Smoke and Mirrors E-Book

Tanya Huff

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Smoke
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 571

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Tanya Huff, bestselling author of the Blood Price books, continues a new series where a street kid-turned-production assistant must balance deceptions that might get him fired with the supernatural truth that might get him killed… Working as a PA for a syndicated television show means when problems crop up, it's Tony Foster's job to figure them out. Once his producers decide to film at an isolated historic mansion for a week, the wizard-in-training expects disruptions: no cell signal, extras bumbling around the set, lighting cords tangled in hundred-year-old hallways. He doesn't expect ghosts. A few dead folks wandering around shouldn't disturb much, though. They're only perceptible to the sensitive. Except it seems more of the cast and crew are sensitive than Tony knew. And the house isn't home to only a few spirits. With the memories of murders playing out around them, Tony has to dodge, sneak, and scramble to cover in front of the normies. Until he gets trapped in the mansion overnight—with his boss, his vampire ex, the smoking-hot straight actor sending mixed signals, and the executive producer's bratty kids. His crew wants answers. The house wants blood. And the horrors are only beginning…

Leseprobe

Smoke and Mirrors

Copyright © 2005 by Tanya HuffAll rights reserved.

Published as an ebook in 2024 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.Originally published by DAW Books in 2005.

Cover design by Ashley Ruggirello // www.cardboardmonet.com

978-1-625676-93-1

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

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[email protected]

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Table of Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

About the Author

Also by Tanya Huff

For Judith and Dave who opened the door and then gently shoved me through it.

ONE

About a third of the way down the massive wooden staircase, the older of the two tuxedo-clad men paused, head up, nostrils flaring as though he were testing a scent on the air. “We’re not … alone.”

“Well, there’s at least another twenty invited guests,” his companion began lightly.

“Not what I meant.” Red-gold hair gleamed as he turned first one way then the other. “There’s something … else.”

“Something else?” the younger man repeated, suspiciously studying the portrait of the elderly gentleman in turn-of-the-century clothing hanging beside him. The portrait, contrary to expectations, continued to mind its own business.

“Something … evil.”

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a …” The husky voice trailed off as he stared over the banister, down into the wide entrance hall. His fingers tightened on the polished wood of the railing as green eyes widened. “Raymond, I think you’d better have a look at this.”

Raymond Dark turned—slowly—and snarled, the extended points of his canine teeth clearly visible.

“And cut!” Down by the front door, Peter Hudson pushed his headphones back around his neck, peered around the bank of monitors, and up at the stars of Darkest Night. “Two things, gentlemen. First, Mason; what’s with the pausing before the last word in every line?”

Mason Reed, aka Raymond Dark, vampire detective and currently syndicated television’s sexiest representative of the bloodsucking undead, glared down at the director. “I was attempting to make banal dialogue sound profound.”

“Yeah? Nice try. Unfortunately, it sounded like you were doing a bad Shatner, which—while I’m in no way dissing the good Captain Kirk—is not quite the effect we want here. And Lee,” he continued without giving Mason a chance to argue, “what’s on your shoulder? Your right shoulder,” he added as Lee Nicholas aka James Taylor Grant tried to look at both shoulders at once. “Actually, more the upper sleeve.”

A streak of white, about half an inch wide, ran from just under the shoulder seam diagonally four inches down the sleeve of Lee’s tux.

He frowned. “It looks like paint.”

Mason touched it with a fingertip and then pointed at the incriminating white smudge down at the entrance hall and the director. “It is paint. He must’ve brushed up against the wall in the second-floor bathroom.”

Two of the episode’s pivotal scenes were to be shot in the huge bathroom and one of the painters had spent the morning giving ceiling and walls a quick coat of white semi-gloss.

“That’s impossible,” Lee protested. “I wasn’t even in the second-floor bathroom and besides, this wasn’t there when Brenda delinted us.”

“Brenda delinted us fifteen minutes before Peter called action,” Mason reminded him. “Lots of time for you to wander off and take a tinkle.”

“Oh, no.” Lee checked to make sure that the boom was gone, then dropped his voice below eavesdropping range. “You wandered off to suck on a cancer stick, I didn’t go anywhere.”

“So you say, but this says different.”

“I wasn’t in that bathroom!”

“Look, Lee, just admit you screwed up and let’s move on.”

“I didn’t screw up!”

“All right then, it was a subconscious—and I’d have to say somewhat pathetic—attempt to draw attention to yourself.”

“Don’t even …”

“Gentlemen!” Peter’s voice dragged their attention back down to the foyer. “I don’t care where the paint came from, but it’s visible in that last bit where Lee turns and as I’d like him to keep turning—Tony, run Lee’s tux jacket out to Brenda so she can get that paint off before it dries. Everett, if you could take the shine off Mason’s forehead before we have to adjust the light levels, I’d appreciate it. And somebody, get me a coffee and two aspirin.”

Tony froze halfway to the stairs. As the only production assistant on location—as the only production assistant who’d ever remained with CB Productions and Darkest Night for any length of time—he was generally the “somebody” Peter’d just referred to.

“I’ll get him the co … shkeeffee, Tony.” The voice of Adam Paelous, the show’s first assistant director, sounded in Tony’s ear, pushing through the omnipresent static. “You get the tux …”

One finger against his ear jack, Tony strained to hear over the interference. The walkie-talkies had been acting up since they’d arrived at the location shoot. It was impossible to get a clear signal and the batteries were draining at about five times the normal speed.

