Smoke and Shadows

by Tanya Huff

  “Anything at all,” she insisted.

  Fine. Tony sorted through unanswered questions searching for one he wouldn’t mind having an answer to. There were a lot more of the other kind. “If the Shadowlord had no power here, how did he hold CB?”

  “I’m about to leave this world forever and that’s it?”

  “Yeah. Why? Don’t you know?”

  Arra snorted and turned toward him at the base of the ladder. “Probably a minor binding spell. The close confines of the coffin helped hold it and hitting the floor broke it. Don’t forget to get the gas gauge on the car fixed.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’ve left my laptop down in the workshop.”

  “It’s still working?”

  “Apparently it landed on Everett and bounced. But that’s beside the point; it has some things on it you might be able to use.”

  “I’m not a wizard.”

  She snorted again. “Damned right you’re not. Here.” She handed him the second cat carrier. “Hold Zazu until I’m up the ladder.” First step. Second step.

  Not very interesting to look at actually. “It would look a lot more wizardy if you levitated or something.”

  Third step. “And you’d block this area from the rest of the soundstage? Or maybe you’d rather tell a studio audience where I’m going.” Fourth step.

  “You didn’t have to go through this morning. You could have gone through tonight.”

  Fifth step. Sixth. “I didn’t feel like it. The police have finished with me, I’m out of here.”

  The RCMP investigation into the “special effect accident” that had killed Charlie Harris and Rahal Singh had been strangely vague considering that they were the third and fourth bodies connected to CB Productions in less than a month. In the end, no charges had been laid and the newspaper coverage had given the show a ratings bump. With any luck, Constables Elson and Danvers would get tired of dropping by before CB got tired of finding them in the building. Unfortunately, Arra’s wizardry had had less effect on the insurance industry. CB’s enraged commentary on the rise in his rates had probably been heard at the company’s head office in Montreal—whole sentences were still echoing around the soundstage.

  Tony handed the cat carriers up one at a time, the hand-shaped bruises on his waist reminding him of shadows as he stretched. Arra settled the first carrier on the top of the ladder and the second on the paint platform and looked down at him. No, stared down at him.

  Great. More staring. He found a smile that was mostly sincere. “Thanks for the car. And the stuff. And the whole kicking Shadowlord ass.”

  Arra nodded.

  Tony waited.

  The gate opened. Zazu went through first—he couldn’t see her, but he recognized the yowl. It was slightly higher-pitched than Whitby’s. The last he saw of Whitby was an orange and white paw poked through the bars of the crate.

  Arra lifted one foot off the step and stopped. “It’s going to be one hell of a mess through there.”

  Yeah, there were wizards nailed to blackboards. He wondered if she could see them from where she was standing.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

  “I’m sure.”

  She looked down at that, and finally smiled. “You could be great.”

  He shrugged. “I’m planning on it.”

  “Great and modest. I’m out of here before the sap level rises any higher. Take care of yourself, kid.”

  “You, too.”

  Watching an old woman step off a ladder and disappear in midair was a definite anticlimax. Half decent CGI would have given the scene a lot more oomph.

  “You’re welcome,” he muttered as he folded the ladder and moved it up against the wall. Yeah, getting the car was nice, but would it have killed her to thank him. Not for fighting the Shadowlord, that had nothing to do with her, but she could have thanked him for the backbone he found for her. Without him, she’d have been running until the guilt finally crushed her.

  He’d been waiting for her to say something for the last three days, but every conversation they had seemed to end up with her trying to convince him to go with her through the gate.

  “I could use the help of someone who does not run away from a fight. Of someone who will not let others run away.”

  Oh. Hang on.

  He’d been a little distracted at the time.

  Looking up toward the ceiling, he said, “You’re welcome” again but this time he meant it.

  “Quiet, please!”

  As Peter’s voice echoed through the soundstage, Tony crammed the jack back in his ear and turned up his radio.

  “Let’s settle, people!”

  He reached the set in time to call, “Rolling!” with the rest and found a place behind the video village as the second assistant camera called the slate.

  “Scene twenty-seven, take two.”

  Lee grinned as Mason settled his shoulders against the padded satin lining of the coffin and said something that caused the other actor to give a less than bloodsucking undead type snicker.

  “Action!”

  Left thumb rubbing the scar on his right wrist, Tony watched the monitors as the scene unfolded. Stretched out behind him on the concrete floor, his shadow reached out and held up two fingers behind the shadow of the director’s head.

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  Keep reading for a sneak preview of

  Smoke and Mirrors,

  Tony Foster’s second adventure,

  coming in hardcover in July from DAW

  CAULFIELD House was anything but average.

  Built around the turn of the last century by Creighton Caulfield, who’d made a fortune in both mining and timber, the house rested on huge blocks of pale granite with massive beams of Western Red Cedar holding up the porch roof. Three stories high with eight bedrooms, a ballroom, a conservatory, and servants’ quarters on the third floor, it sat tucked away in Deer Lake Park at the end of a long rutted path too overgrown to be called a road. Matt, the freelance location finder CB Productions generally employed, had driven down Deer Lake Drive to have a look at Edgar House—which turned out to be far too small to accommodate the script. Following what he called a hunch, although Tony suspected he’d gotten lost—it wouldn’t be the first time—he spotted a set of ruts and followed them. Chester Bane, the CB of CB Productions, had taken one look at the digital images Matt had shot of the house he’d stumbled on at the end of the ruts, and decided it was perfect for Darkest Night.

