He supposed he could have stretched the story another ten thousand words to put it over 50K and make it officially a novel, but that would be padding. Gilding the lily, as it were. Novella was the perfect length for this story.

Now, to get it to a publisher.

Frankie needed a shave and—he sniffed an armpit—a bath too, but most of all he needed to get this story back to his world.

After maybe half a minute, the cab stopped with a lurch and the door parted. Frankie stood and stared. No, not hell. But maybe a passage to hell?

Or a passage to somewhere else?

A rough-hewn, squarish tunnel, maybe eight feet on a side, carved through dark stone, stretched ahead of him, curving off to the left. Smokeless flames flickered in sconces spaced along the walls.

Okay, first question: Who lit the sconces? And second, what were the flames feeding on?

What did it matter? In sharp contrast to the blah, semi-modern, characterless buildings on the surface, this tunnel looked ancient. And that gave Frankie hope. Because it might just lead somewhere else.

Was it unreasonable to hope it led back to Manhattan—his Manhattan? Most certainly. Did he have a better route to follow? No.

With the manuscript of the Great American Novella clutched to his chest, P. Frank Winslow started walking.

ERNST

“Winslow never came back,” Belgiovene said, slouching in the chair opposite Ernst’s desk. “It’s like he vanished from the face of the Earth. But don’t ask me to keep waiting for him. I spent the better part of a day and a half sitting in his crummy apartment with nothing to do. Damn near went crazy.”

P. Frank Winslow’s laptop lay on Ernst’s desk. He drummed his fingers on its closed cover. Belgiovene had stated it was the only computer in the apartment. That didn’t mean Winslow hadn’t backed up his writing to a storage service like Dropbox, but no matter. He hadn’t called Belgiovene to his office to inquire about Winslow. The hack had been demoted to a secondary concern. Ernst had a much more delicate assignment for the killer.

“Let’s put P. Frank Winslow aside for the time being. We have a more pressing concern.”

“Oh?” His ennui was palpable.

“The Council has designated our loremaster a Threatening Presence.”

Belgiovene jerked upright in his chair.

Now he shows some life, Ernst thought.

“What? Slootjes a TP? That’s crazy.”

“I was as surprised as you, but he’s been denigrating the Council and the Order itself, and at noon he plans to spread his vitriol to the entire membership.”

The big man frowned. “What’s vitriol?”

“A fancy word for ‘poison.’” Not entirely accurate, but better that than trying to explain sulfuric acid to this man.

“Today? Of all days he’s chosen today to dump on the Order?”

“I tried to talk him out of it but he’s determined.”

He’d reasoned with the loremaster for half an hour but Slootjes might as well have been stone deaf for all the effect Ernst’s arguments had. When he’d informed him of the Council’s Threatening Presence designation, Slootjes pulled a pistol and ordered Ernst from the archives, saying he’d defend himself against whoever tried to stop his message.