A moment later, the lights began to dim, and Cat juggled the last two woks lower and lower, allowing them to settle to the ground. Finally, the torturous and sublime show came to a silent conclusion, but Molly remained transfixed, staring into the darkness as her mind struggled to comprehend the powerful display she had just witnessed: a solitary figure, on stage, enduring incredible violence while exhibiting such practiced expertise. She had to meet this person. She wanted to get backstage somehow and thank her. Congratulate her.

Then she remembered: that’s why we’re here!

She turned to grab Walter and saw that he had passed out across the armrest on the other side of himself.

“Walter, are you asleep?”

He lifted his head as the dim house lights flickered and returned. Molly looked to the stage and saw that Cat was gone, the bubble rising slowly toward the rafters.

“Iss it over?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Molly shooed the Wadi to her neck and hurried toward the stairs. Behind her, she heard someone clapping; she glanced over her shoulder to see the couple in the box seats giving the performance a standing ovation.

“Let’s go,” she repeated impatiently. She turned down the stairwell and took them two at a time, not waiting for Walter to catch up.

The lobby was empty save for one man—the ticket hawker from the street—who leaned on a mop. Molly ran toward the doors that led down to the lower seats, then whirled to ask him: “How do I get backstage?”

The man threw both arms wide, dangling the dripping mop in the air.

“Practice!” he announced, smiling like a fool.

Walter staggered down the last few steps, still half-asleep.

“I’m serious,” Molly said. “I need to speak with Cat.”

“Well, you better hurry if you want an autograph.” The man laughed to himself. “She’ll be in no shape to write before long.”

“What? Where is she? It’s important.”

The man pointed slantwise through the building. “She’s most likely in the back alley with her meager pay, heading off to a pub to get tore up.”

“Thanks!” Molly said. She grabbed Walter and pulled him toward the exit.

“No problem,” the man said. He then hollered after them: “But next time, there’s a two tomato minimum!”

ѻѻѻѻ

Molly kept one hand on the Wadi’s back as she ran down the side of the opera house, not so much to keep the creature in place but to let it know the claws weren’t necessary, at least not deep enough to sting.

At the back of the building, she turned the direction she thought the ticket hawker had pointed and peered down an alley that serviced the rears of two rows of businesses. In the dim light of a few bare bulbs, she could see dumpsters dominating the lane, their quiet bulk contributing to the smell of things dead and rotting. Detritus was strewn everywhere, and bits of paper floated in the dark and dusty night air; they caught the feeble light and seemed like things alive and fluttering intently.