Smoke and Shadows

by Tanya Huff

  “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.

  “I wonder if he’s going to take his friend to his interview.”

  “They’re live . . .”

  “Shadows made of light . . . just think of what I could do with something like this.”

  And it seemed as though shadows were shadows—that power he had now.

  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.<
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  “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.”

  Seventeen

  IT 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.

  If I’m alive at this time tomorrow, I’m buying a damned car.

  It was good to have goals. It made the possibility of imminent death not so imminent.

  Both doors to the lobby were propped open, allowing the police to come and go as they pleased. Tony moved quickly past the elevator to the stairs—in case of trouble, stairs came with a lot more options than a sealed box hanging off cables.

  No surprise upon emerging on the fourth floor to see a small crowd of murmuring tenants staring at the bright yellow police tape stretched across the front of the wizard’s apartment. Staying tight against the wall, he worked his way past the edges of the audience until he could peer through the open door.

  Something—someone—had pushed the metal sockets holding the latch and the dead bolt right out of the frame. And done it without putting a mark on the door. Fucking great. Evil wizard with super-strength.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  Only one profession ever wrapped such a seemingly innocuous question in so much sarcasm. Tony looked up from the damage, got a firm grip on his increasing need for profanity, and asked, “Is there a body?”

  On the other side of the tape, the official police glare deepened. “Who wants to know?”

  “Tony Foster. I work with the woman who lives here.”

  “And yet you don’t seem to be at work.”

  No body, then. Cops at a homicide didn’t take the time to exchange smart-ass observations with people hanging around the crime scene. Particularly not at a crime scene that involved a metaphysical, inexplicable death. The sudden surge of relief was intense enough to nearly buckle Tony’s knees. Which was when he realized two things: One, that there didn’t necessarily need to be a body; there had to be a hundred different ways an evil wizard could get rid of a rival that didn’t involve an inconvenient corpse. And two, the cop was still waiting for a response. Tony shrugged. “She didn’t come in, she didn’t call. The boss sent me down to make sure she was all right.”

  “Uh-huh. Can anyone here vouch for you?”

  Anyone here? Tony turned toward the watching/listening crowd of Arra’s neighbors and spotted a familiar face. “Julian can.”

  Julian was ready for his close-up. At the sound of his name he pushed forward, Moira cradled in one arm. “He’s been here before, Officer, with Arra Pelindrake. They do, indeed, work together.” A dramatic pause. “We have spoken together, he and I.”

  Oh, yeah. Tony thought as the cop rolled his eyes. I bet that was some Mustardseed.

  “I don’t know why Arra didn’t inform her employer she was going away for a few days,” Julian continued. “We all knew.”

  “Well, I don’t know why he knew.” The new speaker was short and kind of round with her graying blonde hair cut in a bowl shape. “I knew because I was feeding her cats. I’m the one who discovered the break-in.” She clutched at Tony’s arm with a small plump hand. “I found it this morning when I went in to feed them.”

  “Are they all right?”

  “Oh, yes. They’re in my apartment now.” The emphasis came with a distinct sneer in Julian’s direction.

  “Moira is allergic to cats.”

  Last night. Not the Shadowlord, then. And not Mason—so far being shadow-held hadn’t come with super powers, and Mason’s muscle was more show than substance. Which left—Henry.

  He’d leave the question of why Henry had broken into Arra’s apartment for after sunset and only hoped that their earlier visits had left enough fingerprints to screw up any kind of an investigation. Had Arra been here when the vampire arrived? Had Henry locked her away somewhere so she couldn’t run? Probably not. If she’d been out and around, free to make up her own mind, there was at least a chance she’d have shown up at the gate this morning—Henry wouldn’t take that chance away from him. He’d probably just been looking for her, searching her apartment for some idea of where she’d run off to.<
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  “So you have no idea of where Ms. Pelindrake might be, or how to reach her?”

  What? Oh, right, the cop. “Sorry, no.” He’d hoped she was home, just hunkered down and not answering the phone. Failing that, he’d wanted to do the same thing Henry had—search the apartment for clues. He’d had no plan for actually getting into the apartment, but it seemed Henry’d taken care of that for him—if the police would just haul ass out of his way.

  And right on cue . . .

  “Right, we’re done.” Cop number two appeared behind his partner. “Television’s there, TiVo’s there, computer’s there, seventy bucks in a dish on the coffee table—if it was a burglary, they were after something specific and small.”

  “No way of knowing until Ms. Pelindrake reappears.” Turning his attention back to the crowd, he swept it with a patronizing expression although he’d probably intended said expression to be stern. Not the first cop Tony’d ever met who didn’t know the difference. “The moment any of you hears from her, have her call the station. You all have the number.”

  Since Tony had no intention of having Arra call the station if found, the fact he didn’t have the number was irrelevant. Okay, or not. As he didn’t seem to have an option, he took the offered business card and stepped back out of the way as both constables ducked under the tape, pulling the apartment door closed behind them.

  “There’s a locksmith on the way,” Julian informed them. “I’ll personally see to it that no one crosses that tape.”

  “The tape? Right.” Cop number two turned and pulled it off the door. “We’re done here. Can’t just leave this stuff lying around. People use it for the damnedest things.”

  Cop number one murmured something too low to be overheard and they laughed together in a manly way as they stepped into the elevator. By the time the doors shut behind them, Tony, Julian, Moira, and the woman with Arra’s cats were alone in the hall.

  Julian’s lip curled. “Assholes.”

  “No argument from me,” Tony muttered. Faggot comments had a distinct tone of their own. No need to hear the actual words. And while they were sharing this moment of solidarity . . . “Listen, Julian, there’s a chance that Arra may have left something about where she was going in the calendar on her computer. We ought to have a look.”