of the music speak for him.
The light seemed to shift, some colors growing brighter, others vanishing entirely. The hard brightness of the afternoon sun became muted, fading almost into the unchanging silvery light of Underhill, while the latticework of the unfinished Nexus burned bright and clear, like a sculpture of purest purple-black neon. The constant background noise of New York—sirens, traffic, and the hum of a thousand conversations all taking place at once—faded to silence. Now Eric could see the magic plainly, yet he himself was as invisible to mortal eyes as magic normally was. Cloaked in his music, Eric could pass through the city unseen, even by his quarry. He turned, casting about.
The whole park was dotted with hoofprints that glowed with a deep scarlet light—the Unseleighe Lord, whoever he was, had been making himself right at home, him and his elvensteed. The creature’s glowing scarlet trail crisscrossed the grass from a dozen directions, giving the dry winter grass a spuriously festive look.
I can’t follow all of these! Eric shifted his bag higher on his shoulder. He had to pick one—but which?
At last he saw one set of hoofprints of a slightly different color than the rest—almost maroon, instead of the bright vermillion of the others. As he stepped into them, he caught a faint whiff of something . . . something almost raw and primitive next to the ancient malice of the Unseleighe Sidhe.
As good a way to make a choice as any, Eric decided, and began to follow the dark track.
The track quickly took him across town and out of the high-priced spread. He could see splashes of magic along the way—as if someone had been carrying it in a bucket that kept slopping over, staining the sidewalks and buildings. When he got further downtown, a fine red mist seemed to hang in the air like a fog of magic—too thin to really have any effect, but more evidence that its source—or even many sources—had passed through here, all leaking magic like a sieve.
What is this? A mage’s convention? And "