“Foolish.” Only a sliver of gray showed between narrowed lids. The word was almost a hiss. “We could have . . .”

And then the Shadowlord’s attention shifted.

Shirt digging into armpits, Tony twisted in his grip.

At the far end of the set, a golden pattern shimmered in the air. As they watched, frozen in place, a new line of light curved around the outer edge.

Tony hit the floor, thrown aside hard enough to slide until he slammed up against the wall. Palms leaving damp prints against the painted plywood, he hand-walked to his feet. When he turned, Mason stood in front of him.

A quick glance showed CB struggling with three of the construction crew and Lee nowhere in sight.

Ducking a swing, Tony tripped on something in the fog. He managed a reasonably coherent, Not again! just before impact, then the mist folded over him. A hand closed around the back of his belt as his hand closed around a backpack.

What the . . . ?

Not a backpack, the photographer’s camera bag.

As Mason hauled him up, he ripped through the camera bag, finding what he needed by touch. Finally clearing the fog, he squirmed around and triggered the photographer’s flash.

The shadow had been in Mason Reed since Friday morning, absorbing all that Mason was. Mason had never met a flashbulb he didn’t love. Yesterday, the fan club had delayed him with pictures and it worked again now. Mason’s grip loosened, Tony fell free, got his feet under him, and, continually thumbing the flash, kneed the actor in the nuts.

He could almost hear his own giving a little cheer at getting some back.

As Mason dropped down out of sight, Tony ran for the other end of the set, ducking and weaving through the ongoing battle Henry and CB were fighting with the shadow-held. His feet thumped into bodies he couldn’t see. Didn’t want to see.

The pattern hadn’t grown in the last few moments because Arra, laptop open and balanced on one hand, was holding the Shadowlord in place with the other.

“You’re only delaying the inevitable, old woman,” he snarled as Tony ducked under a flying can of hair spray and slid between them.

“Let him go, Arra. I’ve got him.”

“You?” Simultaneous. From both wizards.

Eyes locked with the one, he snarled, “Fucking bite me! Let him go and finish!” at the other.

He was almost surprised when she did.

But not quite as surprised as the Shadowlord.

“And what can you do?” he mocked, stepping forward.

Tony slid his hands around the other man’s face, laced them behind his head, and locked their mouths together. His lips were cool, but Tony was used to that. He changed the angle, made it wetter, more . . . carnal. We could have the Shadowlord had said. We.

The protective spell didn’t kick in.

Hands locked on his waist hard enough to leave new bruises.