Smoke and Shadows E-Book

Tanya Huff

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

Seitenzahl: 574

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Tanya Huff, bestselling author of the Blood Price books, starts a new series where a street kid-turned-production assistant must juggle his vampire ex, a crush on a hot straight actor, and the potential end of the world… Working on a direct-to-syndication show about a vampire detective doesn't much compare to Tony Foster's past as an actual vampire's lover. True, he's still wrangling beautiful people with big egos and the power to crush him, but there are far fewer demons, and TV blood is just corn syrup. When shadows on set start moving independent of the people they're supposed to be attached to, though, Tony can't dismiss it as a trick of the light. Especially when he finds the beauty of the week dead in a locked dressing room. Before long, he's discovered the head of the special effects department is an actual wizard, and brought in his ex, the vampire Henry Fitzroy, to help defend against an attack so terrifying survival seems unlikely. Tony will have to assist his butt off to give them anything like a chance. But being thrust into a spotlight doesn't make him a hero…

Leseprobe

Smoke and Shadows

Copyright © 2004 by Tanya HuffAll rights reserved.

Published as an ebook in 2024 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.Originally published by DAW Books in 2004.

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

978-1-625676-92-4

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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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

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

About the Author

Also by Tanya Huff

For Karen Lahey, because until I met her I never made the connection that “people” write books. (Where I thought they came from, I have no idea.) Essentially, Karen’s responsible for my being a writer so if you’ve enjoyed any of my books, you should thank her. Thank you, Karen.

I’d like to thank Blanche McDermaid and the cast and crew of A&E’s Nero Wolfe Mysteries, who graciously allowed me to hang about the set. I’d especially like to thank Matt and PJ, the PAs, who were more than patient with two solid days of stupid questions. Anything I got right, I owe to them. Mistakes are all my own.

ONE

Leaning forward, brushing red-gold hair back off his face, he locked eyes with the cowering young woman and smiled, teeth too white within the sardonic curve of his mouth.

“There’s no need to be frightened,” he told her, his voice holding menace and comfort equally mixed. “You have my word that nothing will happen to you; unless—and I did warn you about this—unless you’ve been holding out on me, Melissa.”

A full lower lip trembled as her fingers clutched the edge of the park bench. “I swear I’ve told you everything I know!”

“I hope so.” He leaned just a little closer, his smile broadening as she trembled. “I truly hope so.”

“Cut! Mason, the girl’s name isn’t Melissa. It’s Catherine.”

Mason Reed, star of Darkest Night, straightened as the director moved out from behind his pair of monitors. “Catherine?”

“That’s right.”

“Why does it matter, Peter? She’ll be dead by the end of the episode.”

Safely out of Mason’s line of sight, the actress rolled her eyes.

“It matters because everyone else is calling her Catherine,” Peter told him calmly, wondering, and not for the first time that morning, what the hell was taking the tech guys so long to come up with believable CGI actors. Or, conversely, what was taking the genetics guys so long to breed the ego out of the ones they had. Years of practice kept either thought from showing. “It matters because Raymond Dark called her Catherine the last time he spoke to her. And it matters because that’s her name; if we start calling her by a different name, the audience will get confused. Let’s do it one more time and then we’ll rig for close-ups.”

“What was wrong with the last take?” Mason demanded, fiddling with his left fang. “I liked the last take.”

“Sorge didn’t like the shadows.”

“They changed?”

“Apparently. He said they made you look livide.”

Mason turned toward the director of photography, who was deep in conversation with the gaffer and ignoring him completely. His expression suggested he was less than impressed with being ignored. “Livid?”

“Not livid, livide,” Peter told him, tone and expression completely nonconfrontational. They had no time to deal with one of Mason’s detours into ego. “It’s French. Translates more or less as ghastly.”

“I’m playing a vampire, for Christ’s sake! I’m supposed to look ghastly.”

“You’re supposed to look undead and sexy. That’s not the same thing.” Flashing their star a reassuring smile, Peter returned to the director’s chair. “Come on, Mason, you know what the ladies like.”

The pause while he considered it could have been scripted. Right on cue: “Yes, I do. Don’t I?”

As the visibly soothed actor returned to his place on the park bench, Peter sent a prayer of thanks to whatever gods were listening, settled back behind his monitors, and yelled, “Tony!”

A young man standing just off the edge of the set, ear jack and harried expression marking him as one of the crew, jerked as the sound of his name cut through the ambient noise. He stepped around a five gallon jug of stage blood and hurried over, picking his way carefully through the hydra snarl of cables covering the floor.

“We’re not going to need Lee until after lunch.” Peter tore the wrapper from a granola bar with enough force that the bar itself jerked out of his hands, bounced off his thigh, and was heading for the floor when Tony caught it. “Thank you. Is he here yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Fucking great.” An emphatic first bite. “Have someone in the office call his cell and find out where the hell he is.”

“Do they tell him that you won’t need him until after lunch?”

“They remind him that according to the call sheets, his ass was supposed to be in makeup by 11:00 … Tina, was what’s-her-name wearing that color nail polish in scene sixteen? She looks like her fingertips have been dipped in blood.”

The script supervisor glanced up from lining her pages. “Yes.” Looking past Peter’s shoulder, she indicated that Tony should get going. “I think dipped in blood is what they were trying for.”

Shooting Tina a grateful smile—it wasn’t always easy to tell when Peter’s abrupt subject changes were, in fact, a dismissal—Tony headed for the office. A muffled shriek from the actress playing Catherine stopped him at the edge of the park.

It seemed that Mason was getting playful. Testing out his teeth.

As the gaffer’s crew adjusted two of the lights, shadows danced against the back wall of the set, looking in their own regard, if not ghastly, then strange. Forming shapes that refused to be defined, they moved in weirdly sinuous patterns, their edges overlapping in ways normal shadows did not.

But this is television, Tony reminded himself as he left the park, cut across Raymond Dark’s office, and hurried past the huge mahogany coffin on his way to the production office. There’s nothing normal about it.

The studio where CB Productions shot Darkest Night had been a box warehouse in its previous incarnation and much of it still looked the part. Chester Bane, creator and executive producer of Darkest Night, as well as half a dozen other even less successful straight to syndication series, had gone on record as saying that he refused to spend money the viewer wouldn’t see on the screen. His comments off the record had been more along the line of, “I’m not spending another cent until I start seeing some return on my fucking investment!” Since CB had only one actual volume and that volume had been known to send the sound mixer running for his board to slap the levels down, off the record essentially meant that no reporter was taking notes within a two-kilometer radius.

