Master of the Opera Blog Hop
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Master of the
Opera by Jeffe Kennedy
An aria for lost
souls
Fresh out of college,
Christine Davis is thrilled to begin a summer internship at the prestigious
Santa Fe Opera House. But on her first day, she discovers that her dream job
has a dark side. Beneath the theater, ghostly music echoes through a sprawling
maze of passageways. At first, Christy thinks she’s hearing things. But when a
tall masked man steps out of the shadows—and into her arms—she knows he’s not a
phantom of her imagination. What she can’t deny is that he is the master of her
desire. But when her predecessor—a missing intern—is found dead, Christy
wonders if she’s playing with fire…
-------------------------------
About
the Author:
Jeffe
Kennedy is an award-winning author whose works include non-fiction, poetry,
short fiction, and novels. She has been an Ucross Foundation Fellow, received
the Wyoming Arts Council Fellowship for Poetry, and was awarded a Frank Nelson
Doubleday Memorial Award. Her essays have appeared in many publications,
including Redbook.
Her
most recent works include a number of fiction series: the fantasy romance
novels of A Covenant of Thorns; the contemporary BDSM novellas of the Facets of
Passion, and an erotic contemporary serial novel, Master of the Opera. A fourth
series, the fantasy trilogy The Twelve Kingdoms, hit the shelves starting in
May 2014 and book 1, The Mark of the Tala, received a starred Library Journal
review and has been nominated for the RT Book of the Year while the sequel, The
Tears of the Rose, has been nominated for best fantasy romance of the year. A
fifth series, the highly anticipated erotic romance trilogy, Falling Under,
released starting with Going Under, followed by Under His Touch and Under
Contract.
She
lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with two Maine coon cats, plentiful free-range
lizards and a very handsome Doctor of Oriental Medicine.
Jeffe
can be found online at her website: JeffeKennedy.com, every Sunday at the
popular Word Whores blog, on Facebook, and pretty much constantly on Twitter
@jeffekennedy. She is represented by Connor Goldsmith of Fuse Literary.
Master of the Opera Chapter One
Anything could happen. Anything.
The sky
soared impossibly blue, studded with cotton clouds worthy of a Georgia O’Keeffe
painting. Driving with the convertible’s top down, Christy soaked up the
Southwestern sunshine as she planned to do with absolutely everything.
The wind
blew her hair, the short ends whipping around her face, stinging her skin with
the perfect thrill of being alive and the mistress of her own destiny. No more classes, no more
books, she
thought to herself with a grin. No more East Coast gloom and city pressure.
Free to be her own person, she zoomed down the highway and into her brand-new
life.
The Santa Fe
Opera House came into view, the elegant, arching lines of it an extension of
the red rock cliff it perched on. Like a raptor of copper and steel, it gazed
over the vast basin, a temple to pure sound, a place for the worship of
ancestral theater.
Following
the signs, she found the backstage area and parked. Grabbing purse, cell phone,
and tablet, she swung her legs out of the car. They looked damn decent, thanks
to the time she’d put in at the gym. The new stiletto heels she’d squandered
some of her graduation money on helped normously. She strode toward the
building and around to the back apron, ready for her first day on the job.
The vaulting
ceilings of the open-air theater, designed to look like swathes of fabric but
made of steel, cast a deep shadow that made her shiver from the abrupt chill.
Pushing her sunglasses onto her head, which also served to hold back her
wind-ruffled hair, she opened the back door and peered into the gloom of below
stage.
No one
seemed to be about, though the door had been unlocked. Her heels clicked on the
poured concrete floor, echoing in the perfect acoustics of even this dark
working space. Here and there, shrouded stage pieces loomed with dusty
magnificence. Where a cover had been shrugged off, a shoulder of gold filigree
gleamed. In the deeper shadows, a mirrored sapphire elephant raised its trunk,
forever frozen.
“Can I help
you?”
Choking back
a startled shriek, she whirled on the man who seemed to have crept up behind
her. She threw an accusing look at his soft sneaker treads and he gave her a
rueful smile.
“Sorry about
that. Charles Donovan—Charlie—general manager of the opera. And you’re
Christine Davis?”
