"Reports coming in from Oakridge and Pine Hollow," Mac said, setting up additional equipment. "Similar magical disturbances—always affecting paired magical objects or practitioners. Interesting pattern."
Before leaving, Mac pulled Sam aside. "Remember what I told you about resonance between compatible magical pairs? It's happening all over the region—always near theft locations. Pay attention to how your energies interact."
He glanced meaningfully at Delilah, who was adjusting her scrying crystal. "Don't fight the connection. It might be your best weapon."
Sam felt heat rising to his face. "That's not—we're not?—"
"Sure," Mac smirked, descending the ladder. "Just like Zelda and I weren't anything special at first either."
Sam adjusted the focus on his binoculars, scanning the theater's perimeter for the fifth time in as many minutes. Anything to avoid acknowledging Delilah's presence beside him, the subtle lavender scent of her hair carried on the night breeze, or how the fading light caught in her eyes.
Stars emerged overhead, pinpricks of light against deepening blue. The town below transformed into a constellation of streetlamps and windows, magical residences glowing with distinctive auras visible only to those who knew what to look for.
Delilah sighed dramatically, breaking the silence that had stretched between them since Mac's departure. "You know, I've had more engaging conversations with Jinxie, and he's missing a vocal cord."
Sam grunted, pretending to adjust the directional microphone.
"So..." Delilah continued, undeterred. "Do all werewolves hate small talk, or is it just you specifically?"
Sam lowered the equipment, eyebrow raised. "I don't hate small talk. I hate pointless talk. There's a difference."
"And how am I supposed to know what you consider pointless without talking first?" Delilah bit into another paw-shaped cookie. "It's like trying to read a book without opening it."
"You're a clairvoyant. Can't you just... see what I'm thinking?"
"That's not how it works. I get impressions, visions—not a direct feed into someone's brain. Besides," she nudged the cookie container toward him, "where's the fun in that?"
Against his better judgment, Sam took a cookie. It was annoyingly delicious.
"Fine," he conceded. "What non-pointless thing would you like to discuss while we wait for magical thieves who may or may not show up?"
Delilah tucked her legs underneath her, settling in. "When did you first realize you were a shifter?"
Sam stiffened. Personal questions—exactly what he'd been avoiding.
"Standard werewolf stuff. Puberty. Full moon. Suddenly fur everywhere."
"That's the condensed version people tell strangers at bars. I want the real story."
Something in her voice—genuine interest without the usual fear or morbid curiosity—caught him off guard.
"I was thirteen," he found himself saying. "Middle school dance."
Delilah's eyes widened. "No."
"Yes. Slow dance, nervous sweaty palms, hormones everywhere."
"Please tell me you didn't?—"
"Turn into a wolf in the middle of 'My Heart Will Go On'? Almost." Sam surprised himself with a chuckle. "I made it to the bathroom first. Locked myself in a stall while my hands started sprouting claws."
"What did you do?"
"Called my dad, panicking. He talked me through controlling my breathing until he could get there. Said it was the fastest he'd ever driven."
The map between them shifted subtly, its edges softening.
"Must have been nice," Delilah said quietly. "Having someone to call."
