Smoke and Shadows

by Tanya Huff

  They were heading for the studio. There was no other reason for them to be in Burnaby. Well, actually, according to the Burnaby Chamber of Commerce there were any number of reasons, but in this specific instance Tony had a feeling that only the studio and its gate to another world was actually relevant. “I won’t tell you anything.”

  Mouse merely swung out around an SUV, muttered, “Fucking Albertans,” and kept driving.

  “I don’t know anything!”

  “You see me.”

  “Total fluke, I swear. I had a few years there where I did a lot of drugs. Probably melted the ‘I don’t see you’ parts of my brain.” He was babbling. He knew it, but he couldn’t seem to stop the flow of words spilling out of his mouth. “I’ve seen a lot of things, you know. Things you wouldn’t believe. That’s probably why I see you. That’s all.”

  Racing the end of an amber light, Mouse turned his head, eyes narrowed. “What have you seen?”

  Shit.

  “Nothing like you!”

  The shadow pooled in Tony’s lap began to slosh slowly back and forth, its movement independent of the movement of the car.

  “Like what?”

  A truck roared by in the other direction, horn blaring.

  “Like watch the fucking road, man!” Heart slamming against his ribs, half convinced that the puddle in his lap was significantly warmer than it had been, Tony fought to bring his breathing under control as Mouse calmly swerved back into the eastbound lane. What would happen to the shadow if its host was jam under an eighteen wheeler? And since I’ll be jam right alongside him; do I really want to know?

  Arra had no intention of getting into the Nightwalker’s car. She’d bring the two thermoses of potion down to the curb, pass them over, and wish him godspeed. Pick a god. If Tony had been taken by one of the shadow-held—Well, it was a shame, but it wasn’t her concern.

  “But it’s your fault! You opened the gate to this world! You gave him a way to get here!”

  “I did not.” She shrugged into a bright yellow raincoat and pulled her umbrella out of the painted milk can by the door. “All right, technically, I opened the gate, but it closed behind me. I went through it and it closed, and that’s where my part in this ended.”

  Zazu rubbed up against her ankles and she pushed her away from the door. “Don’t even think about it.” A thermos tucked neatly into each of the huge yellow pockets. “I’ll be back in . . .” Whitby raced down the hall chasing invisible invaders. Fur up, tail to one side, he slid to an undignified heap under the coffee table. Arra sighed. “Well, I’ll be back.”

  “You’re thinking of no one but yourself!”

  Locking the door to her apartment, she headed for the elevator, ignoring with the ease of long practice the voice shouting accusations in her head.

  “Caring means nothing!”

  Her own voice had taken up the litany. That was new.

  “If you’re expecting me to argue that, think again,” she muttered as the elevator doors opened.

  Julian Rogers, her neighbor from across the hall, shifted his chihuahua to his other arm and sniffed disdainfully as he pushed past her. “Talking to yourself again, Arra?”

  “I find it’s the only way to have an intelligent conversation around here. And your dog is fat,” she added with the doors safely closed.

  The Nightwalker’s car pulled up to the curb seconds after she arrived. If he’d taken a little longer, given her more time to think . . . but he hadn’t, and when he reached across the front seat and opened the passenger door, she folded her umbrella, shook it once, and climbed in. She wouldn’t waste either her time or her strength fighting the Shadowlord, but if the Nightwalker intended to rescue Tony, she had information that might help.

  Might.

  Might not.

  Of course the whole thing would be moot if she died in a fiery car crash before she even got her seat belt done up. Thrown left and then right as the Nightwalker roared back onto the street and then around the corner onto Denman. The thermoses were making it impossible to do up her seat belt, so she pulled them out and set them at her feet—under her feet after a particularly angular lane change cracked one against her ankle.

  “What makes you think the shadow-held is taking Tony to the studio?” she asked, finally managing to buckle up.

  “He’s being taken somewhere and the only somewhere these things have is the gate.”

  “That’s logical enough, I suppose.”

