Smoke and Shadows

by Tanya Huff

“What about?”

  He dragged his focus back into the production office and away from the thought of trying to get half a liter of warm, green, sparkly vodka down the throats of seven semiconscious people. Next thing to impossible even with Henry’s help. “What was I thinking about?”

  Amy snorted. “Duh. Are you dehydrated or something because . . .” She spun her chair around and glared at Veronica, seated at the office’s third desk, receiver under her ear and an expression of near panic on her pale face. “Are you going to get that?”

  The office PA’s eyes widened and “near panic” inched closer to losing the word “near.” “I’m already talking to three people, well one person and two on hold, and Barbara wanted me to go through last week’s files to find an invoice from Everett and Ruth wants the phone bills entered and filed and . . .”

  “Never mind.” She turned back to her desk, mouthed wuss at Tony, and picked up the phone. “CB Productions . . .”

  Allowing the familiar sound to wash over him, Tony turned away from the desk just as Zev emerged from post. Zev! Zev hadn’t been on the soundstage in days. There was no way he could be a minion. Although he was clearly a little confused by the way Tony was smiling at him considering how things had been left between them earlier.

  Time to fix that. Tony needed to be with someone he knew wasn’t possessed and work a little of the twitchy out. Get himself grounded so he could plan. Fill at least some of the time between now and 11:15. Amy would be likely to ask him about his “script” and besides it was Friday night. She probably had a date. Arra—well, he’d had a bellyful of her for one day and he still had to approach her about the potion. Given the cooperation he’d got from her this afternoon, he was definitely going to need Henry for that and Henry wouldn’t be awake for another three hours. But Zev! Zev was . . . starting to look just a little nervous.

  Ratcheting down the smile, Tony crossed to where the music director was standing. Hang on. Maybe he has a date, it being Friday night and all. A little late to worry about that now. “Hey. Sorry I was such an ass yesterday. Can I make it up to you?”

  “By not being an ass?”

  “Well, yeah. That, too, but I was thinking maybe we could go out for coffee or a beer or you know, something.”

  Zev’s brows rose—arched innuendo.

  “No, not that kind of something. I mean, I just thought . . .” He sputtered to a halt and was relieved to see Zev smile.

  “Coffee or a beer would be fine. When?”

  “Now. Well, as soon as I finish up which should be no more than half an hour. With Lee gone, we’re stopping early.”

  Zev glanced down at his watch. “I’ve got to be parked by sunset so that might be cutting it a little close.”

  “Sunset’s not for three hours,” Tony pointed out then added, as Zev’s brows rose again. “They list it in the paper. I just happened to remember.” After all those years with Henry, he couldn’t stop remembering—no need to mention that.

  “Friday night traffic can be a problem, even heading into the city, but I guess half an hour won’t make that much difference. It had better be coffee, though. There’s a place that carries kosher about four blocks from my apartment; it’d make it a little easier for me if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  They agreed to meet back in the office and as Zev disappeared back into post, Tony turned to see Amy giving him two thumbs up. Fucking great. Now everyone would assume he and Zev were out on a date. And, except for in Amy’s tiny little mind, it wasn’t a date. He liked Zev and all, but the music director just wasn’t . . .

  . . . Lee Nicholas.

  God. I really am an ass.

  The clientele in the coffee shop/bakery was mostly the same Gen-X group that hung around in coffee shops all over the city; the main difference being that most of the men wore yarmulkes and the bakery sold hamantaschen, the triangular Purim cookies.

  “Oh, man, I love these things,” Tony enthused as the counter staff put two on a paper plate.

  “So do a lot of people,” Zev sighed as he moved his tray toward the cash register. “That’s why they bake them all year now.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  He shrugged and smiled a little sheepishly. “No, I just think it makes them less . . .”

  “Special?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just part of the whole strawberries in February thing. I have a friend who thinks the world went to hell when we started being able to get strawberries in February,” he elaborated as Zev looked confused. “He says we’ve lost touch with the circle of life.”

  “I’ll pass on the singing warthogs if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Okay, I’m paraphrasing a bit. He doesn’t actually quote Disney.” Although the thought of Henry facing off against the Mouse was pretty funny. Reaching for his wallet with one hand, he grabbed Zev’s arm with the other. “I’ll get it. I asked.”

  “I made you come all the way to South Granville, I’ll get it.”

  “You drove and I’m a lot closer to home than I was.”

  “I make considerably more than you do.”

  “Okay.” Grinning broadly, Tony stepped back and motioned him forward. “That’s convincing.”

  Although they’d said very little during the drive into the city and had barely spoken during the short walk after parking the car, the silence when they sat down was suddenly weighted. Watching Zev take a swallow of coffee, Tony tried to come up with something they could talk about besides work. Talking about work would just remind him of shadows. Seven shadows. Seven shadows possessing. Seven shadows spying . . .

  “Tony?”

  “Sorry.” He took a bite of apricot hamantasch, chewed, swallowed, and said, “So, what do you do when you’re not working?”

  It was a good thing they weren’t dating. He sounded like a major spaz.