Leaving the sound stage, Tony pushed his way through racks of clothing—the wardrobe department’s solution to a ten-by-sixteen office and no storage space. Given the perpetual shortage of room, he was always fascinated to note that many of the costumes hanging along both sides of the hall were costumes that had never been used on the show. Granted, he covered enough second unit work that he wasn’t on the set all the time, but he somehow doubted he’d have forgotten the blue taffeta ball gown, extra large, with size twelve stiletto-heeled shoes dyed to match. Assorted World War II uniforms had been used for a flashback sequence two episodes ago, but he had no idea when or if they’d ever needed half a dozen private school uniforms. And he couldn’t help but wonder about the gorilla suit.

Maybe a few shows down the road they were going after a whole new demographic.

He’d been with the series as a production assistant since the beginning—thirteen of twenty-two episodes in the can and word was they were about to be picked up for a second season. There was no shortage of television work in the Vancouver area—half the shows that filled the US networks were shot there—and there’d certainly been more high profile production companies hiring, but Darkest Night had piqued his curiosity and once hired he found himself unable to leave. Even though, as he’d told Henry, some days it was like watching a train wreck.

“They don’t know shit about vampires,” he’d complained after his first day on the job.

Henry had smiled—his teeth too white within the cupid’s bow of his mouth—and said, “Good.”

Henry Fitzroy, writer of moderately successful romance novels, had taken Tony Foster, a nineteen-year-old street kid into his home, his bed, his heart. Had moved him from Toronto to Vancouver. Had bullied him into finishing high school, had provided stability and encouragement while he worked in a video store by day and attended courses at the Vancouver Film School by night.

And although Henry Fitzroy, bastard son of Henry VIII, once Duke of Richmond and Somerset, had, in the end, allowed Tony to leave and live the life his protection had made possible, he’d refused to cut all ties—insisting they remain friends. Tony hadn’t been sure that would work—the whole Prince of Man thing made Henry frighteningly possessive of those he considered his—but however unequal the relationship they’d had, it turned out that the friendship they’d built out of it was solid.

Henry Fitzroy, vampire, Nightwalker, four hundred and fifty odd years a member of the bloodsucking undead, wavered between being amused and appalled about Darkest Night.

“They seem to know less about detectives than they do about vampires.”

“Yeah, well, it’s straight to syndication …”

Tony’d learned early on that no one wanted to hear the opinion of a production assistant so, after a few aborted attempts, he surrendered to the inevitable clichés and set about making himself indispensable.

Which was the other reason he stayed with CB Productions. Chester Bane was notorious for hiring the minimum crew the unions would allow and, as a result, his PAs ended up doing a wide variety of less than typical jobs. This resulted in turn in a higher than usual turnover of PAs but Tony figured he’d learned more about the business in thirteen shows than he’d have learned in thirteen seasons elsewhere. Granted, some of it he’d have rather not learned, but after spending his teens on the streets—not to mention unmentionable experiences with demons, mummies, zombies, and ghosts—he had a higher tolerance for the unpleasant than skinny blondes out of West Vancouver by way of UBC who apparently thought themselves too good to empty vomit out of Raymond Dark’s file cabinet. He hoped she was very happy being the TAD at the honey wagon on Smallville location shoots.

The dressing rooms were just past makeup, which was just past the bathrooms. Tony figured he’d check them first in case Lee’d arrived while he was on the set. As he passed the women’s washroom, he reattached a corner of the frayed sign covering the top half of the door and made a mental note to remind the art department they needed a new one. The sign should have read, “DON’T FLUSH WHILE RED LIGHT IS ON—CAMERAS ARE ROLLING” but had been adapted to read, “DON’T FUCK WHILE RED LIGHT IS ON.” Fucking was not actually a problem, but air in the pipes made them bang while flushing and the sound mixer had threatened to strangle the next person who ruined her levels.

He stuck his head into makeup, covering all the bases.

“Lee?” Thumb stroking the graying line of his thin mustache, Everett blinked myopically at Tony from behind his glasses. “I haven’t seen him, but I’m almost positive I heard him out in the office. Don’t quote me on that, though.”

Someday, when he had the time, Tony was going to find out just when Everett had been misquoted and about what.

Lee’s dressing room was empty, shadows fleeing as Tony flicked on the lights. He frowned past his reflection in the mirror. Were the shadows pooling in the corners? Lingering past the time the overhead lights should have banished them? But when he turned … nothing. Lee’s wardrobe for the day had been laid out on the end of the couch, his Gameboy left on the chipped garage sale coffee table, two cushions tossed on the floor … but nothing looked out of place. Any strangeness could be explained by a bulb missing from the track lighting.

Chatter over his radio suggested the camera crew had gotten involved in the lighting debate and that the problem of shadows marring Raymond Dark’s youthful yet patrician features was unlikely to be resolved any time soon.

Four phones were ringing as he opened the door to the production office, the usual chaos cranked up a notch by their current lack of an office PA. He’d been sent out for coffee a week ago and no one had seen him since; his resignation had been written succinctly on a Starbucks napkin and stuffed through the mail slot late one night.

“… understand why it might be a problem, but we really need that street permit. Uh-huh.” Rachel Chou, the office manager, beckoned him toward her desk. “Tell you what; I’ll let you talk to our locations guy. No, we totally understand where you’re coming from here. Hang on.” She hit hold and held the receiver out toward Tony. “Just listen to her, that’s all she really wants and I don’t have the time. If she asks you if it has to be that street at that time, say yes. You’re very sorry but you can’t change anything. I doubt she’ll let you get a word in edgewise, but if she does, be charming.”

Tony stared at the receiver as though he were likely to get a virulent disease from it. “Why can’t she call Matt?”

“She tried. She can’t get through.”

They used the services of a freelance location finder—who no one could ever find.

“Amy …”

“Is busy.”

Across the office, Rachel’s assistant flipped him the finger and continued convincing someone to do something they clearly weren’t happy about.

He sighed and wrapped his fingers around the warm plastic—as far as he could tell, the office phones never got a chance to cool down. “Who is it?”

“Rajeet Singh at the permit office.” Rachel had a second receiver halfway to her ear. “Just let her talk,” she told him again, reached across to hit the hold button on his phone, and snapped, “CB Productions.”

