The phrase special effects wizard had become cliché in the industry. Arra Pelindrake, who’d been blowing things up and animating corpses for the last seven years, had been the real thing. Given the effects the new guy was coming up with, it turned out she hadn’t been that great at the subtleties of twenty-first century F/X but she was a real wizard. The shadows and the evil that controlled them had followed her through a gate she’d created between their world and this. The battle had gone down to the wire but Tony had finally convinced her to stand and fight, and when it was all over she’d been able to go home—but not before dropping the “you could be a wizard, too” bombshell. He’d refused to go with so she’d left him her laptop, six gummed up games of spider solitaire that were supposed to give him insight into the future, and what he’d come to call Wiz-ardshit 101; point form and remarkably obscure instructions on becoming a wizard.

He wasn’t a wizard; he was a production assistant, working his way up in the industry until the time when it was his vision on the screen, his vision pulling in the viewers in the prime 19–29 male demographic. He’d had no intention of ever using the laptop.

And there’d been times over the last few months where he’d been able to stay away from it for weeks. Well, one time. For three weeks. Right after he’d had the jagged hunk of beer bottle removed from his arm.

Wizardry, like television, was all about manipulating energy.

And occasionally bread products.

Mason’s door jerked open and without thinking much beyond, Oh, crap, Tony opened the door he was standing by, dashed into the room, and closed the door quietly behind him. He had a feeling I wasn’t anywhere near your bagel would play better when he didn’t have butter, honey, and poppy seeds all over his hands.

The smell of wet paint told him where he was even before he turned.

The second floor bathroom.

There were no shadows in this bathroom. On the wrong side of the house for direct sunlight there was still enough daylight spilling in through the open window to make the fresh coat of white semigloss gleam. Although the plumbing had been updated in the fifties, the actual fixtures were original—which was why they were shooting the flashback in this room.

Weirdly, although thirty years older, it made Mason’s bathroom look dated and . . . haunted.

It was just the flickering shadows from the cedar tree and air in the pipes, he told himself.

Whatever gets you through your day, his self snorted.

Bite me.

The heavy door cut off all sound from the hall. He had no idea if Mason was still prowling around looking for him, hunting his missing bagel.