  “Um . . . you know. The usual stuff. Laundry. Television. Scrabble.”

  “What?”

  His cheeks slightly flushed, Zev stared into his mug. “I play competitive Scrabble.”

  “Really? I mean, I don’t doubt you or anything,” Tony hastened to add, “it’s just that’s so cool. I had a cheap Scrabble CD-ROM I got attached to a box of cereal and the computer kicked my ass, even at the idiot level. And you play competitively?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow.”

  “Sometimes I play in Hebrew.”

  “Now, you’re bragging.”

  “A little.”

  They shared a smile and all of a sudden it wasn’t so hard to find things to talk about.

  Zev was an ardent Libertarian, slightly unusual in Socialist-leaning British Columbia. Tony, who’d picked up most of his political beliefs from the bastard son of Henry VIII, had to admit that a number of Zev’s points made a lot of sense. Someday, when he thought life was getting dull, he’d mention them to Henry. Fortunately, before Zev could wonder just what he was smiling about, a fan of the show spotted their production jackets, enthused for a few minutes, and reminded Tony that he’d wanted to ask a question about the Darkest Night theme.

  “That creepy bit under the title; what instrument is that?”

  “The piece under the title is all voice. A trio, two women, one man—Leslie, Ingrid, and Joey are their names—I think, it’s been a while—but they go by FKO.”

  “Okay, I get the KO; that’s Knockout, but what’s the F stand for.”

  Grinning, Zev raised both hands. “I didn’t want to ask.”

  Eventually, they segued into a discussion of the Olympic highway extension up to Whistler—an obligatory topic when two or more Vancouverites got together.

  Away from work, CB Productions’ musical director let loose a sardonic sense of humor and was actually a pretty funny guy. And it wasn’t a date or anything, but Tony was having a good time. Starting to relax. No longer jumping at shadows. Much.

  “Is that the time?” Zev shoved his chair out from the table and stood. “I�
�ve got to get going.”

  Tony checked his watch as he got to his feet. 7:25. A little more than half an hour until sunset. Still plenty of time to get Henry and have him convince Arra to prepare more sparkly green vodka.

  “I hadn’t realized it was so late,” Zev continued as he hooked the strap of his laptop case up over one shoulder. “I’m sorry, but I can’t drive you home.”

  “It’s okay, I didn’t expect you to.”

  “Do you even know how to get home from here?”

  Smiling, Tony fell into step beside him as he headed for the door. “There’s a transit stop about ten meters up Oak, Zev. I think I can manage.”

  “Up Oak along Broadway . . .”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “It’s raining . . .”

  “It’s Vancouver.”

  “Good point.” Another awkward silence. “I’ll, uh, see you at work on Monday.”

  “Sure.” Unless the world ended over the weekend; and a 6,000 watt carbon arc lamp aside, Tony wasn’t ruling that out. They stood in the rain for a moment, then Zev shrugged, waved, and headed west along Fifty-first.

  There was one other person in the transit shelter, a big guy staring at the city map Plexiglas-ed into one wall. Shifting his backpack onto one shoulder, Tony projected the I’m not worth bothering vibe he’d perfected living on the street as he dug around in his backpack for his phone. Past time to call Henry.

  Then the big guy looked up.

  “Mouse? Jeez, I didn’t recognize you.”

  The cameraman blinked at him, headlights from a passing car throwing shadows across his face.

  Except that when the car was gone, the shadows remained.

  Crap.

  Minion of the Shadowlord front and center.

  Big minion.

  Really wishing he’d gotten that whole hero thing worked out, Tony stepped back until his shoulders hit Plexiglas and back was no longer an option.

  Eight

  THE LEADING edge of the shadow army was less than a day’s march away. Standing on the city walls, mirror raised to catch the late afternoon light, Arra could see past the pockets of battle, past the men and women struggling to defeat an enemy their superior in both strength and numbers, past the black tents well warded against magical attack, and into the swath of destruction that stretched back to the border.

  Crops had been burned in the field and the ground salted. She could see the remains of livestock slaughtered and devoured by the invaders. After his victory, the Shadowlord would feed those who abased themselves before him; those who forgot pride and honor and crawled on their bellies to his feet.

  Every building still standing after the front line passed by had been put to the torch. When winter came, only the abject would survive.

  Above the camps of the captured were stakes that held the bodies of those who had tried to escape, those who had tried to stand up to the random cruelty of their guards, those who hadn’t quite given up hope. Some of the bodies were moving, but they were still bodies for all that. The living were prisoners now, slaves when the conquest was complete.

  Arra looked away from her mirror and out at the empty landscape between the city and the army. She could see shadows lying where shadows should not be. Moving in ways shadows did not move. The vanguard of the Shadowlord—his eyes and ears.

  Magic kept them from the city—hers and the two remaining members of her order. Three. All that was left. Four had died in battle, unable to stand against dark magics fueled by a seemingly endless supply of pain and blood. Two had been killed when they returned to the city controlled by shadow—but not before the shadows had used their power to do great damage. The eldest had died finishing the wards that protected the walls, wards fraying under the constant onslaught of power, wards that would fail, by her calculations, just about the same time the invading army reached the gates.

