Smoke and Shadows

by Tanya Huff

  There were people in the small offices to both his right and his left. Two right, three left; five hearts beating out an espresso rhythm. They were noted in a heartbeat of his own and ignored. He moved on. Farther in.

  The doors on the far wall were labeled, black letters on sheets of white office paper, the contrast so great that in spite of the darkness even mortal eyes would have been able to read them. WARDROBE. POST. SPECIAL EFFECTS. KEEP THIS DOOR CLOSED.

  Henry opened the last door and found himself pushing through racks of clothing. He couldn’t hear Tony. He should have been able to hear Tony. If Tony’s heart was still beating. If it wasn’t, a second death became a lot more likely. Easy enough to race along scent trails to another door and another sign: DO NOT ENTER WHEN RED LIGHT IS ON.

  The soundstage.

  Soundproof.

  As he pushed open the door, the terrified pounding of Tony’s heart rushed out to fill all available spaces. Snarling, Henry ran toward the source, following it unerringly through the maze of walls and cables and equipment. There was light, but he didn’t need it. Tony’s terror acted as both guide and goad.

  He found Tony on the floor under the gate, half-sitting, cradled in a parody of affection against the body of a large man. His heels drumming on the floor, Tony clawed at both meaty arms wrapped around his chest.

  Henry came one running step closer.

  And saw the band of shadow across Tony’s eyes.

  Two steps.

  The shadow disappeared.

  Three steps.

  Tony stopped struggling. His heart slowed between one beat and the next to just below normal speed.

  The man—Mouse—let go. Head cocked to one side, Tony folded his legs and sat cross-legged on the concrete. Then he looked up and met Henry’s eyes.

  “I see you, Nightwalker.”

  Henry snarled to a stop inches from Tony’s folded legs.

  “Just so you know, I’m not going to let you stop this,” the thing that wasn’t Tony added as Mouse rose slowly to his feet.

  In his own time, Henry had not been tall. In this century, he was short. Mouse—the thing that was Mouse—towered over him.

  “You have no power over us, Nightwalker.”

  Henry glanced down at Tony, back up at Mouse, smiled and swung, not particularly caring about the crack of bone. From the look of him, the cameraman had probably been in hundreds of fights. This one ended before he had a chance to join in. His head snapped back, his eyes rolled up until only the whites showed, and he crumpled to the concrete.

  His shadow hit the concrete with him and no metaphysical shadows appeared. It seemed that an unconscious body produced an inoperative shadow. That was definitely something to remember.

  “He’ll be pissed when he wakes up.” The Tony-thing sounded almost cheerful as he stood. “Even think of slamming me like that and before I go, I’ll fry the kid’s wetware.”

  Henry forced his fists back down by his side and growled, “Get out of him!”

  “No problem. The moment the gate opens, I’m gone. I know what he knows and he knows what the boss wants to know.”

  “He doesn’t know anything.”

  “And I’d believe that, too, except I’m in his head and you aren’t, dude.”

  “Dude?”

  “Hey, that’s in here.”

  Perhaps, but it wasn’t a designation Tony would ever use for him. The impersonation was off by just a few degrees. Something else to remember.

  “And so’s the info on what destroyed the earlier minion,” he continued. “Not as much about this world’s tech as the boss’ll want, but the other stuff he knows, that’ll so make up for it. This guy . . .” An exaggerated tap to one temple. “. . . knows where that pesky wizard ended up. Who’d have thought she’d be stupid enough to stay so close to the gate?” The thing rolled Tony’s eyes. “Wizards, eh? Too stupid to keep running, too fucking freaked to save the world. Boss’ll be overjoyed to have found her after all this time. Unfinished business, you know how it is.”

  Henry let the words wash over him as he circled around, looking for an opening. Although an opening to what, he wasn’t certain. Tony’s body turned with him, pivoting around on one heel.

