Chapter 8
The midnight air wrapped around us like a chill blanket as we stared at the theater's imposing facade. Moonlight cast dramatic shadows across the art deco details, making the building look like something from an old horror film—which felt uncomfortably appropriate.
"Remind me why we're breaking in when we were literally just inside?" I whispered, clutching my jacket tighter.
Sam's silhouette looked even more imposing in the darkness. "Because whatever's down those stairs might require backup, and I want Mac here before we explore further."
"Sensible wolf," Vic drawled from his position beneath a nearby oak. "Though I question your definition of 'backup' if it's just another furry friend."
"Says the vampire hiding behind a tree," I muttered.
Sam approached the ornate front door, testing the handle. "Locked. Can you work your magic?"
I rummaged through my purse, pushing aside tarot cards and emergency crystals. "Technically it's not magic, just a skill I picked up when—"
"When what? You were going through a rebellious phase?" Sam's eyebrow arched in the moonlight.
"When I locked myself out of my shop seventeen times in one month." I knelt before the lock, inserting my picks. "The locksmith started charging me double."
My fingers worked deftly, feeling the tumblers shift. A familiar tingle started in my fingertips—the same sensation that preceded a vision. "Oh no—"
The lock didn't just open—it disassembled itself. Tiny metal components rained onto the steps with musical plinks.
"I said disable the lock, not disintegrate the entire mechanism!" Sam hissed.
"I barely touched it! This place is falling apart anyway."
Vic slow-clapped from his safe distance. "Bravo. Very stealthy."
Sam grabbed the door handle, applying what I assumed was the gentlest of werewolf pressure. The handle snapped off in his hand with a crack that echoed through the quiet street.
"And I'm the destructive one?" I whispered.
The map, which had been floating patiently beside us, suddenly inflated itself to twice its size and made an explosive "SHHHHHH!" sound that reverberated off the surrounding buildings.
We froze, staring at the map in disbelief.
"Did our map just shush us?" I asked.
"SHHHHHHH!" The map repeated, even louder.
Sam winced, his sensitive ears clearly suffering. "Great. Now we've annoyed magical parchment."
The map continued shushing rhythmically, creating a pattern that sounded eerily familiar—the same melody Elder Thornberry had been humming.
"Is it... singing?" I whispered.
"No," Sam said slowly, tilting his head. "I think it's trying to tell us something."
The map folded itself into an arrow, pointing not at the broken door but around the side of the building.
"Follow the bouncing paper?" Vic suggested, suddenly appearing beside us.
"I thought you were guarding the tree," I said.
"Even vampires have their limits for theatrical tension." He shrugged. "Besides, the real entrance is probably around back anyway."
* * *
The map led us through a rusted side door that swung open at my touch, no lock-picking required. The theater's emergency lights cast an anemic glow across the auditorium, transforming familiar rows of velvet seats into a sea of shadowy humps.
"This place is significantly creepier after midnight," I whispered, my voice carrying despite my efforts. "I'm getting strong 'Phantom of the Opera' vibes."
Sam moved with predatory grace beside me, his footsteps silent despite his size. "I'm not detecting any recent scents besides ours from earlier. And Fabio's. That man uses enough cologne to choke a—"
"Wolf with enhanced senses?" I finished, a smile tugging at my lips.
"I was going to say 'small nation,' but yes."
The map hovered between us, glowing faintly as it guided us down the center aisle toward the stage.
The curtains hung like massive dark wings, partially open to reveal the set pieces from Fabio's "Sharknado" production—foam sharks suspended from wires, a miniature tornado mechanism, and a half-painted backdrop of a stormy sky.
"Center stage, just like the map indicated," I murmured. "Where the past sleeps beneath applause."
Without warning, a spotlight blazed to life, blinding us with its intensity. Then another. And another. Beams of light crisscrossed the auditorium, dancing wildly like drunken fireflies.
"What the—" Sam threw an arm over his eyes.
"Places, places!" Elder Thornberry's voice boomed through the PA system, crackling with static. "The stage awaits its players! The lights reveal what darkness conceals!"
I squinted up toward the lighting booth, where Elder Thornberry's silhouette danced between control panels.
"How did he get up there?" Sam growled. "And how does he keep appearing everywhere we go?"
