off the stereo. Her ears rang in the abrupt silence. He sighed and reached over to take her hand, lacing his fingers with hers.

“Don’t cry, sweet girl. You’ll see that this is all for your own good. This will be the salvation of your immortal soul.”

“My soul?” she echoed blankly. The scrolled, wrought-iron bars of the Sanclaro gates caught the sunset light, the silver crucifix gleaming with red highlights, as if painted with blood.

“Resist the devil and he will flee from you,” Roman intoned. “You have been wandering in the wilderness, without guidance, without your real family. Right now you feel confused, but soon you’ll see that all we’ve done, all we’re doing, is because we love you.”

Her father had said that—that he wanted her in his sole custody because it would be best for her. Her mother’s itinerant lifestyle and liberal/media-elite ideas would only corrupt Christy’s thinking. With a pang, she missed her mother, needed to talk to her. Her mother would know what to do. Had her mother known about the Sanclaros and whatever agreement they had with her father? It would explain so many things.

“You don’t really believe in demons, do you?” she tendered.

Roman cast her a sideways look. The grand house loomed ahead, ablaze with light, music wafting on the evening breeze.

He squeezed her hand and let go, patting it. “The Sanclaro family is old and has many secrets. We don’t discuss this in public, but we have things to teach you. It’s time for you to reach your destiny—under my loving and protective guidance.”

He parked the car in front of the wide, curving staircase that led up to the hacienda doors, the police unit crunching on the gravel as it pulled up behind them. “Wait here—I’m going to talk to the cops about you, see if we can stand for your good behavior. Then I’ll escort you inside.”

She waited, tense, her thoughts working furiously. Above, the hills rolled up to the pinking sky, a flare of copper catching the light. Peering at it, she felt as if she knew that shape and color. It reminded her of the opera house. But could that be? She’d still never driven herself here, so she wasn’t totally clear exactly where the Sanclaro estate sat in relation to the city. It was a long, looping drive, around hills and through a canyon, and—yes, they absolutely could be in the valley below the opera house, on the sunset side.

And the music she’d thought came from the hacienda instead floated down from above. Someone rehearsing a duet—the light and dark voices winding together, now clear, now torn apart by an errant breeze.

The roads tended to follow the valleys, making big loops around the high ridges. That was the opera house, from the other side.

The car door popped open, startling her. “Come on,” Roman grunted, taking her arm and nearly pulling her out of the car. The police officers waited nearby, deliberately relaxed smiles on their faces.

“Do you need assistance, Ms. Davis?” one inquired, with a significant glance at Roman’s grip on her arm.

“She’s fine,” Roman snapped. “As you’ve already been told.”

“We’d prefer to hear it from Ms. Davis, if you don’t mind,” the other officer told him, steel behind the smile.

She could ask for their help, Christine realized. Roman would be angry, but the cops would protect her. Protective custody, Sanchez had suggested. Now she wondered if he’d suspected this. She could escape this way—run from the Sanclaros
and
her father. Which would mean abandoning the trapped spirit under the opera house, too.

“Perhaps we should speak with Ms. Davis alone,” the first cop suggested. “Over here, Ms. Davis?”

Reluctantly, but with a fierce warning glare, Roman released her arm, and Christine went with the cops, walking a short distance with them, as if out for a summer stroll.

“Are you being coerced or abused, Ms. Davis?” The one who’d asked if she required assistance cut to the chase.

If she said yes now, they’d take her back to her apartment—and she might never discover what the Sanclaros knew about the Master. It would be the coward’s way out.

“No, I’m fine.” They looked at her dubiously, and she knew she sounded like the girl who gave in to her father, who wore Roman’s cursed ring.
Stop being weak
, she ordered herself.
Overcome it.
“I appreciate your looking out for me, but I’m in no danger.” She really hoped that was true.

The first one handed her his card. “You have your cell phone? Good. We’ll be right out here in front. If you’re the least bit worried or afraid, call or text my cell. Text 911 to me and we’ll come right in.”

“Trust your instincts,” the second cop urged her. “There’s no shame in asking for help.”

“Thank you.” The emotions of the past few days threatened to swamp her with these two officers so earnestly concerned for her safety. They watched as she programmed the number into her phone. “I’ll call if I need you.”

“Can I be of assistance, Officers?” Domingo Sanclaro jogged down the hacienda steps, looking like Ricardo Montalbán in his white suit.

“Mr. Sanclaro.” The first officer tipped his cap. “We’re here to see to Ms. Davis’s continued well-being.”

He sized them up, dark eyes glittering with ill-concealed malevolence. “Do you impugn the reputation of my family?”

“No, sir. Just following orders, sir. We were instructed not to let Ms. Davis here out of our sight, but your son informs us that we’re not welcome inside the house.”

“My son is correct. Unless you have a search warrant, you must leave the grounds immediately.”

“Is that what you want, Ms. Davis? It’s not too late to come with us.” The cop ignored the rage suffusing the elder Sanclaro’s face.

“Thank you, yes. I’ll be in touch.” She tucked her phone into her pocket, glad the granny dress at least offered that.