  “You suppose? If you have a better idea . . .”

  “No. And watch the road!” As he turned his gaze back to traffic, Arra tugged at a plastic fold in her lap. “I won’t face it. I won’t get that close to the shadow-held. Not again.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “We used to say, in my world, in my order, that knowledge is power.”

  “We say that here as well.”

  “Duh.”

  A muscle jumped in the Nightwalker’s jaw. “You have knowledge I can use.”

  She shrugged, the plastic over her shoulders crinkling. “I have knowledge; whether or not you can use it, that’s up to you. What I know is theory, extrapolated from past experience and the little I’ve observed since this . . . invasion began. The first shadows were scouts with no independence. It was as though the Shadowlord swept dark sponges through the gate and then squeezed out what they’d picked up. A second-generation scout followed us away from the studio on that location shoot and then returned with us. Then he sent through a shadow specifically seeking to know if there were lives here he could use . . . and Nikki Waugh died. He examined her life and decided that, yes, these were lives he could control.”

  “How do you know what he decided?”

  “The people here are very like my people were—a little more technologically advanced but otherwise not so different.” The streetlights divided the night into flickering shadow. Arra stared at the dashboard. “And that was what he decided the last time; when his shadow brought him one of our lives. Now, he sends spies to gather information to ease his conquest. The shadow in Lee Nicholas was what we called a rider, designed to live his life for a time and then return to be—reusing the sponge analogy—squeezed dry. On my world, the first riders stayed no more than a couple of hours. Then days. The last two we destroyed had been within their hosts for just over a week, making over those hosts into dark shadows of themselves.”

  Two members of her order died screaming, darkness pouring from them.

  Arra shook herself free of the memory. “If one of the shadow-held has grabbed Tony . . .”

  “One has.” The two words were a low growl.

  “. . . then they’re showing a greater degree of independence than he granted them in the past.”

  “He’s had some years to work on refining them. In the time since you left, he could have created a whole new kind of shadow with, as you say, a greater degree of independence.”

  “So you’re saying my information is out of date? Useless to you?”

  Eyes locked on the road, he ignored her question. “I think he’s sent these shadows through to discover what destroyed the shadow that was in Lee Nicholas. I think he sent them through looking for the light.”

  “It was a carbon arc lamp . . .”

  “The metaphorical light.”

  The metaphorical light? Arra repeated silently. Then asked aloud, “And what makes you think that?”

  “I’ve done some detective work in the past . . .”

  “A vampire detective? Well, that’s . . . original.”

  The steering wheel creaked under the Nightwalker’s tightened grip. Probably not wise to poke at him—all right, definitely not wise—but impossible to resist. “The . . . shadow-held as you call it, grabbed Tony less than two blocks away from the largest, oldest Orthodox synagogue in Vancouver.”

  “And you think?”

  “That Tony was coincidence. He was grabbed because he was there and knew the shadow for what it was. That the other six shad
ows are checking out churches and mosques. This world has no wizards, but it has light.”

  Temples fell, bodies seeking sanctuary were crushed under burning rubble.

  “Not the kind that will help.”

  He glanced over at her, his eyes dark. “It causes you pain.”

  “What does?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Talking about the shadows.”

  “Yeah. Well . . .” Arra grabbed for the dashboard as he accelerated through the end of an amber light and the beginning of a red. Horns blasted out a protest from two different directions. “. . . it’s a welcome distraction from your driving!”

  It was Mouse and it wasn’t Mouse, Tony decided by the time they reached the industrial park. The shadows were a separate personality—it had referred to itself as me so it had to be self-aware—but obviously they used parts of the personalities of their hosts. Unless that other world comes with muscle cars and Vin Diesel wanna-bes. Tony closed his eyes as the Mustang slithered between two trucks and opened them again as they turned into the studio parking lot.

