Master of the Opera, Act 1: Passionate Overture (4 page)

N
othing unusual happened that afternoon. If Christy put on a playlist of dance tunes to drown out any potential otherworldly melodies, who would blame her? No cell or wireless signal down here, but she had her iTunes library to pull from.

Maybe she turned up the volume louder than usual. Not like she’d be bothering anyone. She tucked her talisman in her jeans pocket—for good luck, she stubbornly thought at the absent Charlie. It had been dim in the store and she hadn’t looked at it closely. Making her think the image on the rock had changed was another of those tease-the-newbie games.

Of course there was no theater ghost—just tricks of sound. The opera house had been designed to carry sound of all kinds. With all these rock and concrete tunnels beneath, they amplified and distorted the smallest noise from above even more. And if she wanted to believe that theaters absorbed the energy of performances over the years, the very walls vibrating with old melodies when all was silent, well, that seemed several sane steps above buying that some
entity
haunted the halls, singing of lost love.

Having the monster flashlight helped, too. If nothing else, she could use it as a club.

When she climbed back upstairs at the end of the day, terribly dusty and more tired than she should be, a text message popped up from Roman.

“Yay, yay, yay!” Christy did a little dance with her phone. This one would be a no-brainer.

Would love to!
she texted back. She hoped that didn’t sound too eager. She should probably play hard to get, but that had never been her thing. He’d sent the text a couple of hours before, so that would have to do.

Pick you up at 8? Can’t wait, sweet girl.
The text came back immediately.

The old pet name gave her a tingle of delight. Maybe she could think up one for him. Something no other girl had called him. She didn’t mind that he’d dated around a lot. Of course he had. And it wasn’t like they were actually engaged, despite their fathers’ bad jokes.

She tucked her phone and other things in her bag, set the BNoD squarely on the middle of her desk, and looked around for her iPad.
Well, shit
. Gathering up her stuff and keeping one hand free for the flashlight, she’d left it sitting on a box by the door. It would probably be okay there overnight, but she really wanted it with her. Quiet evenings in her hotel room were sometimes
too
quiet.

Oh, well—it would only take a few minutes to retrieve it. She’d already checked in with Charlie and he’d headed out, thinking she’d be right behind him. A frisson of uncertainty ran through her and she wondered if she was being the dumb chick in the slasher movies, going back down into the depths of the opera house after everyone had gone.

Yeah, as if the ghost was going to get her.

A quick trip down and back—armed with the monster flashlight. No different from being down there ten minutes before.

Right?

Turning the lights on as she went, she headed back down her favorite spiral staircase. No way would she get in that elevator with no one in the building. On some of the levels, she had to descend into a pool of shadow barely broken by the spear of her flashlight. At least it helped her find the switches. Each series of bulbs buzzed on with sluggish resistance, slowing her progress.

Finally she made it to the lowest level—second lowest, really, but the one below didn’t count anymore—and lit her way to her current storeroom. She unlocked the door and there sat her iPad, right where she’d left it.

Only ... a red rose sat on top of it.

That familiar chill washed over her.
Someone just walked over your grave
, her aunt Isadore’s voice said in her mind. Tentative, she reached out to touch the rose. Her hand was shaking. She poked the blossom—it was vividly real, satin and alive. Where did it come from? Her touch had overbalanced it and the rose tumbled off its perch and fell to the floor, dust staining the dewy petals.

She stared at it, like it was a snake coiled to strike her ankle, trying to shake the overwhelming feeling that someone was watching her from the hallway. Thoughts running in frantic circles, she gripped the flashlight, the metal cold and slick in her abruptly sweating palm.

A click. And the hallway light went out.

Had this happened to Tara? Would she be the next to go missing, to have her father demanding that the lower levels be searched yet again for a body that would never be found?

She refused to turn around.

She had to turn around.

She turned.

And screamed.

A shadowy figure stood just past the open door. Tall, broad-shouldered, a dark silhouette against the unlit hallway.

“Don’t be afraid, Christine.”

That voice.
The
voice. The golden tenor caressed even spoken words, music running through it. Something deep inside her recognized it, resonating with it, with him. The shimmering feeling of
not quite real
made her head swim.

She grasped the heavy flashlight, holding it in both hands, ready to swing.

“I’ll scream,” she threatened. Most inane threat ever, since she already had. Look at all those people,
not
coming to save her.

“No need.” He sounded amused. “I won’t hurt you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why would I want to do harm to such a beautiful and vibrant young woman?”

“Oh God—you’re going to rape me.”

He laughed—a warm breath of sensuality, soothing in a totally irrational way. “I’m not. I never would.”

“Then what do you want?”

“To talk with you.” He moved, and his silhouette flowed, a long cape around him. “I want to know you, Christine.”

“Who are you?” Her voice had strained into a whisper, fear shutting down her throat after her brief enchantment with the sound of his laughter. “Don’t come any closer!”

“I won’t. I don’t want to frighten you.”

“Well, you already did.”

“I apologize. My ... social skills are rusty.”

She choked out a scornful cough, a ragged sound that surprised her. The flashlight was growing heavy, her arms tiring as she held it up. This was when they grabbed you, though—the moment you let down your guard.

“If you’re not here to hurt me, I want you to go away.”

“I understand, Christine. This was enough for me, for now.”

