Smoke and Mirrors (33 page)

“Dancing. We should all go dancing!” Smiling broadly, Mason grabbed Ashley's hands and began to swing her around. “Everything will be fine if we just go dancing.”

She tried to pull away. “Tony said . . .”

“Tony's a PA, what does he know?”

“Let go of me!”

“We're going, d . . . AMN it!”

Stephen's hand passing through his arm had been cold. This was so much colder it was almost pain with temperature. Ice shards in his blood. Muscles tensed past stillness into trembling. The taste of copper in his mouth as he fought to breathe.

Tony's legs folded and his knees slammed hard against wood. He jackknifed forward, gasped in pain, managed to fill his lungs. Coughing, hands braced against the floor, he looked up to see Tom leaving the hall with Brenda and Hartley dancing behind.

“No! It's not fair!” The internal struggle to turn the dance was evident on Brenda's face. “I could have had him!”

The call of the ballroom was too strong. Cassie and Stephen were safe in the bathroom. Their place. Brenda and Hartley hadn't yet had a replay to anchor them in the dining room and Tom . . . who the hell knew.

He could hear Brenda protesting until the lights dimmed and he knelt, coughing and shivering at the edge of the lamplight.

“Tony?”

Amy. Beside him. Unable to straighten up, he got his head around. She'd dropped to one knee and was studying him like she was on the bomb squad and he was liable to explode at any moment. “Is everyone okay?” he coughed.

“Are
you
okay?”

“I asked first.” It wasn't much of a smile, but she seemed to appreciate it.

“Well, Mason's a little bruised. Ashley got freaked by the whole ‘take me dancing' number and kicked him in the nuts. Did you know she plays soccer?”

He didn't.

“Yeah, well, his Beckhams are a little bent, let me tell you. Mouse curled up in a ball. Zev stopped Brianna from running by lifting her off the floor, and the rest of us did what you suggested and sat on Lee and Kate. And by the way, it totally sucks that I seem to be without any psychic sensitivity.”

His eyebrows may have risen. He was still so cold he couldn't tell for sure. “You have
no
kind of sensitivity.”

“Bite me.” Shuffling closer, she tucked her hands under his arm. “You're freezing. What happened?”

“Ghosts. Brenda and Hartley and Tom. The ballroom called them and Brenda and Hartley danced through me.”

“Danced?”

“I think it was a two-step.”

“How the hell do you know what a two-step looks like?”

“Square dance club.” He tried to keep all his weight from sagging into her grip and almost succeeded.

“Gay square dance club?” she grunted heaving him back onto his heels.

“Duh. I went with an ex.”

“I can't think of another reason . . . What's that on the floor?”

Exposed as he lifted his left hand, silver glinted against the wood.

She stopped him from bending forward. “You'll break your nose. I'll get it.”

Four rings. Two earrings. The metal slightly frosted.

“I don't think they're working anymore.”

“No shit.
I
think I'll just tuck them out of sight.” Suiting action to words, she slipped them into the lower pocket on her cargo pants and stood. “Right. Let's get you on your feet.”

“Actually, I'm fine down here.”

“You going to crawl to the back door, then, Mr. Merlin?”

Right. The back door. Tony sighed and let her help him to his feet. He couldn't stop shivering, but other than the lingering chill, he seemed fine. He didn't want to turn and face the voices behind them—rising, falling, accusing, whimpering—but he knew he didn't have a choice.

“I won't need the other lantern.”

Conversations stopped. Kate scowled at Saleen and Pavin until they let her go. Mouse remained curled in a fetal position on the floor—best possible reaction for a guy who once won a fistfight with a bear as far as Tony was concerned. Sure, the bear was handicapped by not actually having fists, but that was pretty much moot. Sorge stood next to Mouse. Face red, Mason still cradled his dignity; Zev had both girls now and was glaring protectively. Lee sat flanked by Peter and Adam, his lashes wet ebony triangles, his bloody dress shirt in a pile beside him on the floor. Unfortunately, Brenda's blood had soaked through to the white T-shirt he'd worn beneath it.

Then he saw her over by the door, tears glistening on her cheeks as she stared down at Everett.

“Is Everett . . . ?”

She shook her head without looking up. “He's still breathing.”

Well, yay. Funny thing to cry about.

“You won't need the other lantern,” Amy prodded, adding a sharp elbow to the ribs.

“Yeah, uh, the replays are coming faster, so I'll just move while the lights are up.”

Peter shook his head. “You're not going alone.”

“Peter . . .”

“Tony.” His smile held no humor and very little patience. “Let me rephrase that in a way you'll understand. You're not going alone.”

“Fine. Amy . . .”

“She stays here. Same reasons as before. Lee . . .”

“No way, he's . . .”
. . . falling apart.
But Tony couldn't actually say it.

As he stepped closer, Peter lowered his voice—not so low he couldn't be heard because right now secrets were the last thing they needed but low enough that an illusion of privacy could be created. “Lee needs something to do. He needs to not sit around . . .” Words were considered and discarded in the pause. “. . . thinking. Besides, he's gone out on all your other excursions and you've both always come back. Right now, that seems like a good omen to me.”

“Yeah, sure, but . . .”

“You'll take the second lantern.” Slightly better than normal volume now. Director's volume. “You'll get your laptop. And you'll come up with a way to get us all out of here.”