Tony moved as far away as the cord allowed, and turned his back. “Ms. Singh? How can I help you?”

“It’s about that night shoot you’ve got lined up on Lakefield Drive …” Everything after that disappeared into the argument coming through the jack in his left ear and the ambient noise in the office. Resting one cheek on the edge of Rachel’s desk, Tony did as instructed and let her talk.

From where he was sitting, he could see the front doors, nearly blocked by a stack of cardboard boxes, the door leading to the bull pen—the cramped hole that the show’s three staff writers called their own, although not in CB’s hearing—and CB’s office.

If he turned a little, he could see Mason’s office and through the open door, Mason’s personal assistant, Jennifer. Snide remarks about just what exactly her job entailed had ended the day she’d pushed past a terrified security guard and strong-armed a pair of Mason’s more rabid fans off the set and back into their 1983 Dodge Dart. She rode with the Dykes on Bikes during Pride Parade and someday Tony promised himself he’d find the guts to ask her about her tattoos.

Next to Mason, the art department—one room, one person, and a sideline in erotic greeting cards everyone pretended they didn’t know about. Then finance, the kitchen, and the door leading to post production. Somewhere amid the half dozen cubbyholes crammed with equipment, Zev Sero, CB’s music director, had an office but Tony hadn’t yet been able to find it.

Behind him and to the right, the costuming department. Directly behind him, the stairs leading to the basement and special effects. Given CB’s way of making a nickel scream, Tony had been amazed to discover that the FX was done in house. He was more amazed when he found out Arra Pelindrake was a middle-aged woman who’d been with CB—through bad television and worse—for the last seven years. Safer not to think of the possible reasons why.

“… so does it have to be that street at that time?”

He glanced over at Rachel who appeared to be attacking a pile of order forms with a black magic marker. “Uh, yes.”

“Fine. But I’m doing you guys a significant favor here and I want it remembered on election day.”

“Election day …?”

“Municipal elections. City council. Don’t forget to vote. I’ll send your permit over this afternoon.”

“Thank you.” But he was thanking a dial tone. He handed Rachel the receiver in time for her to answer another line and turned to see Amy’s shadow come out of Mason’s office.

Or not.

His own shadow elongated and contracted again as he walked across the office and by the time he reached Amy’s side, he’d almost convinced himself that he’d merely seen Amy’s do the same thing. Almost. Except Amy had been standing, essentially motionless, beside her desk.

“You okay?” she asked, sitting down and reaching for her mouse.

“Yeah. Fine.” Her shadow reached for the mouse’s shadow. Nothing overtly strange about that. “Just having an FX moment.”

“Whatever. What do you want?”

“Lee’s not here yet and he was supposed to be in makeup at eleven.”

“Do I look like his baby-sitter?”

“Peter wants you to call him.”

“Yeah? When? In my copious amounts of …” She snatched up the ringing phone. “CB Productions, please hold … spare time?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine.” She reached for the rolodex. So did her shadow. “What are you looking at? I got a boob hanging out or something?”

“Why would I be looking at that?”

“Good point.” Glancing past his shoulder, she grinned. “Hey, Zev. Tony’s not looking at my boobs.”

“Uh … good?”

Tony turned in time to catch the flush of red on Zev’s cheeks above the short black beard and smiled in sympathy. On her good days, Amy went about two postal codes beyond blunt.

The music director returned his smile, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans as though he suddenly didn’t know what to do with them. “You’re off set? I mean, I know you’re off set,” he continued before Tony could answer. “You’re here. I just … Why?”

“Peter sent me out to have someone call Lee. He’s not here yet.”

“He is. I, uh, saw him from Barb’s office.”

Barb Dixon was the entire finance department.

“What were you doing in there with Madame Number-cruncher?” Amy asked.

Zev shrugged. “She gets swamped at the end of the month. Sometimes I help her out; I’m good with numbers.”

“Yeah?” Tony’d been leaning out around the boxes, watching for Lee to come in the door, but that got his attention. “I totally suck at math and I’m trying to come up with a budget. I’ve got to buy a car—the commute’s fucking killing me. Maybe you can help me out sometime.”

“Sure.” Zev’s cheeks darkened again and yanking a hand from his pocket, he ran it back through his hair.

“You … uh …”

“I know.” He replaced his yarmulke and headed for the door to post production. “You know where I am, just give me a call.”

At least that’s what Tony thought he’d said. The words had run together into one long, embarrassed sound. Fortunately, months on the ear jack had made him pretty skilled at working out the inaudible. “Hey, Zev?”

The music director paused, one foot over the threshold.

“That piece behind Mason at the window last ep? With all the strings? It really rocked.”

“Thank you.” His shadow slipped through the closing door at the last minute.

I’m losing my mind.

“He likes you.”

“What?” Caught up in concerns about his own sanity, it took Tony a moment to figure out what Amy was talking about. “Who? Zev?”

“Duh. He’s a nice guy. Oh, but wait, why would you notice a nice guy who likes you when there’s …” She paused and smirked.

“What?” Tony demanded as the pause lengthened.

Behind him, the front door opened and a familiar velvet voice said, “Man, you would not believe the traffic out there! I almost had to take the bike up on the fucking sidewalk at one point.”

Answering Amy’s sarcastic kissy face with a single finger, Tony turned.

Lee Nicholas, aka James Taylor Grant, Raymond Dark’s junior partner and the vampire detective’s eyes and ears in the light, was six foot one with short dark hair, green eyes, chiseled cheekbones and the kind of body that owed as much to lucky genetics as his personal trainer. Although the show kept him in preppy casual, he was currently wearing a black leather jacket, faded jeans, black leather chaps, motorcycle boots … When he unzipped the jacket to expose a tight black T-shirt, Tony felt his mouth go dry.

“Hey, Lee, how many cows were killed for that outfit?”

“Not a one.” He grinned down at Amy, showing perfect teeth and a dimple one of the more poetic online fan sites had described as wicked. “They all lived long, fulfilled bovine lives and died happily of old age. How many migrant workers did you exploit for all that cotton?”

“I picked every blossom with my own lily white … CB Productions, can I help you? Left you on hold?” Mouthing Oops, she waved both Tony and Lee away from her desk.

“So, you’re off the set.” He handed Tony his helmet in full knowledge that it would be taken and carried for him. “Has Peter finished up early?”

