The dark, distant shape of a life-sizer stepped from the trees to meet it, raising its hands. The car rammed into the giant robot and was halted. There came a grinding, complaining sound as Harry gunned the engine uselessly, car and machine locked in a growling stalemate.

One part of Alex’s mind had gone past the tablet and opened the second door. He was getting faster. And there was Kenzie ahead, standing quietly, not even trying to speak now. Alex could sense the door to the light beyond the other boy. But it seemed much farther away than before. He thought briefly about his grandfather’s theory of powerful places, boosting the signal, bringing it closer. He’d just have to shove Kenzie back harder, for longer. He tensed his thoughts and pushed.

As they crept on through the garden, Alex watched the blue flame he held by the painting’s frame. He thought about the varnish bubbling. He thought about the way the machines hadn’t stopped when his grandfather had threatened to rip the canvas with his knife. Why? Can’t see the woods for the trees. Seen this close, the wooden frame looked very old. Can’t see the woods. Can’t see the wood. The wood.

“The Shadow Gate,” Alex suddenly gasped, striving to keep everything going in his mind at once. “I mean—what was it?”

“Eh?” His grandfather grunted grimly. “Well, I told you, some magical doodad. A portal the magician conjured up, an opening.”

“But was it an actual gate? I mean, did he build a . . . structure? What would it have been made of?”

“Well, I don’t know. But back then, I suppose they probably used iron, or wood, or . . . Is this really the time, do you think?”

Alex fell silent. In his thought journey, Kenzie was staggering backward as he shoved him again and again. But Kenzie was struggling, and the distance to the last door was much too far. He was never going to get there in time.

They were at the garage. It looked like it had once been a stable. More fliers perched on the roof. As Kingdom struggled to get Metz inside, Alex’s blowtorch died again, for good.

Things started coming at them, fast, from all directions.

“Get inside, Alex,” the old man said, then suddenly spun, hoisting the painting. Alex realized he was going to throw it, Frisbee-like.

“No, don’t!”

Too late. The old man sent it spinning over the heads of the nearest robots. The fliers lifted from the garage roof and darted after it, caught it in the air, and carried it away. Then the rest of the machines rushed at Alex and his grandfather.