“… out to wardrobe. The exci … shsquit of watching paint dry might kill us all.”

Waving an acknowledgment to Adam across the entrance hall, Tony jogged up the stairs. It had definitely been a less than exciting morning—even given the hurry-up-and-wait nature of television production. And there’s not a damned thing wrong with boring, Tony reminded himself. Especially when “not boring” involved gates to other worlds, evil wizards, and sentient shadows that weren’t so much homicidal as … actually, homicidal pretty much covered it.

Everyone else at CB Productions—with the exception of CB himself—had no memory of the metaphysical experience that had very nearly turned the soundstage into ground zero for an otherworld/evil wizard/homicidal shadow invasion. Everyone else probably slept with the lights out. After almost two months, Tony was finally able to manage it four nights out of five.

Lee was out of the tux and frowning down at the paint by the time Tony reached him.

“I didn’t go into the upstairs bathroom,” he reiterated as he handed it over.

“I believe you.” Fully aware that he was smiling stupidly up at an explicitly defined straight boy—or as explicit as the pictures the tabloids could get with an extended telephoto lens—Tony folded the jacket carefully so the paint wouldn’t smear and headed back down the stairs thinking, in quick succession, It’s still warm. And: You’re pathetic.

He slid over against the banister to give Everett and his makeup case room to get up the stairs, wondering why Mason—who was a good twenty years younger and thirty kilos lighter—couldn’t have come down to the entrance hall instead. Oh, wait, it’s Mason. What the hell am I thinking? Mason Reed was fully aware of every perk star billing entitled him to and had no intention of compromising on any of them.

“That man sweats more than any actor I’ve ever met,” Everett muttered as Tony passed. “But don’t quote me on that.”

Just what, exactly, Everett had once been misquoted on was a mystery. And likely to remain that way as even a liberal application of peach schnapps had failed to free up the story, although Tony had learned more about butt waxing than he’d ever wanted to know.

Jacket draped across his hands and held out like he was delivering an organ for transplant, Tony raced across the entrance hall, out the air-lock entry—its stained glass covered with black fabric to keep out the daylight—sped across the wide porch, and pounded down the half dozen broad stone steps to the flagstone path that led through the overgrown gardens and eventually to the narrow drive. Time is money was one of the three big truisms of the television industry. No one seemed to be able to agree on just what exactly number two was, but Tony suspected that number three involved the ease with which production assistants could be replaced.

The wardrobe makeup trailer had been parked just behind the craft services truck which had, in turn, been snugged up tight against the generator.

Brenda, who’d been sitting on the steps having a coffee, stood as Tony approached, dumping an indignant black cat off her lap. “What happened?”

“There’s paint on Lee’s jacket.”

“Paint?” She hurried out to meet him, hands outstretched. “How did that happen?”

“Lee doesn’t know.” Given that Tony believed Lee, Mason’s theory didn’t bear repeating. Handing the jacket over, he followed her up into the trailer. The cat snorted at her or him or both of them and stalked away.

“Was he in the second-floor bathroom?”

“No.” It was a common theory apparently.

“Weird.” Her hand in the sleeve, she held the paint out for inspection. “It looks like someone stroked it on with a fingertip.”

It did. The white was oval at the top and darker—fading down to a smudge of gray at the bottom of the four-inch streak.

“Probably just someone being an asshole.”

“Mason?” she wondered, picking up a spray bottle and bending over the sleeve.

Tony stared at her back in disbelief. There was no way Mason would do anything to make Lee the center of attention. Not generally, and especially not now, not when at last count Lee’s fan mail had risen to equal that of the older actor. And Mason’d always been particularly sensitive to anything he perceived as a threat to his position as the star of Darkest Night. That wasn’t an opinion Tony’d actually express out loud, however—not to Brenda. The wardrobe assistant was one of those rare people in the business who, in spite of exposure, continued to buy into the celebrity thing. For most, the “Oh, my God, it’s …” faded after a couple of artistic hissy fits extended the workday past the fifteen-hour mark.

Also, she was a bit of a suck-up, and the last thing he wanted was her currying favor by telling Mason what he thought. Well, maybe not the last thing he wanted—a repeat of the homicidal shadow experience currently topped his never-again list, but having Mason Reed pissed off at him was definitely in the top ten since Mason Reed sufficiently pissed off meant Tony Foster unemployed.

Realizing she was still waiting for an answer, he said, “No, I don’t think it was Mason.”

“Of course not.”

Hey, you brought it up. He picked up a scrap of trim …

“Don’t touch that.”

 … and put it back down again. “Sorry.”

“Are you taking the jacket back or is Lee coming out to get it? Or I could take it back and make sure it looks all right under the lights.”

“You could, but since I’m here …”

“And as it happens, so am I.”

They turned together, pulled around by an unmistakable rough velvet voice to see Lee coming into the trailer.

“There’s another mark on the pants.” He turned as he spoke.

It looked as if someone had pressed a finger against the bottom of Lee’s right cheek and stroked up. Tony thought very hard about cold showers, police holding cells, and Homer Simpson.

Lee continued around until he faced them again, toed off the black patent leather shoes, and unzipped his fly. “I swear it wasn’t there earlier.”

“The jacket would have covered most of it,” Brenda reminded him in a breathy tone Tony found extremely annoying. He held on to that annoyance—it was a handy shield against a potentially embarrassing reaction to Lee stepping out of his pants and passing them over.

