by Tanya Huff
Henry tossed the remote back onto the tangle of blankets. He was no farther ahead than he had been. Although Tony’s scent permeated the apartment, he clearly hadn’t been there for some hours. He’d gone to work. He hadn’t returned.
There were only two possible scenarios. He was still working. He’d been taken by the Shadowlord. Either way, he was still at the studio.
About to open the door, Henry paused. He could feel a life in the hallway; he’d wait until the way was clear. If Tony was all right, if it turned out he was only working late, the fewer people who saw him here the better. Less embarrassing for them both.
Then the life paused outside the door.
And knocked.
Lee Nicholas’ familiar face filled the peephole. The distortion made it difficult to read his expression.
As Henry understood it, Tony and the actor were barely considered coworkers given their respective positions on Darkest Night. While they might be friendly, they were certainly not friends, and no matter how much Tony might want it to be otherwise, it was highly unlikely that anything more than friendship would ever develop between them.
So, what was Lee Nicholas doing at Tony’s door on a Friday night?
Henry smiled. He opened the door, the Hunger held carefully in check. There was always the chance that the actor was controlled by shadow once again and he had no intention of giving away more than he had to.
“Yes?”
The flash of a photogenic smile. “I was looking for Tony Foster.” He was nervous. He hid it well, but Henry could smell it. That, and expensive cologne, was all he could smell—there was no taint of another world.
“Tony’s not home from work yet.”
“That’s strange.” One hand swept up through dark hair. “I heard they quit early today.”
“Early?” Not good.
“Yeah.”
“How early?”
“About . . .” The green eyes narrowed slightly as he looked past Henry’s shoulder. “Who are you?”
And Henry realized that he’d never bothered to turn on the apartment lights. About to explain that he was on his way out, he watched Lee’s gaze track back to the damp patches on the shoulders of his trench coat and decided the truth would serve better than a lie. “I’m looking for him, too.” He held up his own key ring. “I have a key.” Well, most of the truth.
“Oh.” And a visible jump to the wrong conclusion. “Right.”
“Did you want to leave a message?”
“What? No, that’s okay. I, uh . . . I have to . . . um . . . I left my date waiting in the car. I’ll see Tony at the studio on Monday.”
Interesting emphasis; although the date in the car meant this next part had to be quick. He allowed the Hunger to rise to the border of terrifying where coercion waited then caught Lee’s gaze with his and held it. “What do you remember of your time under the control of shadow?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Not a lie. Tempted to turn the question to a command, Henry reluctantly acknowledged that the hallway of an apartment building where neither of them lived, with a date waiting, with no idea of how the actor would react to the memories, was probably not the best place. So he settled for, “What did you want to speak to Tony about?”
“He was there, this morning, when I . . .” Terror surfaced from the depths of the green. Terror Henry wasn’t evoking. “. . . collapsed. I just wanted to know if he . . . If there was anything . . .” Hands rose to waist level, opening and closing as though trying to hang onto the thought. “I just . . .”
This was a man perilously close to the edge. Half tempted to push him over to see where he’d land, Henry allowed his better nature to rule and backed the Hunger down, releasing the actor’s eyes. “I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
“No, that’s . . . yeah, sure.” Barely holding it together, he turned away then turned back again, dark brows drawn in. “Do I know you? I mean, have we met before?”
Interesting. As far as Henry could remember, they’d never actually met before last night. “Perhaps you’ve seen me with Tony.”
“Yeah. Sure. That must be it.” Squared shoulders and a crisp nod, but Henry could see the tremors mortal eyes would miss.
He waited in the hall until he heard the door to the building clang not-quite-closed then hurried down to the landing to look out the window. Shoulders hunched against the rain, Lee Nicholas trotted across the street to where a busty blonde waited in his classic Mercedes. As he got into the car, he said something to make the blonde laugh, his body language suggesting that nothing worse than bad hair had happened to him in the last forty-eight hours.
The man was definitely a better actor than most people gave him credit for.
Tony was with him when he collapsed. Something had happened when the gate reopened. What? And where was Tony?
On cue, his cell phone rang.
“Tony? Where the hell have you been?”
“Close but no cigar, Nightwalker. I assume he’s not with you?”
“No.”
“He’s not answering his phone.”
Henry glanced up the stairs toward the apartment before he realized which phone the wizard was referring to. “He can’t turn it on in the studio.”
“He’s not at the studio. They finished early today.”
“Sometimes he forgets to turn it on when he leaves.” He was grasping at straws and he knew it.
“Seven shadows came through the gate this morning, Nightwalker. Seven. He would have called and told you about that were he able. And then the two of you would have appeared at my door demanding more of my time. More of the potion.”
Were he able. “Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“At Tony’s apartment.”
“I assume there’s no sign of him?”
“None.”
“Wait there. I’ll make a couple of calls and get right back to you.”
“I had thought, wizard, that you were unwilling to become involved in this fight.”
“Did I say anything about fighting?”
He stood there holding his silent phone and admitted that, no, she hadn’t. Enough for now that she was willing to help find Tony—who, it seemed, had, one way or another, been taken by shadow.