“Everyone
calls me Christy.” She shook the hand he offered. “Sorry—I wasn’t sure which
way to go to find your office.”
“Some days
even I don’t know.” He flashed her a comfortable grin and tucked his thumbs in
the loops of his faded Levi’s. “For all that this theater isn’t as old as the
European opera houses, somehow it ended up with labyrinths below stage. This
way.”
She followed
as he wound back in the other direction. “At least there aren’t catacombs or
ancient sewers to get lost in.”
He chuckled,
arriving at the door to a tiny office, bright with fluorescent light, and
gestured her inside. “No. But to hear the New Agers talk, there’s plenty of
Native American burial sites, hidden tunnels, subterranean dwellings, and so
forth.”
“Here?”
Charlie
shrugged and wedged himself behind the tiny metal desk, piled high with
paperwork. Sticky notes covered every surface, including the glowing screen of
an apparently ancient laptop perched precariously on one corner.
“You’ll find
there’s every kind here, Ms. Davis. Hang around long enough and you’ll find
someone who believes in it. Sacred spirals, peyote, reincarnation. You name it.
And then there’s the talent.”
“Theater
people tend to be superstitious, my dad always says. The smart manager learns
to work with that.”
“You have no
idea. Ah well, we’re here to keep ’em happy, if only for the season.”
“Mr.
Donovan, I—” She’d rehearsed this speech and it came out in a rush. “I want you
to know that I’m here to work hard. My dad might have arranged for me to take
this apprenticeship at the last minute, but that was just the right
opportunity. I want this and I’ll do what it takes.”
“Don’t worry
about that. Apprentices are slave labor. You’ll put in your sweat and blood.”
He extracted a file folder with surprising efficiency from one teetering pile. “You
already have the show schedule. Here’s a preliminary list of prop and set items
for each opera. And ...” Charlie spun his chair around to the sagging
industrial bookcase behind him and yanked out an enormous three-ring binder,
dropping it on the desk in front of her with a bang and a poof of dust, “...
our inventory.”
She stared
at the binder in dismay. “On paper?”
Charlie
grinned and poked a finger at the laptop, which was making an ominous grinding
noise. “I’ve been meaning to get to it. And Tara—well, she was only a few days
into it before ...” He trailed off, scratching his scalp. “Most of the staff
starts arriving next week—
you ought to
have a chunk of it done by then. I have Tara’s notes. They might help.”
With a sigh,
Christy propped the tome on her lap and flipped through the yellowing pages.
“The letters
and numbers indicate location?”
“Yeah, in
theory. That’s where you come in. The L number is the level. The other codes
indicate the exact storage room. Here, let me grab you a map.” Charlie spun
back around to frown at the shelves.
“Am I
interrupting?”
“Roman!”
Christy grinned at her old friend. “I was wondering when I’d get to see you.”
Handsome as
ever, Roman leaned in the doorway. He looked to be doing well, from the
expensive cut of his chestnut brown hair to the sleek shoes peeking out from
under his impeccably tailored suit. He returned Christy’s smile with familiar
charm. “I had to stop by, see my sweet girl. But I see that I’m interrupting.”
“Not at all,
Mr. Sanclaro!” Charlie popped up from his chair, dusting his hands off on his
jeans and leaning over to offer one in welcome. “You know you and your family
can stop in anytime. How’s your father?”
“Busy as
ever,” Roman replied easily, then turned to Christy. “How about a hug—or are
you too grown up for that now?”
“Don’t be
silly.” She returned the light embrace, accepting his polite kiss on her cheek—
something
her ten-year-old self would have sighed over and embroidered into fantasies for
weeks. “It’s so good to see you again.”
“I knew the
Davises and Sanclaros have long jointly owned the property,” Charlie commented,
“but I didn’t realize the families are close.”
Roman rolled
his brown eyes. “When Christy and I were growing up, our fathers used to joke
about our betrothal—that it would at last resolve the logistics of the Davises
owning the actual opera house and mineral rights, while the Sanclaros own all
the surrounding property.”