  Unfortunately, symbolism—not to mention the whole minion of an evil wizard thing—suggested the shadows used the darker parts of their hosts. These days, Mouse was a quiet guy who worked hard and seldom partied, but Tony’d heard some stories about Mouse’s past, stories that came with interesting scars, stories that always finished with, “You should see the other guy.”

  He really didn’t want to be the other guy.

  He didn’t think he’d be strong enough not to spill his guts. He wrapped a hand around his stomach, just above the line of shadow. He’d talk. He’d tell them how much he’d seen since the beginning. He’d tell them how he destroyed the shadow as it left Lee.

  Lee . . .

  Had it been the shadow or the darker parts of Lee putting the moves on him?

  And this was so not the time to be thinking about that.

  Nine

  WAY PAST time to change that code, Tony thought muzzily as Mouse worked the keypad one-handed. The shadow covered his mouth and lapped at the edge of his nose, sending the occasional tendril up into his nostrils—playfully or threateningly, Tony wasn’t sure. His stomach heaved, but puking wasn’t an option with his mouth already full.

  The moment the car had stopped, he’d thrown open the door and flung himself out into the parking lot, mouth open to scream for help. They’d crossed the too-macho-to-scream line way back on Oak Street. Cool weight around his ankles had slammed him to the ground. The double pain of gravel cutting into his palms had been lost in the feel of shadow wrapping around him and cutting off all sound by slithering into his mouth.

  Mouse had taken the time to lock the car, then had hauled him onto his feet and half carried, half walked him to the studio’s back door. Struggling had resulted in the remaining airflow being cut off until he calmed. One short visit to suffocation land had been enough to convince Tony that struggling was a very bad idea.

  The door opened. A large hand between his shoulder blades shoved him into the dark soundstage. Stumbling forward, he missed the sound of the door closing behind him, but as he found his balance, he clearly heard the snap of the lock reengaging. It was the first sound in a while to drown out the pounding of his heart. So much for rescue.

  Tony strained to see as Mouse dragged him off to the left, moving unerringly around bits of set and equipment, the ambient light from the exit signs and various scattered power indicators obviously enough for him to maneuver. Unlike Lee last night, he didn’t bother turning on the overhead lights. Hang on . . .

  Shadows required a minimum amount of light for . . . well, definition was probably the closest word. A shadow without definition would be fuzzy. Fuzzy meant a weaker shadow, right? Not the shadow in Mouse but Mouse’s shadow. The shadow actually holding him.

  He took a tentative breath through his mouth.

  Found he could breathe.

  Ripping free of Mouse’s loose grip on the back of his neck, Tony ran for the far end of the soundstage and the door to the production offices. It can’t be much after 9:00. 9:30 tops. Maybe quarter to ten. Ow! Son of a bitch! He stumbled around whatever he’d run into—a light pole from the crash as it hit the floor—bounced off a wall, got his bearings, and lengthened his stride. No way the geeks in post were gone so early. It wasn’t like they had somewhere to go on a Friday night. All he had to do was get to the . . .

  The rounded edge of Raymond Dark’s leather wing chair caught him across the stomach. Gasping for breath, he fell forward, rolled across the seat on his shoulders, and hit the floor. He was still fighting to untangle his feet from the coffee table when the lights came on. Definitely a good news/bad news situation. He could see—he kicked himself free and scrambled to his feet—but the moment Mouse caught up to him, he’d be . . .

  The fake Persian rug spread over the concrete floor did nothing to cushion the impact. He rolled sideways, slammed up against Mouse’s legs, and was hauled to his feet.

  “You done?”

  The knee in the crotch took the big man completely by surprise. More than willing to fight dirty—the definition of someone who fought fair against a guy twice his size was loser—Tony put everything he had in it and hit the ground running. Fingers closed around a handful of his jacket. He squirmed free.

  And then he was back on the floor, the rug grinding into his cheek, a massive knee grinding into the center of his back.

  Oh, yeah, I’m done.

