Darkest Night - Smoke And Mirrors Part 1

SMOKE AND MIRRORS.

TANYA HUFF.

Chapter One.

ABOUT A THIRD of the way down the ma.s.sive wooden staircase the older of the two tuxedo-clad men paused, head up, nostrils flaring as though he were testing a scent on the air. "We're not . . . alone."

"Well, there's at least another twenty invited guests," his companion began lightly.

"Not what I meant." Red-gold hair gleamed as he turned first one way then the other. "There's something . . .

else."

"Something else?" the younger man repeated, suspiciously studying the portrait of the elderly gentleman in turn-of-the-century clothing hanging beside him. The portrait, contrary to expectations, continued to mind its own business.

"Something . . . evil."

"Don't you think you're overreacting just a . . ." The husky voice trailed off as he stared over the banister, down into the wide entrance hall. His fingers tightened on the polished wood of the railing as green eyes widened.

"Raymond, I think you'd better have a look at this."

Raymond Dark turned-slowly-and snarled, the extended points of his canine teeth clearly visible.

"And cut!" Down by the front door, Peter Hudson pushed his headphones back around his neck, peered around the bank of monitors, and up at the stars of Darkest Night. "Two things, gentlemen. First, Mason; what's with the pausing before the last word in every line?"

Mason Reed, aka Raymond Dark, vampire detective and currently syndicated television's s.e.xiest representative of the bloodsucking undead, glared down at the director. "I was attempting to make ba.n.a.l dialogue sound profound."

"Yeah? Nice try. Unfortunately, it sounded like you were doing a bad Shatner, which-while I'm in no way dissing the good Captain Kirk-is not quite the effect we want here. And Lee," he continued without giving Mason a chance to argue, "what's on your shoulder? Your right shoulder," he added as Lee Nicholas aka James Taylor Grant tried to look at both shoulders at once. "Actually, more the upper sleeve."

A streak of white, about half an inch wide, ran from just under the shoulder seam diagonally four inches down the sleeve of Lee's tux.

He frowned. "It looks like paint."

Mason touched it with a fingertip and then pointed at the incriminating white smudge down at the entrance hall and the director. "It is paint. He must've brushed up against the wall in the second-floor bathroom."

Two of the episode's pivotal scenes were to be shot in the huge bathroom and one of the painters had spent the morning giving ceiling and walls a quick coat of white semi-gloss.

"That's impossible," Lee protested. "I wasn't even in the second-floor bathroom and besides, this wasn't there when Brenda delinted us."

"Brenda delinted us fifteen minutes before Peter called action," Mason reminded him. "Lots of time for you to wander off and take a tinkle."

"Oh, no." Lee checked to make sure that the boom was gone, then dropped his voice below eavesdropping range.

"You wandered off to suck on a cancer stick, I didn't go anywhere."

"So you say, but this says different."

"I wasn't in that bathroom!"

"Look, Lee, just admit you screwed up and let's move on."

"I didn't screw up!"

"All right then, it was a subconscious-and I'd have to say somewhat pathetic-attempt to draw attention to yourself."

"Don't even . . ."

"Gentlemen!" Peter's voice dragged their attention back down to the foyer. "I don't care where the paint came from, but it's visible in that last bit where Lee turns and as I'd like him to keep turning-Tony, run Lee's tux jacket out to Brenda so she can get that paint off before it dries. Everett, if you could take the shine off Mason's forehead before we have to adjust the light levels, I'd appreciate it. And somebody, get me a coffee and two aspirin."

Tony froze halfway to the stairs. As the only production a.s.sistant on location-as the only production a.s.sistant who'd ever remained with CB Productions and Darkest Night for any length of time-he was generally the "somebody"

Peter'd just referred to.

"I'll get him the co . . . shkeeffee, Tony." The voice of Adam Paelous, the show's first a.s.sistant director sounded in Tony's ear, pushing through the omnipresent static. "You get the tux . . ."

One finger against his ear jack, Tony strained to hear over the interference. The walkie-talkies had been acting up since they'd arrived at the location shoot. It was impossible to get a clear signal and the batteries were draining at about five times the normal speed.