Clad from the waist down in gray boxer briefs and black socks, Lee wandered over to the empty makeup chair and sat. The chair squealed a protest. “I have no idea how it happened. I swear I wasn’t anywhere near wet paint.”

“Of course you weren’t,” Brenda purred. Lifting the jacket off the ironing board, she handed it to Tony, her heated gaze never leaving Lee’s face until she had to lay out the pants. She made up for the loss of eye contact by taking her time caressing the fabric smooth.

Rumor insisted that Brenda and Lee had recently shared a heated moment on the floor of the wardrobe department while Alison Larkin—the head of wardrobe—was off rummaging through charity sales for costumes her budget would cover. Given the intimate way Brenda spread her hand and pressed it down next to the paint to hold the fabric still, Tony had to admit it looked like gossip had gotten it right. Standing there, while she spritzed and then rubbed slow circles over the ass of Lee’s pants, he felt like a voyeur.

And he was definitely odd man out.

“Listen, Tony, as long as Lee’s here, there’s no need for you to stay.” Apparently, Brenda thought so, too.

“Yeah, I should go.”

“Yes, you should.” Because the moment you’re out the door and we’re finally alone, I’m going to show that man what a real woman can give him.

He had to admire the amount of bad fifties subtext she could layer under three words.

“I’ll tell Peter you’ll be back when Brenda’s finished with you,” he said, handing Lee the jacket. The expression on the actor’s face was interesting—and a little desperate. Desperate for him to leave? Desperate about him leaving? Desperately seeking Susan? What? Tony was getting nothing.

“Are you still here?” What part of we want to be alone don’t you understand?

Well, nothing from Lee. Plenty from Brenda.

“Tony!” Adam’s voice rose out of the background noise. “The minute that paint’s …” A couple of words got lost in static. “… get Lee back here. We’ve got a shitload of stuff to cover today.”

He dropped his mouth toward the microphone clipped to his collar. “Roger that, Adam.”

“The point ishsput to make sure no one’s getting rogered.”

“Yeah, I got that.” Most of it, anyway.

Adam had obviously heard the rumor, too, although his choice of euphemism was interesting. Rogered?

“How much longer?”

“Jacket’s done, pants are …” Tony glanced over at Brenda and shrugged apologetically when she glared. “… pants are finished now. Lee’s dressing …” The pants slid quickly up over long, muscular, tanned legs. Feet shoved into shoes and Lee was at the door, mouthing Sorry, gotta run back toward the wardrobe assistant. “And we’re moving.”

“You’re shoving?”

“Moving!”

“Glad to finally friggin’ hear it. Out.”

They were almost to the path before Lee spoke. “Yes, we did.”

Tony shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

“And it was a stupid thing to do.”

“I didn’t say.” Brenda was standing in the doorway watching them leave. He knew it without turning. Feeling the impact of metaphorical scissors between his shoulder blades, he increased the space between them to the maximum the path would allow.

“It was just … I mean, we were both … And she was …”

“Hey.” Tony raised a hand before details started emerging. “Two consenting adults. Not my business.”

“Right.” As the path finally lined up with the front door, Lee stopped. “It’s a great house, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s cool.” Tony had been ready for the change of subject—guys, especially guys who weren’t exactly friends, had a low level of TMI. Actually, since Lee wasn’t the kind of guy to brag about his conquests, Tony was a little surprised he’d even brought it up.

“I asked Mr. Brummel if he thought the owners might sell.”

“What did he say?”

“This isn’t your average house, boy. You don’t own a house like this. It owns you.”

Lee’s impression of the caretaker’s weirdly rhythmic delivery was bang on. Tony snickered. A middle-aged man in rumpled clothes, scuffed work boots, and an obvious comb over, Mr. Brummel—no first name offered—had taken the caretaker clichés to heart, embracing them with all the fervor of someone about to shout, “And I’d have gotten away with it, too, if not for you meddling kids.”

But he was right; Caulfield House was anything but average.

Built around the turn of the last century by Creighton Caulfield, who’d made a fortune in both mining and timber, the house rested on huge blocks of pale granite with massive beams of western red cedar holding up the porch roof. Three stories high with eight bedrooms, a ballroom, a conservatory, and servants’ quarters on the third floor, it sat tucked away in Deer Lake Park at the end of a long rutted path too overgrown to be called a road. Matt, the freelance location finder CB Productions generally employed, had driven down Deer Lake Drive to have a look at Edgar House—which turned out to be far too small to accommodate the script. Following what he called a hunch, although Tony suspected he’d gotten lost—it wouldn’t be the first time—he spotted a set of ruts and followed them. Chester Bane, the CB of CB Productions, had taken one look at the digital images Matt had shot of the house he’d stumbled on at the end of the ruts, and decided it was perfect for Darkest Night.

Although well within the boundaries of the park, Caulfield House remained privately owned and all but forgotten. Tony had no idea how CB had gotten permission to use the building, but shouting had figured prominently—shouting into the phone, shouting behind the closed door of his office, shouting into his cell as he crossed the parking lot ignoring the cars pulling out and causing two fender benders as his staff tried to avoid hitting him. Evidence suggested that CB felt volume could succeed when reason failed, and his track record seemed to support his belief.

