"Pairs?" Delilah stepped forward. "What kind of pairs?"
"The kind that resonate together." Vic straightened his tie. "Magical artifacts, complementary talents... special duos that create something greater than their individual parts."
Sam's mind raced. The paired thefts, the items taken in complementary sets—it fit a pattern.
"Who's your client, Vic?" Mac asked.
"Confidentiality is the cornerstone of my business." Vic pulled car keys from his pocket. "But between colleagues—follow the music. It always leads somewhere interesting."
A sleek black convertible—modified to resemble a miniature hearse—purred to life at the end of the alley. As Vic slid into the driver's seat, "Thriller" blasted from speakers that pulsed with magical light.
"I'll keep an eye on him," Mac murmured. "The shifter network can track his movements."
Sam nodded, watching the vampire speed away. "He knows more than he's saying."
"They always do," Delilah said, her eyes fixed on the map as it reformed into its original shape. "But did you notice? When he mentioned pairs that resonate together..."
"The map pointed to us," Sam finished, meeting her gaze with reluctant understanding.
The map between them glowed brighter, as if pleased they'd finally caught on.
6
The map folded itself into Delilah's purse as they approached the Assjacket Community Theater. The grand Beaux-Arts façade looked ridiculous adorned with cardboard shark fins and glittery blue streamers that rippled in the afternoon breeze.
"Remind me why we're doing this again?" Sam muttered, eyeing a poster that showed a man in a tuxedo being devoured by a sequined shark.
"Because the map led us here, and Fabio said there's been strange activity." Delilah adjusted her purple off-shoulder dress, the fabric swishing around her knees. "And because magical artifacts keep disappearing in pairs."
Sam's shoulders tensed as they pushed through the ornate double doors. "I investigate. I don't perform."
"Lighten up. How bad could it be?"
The answer materialized before them in the form of a man wearing a beret at a mathematically improbable angle, a mustache that appeared to be crafted from someone's pet ferret, and a silk scarf that could double as emergency rappelling equipment.
"Bonjour, mes amis!" The man twirled dramatically, revealing himself as Fabio beneath the absurd disguise. "Welcome to ze temple of theatrical genius!"
Delilah blinked. "Fabio, what are you?—"
"Non, non!" He pressed a finger against her lips. "Zere is no Fabio here! Only Monsieur Fabricé, ze most celebrated directeur of avant-garde sharknado musical interpretations in all of Europe!"
Sam's expression suggested he was calculating the fastest escape route.
"Your disguise has a disguise," Delilah whispered.
"Of course!" Fabio—or rather, Monsieur Fabricé—adjusted his beret. "Ze thief might recognize me as ze town's most handsome baker-slash-warlock. But as Fabricé, I am merely a temperamental genius with questionable facial hair!"
The theater's interior smelled of dust, magic, and what Delilah recognized as Fabio's signature stress-baking scent—cinnamon with undertones of lavender and anxiety.
A dozen performers stretched on stage, some with shark fins strapped to their backs, others wearing sailor hats at jaunty angles.
"I thought we were just going to look around," Sam whispered, his eyes darting toward the exit.
"Sacré bleu!" Fabio exclaimed loud enough for everyone to hear. "New auditionaires have arrived! Everyone, zese are ze potential stars who might join our magnifique production!"
All eyes turned toward them. Delilah felt a vision threatening at the edges of her consciousness—something about the stage felt wrong, charged with an energy that didn't belong.
"We're not here to audition," Sam said firmly.