“No. Uh, late. That is, he’s going to be finishing late and he wanted me to tell you that you wouldn’t be needed on the set until after, you know, lunch.” Tony smiled weakly, fully realizing how he sounded. He’d been taking care of himself, one way or another, since he was fourteen. He’d seen things that redefined the word terrifying. He’d fought against the darkness—not metaphorically, literally fought against the darkness. Well, helped … He was twenty-four years old for Christ’s sake! And yet he couldn’t talk to Lee Nicholas without coming across like a babbling idiot. Idiot being a particularly apt description since the actor was straight with a well-documented weakness for the kind of blondes he couldn’t take home to Mother.

Lee’s mother was a very nice woman. She’d been to the studio a couple of times.

Tony suddenly realized that Lee was waiting for him to reply to something he’d totally missed hearing. “What?”

“I said, thank you for carrying my helmet. I’ll see you on set.”

“Right. Yeah. Uh, you’re welcome.” And the dressing room door closed, the scuffed paint less than a centimeter from his nose.

Tony had no memory of leaving the production office.

He walked back to the sound stage; his shadow lingered outside Lee’s door.

* * *

“Hey, Tony, you up for some second unit work tonight?”

Marshmallow strawberry halfway to his mouth, Tony turned to see Amy approaching the craft services table waving a set of sides—the night’s schedule reduced to pocket size. “Out on Lakefield?”

“That’s the one. Arra’s going to blow the beemer. You’ll pick up a little overtime and get to watch a symbol of bourgeois excess take a hit. Hard to beat.”

“Bourgeois excess?” He snorted and chewed. “Who talks like that?”

“Obviously, me. And if you’re going to give me a hard time, I’ll call in another PA to do it.”

Tony waited. Picked a marshmallow banana out of the bowl.

“Okay, Pam asked for you and CB wouldn’t let me call in even if she hadn’t. Happy?” She shoved the cut sheets up against his chest. “Trucks are there at eleven, shoot by midnight, gone by one and if you believe that, I’ve got some waterfront land going cheap.”

* * *

“He led his city through the darkest night toward the dawn.”

Heart slamming against his ribs, Tony jumped forward and spun around, managing to accomplish both movements more or less simultaneously and still stay on his feet. He scowled at the shadowy figure just barely visible at the edge of the streetlight’s circle, knowing that every nuance of his expression could be clearly seen. “Fuck, Henry! You just don’t sneak up on a guy and purr bad cutlines into his ear!”

“Sorry.” Henry stepped into the light, red-gold hair gleaming, full lips curved up into a smile.

Tony knew that smile. It was the one that went along with It’s fun to be a vampire! Which was not only a much better cutline than the one plastered all over the Darkest Night promo package, it was indicative of an almost playful mood—playful as it referred to an undead creature of the night. “Where did you park?”

“Don’t worry; I’m well out of the way.”

“Cops give you any hassle?”

The smile changed slightly and Henry shoved his hands into the pockets of his oiled-canvas trenchcoat. “Do they ever?”

Tony glanced down the road to where a pair of constables from the Burnaby RCMP detachment stood beside their cruiser. “You didn’t, you know, vamp them?”

“Do I ever?”

“Sometimes.”

“Not this time.”

“Good. Because they’re already a little jumpy.” He nodded toward the trucks and, when Henry fell into step beside him, wet dry lips and added, “Everyone’s a little jumpy.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Night shoot, moderately dangerous stunt, an explosion … pick one.”

“You don’t believe it’s any of those reasons.”

Tony glanced over at Henry. “You asking?”

“Not really, no.”

Before he could continue, Tony waved a cautioning hand and continued the movement down to pull his walkie-talkie from the holster on his belt. “Yeah, Pam?” One finger pushed his ear jack in a little deeper. “Okay, I’m on it. I’ve got to go see when Daniel’s due out of makeup,” he told Henry as he reholstered. “You okay here?”

Henry looked pointedly around. “I think I’ll be safe enough.”

“Just …”

“Stay out of the way. I know.” Henry’s smile changed yet again as he watched Tony hurry off toward the most distant of the studio’s three trailers. In spite of the eyebrow piercing, he looked, for lack of a better word, competent. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. It was what Henry came to night shoots to see—Tony living the life he’d chosen and living it well. It made letting him go a little easier.

Not that he had actually let go.

Letting go was not something Henry did well. Or, if truth be told, at all.

But within this small piece of the night, they could both pretend that he was nothing more than the friend he appeared to be.

Pretend.

He made his living writing the kind of books that allowed women—and the occasional man—to pretend for 400-odd pages that they lived a life of romance and adventure, but this, these images captured and manipulated and then spoon-fed to the masses as art, this was pretense without imagination. He’d never had to actually blow up a BMW in order for his readers to imagine a car accident.

Television caused imagination to atrophy.

His upper lip pulled back off his teeth as he watched the director laying out the angles of the explosion for the camera operator.

Television substituted for culture.

The feel of watching eyes turned him to face a middle-aged woman standing beside the craft services table, a coffee clutched between both hands, her gaze locked on his face, her expression asking, What are you?

Henry pulled his masks back into place and only then, only when he presented a face that spoke of no danger at all, did he turn away. The woman had been curious, not afraid, and would easily convince herself that she’d been asking who are you? not what. No harm had been done, but he’d have to be more careful. Tony was right. Everyone was a little jumpy tonight.

His nostrils flared as he tested the air. He could smell nothing except …

“Hey, Henry!”

… a chemical fire retardant.

“This is Daniel. He’s our stunt coordinator and he’ll be crashing the car tonight.”

Henry took the callused hand offered and found himself studying a man not significantly taller than his own five six. Given that Tony was five ten, the stunt coordinator could be no more than five eight. Not exactly what Henry had expected.

“Daniel also does all the stunt work for Mason and for Lee,” Tony continued. “They almost never get blown up together.”

“I’m pretty much the entire department,” Daniel admitted, grinning as he brushed a bit of tangled wig back off his face. “We can’t afford to blow them up together. Tony says you’re a writer. Television?”

“Novels.”

“No shit? My wife used to write porn, but with all the free stuff out on the web these days there’s no money in it so she switched back to writing ad copy. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’ve got to go make sure I’ll survive tonight’s pyrotechnics.” He sketched a salute and trotted across the road to a parked BMW.

“Seems like a nice guy,” Henry said quietly.

“He is.”

“There’s free porn on the web?”

Tony snorted, his elbow impacting lightly with Henry’s side. “Stop it.”

“So what’s going to happen?”

