Smoke and Shadows (56 page)

He slipped through, took his backpack off and set it safely to one side, then began moving quietly down the London street set. It didn't look much like London, but with lighting, fake fog, a filter or two . . . it probably still wouldn't look much like London. Good thing Mason preferred a lot of tight close-ups.

And speaking of close-ups, the cameras seemed to have been moved to the dining room set. Thankful for the clutter, Tony slipped across the soundstage without being seen although, the closer he got to the set, the harder it was not to be noticed.

Shit. Shooting crew
and
construction crew.
More people than they'd planned on. Henry was fast and strong, but he was still only one guy. The more people he had to take out, the more likely someone would be taken out permanently. Dead.

Fuck. At least I'm not the only one.
Crammed into the eight or so inches between the distant view of the garden and the dining room window, Tony peered onto the set. The dining room table was gone, the cheap Persian rug had been removed, Mason's coffin was up against the opposite wall, and the throne from episode nine's the-writers-are-on-cheap-drugs Charlemagne flashback had been brought out of storage and set up at the far end of the room, leaving the area actually under the gate empty.

On the throne, still wearing the same clothes he'd dropped through the gate in, was the Shadowlord. Problem was, he didn't look like the conquering tyrant Arra made him out to be and he didn't look evil. He looked like he belonged there. Posture, attitude, expression—everything about him said,
This is my right. Serve me.

He reminded Tony a little of Henry. Of the Prince of Man bit.

Tony felt himself responding. He'd seen something on PBS once that said nine of out ten men were looking for a strong leader to follow. The moment Henry Fitzroy had vamped into his life, he'd known he was one of the nine.

It was a small step from leader to master.

Mason Reed, still in full Raymond Dark costume and makeup was on his knees to the left of the throne, vogue-ing for the photographer setting up his shot.

Lee was to the right of the throne. Also in character. Also on his knees. As Tony watched, the Shadowlord reached out and ran his fingers through Lee's hair. Eyes closed, the actor leaned into the touch.

Tony felt himself responding to that, too. On a couple of levels. Fingers tightening on the edge of a supporting two-by-four, he decided to go with,
Get your hands off him, you fucking bastard!

Closely followed by,
I don't get to touch. You don't get to touch!

Where the hell was Henry?

And Arra?

Were they waiting for him?

Did he have to do everything?

Mason froze as the flash went off and the photographer set up for another shot.

He's documenting his conquest,
Tony realized. Both cameras were ready to shoot the set. He could see Peter, Tina, and Sorge wrapped in discussion over at the monitors, Everett was waiting out of shot with his touch-up kit, and everyone not actually working was gathered to one side, watching. Watching the throne. Watching the photographer.

Waiting.

For the gate to open?

No, too early.

For the fight.

For him.

“I know you're here, Tony.”

Tony's heart slammed against his ribs.
Fuck!
Excellent timing, he had to give him that.

“I have a part of you in me. You have a part of me in you.”

You wish!
He fought for control as the Shadowlord's voice filled the soundstage, realizing the bastard didn't know exactly where he was or there'd be more going on than just talking. He glanced down at his shadow. It quivered.
Not good.

“We're connected. I can feel your fear. I can feel your need.”

“If you're waiting for Arra Pelindrake, I wouldn't bother. She's an old woman. I've destroyed everything she ever cared about. She's nothing. A remnant. She knows she can't destroy me just as she's always known it. If she fights with you, it's only because her guilt is driving her to end it.”

There was more along the same lines, but Tony ignored it. No matter what he said, there was a chance Arra could beat him or he wouldn't be here personally making sure she was destroyed. The speech wasn't directed at him anyway, it was meant to undermine Arra's confidence. To make her run. It might even work if he didn't do something soon. He had no illusions about the depth of Arra's commitment to the cause. She was there because he was, motivated, as the Shadowlord said, by guilt. But what to do? Sneak around behind the coffin and ram him with it? Shut off the main power? Weaken the shadows in the dark? No way the Shadowlord hadn't taken care of that, though, it was way too obvious. The main breaker would definitely be guarded. Or welded.

“Shall I show you what's in store for you?”

That was directed at him again although Tony wasn't sure how he knew.

The Shadowlord gestured, Peter called, “Roll camera,” and Charlie Harris stumbled out into the center of the set, clawing at his own shadow wrapped around him like a shroud.

And Tony remembered.

The Shadowlord held out his hand and the gesture drew a wisp of black from Charlie's skull. It sped across the set and into the wizard, who closed his eyes and murmured, “Just taste the terror.”

Charlie fell to the floor, heels kicking against the painted plywood.

“Are you learning from this, Tony? Thousands will die this way.”

Yeah, yeah. You're not just blowing smoke out your ass. I get it.
His hands gripping the edge of the wall, Tony braced himself for the charge. A solid tackle, knock the air out of the son of a bitch, and maybe Charlie'd have a chance.

He was standing, left foot raised, right leg about to push off when Henry dropped from the ceiling.

Right onto the Shadowlord's lap.

The vampire reached out, wrapped his hands around the Shadowlord's head, and twisted.

The resulting flare of darkness threw him back almost to the watching crowd.

Tony froze.
Wizardy protections. You can't whack at him.

“Deal with him.”

