The phantom insisted she keep the blindfold on for the first part of the journey up and out.
“This is my way in and out—not yours,” he informed her, with no room for debate. She’d tried anyway.
Somehow he’d gotten her out of the seamless chamber, but he’d led her around it a dizzying number of times so she couldn’t know where in the room she’d been. When he stopped to take off her blindfold, he’d turned away quickly, so she couldn’t study his expression. Now they moved along yet another dimly lit and narrow hallway; with him leading the way. His light threw crazy flickering shadows against the walls, making him a deeper silhouette. She was more familiar with him now, and she could see the slight hitch in his stride, the catch in his hip as he walked. He continued on, holding her hand in his as he drew her along behind him, his thoughts far away, and she missed the intensity of his regard.
She had, perhaps, already become a little addicted to it.
He stopped so abruptly she nearly crashed into him.
“Listen.”
She thought he meant to listen to him, but he said nothing. The shadows stilled and seemed to fold their wings, settling around them with the quiet. Not entirely silent, however; in the singing distance of the acoustics, sounds traveled to her. Not the golden voice, serenading her, but the harsh vocals of police speakers, the whoop of a siren. The tromp of footsteps.
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. The daylight world searches for you.”
Shit. She really hoped her father wouldn’t find out. All at once she felt thirteen again, getting caught after sneaking back into the house. Her father had accused her of staging the rebellion to make him let her live with her mother and showed her how very badly her plan had gone wrong.
“Have I been gone that long?” It hadn’t felt very long. She didn’t have her phone, so she couldn’t check the time. “Where are my things?”
“Where you left them.”
“No—you moved them.” She remembered now. The strange sounds, the chandelier falling while she stood petrified below. What had really happened?
“I must go.” He still held her hand and now drew her closer. “Give me a kiss.”
“Tell me your name.”
“Call me Master.” He whispered it, like a secret, like a promise, and followed it with a searing kiss that chased the confusion and questions from her reeling mind.
He set her on her feet and she became aware she’d been clinging to him. A gloved thumb rubbed over her lip.
“Close your eyes for a moment.”
Rather than risk another discussion about the blindfold, she did. A sound like sandpaper and a whiff of dusty air. Then he pulled her by the hand a few steps and let her look again.
She stood on the very lowest level, outside the sealed door she’d seen on her first day. Feeling an odd sense of déjà vu, she traced the image carved into the door. The collar and whip that had instantly captured her attention.
“I don’t understand all of this,” she whispered.
Her voice echoed back. She was alone in the empty hallway.
7
The martial thump of boots on metal jerked her from her daze.
She hurried down the murky hall to the central spiral staircase and peered up through the grate. The levels were lit up to three above where she stood. Voices created quite a din, with shouts, doors banging, and dogs barking. They’d brought out search dogs?
Creeping as noiselessly as possible, she skulked up one flight of steps on all fours, keeping her profile low. She made it to the next level up without setting off shouts of alarm and decided not to risk another. Being that far down would help with her story that she hadn’t heard anyone.
Unfortunately she needed more of a story than that.
Why would she have come to this level—without her keys, dammit—and stayed down here when Carla needed her help? Could she fake temporary amnesia? The chandelier fell and she hit her head, can’t remember what happened but miraculously sustained no injury. And somehow wandered off.
Had the chandelier really fallen? Or had she only imagined it teetering above her, one of its crystal pendants spinning through the air like a snowflake, then soundlessly shattering on the floor?
If it hadn’t really fallen, then she’d sound insane.
If none of this had really happened, she had to consider that possibility.
Think. Think. Think.
She slid along the wall, trying doorknobs as she went, underneath the video cameras, out of range of their unblinking black eyes. No little red lights gleamed in the dark, however, so perhaps whatever happened to the one in the prop shop affected these, too. If that had happened.
It all whispered of mental imbalance, a thought that made her nerves cringe, the sensation of fingernails scraping sandpaper. The very worst part of being treated for mental illness was the way you learned not to trust yourself. Every thought could be a fraud, a decoy leading you away from reality and into the ever-shifting realm where everyone looked at you with sideways concern and believed nothing you said.
You were never crazy. Stop that.
Every explanation for her behavior led back to that place, though. Christy didn’t think she could bear to go through that again. The careful sympathy and casual dismissal. Worse—she began to wonder if she had dreamed it all up. That colorful carousel of a room and a masked man who intrigued and lured her.
Lights flared from the stairwell and the sounds of stomping boots came clattering down. A dog barked with excitement, his furry shape lunging down the tight spiral. He’d caught her scent and soon would be upon her. The game was up. She stepped out into the middle of the dark corridor and walked back the way she’d come, shading her eyes when the lights flashed on.
The German shepherd came leaping at her, full of doggy joy. She’d once read about how search dogs in major disasters became depressed, finding dead body after dead body. Their handlers would have to hide themselves in the rubble so the dogs could find a living person to restore their hope. She knelt down and scratched under her collar, letting the dog lick her face.
