“Yeah. We just sit under the gate and when it opens . . .” He mimed shooting toward the ceiling. “. . . whoosh.”

“Where would we get flamethrowers?”

Tony shrugged, shuffling his feet into a more comfortable position among the discarded coffee cups that littered the floor. “Same place we get them for the show; the weapons warehouse.”

“They aren’t . . .” Her voice trailed off and Arra scowled out at the road, her frown deepening slightly at each slap of the windshield wipers.

When she didn’t say anything more for about five kilometers, Tony figured that was it. The suggestion of flamethrowers had clearly brought up some bad memories. Beginning to doze off—even with all the lights on, it hadn’t been a particularly restful night—he jerked awake as she started talking again.

“I think he’d take it as a challenge. He’s never been stopped, so at this point he has to believe he never can be.”

“We’ve stopped some of his shadows.”

“Minor players. They are to his power as UPN is to network TV. He wouldn’t for a moment assume that because you’ve defeated them you could defeat him.” She snorted. “Evil wizards who style themselves the Shadowlord and go on to conquer vast amounts of territory seldom have a problem with self-esteem.”

“Do you think he’s conquered your whole world?”

“He’s headed for this one; does it matter?”

“I guess not.”

Another three kilometers passed. Tony wondered what was happening during the silences. Finally, she shrugged. “It’s only been seven years; I doubt it.”

“Then why is he coming here?”

He was looking at her when she turned toward him, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t been, the force of her expression would have dragged his head around. Pain and anger and other emotions less easily defined chased themselves across her face.

“You’re right,” he told her soothingly. “It doesn’t matter why he’s coming here, only that he is. Now, could you do me a favor and get your eyes back on the road!”

As the old analog clock on Arra’s workshop wall ticked around toward 11:00, Tony moved restlessly from shelf to shelf picking up and putting down the heads and hands and other accumulated body parts. “I thought your special effects were all, you know . . .” He waggled his fingers in the air.

“Piano playing?”

“Magic.”

“Some of them are. Most of them are a combination. A glamour works better than an illusion and a glamour has to be cast on something. Even computer-generated effects work better with some kind of reference point. Sometimes it’s manipulating pixels, sometimes it’s squibs and corn syrup, and sometimes it’s magic.”