Smoke and Shadows (16 page)

“Oh. Right.”

“It was a good idea, though, something Vicki might have tried.”

“Yeah?” Tony felt his ears grow hot and shifted his grip on Lee's shoulders to hide his pleasure. From the first time she'd hauled his fourteen-year-old ass in off the streets, Vicki Nelson had been his hero, a cop who honestly wanted to serve and protect, a friend when he needed one, his entry into Henry's life. He wasn't sure she knew about that first part, the hero bit. He wasn't sure he wanted anyone to know.

Lee coughed and tried to shove the jar away, jerking Tony's wandering attention back to the matter at hand. The jar was about half full. “Does he have to drink it all? I mean, that's one fuck of a lot of vodka.”

“Arra was nonspecific, but I think we should try to get as much as possible into him.” Henry's thumb stroked Lee's throat, coaxing him to swallow. “Good thing he's semiconscious or we'd have a fight on our hands. Vodka has no real flavor and this sort of herbal mix traditionally tastes as foul as it smells.”

“He's getting a little more active!” Which was interesting considering the amount of alcohol they were pouring into him. “You don't think he's going to hurl, do you?”

“Hurl what?”

“Puke.”

“Let's hope not.”

It was taking all of Tony's strength just to hold the actor in place. A line of sparkling liquid ran down his chin, the tiny lights dancing over a hint of dark stubble. He spent a moment wondering what they were going to do in about thirty seconds when the last of the liquid disappeared, taking the light with it—Henry would have to find the panel—then a leather clad elbow caught him hard in the ribs.

“Perhaps we'd better change places.”

“Good idea,” Tony gasped. “Let the guy with super vampire strength take the . . . Henry?” He twisted around, following the line of Henry's narrowed gaze, to see a circle of light sweep the set behind him. From behind the light came the deep bellow of a familiar voice.

“What's going on in here?”

Chester Bane.

Wonder-fucking-ful. The rent-a-cop he might have been able to bullshit.
Looks like it's vampire whammy ti . . .
Strong fingers grabbed his arm, hauled him to his feet, and threw him into the only available hiding place—the triangle of space between the couch and the far wall.

“But Lee . . .” He protested against Henry's ear as the vampire landed beside him.

“We've done all we can for him.”

“What if the potion didn't work?”

“The potion was all we had.”

“But CB . . .”

“Needs Lee Nicholas, doesn't need you.”

Unpleasant, but true. Production assistant was an entry level position and a lot of people were banging on the door to get in. Lee, on the other hand, had a vocal and growing fan base. As much as Tony hated abandoning him, he'd hate to be fired a lot more.

Jamming his shoulder and head under the back edge of the couch, he reached out and lifted the front edge of the slipcover a centimeter off the floor in time to see the circle of light return to illuminate the figure lying in the center of the floor.

Although not entirely certain of what he
had
expected to see, finding Lee Nicholas flat on his back was not it. When the power had suddenly gone off throughout the building, CB had spent long moments finding his flashlight then—followed by the anguished screams of a writer whose creative genius had swept her right past the concept of saving her prose—he'd made his way to the soundstage.

Security had joined him by the women's washroom and left him again when the sound of voices had drawn him away from his search for the panel.

“Mr. Nicholas.”

The actor moaned and drew one knee up.

He closed the distance between them and glared down at the sprawled body. Drunk, definitely. Hopefully, only drunk. Before he could speak, the beam from a 6,000 watt carbon arc lamp burned the words away.

And left a few new ones as the soundstage plunged into darkness again.

“Go to the light board, Mr. Khouri! Turn the largest dimmer all the way to the right, then try the main breaker again!”

The security guard's disembodied voice drifted down out of the darkness. “Yes, sir, CB.”

By the time the dancing blobs of color had cleared from his vision, Lee Nicholas was sitting up in his own personal spot-light, rubbing his eyes.

“Oh, man, my head!” He peered beyond the flashlight beam. “CB? Is that you?”

“It is.”

“What are you doing here?” A tentative swing from left to right of a precariously balanced head. “Forget that, what am
I
doing here?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“I just . . . that is, I don't . . .” Brows drew in. “I have no idea.”

As the younger man rose unsteadily to his feet, Chester Bane's eyes narrowed. “You're in costume.”

“I'm in what?” From the panicked look on his face, it was clear he was not expecting to see the conservative clothing of James Taylor Grant, vampire associate. Embarrassment quickly followed relief. “I'm shonny . . . shoory . . . sorry, CB.”

“Good.” It was a reaction that would have piqued the producer's curiosity at any other time but not right now. “Change. Then come to my office; we'll talk.”

“Yeah. Sure. Talk.”

He swept the flashlight beam around the set, then fell into step beside the actor—fully aware of how intimidating his size had to be. “It must have been some party.”

“I don't remember a party.” Lee staggered, fell against CB's large and unyielding surface, and hurriedly hauled himself erect.

“I expect tomorrow's tabloids will tell us everything we need to know.”

“Oh, God.”

“Prayer is always an option.”

The dribble of liquid running down Lee Nicholas' chin had held a line of moving sparkles. One by one, the tiny lights had dimmed and disappeared. CB had a strong suspicion the tabloids would have even less of a handle on the truth than usual.

