by Tanya Huff
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Teaser chapter
Also by TANYA HUFF
“You’re a minion of the Shadowlord!”
It sounded so incredibly stupid, Tony regretted the words the moment they left his mouth.
Lee stared at him for a long moment, blinked once, and started to laugh. “I’m a what?”
Oh, crap. Now he was going to have to repeat it because there really wasn’t any variation on this particular theme. “You’re a minion of the Shadowlord.”
“That’s what I thought you said.” Scooping his shirt up off the floor, Lee shrugged into it, still chuckling. “You know, you’re a very weird guy.”
“You’re not leaving this room.”
“Is this supposed to be where I strike a dramatic pose and tell you that you can’t stop me?” Lee leaned closer, his position a parody of his earlier seduction. “Guess what? You can’t.”
And he couldn’t.
The shadow swept across the room, holding him against the wall. Tony couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, and most importantly, he couldn’t breathe. It was like being trapped under a pliable sheet of cold charcoal-gray rubber that covered him from head to foot like a second skin, curving to fit up each nostril and into his mouth. Obscenely intimate.
As the door closed behind the thing controlling Lee’s body, the shadow flexed, flopped away from him, and slipped through the final millimeter of open space.
He had to stop Lee before he left the building.
Also by TANYA HUFF
SMOKE AND SHADOWS
SMOKE AND MIRRORS1
BLOOD PRICE
BLOOD TRAIL
BLOOD LINES
BLOOD PACT
BLOOD DEBT
SING THE FOUR QUARTERS
FIFTH QUARTER
NO QUARTER
THE QUARTERED SEA
The Keeper’s Chronicles
SUMMON THE KEEPER
THE SECOND SUMMONING
LONG HOT SUMMONING
OF DARKNESS, LIGHT AND FIRE
WIZARD OF THE GROVE
The Confederation Novels
VALOR’S CHOICE
THE BETTER PART OF VALOR
Copyright © 2004 by Tanya Huff.
All rights reserved.
DAW Books Collectors No. 1289.
DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
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ISBN : 978-1-101-57311-2
First Paperback Printing, April 2005
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For Karen Lahey because until I met her I never made the connection that “people” write books. (Where I thought they came from, I have no idea.) Essentially, Karen’s responsible for my being a writer so if you’ve enjoyed any of my books, you should thank her. Thank you, Karen.
I’d like to thank Blanche McDermaid and the cast and crew of A&E’s Nero Wolfe Mysteries, who graciously allowed me to hang about the set. I’d especially like to thank Matt and PJ, the PAs, who were more than patient with two solid days of stupid questions. Anything I got right, I owe to them. Mistakes are all my own.
One
LEANING forward, brushing red-gold hair back off his face, he locked eyes with the cowering young woman and smiled, teeth too white within the sardonic curve of his mouth.
“There’s no need to be frightened,” he told her, his voice holding menace and comfort equally mixed. “You have my word that nothing will happen to you; unless—and I did warn you about this—unless you’ve been holding out on me, Melissa.”
A full lower lip trembled as her fingers clutched the edge of the park bench. “I swear I’ve told you everything I know!”
“I hope so.” He leaned just a little closer, his smile broadening as she trembled. “I truly hope so.”
“Cut! Mason, the girl’s name isn’t Melissa. It’s Catherine.”
Mason Reed, star of Darkest Night, straightened as the director moved out from behind his pair of monitors. “Catherine?”
“That’s right.”
“Why does it matter, Peter? She’ll be dead by the end of the episode.”
Safely out of Mason’s line of sight, the actress rolled her eyes.
“It matters because everyone else is calling her Catherine,” Peter told him calmly, wondering, and not for the first time that morning, what the hell was taking the tech guys so long to come up with believable CGI actors. Or, conversely, what was taking the genetics guys so long to breed the ego out of the ones they had. Years of practice kept either thought from showing. “It matters because Raymond Dark called her Catherine the last time he spoke to her. And it matters because that’s her name; if we start calling her by a different name, the audience will get confused. Let’s do it one more time and then we’ll rig for close-ups.”
“What was wrong with the last take?” Mason demanded, fiddling with his left fang. “I liked the last take.”
“Sorge didn’t like the shadows.”
“They changed?”
“Apparently. He said they made you look livide.”
Mason turned toward the director of photography who was deep in conversation with the gaffer and ignoring him completely. His expression suggested he was less than impressed with being ignored. “Livid?”
“Not livid, livide,” Peter told him, tone and expression completely nonconfrontational. They had no time to deal with one of Mason’s detours into ego. “It’s French. Translates more or less as ghastly.”
“I’m playing a vampire, for Christ’s sake! I’m supposed to look ghastly.”
