The clouds burst. Rain poured down, drenching everyone on stage. Delilah stood frozen in shock—she hadn't meant to actually create rain. This wasn't her magic. This was something else.
"Cut! Cut!" Fabio shrieked, his fake mustache sliding down his face. "My sequins are water-sensitive!"
Sam stopped mid-shark-motion, staring at Delilah with wide eyes as water plastered his hair to his forehead. For a moment, they both stood there, dripping and bewildered.
Then something extraordinary happened. The stage lights began pulsing in perfect synchronization, creating a pattern that matched both the theft locations and the strange melody they'd been hearing. The rainwater on stage formed tiny paired puddles that reflected the lights.
"Delilah," Sam said quietly, all embarrassment forgotten. "Are you seeing this?"
"It's us," she whispered. "Something happens when our energies align."
From the audience, Elder Thornberry's voice called out, "The paired instruments begin to tune! The Collector's Symphony prepares its first movement!"
The theater went suddenly dark, leaving only the glowing pattern of lights hovering above them.
Delilah squished her way backstage, her soaked dress clinging uncomfortably to her legs. Her mind raced with the implications of what had just happened on stage. The magical connection between her and Sam wasn't just coincidence—it was significant.
"You ruined my shark head!" A woman with silver-streaked hair tied in a severe bun emerged from behind a rack of costumes, clutching a foam shark head now drooping pathetically from water damage. "Three weeks of papier-mâché work! Ruined!"
"Mrs. Plumridge, I presume?" Delilah extended her hand, then quickly withdrew it when she realized how much she was dripping.
"Yes, the actual director of this production." Mrs. Plumridge narrowed her eyes at Fabio, who was wringing water from his beret while attempting to reattach his mustache with what appeared to be bubble gum. "Unlike this... impostor."
Fabio straightened his spine. "Madame, I am Monsieur Fabricé, visionary extraordinaire! I have merely elevated your pedestrian shark disaster into transcendent art!"
"Pedestrian?" Mrs. Plumridge's face flushed crimson. "I'll have you know I studied under Broadway's finest!"
Sam appeared, toweling his hair with what looked suspiciously like a mermaid tail costume piece. "If we could just?—"
"Not now!" both directors snapped in unison.
Fabio dramatically swept his arm toward a bulletin board covered with production notes. "Your vision lacks depth! Where is ze existential dread? Ze commentary on humanity's relationship with nature's perfect killing machines?"
Mrs. Plumridge clutched her clipboard like a shield. "Sharknado is not a metaphor for societal collapse, Monsieur! It's about sharks in a tornado! The audience expects flying sharks, not philosophical monologues about predator-prey relationships!"
Delilah edged closer to the bulletin board, noticing something strange about the theater blueprints pinned there. Faint markings shimmered across the paper, visible only when viewed from certain angles. They formed half of what looked like a ritual circle.
"The tornado represents the chaos of modern life," Fabio insisted, gesturing so wildly his mustache flew off again. "The sharks are our primitive fears made manifest!"
"They're sharks! In a tornado!" Mrs. Plumridge's voice reached an impressive octave. "Next you'll tell me the high school musical should be an exploration of teenage existential angst!"
"Well..." Fabio tilted his head thoughtfully.
"That's it!" Mrs. Plumridge threw her clipboard down. "I've survived budget cuts, volunteer dropouts, and a lead actor who thought 'learning lines' was optional. I will not surrender my artistic integrity to a man whose accent changes mid-sentence!"
She stormed toward the exit, pausing only to point a trembling finger at Sam. "And you! Worst shark I've ever seen! My nephew's goldfish has more predatory presence!"
The door slammed behind her with theatrical finality.
"Zat went well," Fabio said, dropping the accent entirely. He sidled up to Delilah, who was still studying the blueprints. "You see it too, don't you, sweetness?"
"These markings," Delilah whispered. "They're similar to what we saw at Baba Yaga's."
Sam joined them, standing close enough that Delilah could feel the warmth radiating from him. "Half a ritual circle. What's the other half?"
"That," Fabio said, suddenly serious, "is what we need to find out." He glanced around conspiratorially, then added brightly, "But first! I'm promoting you both to leads in my production!"
"What?" Sam's horror returned full-force. "No. Absolutely not."
