Smoke and Shadows (23 page)

Tony's sofa bed was unmade, his breakfast dishes still in the sink, and the clothes he'd worn yesterday in a pile on the bathroom floor. The fridge held mostly packets of condiments from various fast food establishments as well as eight eggs, a loaf of bread, a half-empty jar of peanut butter, and a bottle of generic cola. It took Henry a few minutes to find the television remote—although upon reflection the top of the toilet tank was an almost logical place. Disk one of the extended
Two Towers
was in the DVD player and last week's episode of
Federation,
the new
Star Trek
series, was in the ancient VCR. Tony'd mentioned he was saving for a TiVo, but apparently he hadn't managed it yet.

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.

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.”