She turned, the heavy rubber soles of her sneakers squealing against the dressed stone. The city stretched out before her now, both the large icons like Stanley Park, Lions Gate Bridge, and Science World as well as the smaller, more personal ones like the Sun-Yat-Sen Garden, The Boathouse, and Cafe Bergman. All these would fall to shadow, the people into slavery.

No more walking down to the coffee shop on the corner for the Sat.u.r.day Globe and Mail and a double mocha latte.

She looked deep into the cardboard cup she held between both hands and breathed in the steam rising off the foam, enjoying for maybe the last time the scent of ...

. . . tuna?

That wasn't right. The cup filled with shadow. She fought to draw in breath against the weight on her chest. A point of pain on her chin. And then another . . .

Arra opened her eyes to find Zazu perched on her sternum, one paw half raised, the claws still extended. Freeing her hand from the tangle of the afghan, she rubbed between the black ears.

"We asked for help from those countries we traded with across the sea. And do you know what they said?"

Zazu blinked amber eyes.

"They said, This is no concern of ours. We are not under attack.' " Arra sighed and waved on the lights. She hated falling asleep on the couch. Sinking into the overstuffed cushions eventually folded her spine into serpentine shapes and the less than comfortable position always brought on dreams. Memories. "Those who conquer for the sake of conquering," she continued, lifting the cat off of her chest and onto the coffee table, "will not let so small a thing as an ocean stand in their way. Do you think the Shadowlord is a concern of theirs now or does he search through the gate for an easier conquest?"

Zazu's answer concerned an empty food dish. Whitby, always the less vocal of the two, knocked a stack of CDs off the table.

"You're right." She grabbed the back curve of the couch, and hauled herself into a sitting position. "This is no concern of yours."

Standing, she watched both cats run for the kitchen and sighed. "Yet."

Tony should never have brought them into this.

Henry had been to Tony's newest apartment, the compromise apartment halfway between downtown Vancouver and Burnaby, only once officially-the week Tony had moved in. Twice if he counted the time he'd caught Tony's scent at a club, followed it out to an alley, then later followed Tony home-wanting to ask just what the h.e.l.l the younger man thought he was doing but unable to find a way that wouldn't make it seem as though he'd been stalking him like some cliche horror movie creature of the night. He'd sat in his car, in the rain, watching a shadow move behind curtained windows and reminding himself that Tony was not his responsibility. That he hadn't been for some time. That it was possible to have a friend-to be a friend-and not control the relationship. He wasn't certain which aspect he was trying to convince; vampire or prince. Or if, in this instance, there was any difference between the two.

It was raining again on this, his third, visit although he was there for a better reason.

Tony should have called right after sunset to let him know what had happened at the studio when the gate had opened. What fallout, if any, had there been from their adventure last night. What reaction, if any, from the Shadowlord at the loss of his minion.

Tony hadn't called. Not right after sunset. Not since.

Perhaps he was busy.

The television industry worked obscene hours. It didn't seem to make any difference to the end product, most of which seemed created for hormonally challenged adolescents, but he knew that twelve- or thirteen-hour days were the standard. Tony could easily still be at work although it was unlikely that he'd consider a bad forty-three minute syndicated program more important than the possible end of life as he knew it.

Perhaps he was in trouble.

It was possible that the Shadowlord had reacted aggressively and that Tony had borne the brunt of whatever had come through the gate.

Neither possibility could be confirmed by breaking into Tony's apartment, but it was a place to start. And, as it was almost exactly halfway between his condo and the studio, it only made sense to check it first. The answering machine had picked up when he'd called; the recorded voice no answer at all. But then, if CB Productions had fallen under the thrall of a dark wizard, it was unlikely anyone would be manning the phones.

Henry'd also called the wizard-who worked with Tony, who'd theoretically also been there when the gate had opened at 11:15 AM. If she was home, she'd invoked the modern magic of call screening.

Tony's building, a three-story brick cube built like a thousand others in the late seventies, had no security. The door leading into the stairwell from the small vestibule holding the mailboxes had been locked while open so that the steel tongue slammed against the frame preventing it from closing. Handy if the residents had friends coming over. Not so handy if they had anything worth stealing. Given the condition of the halls, Henry suspected the latter was unlikely.

The building superintendent was in apartment six. Moments after he answered the door to Henry's knock, Henry was in Tony's apartment and the superintendent had forgotten he'd ever moved away from his recliner.

