by Tanya Huff
“The door to Arra’s workshop is locked.” He’d spent a good five minutes rattling the knob; pushing, pulling and getting nowhere. It said something about the level of the cowl crisis that Amy hadn’t noticed.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Can’t be.” She smiled smugly. “There’s no lock on the door. Every now and then, it just jams and only Arra can get it open.”
“Is she here?”
“Haven’t seen her, so, no, I’d say she’s not.”
No real surprise. “Did she call in?”
“Do I care? Wait . . .” An uplifted emerald-tipped finger cut him off. “. . . let me answer that. If she wasn’t bringing a dozen black robes in with her, then, no, I don’t.”
“Amy, this is important.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you.” The big clock on the wall read 12:20. His stomach plummeted and then he remembered to glance down at his watch. 10:20. “You haven’t fixed the clock yet.”
“Gosh.” Heavily kohled eyes opened emphatically wide. “You’re right, I haven’t. Get over it.”
It’d be over soon enough; he had a little less than an hour to go.
*Soon.*
God damn it! He grabbed at his head, his fingers closing over a sticky smear of paint. Stop fucking doing that!
Amy frowned up at him, tapping the end of a pen against her lower lip. She might have looked concerned, she might have looked annoyed—Tony was too distracted by the shadow-voice to decide. “I didn’t talk to Arra,” she said at last. “Hang on and I’ll see if Rachel did.”
A scribbled note shoved under the office manager’s nose brought no pause in her heated discussion with their ISP about a lack of cable internet hookup and a negative response.
“I guess she’ll be in later.” Amy’s tone fell halfway between statement and question. Trouble was, Tony didn’t have any answers.
Although he did have more questions. Would later be too late?
“Tony?”
“Yeah. Sorry.” About to ask if CB was in, he changed his mind. What would be the point? Anything CB knew had been erased and even if he had time to start an explanation from scratch, Tony had no way to prove any of it. Murderous body-snatching shadows on the loose from another world—it still sounded like a bad pitch from the bull pen. “I’ve got to get back to work.” Really wishing that Amy would stop staring at him, he spun around on one heel, took two steps, and slammed into a warm, yielding obstacle. CD cases clattered against the floor.
“Zev. Sorry, man. I’ve uh . . . I’ve got to go.” A glance back over his shoulder. “If Arra calls, tell her . . .” What? Get her magical ass in here? “Fuck it. She knows. Don’t even bother.”
Amy watched Tony disappear through the door leading to the soundstage and shook her head.
“What was up with him?” Zev asked as he shoved aside a pile of uncollated scripts and stacked his retrieved CDs on the corner of her desk.
“I’m not sure, but I think you’ve been replaced in his affections by a fifty-five-year-old woman who blows things up.”
“Well.” After a long moment, the musical director sighed. “That definitely sucks.”
The big carbon arc lamp was gone. It wasn’t by the set. It wasn’t by the lighting board.
Tony stared at the empty space as the first vibrations from the gate started the liquid in his eyeballs quivering. Crap. Crap! CRAP! Heart pounding in his throat, he raced to the racks where the extra kliegs were stored. It wasn’t there either. Back to the edge of the gate, every hair on his body lifting.
“Three minute warning, people!”
Right. They were shooting in the office set. They were using the lamp.
They weren’t using the lamp.
“Sorge said we were done with it, so CB rented it to that buddy of his who’s doing that new sci-fi show over in Westminster. Charged him a freakin’ arm and a leg, too. He took it out first thing this morning.”
When I was painting . . .
The gaffer looked down at his arm and then up at Tony. “You want to let go of me now?”
“Yeah. Right. Sorry.” It took him a moment to remember how his fingers worked.
“If Arra was still using it, she should’ve said something. Not that it would’ve made any difference if CB had a chance of making a buck off renting it. Good thing I didn’t need it,” he added turning back to his board as Peter called for quiet on the set. “He’d have me using freakin’ flashlights if it’d save him a few bucks.”
