A flier was racing at her. She shot again. The thing rocked back, dropped dead. A shower of salt from the cartridge rained down with it, sending three of the spiders running into the wall with another ferocious blast.

“That’s two.” Kingdom leveled the shotgun again, aiming toward the other life-sizer that hulked unmoving in the doorway, seeming to watch her. Other things gathered at its feet and in the air behind it. An awful pause settled.

Alex felt his back touch the wall. Looking up, he realized he was directly beneath the painting. The target of all of this. He looked down at the toy robot, absurd in his hand, then gave up, stuffing it back in his coat.

His dad’s old coat, he thought. With the thought came a stray memory: his grandfather burning his hooded top. Across the room, there was another small fire burning, blackening the wall where the spiders had exploded. Fire flashed across his mind. He started for the kitchen.

The nearest spider came scurrying at him.

“Alex!” his grandfather shouted, chucking salt. The thing jumped safely back.

“Just hold them another second!” Alex shouted over his shoulder.

In the kitchen, the furious scratching at the door continued. A huge gloved fist came smashing through the wood, started searching blindly for the handle. Alex ignored it, tore open the cupboard, and grabbed the little blowtorch, checking that it worked.

Another gunshot sounded starkly from behind, followed by Kingdom’s apologetic voice: “And that was three.”

Sprinting back to the ballroom, he was aware of his grandfather’s confused, questioning look, and, beyond the old man, of a brightly colored torrent of things pouring in through the door, swarming around the prone body of another life-sizer: small things, flying things, things rolling and crawling. But he focused on the painting. He clicked frantically at the blowtorch. The little flame caught the second time, strong, sharp, blue.

“Stop!” he shouted, holding it up to the old wooden frame. The varnish started to blister. The parade of robots froze instantly. The banging from the kitchen halted. The silence was absolute.

“Anything moves, the painting’s getting torched.”

Alex’s grandfather frowned. “Why didn’t I think of something like that? I really am losing my touch. Evelyn, would you mind helping me take the picture down from the wall?”

As Alex moved slightly for them to get at the painting, he accidentally let the flame go out. Instantly, the machines started closing in. It took three attempts to click the blowtorch to life. The robots halted.

The old man held the framed picture awkwardly under one arm. Kingdom hauled the prone Metz into his wheelchair.

“So, we all ready?” Alex’s grandfather said. “Oh, actually, hang on.” He reached to the drinks trolley and slipped the cognac into his coat pocket. “Shame to let that go to waste. Okay. Let’s go.”