"Don't mind me!" Elder called cheerfully. "The best performances have no audience... except when they do. I'm both here and not here, like quantum Schrodinger's elder!"
The spotlights continued their frantic dance, occasionally converging on specific points around the stage. I watched the pattern, something nagging at my intuition.
"Sam," I grabbed his arm. "Look at where the lights are landing."
The beams touched down in a sequence, illuminating spots across the stage floor. With each flash, a faint symbol glowed briefly before fading.
"It's a pattern," Sam said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The same pattern as the theft locations."
I pulled out the map, which quivered excitedly. "Not just the thefts in Assjacket—look, it matches the pattern across the entire county."
The lights suddenly converged at center stage, forming a perfect circle of illumination. Within it, lines began to appear on the wooden floor, glowing faintly blue—a trapdoor mechanism hidden in plain sight.
"Light-activated," Sam breathed. "That's why no one found it during normal operations."
"Elder Thornberry!" I called. "Are you helping us or just creating dramatic ambiance?"
"Yes!" came the enthusiastic reply. "The frequency reveals the path! The Collector's symphony requires precise notes! Watch for the counterpoint!"
The spotlights pulsed once more, forming a complex geometric pattern before abruptly shutting off, plunging us back into the dim emergency lighting.
"Did anyone understand a word of that?" I asked, blinking away the afterimages.
"Surprisingly," Sam said, approaching the now-visible outline on the stage floor, "I think I did."
* * *
"Help me with this," Sam said, kneeling at the edge of the glowing outline. His fingers traced the intricate pattern that pulsed with faint blue light.
I joined him, placing my palm against the floor. Immediately, visions flashed behind my eyes—people in antiquated clothing, performing rituals on this very stage, their faces obscured by ornate masks.
"There's a release mechanism," I said, blinking away the afterimages. "Three points of pressure applied simultaneously."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Convenient vision?"
"Convenient psychic impression from touching a floor that's seen centuries of magical activity." I pointed to three spots forming a triangle within the pattern. "Here, here, and here."
"Allow me to assist," came a smooth voice from the shadows. Vic materialized beside us, his pale skin luminous in the dim light. "Three points, three people. How fortuitous."
Sam's eyes narrowed. "What happened to keeping lookout?"
"The only thing approaching is the mayor, and he's at least five minutes away. I can hear his municipal muttering from three blocks out." Vic positioned his cane at one of the points. "Shall we?"
We pressed down simultaneously. The floor beneath us groaned, ancient mechanisms grinding to life. The trapdoor slid open with surprising smoothness, revealing stone steps descending into darkness.
"Ladies first?" Vic offered with an exaggerated bow.
"Nice try," Sam growled, taking point as he started down the stairs.
The passage smelled of dust and something else—something old and magical that made the hairs on my arms stand up. As we descended, strange lights began to appear, swirling around us like curious fireflies.
"Residual magical energy," I murmured, watching as one brushed past my cheek, leaving a tingling sensation. "This place has seen some serious spellwork."
The stairway opened into a circular chamber that took my breath away. Centuries-old tapestries hung from stone walls, their colors impossibly vibrant despite their age. Magical energy swirled visibly throughout the room, forming patterns that shifted and changed like living art.
"Look," Sam pointed to a pedestal at the center of the room.
There, hovering inches above an ornate silver base, was a crystal orb about the size of a grapefruit. Within it, mist swirled and churned, occasionally forming shapes that dissolved before they could fully materialize.
"That's one of the stolen artifacts," I said, approaching carefully. "From the Moonlit Brews theft last week."
Vic circled the pedestal, his cane tapping thoughtfully against the stone floor. "Curious place to hide stolen goods. Unless..."
"Unless this is where they're meant to be," Sam finished, examining the walls.
I followed his gaze. The walls were covered in symbols—intricate patterns that matched fragments we'd seen throughout our investigation. And there, prominent above an ancient writing desk, was a sigil I recognized from Baba Yaga's book.
"The Twilight Coven," I breathed. "They're the ones who betrayed Baba Yaga in the 1700s."
"Correct, Ms. Hart!" Mayor Grimble's voice echoed down the stairwell moments before he appeared, night-vision goggles attached to his hat like insect eyes, the contraption wobbling precariously with each step.
"As municipal historical preservation officer—a title I just granted myself approximately forty seconds ago—I must document this significant discovery! "
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "How did you even find us?"