“You see me.”
“Jesus, Mouse, you’re a big guy.” Tony tried for a sardonic snort and didn’t quite make it. “How could I miss you?”
The cameraman’s callused hand closed around the back of Tony’s neck. “You see me,” he repeated. “The voice of the light did not see me. But you see me.”
“Yeah, well, seeing a little too much of you right now.” Mouse’s face loomed so close over his that Tony could see every broken capillary, every enlarged pore, and he was getting a really good look at the scar from where Mouse’s ex-wife had jabbed a nail file through his nose. He placed both hands flat against the barrellike chest and shoved. It worked about as well as he’d expected it to. “You want to back off a bit?”
“No. You and I are going to have a . . .” He fell silent, eyes squinted nearly shut as a set of high beams swept through the bus shelter.
Out of the direct line of light, Tony could see the police car approaching. Could see it slowing down. Yes! Let’s hear it for law and order. Little guy’s getting manhandled by big guy, and the police . . .
Mouse’s mouth closing over his cut off the thought. And pretty much every other thought besides: What is it with shadows in straight boys coming on to me?
By the time Mouse lifted his head, the police car was gone.
Just fucking great, Tony thought, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. We couldn’t be in Toronto, where the cops’ll bust your ass for PDAs. Oh, no, we have to be in fucking officially-tolerant-of-alternative-lifestyles Vancouver.
“Don’t do that again,” he snarled.
“Or you’ll what?”
“Tell Mouse’s old lady.”
A flash of fear. Either Mouse was
in there listening or the shadows took on more than the physical form of the bodies they wore. Tony had a feeling that was important, but he didn’t have time to work out why as Mouse’s hand tightened to the point of pain and he was propelled out of the bus shelter and into the rain. “Hey! Where are we going?”
“Somewhere . . . quiet.”
That didn’t sound good. Tony went along without struggling, being no threat, no problem, giving Mouse no reason to think he might make a run for it. When they stopped beside Mouse’s 1963 cherry-red, Mustang convertible, when Mouse—or rather the thing in Mouse’s body—started digging for his keys, Tony dropped straight down to his knees, spun around, surged back up onto his feet, took two running steps away, and crashed face first into the wet sidewalk. His teeth went into the edge of his lip and his mouth filled with blood. He spat and twisted around. Within the circle of the light from the streetlamp, Mouse’s shadow tangled with his.
The shadows in the bodies controlled the shadows of the bodies—he should have remembered that—and those shadows could mess with the shadows of people—like him—who weren’t being controlled. And that made so little real world sense it sounded like one of the less than brilliant ideas the bull pen horked up after a night of generic beer and cheese pizza.
Mouse smiled broadly enough for a pair of gold crowns to glitter. “Get in the car.”
Tony spat again. He was through making it easy. “Make me.”
One huge hand grabbed the waistband of his jeans, the other both straps of his backpack. A moment later he was in the passenger seat. He spared half a thought for the total shit-fit Mouse was going to have when he was back in control of his body and saw his upholstery and then tried to fling himself out the door.
Mouse’s shadow flowed up and over his face.
Oh, crap . . .
Clawing at it didn’t work. It gave under his fingers and then seeped back into the gouges. He already knew he couldn’t breathe through it . . .
Phone cradled between ear and shoulder, Arra tossed another handful of lemon balm into the vodka. “You might want to write this down, Nightwalker. He’s at the Four Corners Bakery and Coffee Shop on Oak by Fifty-first—in South Granville. It’s right by Schara Tzedeck, the Orthodox synagogue.”
“You did a locator spell.”
“No, I called Amy, his friend from work.” A sniff of the steam and a bit more elecampane root. “She overheard Tony and Zev talking as they were heading for the parking lot.”
“Tony and Zev?”
“Uh-huh.” She pushed Zazu away from the stove with the side of her foot and wondered if she shouldn’t have waited until the last minute to add the catnip.
“He had a date?”
“He’s young, he’s single, and it’s Friday night.” Arra grinned as the Nightwalker sputtered. “Jealous?”
“No. I am not jealous! I am . . .” The pause lasted long enough for her to get the cap off the jar of bay leaves. “. . . appalled. How can he consider dating, knowing what he knows about the Shadowlord.”
“Knowing what he knows, he’s wise to enjoy himself while he can.” She could feel the grin slipping away. “I’ll have potion enough for seven ready before the gate opens again.”
He started to say something, but she shrugged the phone down into her hand and hit the disconnect. If he wanted to find Tony and if the two of them wanted to shine bright lights on the Shadowlord’s spies, that was their business. Eventually, one of two things would happen; they’d realize they were whistling into the wind or they’d die fighting.
Since they’d already forced her involvement, she’d continue to make sure the taken had a chance to recover. Having done it once, balking at doing it again seemed foolish. And it put her in no more danger than any other person on this world.
This world.
Just another place she couldn’t save.
There were people in the building who’d take the cats when she left.
“I saw you this morning.”