Tony's sofa bed was unmade, his breakfast dishes still in the sink, and the clothes he'd worn yesterday in a pile on the bathroom floor. The fridge held mostly packets of condiments from various fast food establishments as well as eight eggs, a loaf of bread, a half-empty jar of peanut b.u.t.ter, and a bottle of generic cola. It took Henry a few minutes to find the television remote-although upon reflection the top of the toilet tank was an almost logical place. Disk one of the extended Two Towers was in the DVD player and last week's episode of Federation, the new Star Trek series was in the ancient VCR.

Tony'd mentioned he was saving for a TiVo, but apparently he hadn't managed it yet.

Henry tossed the remote back onto the tangle of blankets. He was no farther ahead than he had been. Although Tony's scent permeated the apartment, he clearly hadn't been there for some hours. He'd gone to work. He hadn't returned.

There were only two possible scenarios. He was still working. He'd been taken by the Shadowlord. Either way, he was still at the studio.

About to open the door, Henry paused. He could feel a life in the hallway; he'd wait until the way was clear. If Tony was all right, if it turned out he was only working late, the fewer people who saw him here the better. Less embarra.s.sing for them both.Then the life paused outside the door.

And knocked.

Lee Nicholas' familiar face filled the peephole. The distortion made it difficult to read his expression.

As Henry understood it, Tony and the actor were barely considered coworkers given their respective positions on Darkest Night. While they might be friendly, they were certainly not friends, and no matter how much Tony might want it to be otherwise, it was highly unlikely that anything more than friendship would ever develop between them.

So, what was Lee Nicholas doing at Tony's door on a Friday night?

Henry smiled. He opened the door, the Hunger held carefully in check. There was always the chance that the actor was controlled by shadow once again and he had no intention of giving away more than he had to.

"Yes?"

The flash of a photogenic smile. "I was looking for Tony Foster." He was nervous. He hid it well, but Henry could smell it. That, and expensive cologne, was all he could smell- there was no taint of another world.

"Tony's not home from work yet."

"That's strange." One hand swept up through dark hair. "I heard they quit early today."

"Early?" Not good.

"Yeah."

"How early?"

"About..." The green eyes narrowed slightly as he looked past Henry's shoulder. "Who are you?"

And Henry realized that he'd never bothered to turn on the apartment lights. About to explain that he was on his way out, he watched Lee's gaze track back to the damp patches on the shoulders of his trench coat and decided the truth would serve better than a lie. "I'm looking for him, too." He held up his own key ring. "I have a key." Well, most of the truth.

"Oh." And a visible jump to the wrong conclusion. "Right."

"Did you want to leave a message?"

"What? No, that's okay. I, uh ... I have to ... um ... I left my date waiting in the car. I'll see Tony at the studio on Monday."

Interesting emphasis; although the date in the car meant this next part had to be quick.

He allowed the Hunger to rise to the border of terrifying where coercion waited then caught Lee's gaze with his and held it. "What do you remember of your time under the control of shadow?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

Not a lie. Tempted to turn the question to a command, Henry reluctantly acknowledged that the hallway of an apartment building where neither of them lived, with a date waiting, with no idea of how the actor would react to the memories, was probably not the best place. So he settled for, "What did you want to speak to Tony about?""He was there, this morning, when I . . ." Terror surfaced from the depths of the green.

Terror Henry wasn't evoking. "... collapsed. I just wanted to know if he ... If there was anything ..." Hands rose to waist level, opening and closing as though trying to hang onto the thought. "I just ..."

This was a man perilously close to the edge. Half tempted to push him over to see where he'd land, Henry allowed his better nature to rule and backed the Hunger down, releasing the actor's eyes. "I'll tell him you stopped by."

"No, that's . . . yeah, sure." Barely holding it together, he turned away then turned back again, dark brows drawn in. "Do I know you? I mean, have we met before?"

Interesting. As far as Henry could remember, they'd never actually met before last night.

"Perhaps you've seen me with Tony."

"Yeah. Sure. That must be it." Squared shoulders and a crisp nod, but Henry could see the tremors mortal eyes would miss.

He waited in the hall until he heard the door to the building clang not-quite-closed then hurried down to the landing to look out the window. Shoulders hunched against the rain, Lee Nicholas trotted across the street to where a busty blonde waited in his cla.s.sic Mercedes. As he got into the car, he said something to make the blonde laugh, his body language suggesting that nothing worse than bad hair had happened to him in the last forty-eight hours.

