"The metaphorical light."

The metaphorical light? Arra repeated silently. Then asked aloud, "And what makes you think that?"

"I've done some detective work in the past..."

"A vampire detective? Well, that's . . . original."

The steering wheel creaked under the Nightwalker's tightened grip. Probably not wise to poke at him-all right, definitely not wise-but impossible to resist. "The . . . shadow-held as you call it, grabbed Tony less than two blocks away from the largest, oldest Orthodox synagogue in Vancouver."

"And you think?"

"That Tony was coincidence. He was grabbed because he was there and knew the shadow for what it was. That the other six shadows are checking out churches and mosques. This world has no wizards, but it has light."

Temples fell, bodies seeking sanctuary were crushed under burning rubble.

"Not the kind that will help."

He glanced over at her, his eyes dark. "It causes you pain."

"What does?" she asked suspiciously.

"Talking about the shadows."

"Yeah. Well ..." Arra grabbed for the dashboard as he accelerated through the end of an amber light and the beginning of a red. Horns blasted out a protest from two different directions. "... it's a welcome distraction from your driving!"

It was Mouse and it wasn't Mouse, Tony decided by the time they reached the industrial park. The shadows were a separate personality-it had referred to itself as me so it had to be self-aware-but obviously they used parts of the personalities of their hosts. Unless that other world comes with muscle cars and Vin Diesel wannabes. Tony closed his eyes as the Mustang slithered between two trucks and opened them again as they turned into the studio parking lot.

Unfortunately, symbolism-not to mention the whole minion of an evil wizard thing- suggested the shadows used the darker parts of their hosts. These days, Mouse was a quiet guy who worked hard and seldom partied, but Tony'd heard some stories about Mouse's past, stories that came with interesting scars, stories that always finished with, "You should see the other guy."

He really didn't want to be the other guy.

He didn't think he'd be strong enough not to spill his guts. He wrapped a hand around his stomach, just above the line of shadow. He'd talk. He'd tell them how much he'd seen since the beginning. He'd tell them how he destroyed the shadow as it left Lee.

Lee . . .

Had it been the shadow or the darker parts of Lee putting the moves on him?

And this was so not the time to be thinking about that.

Chapter Nine.

WAY PAST time to change that code, Tony thought muzzily as Mouse worked the keypad one-handed. The shadow covered his mouth and lapped at the edge of his nose, sending the occasional tendril up into his nostrils-playfully or threateningly, Tony wasn't sure. His stomach heaved, but puking wasn't an option with his mouth already full.

The moment the car had stopped, he'd thrown open the door and flung himself out into the parking lot, mouth open to scream for help. They'd crossed the too-macho-to-scream line way back on Oak Street. Cool weight around his ankles had slammed him to the ground. The double pain of gravel cutting into his palms had been lost in the feel of shadow wrapping around him and cutting off all sound by slithering into his mouth.Mouse had taken the time to lock the car, then had hauled him onto his feet and half carried, half walked him to the studio's back door. Struggling had resulted in the remaining airflow being cut off until he calmed. One short visit to suffocation land had been enough to convince Tony that struggling was a very bad idea.

The door opened. A large hand between his shoulder blades shoved him into the dark soundstage. Stumbling forward, he missed the sound of the door closing behind him, but as he found his balance, he clearly heard the snap of the lock reengaging. It was the first sound in a while to drown out the pounding of his heart. So much for rescue.

Tony strained to see as Mouse dragged him off to the left, moving unerringly around bits of set and equipment, the ambient light from the exit signs and various scattered power indicators obviously enough for him to maneuver. Unlike Lee last night, he didn't bother turning on the overhead lights. Hang on ...

Shadows required a minimum amount of light for . .. well, definition was probably the closest word. A shadow without definition would be fuzzy. Fuzzy meant a weaker shadow, right? Not the shadow in Mouse but Mouse's shadow. The shadow actually holding him.

He took a tentative breath through his mouth.

Found he could breathe.

Ripping free of Mouse's loose grip on the back of his neck, Tony ran for the far end of the soundstage and the door to the production offices. It can't be much after 9:00. 9:30 tops.

Maybe quarter to ten. Owl Son of a b.i.t.c.h! He stumbled around whatever he'd run into-a light pole from the crash as it hit the floor- bounced off a wall, got his bearings, and lengthened his stride. No way the geeks in post were gone so early. It wasn't like they had somewhere to go on a Friday night. All he had to do was get to the . . .

The rounded edge of Raymond Dark's leather wing chair caught him across the stomach.

Gasping for breath, he fell forward, rolled across the seat on his shoulders, and hit the floor. He was still fighting to untangle his feet from the coffee table when the lights came on. Definitely a good news/bad news situation. He could see-he kicked himself free and scrambled to his feet-but the moment Mouse caught up to him, he'd be ...

The fake Persian rug spread over the concrete floor did nothing to cushion the impact.

He rolled sideways, slammed up against Mouse's legs, and was hauled to his feet.

"You done?"

The knee in the crotch took the big man completely by surprise. More than willing to fight dirty-the definition of someone who fought fair against a guy twice his size was loser- Tony put everything he had in it and hit the ground running. Fingers closed around a handful of his jacket. He squirmed free.

And then he was back on the floor, the rug grinding into his cheek, a ma.s.sive knee grinding into the center of his back.

Oh, yeah, I'm done.

No more messing around with shadows, Mouse had taken that last blow personally. Not much point in defending himself either although Tony did what he could. When Mouse finally hauled him back onto his feet-Third time lucky, big guy?-he dangled. Heels dragging, he watched the ceiling go by as Mouse hauled him out of the office, across a concrete corridor, and into the empty s.p.a.ce that had been the living room set. Monday morning it was due to be set up as a Victorian dining room for a dinner party flashback.