  “You’re making me dizzy. I’m going to hurl hamantaschen.” It glanced down at Tony’s watch. “10:02. A little more than an hour. What are we going to do with ourselves, Henry? You hungry?” Familiar fingers pulled the collar of the T-shirt down off Tony’s throat, exposing bruises rising along the ridge of his collarbone.

  The sight of blood pooling under Tony’s skin, the knowledge of exactly what had to have been done to mark him so, pushed Henry back to the edge. He stopped circling. His lips pulled back off his teeth. He let the Hunger rise. Scavengers would not have what was his until he was done with it.

  “Tony. Is. Mine.”

  “I recognize your power, Nightwalker.” Tony’s cadences were gone. “But you cannot move me from this body until I am ready to leave.”

  The thing’s words were drowned out under the song of Tony’s blood.

  He felt a warm weight wrap around his legs and he ignored it. All that mattered was the life he had claimed, not once but countless times. “Mine.”

  “Not right now, dude.”

  “MINE!”

  Sudden recognition flared behind the shadows in Tony’s eyes. Followed by a fear so primal all else fled before it. His heart began to pound. Faster. Faster.

  Then his eyes rolled back and he doubled forward, retching.

  Shadow poured from his mouth and nose, pooled on the concrete, moved toward Henry. He retained barely enough hold on self to realize this was not something he could fight and in the face of it, the Hunger began to fade. One step back. Two. He had no idea how to control the light they’d used the night before or even if it was still in place. Tony, who knew, was on his knees, arms wrapped around his body like he was trying to hold disparate pieces of flesh together.

  Arra pulled the front door open, paused, and looked down at the broken lock. Maybe she should just stay here and fix it. Maybe she should have just stayed in the car. Actually, no maybe about it . . .

  She stepped into the office.

  What the hell am I doing?

  The thermoses were comforting weights in her pocket. Their contents would be useless as long as the shadow remained in Mouse, but they were a clear indication of what her role was in this . . . this ridiculous attempt to save a world already lost.

  She glanced toward CB’s office and almost wished he was there. Almost wanted to walk through his door, walk past the fish tank, almost wanted to stand in front of his desk and confess all. Fortunately, he was in Whistler with two of his kids from his first marriage. She had no idea what they were doing in Whistler at this time of the year, but whatever it was, it was keeping her from making an ass of herself in front of the one person in this world likely to ask the right questions.

  The costumes rustled as she passed as though they whispered among themselves; a choir boy’s cassock asking a slightly shiny tux what was happening.

  Good question.

  It was curiosity; that was all, the same thing that had prodded her out of the basement and up onto the soundstage in time for the morning opening of the gate. Wizards were like cats. Curious. Sometimes, it got them killed.

  Not me. I know when to run.

  She pushed open the door and heard retching. In the silence of the soundstage, it could have been coming from anywhere.

  Yeah, right. Who am I kidding . . .

  Tony was on his knees under the inactive gate, looking like crap, the last bit of shadow dribbling from his nose. Mouse was stretched out behind him. Maybe dead. Fully separate now from its last host, the shadow slithered across the floor toward Henry.

  He was fast. It was faster.

  Did it know what he was? Would it be able to control him? From the look of things, it was going to have a damned good try at it. If it succeeded, a shadow-held Nightwalker would be able to
destroy this small resistance.

  As darkness swarmed up Henry’s body, Arra reacted. The questions and the commentary shut off and her hands rose. She’d cast the incantation countless times in the last futile attempt, it wasn’t one she was ever likely to forget.

  The shadow froze, twisted in on itself, and vanished with a soft sputz.

  Moving quickly, before the questions had a chance to start up again, she jogged across the empty set to Mouse’s side, the rubber soles of her sneakers squealing against the floor. She dropped to her knees, and, grabbing two handfuls of his jacket, heaved him over onto his back. As his head bounced once against the floor, his eyes opened.

  “You!”

  “Me,” she agreed and drove her hand wrist-deep into his chest. Only the element of surprise gave the maneuver any chance at all, and for a moment she was afraid surprise wouldn’t be enough. Then her searching fingers closed. Leaning back on her heels, she hauled the shadow clear, flinging it free and destroying it in the same movement.