But the house was perfect in spite of the profanely expressed opinions of the drivers who’d had to maneuver the generator, the craft services truck, two equipment trucks, the wardrobe/makeup trailer, and the honey wagon down the rutted road close enough to be of any use. Fortunately, as CB had rented the entire house for the week, he had no compunction about having dressing rooms set up in a couple of the bedrooms. He’d only brought in the honey wagon when Mr. Brummel had informed him what it would cost to replace the elderly septic system if it broke down under the additional input.

The huge second-floor bathroom had therefore been painted but was off-limits as far as actually using it. The painters had left the window open to help clear the fumes and Tony glanced up to see the bottom third of the sheer white curtain blowing out over the sill.

He frowned. “Did you see that?”

“The curtain?”

“No, beyond the curtain, in the room. I thought I saw someone looking down at us.”

Lee snorted and started walking again, stepping over a sprawling mass of plants that had spilled out of the garden onto the path. “Probably Mason sneaking a smoke by the window. He likely figures the smell of the paint’ll cover the stink.”

It made sense, except …

“Mason’s in black,” Tony argued, hurrying to catch up. “Whoever this was, they were wearing something light.”

“Maybe he took the jacket off so he wouldn’t get paint on it. Maybe that’s where he went for his earlier smoke and maybe he did a little finger painting on my ass when he got back.” One foot raised above the top step, Lee paused and shook his head. “No, I’m pretty sure I’d remember that.” Half turning, he grinned down at Tony on the step below. “It seems I have a secret admirer.”

Before Tony could decide if he was supposed to read more into that than could possibly be there, Lee was inside and Adam’s voice was telling him to “… get your ass in gefffst, Tony. We don’t have all fisssssking day.”

Fisssssking had enough static involved it almost hurt. Fiddling with the frequency on his walkie-talkie as he followed Lee into the house, Tony had a feeling that the communication difficulties were going to get old fast.

* * *

“He peeped you. Not the actor, the other one.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Stephen.”

“Well, he looked like he saw you.”

“He saw the curtain blowing out the window, that’s all. I’m very good at staying out of sight.” Her tone sharpened. “I’m not the one that people keep spotting, am I?”

“Those were accidents.” His voice hovered between sulky and miserable. “I didn’t even know those hikers were there and I don’t care what Graham says, I hate hiding.”

Comforting now. “I know.”

“And besides, I never take the kind of chances you do. Truth, Cassie, what were you thinking, marking him a second time?”

She smiled and glanced down at the smudge of paint on one finger. “I was thinking that since I’d gotten him to take off his jacket, maybe I could get him to take off his pants. Come on.” Taking his hand, she pulled him toward the door. “I want to see what they’re doing now.”

* * *

“Raymond, I think you’d better have a look at this.”

“Cut and print! That was excellent work, gentlemen.” Tossing his headphones onto the shelf under the monitor, Peter turned to his director of photography. “How much time do you need to reset for scene eight?”

Sorge popped a throat lozenge into his mouth and shrugged. “Shooting from down here … fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. No more. When we move to the top of the stairs …”

“Don’t borrow trouble.” He raised his voice enough to attract the attention of his 1AD … “Adam, tell them they’ve got twenty minutes to kill.” … and lowered it again as he pivoted a hundred and eighty degrees to face his script supervisor. “Tina, let’s you and I go over that next scene. There’ll be a bitch of a continuity problem if we’re not careful and I don’t need a repeat of episode twelve.”

“At least we know there’s ninety-one people watching the show,” she pointed out as she stood.

Peter snorted. “I still think it was one geek with ninety-one e-mail addresses.”

As they moved off into the dining room and the techs moved in to shove the video village out into the actual entryway where it wouldn’t be in the shot, Adam stepped out into the middle of the foyer and looked up at the two actors. “You’ve got fifteen, guys.”

“I’ll be in my dressing room.” Turning on one heel, Mason headed back up the stairs.

“If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my dressing room as well.” Lee grimaced, reached back, and yanked at his pants. “These may dry faster off my ass.”

Mouse, his gray hair more a rattail down his back and physically the complete opposite of his namesake—no one had ever referred to him as meek and lived to speak of it—stepped out from behind his camera and whistled. “You want to drop trou, don’t let us stop you.”

Someone giggled.

Tony missed Lee’s response as he realized the highly unlikely sound could only have come from Kate, Mouse’s camera assistant. He wouldn’t have bet money on Kate knowing how to giggle. He wasn’t entirely certain she knew how to laugh.

“Tony,” Adam’s hand closed over his shoulder as Lee followed Mason up the stairs and both actors disappeared down the second-floor hall. “I saw Mason talking with Karen from craft services earlier. Go make sure she didn’t add any bagels to his muffin basket.”

“And if she did?”

“Haul ass upstairs and make sure he doesn’t eat one.”

“You want me to wrestle the bagel out of Mason’s hand?”

“If that’s where it is.” Adam grinned and patted him manfully on the shoulder—where manfully could be defined as better you than me, buddy. “If he’s actually taken a bite, I want you to wrestle it out of his mouth.”

Mason loved bagels, but the dental adhesive attaching Raymond Dark’s fangs to his teeth just wasn’t up to the required chewing. After a couple of forty-minute delays while Everett replaced the teeth, and one significantly longer delay after the right fang had been accidentally swallowed, CB had instituted the no-bagels-in-Mason’s-dressing-room rule. Since Mason hadn’t had to ultimately retrieve the tooth—that job had fallen to Jennifer, his personal assistant who, in Tony’s opinion, couldn’t possibly be paid enough—he’d chosen to see it as a suggestion rather than a rule and did what he could to get around it.