“Yeah? So?” Tony had pressed himself back as far into the bucket seat as he could, trying and failing to get away from Mouse’s shadow as it pooled in his lap like a big, black . . . really creepy thing! It moved continually, like liquid but not, and in a futile attempt to get out from under its cool weight, his balls had climbed up so high they were practically sitting on his shoulder.
“You ran to Lee’s side.”
“Because he fell!”
“No.” Mouse glanced over at him and then turned his attention back to Friday night traffic on the Granville Bridge. “You moved before he fell. You know something.”
“I don’t know anything! I just did what anyone would do.”
“No one did.”
“Did what?”
“What you did.”
Tony rolled his eyes. Mouse had always been one of those guys who saw no point in using five words if three would almost do the job. “I was already there, so no one else had to do anything, did they?”
The cameraman/minion of the Shadowlord shrugged; a minimalist move of one burly shoulder that was all Mouse. As was the two-wheeled turn onto Hastings Street and the speed he was using to maneuver the Mustang around lesser vehicles. Tony thought the driver of a dark green Chevy Impala flipped them off as they passed, but they were by too quickly for him to be sure. Oh, sure, if he drove like this across the border in the US, some guy with a Bud tucked in his crotch’d get so pissed off he’d haul out the shotgun and pop a few off which would get the cops into the act and we’d end up on the next episode of FOX TV’s High Speed Chases heading for a dramatic finish where minion-guy here rolls the Mustang and I get rescued!
Unfortunately, they were in Canada and the worst that could happen would be having the license plate recorded by the occupants of a police car who weren’t allowed to participate in a high speed chase lest someone get hurt. There were times, and this was one of them, when that whole peace, order, and good government thing totally sucked.
And if Mouse allowed himself to be pulled over? A massive fine, six points off his license, and no chance in hell any cop would believe Tony’s story. Amy hadn’t believed him and Amy was his friend. Of course, years of experience with cops meant he’d have no trouble coming up with the kind of commentary that’d get his ass hauled out of the car. Police brutality, use it wisely. Then Henry’d come bail him out and he’d be safe. His moment of hope faded when he realized Mouse—or rather the minion riding in Mouse—would never allow himself to be pulled over.
A sudden lane change—closer to a lateral movement than should have been possible in a thirty-year-old Ford—nearly threw the shadow off Tony’s lap. Without thinking, he caught it and scooped it back into place. It sloshed a bit and then settled, cool and weighted, against him.
His hand felt . . . soiled. He scrubbed it against the side of the seat.
“Stop that.”
“But . . .”
“Now.”
No mistaking the threat in Mouse’s low growl, but it almost wasn’t enough. Tony’d never wanted his hands clean quite so badly. And, once, way back, he’d held vomit. Someone else’s vomit. Sitting there, suddenly terrified, he understood why people took wire brushes to their own skin.
A little surprised that a kosher bakery hadn’t closed for the Sabbath—although there was no actual reason all the staff had to be Orthodox or even Jewish for that matter—Henry picked up Tony’s scent on the door. He wasn’t inside, he wasn’t anywhere in sight, and it was still almost raining in that ubiquitous West Coast more-than-a-mist not-quite-actual-drops way. It wouldn’t be easy to track him.
On the bright side, in this neighborhood at this time on a Friday, there weren’t a lot of people on the street.
Maybe he’d gone home with Zev.
And if he has . . . The growl sounded low in his throat before Henry could prevent it. An elderly man sitting at one of the bakery’s small tables glanced up and, feeling a little foolish, Henry turned back toward the street. He should just call th
e wizard for Zev’s address. The music director was a nice guy, attractive, smart—Tony could do worse. Perhaps a little of Arra’s end-of-the-world pessimism had rubbed off and Tony was taking advantage of an opportunity to do what any young man would do in the same circumstances. Perhaps he’d decided to celebrate their victory over the shadow that had possessed Lee Nicholas. Perhaps whatever had happened with Lee Nicholas at the studio that morning had driven him into the arms of another.
Henry shook his head to clear that last thought. Perhaps I’ve been writing romances for far too long.
There were any number of valid reasons Tony hadn’t called him.
But the wizard’s phrase “were he able” kept sounding over and over again in Henry’s head.
If Tony hadn’t gone home with Zev, he’d have taken the bus north up Oak. A three-meter walk to the transit shelter would settle it once and for all. If Tony’s scent wasn’t in the shelter, he’d call the wizard for Zev’s address. If it was . . .
It was.
The damp air had kept the scent from dissipating. Scent of Tony. Scent of fear. Scent of another world.
Seven shadows had come through that morning.
One of them seemed to have been studying the city map on the side of the shelter.
A mix of the two—one dragged by the other against the outside wall.
Away from the shelter, the rain had washed most of the Tony scent away but had had little effect on the other. Even the weather seemed to be avoiding it. It was easy enough to follow, though.
Henry snarled as the Hunger surged up at the scent of blood; faint, diffused, but unmistakable. Unmistakably Tony’s.
On the sidewalk, caught in cracked concrete.
Again at the edge of the road, a drop against the side of the curb barely above the water running past in the gutter.
The obvious explanation: Tony had been flung, injured, into a car. The shadow-held had followed.
And the car had then been driven away.
He could be anywhere.