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

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.

Then her friend’s mom made it home and she kissed her husband, teasing him about the freezer cookies, rolling her eyes behind his back. But she ate one anyway, then snuck another. They invited Christine to stay for dinner, but by that time her driver had made it through the slowly clearing roads and she had to leave.

She never forgot the smell of those cookies, though. And she always thought that maybe that was what love smelled like.

For an eternity she crawled along, until the floor grew damp under her hands, then soggy, then downright wet. She splashed through the water, finally standing when it grew too deep to crawl. Slogging through the water, she made out a candle glow ahead, at first so faint she thought her light-starved eyes imagined it. But no, the whispered song grew also, weaving around her, welcoming her.

Then shadows moved and hands touched her skin, drawing her along, steadying her. Reassured, she let them lead her until she saw her way clear. They left her, whispering back into the shadows they were born of. And she stepped out of the water onto the shore of the creek that emerged from Sanclaro land.

She was free.

She stood there, wet and muddy, shivering with reaction. At least now she knew what she needed to do. Find the Angel’s Hand and finally restore the Master to his rightful place, and let the ghosts of her ancestors move on. How she would do any of this, she didn’t know.

She just knew she had to.

Pulling out her cell phone, she pressed the number for the cops waiting for her, her guardian angels.

And, while she waited for them to pick her up, she finally called her father.

As opening night of the opera approaches, Christine faces the biggest confrontation of her life. Will she ever be able to set the Master free? And if so, will she lose him forever?

 

Find out in the climactic conclusion of
Master of the Opera Act 6: Crescendo
, available for download March 20, 2014!

Jeffe Kennedy
is an award-winning author with a writing career that spans decades. Her fantasy BDSM romance,
Petals and Thorns
, originally published under the pen name Jennifer Paris, has won several reader awards.
Sapphire
, the first book in the
Facets of Passion
series, has placed first in multiple romance contests, and the follow-up,
Platinum
, is climbing the charts. Her most recent works include three fiction series: the fantasy romance novels of
A Covenant of Thorns
, the contemporary BDSM novellas of the
Facets of Passion
, and the postapocalyptic vampire erotica of
Blood Currency.
She is currently working on
Master of the Opera
and
The Twelve Kingdoms
, a fantasy trilogy. Jeffe lives in Santa Fe, with two Maine coon cats, a border collie, plentiful free-range lizards, and a doctor of Oriental medicine. Jeffe can be found online at her website, JeffeKennedy.com, or every Sunday at the popular Word Whores blog.

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Copyright © 2014 by Jeffe Kennedy

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First Electronic Edition: March 2014

ISBN: 978-1-6018-3160-6