Chapter 6
The map folded itself into Delilah's purse as they approached the Assjacket Community Theater. The grand Beaux-Arts facade looked ridiculous adorned with cardboard shark fins and glittery blue streamers that rippled in the afternoon breeze.
"Remind me why we're doing this again?" Sam muttered, eyeing a poster that showed a man in a tuxedo being devoured by a sequined shark.
"Because the map led us here, and Fabio said there's been strange activity." Delilah adjusted her purple off-shoulder dress, the fabric swishing around her knees. "And because magical artifacts keep disappearing in pairs."
Sam's shoulders tensed as they pushed through the ornate double doors. "I investigate. I don't perform."
"Lighten up. How bad could it be?"
The answer materialized before them in the form of a man wearing a beret at a mathematically improbable angle, a mustache that appeared to be crafted from someone's pet ferret, and a silk scarf that could double as emergency rappelling equipment.
"Bonjour, mes amis!" The man twirled dramatically, revealing himself as Fabio beneath the absurd disguise. "Welcome to ze temple of theatrical genius!"
Delilah blinked. "Fabio, what are you—"
"Non, non!" He pressed a finger against her lips. "Zere is no Fabio here! Only Monsieur Fabricé, ze most celebrated directeur of avant-garde sharknado musical interpretations in all of Europe!"
Sam's expression suggested he was calculating the fastest escape route.
"Your disguise has a disguise," Delilah whispered.
"Of course!" Fabio—or rather, Monsieur Fabricé—adjusted his beret. "Ze thief might recognize me as ze town's most handsome baker-slash-warlock. But as Fabricé, I am merely a temperamental genius with questionable facial hair!"
The theater's interior smelled of dust, magic, and what Delilah recognized as Fabio's signature stress-baking scent—cinnamon with undertones of lavender and anxiety.
A dozen performers stretched on stage, some with shark fins strapped to their backs, others wearing sailor hats at jaunty angles.
"I thought we were just going to look around," Sam whispered, his eyes darting toward the exit.
"Sacré bleu!" Fabio exclaimed loud enough for everyone to hear. "New auditionaires have arrived! Everyone, zese are ze potential stars who might join our magnifique production!"
All eyes turned toward them. Delilah felt a vision threatening at the edges of her consciousness—something about the stage felt wrong, charged with an energy that didn't belong.
"We're not here to audition," Sam said firmly.
"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 facade 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—"
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-maché 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.