Master of the Opera, Act 4: Dark Interlude Read Free Page B

nonphysical aspects of existence that they can’t deal with anything concrete. Most of us are somewhere in the middle.”
    “That makes no sense.”
    Hally frowned at her, popped a lime on the rim, and slid over the margarita. “It totally makes sense. You have to—Oh. My. God.”
    “What?” Christy started to swivel on her stool, but Hally seized her left hand and stopped her.
    “Tell me that is not an engagement ring. A fucking Sanclaro family-heirloom engagement ring. And an opal! You can’t wear this.”
    “Oh, well . . . it’s a long story.” One she didn’t even understand herself. She packed down the visceral terror she’d felt while looking into Roman’s eyes. Of him or her own dark places, she didn’t know. “I have to keep it. For now.”
    Hally blinked slowly, like an owl. “I revise my earlier statement. Yes. You are crazy.”
    Christy sagged. “I knew it.”
    “Then why did you take the ring?” Hally spaced out the words as if her friend might be a little slow on the uptake.
    “Oh, that?” Christy’s gaze landed on the ring, held high in Hally’s grip. “That’s kind of the least of my problems right now.”
    “Honey, if you really believe that, then we need to talk. Should I be worried?”
    Christy tugged her hand away and sipped the margarita, the tang of salt, lime, and Hornitos making her eyes water. At least that’s what she told herself it was.
    “I think that worrying isn’t going to fix my problems.”
    “You want to talk about it?”
    “Maybe. Eventually. Not tonight.” She held out her hand. The ring looked pretty, if a little big for her delicate hand. “Everything else aside for the moment, why can’t I wear an opal?”
    “Bad luck.”
    “You don’t really believe that.”
    “Okay,” Hally amended, “it’s more that they hold magic, which can be good or bad, but if you don’t know for sure, it’s safer to assume it’s bad.”
    “Cynical of you.”
    “Not really. See—opals are special gemstones. They’re more a kind of glass, so they have all sorts of different things in them. That’s why you get all the different-colored sparklies.”
    “Is that what the gemologists say?” Christy asked drily.
    “Hush. I’m an artist—you get the paraphrased version. Because of their nature, they absorb personal energy. The personality, emotions, intentions—all the life force of the person who wears it.” Hally leaned her folded arms on the bar. “A lot of magic workers use crystals to focus their energy that way. Because opals have that much more stuff in them, they’re less predictable. You can pack in a lot more power, but how it comes out again can be all over the place. What matters most is who’s worn it before and how they used it.”
    “Roman’s great-grandmother, Angelia Sanclaro.”
    Hally snorted. “What do you want to bet she was no angel?”
    “You can’t possibly know that!”
    “Exactly!” Hally pounced on her response, pointing a finger upward. “You know nothing about her, but you’re going to have her distilled essence riding around on your hand?”
    “Sounds icky when you put it that way.”
    “It is. Better not to wear it at all.”
    If only that were an option.

3
    W hen she got back to her apartment after a reassuringly normal-ish conversation with Hally, who blessedly asked no more about what the hell Christy was thinking getting engaged to Roman, she tried to organize her thoughts.
    A message on her cell from Charlie’s assistant said the cops had finished and the opera house would be back in business. Monday morning awaited her, with all that would entail.
    She couldn’t wear the ring to work, regardless. It was too valuable, too likely to elicit unwelcome questions, and too much of a taunt to the Master, who saw everything in his theater. She contemplated his reaction with a strange mixture of fear and remorse, which seemed all wrong when she remembered that he might have been the one to hurt Carla. And Tara, no matter