He couldn't quite keep his head from bouncing as he hit the floor. Once the bells had stopped ringing, he realized he was in the exact spot, and pretty much the exact position, Lee had been in last night. Under other circ.u.mstances, he'd have appreciated that more.

The gate wouldn't open for hours-hour ... a while . . . he'd kind of lost track of time-so what the h.e.l.l were they doing here? Mouse couldn't take him home and whale on him, not without having to do some explaining to the old lady, but surely there were better places for the kind of question and answer session about to happen. Unless ET's shadow was about to call home.

Humor hurt.

So did a number of other things.

Tony didn't think his ribs were broken. Broken ribs would have hurt a lot more when Mouse squatted beside him, grabbed the front of his T-shirt, and yanked him into a sitting position. He was working on pa.s.sive resistance now. And apologies to Mr.

Gandhi, but it didn't seem to be any more successful than the active kind.

About the only part of him unpummeled was his face; it seemed black eyes and broken noses would be making up the big finale. Looking at the bright side, at least he had a head start on pa.s.sing out.

As he sagged forward, he caught sight of Mouse's shadow flowing up over his feet. So they were going back to suffocation land. Been there, done that. Hurts less. Yay.

Except Mouse's shadow was also stretched out behind him; across the floor, up the side of a chair, behaving its two-dimensional self.

Two shadows?

Seven shadows had come through the gate.

Oh, f.u.c.k.

"I'm not getting out of the car, Nightwalker." Arra locked both hands around the shoulder strap of the seat belt. "If I get too close, the shadow-held will know me."

"Then why ..." When she turned to face him, Henry realized there was no point in finishing the question. He knew terror when he saw it, knew what it could do, how it could hold a person. The wizard's reasons for accompanying him this far were moot-she wasn't going any farther. "Fine. How do I fight it?"

Her grip relaxed slightly and he wondered if she'd honestly thought she'd be strong enough to prevent him from dragging her out of the car had that been his decision. "I'd use the same light you used last night."

"Will that work while the shadow's still in a host?"

"I doubt it." Her gaze turned inward for a moment; when she focused on him again, her expression was bleak. "Kill the host and the shadow will leave."

"Kill the host?"

"Don't even try to tell me you have a problem with that, Nightwalker."

"And you have never killed to survive?"

"Yes, but. . ."

"Killed for power?"

"Not the innocent."

"And who declared them guilty?"Another night, questions from another wizard. The similarity was . . . ultimately unimportant.

"I don't kill the innocent."

This wizard shrugged. "Suit yourself, Nightwalker. But it's the only way."

The other wizard had also called him Nightwalker; used it as this one did, as a definition.

He turned into the production company's parking lot. "Call me Henry."

"It doesn't matter what I call you, I know what you . . . Mouse."

"What?"

She nodded toward the red Mustang as Henry pulled into the parking place beside it.

"That's Mouse Gilbert's car. He's one of the cameramen. He's big. Strong. If he's shadow-held, you might have a little trouble."

Henry stopped the car, slammed it into neutral, and turned off the engine. "No. I won't."

He was at the back door before the sound of the engine died.

And then back at the car again.

Arra jumped as his face appeared outside her window, a pale oval suspended in the night. A pale p.i.s.sed oval. She rolled down the window.

"It's locked. Do you know the code?"

"Why would I?" she snorted. "I never go in through the soundstage; I have a key for the front door . . . oh. Right."

The front door lock was stiff. After a moment wasted, Henry reamed the key around hard enough to twist half of it off in the hole-fortunately, after the tumblers had turned. He slipped inside, leaving the ruined key where it was.

There were people in the small offices to both his right and his left. Two right, three left; five hearts beating out an espresso rhythm. They were noted in a heartbeat of his own and ignored. He moved on. Farther in.

The doors on the far wall were labeled, black letters on sheets of white office paper, the contrast so great that in spite of the darkness even mortal eyes would have been able to read them. WARDROBE. POST. SPECIAL EFFECTS. KEEP THIS DOOR CLOSED.

Henry opened the last door and found himself pushing through racks of clothing. He couldn't hear Tony. He should have been able to hear Tony. If Tony's heart was still beating. If it wasn't, a second death became a lot more likely. Easy enough to race along scent trails to another door and another sign: DO NOT ENTER WHEN RED LIGHT IS ON.

The soundstage.

Soundproof.

As he pushed open the door, the terrified pounding of Tony's heart rushed out to fill all available s.p.a.ces. Snarling, Henry ran toward the source, following it unerringly through the maze of walls and cables and equipment. There was light, but he didn't need it.

Tony's terror acted as both guide and goad.

He found Tony on the floor under the gate, half-sitting, cradled in a parody of affection against the body of a large man. His heels drumming on the floor, Tony clawed at both meaty arms wrapped around his chest.

Henry came one running step closer.

And saw the band of shadow across Tony's eyes.

Two steps.

The shadow disappeared.

Three steps.

Tony stopped struggling. His heart slowed between one beat and the next to just below normal speed.

The man-Mouse-let go. Head c.o.c.ked to one side, Tony folded his legs and sat cross- legged on the concrete. Then he looked up and met Henry's eyes.

"I see you, Nightwalker."

Henry snarled to a stop inches from Tony's folded legs.

"Just so you know, I'm not going to let you stop this," the thing that wasn't Tony added as Mouse rose slowly to his feet.

In his own time, Henry had not been tall. In this century, he was short. Mouse-the thing that was Mouse-towered over him.