“It wasn’t
funny,” Christy put in. That was putting it mildly. Any time Domingo Sanclaro
and his son visited them in New York City, she’d been torn between a frenzy of
anticipation at seeing her lifelong crush and dread at the older men’s teasing.
They were two of a kind, Carlton Davis and the elder Sanclaro, living for the
business deal. It never occurred to them that needling an adolescent girl who
imagined herself in love with the dashing college boy family friend was so
cruel. Roman had always been so patient, however, treating her like a little
sister. His sweet girl.
With a rush
of warmth, Christy realized she had a hand on Roman’s arm. She let go and
grabbed ahold of the unnaturally blue plastic binder.
“Have you
seen much of Santa Fe yet?”
“No—I’ve
barely just arrived. I’m surprised you even knew I was here.”
He winked. “Your
dad told my dad—I’m to look after you.”
“I’m not
twelve anymore,” she replied with a bit of irritation. Which immediately melted
when Roman’s grin shaded to sexy and he swept her with an appraising look.
“No. You’ve
definitely grown up. Let me at least take you to dinner tonight. We have more
five-star restaurants per capita than any other city in the U.S, you know.”
“I didn’t
know.” Roman Sanclaro was flirting with her. Her adolescent self would never
forgive her if she didn’t go. “Yes—I’d love to.”
“Excellent.
At least we can appease the fathers. Shall I pick you up around eight, then?”
“Perfect. I’m
at the El Rey on Cerillos until I find a place.”
Roman raised
an eyebrow at Charlie. “Nothing but the best for our new staff?”
Charlie
shook his head. “Not much of a budget for apprentices.”
“Surely your
dad can spring for better than that place? I’m surprised he’d let you stay
there.”
She
maintained the easy smile on her face. She’d kept the car because that was
practical, but the rest she was determined to do on her own. Daddy’s girl. One only needed to hear that so
many times in a lifetime. “It’s nice. Clean. I like it. Eight o’clock, then?”
“I’m looking
forward to it. And I’ll get out of the way now.” But he hesitated.
“Did you
need something else, Mr. Sanclaro?” Charlie had his thumbs tucked in his belt
loops, all courtesy for the son of the opera’s patron.
Roman
glanced at her. Back at Charlie. “My father is wondering if there is further
word about ... our little problem?”
“No. The
police have no leads. Tara’s family is pushing to have the lower levels
searched again, but Detective Sanchez thinks she took off. Official stance is
no evidence of foul play, there’s nothing more they can do.”
Roman
cleared his throat and Charlie raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure Ms. Davis is perfectly
well aware of what became of her predecessor.”
“I don’t
want you to worry.” Roman turned to her, his brown eyes warm. “All the fuss
will die down. Tara was a bit flighty. Probably thought she fell in love and
took off for Acapulco, eh, Charlie?”
Charlie
nodded in slow agreement, a line between his bushy gray brows. He seemed about
to say something but stopped himself. It hadn’t occurred to Christy to be
concerned. Her father had made it sound as if Tara, the previous apprentice,
had simply run off, much as Roman described.
“Is there
reason to be concerned?”
“Would
Carlton Davis send his daughter here if there was?” Roman waved his hands as if
encompassing the greater world, then sobered, giving her a very serious look. “Besides,
I’ll protect you. From the theater ghost.”
Christy
laughed and Charlie shook his head. Every theater had some kind of ghost or
legend. It was as necessary as lighting and curtains.
“They say,”
Roman’s voice dropped an octave and he flicked his eyes dramatically at the
floor, “that he lurks below, scarred, deformed even. At night, after the
audiences have left and the stage crew is cleaning, they can hear him sobbing,
calling out the name of his love, who had drowned in the underground lake. “Christine,” he keened the name. “Christeeen.”
The hair
stood up on the back of her neck, a shiver passing over her.
“Was that
her name?” she whispered.
Roman
grinned at her. “Gotcha.”
“Oh!”
Christy clutched the notebook to her chest, hating that she’d been so gullible.
She tried to smile.
“New girl
initiation—don’t be mad.”
“I’m not,”
she assured him. Silly. He’d always been able to sucker her into his jokes.
Apparently she hadn’t grown up that much.
