Crescendo by Jeffe Kennedy

the Sanclaro compound that led to the secret room.
    â€œThey lost control of some spaces of land,” the Master murmured. “It let me escape some of my prison, to roam my opera house.”
    â€œAngelia,” Christine realized. “When she bequeathed it to my father.”
    He nodded. “Her gift to me. Like you, she wanted to do more. But they stopped her.”
    With a sick sense of sorrow for the grandmother she’d never known, Christine remembered the article about the car wreck. How she’d died in a freak single-car rollover, leaving behind a son who’d thought she hadn’t cared.
    They all crowded into the tiny alcove, spilling back into the branching halls, the hosts of the people who’d lived and died on the land long ago. The Master’s head nearly brushed the ceiling of the chamber, with awe and a tinge of gratifying fear.
    The Master set her on her feet, then framed her face with his gloved hands and kissed her, long and deep. Her body throbbed for him and she regretted that they’d had so little time together.
    â€œThank you, Christine.” He brushed his thumbs over her cheekbones.
    â€œI haven’t done anything yet.”
    â€œFor wanting to.”
    â€œWhat do I do?” She surveyed the pillar nervously. She needed Hally.
    â€œTrust yourself. It’s in you. In your true heart.”
    Reverently, she opened the box. The scent of dying roses filled the room, full of decay and old bitterness. She hesitated to touch the mummified hand, but the shadow people shuffled, brushing her with whispers of encouragement. It felt like old leather, delicate and dry.
    It wasn’t easy, but she held long-dead Seraphina’s hand against the pedestal, then pressed her turned-in ring into the depression on her side.
    â€œNothing is happening.” Disappointment, metallic and bitter, flooded her.
    â€œWait. The magic is already in motion. Like a waterfall down the mountain. Remember: you cannot change the fact that the river flows.”
    But you can change its direction.
    A whisper of melody and the scent of roses and sunshine. The glass dome over the artifacts misted away, the sense of great power humming into the room, like lightning about to strike. It filled her with a viscerally sexual hunger. Over the pedestal, she gazed at the Master. Longing thrummed between them, but he seemed transfixed, unable to move. His black hat, his mask, his cloak, his suit, shifted and became smoke. He stood, powerfully naked and iridescently white, a shining star in the small chamber. His face, still half melted, became a blank canvas for the numinous blue of his eyes.
    Golden music filled the room, winding through the stones and artifacts. That so-familiar song. The shadow people were singing. They moved around her, now visible, now blending through the edges of the circle. As they crowded closer, she became aware that they held roses. Lush and full of unearthly beauty, their petals like living flesh, brushing the skin of her exposed arms and legs. The thorns, sharp as blades, caught and dug in, cutting her with small slices.
    The pain sharpened her awareness and fed the hunger. Blood—Sanclaro blood, tribal blood—red and hot as the roses flowed down her skin. She nearly pulled away, afraid, but kept her gaze locked on the Master. Obedient to what he’d asked of her, without ever asking it.
    She felt the opening of the binding, like letting go of anger, releasing grief. With a collective sigh the people breathed out their relief and, swirling around her in a tornado wind, became a torrent of hair, feathers, and shadows. They swirled out and disappeared into the wider universe.
    The Master shimmered, breaking into innumerable shimmering specks, like a pixelated image losing resolution.
    â€œWait,” she cried out. The magic poured out, rushing away. “I want you to be what you were.”
    â€œThat time is gone.” His words wrapped around her