“You’re supposed to look undead and sexy. That’s not the same thing.” Flashing their star a reassuring smile, Peter returned to the director’s chair. “Come on, Mason, you know what the ladies like.”
The pause while he considered it could have been scripted. Right on cue: “Yes, I do. Don’t I?”
As the visibly soothed actor returned to his place on the park bench, Peter sent a prayer of thanks to whatever gods were listening, settled back behind his monitors, and yelled, “Tony!”
A young man standing just off the edge of the set, ear jack and harried expression marking him as one of the crew, jerked as the sound of his name cut through the ambient noise. He stepped around a five gallon jug of stage blood and hurried over, picking his way carefully through the hydra snarl of cables covering the floor.
“We’re not going to need Lee until after lunch.” Peter tore the wrapper from a granola bar with enough force that the bar itself jerked out of his hands, bounced off his thigh, and was heading for the floor when Tony caught it.
“Thank you. Is he here yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Fucking great.” An emphatic first bite. “Have someone in the office call his cell and find out where the hell he is.”
“Do they tell him that you won’t need him until after lunch?”
“They remind him that according to the call sheets, his ass was supposed to be in makeup by 11:00 . . . Tina, was what’s-her-name wearing that color nail polish in scene sixteen? She looks like her fingertips have been dipped in blood.”
The script supervisor glanced up from lining her pages. “Yes.” Looking past Peter’s shoulder, she indicated that Tony should get going. “I think dipped in blood is what they were trying for.”
Shooting Tina a grateful smile—it wasn’t always easy to tell when Peter’s abrupt subject changes were, in fact, a dismissal—Tony headed for the office. A muffled shriek from the actress playing Catherine stopped him at the edge of the park.
It seemed that Mason was getting playful. Testing out his teeth.
As the gaffer’s crew adjusted two of the lights, shadows danced against the back wall of the set, looking on their own regard if not ghastly then strange. Forming shapes that refused to be defined, they moved in weirdly sinuous patterns, their edges overlapping in ways normal shadows did not.
But this is television, Tony reminded himself as he left the park, cut across Raymond Dark’s office, and hurried past the huge mahogany coffin on his way to the production office. There’s nothing normal about it.
The studio where CB Productions shot Darkest Night had been a box warehouse in its previous incarnation and much of it still looked the part. Chester Bane, creator and executive producer of Darkest Night, as well as half a dozen other even less successful straight to syndication series, had gone on record as saying that he refused to spend money the viewer wouldn’t see on the screen. His comments off the record had been more along the line of, “I’m not spending another cent until I start seeing some return on my fucking investment!” Since CB had only one actual volume and that volume had been known to send the sound mixer running for his board to slap the levels down, off the record essentially meant that no reporter was taking notes within a two-kilometer radius.
Leaving the sound stage, Tony pushed his way through racks of clothing—the wardrobe department’s solution to a ten-by-sixteen office and no storage space. Given the perpetual shortage of room, he was always fascinated to note that many of the costumes hanging along both sides of the hall were costumes that had never been used on the show. Granted, he covered enough second unit work that he wasn’t on the set all the time, but he somehow doubted he’d have forgotten the blue taffeta ball gown, extra large, with size twelve stiletto-heeled shoes dyed to match. Assorted World War II uniforms had been used for a flashback sequence two episodes ago, but he had no idea when or if they’d ever needed half a dozen private school uniforms. And he couldn’t help but wonder about the gorilla suit.
Maybe a few shows down the road they were going after a whole new demographic.
He’d been with the series as a production assistant since the beginning—thirteen of twenty-two episodes in the can and word was they were about to be picked up for a second season. There was no shortage of television work in the Vancouver area—half the shows that filled the US networks were shot there—and there’d certainly been more high profile production companies hiring, but Darkest Night had piqued his curiosity and once hired he found himself unable to leave. Even though, as he’d told Henry, some days it was like watching a train wreck.
“They don’t know shit about vampires,” he’d complained after his first day on the job.
Henry had smiled—his teeth too white within the cupid’s bow of his mouth—and said, “Good.”
Henry Fitzroy, writer of moderately successful romance novels, had taken Tony Foster, a nineteen-year-old street kid into his home, his bed, his heart. Had moved him from Toronto to Vancouver. Had bullied him into finishing high school, had provided stability and encouragement while he worked in a video store by day and attended courses at the Vancouver Film School by night.
And although Henry Fitzroy, bastard son of Henry VIII, once Duke of Richmond and Somerset, had, in the end, allowed Tony to leave and live the life his protection had made possible, he’d refused to cut all ties—insisting they remain friends. Tony hadn’t been sure that would work, the whole Prince of Man thing made Henry frighteningly possessive of those he considered his, but however unequal the relationship they’d had, it turned out that the friendship they’d built out of it was solid.