“Daniel, playing the part of a car thief …”

Eyes narrowed, Henry stared across the road. “Whose head is being devoured by a distant relative of Cthulhu.”

“Apparently that’s what happens when you soak dreadlocks in fire retardant.”

“And the size?”

“The wig’s glued to a helmet.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“Yeah, that’s what our hairdresser said.” Tony’s shrug suggested the hairdresser had been significantly more vocal. “Anyway, he’s going to drive the beemer along this stretch of road until he swerves to miss an apparition of evil …”

“A what?”

“I don’t think the writers have decided what it actually is yet, but don’t worry, the guys in post always come through.”

“I’m actually more concerned that this vampire detective of yours drives a BMW.”

“Well, he won’t after tonight, so that’s okay. So Daniel swerves to miss this apparition and the car flips, rolls, and bang!”

“Cars don’t blow up that easily.” Henry’s pale hand sketched a protest on the night as Daniel slid behind the wheel.

“Explosions make better television.”

“It makes no logical sense.”

“Now, you’re getting it.” Tony’s face went blank for a moment, then he bent and picked up the fire extinguisher he’d set at his feet. “Looks like we’re ready to go.”

“And you’re …”

“Not actually doing anything while we’re shooting since we’ve got Mounties blocking the road, so I’m part of the safety crew. And as long as you’re not planning on telling the union …”

“I’m not talking to your union as much as I used to.”

He could feel Tony staring at him but he kept his gaze on the car.

“You’re in a weird mood tonight. Is it …?”

Henry shook his head, cutting off the question. He didn’t know what it was.

He wasn’t entirely certain it was anything at all.

Jumpy.

Everyone was jumpy.

The car backed up.

A young woman called scene and take, then smacked the top down on a piece of blackboard in front of the closer of the two cameras. About fifteen people, including Tony, yelled, “Rolling,” for no reason Henry could immediately determine, since the director’s voice had carried clearly over the entire location.

The car began to speed up.

When they finished with it in editing, it would look as though it was racing down Lakefield Drive. Considering that Daniel was driving toward a certain crash, it was moving fast enough.

A squeal of brakes just before the outside tires swerved onto the ramp.

Grip tightening on the fire extinguisher, Tony braced for an impact even though he knew there was nothing there.

Nothing there.

Except …

Darkness lingered on the other side of the ramp.

An asinine observation given that it was the middle of the night and the darkness had nowhere else to go. Except … it seemed darker. Like the night had thickened just in that spot.

I must’ve inhaled more accelerant than I thought.

Up.

The darkness seemed to be half in the car, although logically, if the darkness existed at all, the car should have been halfway through it.

Over.

The impact of steel against asphalt as the car hit and rolled was always louder than expected. Tony jerked and winced as glass shattered and the BMW finally skidded to a stop on its roof.

Flame.

“Keep rolling!” That was Pam’s voice. “Arra, what the hell’s going on?”

There shouldn’t be flames, not yet.

Daniel wasn’t out of the car.

Couldn’t get out of the car, Tony realized as he started to run.

He felt more than saw Henry speed by him and by the time he arrived by the driver’s side door, the crumpled metal was screaming a surrender as the door opened. Dropping down to one knee, he allowed Daniel to grab onto his shoulder and, backing up, dragged him from the car and out through the billowing smoke.

The rest of the safety crew arrived as the stunt co-coordinator gained his feet, free hand waving away any additional help. He stared at the car for a long moment, brow furrowed under the masking dreadlocks then he visibly shook it off. “Goddamned fucking door jammed! Everyone back off and let it blow.”

“Daniel …”

“Don’t worry about it, Tony. I’m fine.” Guiding the younger man away from the car, he raised his voice, “I said, let it blow!”

The explosion was, as all Arra’s explosions were, perfect. A lot of flash, not much smoke, the car outlined within the fire.

For a heartbeat, the shadows held their ground against the flames. A heartbeat later, they fled.

And a heartbeat beyond that, Tony glanced away from the wreck to find Henry beside him, smelling of accelerant. “He was muttering about something touching him. Something cold.”

“Daniel?”

The vampire nodded.

“Something touched him before you got there?”

Henry glanced down at his hands. “I didn’t touch him. He didn’t even know I was there.”

The light from the fire painted the night orange and gold as far back as the director’s monitors. It looked as though Daniel, helmet in his hands, sweat plastering his short hair to his head, was telling Pam what happened. Leaving Henry staring at the burning car, Tony headed for the craft services table—well within eavesdropping range.

“… hardly see the end of the ramp, then I could hardly see at all. I thought it might be some kind of weird fog except it came with me when I rolled.”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“I didn’t exactly see anything either,” Daniel pointed out acerbically. “That’s kind of my point.”

Tony waited for him to mention the touch. He didn’t. “It was probably just the fumes from the fire retardant affecting my eyes.”

“Probably.”

It sounded like a pact. An agreed-upon explanation.

Because what else could it have been?

As Daniel moved away, Arra came into view behind Pam’s shoulder. She looked terrified.

Not for Daniel.

Not about the part of the stunt that had nearly gone wrong.

Given her expression, Tony’d be willing to bet serious money that she’d forgotten both Daniel and the stunt.

Tony found himself quietly murmuring, “Apparition of evil,” as Pam finally yelled “Cut!” and Daniel’s crew moved in with the fire extinguishers.

TWO

“Tony?”

He glanced up from his sides to find a sprite-like figure with enormous blue eyes attempting to both stare at him and simultaneously watch everything going on inside the soundstage.

“Hi, I’m Veronica. I’m the new office PA. I just started. Amy sent me to tell you … Oh, my God, that’s Lee Nicholas, isn’t it? He’s my … I mean he’s just so …”

And the sprite devolved into yet another new hire too starstruck to last—although Tony had to agree with the sentiment. Lee was sitting on the edge of Raymond Dark’s desk, one foot on the floor, one foot swinging, khaki Dockers pulled tight across both thighs as he waited to do his reaction shots. Tony had been doing his best not to look. He’d discovered early on that he could watch Lee or he could do his job, but he couldn’t do both.

Taking a deep, strengthening breath, he turned his back on the set. “Amy sent you to tell me … ?”

“What?” Veronica’s already wide eyes widened further as though they could encompass both the vision that was Lee Nicholas and the more mundane view of the person she was actually supposed to be dealing with. Tony could have told her it wouldn’t work, but he doubted she’d listen. “Oh. Right. Mr. Bane wants to see you in his office …”

Peter’s voice cut her off. “Let’s go right away, please! Can I have a bell!”

