He moved at last, crossing the space between them in long, impatient strides. “What is it?” he hissed, his voice pitched for her alone.
Grace grabbed his wrist, nails digging through the fleece of his jacket. “Look at the stage. The water. It’s spreading like magic. There’s something wrong?—”
He followed her line of sight. For a split second, the uncertainty vanished from his face, replaced by the icy calm of someone who’d seen war zones. He keyed his radio. “Stage one,come in—evacuate the stage immediately. Repeat, get everyone off the stage.”
On stage, the choir continued to count down, now at, “Five! Four!”
The deputies at the stairs hesitated, caught between the letter of their orders and the reality of a screaming psychic and her increasingly alarmed date. Bryant bounded up the steps, two at a time, cutting through the people on the stage as he shouldered his way to the microphone.
The mayor looked at him, aghast. “What?—?”
Bryant ripped the mic from the stand, voice booming: “We need to clear the stage, now. Everyone off. Now.”
Martha Lane gasped. The children froze. Tessa Monroe’s face contorted, then she lunged for her cameraman to keep filming.
The mayor tried to regain composure. “There’s no?—”
But Bryant cut him off, grabbing the mayor’s elbow and propelling him toward the wings. The fire chief, to his credit, needed no further encouragement; he scooped the two nearest choir kids under his arms and sprinted. The rest of the children scattered, guided by the sharp whistles of uniformed deputies.
Grace watched, heart in her throat, as the stage cleared in a clatter of patent shoes and shrieking officials. The countdown stuttered and then dissolved into confused shouting.
For a breathless moment, nothing happened.
Then, with a shrill pop, the tree’s lighting system switched on. Electricity hissed, sparks flickering from out of thin air. A blue-white arc shot across the stage, chasing the path of the water, and a cable snapped free from the lighting rig, whipping the empty podium before landing with a sizzle. The smell of smoke and melted plastic roiled through the winter air.
The crowd went silent, then erupted in panicked, incredulous noise.
Grace was still, locked in place, eyes wide and limbs trembling.
Bryant, halfway down the steps with the mayor in tow, looked straight at her.
He nodded. Once. Not in apology, but in grim, unspoken understanding.
Grace could still taste adrenaline on her tongue, a coppery aftershock that buzzed in her teeth. The murmuring crowd had gone from festive to feral, the mood on a razor’s edge between a Christmas miracle and a public breakdown. All around her, parents corralled children, and older couples gossiped in urgent whispers, most glancing nervously at the now-empty stage and then at the woman who had just gone full banshee in the middle of the tree lighting.
She wobbled on her feet, body light with the aftereffects of her outburst. Grace's hands trembled, the adrenaline refusing to let go. She could feel the stares, each one burning a hole into her spine, and somewhere behind her, Anna was barreling forward, shoving aside a chorus of elbows to get to her.
“Grace, you scared the crap out of me,” Anna panted. She caught Grace’s arm, trying to steady her. “Are you okay? What the heck happened?”
Caroline was next to arrive, cloak billowing like she was auditioning for the role of Haunted Opera Hostess. “Did it happen exactly the way you envisioned?”
Grace shook her head. “It would’ve been worse if they hadn’t gotten off the stage.” She tried to keep her voice level, but it cracked anyway.
Caroline gave her an uncharacteristically solemn nod. “I believe you.”
Bryant finally broke free of the chaos at the stage stairs and headed straight for Grace, his steps brisk, purposeful, but not angry. Anna, Olivia, and Caroline moved to stand a shortdistance from Grace, forming a protective barrier around their friend.
He stopped within arm’s reach. He didn’t touch her, but his presence anchored her like a hand on her shoulder. “We have to talk,” he said quietly, not bothering with a preamble.
Grace nodded, and he guided her away from the mob, ducking behind the cider cart. The world muffled; only the music and sporadic shouting carried. He looked at her, the vulnerability in his face so brief she almost missed it.
He scrubbed a hand down his jaw, eyes closing for a second. “You were right. Someone did something to that stage. The water wasn’t from the weather. It was magic, as was the electricity.”
She swallowed hard. “It was almost exactly like I saw it. But not quite. I kept expecting… I don’t know, blood? Or—” She shook her head. “I was so scared I’d gotten it all wrong again.”
“You didn’t.” Bryant’s voice was steel now. “You saved every person on that stage.”
A gust of wind battered the tent flaps, sending a shiver through Grace. “But… now what? What does this mean? Is this connected to the murder on Halloween? Is the same person responsible for that death responsible for trying to kill these people? Or are the two things unrelated?”