“Rolling . . . slate . . . and action!”
Lee’s voice talking of good and evil got lost in Tony’s rising reaction to the gate.
Flashlights? Digging the heels of both hands into his temples, he staggered back to the dining room. Leaning against one of the vertical two-by-fours, he stared into the set. No one there. No one trying to send a shadow home. This was a good thing until he forced himself to consider why the last shadow wasn’t heading home. Last minion left in this world could be staying to act as a welcoming committee. Welcoming what; now that was the question. Odds were good that flashlights wouldn’t be enough to stop it and the baseball bat was in his bathroom leaning against the sink.
His nose was running.
A quick touch with the back of his hand.
No, his nose was bleeding.
Stupid vampire. Stupid sleeping all day. What the fuck good is that?
The actual opening of the gate felt as though the two halves of his brain were being ripped apart. Slowly.
A weapon. He needed a weapon.
And an aspirin, but that would have to wait.
Just outside the set, he found a metal stand and with shaking fingers unscrewed the upright. Four feet of aluminum, threaded on both ends—after all those years with Henry, he knew the kind of damage a simple stake could do.
Holding the pipe across his body, he stepped back into the set in time to see a man fall about four feet and land facedown on the dining room table.
The gate closed.
The man laid his palms flat against the wood and pushed himself into a sitting position.
Tony could hear hammering, swearing, wood dragging across concrete, and Sorge’s distinct mix of French and English as he spoke to the key grip—with two separate crews working, there were easily thirty people in the soundstage and not one of them had seen anything out of the ordinary. No new allies. No one who wouldn’t still demand to see proof of an insane-sounding story.
And all Tony’s brain seemed capable of coming up with in the way of reaction was, Your clothes, give them to me. Which didn’t work on a number of levels but mostly because the stranger was already dressed—black dress pants, black shoes, a gray silk shirt, and a black leather jacket. The shoes were a little off and the jacket not quite right, but all in all, it was a good casual business look.
Oh, for Christ’s sake; quit being so fucking gay!
In his own defense, it was easy to look at the clothes. Harder, almost impossible to look at the man. Hair, eyes, mouth . . . Tony assumed they were there, but he couldn’t seem to focus on them. Not that it really mattered. Lifting the pipe, he forced his right foot forward.
He’d barely completed the step when Mason Reed hurried across the set, both hands outstretched, his shadow trailing behind him like it would really rather be anywhere else.
Mason. Son of a bitch. The last shadow was in Mason. Tony’d forgotten the actor was in the studio that day. He’d been with Everett, not out on the soundstage; he hadn’t been on the list of possibles.
In full Raymond Dark makeup and costume, he stopped at the edge of the table and helped the other man to his feet.
“Shouldn’t you be kneeling?” Quietly curious.
“It is not done on this world, Mast . . .”
Something twisted. Mason whimpered and dropped to his knees.
“It is now.” Tanned fingers lifted a strand of the actor’s hair, turning it so the red-gold glimmered in the l
ight. Tony could see Mason shudder and, as much as he’d never liked the other man, he wouldn’t have wished this on him. He managed another step forward as the strand of hair was released and a bored voice murmured, “Get up, fool, before someone sees you and leaps to the wrong conclusion.”
On conclusion, the stranger lifted his head.
His face came into focus. Eyes locked with Tony’s.
The pipe clattered against the floor as it fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. Tony recognized the feeling of being studied like an insect under a magnifying glass. This was what . . . who . . . had been peering through the gate. He felt shadows stirring, wrapping around his soul. Found a word. “Shadowlord.”
The pale gray eyes widened slightly. “You know me. How . . . interesting. I know you as well, Tony Foster. I hold a shadow of you.” A glance down at the pipe. “Seems there’s more substance to you than that, though.”