  No more messing around with shadows, Mouse had taken that last blow personally. Not much point in defending himself either although Tony did what he could. When Mouse finally hauled him back onto his feet—Third time lucky, big guy?—he dangled. Heels dragging, he watched the ceiling go by as Mouse hauled him out of the office, across a concrete corridor, and into the empty space that had been the living room set. Monday morning it was due to be set up as a Victorian dining room for a dinner party flashback.

  He couldn’t quite keep his head from bouncing as he hit the floor. Once the bells had stopped ringing, he realized he was in the exact spot, and pretty much the exact position, Lee had been in last night. Under other circumstances, he’d have appreciated that more.

  The gate wouldn’t open for hours—hour . . . a while . . . he’d kind of lost track of time—so what the hell were they doing here? Mouse couldn’t take him home and whale on him, not without having to do some explaining to the old lady, but surely there were better places for the kind of question and answer session about to happen. Unless ET’s shadow was about to call home.

  Humor hurt.

  So did a number of other things.

  Tony didn’t think his ribs were broken. Broken ribs would have hurt a lot more when Mouse squatted beside him, grabbed the front of his T-shirt, and yanked him into a sitting position. He was working on passive resistance now. And apologies to Mr. Gandhi, but it didn’t seem to be any more successful than the active kind.

  About the only part of him unpummeled was his face; it seemed black eyes and broken noses would be making up the big finale. Looking at the bright side, at least he had a head start on passing out.

  As he sagged forward, he caught sight of Mouse’s shadow flowing up over his feet. So they were going back to suffocation land. Been there, done that. Hurts less. Yay.

  Except Mouse’s shadow was also stretched out behind him; across the floor, up the side of a chair, behaving its two-dimensional self.

  Two shadows?

  Seven shadows had come through the gate.

  Oh, fuck.

  “I’m not getting out of the car, Nightwalker.” Arra locked both hands around the shoulder strap of the seat belt. “If I get too close, the shadow-held will know me.”

  “Then why . . .” When she turned to face him, Henry realized there was no point in finishing the question. He knew terror when he saw it, knew what it could do, how it could hold a person. The wizard’s reasons for accompanying him this far were moot—she wasn’t going any farther. “Fine. How do I fi
ght it?”

  Her grip relaxed slightly and he wondered if she’d honestly thought she’d be strong enough to prevent him from dragging her out of the car had that been his decision. “I’d use the same light you used last night.”

  “Will that work while the shadow’s still in a host?”

  “I doubt it.” Her gaze turned inward for a moment; when she focused on him again, her expression was bleak. “Kill the host and the shadow will leave.”

  “Kill the host?”

  “Don’t even try to tell me you have a problem with that, Nightwalker.”

  “And you have never killed to survive?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Killed for power?”

  “Not the innocent.”

  “And who declared them guilty?”

  Another night, questions from another wizard. The similarity was . . . ultimately unimportant.

  “I don’t kill the innocent.”

  This wizard shrugged. “Suit yourself, Nightwalker. But it’s the only way.”

  The other wizard had also called him Nightwalker; used it as this one did, as a definition. He turned into the production company’s parking lot. “Call me Henry.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I call you,I know what you . . . Mouse.”

  “What?”

  She nodded toward the red Mustang as Henry pulled into the parking place beside it. “That’s Mouse Gilbert’s car. He’s one of the cameramen. He’s big. Strong. If he’s shadow-held, you might have a little trouble.”

  Henry stopped the car, slammed it into neutral, and turned off the engine. “No. I won’t.”

  He was at the back door before the sound of the engine died.

  And then back at the car again.

  Arra jumped as his face appeared outside her window, a pale oval suspended in the night. A pale pissed oval. She rolled down the window.

  “It’s locked. Do you know the code?”

  “Why would I?” she snorted. “I never go in through the soundstage; I have a key for the front door . . . oh. Right.”

  The front door lock was stiff. After a moment wasted, Henry reamed the key around hard enough to twist half of it off in the hole—fortunately, after the tumblers had turned. He slipped inside, leaving the ruined key where it was.