As a result Karen from craft services found herself under a determined assault by a man who combined good looks and charm with all the ethical consideration of a cat. No one blamed her on those rare occasions she’d been unable to resist.

Today, no one knew where she was.

She wasn’t at the table or the truck and there wasn’t time enough to search further. Grabbing a pot of black currant jam off the table, Tony headed up the stairs two steps at a time, hoping Mason’s midmorning nosh hadn’t already brought the day to a complete stop.

As the star of Darkest Night, Mason had taken the master suite as his dressing room. Renovated in the fifties, it took up half the front of the second floor and included a bedroom, a closet/dressing room, and a small bathroom. Provided he kept flushing to a minimum, Mr. Brummel had cleared this bathroom for Mason’s personal use. Lee had to use the honey wagon like everyone else.

All the doors that led off the second-floor hall were made of the same Douglas fir that dominated the rest of the house, but they—and the trim surrounding them—had been stained to look like mahogany. Tony, who in a pinch could tell the difference between plywood and MDF, had been forced to endure a long lecture on the fir-as-mahogany issue from the gaffer who carved themed chess sets in his spare time. The half-finished knight in WWF regalia that he’d pulled from his pocket had been impressive.

Hand raised to knock on the door to Mason’s room, Tony noticed that both the upper panels had been patched. In the dim light of the second-floor hall, the patches were all but invisible, but up close he could see the faint difference in the color of the stain. There was something familiar about their shape, but he couldn’t …

Hand still raised, he jumped back as the door jerked open.

Mason stared out at him, wide-eyed. “There’s something in my bathroom!”

“Something?” Tony asked, trying to see if both fangs were still in place.

“Something!”

“Okay.” About to suggest plumbing problems were way outside his job description and that he should go get Mr. Brummel, Tony changed his mind at Mason’s next words.

“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 …

One thing at a time. Bagel now. Bathroom later.

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 until the shadows, she’d handled FX 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 a 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 FX 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 her, 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 Wizardshit 101; remarkably obscure instructions in point form 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 this one was 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.

Bite me.

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.

At least if the taps work, I can wash my hands.

Using the only nonsticky 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.

Blood!

No wait, rust.

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 delinting 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—one 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!” Cassie 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.”

* * *

Sunset was at 8:54 PM. It was one of those things that Tony couldn’t not remember. He checked the paper every morning, he noted the time, and, as the afternoon became evening, he kept an eye on his watch.

Wanda, the new office PA, showed up at seven with the next day’s sides—the half size sheets with all the background information as well as the necessary script pages. Tony helped her pick them up off the porch.

“This is so totally embarrassing!”

He handed her a messy stack of paper. “Don’t worry about it, everyone trips. Earlier, I did a little ‘falling with style’ down the back stairs.” The risers were uneven and he’d missed his step, very nearly pitching headfirst down the narrow incline.

“Falling with style is better than falling with skinned knee,” Wanda muttered, shoving the retrieved sides under one arm and dabbing at the congealing blood with a grubby tissue. “And how many people saw you?”

“No one, but …”

“You saw me.” She pointed at him. “And Brenda did.” She pointed back toward the trailer. “Because I heard that distinctive snicker of hers. And the Sikh with the potted plant.”

“Dalal. The prop guy.”

“Whatever. My point, three people saw me. No one saw you and I’m bleeding.”

“Yeah, well, don’t bleed on the weather report. What would we do if we didn’t know there was a seventy percent chance of rain tomorrow?”

She snapped erect and glared at him, nostrils pinched so tightly he wondered how she could breathe and talk at the same time. “That’s not very supportive!”

“What?”

“That comment was not very supportive!”

“Kidding.” Tony tapped the corners of his mouth. “Smiling, see?”

“It’s not funny!”

“But I wasn’t …”

“I’m taking these inside now!”

“Whatever.” He wasn’t quite mocking her. Quite. Okay, maybe a little. “I’ll just be out here cleaning your blood off the stone.”

“Fine.” Spinning on one air-cushioned heel, she stomped in through the front doors.

“Someone needs to switch to decaf,” he sighed. He’d been standing not three feet from the steps when she fell, close enough to hear her knee make that soft/hard definite tissue damage sound, and he had a pretty good idea of where she’d impacted with the porch. Weirdly, while there’d been lines of red dribbling down her shin, he couldn’t find any blood on the stones. As embarrassed as she was, she’d probably just bounced up before the blood actually started to flow.

Probably.

The show packed up around 8:30 PM.

“Nice short day, people. Good work. Eleven and a half hours,” he added to Sorge as he moved out of an electrician’s way. “No way we’ll make that tomorrow, not with all those extras.”

Tony’s grasp of French profanity wasn’t quite good enough to understand the specifics of the DP’s reply.

TWO

“Hey, Henry, it’s Tony.” He shifted the phone to his other hand and reached into the back of the fridge. “It’s highly likely that we’re going to run late tomorrow night …” How long had that Chinese takeout been in there? “… so I was thinking that I’d better …” Opening the container, he stared at the uniform greenish-gray surface of the food. He had no idea what he’d ordered way back when but he had a strong suspicion it hadn’t looked like that. “… meet you at the …” The click of a receiver being lifted cut him off. “Henry?”

“Tony? Sorry, I was in the shower.”

