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

“Will that work while the shadow’s still in a host?”

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

“Kill the host?”

“Don’t even try to tell me you have a problem with that, Nightwalker.”

“And you have never killed to survive?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Killed for power?”

“Not the innocent.”

“And who declared them guilty?”

Another night, questions from another wizard. The similarity was . . . ultimately unimportant.

“I don’t kill the innocent.”

This wizard shrugged. “Suit yourself, Nightwalker. But it’s the only way.”

The other wizard had also called him Nightwalker; used it as this one did, as a definition. He turned into the production company’s parking lot. “Call me Henry.”

“It doesn’t matter what I call you,I know what you . . . Mouse.”

“What?”

She nodded toward the red Mustang as Henry pulled into the parking place beside it. “That’s Mouse Gilbert’s car. He’s one of the cameramen. He’s big. Strong. If he’s shadow-held, you might have a little trouble.”

Henry stopped the car, slammed it into neutral, and turned off the engine. “No. I won’t.”

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

And then back at the car again.

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

“It’s locked. Do you know the code?”

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

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

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

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