“I’m not
her
.” The words burst out, fueled by fear and a kind of desperation. Who the hell was this guy? Was he really a ghost?

“Who?”

“Christine.”

“But that’s your name—I heard you tell my stage manager.”

“Your stage manager?” Charlie?

“I think of Charlie that way, yes. This is my opera house; therefore you all work for me. You, Christine, are my apprentice. A very special apprentice. It’s time for you to relearn what you used to know.”

“This is my father’s opera house.” She tried to sound unwavering, clinging to the part of what he said that made sense, but her voice faltered.

“There are many ways of owning. Not all of them involve names on deeds.”

“Who
are
you?”

He shifted ever so slightly closer to the circle of light spilling through the doorway, barely enough to show he wore a half mask, a slash of darker material in the shadow of his face.

“You, my apprentice, shall call me Master.”

She should quit.

That was the clear and obvious solution. Not that she could tell anyone why.

He’d send her right back to the mental ward.

Christy groaned, wanting to bang her head on the bar, and took a deep swallow of her margarita instead. The salt on the rim pricked through the icy, tart concoction, finishing with the dark smoke of Hornitos tequila, seeping into her blood and soothing her as much as the crackling fire and chattering people.

She’d come straight to Del Charro from the opera house. After she’d stood there, clutching that stupid flashlight for forever after the ghost disappeared. Except he’d looked real. What did ghosts look like? And what was up with the you-shall-call-me-Master bit?

She should really just quit.

Maybe she wouldn’t have to. Charlie might fire her for leaving all those lights on. Because, when she’d finally screwed up her courage, she’d grabbed the iPad and run all the way up the spiral staircase, certain he might grab her from behind. Or worse, through the gaps between the stairs. No fucking way was she stopping to turn off the lights and climb in the pitch black.

She couldn’t face her silent hotel room either, so she’d come to this place, because she’d seen happy people through the tall floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the street, open to the balmy evening. So much better than being alone, cliché as it might be.

“Ready for another one?” The bartender pointed at the empty glass she clutched in both hands.

“Yeah.” Christy pushed the glass to her. “Something seems to have happened to this one.”

The bartender grinned and set the glass in the sink. “I’ll make you a fresh one. Where you from?”

Everyone here asked her that. She wasn’t sure if it was because she so obviously wasn’t local or because they assumed everyone was a tourist.

“I live here. Well—at the El Rey until I get a place. I’m working at the opera.”
Unless I quit
.

“Oh, cool. I’ve never been—can’t afford it—but I hear it’s really neat.” The bartender shook her unnaturally red ponytail. “One day, when I’m rich and famous. And learn to like opera.”

“What do you do—I mean, do you have a job besides bartending?”

The redhead laughed. “You figure I’m not planning to get rich and famous tending bar? No, I’m a starving artist. I paint.” She set down a brimming margarita and wiggled her fingers. “Faces, bodies, that kind of thing. This job pays the bills okay.”

Christy sipped the margarita—twice as strong this time. She’d have to watch it or she’d be taking a cab home. To the hotel. Whatever. “Do you guys serve food? Dinner food?”

“Sure. Restaurant’s attached, or you can eat here at the bar.”

“That would be great. To eat here.”

The bartender handed her the menu. “Special today is the chicken enchiladas. And we were voted best hamburger in Santa Fe.” She wandered off to serve other customers while Christy looked over her choices. Definitely not another burger after the one at lunch. She should have a salad.

“You decided?”

“I’ll have the potato chips with the warm blue cheese dressing for now,” Christy told her, abandoning any thought of picking something healthy.

“Nothing like comfort food.” The bartender tapped in the order.

“No kidding.”

“I’m Hally.” The redhead held out her hand, shook Christy’s.

“Like Halle Berry?”

Hally wrinkled her nose and leaned on the bar. “I wish! No—short for Halcyon. My folks were all into Burning Man and Rainbow Family, that kind of thing. I had a weird childhood. But I can dig a latrine, build a campfire, and cook stew for a hundred people. Plus I’m all kinds of creative.”

“Ah.” She’d heard of Burning Man, but not the other.

Hally waved a hand at her. “I won’t bug you. You waiting for someone?”

“No. I, um, actually don’t mind if you want to chat. I didn’t want to be alone tonight, pathetic as that sounds.”

“Not pathetic at all. I can’t imagine moving to a new town by myself.” Hally waved back at someone coming in the door and pulled out a couple of longneck Buds. “You must be all kinds of brave.”

Remembering the sheer, bowel-draining terror of meeting the theater ghost, how she’d run like a frightened rabbit once he’d left, that black cloak swirling in the dark, Christy shook her head. “Not by half. You wouldn’t believe what I saw—” She cut herself off with a shiver.

Hally widened her hazel eyes, dramatically lined with thick eyeliner. “What? Don’t stop there.”

She had to tell someone and she sure as hell wasn’t going to bring up the ghost to Charlie again. She leaned farther over the bar, scooting the margarita ahead of her. “Have you ever heard that the opera house is haunted?”

“No!” Hally glanced at the group down the bar and hushed her voice. “Well, I mean, everything around here is haunted, according to some people. Spirits everywhere. Old city, battles, negative vortexes. Did you see a ghost?”

“I don’t know.” Christy chewed on her lip. He hadn’t seemed like a ghost, but what did ghosts seem like?