  If asked, she’d have had to say that final sputz was one of the most satisfying sounds she’d heard in the last seven years.

  Except that no one was asking.

  When she turned, it was to see Henry crouched in front of Tony, one pale hand extended. To her surprise, Tony flinched back from his touch.

  “Not yours,” he said hoarsely. “My own!”

  The Nightwalker nodded. “I know.”

  And then they both pretended to believe it.

  Holding in the hurt, Tony remembered. Lee hadn’t remembered—maybe because the shadow had left him, not been puked out—but Tony did. Remembered how it felt to be trapped in the back of his own head, able to feel his body, to know it was his, but to have no control over it. He felt it move, heard it speak, and could do nothing to prevent either. It threw him back to his worst times on the street, when he was young and new and too stupid to run. He couldn’t win if he fought and screaming made no difference because no one would hear him. He’d learned to hide, to just let things happen.

  Maybe that was why he remembered; because he’d been there before.

  Christ, he hurt. Ribs, back, arms, legs, brain . . .

  When Henry stood, he almost laughed. Henry standing. Him on his knees. That final “MINE!” still sounded with every beat of his heart and resounded at every pulse point. The barely healed bite on his wrist throbbed.

  It didn’t help that Henry’s Prince of Darkness face was essentially the same face he wore for everyday. Nothing changed; no bumpy foreheads, no road map of veins, just a thin veneer of civilization over a primal Hunger. A Hunger that seduced even as it devoured.

  “MINE.”

  The seduction frightened Tony more than the Hunger. Even shadow-held, he’d responded. Death had called in its marker and his answer had been to evict the current possessor, acknowledging the earlier claim. He was alive because Henry wanted him alive. He’d die when Henry decided it was time. Sure, that applied to pretty much everyone who shared a vampire’s territory, but he knew it. Personally. Hell, Biblically. He bit his lip to keep from laughing. If he started, he doubted he’d be able to stop.

  Henry would never let him go.

  As unpleasant as the implications were, bottom line, it had saved him.

  Right on cue, Henry held out a hand.

  Tony forced himself not to flinch back again.

  “Tony?”

  He understood the question Henry was asking. Were they okay? He supposed it depended on the definition of okay. Henry’s mask was back in place so, honestly, had anything changed? Same mask as he’d been wearing, covering the same power. And the shadow was gone. And it wasn’t like that whole possessive thing should be a surprise. And fuck, Tony, stop fucking thinking so goddamned much!

  It all came down to trust, really, and if he trusted Henry enough to let him open a vein and drink, then he might as well keep trusting him to not abuse the power that gave him.

  Not to abuse it much, anyway.

  Unwrapping his right arm from around his stomach, he gripped Henry’s cold fingers and allowed the vampire to pull him to his feet. “We’re cool.” He turned to Arra before Henry could respond. Further conversation on the topic was way more than he wanted to face. “How’s Mouse?”

  She looked up, liquid continuing to dribble from a thermos cap down between Mouse’s lips. “Well, I’m no doctor, but I think his jaw’s broken.”

  “Broken?”

  “Interesting purple knot coming up on one side, too.” Her lip curled slightly. “You don’t know your own strength, Nightwalker.”

  Tony had no need to turn to know that Henry’s lip had curled in answer.

  “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

  Arra’s gaze flickered between the two men, settled on Tony, and she made a speculative noise that could have referred to anything. Setting the plastic cap on the broad shelf of Mouse’s chest, she reached down into her pocket and pulled out a second thermos. “Here, get some of this down you.”

  She tossed it in a slow, underhanded lob, but Tony couldn’t seem to get his arms to move away from his body. An inch from impact, Henry bent and scooped it from the air.

  “You’d make a hell of a shortstop.”

  Henry grinned as he placed the thermos in Tony’s hands. “Only for night games.”

  “Well, yeah.” As long as they could play the denial game, they were maintaining a version of same old/same old. Same old/same old was doable. He looked dubiously at the thermos. “Is this . . . ?”

