"Never fear, darlings! Fabio has arrived!"
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where did you even zipline from? We're on the fifth floor."
"A dramatic entrance requires planning, not logistics," Fabio declared, brushing glass from his impeccably tailored shirt. Somehow, despite swinging through a window, not a hair on his head was out of place. "I've been eavesdropping the entire time."
"Of course you have," Sam muttered.
"And I accept these terms!" Fabio flourished a pink bakery box. "I brought blood-orange macarons, infused with just a hint of O-negative. They're all the rage with the vampire book club."
Vic's eyes widened with undisguised hunger. "The premium stuff?"
"Only the best for my supernatural clientele," Fabio winked.
Sam stepped forward. "Before we agree to anything, especially me saying ridiculous things about vampires?—"
"True things," Vic corrected.
"—we need to know what you know," Sam finished through gritted teeth.
Vic sighed dramatically, swiveling his chair to face the wall before turning back. "My client was... off. Like someone wearing a badly fitting suit, or a mask that keeps slipping."
Delilah and Sam exchanged glances.
"What do you mean?" Delilah pressed.
"Sometimes they'd speak with different accents mid-sentence. Their eyes would... shift color. And they kept referring to themselves in third person, then correcting it." Vic leaned forward. "Once, they forgot what they looked like. Asked me if their hair had always been that color."
"The Collector," Sam whispered.
"Wearing faces like masks," Delilah added, recalling her vision.
Fabio dramatically gasped, spilling flour from his pockets. "The plot thickens like my award-winning sourdough!"
Vic's zombie secretary suddenly spoke with unexpected clarity. "The Collector called again. Said the symphony begins at midnight."
Everyone turned to stare at her.
"What?" she blinked slowly. "I take very good messages. Eventually."
The forest closed around them like a fist. Moonlight spilled through gaps in the canopy, creating dappled patterns that shifted with every breeze. Sam's senses heightened as they approached the Cursed Hollow, his nostrils flaring at the scent of decay mixed with something sharper—magic gone sour.
"Perimeter check," Mac whispered into a communication crystal that pulsed with soft blue light.
Sam kept his eyes forward, scanning for movement while his ears tracked the soft footfalls of shifters moving through the underbrush. Delilah walked beside him, her usual confident stride now measured and careful. The memory of her in his arms after the gingerbread mansion battle flashed unbidden through his mind, making his pulse quicken.
"Focus," he muttered to himself.
"Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness," Delilah whispered, her shoulder brushing his. "Or so my third eye tells me."
"Your third eye needs glasses."
A shifter materialized from the shadows, nodding respectfully to Mac. "North quadrant secure. Southwest showing magical fluctuations." His gaze shifted behind them, where a bobbing light approached through the trees. "And someone tell the Mayor his camouflage hat with actual working headlights is defeating the purpose."
Sam turned to see Mayor Grimble stumbling through the underbrush. The man's hat—a monstrous creation of leaves, twigs, and what appeared to be actual functioning headlamps—illuminated their position like a lighthouse.
"Municipal stealth protocols require proper illumination for official oversight personnel!" Mayor Grimble announced in what he clearly thought was a whisper but carried like a bullhorn through the quiet forest.
"Does he think 'stealth' means 'announce your presence to every magical creature within five miles'?" Sam growled.
