Smoke and Shadows (49 page)

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.

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 light. 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?”

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.

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.

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.

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?”

“Good question.” The green eyes stared past Tony's shoulder. “There's some weird shit going on around here ever since Nikki Waugh died. The doctor thinks my little memory lapse was something they call Transient Global Amnesia. Except, according to the cops, I'm not the only one forgetting things and your nose was bleeding yesterday, too—same bat-time, same bat-channel. And if I didn't know Mason was straight, I'd say he was one short step from bending over for that friend of his.”

Tony didn't bother turning to look. “You might want to stay away from Mason. And his friend.”

“Lee.” Adam leaned between them. “We're ready for you.”

“I'll be right there.”

The 1AD nodded and headed for the monitors.

“I'm about to shoot a scene with Mason.” He almost seemed to be asking if he'd be safe.

“That's not Mason, though.” Tony nodded toward the set. “That's Raymond Dark.”

Lee looked confused for a moment then he smiled. “Right. I wonder if he's going to take his friend to his interview.”

“Interview?”

“Yeah, he's on
Live at Five
tonight. Again.”

“They're live . . .”

“That would explain the title of the show, yeah. They seem to think Mason's the only actor on the West Coast.”

“Lee!”

As Adam beckoned, Lee nodded at Tony and walked onto the set. Any other time, Tony wouldn't have been able to look away as the actor shed Lee Nicholas and became James Grant. Today, the Shadowlord held his entire attention.