“Going out to eat?”

He could hear the smile in the other man’s voice. “Is that any of your business?”

“Nope. Just curious.” The bologna still looked edible. Well, most of it. He tossed it on the counter and closed the refrigerator door. “We’ve got extras working tomorrow, so I’ll likely be late.”

“You say extras like you’re thinking of calling in pest control to deal with them.”

“I’m not, but Sorge and Peter are. They hate working with extras.” Tony grabbed a little plastic packet of mustard from a cup filled with identical plastic packets, ripped off the top with his teeth, and squirted the contents out onto a slice of bread. “It might be best if I meet you at the theater. The show starts at ten, so if I’m not there by quarter to, just go in and sit down. I’ll find you.”

“We can call it off.”

“Not a chance. How often do you get to go to the theater in the summer?” Friends of Tony’s from film school were taping the play and the high-profile television stars playing the leads for the local cable channel. Opening curtain was at ten because they couldn’t get the camera equipment until after their day jobs finished with it. Tony had no idea how they’d convinced the theater or the actors to go along with their schedule but that wasn’t his problem. When he’d heard about it, he’d realized it was a perfect show for Henry. Given late sunsets and early sunrises, Henry didn’t get out much in the summer. Ripping the slightly green edges off the half dozen slices of bologna, he stacked them on the bread and mustard. “You know where the Vogue is, right?”

“It’s on Granville, Tony, practically around the corner. I think I can find it.”

“Hey, I’m just checking.” He applied mustard to the second slice of bread.

“Did you know that the Vogue Theater was haunted?”

“Really haunted or haunted for publicity’s sake?”

“Bit of both, I suspect.”

Tony took a bite of his sandwich. “Think we’ll see anything tomorrow night?”

“I think we’ll have to wait until tomorrow night to find out.”

“I’m just asking because our last experience with ghosts wasn’t much fun.” Several innocents had died and, until the whole shadows-from-another-world incident, the experience had provided fodder for the bulk of Tony’s nightmares. Well, that and the undead ancient Egyptian wizard.

“Apparently this guy is a lot less interactive,” Henry told him dryly. “What are you eating?”

“Bologna sandwich.”

“I was thinking I’d have Italian.”

“Good night, Henry!” Shaking his head, Tony thumbed the phone off and tossed it into the tangle of blankets on the pull-out couch. “Over four hundred and sixty years old,” he commented to the apartment at large. “You’d think he’d learn another joke.”

Vampires: not big on the whole contemporary humor thing.

* * *

“Seventy percent chance of rain, my ass,” Tony muttered as he drove out to the end of Deer Lake Drive and parked behind Sorge’s minivan. The rain sheeted down his windshield with such volume and intensity the wipers were barely able to keep up. He turned off the engine, grabbed his backpack off the passenger seat, and flicked the hood up on his green plastic rain cape. Sure, it looked geeky, but it kept him and his backpack mostly dry. Besides, it wasn’t quite seven-thirty in the freaking AM—ACTRA rules stipulated a twelve-hour break for the talent but only ten for the crew—he was in the middle of a park, about to head down an overgrown path to a forgotten house—who the hell was going to see him?

* * *

Stephen turned from the window smiling broadly. “Listen to the water roar in the gutters, Cass! This’ll fill the cistern for sure. Graham’s going to be on cloud nine.”

“And it’s all about Graham being happy, isn’t it?” she muttered, rubbing bare arms.

“That’s not what I meant.” He frowned. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know.” When she looked up, her eyes were unfocused. “Something feels …”

“Different?”

She shook her head. “Familiar.”

* * *

The trees cut the rain back to a bearable deluge. Carefully avoiding new, water-filled ruts and the occasional opening where rain poured through the covering branches, Tony plodded toward the house. Half a kilometer later, as he came out into the open, and saw the building squatting massive and dark at the end of the drive, thunder cracked loud enough to vibrate his fillings and a jagged diagonal of lightning backlit the house.

“Well, isn’t that a cliché,” he sighed, kicked a ten-kilo hunk of mud off his shoe, and kept walking.

Finally standing just inside the kitchen door, he shook out the excess water off his rain cape onto the huge flagstone slab that floored the small porch, added his shoes to the pile of wet footwear, and pulled out a pair of moccasins from his pack. Stopping by the big prep table, he snagged a cup of coffee—more practical than most in the television industry, craft services had set up in the kitchen—and headed for the butler’s pantry where the AD’s office had been set. He shoved his backpack into one of the lower cabinets, signed in, and grabbed a radio. So far, channel one, the AD’s channel was quiet. Adam might not be in yet or he just might not be talking—impossible to tell. On channel eight, the genny op and the rest of his transport crew had a few things to say about keeping things running in the rain. Impressed by the way the profanities seemed to make it through the interference intact, Tony set his unit back on channel one, and headed for the conservatory at the back of the house.

Extras’ holding.

Tony could already hear them; a low hum as two dozen voices all complained about their agents at the same time.

Passing by the bottom of the back stairs, the servants’ stairs, another sound caught his attention. A distant, rhythmic creak. Er er. Er er. Like something … swinging. Someone had probably left the door open on the second floor. He thought about heading up and closing it, then spotted the black cat sitting at the three-quarter mark and changed his mind. Uneven, narrow, and steep, the stairs had tried to kill him once already and that was without the added fun of something to trip over. A sudden draft of cold air flowing down from the second floor raised the hair on the back of his neck and consolidated his decision. Damp clothes, cold air—not a great combination. Besides, he was already running late.

