“I wasn’t sure if the people who recruited Martin would get suspicious about his death and come looking for me. I also knew from what Martin told me that the organization you call Nightshade is a group of renegade psychics. I figured the one bunch they might want to steer clear of is the Arcane community.”
“So you decided to hide in the heart of the Society.” Luther’s mouth curved faintly. “I like it. Talk about a gutsy move.”
“There was another reason why I applied for the post in the Bureau of Genealogy,” she said quietly. “I’ve always heard that when you’re in real trouble, you run home.”
“So?”
“The Society is the closest thing I have to a family.”
TWENTY-FIVE
It was intolerable.
La Sirène paced the hotel suite, seething. The Queen of the Night’s desire for revenge against Sarastro was nothing, a mere whimper of protest, compared to this clawing need for vengeance against the bitch who had somehow managed to resist her singing. The stupid creature should have died the way all the others had died. Why hadn’t she?
Time, she decided. There just hadn’t been enough time to finish the job. Another minute and it would have been over. If only the damned elevator hadn’t arrived when it did.
She squeezed her hands into fists, still unable to believe that things had gone wrong. The silly housekeeper had been completely under control. The superbly powerful, violent notes of Chiang Ch’ing’s “I am the wife of Mao Tse-tung,” a coloratura credo from John Adams’s
Nixon in China, had been working perfectly, drawing the woman to her doom. The Voice had been flawless. She had woven the energy into it until it became a lethal force. The maid had been unable to resist.
No one should have been able to resist.
A tendril of panic slithered through her. There was nothing wrong with the Voice.
Nothing. The dreadful incident at La Scala two years ago had been no more than a fluke. Yes, she had been booed but sooner or later everyone who was anyone in the world of opera got booed by the damned claques at La Scala. It was practically a rite of passage for a singer. But what if they really had heard the lack of power on the high F?
There was no getting around the fact that things had not gone well the following season. There had been that horrible night in Seattle when she’d had to fake some of the money notes in her Lucia. That critic at
The Seattle Times had caught it. But she had been coming down with a cold at the time. So what? Every singer had the occasional off night.
Yes, and more than one famous soprano had awakened one morning to discover that her voice had simply vanished. Another chill lanced through her.
The doctors had assured her that there was nothing wrong with her vocal cords but they weren’t aware of her psychic side, let alone how it was inextricably entwined with her singing voice. What if the problem lay with her senses? What if her worst nightmare was coming true? What if she was losing her Siren talent?
Impossible. She was too young, only thirty-five. She was in her prime. But there was no denying that her career was in trouble. It was her former agent’s fault, of course. The idiot had cost her important engagements. He had actually believed the rumors about her. She’d had no choice but to fire him permanently in a very private performance. The last note he would have heard was the stunningly perfect high G in Mozart’s “Popoli di Tessaglia.” She hoped he’d had a chance to admire her brilliant passagework.
No, there was nothing wrong with her except a little bad luck and worse management. But that would all change after she sang the Queen for the opening of
The Magic Flute in Acacia Bay. It was certainly not the Met but Guthrie Hall was an exquisite little jewel of a theater and it was situated close to L.A. As dear Newlin had pointed out, there was an excellent chance that some of the important critics could be enticed to the performance. There they would see for themselves that La Sirène was back, and more brilliant than ever.
Once again the most exclusive designers would be standing in line to beg her to wear their clothes and their jewelry. She would soon be signing autographs just as she had in the old days. She would be booked three years in advance for performances at the most important opera houses in the world. . . .
Her phone warbled, interrupting the glowing vision of her spectacular future. She glanced at the code and winced. The last person she wanted to talk to right now was her sister. With a sigh she opened the phone.
“Hello, Damaris.”
“What’s going on? I’ve been waiting for your call. Is everything all right?”
“Calm down, everything’s fine. There was a small glitch this afternoon when I went to Eubanks’s hotel room, but it was nothing—”
“What happened?” Damaris sounded panicky.
“Take it easy. I used the gadget that
Daddy provided to get into the suite, as we planned. I was going to wait for Eubanks and his bodyguard. I was preparing for my performance, doing a little warm-up, when one of the hotel housekeepers interrupted me. You know how I hate having my practice sessions interrupted.”
“What did you do?” Damaris yelped. “Please don’t tell me you killed her.”
“Well, no. Unfortunately that performance was also interrupted by an utterly impossible woman. Tell Daddy that I want him to find her for me. He owes me that much.”
“You want him to find the maid?”
“No, the horrid bitch who ruined everything. The one who was actually able to resist me for a short time. Can you believe it? She managed to save the housekeeper.”
“What are you saying?” Damaris cried. “You were seen by someone besides the maid?”
“Yes. I was forced to leave the stage before I could correct the situation. Some people were getting off the elevator, you see. You know how my talent works. I can handle at most two people in a private performance but no more.”
“We’re doomed,” Damaris whispered. “It’s all gone wrong.”
“That’s ridiculous. Pull yourself together. I’ve rescheduled my private performance with Eubanks for tonight. I’ve got a much more appropriate venue in mind. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be on a plane back to San Francisco.”
“But what about the other woman?” Damaris wailed. “If she was able to resist you, she must be a sensitive. Any possibility she was Nightshade?”
“How should I know? Daddy’s the great secret agent in the family. It’s his job to find out things like that.”
“Is there any possibility that she could identify you?”
“Only if she is a true fan, which I doubt. She gave no indication that she recognized my voice. I was in full costume, as we arranged, so she could not possibly describe me.”
“But if she was Nightshade, she’ll warn Eubanks,” Damaris said.
“Eubanks is still at the hotel if that makes you feel any better. I watched him go into the spa a short time ago.”
“She wasn’t Nightshade then.”
“Probably not.”
“Who was she?”
“I have no idea. Ask
Daddy. When he finds out who she is, I intend to give her one of my private performances. I will not tolerate the sort of interruption I was forced to endure today.”
“Vivien, you sound like you’re starting to obsess here,” Damaris said anxiously. “Are you absolutely certain the woman was able to resist your singing?”
“Only for a short period of time. I’m sure I could have destroyed her, given another minute or two. I’m going to hang up now. It has been a very unsettling day. I need to prepare myself for my next performance. Good-bye, Damaris.”
“Wait—”
“Tell Daddy to find the bitch.”
La Sirène closed the phone and tossed it aside. Really, it was such a responsibility being an older sister. Poor Damaris was so easily upset these days. It was Daddy’s fault, of course.