Gretchen had also tried to talk him into first-class seats, but he’d insisted on what they called “coach.” He’d pictured a horse-drawn carriage in the sky. But there was nothing coachlike about it. In a coach he would have had room to stretch his legs and would not have been crammed into a seat meant for a child, stuffed into a row with two more adults, one of whom snored loud enough to wake the dead.

He had come close to leaving the plane by fading himself through the walls of the fuselage, but traveling at five hundred miles an hour at thirty-seven thousand feet was too much of an obstacle to overcome—even for someone with his abilities. At one point he tried to escape from his misery by entering a “restroom,” but quickly retreated to his seat when he realized it was the airline’s version of a practical joke.

The simple act of leaving the airport required a torturous ride in a leaky taxicab. The downpour slowed traffic to a crawl, but eventually he arrived at the corner of Second Avenue and Third Street in Manhattan.

He was sorely tempted to kiss the ground after the nightmarish ride, if not for the distinct possibility of coming into contact with some form of deadly fungus or parasite lying in wait on the filthy sidewalk. He waited patiently for the cab to turn the corner before continuing on his journey.

The city had changed enormously since his last visit. Buildings were too tall. Road maintenance was entirely inadequate for the amount of traffic. Yet once he got his bearings, the street grid became familiar. One block away, near the corner of Second Avenue and Second Street, was the unmarked and seldom-used entrance to a members-only tavern. Coralis stepped through the entrance into a small foyer. On the opposite wall, a heavily paneled door made of chestnut and inlaid with sets of ancient runes carved from blue-green amazonite provided a formidable barrier to anyone who might stumble upon the entrance. In every major city in the world, enclaves like this were managed by Wandbearers as a refuge. Places where they could sit among their own kind, share stories of their travels, and discuss recent discoveries in the science of Wandulurgy.

They were also safe havens for those who needed them.

Coralis reached for a chain he wore around his neck: an iron pyrite flower pendant that sparkled with energy. He had worn it for over three hundred years, since it was presented to him as a gift from a shaman in the Peruvian Andes.

Touching the pyrite to the runes in a diagonal cross sequence unlocked the door. He let himself in and reversed the pattern to reseal the door. He entered a long narrow room with tables lining one side and an ornately carved breakfront that served as a bar on the other.