“I’ll see
you tonight.” With a jaunty wink and a wave, Roman left. “Sorry about that.”
She Turned to Charlie, hoping she hadn’t seemed unprofessional. “I really had
no idea he’d stop by.”
He shrugged.
“We’re pretty low key around here. And I’m not going to argue about anything
that keeps the Sanclaros happy.”
Christy took
the map and the inventory book and gave herself the tour. Right after Roman
left, the phone had rung and Charlie had rolled his eyes, shrugged his
helplessness, and waved her on her way. Her dad always said managing a theater
was 95 percent soothing ruffled feathers and it seemed that was what Charlie
did.
The enormous
freight elevator looked like standard institutional issue. She stabbed at the
cracked down arrow and waited. The gears cranked more ominously than Charlie’s
laptop, accompanied by the screech of a tormented belt. When the doors
shuddered open—the floor of the elevator a good hand’s length above the one she
stood on—revealing the garage-like interior, which smelled as if feral cats had
pissed inside, she decided to save using it for transporting heavy stuff. And
only when there would be a lot of people
around to hear her if she got trapped in it.
Instead, she
found the central spiral staircase and descended into the dimly lit lower
levels, deciding to start at the bottom and work her way back up. The hollow clanking
of her heels echoed through the silent rooms. In another week the space would
teem with people and noise. Bursting with energy and excitement.
She couldn’t
wait.
Until then,
silence and peace reigned, which was why she took advantage of the time. Tomorrow
she’d be back in jeans and tennies—and geez, maybe a sweater—ready to dig into
the deep and dusty layers. Today was for orienting, despite the ultimately
unnecessary interview outfit, which now felt way too skimpy in the chilly
bowels of the opera house.
She flicked
on another set of lights, the fluorescents taking a moment to catch, then
flickering on with an insectile buzz. Beyond it, she caught another sound, a
whisper of movement. A draft of colder air brushed past her, making the small
hairs on her arms stand up and her scalp prickle.
Mice or
rats, most likely. Or pack rats, in this area. The woman who ran the hotel had
warned her about the pack rats.
Still, for a
moment, she thought she’d heard music.
An echo,
perhaps. The expectation of the space, the perfect acoustics. She fancied that
the building absorbed all the music and played it back to itself when everyone
was gone, the timbers saturated with it.
Soon, real
music would crash through—out of tune, cadence, and context. The same phrases
repeated in cacophonous opposition to someone else’s practice run. Chaos and
tumult.
There it was
again. A whisper of song. A honeyed tenor.
Curious,
compelled, she followed it down the corridor, passing the various storage
rooms, holding their eclectic treasures in darkness. The hallway ended abruptly
in a dead end, a good thirty feet past the last lightbulb. Christy consulted
her map in the dim light. If this was the right level, the hall should keep
going to another set of storage rooms.
It didn’t.
She retraced
her steps, frowning at the map, then at the end of the hall again. The
featureless wall hadn’t changed. Had the door been covered over or sealed? She
set the map and inventory notebook down and walked back to the end of the hall,
ran her hands over it. Not drywall, but solid plaster, cool and damp to the
touch. If it had been closed off, it didn’t seem to be recent.
Her
fingertips caught on a small flaw in the smooth surface and she bent to see it
better in the shadowy green light. A circle cut into the plaster, with what
appeared to be a set of links dangling from it, like a collar and chain. It was
crossed by a whip, the braided design painstakingly worked in.
She gasped,
then swallowed it, glad no one had heard her.
She glanced
around, uncannily convinced that someone watched, listened. Unable to help
herself, she traced the emblem with her nail, wondering what it meant and why
it was here. And why something about it thrilled her, sent her blood
percolating with intrigue and a desire to know more. Along with a strange
familiarity.
A breath of
cold air swept across the back of her neck again, and she stood abruptly,
spinning on her heels and putting her back to the wall.
Nothing.
No one was
there.
And yet ...
that tenor voice, golden and sweet, sang somewhere far in the distance, too
distant for her to make out the melody, but the notes strummed across her
stimulated nerves, soothing and arousing. She wanted to find it, to hear it
better.
The song
ended in a soft laugh. And then a whisper.
Christine.
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