Smoke and Shadows (60 page)

“It was crouched down between the shower and the toilet.”

“It?”

“I couldn't see exactly, it was all shadows . . .”

Oh, crap. “Maybe I'd better go have a look.” Before Mason could protest—before he could change his mind and run screaming, he was crossing the bedroom, crossing the dressing room, and opening the bathroom door. The sunlight through the windows did nothing to improve the color scheme but it did chase away any and all shadows. Tony turned toward the toilet and the corner shower unit and frowned. He couldn't figure out what the actor might have seen since there wasn't room enough between them for . . .

Something.

Rocking in place.

Forward.

Back.

Hands clasped around knees, tear-stained face lifted to the light.

And nothing.

Just a space far too small for the bulky body that hadn't quite been there.

Skin prickling between his shoulder blades, jar of black currant jam held in front of him like a shield, Tony took a step into the room. Shadows flickered across the rear wall, filling the six inches between toilet and shower with writhing shades of gray. Had that been all he'd seen?

Stupid question.

No.

So what now? Was he supposed to do something about it?

Whatever it was, the rocking and crying didn't seem actively dangerous.

“Well, Foster?”

“Fuck!” He leaped forward and spun around. With his heart pounding so loudly he could hardly hear himself think, he gestured out the window at the cedar branches blowing across the glass and lied through his teeth. “There's your shadow.”

Then the wind dropped again and the shadows disappeared.

Mason ran a hand up through his hair and glanced around the room. “Of course. Now you see them, now you don't.”
I wasn't frightened,
his tone added, as his chin rose.
Don't think for a moment I was.
“You're a little jumpy, aren't you?”

“I didn't hear you behind me.” Which was the truth because he hadn't—although the admiring way he said it was pure actor manipulation. Working in Television, 101—keep the talent placated.

As expected, Mason preened. “Well, yes, I can move cat quiet when I want to.”

In Tony's admittedly limited experience, the noise cats made thudding through apartments was completely disproportionate to their size but Mason clearly liked the line so he nodded a vague agreement.

“It's fucking freezing in here . . .”

Maybe not freezing but damned cold.

“Is that jam for me?”

Jam? He followed Mason's line of sight to his hand. “Oh, yeah.”

“Put it by the basket. And then I'm sure you have things to do.” The actor's lip curled. Both fangs were still in place. “Important production assistant things.”

As it happened, in spite of sarcasm, he did.

There were no bagels in the basket but there was a scattering of poppy seeds on the tray next to a dirty knife. Setting down the jam, Tony turned and spotted a plate half hidden behind the plant that dominated the small table next to the big armchair by the window.
Bagel at twelve o'clock.

Mason had made himself a snack, set it down then gone to the bathroom and . . .

He reached inside himself for calm, muttered the seven words under his breath, and the first half of the bagel hit his hand with a greasy-slash-sticky impact that suggested Mason had been generous with both the butter and the honey.

“Foster?”

“Just leaving.”

All things considered, the sudden sound of someone crying in the bathroom was not entirely unexpected.

As Mason turned to glare at the sound, Tony snagged the other half of the bagel. “Air in the pipes,” he said, heading for the door. “Old plumbing.”

The actor shot a scathing expression across the room at him. “I knew that.”

“Right.” Except old plumbing seldom sounded either that unhappy or that articulate. The new noises were almost words. Tony found a lot of comfort in that
almost
.

Safely outside the door, he restacked the bagel butter/honey sides together and headed toward the garbage can at the other end of the hall, rehearsing what he'd say when Mason discovered the bagel was gone.
“I wasn't anywhere near it!”

No nearer than about six feet and Mason knew it.

Although
near
had become relative. These days he could manage to move unbreakable objects almost ten feet. Breakables still had a tendency to explode. Arra's notes hadn't mentioned explosions but then, until the shadows, she'd handled F/X for CB Productions, so maybe she considered bits of beer bottle flying around the room a minor effect. Fortunately Zev had shown up early for their date and had been more than willing to drive him to the hospital to get the largest piece of bottle removed from his arm. His opinion of juggling beer bottles had been scathing. Tony hadn't had the guts to find out what his opinion of wizardry would have been.

