Page 148 of Specters & Spotlights

At first, a delicate patter. Then steadier. Cool droplets struck Elise’s face, her shoulders, her arms. Makeup loosened beneath it. Concealer thinned.

Her tattoos emerged line by line.

Pentacles. Moons. Protective marks. The private language of survival written across her skin.

Visible.

She did not move to hide them.

In the wings, the chant began to rise.

Cici first, steady through the phone speaker. Lark beneath her, shaky but determined. Then Romy. Bex. Devon. More voices joined from both sides of the stage, soft enough for the orchestra to cover, strong enough for Elise to feel.

Let us carry the rest.

The stage pause stretched one heartbeat too long.

Elise prayed the audience read it as longing.

Then Graham gave the smallest pressure against her hand.

Now.

She spoke her next line.

He answered.

The scene held.

They climbed higher, step after step, until they reached the center of the bridge. From there, Elise could see everything.

The audience, hidden beyond the blinding lights.

The wings, alive with candlelight.

The black fog coiling below.

And beneath the bridge, hidden from the house by painted rock work, Jen and Steve moved in a crouched blur.

Gaffer’s tape flashed in their hands.

One strip.

Another.

Another.

They marked the points of the pentagram with the same grim efficiency they used for spike marks and emergency repairs. Sigils crawled over their hands and up beneath their collars, black and read and slick with rain.

Theatre magic, Elise thought wildly, and almost laughed.

Real magic had apparently needed a stage manager and a roll of tape all along.

Jen pressed the final strip into place.

The pentagram closed.

The change was immediate.