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 resized 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 p.i.s.sed 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 counter- top. "I wish that d.a.m.ned baby would shut the f.u.c.k 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.

What the h.e.l.l is happening here?

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 d.a.m.ned 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.

Chapter Eleven.

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.

d.a.m.n!

Lee'd probably jumped back. It didn't matter if it was an Oh-my-G.o.d-what-the-f.u.c.k-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.

And if he doesn't?

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 l.u.s.t was a situation he was used to dealing with- start requiting and G.o.d only knew where things would end up.

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

For chrissakes, Tony, get your mind out of your freakin' pants!

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.

Although a kettle steamed on the stove-had apparently been steaming while that killer tea was being served in the drawing room-the kitchen was deserted and the back door closed. Apparently closed. And apparently closed doors hadn't stopped him before. All he had to do was . . . Problem.

Ca.s.sie had said that Henry would leave the laptop on the bucket the b.u.t.ts had been in, but that would mean he had to get a horizontal laptop through a vertical opening barely five centimeters wider than the laptop was deep. Someone had to hold the laptop up on its side, facing the opening.

Pity he hadn't thought of that while Ca.s.sie and Stephen were still around.

"Henry! Henry, can you hear me?"

If Graham could communicate with the ghosts of his cousins because of a blood tie, he should be able to communicate with Henry. Blood had tied them for years.

"Hen . . ."

Darkness.

And Karl.

". . . ry!"

No answer. Or not one he could hear anyway. After all, Henry was the metaphysical being-Vampire, Nightwalker, Bloodsucking Undead-he was just a production a.s.sistant helping to put together a second-rate show at a third-rate studio. Reaching out, he trailed his fingertips over the wall, touched the edge of the doorframe, and couldn't go any farther. He leaned his weight against the barrier and almost felt the power gathering to stop him. It felt substantial.

And the vaunted wizard power of copping a feel off the thing in the bas.e.m.e.nt was no friggin' help at all. Fortunately, there was another way. An already proven way.

"Ca.s.sie! Stephen! I need you in the kitchen!"

"What's wrong?"

Not the ghosts. No mistaking that brushed velvet voice. Although the lantern light throwing Lee's shadow against the door pretty much made identification a gimmie.

"The door's only open this much." Tony held his hands about five centimeters apart as he turned. "Laptop's this wide." His hands separated. "It's got to be up on its side or I can't get it through the s.p.a.ce."

"And why do you need the ghosts?"

"They can talk to the caretaker."

"You can't talk to Henry?"

"Can't seem to."

The borrowed T-shirt was tight. He'd seen Lee in tight T-shirts before but never in his tight T-shirt. It made an interesting difference where interesting referred to interest being taken independently by parts of Tony's anatomy. Dark strands of hair fell down in front of the actor's face, free of the product Everett had used to slick it back. Tony had a vague sensory memory of gripping a handful of hair as an invading tongue probed for his tonsils.

Lee's gaze bounced around the room like his eyes had been replaced by a pair of green-and-white super b.a.l.l.s-stove, window, door, wall, cabinet, sink, floor, ceiling-alighting everywhere but on Tony's face. "Look, about what happened; I uh . . . I mean it was . . . There was just . . . Brenda . . ."

And then he stopped.

Man, actors suck at the articulate without writers behind them.

And by the way, Brenda? Thanks for bringing her up. Nothing like being the subst.i.tute for a dead wardrobe a.s.sistant.

Tony was half inclined to let Lee sweat. Fortunately, his better half won-but only because the part of his brain connected to his d.i.c.k thought that a sweaty Lee Nicholas was a good idea and he was trying to discourage it. "You were freaked. I get it. It's cool." Rush to finish before Lee could protest. Or agree. Or say anything else at all. "But if we have to figure out what was going on . . ." With luck, his tone made his preference clear. The last thing he wanted to do was sit down with Lee and discuss feelings. ". . . can it wait until after we get out of this house?"

Maybe relief. "And until then what? Denial?"

"Hey, we're guys-we're all about denial."

Definitely relief. And most of a smile.

So Tony smiled back.

"I said; what do you want?"

Startled, he stepped back and brushed against Stephen's arm. The sudden cold took care of any residual "interest" and snapped his attention back to the problem at hand. "Sorry. I was . . . uh . . ."

Stephen rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know." His voice rose. "Ca.s.sie, back off! We don't want it to know we're moving around!"

"It doesn't know?" Tony asked as Ca.s.sie reluctantly lowered her hand and drifted around to check Lee out from the fear. Ca.s.sie was distracted, but Stephen sounded nervous. No, more than nervous. Afraid.

"It doesn't seem to." He patted the front sweep of his hair with the heel of one hand. "As long as we do nothing to attract attention to ourselves, things should be okay. But it's safest in the bathroom."

"Safest?"

"That's our place. Until Graham came, that's where we stayed. But it was asleep when we started being us again, and now it isn't." The other hand patted down the other side of his hair. "And it's more awake now than it was. So . . ." He half shrugged, the motion not quite enough to dislodge his head. "It's already keeping us here-we can leave the bathroom, but we can't leave the house. And, you know, we keep dying. We don't want to know what else it can do."

Made sense. "So, what attracts its attention?"

Arms folded, Stephen nodded toward his sister. "Stuff that uses energy. Anything physical, like the paint, or making it so others can see us like we did this morning."

"Contacting your cousin?"