on the street again, the contrast was as great as if she’d stepped through a Portal into Underhill. It was one of those bright winter days that sometimes came in December, the kind that made you think that New York was a nice place to be after all.
But right now it wasn’t a nice place for somebody. ­Because somewhere out there right now, Robert Lintel was trying to turn ordinary humans into mages using a drug that had a one hundred percent net fatality rate.
And he and Eric were on a collision course.

Eric drew himself up and did his level best to channel Dharinel in a bad mood. The elven mage didn’t suffer fools gladly at the best of times, and that damn-your-eyes arrogance was the only thing that would save Eric now.
“It took you long enough to get here!” he snarled at the gnomish Unseleighe lackey in his best imitation of a pissed-off elven noble, leaking a little magic past his shields to reinforce the effect. “Take me to your Lord—at once, do you hear!”
And they said spending all that time at RenFaires would never be good for anything. . . . 
“Yes, High Lord. Urla hears and obeys. At once, High Lord!” The creature knelt, pulling the cap from its head and kneading it between enormous gnarled hands. Its wetness left brownish smears on Urla’s skin. Eric had a sick feeling that he knew what it had been soaked with. Blood.
Not one of the good guys. That’s for sure.
But for once Faire shtick wasn’t just a way of amusing travelers and filling his pockets. This time he was playing for his life. His bluff had worked so far—it was a safe bet that any of the Lesser creatures he encountered would owe fealty to some High Lord or another, and even the Unseleighe Lords followed certain rules—which was more than Eric could say for this Urla. He knew that Lady Day would find him eventually, no matter where he went in Underhill. But until she did, Eric was more or less trapped here, though rather less than more.
“Get up—get g