This, at least, was real.
“Christine Davis?” A man in uniform approached. She nodded, and he spoke into a radio. Better reception than her cell, she noted with some irony. Perhaps she should suggest them to Charlie. “Do you need medical attention?”
“No—I’m fine. I, um—” Moment of truth. What excuse will you use? “I’m afraid I got lost and, well, I fell asleep. All the noise woke me.” Ah, yes. The too-stupid-to-live defense. Never underestimate the power of seeming to be an idiot. Far better than crazy.
“Well, let’s get you out of here. You worried a lot of people.”
“I’m sorry.” She tried to sound meek and sorrowful. If her hair were long still, she would have twisted a lock around her finger.
“Never mind that. Though Detective Sanchez will want to talk to you.”
Upstairs, the prop shop had been taped off and crime-scene types were closing up their equipment cases. No need to check for evidence now. Detective Sanchez met them outside the door, arms folded, suspicious eyes looking her up and down as she repeated her story. He didn’t buy it for a moment, that much was clear.
As she spoke, she desperately wanted to see past him, to crane her neck to peer around the corner, to see the chandelier. Would it be perched high on the shelf, covered in dust? Or would it be a jumble of broken crystal on the floor?
Her heart pounded with the need to know, her neck tense from restraining the urge to push him aside so she could see for herself what was real.
“So, even though Ms. Donovan expressly told you to wait for her return, you decided not to?” At Christy’s frown, he clarified, “Carla Donovan, your boss.”
As much as she wanted to say that Carla wasn’t her boss—and who knew her last name was the same as Charlie’s?—she bit her tongue on that and concentrated on being silly. Surely they would have mentioned the chandelier?
“I was wor
ried about her. She was gone a long time, so I went looking for her.”
The detective checked his notes. “Ms. Donovan says she returned in five to seven minutes.”
“Oh.” Christy turned big eyes up at him, pleading. “It seemed longer. And with all the scary stuff going on, I . . .”
“Your story doesn’t hold water, frankly.” Detective Sanchez kept his hard gaze on her. “If you were frightened, why would you go down to the same level where a murder victim’s body was found?”
“I—” It was a good question. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Sanchez sighed. “Is that the only thing you were afraid of, Christy? Did something else happen?”
Did the chandelier fall or not? She wanted to shriek the question. She clamped down on it, keeping her voice even. “Like what?”
“I understand you’re seeing Roman Sanclaro.”
It took her a moment to adjust her thoughts. Roman? “Um, yes. He’s an old family friend. What does that have to do with anything?”
“He’s waiting for you outside. He’s been quite concerned about you. Is there anything you need to tell me?”
She no longer had to fake being confused and a little dumb. She had no idea what he meant. Sanchez drew her aside, farther away from the prop shop doorway. “Did Roman Sanclaro hurt or threaten you?”
“What? No.” Her thoughts lost some of the fog and she focused on him. “Is he a suspect in the murder?”
His face stayed impassive. “The investigation is ongoing. Do you have information to share with me?”
“Ah . . . no. No! I’ve known Roman practically my whole life. He would never hurt anyone.” Her voice shook, everything catching up with her.
Sanchez’s gaze flicked away and, despite his professional poker face, she could practically read his thoughts. They all said that kind of thing, the families—even the wives and girlfriends—of serial killers. She sounded just like those poor people on TV, bewildered, unable to believe the evidence before their eyes.
“I know you have my card already—here’s another,” Sanchez was saying. “Call me anytime you want to talk.”
Christy nodded, folding his card and sliding it into her jeans pocket. His intelligent gaze held both a plea and a warning.
“Even if you feel afraid for no reason, I want to hear about it.”
That was a laugh. He had no idea the things that currently frightened her. “Could I ask a favor?”
Sanchez raised an expectant eyebrow.
“I’m really sorry I caused so much trouble, but could you not call the owner of the theater about this?”
“Carlton Davis? Typically I wouldn’t, unless there had been an actual crime.” Christy breathed a sigh of relief, which the detective didn’t miss. “I’m aware he’s your father, Ms. Davis, so let me give you a word to the wise. Honesty is always the best policy.”
With a little salute, Detective Sanchez pulled down the tape and went into the prop room, asking someone to release Christy’s belongings to her.
With trepidation, she followed him. All of her desperation to see had fled, and now she almost couldn’t bear to look. Like the girl she’d been, she wanted to cover her eyes and peek through her fingers.
There were her things, sitting on the workbench where she’d left them. Up above, the chandelier rested, regal under its thick coating of dust and cobwebs. Underneath, the concrete floor was bare and clean.
But in the corner, catching her eye, a shard of crystal glittered.
In Master of the Opera Act 3: Phantom Serenade, Christy’s obsession with the Master’s dark sensuality jeopardizes her relationship with Roman, her job—and possibly her life. . . .
Coming February 6, 2014!
About the Author
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 post apocalyptic 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.
eKENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2014 by Jeffe Kennedy
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ISBN: 978-1-6018-3157-6
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