Sucking back his coffee, he hurried along a narrow hall and finally down the three stone steps into the conservatory.

The house had been deserted of everyone but hired caretakers for almost thirty years and it seemed as though none of those caretakers had cared to do any indoor gardening. The conservatory was empty of even the dried husks of plant life. The raised beds were empty. The small pond was empty. The big stone urns were empty. The actual floor space, on the other hand, was a little crowded.

Over on the other side of the pond, several men and women were changing into their own modern evening dress with the nonchalance of people for whom the novelty of seeing others in their underwear had long since worn off. Ditto the self-consciousness of being seen. Crammed between the raised beds and the stone urns, still more men and women—already dressed—sat on plastic folding chairs, drank coffee, read newspapers, and waited for their turn in makeup.

The two makeup stations were up against the stone wall the conservatory shared with the house. Some shows had the supporting actors do their own face and hair, but Everett had refused to allow it and CB, usually so tight he could get six cents’ change from a nickel, had let him have his way. Sharyl, Everett’s assistant who worked part-time for CB Productions and part-time at a local funeral parlor, handled the second chair. Curling irons, hair spray, and a multitude of brushes were all flung about with dazzling speed and when Everett yelled, “Time!” Tony realized they’d been racing.

“Not fair!” Sharyl complained as she flicked the big powder brush over the high arc of male pattern baldness. “I had more surface to cover.”

“I had a more delicate application.”

“Yeah, well, I’m faster when they’re lying down.” She stepped back and tossed the big brush onto the tray. “You’re lovely.”

Tony didn’t think the man—white, thirty to forty, must provide own evening dress—looked convinced. Or particularly happy to hear it.

“Next two!” Everett bellowed over the drumming of the rain on the glass. He waved the completed extras out of the chairs, adding, “Don’t touch your face!” Tony couldn’t hear the woman’s reply, but Everett’s response made it fairly clear. “So itch for your art.”

Waving at a couple of people he knew from other episodes and a guy he’d met a couple of times at the Gandydancer, Tony made his way over to the card table set up beside the coffee urn. He pulled the clipboard out from under a spill of cardboard cups and checked the sign-in page. It seemed a little short of names.

“Hey! Everybody!” The rain threatened to drown him out, so he yelled louder. “If you haven’t signed the sheet, please do it now. I have to check your name against our master list.”

No one moved.

“If your names aren’t on both lists, you won’t get paid!”

Half a dozen people hurried toward him.

Other shows would have hired a daily PA or TAD—trainee assistant director—to ride herd on the extras. CB figured they were all adults and were therefore fully capable of walking from the holding area to the set without him having to pay to see that they managed it. Human nature being what it was, and with two thirds of the season in the can, Tony could pretty much guarantee that someone—or some two or three—would wander off and need to be brought back to the herd while he did his best border collie impression. Snarling permitted; biting frowned on.

It took a moment for him to realize that the scream was not a rehearsal. Extras generally did a lot of screaming on shows starring vampires. Some of them, disdaining the more spontaneous terror of their contemporaries, liked to practice.

On the other side of the conservatory, a half dressed woman clutching a pair of panty hose to her chest, backed away from one of the raised beds and continued to scream. By the time Tony reached her, the screams had become whimpers, barely audible over the sound of the rain.

“What?” he demanded. “What’s wrong?”

Conditioned to respond to anyone with a radio and a clipboard, she pointed a trembling finger toward the garden. “I sat down, on the edge, to put on …” Taupe streamers waved from her other hand. “… and I sort of fell. Back.” Glancing around, she suddenly realized she had an audience and, in spite of her fear, began to play to it. “I put my hand down on the dirt. It sank in just a little. The next thing I knew, something grabbed it.”

“Something?”

“Fingers. I felt fingers close around mine. Cold fingers.” A half turn toward her listeners. “Like fingers from a grave.”

Tony had to admit that the raised beds did look rather remarkably like graves. Yeah, and so does any dirt pile longer than it is wide. He stepped forward, noticed where the dirt had been disturbed, and poked it with the clipboard. He didn’t believe the bit about the fingers, of course, but there was no point in taking unnecessary chances. Over the last few years he’d learned that belief had absolutely nothing to do with reality.

The clipboard sank about a centimeter into the dirt and stopped with a clunk.

Clunk sounded safe enough.

In Tony’s experience, the metaphysical seldom went clunk.

A moment’s digging later, he pulled out a rusted, handleless garden claw.

“Was this what you felt?”

“No.” She shuddered, dramatically. “I felt fingers.”

“Cold fingers.” Tony held the claw toward her and she touched it tentatively.

“Okay, maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Fine.” Her snort was impressive. “Probably. Okay? It felt like fingers, it’s barely dawn, and it’s kind of spooky in here, and I haven’t had any coffee yet!”

Show over, the other extras began to drift away and the woman who’d done the screaming pointedly continued dressing. Tony tossed the claw back onto the garden bed and headed for the door. Drawing level with Everett, he asked for a time check.

“They’ll be ready when they’re needed,” Everett told him, layering on scarlet lipstick with a lavish hand. “But don’t quote me on that.”

“I kind of have to quote you on that, Everett. Adam’s going to ask.”

