“Not likely. These have to be filed with the local police and they’re already not fond of me.”

“Us,” Tony reminded her as bits of graphite-covered rubber began to pile up on the paper. Déjà vu all over again . . . Although he couldn’t quite hold on to just what exactly was evoking the feeling. “So now what?”

CB turned his head just enough to catch Tony’s gaze and hold it. Before the shadows and the realization that Henry was holding a lien on his life, Tony would have been—had been—pretty near shitting himself in this kind of situation. Things change. Times change. He didn’t look away though; no point in being rude. Particularly to your six-foot-six employer who’s not only already pissed off but happens to still be holding a baseball bat.

“Now,” CB growled, “we close that gate. I will not have my studio destroyed or my people murdered because they got in the way of a dark wizard’s vendetta.”

“The gate can’t be closed from this side,” Arra pointed out wearily.

He pivoted his entire upper body to face her directly. “Then it must be closed from the other side.”

“Sorry.” Lifting the invoice, she blew the eraser rubble to the floor.

And Tony remembered.

As Chester Bane forgot.

“Ah, you brought me my bat.” Arra slipped the invoice into a hanging file. “Thank you.”

“Yes, I . . .” He stared at the bat. Blinked once and frowned. “There was something . . .”

“Arra!”

“Be quiet, Tony.”

No. He was not going to be quiet. There was no fucking way he was going to let her just blithely go around erasing chunks of people’s lives. Taking the easy way out. Refusing to deal. Except, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t make a sound. Couldn’t even snap his fingers. Couldn’t be anything but quiet.

“Tony.” CB frowned. “I was wondering how Mr. Foster was.”

Gagged. That’s how I am. Fucking cow. He glared at the wizard. Yeah, and I’d trade you in a heartbeat for three magic beans! Hell, I’d trade you for lima beans!

“He’s still a bit under the weather. I’m beginning to think there’s a bug going around. You’d better check into it before we get a visit from the Public Heath Nurse. You know how the media’s always looking for the next medical crisis.”

“That’s not . . .”

“Constable Elson has a bee up his butt about the studio already and he saw Tony was sick. If he speaks to the wrong person . . .” Her voice didn’t so much trail off as collapse under the weighted innuendo it carried.

CB’s forehead creased. “Constable Elson had best watch himself,” he growled. Shoving the bat onto the shelf, he headed up the stairs. “The constable isn’t the only one who can speak to people.”

“Have fun.”

His response was wordless but explicit.