". . . out to wardrobe. The exci. . . shsquit of watching paint dry might kill us all."

Waving an acknowledgment to Adam across the entrance hall, Tony jogged up the stairs. It had definitely been a less than exciting morning-even given the hurry-up-and-wait nature of television production. And there's not a d.a.m.ned thing wrong with boring, Tony reminded himself. Especially when "not boring" involved gates to other worlds, evil wizards, and sentient shadows that weren't so much homicidal as . . . actually, homicidal pretty much covered it.

Everyone else at CB Productions-with the exception of CB himself-had no memory of the metaphysical experience that had very nearly turned the soundstage into ground zero for an other world/evil wizard/homicidal shadow invasion. Everyone else probably slept with the lights out. After almost two months, Tony was finally able to manage it four nights out of five.

Lee was out of the tux and frowning down at the paint by the time Tony reached him.

"I didn't go into the upstairs bathroom," he reiterated as he handed it over.

"I believe you." Fully aware that he was smiling stupidly up at an explicitly defined straight boy-or as explicit as the pictures the tabloids could get with an extended telephoto lens-Tony folded the jacket carefully so the paint wouldn't smear and headed back down the stairs thinking, in quick succession, It's still warm. And: You're pathetic.

He slid over against the banister to give Everett and his makeup case room to get up the stairs, wondering why Mason-who was a good twenty years younger and thirty kilos lighter-couldn't have come down to the entrance hall instead. Oh, wait, it's Mason. What the h.e.l.l am I thinking? Mason Reed was fully aware of every perk star billing ent.i.tled him to and had no intention of compromising on any of them.

"That man sweats more than any actor I've ever met," Everett muttered as Tony pa.s.sed. "But don't quote me on that."

Just what, exactly, Everett had once been misquoted on was a mystery. And likely to remain that way as even a liberal application of peach schnapps had failed to free up the story although Tony had learned more about b.u.t.t waxing than he'd ever wanted to know.

Jacket draped across his hands and held out like he was delivering an organ for transplant, Tony raced across the entrance hall, out the air-lock entry-its stained gla.s.s covered with black fabric to keep out the daylight-sped across the wide porch, and pounded down the half dozen broad stone steps to the flagstone path that led through the overgrown gardens and eventually to the narrow drive. Time is money was one of the three big truisms of the television industry. No one seemed to be able to agree on just what exactly number two was, but Tony suspected that number three involved the ease with which production a.s.sistants could be replaced.

The wardrobe makeup trailer had been parked just behind the craft services truck which had, in turn, been snugged up tight against the generator.

Brenda, who'd been sitting on the steps having a coffee, stood as Tony approached, dumping an indignant black cat off her lap. "What happened?"

"There's paint on Lee's jacket."

"Paint?" She hurried out to meet him, hands outstretched. "How did that happen?"

"Lee doesn't know." Given that Tony believed Lee, Mason's theory didn't bear repeating. Handing the jacket over, he followed her up into the trailer. The cat snorted at her or him or both of them and stalked away.

"Was he in the second-floor bathroom?"

"No." It was a common theory apparently.

"Weird." Her hand in the sleeve, she held the paint out for inspection. "It looks like someone stroked it on with a fingertip."

It did. The white was oval at the top and darker-fading down to a smudge of gray at the bottom of the four-inch streak.

"Probably just someone being an a.s.shole."

"Mason?" she wondered, picking up a spray bottle and bending over the sleeve.

Tony stared at her back in disbelief. There was no way Mason would do anything to make Lee the center of attention.

Not generally, and especially not now, not when at last count Lee's fan mail had risen to equal that of the older actor.

And Mason'd always been particularly sensitive to anything he perceived as a threat to his position as the star of Darkest Night. That wasn't an opinion Tony'd actually express out loud, however-not to Brenda. The wardrobe a.s.sistant was one of those rare people in the business who, in spite of exposure, continued to buy into the celebrity thing. For most, the "Oh, my G.o.d, it's . . ." faded after a couple of artistic hissy fits extended the workday past the fifteen-hour mark.

