“Master, this boy is nothing. A production assistant. He does what he is told.”

A silver eyebrow lifted. “My point exactly.”

“He is beneath your notice.”

Yeah, Mason always hated it when someone else was getting all the attention. You want him? Tony thought above the rising tide of pain. He’s all yours.

“Would someone mind telling me what the hell is going on over here?”

Released, Tony could still feel the indentation of the Shadowlord’s fingers in his flesh. His knees threatened to buckle, but he gritted his teeth and managed to stay standing.

“And who,” Peter continued, sweeping an annoyed gaze over the evil wizard, “is this?”

“You know me. Interesting.”

Apparently, no one else knew him. Although Tony had no idea how they couldn’t feel the power writhing around the Shadowlord like smoke.

“He’s a friend of mine, Peter.” Gone was the whining sycophant, back was the star of Darkest Night, a man who knew his friends would be welcomed for no other reason than that they were his friends and he was essential to the continued employment of a great many people. “He’s just dropped by to watch me shoot.”

“Right. Fine.” Peter was clearly maintaining a fingernail grip on his temper. “Then he’ll have a lot more to watch if you’d go over to the office so we can start scene seven. Lighting’s set and we’ve been ready for you for a while now, Mason.”

“Which is why Tony came and got him.”

Peter shook his head, clearly a little confused about why Mason’s friend was speaking to him, defending a member of his staff; his shadow seemed to be on its knees. “Well,” he said at last. “Nice to see someone’s doing their job.”

The Shadowlord held out a hand. “Michael Swan.”

A cursory handshake. “Right. Mason, if you would . . .” As he turned, sweeping Mason before him, he added to the soundstage at large, “Let’s go, people; we’ve got another nine pages to get through today!”

“Your thoughts were filled with this . . . television. Shadows made of light. We have nothing similar. I find the whole concept fascinating.” His hand closed gently over Tony’s shoulder. Under his shirt, Tony’s skin tried to crawl away from the touch. “I do hope Arra cowers for a while—just think of what I could do with something like this.”

Evil television? Or was that redundant? He’d come to kill Arra himself because Tony’s shadow memories had made television fascinating?

That was . . . unexpected.