  Although well within the boundaries of the park, Caulfield House remained privately owned and all but forgotten. Tony had no idea how CB had gotten permission to use the building but shouting had figured prominently—shouting into the phone, shouting behind the closed door of his office, shouting into his cell as he crossed the parking lot ignoring the cars pulling out and causing two fender benders as his staff tried to avoid hitting him. Evidence suggested that CB felt volume could succeed when reason failed, and his track record seemed to support his belief.

  But the house was perfect in spite of the profanely expressed opinions of the drivers who’d had to maneuver the generator, the craft services truck, the wardrobe/ makeup trailer, and the honey wagon down the rutted road close enough to be of any use. Fortunately, as CB had rented the entire house for the week, he had no compunctions about having dressing rooms set up in a couple of the bedrooms. He’d only brought in the honey wagon when Mr. Brummel had informed him what it would cost to replace the elderly septic system if it broke down under the additional input.

  The huge second floor bathroom had therefore been painted but was off-limits as far as actually using it. The painters had left the window open to help clear the fumes and Tony glanced up to see the bottom third of the sheer white curtain blowing out over the sill.

  He frowned. “Did you see that?”

  “The curtain?”

  “No, beyond the curtain, in the room. I thought I saw someone looking down at us.” />
  Lee snorted and started walking again, stepping over a sprawling mass of plants that had spilled out of the garden onto the path. “Probably Mason sneaking a smoke by the window. He likely figures the smell of the paint’ll cover the stink.”

  It made sense, except . . .

  “Mason’s in black,” Tony argued, hurrying to catch up. “Whoever this was, they were wearing something light.”

  “Maybe he took the jacket off so he wouldn’t get paint on it. Maybe that’s where he went for his earlier smoke and maybe he did a little finger painting on my ass when he got back.” One foot raised above the top step, Lee paused and shook his head. “No, I’m pretty sure I’d remember that.” Half turning, he grinned down at Tony on the step below. “It seems I have a secret admirer.”

  Before Tony could decide if he was supposed to read more into that than could possibly be there, Lee was inside and Adam’s voice was telling him to “. . . get your ass in gefffst, Tony. We don’t have all fisssssking day.”

  Fisssssking had enough static involved it almost hurt. Fiddling with the frequency on his walkie-talkie as he followed Lee into the house, Tony had a feeling that the communication difficulties were going to get old fast.

  “He peeped you. Not the actor, the other one.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Stephen.”

  “Well he looked like he saw you.”

  “He saw the curtain blowing out the window, that’s all. I’m very good at staying out of sight.” Her tone sharpened. “I’m not the one that people keep spotting, am I?”

  “Those were accidents.” His voice hovered between sulky and miserable. “I didn’t even know those hikers were there and I don’t care what Graham says, I hate hiding.”

  Comforting now. “I know.”

  “And besides, I never take the kind of chances you do. Truth, Cassie, what were you thinking, marking him a second time?”

  She smiled and glanced down at the smudge of paint on one finger. “I was thinking that since I’d gotten him to take off his jacket, maybe I could get him to take off his pants. Come on.” Taking his hand, she pulled him toward the door. “I want to see what they’re doing now.”

  “Raymond, I think you’d better have a look at this.”

  “Cut and print! That was excellent work, gentlemen.” Tossing his headphones onto the shelf under the monitor, Peter turned to his director of photography. “How much time do you need to reset for scene eight?”

  Sorge popped a throat lozenge into his mouth and shrugged. “Shooting from down here . . . fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. No more. When we move to the top of the stairs . . .”

  “Don’t borrow trouble.” He raised his voice enough to attract the attention of his IAD . . . “Adam, tell them they’ve got twenty minutes to kill.” . . . and lowered it again as he pivoted a hundred and eighty degrees to face his script supervisor. “Tina, let’s you and I go over that next scene. There’ll be a bitch of a continuity problem if we’re not careful, and I don’t need a repeat of episode twelve.”

  “At least we know there’s ninety-one people watching the show,” she pointed out as she stood.

  Peter snorted. “I still think it was one geek with ninety-one e-mail addresses.”

  As they moved off into the dining room and the techs moved in to shove the video village out into the actual entryway where it wouldn’t be in the shot, Adam stepped out into the middle of the foyer and looked up at the two actors. “You’ve got fifteen, guys.”

  “I’ll be in my dressing room.” Turning on one heel, Mason headed back up the stairs.

  “If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my dressing room as well.” Lee grimaced, reached back, and yanked at his pants. “These may dry faster off my ass.”

  Mouse, his gray hair more a rat-tail down his back and physically the complete opposite of his namesake— no one had ever referred to him as meek and lived to speak of it—stepped out from behind his camera and whistled. “You want to drop trou, don’t let us stop you.”

  Someone giggled.