As the shadow-held advanced on Henry, Tony remembered
he
was supposed to be dealing with the Shadowlord. But not just dealing with him, dealing with his power over shadow.

Know what's real.

Light was real. Darkness was real. Light and dark. Light and absence of light.

And then he realized he'd already given himself the answer.

T
ONY RACED for the back of soundstage, leaped over a half finished set of stairs, and careened around the edge of the London street set.

Unless things had changed after he'd left the studio—changed in reference to the shooting schedule as opposed to changed because there was an evil wizard hanging around—Peter'd planned on shooting the flashback scene first thing in the morning. The fate of the world depended on how much the crew'd got ready before the shadows took them over.

London streets, especially crappy thrown together at the last minute, gray paint on plywood and Styrofoam streets, needed fog. There were two 1400w pro foggers sitting at the edge of the set, a heavy orange one-hundred-and-fifty-foot extension cord curled up beside each of them. The reservoirs were full of fog juice. They were ready to go.

Cables ran everywhere in a soundstage. Praying that the Shadowlord's need to control the lights had kept the whole place live, Tony yanked the lines from the nearest socket, and plugged the foggers in.

With one in each hand, he headed back toward the gate, his palms so slick with sweat that they slid back and forth in his grip.
Don't drop them. Do
not
drop them.

Over the sound of his new mantra, he could hear fighting.

And laughing.

And screaming.

And a self-satisfied voice enjoying the taste of the pain.

Not hard to figure out what had happened; Henry'd had to hurt someone and the Shadowlord had drawn the shadow back into himself to enjoy it. A clichéd scene that became less clichéd when real people were hurting.

Tony ran faster. And hit the ground hard, his shadow wrapped around his knees.

The fogger flew from his left hand and skidded across the floor, metal chassis shrieking against the concrete. The fogger from his right hit harder, tipped over, and was only just out of reach.

He could see the
fog ready
light on the remote.

All he had to do was reach it.

Dragging his lower body, he clawed his way forward. His fingertips touched metal just as his shadow closed over his face.

Easy to say. Harder to deal with.

Eyes covered, working in the dark, he scrabbled at the edge of the fogger, fingernails sliding off the casing. Then it moved. And a little more. He stretched past it. Reaching. Touched the remote cable. Hooked it closer.

He'd read once that lack of oxygen created an automatic panic response in the brain.

There were four buttons on the remote.

As he started to thrash, unable to stop himself, needing to breathe, he pressed the largest.

The goddamned thing was too quiet to hear. And his ears were full of shadow. And it came with a fucking microprocessor, so maybe it wouldn't work flipped over on its side.

Then the shadow's grip started to loosen.

Going, going . . . gone.

Arms thrown wide, Tony sucked in a lungful of sweet, moist air. Then another. Then he opened his eyes and started to cough.

Foggers used distilled water and glycerin. It was perfectly safe to breathe except that the brain saw smoke and another automatic response kicked in.

Coughing and choking and telling his brain to shut the fuck up, Tony staggered to his feet, groped for the other fogger, and stumbled with it toward the set. At 7560 cubic-feet-per-minute output—not something he knew; output was stenciled on the top of both machines—the lower half meter of the immediate area was nearly full. There were still places he could see the floor but those places were disappearing fast. Even so, he wanted the second fogger as close to the gate as possible.

The last time they'd needed them, someone—Daniel?—had told him they used a higher density fog juice that kept the fog close to the floor and away from the guts of expensive electrical equipment. But use enough fog, especially between the confining walls of the set, and it would rise. Fill the air.

Fog was visible because each tiny water droplet refracted light. Or reflected light, Tony wasn't positive which. The point was it broke the light up into bits and that broke shadows up into bits. Destroyed their cohesion.

The light was real.

The shadows were an effect.

He thumbed the fog on as the extension cord hauled him to a stop at the edge of the set.

With no shadows, the Shadowlord had only the shadow-held remaining.

As the set filled, Tony set the fogger down in the covering fog from the other machine.

It felt like he'd been gone for hours, but it had only been minutes.

And not too many of them.

Henry still fought the shadow-held, but he moved too quickly and there were too many of them for Tony to see how the battle was going. Henry would win. Henry was very hard to . . .

A crowbar rose and fell. Impact against flesh and a snarl.

Henry might be hard to kill, but those he fought were more fragile. If he was hurt and the Hunger rose . . . If there was blood and the Hunger rose . . . Tony just hoped Henry would—could—remember that fragility.

Still no sign of Arra.

The hair lifting off the back of his neck, Tony turned toward the throne. The Shadowlord stood staring at him through narrowed eyes. Even at that distance Tony could feel the rage rolling off him.

Teeth clenched, lips thinned to pale lines. Evil still looked pretty damned good. “Get him. Turn that thing off!”

Mind you, good-looking evil is still evil,
he admitted, backing up.

Mason and Lee rose up out of the fog.

Apparently shadow-held brains had no problem with that whole breathing smoke thing.

Fucking figured.

Mason reached him first. Tony darted left around a blow and realized as both actors followed his movement that they were obeying literally.
Get him
. Then,
turn that thing off.

All he had to do was keep them busy until Arra ended things.

Right.
All
he had to do.
If
Arra ended things.