Smoke and Shadows (29 page)

“Fine. You still haven't told me how you'll explain the shadow-held to the carpenters then.”

“I thought you . . .”

“What part of I'm not getting involved in this do you not understand?”

“I'm not asking you to do any more than you've already done.” Even to his own ears that sounded sulky. “Look, we're trying to stop an invasion and save the world without a lot of options, so we need to make the Shadowlord wonder a bit. Confuse him. Throw him off-balance. Not, why are my shadows being destroyed at the gate but why aren't they coming back to the gate at all? Maybe that'll convince him there's something here he doesn't want to tangle with.”

Arra set up a new game on the laptop. “Have you spoken to the vampire about this?”

“Yeah. Sort of . . .”

“Tony . . .”

“I'm fine.”

“I don't doubt it, but I'd appreciate it if you could move just a little faster; I've got to feed.”

Still struggling with his seat belt, Tony froze.
I can't.

Something of the thought must have shown on his face because Henry sighed. “Not on you. I don't think that would be safe for either of us tonight.”

“Good call.” The buckle jammed. Working the release with one hand, he yanked on the strap with the other. It didn't help. In fact . . . “Uh, Henry. I think I've really fucked this up.”

Cool fingers shoved his out of the way. “It's stuck.”

“No shit.”

Henry glanced up at him, his eyes darkening, the masks slipping. Vampires didn't screw around with seat belts. The strap separated from the buckle. Vampires ripped their victims free.

Adrenaline lent Tony's bruised body speed and he all but threw himself out onto the sidewalk. Then, in an attempt to reclaim a little dignity, he braced himself between the door and the roof and leaned back into the car. “I was thinking that maybe we should try dealing with these things before they get back to the studio.”

“Fine.” The dashboard lights painted eerie highlights in Henry's eyes which were . . .

Oh, fuck.
And the worst of it was; Tony wanted to climb back into the car. To offer his wrist or his throat. To offer his life. No. That wasn't the worst. It was much worse that Henry knew it, too. Leaping back, he slammed the door closed and muttered, “Why don't I just leave a message on your machine,” at the BMW's ass end as it disappeared down the street.

“Yes, I'd say that fits the definition of
sort of.
His kind are not unknown on my world; I'm amazed you've managed to retain as much self-determination as you have. A man cannot serve two masters after all.”

Tony's lip curled. “That's not how it is.”

“And I believe you where thousands of others wouldn't.” Arra closed down the laptop and stood. “Let's go.”

“Go?” The cat on his lap showed no indication that it planned to move any time soon.

“Studio, gate, shadows . . .” The wizard sighed as he continued to sit awkwardly in place, not daring to stand. “Just dump her on the floor, she won't break.”

Figuring he had enough mayhem in his life at the moment, Tony tucked his hands in Zazu's armpits—front leg pits?—and carefully lifted her down to the floor. She snorted, sounding remarkably like Arra, sat down, and licked her butt. Never having spent much time with cats, Tony'd never realized they were so good at making their opinions known. “I thought I didn't understand about you not getting involved?”

“What?”

“You
said
you weren't going to get involved.” He stepped carefully around Whitby who was now winding between his feet, determined to be punted across the apartment.

“I'm still not going near the gate when it's open, but I suppose I can bullshit you past a few carpenters.”

“What changed your mind?”

She paused, yellow raincoat up over one arm, and stared for a long moment at a framed
Darkest Night
promotion poster. “The cats like you,” she said at last.

“Arra!”

She jabbed at the elevator call button a couple more times as though hoping it would realize she was in a hurry and arrive.

“Arra!”

“I don't think he's going to go away,” Tony murmured.

Smiling tightly, she turned. “Julian.”

He shifted the Chihuahua in the crook of his left arm and, eyes narrowed suspiciously, stared around her at Tony. “It's your turn to dust and vacuum the party room.”

“I don't even live here,” Tony protested.

“Not you. Her.”

Except he was still staring at Tony—who'd have found it creepy had his creep level not risen over the last few days. It was, however, becoming more than a little annoying.

“The party room's done.”

That snapped an equally suspicious gaze back to Arra. “It wasn't
done
a moment ago.”

“Well, it's
done
now. And look, here's our elevator.” Her hand closed tightly around Tony's arm just above the elbow, she propelled him inside, following right on his heels.

“Ow!”

“Sorry.” Arra turned and waved jauntily at Julian through the last six inches of open space.

Shoving his foot back into his shoe, Tony waited until the door was fully closed before asking if the wizard had magicked the room clean. He hadn't seen any incantations or a wand or even an ambiguous gesture but then, what did he know about wizards?

She leaned against the back wall and folded her arms. “No. I lied.”

“You lied?” Wizards lied. All things considered, it was something to remember.

“Prevaricated, even. Julian's an ac-tor, you know. He got up my nose before he became president of the co-op board; now he's unbearable.”

Even on such short acquaintance, Tony could see where
unbearable
might be a justified definition. “And his dog is fat.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What if we shot flamethrowers through the gate?”

Arra finished merging her mid-'80s hatchback with traffic and glanced over at her passenger. “Flamethrowers?”

“Yeah. We just sit under the gate and when it opens . . .” He mimed shooting toward the ceiling. “. . . whoosh.”

“Where would we get flamethrowers?”

Tony shrugged, shuffling his feet into a more comfortable position among the discarded coffee cups that littered the floor. “Same place we get them for the show; the weapons warehouse.”

“They aren't . . .” Her voice trailed off and Arra scowled out at the road, her frown deepening slightly at each slap of the windshield wipers.

When she didn't say anything more for about five kilometers, Tony figured that was it. The suggestion of flamethrowers had clearly brought up some bad memories. Beginning to doze off—even with all the lights on, it hadn't been a particularly restful night—he jerked awake as she started talking again.

“I think he'd take it as a challenge. He's never been stopped, so at this point he has to believe he never can be.”

“We've stopped some of his shadows.”

“Minor players. They are to his power as UPN is to network TV. He wouldn't for a moment assume that because you've defeated them you could defeat him.” She snorted. “Evil wizards who style themselves the Shadowlord and go on to conquer vast amounts of territory seldom have a problem with self-esteem.”

“Do you think he's conquered your whole world?”

“He's headed for this one; does it matter?”

“I guess not.”

Another three kilometers passed. Tony wondered what was happening during the silences. Finally, she shrugged. “It's only been seven years; I doubt it.”

“Then why is he coming here?”

He was looking at her when she turned toward him, but it wouldn't have mattered if he hadn't been, the force of her expression would have dragged his head around. Pain and anger and other emotions less easily defined chased themselves across her face.

“You're right,” he told her soothingly. “It doesn't matter why he's coming here, only that he is. Now, could you do me a favor and get your eyes back on the road!”

As the old analog clock on Arra's workshop wall ticked around toward 11:00, Tony moved restlessly from shelf to shelf picking up and putting down the heads and hands and other accumulated body parts. “I thought your special effects were all, you know . . .” He waggled his fingers in the air.

“Piano playing?”

“Magic.”

“Some of them are. Most of them are a combination. A glamour works better than an illusion and a glamour has to be cast on something. Even computer-generated effects work better with some kind of reference point. Sometimes it's manipulating pixels, sometimes it's squibs and corn syrup, and sometimes it's magic.”