More than anything

Greta bolts upright in her chair at the sound of Thomas's voice, the contract dropping out of her hands. It winks out of existence before it can hit the floor, but she hardly notices; she's too busy straining to see past the lights still illuminating the stage and into the gloom of the rest of the theater.

"Thomas?" she blurts, before it can occur to her that perhaps she shouldn't. Beneath her desperate relief to have an ally is the keen awareness that he doesn't possess magic or an armory or anything else that might come in handy against a demon and their assorted henchmen.

Whether her captor knows as much or not, he seems undisturbed at the prospect of more company. He doesn't even rise from the prop throne he's pulled out for himself. A shrewd look passes between her and the direction Thomas's voice had come from. "Is that the cavalry?" he all but purrs, rising to his feet.

Greta tries to follow suit, and finds she can't do more than lean forward. She seems pinned to her seat.

The henchmen start to mill towards the entrance -- or towards the stairs, for those up in the balcony. Greta glances up nervously, just in time to see one of them check themselves and look down, their body language conveying the surprise their rigid mask wouldn't betray.