When he looked up, he knew that Henry’d heard the subtext. Another night, he might have said something. Tonight, he was allowing the illusion of boundaries.

The lighting crew had merely moved the lamp out of the way without unhooking it from the board. Since this wasn’t going to end tonight, since another night they might not be so lucky, he studied the setup, noting where everything was plugged in.

Which reminded him . . .

“Henry, when the gate opens, you should go stand by the circuit board. It blew last night, remember?”

“Yes.”

An interesting tone to that single syllable. Tony sighed and turned, not quite meeting dark eyes. “What?”

“You seem very calm.” The long pause echoed with a shouted MINE. “All things considered.”

“Hey, have I ever done the hysteria thing? I mean baby-eating ancient Egyptian wizards and ghosts screaming for vengeance aside?”

After a heartbeat, Henry smiled. “No, you haven’t.”

“Well, then.” He folded his arms, trying to move as though muscles weren’t shrieking at him, carefully missing what bruises he could. “I was thinking—we have to wait until the gate opens and the shadow separates before the light works, right?”

“Yes.”

“So the Shadowlord’ll still be able to sense that his guys are continuing to die on his doorstep.”

Henry glanced up toward the ceiling. “Yes.”

“What do you think he’ll do?”

“I think,” Henry said slowly, “at some point, he’ll send something through that can’t be killed by light. Something physical.”

“You sound upsettingly happy about that.”

The mask slipped. “If it has flesh and blood, I can deal with it.”

Tony’s blood agreed.

Ten

Ten

SATURDAY morning found Tony standing in the fourth floor hall outside Arra’s apartment. She opened the door before he knocked. Standing there, one hand raised, he had a strong suspicion he looked like he’d just seen Siegfried and/or Roy get up close and magical with a white tiger. Arra’s expression confirmed it.

Shaking her head, she stepped back out of the way. “It’s a front apartment, Tony. I was removing Zazu from the dieffenbachia and saw you coming up the walk. Even Raymond Dark—hampered as he is by writers with but a single brain cell between them—could have figured that one out. Wipe your feet and hang your jacket to drip over the mat.”

He did as he was told, then followed her into the kitchen, nearly tripping over the orange and white cat.

“That’s Whitby. Ignore him, he’s eaten.”

“Does that mean don’t feed him or don’t worry, he won’t go for my throat?”

“Bit of both.” The wizard studied him for a long moment while he pretended he was paying attention to the cat. “You look like shit,” she said at last. Turning, she took a big blue mug from the cupboard and filled it from an opaque thermal carafe. “This should help.”