  Tony missed Lee’s response as he realized the highly unlikely sound could only have come from Kate, Mouse’s camera assistant. He wouldn’t have bet money on Kate knowing how to giggle. He wasn’t entirely certain she knew how to laugh.

  “Tony,” Adam’s hand closed over his shoulder as Lee followed Mason up the stairs and both actors disappeared down the second floor hall. “I saw Mason talking with Karen from craft services earlier. Go make sure she didn’t add any bagels to his muffin basket.”

  “And if she did?”

  “Haul ass upstairs and get make sure he doesn’t eat one.”

  “You want me to wrestle the bagel out of Mason’s hand?”

  “If that’s where it is.” Adam grinned and patted him manfully on the shoulder—where manfully could be defined as better you than me, buddy. “If he’s actually taken a bite, I want you to wrestle it out of his mouth.”

  Mason loved bagels but the dental adhesive attaching Raymond Dark’s fangs to his teeth just wasn’t up to the required chewing. After a couple of forty-minute delays while Everett replaced the teeth, and one significantly longer delay after the right fang had been accidentally swallowed, CB had instigated the no-bagels-in-Mason’s-dressing-room rule. Since Mason hadn’t had to ultimately retrieve the tooth—that job had fallen to Jennifer, his personal assistant who, in Tony’s opinion, couldn’t possibly be paid enough—he’d chosen to see it as a suggestion rather than a rule and did what he could to get around it.

  As a result, Karen, from craft services, found herself under a determined assault by a man who combined good looks and charm with all the ethical consideration of a cat. No one blamed her on those rare occasions she’d been unable to resist.

  Today, no one knew where she was.

  She wasn’t at the table or the truck and there wasn’t time enough to search further. Grabbing a pot of black currant jam off the table, Tony headed up the staircase two steps at a time, hoping Mason’s midmorning nosh hadn’t already brought the day to a complete stop.

  As the star of Darkest Night, Mason had taken the master suite as his dressing room. Renovated in the fifties, it took up half the front of the second floor and included a bedroom, a closet/dressing room and a small bathroom. Provided he kept flushing to a minimum, Mr. Brummel had cleared this bathroom for Mason’s personal use. Lee had to use the honey wagon like every one else.

  All the doors that led off the second floor hall were made of the same Douglas Fir that dominated the rest of the house but they—and the trim surrounding them—had been stained to look like mahogany. Tony, who in a pinch could tell the difference between plywood and MDF, had been forced to endure a long lecture on the fir-as-mahogany issue from the gaffer who carved themed chess sets in his spare time. The half finished knight in WWF regalia that he’d pulled from his pocket had been impressive.

  Hand raised to knock on the door to Mason’s room, Tony noticed that both the upper panels had been patched. In the dim light of the second floor hall, the patches were all but invisible but up close he could see the faint difference in the color of the stain. There was something familiar about their shape but he couldn’t . . .

  Hand still raised, he jumped back as the door jerked open.

  Mason stared out at him, wide-eyed. “There’s something in my bathroom!”

  “Something?” Tony asked, trying to see if both fangs were still in place.

  “Something!”

  “Okay.” About to suggest plumbing problems were way outside his job description and that he should go get Mr. Brummel, Tony changed his mind at Mason’s next words.

  “It was crouched down between the shower and the toilet.”

  “It?”

  “I couldn’t see exactly, it was all shadows . . .”

  Oh, crap. “Maybe I’d better go have a look.” Before Mason could protest—before he could change his mind and run screaming, he was crossing the bedroom, crossing the dressing room, and opening the bathroom doo
r. The sunlight through the windows did nothing to improve the color scheme but it did chase away any and all shadows. Tony turned toward the toilet and the corner shower unit and frowned. He couldn’t figure out what the actor might have seen since there wasn’t room enough between them for . . .

  Something.

  Rocking in place.

  Forward.

  Back.

  Hands clasped around knees, tear-stained face lifted to the light.

  And nothing.

  Just a space far too small for the bulky body that hadn’t quite been there.

  Skin prickling between his shoulder blades, jar of black currant jam held in front of him like a shield, Tony took a step into the room. Shadows flickered across the rear wall, filling the six inches between toilet and shower with writhing shades of gray. Had that been all he’d seen?

  Stupid question.

  No.

  So what now? Was he supposed to do something about it?

  Whatever it was, the rocking and crying didn’t seem actively dangerous.

  “Well, Foster?”

  “Fuck!” He leaped forward and spun around. With his heart pounding so loudly he could hardly hear himself think, he gestured out the window at the cedar branches blowing across the glass and lied through his teeth. “There’s your shadow.”

  Then the wind dropped again and the shadows disappeared.

  Mason ran a hand up through his hair and glanced around the room. “Of course. Now you see them, now you don’t.” I wasn’t frightened, his tone added, as his chin rose. Don’t think for a moment I was. “You’re a little jumpy, aren’t you?”

  “I didn’t hear you behind me.” Which was the truth because he hadn’t—although the admiring way he said it was pure actor manipulation. Working in Television, 101—keep the talent placated.

  As expected, Mason preened. “Well, yes, I can move cat quiet when I want to.”