Tony shrugged. “Maybe it is my ass.” He held up a hand to stop Henry’s question and then waved them off in opposite directions, hoping the gesture was fast enough that neither of his companions could see how badly his hand was shaking. “Can we just . . . go!”

Walking over the gravel made so much noise that Tony half expected a couple of the bigger guys on the crew to be waiting for him at the back door. They weren’t. No one was. See, he’s cocky. No security.

He slipped through, took his backpack off and set it safely to one side, then began moving quietly down the London street set. It didn’t look much like London, but with lighting, fake fog, a filter or two . . . it probably still wouldn’t look much like London. Good thing Mason preferred a lot of tight close-ups.

And speaking of close-ups, the cameras seemed to have been moved to the dining room set. Thankful for the clutter, Tony slipped across the soundstage without being seen although, the closer he got to the set, the harder it was not to be noticed.

Shit. Shooting crew and construction crew. More people than they’d planned on. Henry was fast and strong, but he was still only one guy. The more people he had to take out, the more likely someone would be taken out permanently. Dead.

This is such a stupid idea. What the hell was I thinking? You do this, you do that, I’ll take out the Shadowlord. First my brain points out that Henry’s the one with the training, then it totally shuts down while my mouth flaps. Delusions of grandeur or . . .

Fuck. At least I’m not the only one. Crammed into the eight or so inches between the distant view of the garden and the dining room window, Tony peered onto the set. The dining room table was gone, the cheap Persian rug had been removed, Mason’s coffin was up against the opposite wall, and the throne from episode nine’s the-writers-are-on-cheap-drugs Charlemagne flashback had been brought out of storage and set up at the far end of the room, leaving the area actually under the gate empty.

On the throne, still wearing the same clothes he’d dropped through the gate in, was the Shadowlord. Problem was, he didn’t look like the conquering tyrant Arra made him out to be and he didn’t look evil. He looked like he belonged there. Posture, attitude, expression—everything about him said, This is my right. Serve me.

He reminded Tony a little of Henry. Of the Prince of Man bit.

Tony felt himself responding. He’d seen something on PBS once that said nine of out ten men were looking for a strong leader to follow. The moment Henry Fitzroy had vamped into his life, he’d known he was one of the nine.

It was a small step from leader to master.