"Zer is no investigating without first understanding ze artistic soul of ze theater!" Fabio declared, hands fluttering dramatically. "Auditions are mandatory!"
Sam's growl was barely audible. "I don't sing."
"Everyone sings when ze shark is coming, mon loup!" Fabio clapped his hands. "To ze stage, both of you!"
As they reluctantly climbed the steps to the stage, Delilah noticed movement in the empty audience. A single figure sat in the third row, impossibly ancient and inexplicably present.
Elder Thornberry.
"Wonderful entrance!" the old man shouted, clapping wildly. "The wolf moves like he's got ants in his trousers! The fortune-teller needs more pizzazz! More razzle-dazzle! Remember, the Collector watches every performance!"
Fabio thrust script pages into their hands. "Page forty-two! Ze emotional climax where ze shark represents ze inevitability of fate!"
Delilah glanced down at the highlighted dialogue and froze. The words seemed to shimmer on the page:
"The Collector who comes in dreams gathers pairs of power. The symphony begins when the final instruments are tuned."
"This isn't right," she whispered, looking up at Fabio. "This isn't about sharks at all."
Fabio's theatrical façade slipped momentarily. "That's not in my script. I never wrote that."
Below them, Elder Thornberry's applause grew louder, echoing through the empty theater like the ticking of a clock.
Delilah clutched the script pages, her fingers tingling with magical residue. The theater lights above them seemed to pulse with a strange rhythm, almost like a heartbeat. Or a countdown.
"We'll need to improvise," she whispered to Sam, whose expression suggested he'd rather face a pack of rabid werewolves than continue this charade.
"Enough whispering!" Fabio—or rather, Monsieur Fabricé—clapped his hands. "Monsieur Wolfe, you will perform ze shark anthem while Mademoiselle Hart creates ze dramatic weather effects!"
Sam's face drained of color. "The what now?"
Fabio thrust a child's toy microphone into Sam's hand. The plastic device immediately transformed, growing into a full-sized microphone adorned with tiny shark teeth.
"Ze shark anthem! Ze children's classic reinterpreted for our sophisticated audience!" Fabio's fake mustache quivered with excitement. "And you, ma chérie," he said, turning to Delilah, "will summon ze perfect storm backdrop!"
One of the ensemble members hit a button on a portable speaker. The opening notes of a horrifyingly familiar children's song filled the theater.
"I don't know the words," Sam growled, his eyes flashing amber.
"Everyone knows ze words!" Fabio insisted. "And remember ze choreography—arms like zis!" He demonstrated a chomping motion with his arms.
Elder Thornberry's voice boomed from the audience. "The wolf dances for the Collector! The fortune-teller commands the skies! Patterns within patterns! Also, I'd like to request 'Sweet Caroline' for the encore!"
Sam looked at Delilah with pure betrayal as he reluctantly began moving his arms in the ridiculous shark-mouth motion.
"Feel the shark, Mr. Wolfe!" Fabio shouted, prancing around the stage. "Become one with the cartilaginous predator of your soul! More fin action! Less human dignity!"
Delilah bit her lip to suppress her laughter, but then noticed something strange. As Sam's mortification grew, the stage lights above them pulsed in a pattern—the exact same pattern as the theft locations on their map.
She needed to keep this going. Closing her eyes, Delilah focused on the weather effects she was supposed to create. Her clairvoyance had never extended to actual magical manipulation, but something felt different today. The energy between her and Sam seemed to create a circuit, amplifying her abilities.
"Storm coming," she whispered, raising her hands.
To her shock, actual clouds began forming above the stage, dark and heavy with rain. The ensemble members gasped and pointed upward.
Sam, still locked in his shark-dance nightmare, hadn't noticed. His voice had grown louder, almost defiant in its embarrassment.
"Magnificent!" Fabio cried, his accent slipping. "The weather effects are absolutely?—"
