The man laid his palms flat against the wood and pushed himself into a sitting position.

Tony could hear hammering, swearing, wood dragging across concrete, and Sorge’s distinct mix of French and English as he spoke to the key grip—with two separate crews working, there were easily thirty people in the soundstage and not one of them had seen anything out of the ordinary. No new allies. No one who wouldn’t still demand to see proof of an insane-sounding story.

And all Tony’s brain seemed capable of coming up with in the way of reaction was, Your clothes, give them to me. Which didn’t work on a number of levels but mostly because the stranger was already dressed—black dress pants, black shoes, a gray silk shirt, and a black leather jacket. The shoes were a little off and the jacket not quite right, but all in all, it was a good casual business look.

Oh, for Christ’s sake; quit being so fucking gay!

In his own defense, it was easy to look at the clothes. Harder, almost impossible to look at the man. Hair, eyes, mouth . . . Tony assumed they were there, but he couldn’t seem to focus on them. Not that it really mattered. Lifting the pipe, he forced his right foot forward.

He’d barely completed the step when Mason Reed hurried across the set, both hands outstretched, his shadow trailing behind him like it would really rather be anywhere else.

Mason. Son of a bitch. The last shadow was in Mason. Tony’d forgotten the actor was in the studio that day. He’d been with Everett, not out on the soundstage; he hadn’t been on the list of possibles.

In full Raymond Dark makeup and costume, he stopped at the edge of the table and helped the other man to his feet.

“Shouldn’t you be kneeling?” Quietly curious.

“It is not done on this world, Mast . . .”

Something twisted. Mason whimpered and dropped to his knees.

“It is now.” Tanned fingers lifted a strand of the actor’s hair, turning it so the red-gold glimmered in the light. Tony could see Mason shudder and, as much as he’d never liked the other man, he wouldn’t have wished this on him. He managed another step forward as the strand of hair was released and a bored voice murmured, “Get up, fool, before someone sees you and leaps to the wrong conclusion.”

On conclusion, the stranger lifted his head.

His face came into focus. Eyes locked with Tony’s.

The pipe clattered against the floor as it fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. Tony recognized the feeling of being studied like an insect under a magnifying glass. This was what . . . who . . . had been peering through the gate. He felt shadows stirring, wrapping around his soul. Found a word. “Shadowlord.”