Chapter 13
"Absolutely not." Mac's voice filled Zelda's reinforced cottage. "It's a trap, Delilah. The coordinates are too convenient."
Delilah paced the length of the room, the fragment of the witch's amulet clutched so tightly in her palm that its edges bit into her skin. "Of course it's a trap. But Sam's in there, and we're going anyway."
Zelda hunched over ancient texts spread across her dining table, muttering incantations that made the pages glow faintly. The cottage hummed with newly applied protection spells—barriers that rippled like heat waves across windows and doorframes.
"The Silver Witch is merely a puppet," Zelda said, not looking up. "These abductions follow a pattern. Throughout history, magical pairs have disappeared before major arcane disturbances. The Collector takes them, uses them, and discards them."
Fat Bastard strutted across the table, his gray bulk purposefully knocking Zelda's scrying crystal to the floor. "You's going about this all wrong. Direct approach." He batted a lamp off the side table with deliberate precision. "This is the witch's head when I's done with her. Boom."
"That was my grandmother's enchanted lamp, you gray menace!" Zelda lunged for the lamp, which had begun emitting purple smoke in the shape of tiny dancing elephants.
Boba Fett darted across the room, snatching up a collection of shiny spoons before arranging them in a precise formation on the floor. "Stealth missions," he purred, pushing the spoons into what appeared to be a tactical infiltration pattern. "The witch never sees us comings."
Not to be outdone, Jango Fett leapt onto the bookshelves, knocking volumes to the floor in what seemed like random chaos until Delilah realized he was creating a diversion scenario.
"Are they... helping?" Delilah asked, momentarily distracted from her worry.
"We's always helping," Fat Bastard declared, knocking another object off the shelf. "You's just too stupid to see it."
"If by 'helping' you mean 'destroying my home,' then yes, they're extremely helpful," Zelda grumbled, though Delilah caught the flicker of affection in her eyes.
Mac studied the familiars' arrangements with surprising seriousness. "The cats' approach has merit. A three-pronged strategy—direct confrontation, stealth infiltration, and diversion."
The map on the table suddenly quivered, its edges curling upward.
Without warning, it expanded to three times its original size, displaying not just Assjacket but the surrounding counties.
A glowing dot pulsed at the coordinates from the amulet fragment—an abandoned mansion on the edge of Brimstone Valley.
"Well, that's new," Zelda murmured as the map began drawing intricate pathways through the mansion's interior—corridors, rooms, and what appeared to be multiple escape routes. Strangely, every single infiltration path led through what was labeled "KITCHEN" in glowing letters.
"Why does every route go through the kitchen?" Delilah leaned closer.
Fat Bastard gave a dismissive tail flick. "Map knows what it's doing. Always time for snacks."
"The map's becoming more sentient," Zelda said, tracing a finger along one of the paths. "It's responding to our collective intention—to rescue Sam."
Delilah noticed a small notation appearing at the mansion's edge: "WARNING: PAIRED MAGICAL SIGNATURES DETECTED (4)."
"Four pairs?" Mac frowned. "She's been busy."
"The Collector's building something," Zelda said grimly, pointing to another historical account. "During The Arcadian Incident, four magical pairs were abducted, followed by a ritual that nearly tore the veil between worlds. Baba Yaga stopped it then, but..."
"But now she's turned Sam into a puppy instead of helping," Delilah finished, frustration evident in her voice. "So it's up to us."
The map suddenly folded itself into an origami wolf that stood on the table, howling silently before unfolding again to reveal a countdown clock: 11:43:27 and decreasing.
"I believe," Mac said quietly, "we're on a deadline."
* * *
Delilah checked her watch for the third time in five minutes. "We need to go. Now."
"We need a plan first," Mac countered, gathering equipment with military precision.
The cottage door burst open, admitting a gust of cold night air and Ivy, her arms full of potted plants. "Defensive botanicals," she explained, setting them on the table. "They respond to hostile magic by releasing spores that cause temporary blindness and unfortunate rashes in sensitive areas."
"Remind me never to water your garden," Delilah muttered.
They emerged from the cottage into the midnight chill, the moon hanging low and swollen above the trees. Delilah clutched her bag of hastily assembled magical tools, her heart pounding with each passing second. Sam's absence felt like a physical wound.
"We'll take my Jeep," Mac said. "It's warded against—"
"Actually," came a voice from the shadows, "we have transportation arranged."