Also, she was a bit of a suck-up, and the last thing he wanted was her currying favor by telling Mason what he thought.

Well, maybe not the last thing he wanted-a repeat of the homicidal shadow experience currently topped his never again list, but having Mason Reed p.i.s.sed off at him was definitely in the top ten since Mason Reed sufficiently p.i.s.sed off meant Tony Foster unemployed.

Realizing she was still waiting for an answer, he said, "No, I don't think it was Mason."

"Of course not."

Hey, you brought it up. He picked up a sc.r.a.p of trim . . .

"Don't touch that." . . . and put it back down again. "Sorry."

"Are you taking the jacket back or is Lee coming out to get it? Or I could take it back and make sure it looks all right under the lights."

"You could, but since I'm here . . ."

"And as it happens, so am I."

They turned together, pulled around by an unmistakable rough velvet voice to see Lee coming into the trailer.

"There's another mark on the pants." He turned as he spoke. It looked as if someone had pressed a finger against the bottom of Lee's right cheek and stroked up. Tony thought very hard about cold showers, police holding cells, and Homer Simpson.

Lee continued around until he faced them again, toed off the black patent leather shoes, and unzipped his fly. "I swear it wasn't there earlier."

"The jacket would have covered most of it," Brenda reminded him in a breathy tone Tony found extremely annoying.

He held on to that annoyance-it was a handy shield against a potentially embarra.s.sing reaction to Lee stepping out of his pants and pa.s.sing them over.

Clad from the waist down in gray boxer briefs and black socks, Lee wandered over to the empty makeup chair and sat.

The chair squealed a protest. "I have no idea how it happened. I swear I wasn't anywhere near wet paint."

"Of course you weren't," Brenda purred. Lifting the jacket off the ironing board she handed it to Tony, her heated gaze never leaving Lee's face until she had to lay out the pants. She made up for the loss of eye contact by taking her time caressing the fabric smooth.

Rumor insisted that Brenda and Lee had recently shared a heated moment on the floor of the wardrobe department while Alison Larkin-the head of wardrobe-was off rummaging through charity sales for costumes her budget would cover. Given the intimate way Brenda spread her hand and pressed it down next to the paint to hold the fabric still, Tony had to admit it looked like gossip had gotten it right. Standing there, while she spritzed and then rubbed slow circles over the a.s.s of Lee's pants, he felt like a voyeur.

And he was definitely odd man out.

"Listen, Tony, as long as Lee's here, there's no need for you to stay." Apparently, Brenda thought so, too.

"Yeah, I should go."

"Yes, you should." Because the moment you're out the door and we're finally alone, I'm going to show that man what a real woman can give him.

He had to admire the amount of bad fifties subtext she could layer under three words.

"I'll tell Peter you'll be back when Brenda's finished with you," he said handing Lee the jacket. The expression on the actor's face was interesting-and a little desperate. Desperate for him to leave? Desperate about him leaving?

Desperately seeking Susan? What? Tony was getting nothing.

"Are you still here?" What part of we want to be alone don't you understand?

Well, nothing from Lee. Plenty from Brenda.

"Tony!" Adam's voice rose out of the background noise. "The minute that paint's . . ." A couple of words got lost in static. ". . . get Lee back here. We've got a s.h.i.t-load of stuff to cover today."

He dropped his mouth toward the microphone clipped to his collar. "Roger that, Adam."

"The point ishsput to make sure no one's getting rogered."

"Yeah, I got that." Most of it, anyway.

Adam had obviously heard the rumor, too, although his choice of euphemism was interesting. Rogered?

"How much longer?"

"Jacket's done, pants are . . ." Tony glanced over at Brenda and shrugged apologetically when she glared. ". . . pants are finished now. Lee's dressing . . ." The pants slid quickly up over long, muscular, tanned legs. Feet shoved into shoes and Lee was at the door, mouthing Sorry, gotta run. back toward the wardrobe a.s.sistant. "And we're moving."

"You're shoving?"

"Moving!"

"Glad to finally friggin' hear it. Out."

They were almost to the path before Lee spoke. "Yes, we did."