As the bell rang out, Tony took hold of Veronica’s arm, his fingers nearly encircling her tiny bicep, and tugged her gently away from the set. “Mr. Bane wants to see me in his office …?” he murmured.

“About last …”

“Quiet, please!”

All color blanched from Veronica’s cheeks and Tony had to fight a snicker, as he and half a dozen others echoed the first half of Peter’s injunction, their voices bouncing around the soundstage. First day on the job, he’d been afraid to breathe after the bell and had stood frozen like a particularly geeky statue until one of the sound crew had come up behind him and knocked his knees out.

Maintaining his grip, he tugged her across the terrace, as the assistant director yelled, “Let’s settle, people!”

Two sets away from the action and still moving, he said, “Mr. Bane wants to see me about?”

“Last …”

“Rolling!”

“… night.”

Tony laid a finger against his mouth as the second assistant camera called the slate.

“Scene eight, take four.”

Veronica jumped at the crack.

“Mark!”

And she jumped again as Peter snapped, “Action!”

Even the muttering in Tony’s ear jack stopped. They were far enough from the actual set to allow quiet movement, so he continued pulling her across the concrete floor, past the back walls scribbled over with cryptic construction notes to the line of small dressing rooms for the auxiliary cast.

Most production companies with similar space limitations used a second location trailer parked close to an outside door. Chester Bane refused to pay for the power necessary to keep one running and had the construction crew throw up a row of cubbyholes against the back wall. Each unpainted “dressing room” was six by six, with a padded bench across the back, a full-length mirror, a row of hooks, and a shelf. The whole thing looked not unlike the “private rooms” in some of the sleazier bathhouses. The only thing missing: a dented condom dispenser.

Gesturing for Veronica to remain quiet, Tony scratched lightly on the door marked with Catherine scrawled across a strip of duct tape.

The door opened.

Darkness spilled out.

Tony leaped back and, heart pounding, found himself pinned under the questioning eyes of two confused women.

Catherine’s shadow stretched from her feet to his.

Dredging up a smile, he flashed a fifteen minute sign, nodded as she did, and watched as she closed her shadow back in with her. Wondering if he should say something. Do something.

About what?

Shadows?

I’ve got to start getting more sleep. He waved Veronica in front of him, pulled her back as she nearly stepped on the edge of a new hardwood floor—where the hardwood was paint and the actual floor was plywood. The art director, faking slightly salacious Delft tiles by the fireplace, turned and flashed him an emphatic thumbs-up.

Life had been a variation on that theme all morning.

By the time he’d hit the craft services truck at seven, the genny op had been embellishing the story of him pulling Daniel from the burning car for almost an hour. No one had made a huge fuss—well, no one except Everett although that was pretty much a given regardless—but most of the crew had taken a moment to say something.

“Jaysus, Tony, you couldn’t of let the bugger fry? I’m after owing him fifty bucks.”

Under other circumstances he wouldn’t have minded being the center of attention, but he hadn’t actually done much. Since he couldn’t explain that Henry had yanked the car door open, all he could do was hope that something else provided a new focus for people with long stretches of too much time on their hands—and provide it sooner rather than later.

Just as they reached the exit, the red light went off and as he waved Veronica through, the voices started up in his ear again.

“… redress, reload, redo … let’s go, people, we haven’t got all day.”

Unhooking his radio’s microphone from the neck of his T-shirt, he waited for a break in the tumbling current of voices. “Adam, it’s Tony. CB wants to see me, but I gave Catherine her heads-up on the way. Over.”

His head murmured soon at him.

Soon?

“Yeah, great.” The first assistant director turned his head from the microphone and carried on a low-voiced conversation as Tony followed Veronica along the hall, envying the way she could move through the costumes without actually touching them. She was what? Ninety pounds soaking wet? “Listen, Tony, while you’re passing, tell Everett that Lee’s got that cowlick thing happening again and we need him in here.”

“Roger, that.” He holstered and peeled off into makeup to deliver his message, emerging to find Veronica waiting for him practically quivering.

“Amy said Mr. Bane wanted to see you right away!”

Tony frowned and shook his head. What was her damage? He’d been moving toward the office since she’d given him the message. “You’re going to give yourself an ulcer if you don’t calm down.”

Wide eyes widened impossibly further. “It’s my first day!”

“And all I’m saying is that you need to pace yourself.”

As they emerged out into the pandemonium of the office, Amy stood, leaned out around Rachel, and beckoned them over to her desk without pausing her conversation. “… that’s right, two hundred gallons of #556. Well, it might be battleship gray on your side of the border but ours are more a morning-after green. Yeah, great. Thanks. New supplier in Seattle,” she said, hanging up. “Charlie knew someone who’d cut us a deal.”

“Who’s …?” Veronica began.

“One of the construction crew.” Her gaze switching to Tony, she added, “Hail the conquering hero! So, for an encore, do you think you could save Canadian television?”

“No.”

“Way to stop and consider it. Fine. Veronica, you’ve got dry cleaning to pick up. Here’s the slips.” Amy shoved a sheaf of pink paper into the new PA’s hand and closed her fingers around it. “And if Mr. Palimpter tries to make you pay, remind him that we’re on monthly billing and if he wants to know where his payment is for last the two months, tell him you’re just the messenger and he’s not to shoot you.”

“Is he likely to?”

“Probably not.”

“Doesn’t the dry cleaner deliver?” Tony asked, abandoning an attempt to read what looked like a legal document upside down.

Amy snorted. “Not for about two months now, funny thing. Oh, and while you’re out grab two grande Caffe Americanos, a tall cinnamon-spiced mochaccino, and three tall, bold of the day unless they’re Sulawesi, then get two of them and one decaf. Don’t panic, I wrote it down.” She snatched a ripped corner of paper clipped to a twenty up off her desk. “I had to print kind of small, but you should be able to read it.”

“Unless they’re Sulwhat’s?”

“Sulawesi. Go! And smile, you’re in show business! So …” As Veronica ran for the door, she sat back down and flipped a strand of fuchsia hair back off her face. “… Zev’s still in with Mr. Bane, which gives you time to tell me all about last night.”