Tony tried to flinch away as warm fingers pinched his chin, but his shadow rose up behind him and held him in place. Not the Shadowlord’s minions. Or the Shadowlord’s army. The Shadowlord. Here. Himself. Why would he do that? Why would he travel to another world just to take out Arra when he’d already fried her entire order?
“Able to question . . .” The grip on his chin tightened and his head was forced first one way then the other. “. . . but nothing else. As you are, you are no danger to me.” The Shadowlord smiled. His teeth were very white and the smile, wreathed in shadow, was intended to be terrifying, but Tony had seen smiles wreathed in Darkness and the joy of the Hunt . . .
And maybe he shouldn’t have made that thought so obvious.
The smile snapped off, no longer dangerously charming, merely dangerous. “Where is she, Tony?”
No reason to waste hero points—he suspected he was going to need all he could muster. “I don’t know.”
The hand not holding his chin reached out, grabbed his shadow, and pulled it forward. Pulled it through flesh. Screaming would have been nice, but the hand holding his shadow also held back his voice. Holy fuck, that hurts!
“You’re not lying.”
The release hurt almost as much as his shadow snapped back.
“But she hasn’t run. Not yet. I can sense only one gate. Mine.” An amused tone, at odds with the vicious grip. “It was foolish of her to have waited; the moment she tries to open a gate, I’ll know exactly where she is and I’ll be on her between a heartbeat and her dying breath. Ah, you didn’t know that, did you? You didn’t know she was trapped. You’re wondering if she knows how loudly the gates call to those who use power. Probably not.” The grip became almost a painful caress. “Last time she opened a gate, I was regrettably delayed. This time, there’s no one to delay me. Oh, wait, I’m sorry. There’s a boy and a Nightwalker. I tremble. I truly do. Tell me where the Nightwalker hides from the sun.”
Why don’t you already know? Why hadn’t the shadow taken that information back through the gate? Granted, it hadn’t been in his head for very long, but Arra had said they knew what he knew. Seems Arra was wrong about that. The resulting emotion was more nah nah nah than hope, but he found strength in it. “Never.”
“And that would be the required cliché response. Do you think I’m giving you a choice?” His hand stretched again over Tony’s shoulder. “So foolish.”
“Master, this boy is nothing. A production assistant. He does what he is told.”
A silver eyebrow lifted. “My point exactly.”
“He is beneath your notice.”
Yeah, Mason always hated it when someone else was getting all the attention. You want him? Tony thought above the rising tide of pain. He’s all yours.
“Would someone mind telling me what the hell is going on over here?”
Released, Tony could still feel the indentation of the Shadowlord’s fingers in his flesh. His knees threatened to buckle, but he gritted his teeth and managed to stay standing.
“And who,” Peter continued, sweeping an annoyed gaze over the evil wizard, “is this?”
“You know me. Interesting.”
Apparently, no one else knew him. Although Tony had no idea how they couldn’t feel the power writhing around the Shadowlord like smoke.
“He’s a friend of mine, Peter.” Gone was the whining sycophant, back was the star of Darkest Night, a man who knew his friends would be welcomed for no other reason than that they were his friends and he was essential to the continued employment of a great many people. “He’s just dropped by to watch me shoot.”
“Right. Fine.” Peter was clearly maintaining a fingernail grip on his temper. “Then he’ll have a lot more to watch if you’d go over to the office so we can start scene seven. Lighting’s set and we’ve been ready for you for a while now, Mason.”
“Which is why Tony came and got him.”
Peter shook his head, clearly a little confused about why Mason’s friend was speaking to him, defending a member of his staff; his shadow seemed to be on its knees. “Well,” he said at last. “Nice to see someone’s doing their job.”
The Shadowlord held out a hand. “Michael Swan.”
A cursory handshake. “Right. Mason, if you would . . .” As he turned, sweeping Mason before him, he added to the soundstage at large, “Let’s go, people; we’ve got another nine pages to get through today!”