  The last three wizards would walk out together to face the Shadowlord.

  In spite of all they had done, in spite of all they had made ready, in spite of all they hoped, their linked power would not be enough.

  Arra had looked into the crystal. She knew how this would end.

  They would die, then the wards would fail, the gates would fall, and the city, filled to overflowing with those who had thought it a refuge, would be destroyed.

  She turned, the heavy rubber soles of her sneakers squealing against the dressed stone. The city stretched out before her now, both the large icons like Stanley Park, Lions Gate Bridge, and Science World as well as the smaller, more personal ones like the Sun-Yat-Sen Garden, The Boathouse, and Café Bergman. All these would fall to shadow, the people into slavery.

  No more walking down to the coffee shop on the corner for the Saturday Globe and Mail and a double mocha latte.

  She looked deep into the cardboard cup she held between both hands and breathed in the steam rising off the foam, enjoying for maybe the last time the scent of. . .

  . . . tuna?

  That wasn’t right. The cup filled with shadow. She fought to draw in breath against the weight on her chest. A point of pain on her chin. And then another . . .

  Arra opened her eyes to find Zazu perched on her sternum, one paw half raised, the claws still extended. Freeing her hand from the tangle of the afghan, she rubbed between the black ears.

  “We asked for help from those countries we traded with across the sea. And do you know what they said?”

  Zazu blinked amber eyes.

  “They said, ‘This is no concern of ours. We are not under attack.’ ” Arra sighed and waved on the lights. She hated falling asleep on the couch. Sinking into the overstuffed cushions eventually folded her spine into serpentine shapes and the less than comfortable position always brought on dreams. Memories. “Those who conquer for the sake of conquering,” she continued, lifting the cat off of her chest and onto the coffee table, “will not let so small a thing as an ocean stand in their way. Do you think the Shadowlord is a concern of theirs now or does he search through the gate for an easier conquest?”

  Zazu’s answer concerned an empty food dish. Whitby, always the less vocal of the two, knocked a stack of CDs off the table.

  “You’re right.” She grabbed the back curve of the couch, and hauled herself into a sitting position. “This is no concern of yours.”

  Standing, she watched both cats run for the kitchen and sighed. “Yet.”

  Tony should never have brought them into this.

  Henry had been to Tony’s newest apartment, the compromise apartment halfway between downtown Vancouver and Burnaby, only once officially—the week Tony had moved in. Twice if he counted the time he’d caught Tony’s scent at a club, followed it out to an alley, then later followed Tony home—wanting to ask just what the hell the younger man thought he was doing but unable to find a way that wouldn’t make it seem as though he’d been stalking him like some clichéd horror movie creature of the night. He’d sat in his car, in the rain, watching a shadow move behind curtained windows and reminding himself that Tony was not his responsibility. That he hadn’t been for some time. That it was possible to have a friend—to be a friend—and not control the relationship. He wasn’t certain which aspect he was trying to convince: vampire or prince. Or if, in this instance, there was any difference between the two.

  It was raining again on this, his third, visit although he was there for a better reason. Tony should have called right after sunset to let him know what had happened at the studio when the gate had opened. What fallout, if any, had there been from their adventure last night. What reaction, if any, from the Shadowlord at the loss of his minion.

  Tony hadn’t called. Not right after sunset. Not since.

  Perhaps he was busy.

  The television industry worked obscene hours. It didn’t seem to make any difference to the end product, most of which seemed created for hormonally challenged adolescents, but he knew that twelve–or thirteen-hour days were the standard. Tony could easily still be at work althou
gh it was unlikely that he’d consider a bad forty-three minute syndicated program more important than the possible end of life as he knew it.

  Perhaps he was in trouble.

  It was possible that the Shadowlord had reacted aggressively and that Tony had borne the brunt of whatever had come through the gate.

  Neither possibility could be confirmed by breaking into Tony’s apartment, but it was a place to start. And, as it was almost exactly halfway between his condo and the studio, it only made sense to check it first. The answering machine had picked up when he’d called; the recorded voice no answer at all. But then, if CB Productions had fallen under the thrall of a dark wizard, it was unlikely anyone would be manning the phones.

  Henry’d also called the wizard—who worked with Tony, who’d theoretically also been there when the gate had opened at 11:15 AM. If she was home, she’d invoked the modern magic of call screening.

  Tony’s building, a three-story brick cube built like a thousand others in the late seventies, had no security. The door leading into the stairwell from the small vestibule holding the mailboxes had been locked while open so that the steel tongue slammed against the frame preventing it from closing. Handy if the residents had friends coming over. Not so handy if they had anything worth stealing. Given the condition of the halls, Henry suspected the latter was unlikely.

  The building superintendent was in apartment six. Moments after he answered the door to Henry’s knock, Henry was in Tony’s apartment and the superintendent had forgotten he’d ever moved away from his recliner.

  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.