“Fine.” He pointedly capped the lipstick and drew a mascara wand from its tube with a flourish. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Oh, calm down,” he added as the middle-aged woman in the chair recoiled from the waving black bristles. “Thirty years in this business and I’ve yet to put an eye out.”

“I put one in once,” Sharyl announced and Tony figured that was his cue to leave. Sharyl’s mortuary stories were usually a hoot, but somehow he just wasn’t in the mood for fun and frolic with the dead. Pausing on the threshold, he glanced back over the room to do a final head count. Party guests and cater-waiters clumped with their own kind, making his job a little easier.

Twenty-five.

Only twenty-four signatures.

A second count gave him the right number of heads and a third confirmed it. He must’ve miscounted the first time—it wasn’t easy getting an accurate fix on the crowd of guests around the central urn. About to turn, he stopped and squinted toward the back garden, a flurry of movement having caught his eye. It had almost looked as if the garden claw had stood on its broken handle and waved its little claw-fingers at him. Except that the claw was nowhere in sight.

Wondering what he actually might have seen—given the absence of the claw—Tony got lost in a sudden realization. If the claw was missing, someone had taken it. Great. We’ve got a souvenir hunter.

Every now and then cattle calls would spit up a background player who liked to have a little something to help him remember the job. With a souvenir hunter on the set, small, easily portable items had a tendency to disappear. During episode seven, they’d lost the inkwell from Raymond Dark’s desk. After CB expressed his thoughts about the incident—“No one from that group works again until I get my property back!”—they’d had four inkwells returned. Unfortunately, most of the small, easily portable items from this set belonged to the current owners of Caulfield House, not CB Productions and the odds were good the crew wouldn’t immediately realize it if something went missing.

I’d better let Keisha know.

He grabbed a cinnamon bun on his way through the kitchen, dropped the signed sheet in the AD’s office, and headed for the drawing room. The original script had called for a ball and the presence of a ballroom was one of the reasons CB had jumped at using the house. Problem was, the ballroom was huge and the number of people it would have taken to fill it—even given the tricks of the trade—would have emptied the extras budget. With episode twenty-two and its howling mob of peasants with torches and pitchforks still in the pipeline, the ball became a smaller gathering and the venue moved to the drawing room.

A huge fieldstone fireplace dominated one end of a room paneled in Douglas fir. Above it, mounted right on the stone, was a massive gold-framed mirror. Six tall, multipaned windows divided the outside wall and glass-fronted built-in bookcases faced them along the inside. The curtains were burgundy with deep gold tassels and tiebacks—the two colors carried into the furniture upholstery. The room seemed essentially untouched by almost a hundred years of renovation and redecoration. Standing in the midst of this understated luxury were Peter, Sorge, the gaffer, the key grip, and Keisha, the set decorator, all looking up.

“The ceilings are high enough. We can shoot under them,” Peter said as Tony joined them.

“We are keeping the cameras low,” Sorge agreed. “Keeping the shots filled with the people.”

Still staring at the ceiling, the gaffer frowned. “A diffuser under each of them might help.”

“Couldn’t hurt,” the key grip allowed.

Keisha made a noncommittal albeit dubious sound. So Tony looked up.

“Holy fuck.” Those were three of the most hideous looking chandeliers Tony had ever seen. In fact, he wasn’t entirely certain they could even be called chandeliers except for the dangly bits. Although what the dangly bits were actually made of he had no idea. A certain Leave it to Beaverness about them suggested the same 1950’s vision that had been responsible for the redecorated parts of the master suite, the bathroom in particular.

Something.

Rocking in place.

Forward.

Back.

Not that particular.

“I think Mr. Foster has succinctly summed up the situation,” Peter sighed and Tony looked down to find all four looking at him. “Did you want one of us for something?”

“Uh, yeah, Keisha mostly, but you should probably all know. We’ve got a souvenir hunter. There’s already a piece of crap missing from the conservatory.”

“Crap?”

“Broken end of a garden claw.”

“Crap,” Keisha acknowledged. “But not our crap either. All right, I’ll make sure Chris keeps an eye out and we’ll do a double count when we pack up. In the meantime, someone’s going to have to get pictures of everything in those cabinets.”

“Tony …”

Yeah, he knew it. He was usually “someone.”

“… get Tina’s digital,” Peter continued, “and get those shots while we finish setup. We all know how much CB loves unexpected bills.”

Only the center cabinet was actually a bookcase. The others were too shallow for books and instead displayed cups and saucers, grimy bowls of china flowers, and the little plastic toys from inside Kinder Eggs—Tony suspected the three-part water buffalo and the working lime-green windmill were the most recent additions to the decor. Behind the water buffalo, he found a yellowed card buffed down to the same color as the shelf by a thick layer of dust. Theoretically, he wasn’t supposed to touch.

When he flipped the card over, the black handwriting was still dark and legible.

Finger of a Franciscan monk killed by the Papal Inquisition, 1651. Acquired August 17, 1887.

There was no sign of the finger although on the next shelf he did find half a dozen of the tiny china figurines that used to come in boxes of tea and were required inventory in every cheesy antique store in the country.

He finished up just as his radio sent a spike of pure static into his head.

“Adam, this is Brenda. Lee and Mazzzzzzzzzit are in wardrobe.”

“Roger that. Everett’s on his …” The last word was lost under another burst of static and some rather impressive profanity from the other end of the room.

“Tony!”

He closed the last cabinet and turned toward the 1AD.

“Send Everett out to the trailer and start moving the extras up here.”