Tony shrugged. “What’s to tell? I’m just not as used to this stuff as Daniel’s guys, so I panicked first.” Four years with Henry had taught him the most believable way to lie usually involved the truth. “You think it’s safe sending her for coffee? Isn’t that how you lost the last one?” Deflecting attention he’d always been good at.

“Trial by fire. If she can handle Starbucks at lunchtime, she can handle … CB Productions, can I help you? One moment please.” Jabbing at the hold button, she leaned across her desk and yelled, “Barb, line three!”

A faint, “Thanks, sweetie,” drifted out of the accounting office.

“Intercom busted again?”

“Still. Too bad it wasn’t Lee in the car. You could have given him mouth to mouth.”

“It was a car crash; he wasn’t drowning.”

Amy looked arch. “So?”

Before Tony could think of a suitable reply, the boss’ door opened and Zev emerged carrying a stack of CDs.

“Well?” Amy asked.

“He wants Wagner.”

“Under the stunt? Isn’t that a little … Wagnerian?”

Zev grinned. “Actually, yes.” Spotting Tony, he flushed and nodded toward the office. “CB says you can go right in.”

The static in Tony’s radio seemed to be making patterns that were almost words.

“Tony?”

He flicked at his ear jack and shot Zev half a reassuring smile as he started toward the open door. “It’s nothing.”

“If you’re sure …”

“Oh, yeah.” No. Maybe.

To give CB credit, he’d spent no more cash on his office than he had on anyone else’s. The vertical blinds had come with the building, the rug that covered the industrial tile floor was the same cheap knockoff they used in Raymond Dark’s study, and the furniture had been jazzed up by the set builders to look less like Wal-Mart and more like Ethan Allan. The tropical fish tank and the three surviving fish had been used as a prop in episode two.

Not that it mattered because at six six and close to three hundred pounds, Chester Bane dominated any room he was in.

As Tony stepped onto the rug, he lifted his head slowly.

Like a lion at feeding time …

If lions had significantly receding hairlines and noses that had been broken more than once while playing pro football.

“Tony Foster?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lying flat on the desk, the huge hands covered a good portion of the available space. “You’re the set PA?”

“Yes.” Tony found himself staring at the manicured fingernails and had to force himself to look away. They’d met three or four times since he’d started working for Darkest Night—Tony couldn’t decide if CB really had forgotten him or was just trying to screw with his head. If the latter, it was working.

“You did good work last night.”

“Thank you.”

“A man who thinks quickly and can get the job done can go far in this business. Are you planning on going far, Tony Foster?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Think quickly and get the job done.” The dark eyes narrowed slightly under scant brows. “And keep your tongue between your teeth; that’s the trick.”

A warning? Or was he being paranoid? If I haven’t said anything yet, I’m not likely to start talking now seemed like an impolitic response. Tony settled for another, “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” One finger began to tap a slow rhythm against the desk.

Was he being dismissed?

“So. Get back to work.”

Apparently.

“Yes, sir.” Resisting the urge to back from the room, Tony turned and left; walking as fast as he could without making it seem like he was running away.

He stepped back into the production office as Arra emerged from the kitchen, a pale green mug cupped between both hands. Their eyes met.

And the voice in his ear breathed a name he didn’t quite catch.

What the …? Flicking a finger against his ear jack, Tony bent to adjust the volume on his radio, wondering where the hell the barely audible voice was coming from. He had to be picking up bleed-through from someone else’s frequency.

When he looked up again, Arra was gone.

“TONY? WHERE THE HELL IS CATHERINE?”

With Adam’s unmistakable bellow echoing inside his skull, he cranked the volume back down. “I’m on my way back to the set, I’ll get her.”

Amy glanced up from the photocopier as he passed her desk. “What did the boss want?”

“Are you planning on going far, Tony Foster?”

“Honestly?” He shrugged. “I’m not really sure.”

* * *

Mason Reed, in full Raymond Dark, was standing just inside the soundstage door. He jumped as he saw Tony, turned the movement into an overly flamboyant gesture, and snapped, “The girl is not on the set.”

“Adam told me. I’m going to get her now.”

“I was looking for her.”

Tony had no intention of arguing with him although it was obvious he’d been having a quick smoke—the gesture hadn’t waved off all the evidence. Legally, he couldn’t smoke on the soundstage, but the whole crew knew he did it whenever he had a break but not enough time to return to his dressing room. Stars didn’t stand outside in the rain with the rest of the addicted.

Used to skirting Mason’s ego for the sake of the shooting schedule, they ignored him for the most part, accepted his lame excuses at face value, and bitched about it behind his back.

Mason, who seemed to think no one knew, maintained a carefully crafted public image of an athletic nonsmoker making sure he was photographed on all the right ski hills and bike trails.

Actors, Tony snorted silently, as he walked back toward the auxiliary dressing rooms. It’s all “fool the eye. Don’t look at the man behind the curtain.”

He rapped against the plywood door, knuckles impacting the strip of duct tape at about the middle of the sign reading Catherine.

No answer.

About to call out, he discovered he had no idea of what her actual name was. If he thought of her at all, she was just Catherine—her actual identity wiped out by the bit part she was playing. Unexpectedly bothered by this, he pulled the day’s side from his pocket and stepped back into the light—nearly stepping on Mason who’d apparently followed him. “Sorry.”

The actor’s lip curled. “Why don’t you just open the door?”

“Well, she could be …”

“Could be?” His tone was mocking and Tony realized with some dismay that the young actress was about to pay the price for Mason almost having been caught with a cancer stick on the soundstage. “I don’t care what she could be; she should be on the set right now and I have no intention of waiting any longer.” He curled his fingers around the cheap aluminum doorknob, twisted, twisted harder, and yanked.

With a rush of cool air, shadow spilled out onto the soundstage, pooling on the concrete, running into the cracks and dips in the floor.

A body followed.

She’d been pressed up against the door, her right arm tucked across the small of her back, her fingers clamped around the doorknob. They retained their hold as she fell backward. She dangled for a moment, then cheap nails pulled out of the chipboard and with a shriek of metal against wood, the door came off its hinges.

A small bounce as the back of her head impacted with concrete.

Enough of a bounce to rearrange her features into the nobody’s home expression of death.

Enough to wipe away the expression the body had worn on its way to the floor.

Terror.

She looked as though she’d been scared to death.

Mason scowled down at his errant guest star. “Catherine? Get up!”

“She’s dead.” Tony shoved the sides back in his pocket and unhooked his microphone.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous; she doesn’t die until tomorrow afternoon.”