  Arra snorted. “Yes.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Drink some anyway.”

  “But I was only a minion for like a really short time and . . .” A sudden memory of being trapped and helpless, of being used. He came back to himself as Henry wrapped his fingers securely around slick curves of orange plastic. He didn’t think he reacted, but Henry backed away.

  Giving him space. And a thermos top filled with magic potion. It smelled exactly like he remembered.

  It tasted pretty much like it smelled, like a cocktail for alcoholic cats. He’d had worse but not recently and he was out of practice.

  “It doesn’t do any good coming back up your nose,” Arra snapped as he choked and coughed. “You have to swallow it.”

  He flipped her off with his free hand—at this point he honestly didn’t give a crap about being rude—and took another mouthful. It didn’t taste any better, but after the fourth mouthful the vodka started numbing things out. A little. “How much . . . ?”

  “Drain the cup.”

  “All of it?”

  “Isn’t that what drain means?”

  “Give me a break,” he muttered, wondering if the tip of his nose was supposed to be tingling, “I’ve had a rough night.”

  “And it’s not over.”

  “Fucking great.”

  Hands shoved in the pockets of his coat, Henry took a step closer to the wizard. “So, you’re involved now.”

  “I’m . . .”

  “The shadow in Tony said you were unfinished business. That his master would be thrilled to know where you were after all this time. And the one in . . .” His gesture took in the fallen cameraman. “. . . knew you.”

  “Would be thrilled,” Arra repeated, screwing the cap back onto the thermos and sitting back on her heels. “Knew me, past tense. Both shadows have been destroyed, so no information’s going back through the gate. No one’s going to be thrilled on my account.”

  “But it seemed to know you’d be here.”

  “Well, of course, it knew. As Tony pointed out,” she added wearily, “I’m the one who opened the original gate. The son of bitch found this world by using my research.”

  “It said you were unfinished business.”

  She shrugged. “Who likes loose ends?”

  “Your hand was in his chest.”

  The non sequitur seemed to throw her for a moment, then she snorted. “You saw that, did you?”

  As far as Tony could see, M
ouse’s chest looked pretty much like it had all night. Okay, the horizontal part was new, but other than that, big and plaid pretty much covered it. “You had your hand in his chest?”

  “I had the essence of my hand in the essence of his chest. I reached into the place where the shadows have substance and we don’t.”

  “How . . . ?”

  “Clean living.” Raincoat crinkling, she got slowly to her feet, her opinion of the question clear.

  “Look, magic might be the obvious answer where you come from, but it isn’t here.” Tony swallowed the last of the potion and belched. A spray of tiny green sparkles danced in front of his face. “Not usually, anyhow.” The world tilted slightly sideways. “I think I need to sit down.” The floor seemed like the best option. It was close and he’d already proved that he could hit it. His legs folded. Another belch. More tiny sparkles.

  “Is it the shadow?” Henry’s face swam in and out of focus.

  Tony stretched out a finger and poked him in the cheek. “The objects in your mirror may be closer than they appear.”

  “What?”

  “I’m guessing it’s the eight ounces of warm vodka.” He poked him again. “I’m fine.”

  Henry straightened. All he could do at this point was believe him. “Will there be others tonight?” he asked the wizard.

  “Other shadows returning?” She glanced toward the ceiling and although Henry heard her heart speed up, there was no outward manifestation of her fear. “Could be, but I doubt it. These seem to be the extended wear version, good for a few days. And if you’re right and they’ve been sent purposefully to look for the . . .” She sketched a set of air quotes. “. . . light, then they’ll stay as long as they can.”

  “What was the waiting one waiting for?” When both wizard and vampire turned to look down at him, Tony waved. “There was one in Mouse and one waiting here by the gate.”

  Arra frowned. “I’d guess it was guarding the gate—the gate was open when you destroyed the shadow last night. The Shadowlord probably felt it die and wanted to make sure that wouldn’t happen again.”