Smoke and Shadows (50 page)

Oh, fucking crap.

The Shadowlord wasn't
only
after Arra. It was also an invasion. And Tony'd handed him the weapon he needed to win it.

The production office was empty. Tony could hear Rachel and Amy and one of the writers in the kitchen arguing over who'd emptied the coffeemaker. Keeping his head down, he hurried toward the open door of CB's office. He had to find a way to break Arra's spell because Chester Bane was the only person Mason ever listened to. The only person with even half a hope in hell of keeping him—and by extension the Shadowlord—from that live interview.

He might even know where Arra was.

But he wasn't in his office.

There was an appointment book open on the desk. CB disapproved of electronic calendars, saying paper and ink never got wiped out by a thunderstorm. Tony'd never heard of anyone's PDA being wiped out by a thunderstorm, but he had no intention of ever pointing that out to CB. The book was open to the current date. CB'd had a breakfast meeting with one of the networks, but the rest of the day was clear. Therefore, he was somewhere in the building.

“Lots of help. It's a big fucking building!” Nothing on the desk suggested
where
in the building CB might be; if he was on the move, they could chase each other around all afterno . . .

Tony slid the appointment book to one side and stared down at the sheet of art paper tucked into the edge of the blotter. The pattern penciled on it looked incredibly familiar. A closer look showed that the pattern had been, in fact, redrawn—lines drawn hard enough to etch the paper erased then filled back in.

Lines erased.

But this wasn't the pattern Arra had used to erase CB's memory.

No.

“My memory.”

She'd erased it; he remembered seeing her erase it. Even when he'd forgotten everything else, he'd remembered that. CB must have found the paper and filled the lines back in.

Coincidence? Tony's thoughts flicked back to the vodka-catnip cocktails still in his thermos. If CB was also a wizard, he was going to need a very stiff drink.

After erasing it, Arra had slipped the paper she'd drawn CB's pattern on into her desk.

So, logically, in order to return CB's memory . . .

Finally! Something was going right!

Except that the door to Arra's workshop was still locked. Jammed. Whatever. Point was, he couldn't get the damned thing open!
She's probably got a spell on it. That's why it only opens . . .
He braced one foot against the trim and pulled.
. . . for . . .
Again. Harder.
. . . her.

Fuck!

The argument in the kitchen built to a crescendo. Any minute, the losing participant would stomp out and demand to know what he was doing. Or Zev would emerge from post. Or Adam would come looking for him.

I don't have time for this!
Not only was the door rock solid without so much as a wobble on its hinges but the doorknob wasn't even turning. His hands dropped to his sides.
Completely, fucking hopeless!
Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes and banged his head lightly against the painted wood.
Please. Just. Open.

The latch rattled against the latch plate.

Tony grabbed for the doorknob, twisted, and pulled.

The door swung open without even the expected ominous creak.

Arra really
had
drawn CB's pattern on an invoice for blasting caps which made it just a little hard to retrace. If he got it wrong, would it just not work or would CB remember things that hadn't happened? He paused, pencil frozen on the paper. If he got it wrong, would he completely screw up CB's brain? Did he have a right to risk it? As far as he could remember a distant and not very pleasant childhood, he'd always sucked at coloring between the lines.

“Screw it.” The pencil started moving again. “He redrew me.”

And anyway, the alternative was the Shadowlord live at five.

“What the hell is going on?” Stomping down the stairs, CB's voice bludgeoned the silence out of his way. “We had an agreement, old woman, and if I find you've broken . . .” He caught sight of Tony and paused. His gaze flicked down to the sheet of paper, the pieces falling into place so quickly Tony practically heard the click as they lined up. “Ah . . .”

“Yeah.”

“Where is she?”

“I have no idea. I was hoping you might know.”

“Has she . . .” One huge hand sketched an unidentifiable pattern in the air.

They so didn't have time for obscure. “Taken up Balinese dancing? What?”

“Opened another gate.”

“Apparently not.”

CB glanced down at his watch. “The original gate has opened. Did she go through it?”

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Tony point-formed the events of the morning, stopping twice to remind CB that he wasn't finished and that roaring off to wring necks without all the information wouldn't help. “You've got to stop Mason from doing that interview,” he concluded. “If the Shadowlord gets in front of a live camera, we're talking shadows of light going out into millions of homes!”