Henry Fitzroy, vampire, Nightwalker, four hundred and fifty odd years a member of the bloodsucking undead, wavered between being amused and appalled about Darkest Night.
“They seem to know less about detectives than they do about vampires.”
“Yeah, well, it’s straight to syndication . . .”
Tony’d learned early on that no one wanted to hear the opinion of a production assistant so, after a few aborted attempts, he surrendered to the inevitable clichés and set about making himself indispensable.
Which was the other reason he stayed with CB Productions. Chester Bane was notorious for hiring the minimum crew the unions would allow and, as a result, his PAs ended up doing a wide variety of less than typical jobs. This resulted in turn in a higher than usual turnover of PAs but Tony figured he’d learned more about the business in thirteen shows than he’d have learned in thirteen seasons elsewhere. Granted, some of it he’d have rather not learned, but after spending his teens on the streets—not to mention unmentionable experiences with demons, mummies, zombies, and ghosts—he had a higher tolerance for the unpleasant than skinny blondes out of West Vancouver by way of UBC who apparently thought themselves too good to empty vomit out of Raymond Dark’s file cabinet. He hoped she was very happy being the TAD at the honey wagon on Smallville location shoots.
The dressing rooms were just past makeup which was just past the bathrooms. Tony figured he’d check them first in case Lee’d arrived while he was on the set. As he passed the women’s washroom, he reattached a corner of the frayed sign covering the top half of the door and made a mental note to remind the art department they needed a new one. The sign should have read, “DON’T FLUSH WHILE RED LIGHT IS ON—CAMERAS ARE ROLLING” but had been adapted to read, “DON’T FUCK WHILE RED LIGHT IS ON.” Fucking was not actually a problem, but air in the pipes made them bang while flushing and the sound mixer had threatened to strangle the next person who ruined her levels.
He stuck his head into makeup, covering all the bases.
“Lee?” Thumb stroking the graying line of his thin mustache, Everett blinked myopically at Tony from behind his glasses. “I haven’t seen him, but I’m almost positive I heard him out in the office. Don’t quote me on that, though.”
Someday, when he had the time, Tony was going to find out just when Everett had been misquoted and about what.
Lee’s dressing room was empty, shadows fleeing as Tony flicked on the lights. He frowned past his reflection in the mirror. Were the shadows pooling in the corners? Lingering past the time the overhead lights should have banished them? But when he turned . . . nothing. Lee’s wardrobe for the day had been laid out on the end of the couch, his Gameboy left on the chipped garage sale coffee table, two cushions tossed on the floor . . . but nothing looked out of place. Any strangeness could be explained by a bulb missing from the track lighting.
Chatter over his radio suggested the camera crew had gotten involved in the lighting debate and that problem of shadows marring Raymond Dark’s youthful yet patrician features was unlikely to be resolved any time soon.
Four phones were ringing as he opened the door to the production office, the usual chaos cranked up a notch by their current lack of an office PA. He’d been sent out for coffee a week ago and no one had seen him since; his resignation had been written succinctly on a Starbucks napkin and stuffed through the mail slot late one night.
“. . . unde
rstand why it might be a problem, but we really need that street permit. Uh-huh.” Rachel Chou, the office manager, beckoned him toward her desk. “Tell you what; I’ll let you talk to our locations guy. No, we totally understand where you’re coming from here. Hang on.” She hit hold and held the receiver out toward Tony. “Just listen to her, that’s all she really wants and I don’t have the time. If she asks you if it has to be that street at that time, say yes. You’re very sorry but you can’t change anything. I doubt she’ll let you get a word in edgewise, but if she does, be charming.”
Tony stared at the receiver as though he were likely to get a virulent disease from it. “Why can’t she call Matt?”
“She tried. She can’t get through.”
They used the services of a freelance location finder—who no one could ever find.
“Amy . . .”
“Is busy.”
Across the office, Rachel’s assistant flipped him the finger and continued convincing someone to do something they clearly weren’t happy about.
He sighed and wrapped his fingers around the warm plastic—as far as he could tell, the office phones never got a chance to cool down. “Who is it?”
“Rajeet Singh at the permit office.” Rachel had a second receiver halfway to her ear. “Just let her talk,” she told him again, reached across to hit the hold button on his phone, and snapped, “CB Productions.”
Tony moved as far away as the cord allowed, and turned his back. “Ms. Singh? How can I help you?”
“It’s about that night shoot you’ve got lined up on Lakefield Drive . . .” Everything after that disappeared into the argument coming through the jack in his left ear and the ambient noise in the office. Resting one cheek on the edge of Rachel’s desk, Tony did as instructed and let her talk.