The phrase special effects wizard had become cliché in the industry. Arra Pelindrake, who'd been blowing things up and animating corpses for the last seven years, had been the real thing. Given the effects the new guy was coming up with, it turned out she hadn't been that great at the subtleties of twenty-first century F/X but she
was
a real wizard. The shadows and the evil that controlled them had followed her through a gate she'd created between their world and this. The battle had gone down to the wire but Tony had finally convinced her to stand and fight, and when it was all over she'd been able to go home—but not before dropping the “you could be a wizard, too” bombshell. He'd refused to go with so she'd left him her laptop, six gummed up games of spider solitaire that were supposed to give him insight into the future, and what he'd come to call Wiz-ardshit 101; point form and remarkably obscure instructions on becoming a wizard.

He wasn't a wizard; he was a production assistant, working his way up in the industry until the time when it was his vision on the screen, his vision pulling in the viewers in the prime 19–29 male demographic. He'd had no intention of ever using the laptop.

And there'd been times over the last few months where he'd been able to stay away from it for weeks. Well, one time. For three weeks. Right after he'd had the jagged hunk of beer bottle removed from his arm.

Wizardry, like television, was all about manipulating energy.

And occasionally bread products.

Mason's door jerked open and without thinking much beyond,
Oh, crap,
Tony opened the door he was standing by, dashed into the room, and closed the door quietly behind him. He had a feeling
I wasn't anywhere near your bagel
would play better when he didn't have butter, honey, and poppy seeds all over his hands.

The smell of wet paint told him where he was even before he turned.

The second floor bathroom.

There were no shadows in this bathroom. On the wrong side of the house for direct sunlight there was still enough daylight spilling in through the open window to make the fresh coat of white semigloss gleam. Although the plumbing had been updated in the fifties, the actual fixtures were original—which was why they were shooting the flashback in this room.

Weirdly, although thirty years older, it made Mason's bathroom look dated and . . . haunted.

It was just the flickering shadows from the cedar tree and air in the pipes,
he told himself.

Whatever gets you through your day,
his self snorted.

The heavy door cut off all sound from the hall. He had no idea if Mason was still prowling around looking for him, hunting his missing bagel.

Using the only non-sticky square inch on his right palm, Tony pushed against the old lever faucet and turned on the cold water. And waited. Just as he was about to turn it off again, figuring they hadn't hooked up the water yet, liquid gushed from the faucet, thick and reddish brown, smelling of iron and rot.

Heart in his throat, he jumped back.

By the time he had his breathing under control, the water was running clear. Feeling foolish, he rinsed off his palms, dried them on his jeans, and closed the tap. Checking out his reflection in the big, somewhat spotty mirror over the sink, he frowned.

Behind him, on the wall . . . it looked as if someone had drawn a finger through the wet paint. When he turned, changing the angle of the light, the mark disappeared. Mirror—finger mark. No mirror—no mark.

And now we know where the paint on Lee's tux came from. Next question: who put it there?
Brenda seemed like the prime suspect. She'd been upstairs de-lining both actors before the scene, she'd have noticed the marks had they already been laid down, and the result had been Lee bare-assed in her trailer . . .
And let's not forget that she's already familiar with his ass.
He probably hadn't even noticed her stroking him on the way by.

Opportunity and motive pointed directly to Brenda.

Time . . .

Tony glanced at his watch.

“Crap! ” Twenty-three minutes since Adam had called a twenty-minute break. Bright side, Mason wouldn't be able to bug him about a rule-breaking snack in front of the others. Slipping out into the hall, Tony ran for the back stairs figuring he could circle around from the kitchen. With any luck no one had missed him yet—out of the benefits of being low man on the totem pole.

As he ran, he realized Mason had been right about one thing.
It's fucking freezing up here.

 

“Why was he in the bathroom? Graham said we'd be safe in there, that they wouldn't be using it until tomorrow.”

“Be quiet, Stephen!” Cassy pinched her brother's arm. “Do you want him to hear you?”

“Ow. He can't hear us from way over here!”

“I'm not so sure.” She frowned thoughtfully as the young man disappeared through the door leading to the stairs between the servants' rooms and the kitchen. “I get the feeling he doesn't miss much.”

Stephen snorted and patted a strand of dark blond hair back into the pomaded dip over his forehead. “Good thing we weren't
in
the bathroom then.”

“Yes . . . good thing.”

SMOKE AND SHADOWS
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
¹

BLOOD PRICE
BLOOD TRAIL
BLOOD LINES
BLOOD PACT
BLOOD DEBT

SING THE FOUR QUARTERS
FIFTH QUARTER
NO QUARTER
THE QUARTERED SEA