“Go to the light board, Mr. Khouri! Turn the largest dimmer all the way to the right, then try the main breaker again!”

The security guard’s disembodied voice drifted down out of the darkness. “Yes, sir, CB.”

By the time the dancing blobs of color had cleared from his vision, Lee Nicholas was sitting up in his own personal spot-light, rubbing his eyes.

“Oh, man, my head!” He peered beyond the flashlight beam. “CB? Is that you?”

“It is.”

“What are you doing here?” A tentative swing from left to right of a precariously balanced head. “Forget that, what am I doing here?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“I just . . . that is, I don’t . . .” Brows drew in. “I have no idea.”

As the younger man rose unsteadily to his feet, Chester Bane’s eyes narrowed. “You’re in costume.”

“I’m in what?” From the panicked look on his face, it was clear he was not expecting to see the conservative clothing of James Taylor Grant, vampire associate. Embarrassment quickly followed relief. “I’m shonny . . . shoory . . . sorry, CB.”

“Good.” It was a reaction that would have piqued the producer’s curiosity at any other time but not right now. “Change. Then come to my office; we’ll talk.”

“Yeah. Sure. Talk.”

He swept the flashlight beam around the set, then fell into step beside the actor—fully aware of how intimidating his size had to be. “It must have been some party.”

“I don’t remember a party.” Lee staggered, fell against CB’s large and unyielding surface, and hurriedly hauled himself erect.

“I expect tomorrow’s tabloids will tell us everything we need to know.”

“Oh, God.”

“Prayer is always an option.”

The dribble of liquid running down Lee Nicholas’ chin had held a line of moving sparkles. One by one, the tiny lights had dimmed and disappeared. CB had a strong suspicion the tabloids would have even less of a handle on the truth than usual.

Six

Six

TONY WAITED for the Translink bus to pull away and then, squinting a little in the early morning sunshine, stared diagonally across the intersection at the studio. It looked like it had on a hundred previous mornings—or at least like it had on the thirty of those hundred mornings when it hadn’t been raining. There were no mystical messages indicating that he’d fried the shadow, discouraged the Shadowlord, and stopped an invasion. There were no declarations of surrender. No proffered treaties. Not even a simple, “You win. I quit.”

He glanced down at his watch. 7:20. He had about four hours to wait before the gate was scheduled to reopen. Four hours before he found out if the gate was even going to reopen.

And if it did?

What then?

He took another look at the studio. Nothing about it gave any indication of what might or might not happen in only four short hours.