“They said, ‘This is no concern of ours. We are not under attack.’ ” Arra sighed and waved on the lights. She hated falling asleep on the couch. Sinking into the overstuffed cushions eventually folded her spine into serpentine shapes and the less than comfortable position always brought on dreams. Memories. “Those who conquer for the sake of conquering,” she continued, lifting the cat off of her chest and onto the coffee table, “will not let so small a thing as an ocean stand in their way. Do you think the Shadowlord is a concern of theirs now or does he search through the gate for an easier conquest?”

Zazu’s answer concerned an empty food dish. Whitby, always the less vocal of the two, knocked a stack of CDs off the table.

“You’re right.” She grabbed the back curve of the couch, and hauled herself into a sitting position. “This is no concern of yours.”

Standing, she watched both cats run for the kitchen and sighed. “Yet.”

Tony should never have brought them into this.

Henry had been to Tony’s newest apartment, the compromise apartment halfway between downtown Vancouver and Burnaby, only once officially—the week Tony had moved in. Twice if he counted the time he’d caught Tony’s scent at a club, followed it out to an alley, then later followed Tony home—wanting to ask just what the hell the younger man thought he was doing but unable to find a way that wouldn’t make it seem as though he’d been stalking him like some clichéd horror movie creature of the night. He’d sat in his car, in the rain, watching a shadow move behind curtained windows and reminding himself that Tony was not his responsibility. That he hadn’t been for some time. That it was possible to have a friend—to be a friend—and not control the relationship. He wasn’t certain which aspect he was trying to convince: vampire or prince. Or if, in this instance, there was any difference between the two.

It was raining again on this, his third, visit although he was there for a better reason. Tony should have called right after sunset to let him know what had happened at the studio when the gate had opened. What fallout, if any, had there been from their adventure last night. What reaction, if any, from the Shadowlord at the loss of his minion.

Tony hadn’t called. Not right after sunset. Not since.

Perhaps he was busy.

The television industry worked obscene hours. It didn’t seem to make any difference to the end product, most of which seemed created for hormonally challenged adolescents, but he knew that twelve–or thirteen-hour days were the standard. Tony could easily still be at work although it was unlikely that he’d consider a bad forty-three minute syndicated program more important than the possible end of life as he knew it.