The police officers turned back down the drive while the three of them watched, Christine flanked by the Sanclaro men. In the low heels Roman had chosen for her, she felt short and vulnerable. Part of her wanted to run shrieking after the cops to save her. The other part—a confident part that had survived after all—made her stay.

“Well, Christy.” Domingo Sanclaro looked her up and down. “It’s always a pleasure to have you here. Welcome to your new home. It’s good that you understand.”

Roman took her hand and tucked it possessively in the crook of his arm, then slipped her phone out of her pocket and put it in his own. “She does. As you predicted, your arguments were most persuasive—she’s ready to take her place in our family.”

Domingo smiled, his glittering teeth white. He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, right on the bruise his son had put there. “Of course they were. My future daughter-in-law is no fool. Now come along; dinner is ready and Reina will be displeased if we continue to linger.”

 

They all sat around an enormous wooden table that seemed straight out of the Spanish Inquisition. The dining room, lined with oil portraits of the illustrious Sanclaro ancestors, was full of shadows. A stern-faced woman stared down at Christine from one, the opal ring prominently displayed in the center of the painting. The reproduction of the twins in the museum had looked richer; in real life the old oils had cracked in the desert heat. It probably should have been properly archived. They seemed to stare back at her as she ate, Angelia and Seraphina, with their father’s Castilian nose and the broad, flat cheekbones of their mother.

They had grown up without her temporizing influence, connected to their crippled god as their priestess mother had been put under the cruel and ruthless hand of their conquistador father. Perhaps he had loved his daughters, the extension of his empire. But the cold expressions on their faces belied that hope. They sat, side by side on an austere pew, in black dresses like nuns, their hands overlapping to show the twin opal rings. Looking at them, Christine couldn’t remember which was which.

Domingo sat at the head of the table, of course, with Roman at his right and his wife at his left. Christine sat next to Roman with Angelia across from her, wearing a demure white cotton dress. With her long, soft black hair held back by a pearl headband, she seemed to be an angel indeed. The rest of the long table stretched down at least twenty more place settings.

Just an intimate family dinner at the Sanclaros.

They ate chicken mole and fresh guacamole, the other two women chattering happily about the upcoming wedding and other family. They seemed determined to set Christine at ease, complimenting her hair and her dress, and telling charming stories about Reina’s nieces and nephews.

Christine nodded and smiled, acting the role Roman and his father had assigned her, while she turned over the family history in her mind. Some detail of the wedding ceremony niggled at her, combined with what Hally had explained about circles and bindings. Then she knew the right question to ask.

“How can the wedding be here?” she asked. Reina closed her mouth primly, and Christine realized she’d interrupted a story about the most precious niece’s First Communion in the gazebo, where Roman and Christine would be married. “Shouldn’t we be married in a church, under the eyes of God—on consecrated soil?”

Domingo gave her a long look. “Our land is already consecrated. All of Sanclaro property has been blessed and dedicated to the One True God.”

“Oh.” And wasn’t that something. “How did that happen?”

Roman frowned at her, shaking his head slightly, and she shrank back, not having to fake a ripple of fear.

“The Sanclaros owe their fortune and prosperity to God,” Angelia recited, sounding far younger than seventeen. The puppyish way she peered hopefully at Domingo for approval gave Christine a tremor of revulsion. Too familiar. “Right, Daddy?”

He didn’t answer his daughter and she sat back in her chair, wilting like a flower without water. Instead he addressed Christine. “Never doubt that God stands behind the Sanclaros. We will do whatever it takes to maintain the purity of the family. Now, let us retire to the chapel for prayer.”

The prayers were interminable. They all knelt on hard stone that came from a dismantled monastery, she was informed. That should have been interesting. If the Sanclaro ancestors had been part of trapping the Master, then any kind of religious artifact could do it. Hally had said to look for circles or stars. Or stones set at four points of a circle, like she’d drawn to protect Christine in the cave.

But these stones were only gray and hard, the little chapel a windowless room, barren of anything but a plain wooden cross, the height of a man, hanging on the blank wall.

Domingo led them in reciting the same few phrases over and over, until the Our Fathers and Hail Marys ground into her brain, numbing her into a trance. Twice she fell asleep, and Reina viciously pinched her arm to wake her. Roman glared at her in warning from the men’s side of the small chapel.

Finally, Angelia was tasked to show Christine to her room. It was a pretty room, with glass-paned doors that opened onto a balcony overlooking the front drive. Those doors, however, were closed and bolted. So much for fresh air.

“Am I a prisoner?” Christine asked, driven by exhaustion into speaking the thought aloud.

Angelia closed the bedroom door and leaned against it, pulling off her pearl headband and shaking out the soft sweep of black hair. “Pretty much. It really depends—how stupid are you?

“E
xcuse me?” Christine gaped at the sharp-eyed girl, who no longer looked docile at all.

Angelia sighed. “Maybe you
are
that stupid. Never mind.”

Christine held up a hand, realizing as she did so that it was Hally’s gesture. “Give me a minute to catch up.” Was this some new gambit of Roman’s? Get his sister to work on her next? “Why don’t you tell me what you’re talking about, Angelia?”

“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.

“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.