The man was definitely a better actor than most people gave him credit for.

Tony was with him when he collapsed. Something had happened when the gate reopened. What? And where was Tony?

On cue, his cell phone rang.

"Tony? Where the h.e.l.l have you been?"

"Close but no cigar, Nightwalker. I a.s.sume he's not with you?"

"No."

"He's not answering his phone."

Henry glanced up the stairs toward the apartment before he realized which phone the wizard was referring to. "He can't turn it on in the studio."

"He's not at the studio. They finished early today."

"Sometimes he forgets to turn it on when he leaves." He was grasping at straws and he knew it.

"Seven shadows came through the gate this morning, Nightwalker. Seven. He would have called and told you about that were he able. And then the two of you would have appeared at my door demanding more of my time. More of the potion."

Were he able. "Yes."

"Where are you?"

"At Tony's apartment."

"I a.s.sume there's no sign of him?"

"None."

"Wait there. I'll make a couple of calls and get right back to you.""I had thought, wizard, that you were unwilling to become involved in this fight."

"Did I say anything about fighting?"

He stood there holding his silent phone and admitted that, no, she hadn't. Enough for now that she was willing to help find Tony-who, it seemed, had, one way or another, been taken by shadow.

"You see me."

"Jesus, Mouse, you're a big guy." Tony tried for a sardonic snort and didn't quite make it.

"How could I miss you?"

The cameraman's callused hand closed around the back of Tony's neck. "You see me,"

he repeated. "The voice of the light did not see me. But you see me."

"Yeah, well, seeing a little too much of you right now." Mouse's face loomed so close over his that Tony could see every broken capillary, every enlarged pore, and he was getting a really good look at the scar from where Mouse's ex-wife had jabbed a nail file through his nose. He placed both hands flat against the barrellike chest and shoved. It worked about as well as he'd expected it to. "You want to back off a bit?"

"No. You and I are going to have a ..." He fell silent, eyes squinted nearly shut as a set of high beams swept through the bus shelter.

Out of the direct line of light, Tony could see the police car approaching. Could see it slowing down. Yes! Let's hear it for law and order. Little guy's getting manhandled by big guy, and the police . . .

Mouse's mouth closing over his cut off the thought. And pretty much every other thought besides: What is it with shadows in straight boys coming on to me?

By the time Mouse lifted his head, the police car was gone.

Just f.u.c.king great, Tony thought, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. We couldn't be in Toronto, where the cops'll bust your a.s.s for PDAs. Oh, no, we have to be in f.u.c.king officially- tolerant-of-alternative-lifestyles Vancouver.

"Don't do that again," he snarled.

"Or you'll what?"

"Tell Mouse's old lady."

A flash of fear. Either Mouse was in there listening or the shadows took on more than the physical form of the bodies they wore. Tony had a feeling that was important, but he didn't have time to work out why as Mouse's hand tightened to the point of pain and he was propelled out of the bus shelter and into the rain. "Hey! Where are we going?"

"Somewhere . . . quiet."

That didn't sound good. Tony went along without struggling, being no threat, no problem, giving Mouse no reason to think he might make a run for it. When they stopped beside Mouse's 1963 cherry-red, Mustang convertible, when Mouse-or rather the thing in Mouse's body-started digging for his keys, Tony dropped straight down to his knees, spun around, surged back up onto his feet, took two running steps away, and crashed face first into the wet sidewalk. His teeth went into the edge of his lip and his mouth filled with blood. He spat and twisted around. Within the circle of the light from the streetlamp, Mouse's shadow tangled with his.The shadows in the bodies controlled the shadows of the bodies-he should have remembered that-and those shadows could mess with the shadows of people-like him- who weren't being controlled. And that made so little real world sense it sounded like one of the less than brilliant ideas the bull pen horked up after a night of generic beer and cheese pizza.

Mouse smiled broadly enough for a pair of gold crowns to glitter. "Get in the car."

Tony spat again. He was through making it easy. "Make me."

One huge hand grabbed the waistband of his jeans, the other both straps of his backpack. A moment later he was in the pa.s.senger seat. He spared half a thought for the total s.h.i.t-fit Mouse was going to have when he was back in control of his body and saw his upholstery and then tried to fling himself out the door.

Mouse's shadow flowed up and over his face.

Oh, c.r.a.p . . .

Clawing at it didn't work. It gave under his fingers and then seeped back into the gouges. He already knew he couldn't breathe through it ...