“And her name was Nikki Waugh.” It was the name he’d almost heard out in the office. He’d realized it the moment he’d read it on the cast list.

“Was?” Mason sounded like he was about to fall apart, like his hindbrain knew what the more civilized bits refused to acknowledge, so Tony let it go. Reality would bite him in the ass soon enough.

At least Nikki’s shadow seemed to be staying where it belonged.

* * *

“You seem remarkably calm about this, Mr. Foster.”

RCMP Constable Elson said Mr. Foster the way Hugo Weaving said Mr. Anderson in The Matrix. Maybe it was subconscious, but Tony was willing to bet it was on purpose—a guy in a uniform with delusions of grandeur. He shrugged. “I spent a few years living on the streets in Toronto. I’ve seen dead bodies. Four or five poor fucks freeze every winter.” No point in mentioning the baby soul-sucked by a dead Egyptian wizard.

“Living on the streets? You got a record?”

He didn’t think they were legally allowed to ask him that, but they’d find out as soon as they ran him so what the hell. “Small stuff. You want to talk to someone in Toronto about it, call Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci at violent crimes. We go back.”

“Violent crimes isn’t small stuff, Mr. Foster.”

“I just said he knew me, Officer, not that he’d booked me.”

“You being smart with us?”

There were a hundred answers to that. Unfortunately, most of them were not smart, so Tony settled for a sincere but not too sincere, “No.”

The constable opened his mouth again, but his partner cut him off. “Let’s just go over this one last time, shall we? Ms. Waugh was late coming onto the set. You went to get her, followed by Mr. Reed. He pulled open the door. Ms. Waugh fell out, still holding the handle. The door pulled off and she hit the floor. You told Adam Paelous, the first assistant director, who told Peter Hudson, the director, who called 911. Correct?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“And you didn’t call because …”

“No one carries their phone on the soundstage.”

Constable Danvers flipped her occurrence book closed and tapped the cover with the end of her pen. “I think that’s everything, then.” As Tony started to stand, she raised a hand. “Wait; one more thing.”

He sighed and sat.

She leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on the edge of the ancient table the office staff had secured for their kitchen and said, “So, is Mason Reed always so full of himself? Because he’s nothing like Raymond Dark.”

Tony stared at her, hoping his reaction didn’t show on his face. He’d never actually thought of cops as people who watched bad syndicated television and were just as into the whole celebrity thing as everyone else. Which, he supposed, was fairly stupid of him—a uniform and a gun didn’t necessarily come with taste and cops, more than most, could use a few hours of escape into the tube.

Two guys in front of the camera, forty behind, and everyone wanted to know about the actors.

The short answer to Constable Danvers’ question was: Yes.

Longer version: Most of the time, he’s an egotistical pain in the ass.

The answer from someone who intended to go far in this business: “You know actors.” He shrugged. “They’re always acting.”

“So we can take his observation that he knew instantly Ms. Waugh was dead with a grain of salt?” Elson growled with an impatient look at his partner. It seemed that Constable Elson was not a Darkest Night fan.

Tony shrugged again. “Don’t know enough about him. I guess he could of known.” He’d certainly recovered from his initial shock fast enough.

“You knew.”

“I figured. Like I said, I seen … I’ve seen dead bodies before.” Twenty minutes with the cops and street rhythms were creeping back into his voice. Jesus, good thing Henry’s not here.

“At the risk of going all Professor Higgins on you, people judge you the moment they hear you speak. If you want to be taken seriously by the people in power, you use the words and inflections they use.” Henry had stopped pacing and turned to stare down at Tony sprawled on the couch. “Do you understand?”

“Sure. ’Cept I don’t know who this Higgins dude is.”

A third RCMP constable stuck his head into the kitchen. “Body’s bagged. Coroner’s moving out.” His gaze flicked down to Tony and back up to his fellow officers. “You done?”

“We’re done.” Elson stood, Danvers a second behind him. “If we need anything else, Mr. Foster, we’ll be in touch.”

“Sure.” He stayed where he was until they’d cleared the kitchen, then he went to the door to watch them cross the office. He’d missed the first part of their conversation, but the end of it rose clearly over the chaos.

“… and I got to talk to that Lee Nicholas guy you like.”

“Bastard. Did you check for the nipple ring?”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“ ’Cause I’ve got twenty bucks riding on it.”

And the door closed behind them.

Tony supposed it was mildly reassuring that certain members of the RCMP were as shallow as the world at large. Added benefit—should the need arise, he knew how to get on the good side of Constable Danvers. Provided that twenty bucks was pro nipple ring.

Amy mouthed Get your ass over here! at him and he obediently crossed to stand in front of her desk. There was half a grande Caffe Americano tucked between her monitor and the phone, so he assumed Veronica, although nowhere in sight, had made it back from the wilds of downtown Burnaby.

“That’s great, thank you.” She hung up, looked for a moment like she was going to take his hand, and settled instead for lacing silver-tipped fingers together. “You okay?”

Interesting question. “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked, honestly curious.

“Duh, I don’t know. Maybe because you found a corpse?”

Oh, yeah. He shrugged. “Compared to the corpses we usually get around here, it was pretty anticlimactic.”

“What do you mean, anticlimactic?”

“No chew marks, no demon slime, no attempting to shove twenty feet of intestines made of condoms stuffed with spaghetti sauce back into the body …”

“Eww.” Amy tossed a crumpled piece of paper at his head. “This was real, fuckwad!”

“Yeah. It was.” But, sadly, still anticlimactic.

A moment of silence.

Amy rubbed her forehead, smudging ink across pale skin. “I never even talked to her, you know? I feel like I should have.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

There was nothing Tony could say to that, although he sort of understood.

“Anyway …” More rubbing and the ink smudge moved down one side of her nose. “… Adam came in while you were with the cops and he wanted me to tell you that Peter’s going to shoot reaction shots this afternoon. Lee first. Mason’s all …” She sketched a remarkably sarcastic set of air quotes. “… ‘I’m too stressed to work,’ but he hates to think Lee’s getting attention he’s not getting so …” She shrugged. “Peter’s hoping Liz’ll have found a close enough match for Nikki by tomorrow that he can pick up today’s schedule.”

“We’re not ditching the ep?”

“Can’t afford to.” Tone and cadence added the show must go on as clearly as if she’d spoken the cliché out loud. “Besides, Catherine’s only in two more scenes and she dies horribly in one of them.”