T
ONY WAITED for the Translink bus to pull away and then, squinting a little in the early morning sunshine, stared diagonally across the intersection at the studio. It looked like it had on a hundred previous mornings—or at least like it had on the thirty of those hundred mornings when it hadn't been raining. There were no mystical messages indicating that he'd fried the shadow, discouraged the Shadowlord, and stopped an invasion. There were no declarations of surrender. No proffered treaties. Not even a simple, “You win. I quit.”

He glanced down at his watch. 7:20. He had about four hours to wait before the gate was scheduled to reopen. Four hours before he found out if the gate was even going to reopen.

And if it did?

What then?

He took another look at the studio. Nothing about it gave any indication of what might or might not happen in only four short hours.

Which was too bad, really, because if it had looked different, if physical evidence of either the gate or the Shadowlord had marked the building, he'd be able to take what he knew to the proper authorities. It was the twenty-first century after all; surely
someone
had plans for dealing with an off-world invasion. Someone, that is, besides people who ran web sites called
theyarecoming.com
or
prob_me.org
and who clearly had way too much free time. He made a mental note to scrub that
prob_me.org
cookie or he'd be getting porn spam for the rest of his life.

Unfortunately, the only evidence he had supporting an invasion was an invisible gate that made his teeth hurt, a wizard who'd deny everything, and an actor who hadn't remembered being possessed—although one of the tabloids did have a slightly blurry, page 17 shot of him coming out of the main branch of the public library which would certainly strengthen the possession story. Not much in the way of support. Fox Mulder couldn't have made a case out of it.

The light changed and Tony headed across the street, absently rubbing his right thumb across the nearly healed puncture in his left wrist. Spending two nights in a row at Henry's condo hadn't been smart. And that was the problem. He wasn't smart around Henry, he was . . . dependent. Sure, running to Henry for help the moment things got weird made a kind of sense—friends with specialized knowledge and all that—but allowing it to go further, supporting that whole vampire
everyone I make a connection with is mine
attitude—his wrist throbbed—what had he been thinking? Other body parts made a couple of suggestions. He ignored them.

There was no chance of leaving Henry out of things now; if the gate reopened, he'd have to be told. But the next time . . .

Oh, yeah,
Tony snorted, stepping up on the curb.
Because this sort of thing is likely to happen again.

And anyway, since Arra seemed pretty damned sure they wouldn't survive this time, speculation seemed a bit moot.

Arra.

Tony'd called from Henry's to fill her in and ended up leaving a message on her machine. He knew she was standing beside the phone, listening, and refusing to become further involved. Too bad. If that gate reopened, he wasn't going to give her a choice.

He wondered if blackmail would work.
You help stop the Shadowlord and I won't tell everyone what you really are.

Yeah, that'd work. Tony snorted again. If it came down to his word against Arra's, his story against Arra's, well, he'd put money on people believing the part that didn't involve wizards and dark shadow invasions.

Maybe he'd try guilt.
Never mind, you've been through enough. You just stay home with your cats while the rest of us die.
He had to try something because without Arra, it was up to him, and unless it turned out that a 6,000 watt carbon arc lamp was all it took, the world was fucking doomed.

As he retraced last night's steps to the back door, he glanced over at Lee's bike. Given the amount of vodka they'd poured into him, he'd probably taken a cab home. Lee had told CB he didn't remember anything and that was good. Tony knew his memory of what had happened in the dressing room was going to make it hard enough to face Lee—the last thing he needed added in was Lee's reaction. In his experience, a straight guy with a morning-after memory of copping a feel off a gay guy was more likely to blame the gay guy and get freaked and angry than think,
Oops, my hand must've slipped.
It was just human nature and Tony was usually fine with that, but it wasn't something he wanted to find out about Lee.

For the first time since he'd started working on
Darkest Night
, he wasn't looking forward to seeing the actor on set.

The problem was, the whole dark wizard, gate, shadow, invasion thing was just a little too big to really get a hold of.

The thing with Lee;
that
he had a hold of just fine.

As usual, most of the early crew stood gathered around the craft services truck nursing coffees and muffins. Carpenters talking with electricians, talking with drivers, talking with the props guy, talking with camera operators; the craft services truck was the studio's Switzerland. Neutral ground. By unspoken agreement, arguments were left on the soundstage and a certain level of good manners was carefully maintained—people who regularly worked a seventeen-hour day were willing to do what it took to help facilitate the smooth delivery of carbs and caffeine.

Tony grabbed a coffee and headed inside to pick up his sides. He'd gone chasing off after Lee in such a hurry yesterday afternoon that he hadn't . . .

“Mr. Foster. A word.”

Wondering what he'd done, Tony crossed over to where Peter was standing with Sorge and the gaffer by the light board. As he closed the distance, he told himself that the positioning had to be coincidence. Unless he'd dusted for fingerprints, there was no way the director could tell he'd been at the board the night before.

Eyebrows raised high enough that they seemed to be following his receding hairline back up over his skull, Peter held out a set of sides. “I believe these are yours.”

He'd gone chasing off after Lee in such a hurry yesterday afternoon, Tony's brain reminded him.

Chasing off after Lee before Peter had called a wrap.

Without even considering what he was doing, he'd just left work.

Crap.

“I can explain.”

“Good.”

“Remember how you sent me in to check on Lee? To see if he was all right because he was acting so strangely on the set? Well, he just left, in one hell of a hurry, and so I went after him because I didn't know if he was all right.” He flashed the smile he'd perfected on Toronto street corners staring up at uniformed cops and had kept around to grease his way through slightly more legal problems with authority. “See?”