“Millions?” The big man snorted. “Their ratings are nowhere near millions, Mr. Foster. Thousands at best.”

“Fine. Thousands. Thousands of shadows taking over people's lives.”

“But these shadows won't be able to leave the television.”

“Wanna bet? My shadow shouldn't be able to get me in a hammerlock, but it did. Mason's shouldn't be able to roll around like a whipped puppy, but it is. Shadows shouldn't have been able to kill Nikki Waugh or Alan Wu, but they did!” Suddenly unable to remain still, he paced the width of workshop and back as he talked, CB's head turning to follow his passing like he was the ball in a tennis game. Which was pretty much how he felt. “I got a feeling that convincing shadows to leave the box is going to be no big. Then we've got mi . . . thousands of shadow-held who'll hunt down Arra for that son of bitch, forcing her to fight them—or save them from doing stupid things like jumping off an overpass. Draining her power until she can't fight him and . . .” Tony ground his palms together.

“Then he goes home and it is over.”

Breathing a little heavily, Tony stopped pacing and stared at the older man. “You don't believe that. Powerful men seek power. It's what they do; hell, it's what they are. There are places on this world without indoor plumbing that still have a television and he's fascinated by television. He's going to take the television road to power!”

“He is fascinated by television because the shadow he holds of you is fascinated by television.”

“Fine. Whatever. My bad.” Man, CB was big on placing blame. First Arra, now him. “Point is, he's not just going to go home. Arra isn't going to be the only casualty. And Arra, by the way, works for you and is therefore your responsibility—at least a little,” he amended as CB scowled down at him. “And more importantly, you are the only one who can stop Mason.”

“I arranged this interview.”

Oh, for . . . “Un-arrange it! But replace it with something good so Mason doesn't suspect—something ego stroking that'll make them both happy. Because if Mason suspects, then the Shadowlord will suspect and he'll take you out. Right now, he's thinking this world is his oyster—whatever the hell shellfish has to do with anything—and we don't want him to un-mellow. He's a lot less dangerous when he thinks he's already won and . . .”

“You've made your point, Mr. Foster. I understand power politics and I have no desire to compete with those who do . . .” The pause dripped with distaste. “. . . magic. While I am confining Mason to the studio, what will you be doing?”

“Trying to find Arra. She's our only chance of defeating him.”

“As I understand it, then, not much of a chance.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not so sure. I think there's layers working here and I've almost figured what's . . . Damn!” Every time he tried to shove the last pieces into place, they slipped shadowlike from his grasp. “Look, when he got a bit of me, well, I got a bit of him—of the Shadowlord—you know, a bit, and so next to Arra, I know him better than anyone, anyone alive that is. And I know her. And, I'm outside their history, so I've got a whole new perspective on things. I just think he's putting too much effort into finding her if he's that certain she can't hurt him, so I've got to convince her that . . .”

“Mr. Foster?”

“Yeah?”

“Perhaps,” CB said slowly, weighting each word, “until this is over, you should switch to decaf.”

I
T TOOK him forever to get to downtown Vancouver although Tony had to admit that saving the world by public transportation was a particularly Canadian way to do things. By the time he reached the Burrard Station, however, he was well into the “screw it, I'm buying a car” mindset. Or a bike. Something like Lee's. Except he hated getting wet and, most years, wet was the defining weather for the lower mainland. So, back to the car.

He didn't care what kind of a car.

He just needed something that wouldn't take so goddamned long to get him anywhere.
Hey! I'm trying to find a wizard and save the world here, so could you get the fuck OUT OF MY WAY!

A trio of elderly Asian women shot a variety of worried glances at him and shuffled to one side, clearing his path from the station to the street. He thought about apologizing, had no idea what he'd be apologizing for since he was about ninety percent certain he hadn't actually said anything out loud, and flagged down a cab. To hell with the expense; maybe CB would kick in a few bucks.

There was a police car parked in front of Arra's building when he arrived. Tony threw some money at the cabbie and raced across the road, ignoring the horns and shouted curses. Mason drove a Porsche 911, a very fast car that he drove very fast, relying on his minor celebrity to get him out of tickets, and when that didn't work, relying on the studio to pay the fines. If Mason and the Shadowlord had left just after he had, they'd have easily gotten to Arra's before him.

Hell, if they'd waited half an hour, had lunch, and then drove Zev's aging sedan into the city, they'd have easily gotten to Arra before him.