“Your thoughts were filled with this . . . television. Shadows made of light. We have nothing similar. I find the whole concept fascinating.” His hand closed gently over Tony’s shoulder. Under his shirt, Tony’s skin tried to crawl away from the touch. “I do hope Arra cowers for a while—just think of what I could do with something like this.”
Evil television? Or was that redundant? He’d come to kill Arra himself because Tony’s shadow memories had made television fascinating?
That was . . . unexpected.
As the Shadowlord released him, Tony had a strong suspicion that hysteria was one more touch away. He could feel it beating its fists against the inside of his skull. He watched the Shadowlord catch up with Mason. Felt the panic begin to ease with distance. Wanted nothing more than to run. And didn’t. And followed. He didn’t bother hiding, or skulking, or trying to be anything less than obvious. What would be the point?
Lee had moved to the edge of the set and was standing with his eyes closed, holding a cup of coffee. His lips were moving, so Tony assumed he was running over lines. Mason passed him without acknowledgment, but the Shadowlord paused and glanced back at Tony, his expression clearly saying, So, this is the one.
Great. He hadn’t given up Henry, but he’d given up Lee. Or at least his attraction to Lee. Don’t . . . Don’t what, he had no idea. Just don’t.
And the Shadowlord moved on.
Tony released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding just as the color drained from Lee’s face and his eyes snapped open.
Oh, shit!
Spasm.
But the Shadowlord wasn’t touching the actor. Wasn’t even near him.
The coffee mug smashed against the floor, coffee spraying against the shadow that stretched from Lee’s back to the Shadowlord’s heels. It seemed to be driving serrated spikes into Lee’s head.
God fucking damn it!
No lights handy.
What else defeated shadow?
Darkness weakened them.
Gray-on-gray patterns flickered across the floor as a camera rolled into position.
Patterns . . .
Half a dozen running steps took Tony to the edge of the set—the edge of the lights. His shadow fell over Lee’s and the Shadowlord’s, wiping out the definition of the attack, leaving nothing but a formless shape of darker gray on the concrete.
Lee’s breath caught on the edge of a scream and then eased out of him in a wavering exhalation. Then Elaine from craft services was there with a roll of paper towels. And Carol, who was on the lighting crew. And Keisha, the set dresser. With Lee surrounded by concerned women and no place on the floor for new patterns, the Shadowlord�
��s shadow now extended no farther from his heels than it should.
Tony moved one tentative step away; moved his shadow one tentative step away.
Lee seemed fine.
As Mason ran over his blocking with Peter and Sorge, the Shadowlord moved up to stare through the camera’s viewfinder. He was Mason’s friend, no one would move him. No one wanted to set Mason off and lose an afternoon’s work.
Tormenting Lee had obviously been nothing more than a way to yank Tony’s chain. How long would the Shadowlord just hang around if Arra stayed hidden? How long before he started killing people to bring Arra out of hiding? And would Arra come if he did?
What would he do if she didn’t?
Flush her out with destruction?
According to Arra, it took time to learn the energy of a new world. The longer they had to wait for the other shoe to drop, the more the Shadowlord learned, the more powerful he became. Although it seemed as though shadows were shadows—that power he had now.
Bottom line, he had to be stopped sooner rather than later.
Yeah, and now we’ve come to that amazing decision, we’re no farther ahead than we were. There’s a big fucking evil thing hanging around being a fanboy—I’m the only one who knows it and I can’t do a thing about it. I can’t even take out his minion.
Mason was settling into character although he kept shooting “look at me” glances toward his master.
“Tony?”
Heart in his throat, he spun around so quickly he almost fell over.
Lee backed up a step, both hands in the air. “Are you okay?”
“Me?”
“Your nose is bleeding.”
Still? He touched his upper lip and stared down at sticky fingertips. “It’s nothing.”
Arms wrapped around his torso, Lee nodded. “Sure.”
“Are you . . .” A wave back toward the damp spot on the concrete. “. . . okay?”