Even Tom and Brenda and Hartley?
Something else he couldn't actually say.

Maybe Peter read the thought off his face. “All of us,” he repeated. “Get moving. Lee! You're going with Tony.”

Propelled by Peter's voice, by the normalcy of Peter telling him what to do, Lee stood.

Tony surrendered. Even with the replays moving faster, they'd be back long before the ballroom started up again.

“You sure?” he asked quietly as Lee came to his side.

“Peter's right. I have to do something.”

“Carry the lantern?”

“Sure.”

They were at the door of the dining room before Tony realized they should have gone the other way. He stopped on the threshold, but Lee grabbed his arm and dragged him over.

“It's just a room with blood on the floor. That's all.”And if his grip was tight enough to stop the blood from moving in Tony's arm . . .

Tony added that to the growing list of things he couldn't say.

“She'd be pissed about the blood.”

She. Brenda. A quick glance down at the dark not-quite-puddle. “On the floor?”

“No. On the shirt.”

“Oh. Right.”

“She was always at us not to get the clothes dirty because CB never gave wardrobe enough money for them to buy more than one set.”

“Technically, she made the mess.”

The answering snicker sounded just on the edge of hysteria and Tony decided that maybe he'd better skip the manly banter for now. As they moved into the butler's pantry, he suddenly remembered his backpack, stored in the AD office back just after dawn and forgotten. “I've got a shirt with me if you want to change.”

“Into what?”

“Out of . . .” He waved at Brenda's blood.

“Oh. Right. Thanks.” Lee's movements had none of their usually fluidity as he set the lantern on the granite countertop. “I wish that damned baby would shut the fuck up!”

Karl had pretty much become background noise, tuned out the way they all tuned out traffic and elevator music and provincial politics. But he was a convenient excuse.

Reaching under the counter, Tony dragged out his pack and pulled out a black T-shirt. “It may be a little tight, but it's clean,” he said as he straightened. And froze. Lee'd stripped off his shirt and was scrubbing at a fist-sized stain on his skin with the crumpled fabric. The lantern light painted the shadows in under muscles and gilded the upper curves. He kept his chest waxed for the show—body hair gave the networks palpitations—but Tony had no difficulty filling in the patch of dark curls he knew should be there.

He was having trouble breathing again.

Bright side, he wasn't cold.

“I was going to a play after work with Henry,” he said hurriedly, one arm stretched awkwardly out offering the change of clothes.

“Henry?” Lee raised his head. “Your
friend?
”

“
Just
my friend now.”

Strange exchange. Weighted even.

He was still holding out the shirt. Lee was staring past it with a . . . Tony had no idea what to call the expression on the other man's face, but the green eyes locked onto his with an almost terrifying intensity.

Then his back was up against the counter, the edge of the granite digging in just over his kidneys. Lee's hands were holding his head almost too tightly, fingers wrapped around his skull like a heated vise, and Lee's mouth was on his devouring and desperate, and Lee's body was pressing against him, and there was a rather remarkable amount of smooth, heated skin under his hands and Jesus, people reacted to death in the weirdest damned ways! Tony knew that the worst possible thing he could do was respond, but he wasn't dead and he
was
responding . . .

And the lights came up.

TECHNICALLY,
since he hadn't moved, he had to be still kissing Lee. Except that he was also up against the counter in the butler's pantry with his mouth working and his elbow braced in a plate of insubstantial cakes. He could feel . . .

No, he couldn't.

Lee'd probably jumped back. It didn't matter if it was an Oh-my-God-what-the-fuck-am-I-doing reaction or if he'd realized Karl wasn't crying or he'd sensed a different reaction when Tony'd turned his head to look at the cakes—the point was they were no longer in physical contact.

He stayed where he was for a moment, catching his breath—the other reaction would just have to take care of itself—then, in as steady a voice as he could manage: “I'm in a replay. It's happening in the . . .” Bathroom, nursery, stairs, conservatory, ballroom; he counted down the recent replays. “. . . drawing room. From the hall it sounded like someone convulsing, but I didn't go in, so it might, um . . .” He struggled to bring his brain back on-line, but talking made him think of his mouth, which made him think of Lee's mouth, which made him think of what Lee'd just been doing with his mouth, which made him wonder why he'd stopped and . . .
Jesus H. Christ! At the risk of betraying the side, getting some is not the issue right now!
“Look, it's not very long, so I'll head for the kitchen while I've got the light. You can wait here or you can follow.”

As he finished talking, he started moving; pleased with the way he'd finally managed to sound almost as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Where nothing out of the ordinary
didn't
include convulsions by the long dead in the drawing room, of course. If Lee wanted to deny swapping spit, then Tony would give him that chance.

Twenty-four hours earlier—no, twelve—Tony'd have given his right nut to have Lee Nicholas suddenly decide to change orientation. He even had a couple of scenarios all worked out where
he
was the reason. One of them involved kiwi-flavored lube and ended rather spectacularly in Raymond Dark's satin-lined coffin back at the studio. Right at this moment, however, it was a complication he didn't need. Unrequited lust was a situation he was used to dealing with—start requiting and God only knew where things would end up.

Actually, it was fairly obvious where things would end up. . . .

The moment the replay ended, he was going to beat his head against the wall a time or two. Not only a fine physical distraction, but this talking to himself in the third person had to be stopped.