Mayor Grimble stepped into the moonlight, his silhouette topped with what appeared to be a hat shaped like a military command center, complete with tiny flashing lights and miniature satellite dishes.
Delilah froze. "Mayor Grimble? What are you doing here?"
"Executing my duties as emergency response coordinator, of course!" He straightened his ridiculous hat. "Town bylaw 347-B clearly states that any rescue mission involving a municipal employee—which Investigator Wolfe technically is through our consultant program—falls under official oversight."
Behind him, the town square had transformed. Dozens of Assjacket citizens milled about, checking equipment and speaking in hushed tones. Tables had been set up with maps, communications gear, and what appeared to be an extensive snack station managed by Fabio.
"What is happening?" Delilah whispered to Zelda.
"Community," Zelda replied simply. "Assjacket protects its own."
Mayor Grimble clapped his hands. "As field commander, I've prepared tactical headgear for everyone." He unveiled a box containing hats with ridiculous 'stealth' accessories—night-vision monocles, silenced whistles, and what appeared to be retractable periscopes.
"These are..." Delilah struggled for diplomacy.
"Completely useless," Zelda finished, not bothering with tact.
"I'll have you know these incorporate the latest in municipal stealth technology!" The Mayor demonstrated by pulling a cord that made his hat emit a soft whirring noise while the tiny satellite dishes rotated. "The periscope extends a full twelve inches!"
Mac pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mayor, with all due respect—"
"Inappropriate headgear for moonlight operations," came Elder Thornberry's reedy voice as he materialized from between two parked cars. "Moths don't wear hats when they dance with the moon, and neither should you!"
The old man carried a bundle of shimmering fabric that seemed to capture and reflect the moonlight in impossible ways. As he unfurled one, Delilah gasped—it appeared to bend light around it, rendering whatever it covered nearly invisible.
"Elder, where did you get these?" Delilah reached out to touch one, finding it surprisingly warm and light.
"Borrowed them from the moths who weave moonlight," he replied matter-of-factly. "They only ask that you return them before the next full moon. They have a dance recital." He distributed the cloaks with surprising efficiency.
Delilah noticed something strange—throughout the square, townspeople were humming. The same haunting melody Elder Thornberry often hummed, though none seemed aware they were doing it. The combined voices created an eerie harmony that made the air tingle with magical potential.
"The Collector's lullaby," Elder whispered to her, suddenly serious. "They sing it unknowingly, but it strengthens our protections. Music has power, little sparrow. Remember that when darkness falls."
Mayor Grimble cleared his throat. "While these cloaks are not officially sanctioned municipal equipment, I'll allow their use under section 5, paragraph 3 of the Emergency Powers Act." He adjusted his command center hat. "Now, our intelligence suggests—"
"That we're wasting time," Delilah interrupted, wrapping the shimmering cloak around her shoulders. "Sam needs us now."
The humming grew stronger as she spoke, and the map in her hand pulsed with warm light. For the first time since Sam's abduction, Delilah felt something beyond fear and anger.
Hope.
* * *
Delilah tugged at the cable company uniform that Zelda had conjured from a tablecloth. The logo read "Mystical Connections" with a poorly drawn television beneath it. "This is never going to work," she whispered, adjusting the tool belt that kept sliding down her hips.
"Have some faith," Mac replied, straightening his postal service hat. His mailbag bulged suspiciously, occasionally emitting soft growls that sounded nothing like letters. "People always let in the mailman."
They crouched behind a row of meticulously trimmed hedges, studying the witch's mansion. The modernist monstrosity loomed against the night sky—all sharp angles and gleaming surfaces, surrounded by an immaculate lawn that practically screamed "trespassers will be magically dismembered."
"Remember," Zelda whispered, balancing three pizza boxes that occasionally changed toppings with soft popping sounds, "we're just creating a distraction. The cats will do the real infiltration."
Fat Bastard, Boba Fett, and Jango Fett sat nearby, each wearing miniature tactical vests with pouches containing magical disruptors. Fat Bastard was already chewing on his vest straps.
"I still don't understand why we couldn't just use the invisibility cloaks," Delilah muttered.
"Because," Zelda explained with exaggerated patience, "the mansion has thermal detection spells. We need to appear as if we have legitimate reasons to approach. The cloaks only work once we're inside."
Mac checked his watch. "Positions, everyone. Remember the signal."