By Mercedes Lackey
This can be your soul on drugs...After the occasions chronicled in Bedlam's Bard, world-saving bard and magician Eric Banyon strikes into his new big apple house hoping to cool down to the quiet lifestyles. No such good fortune: his development is a safe-house for a bunch of occultist Guardians preserving the town from supernatural evil. and there is a new evil for them to quard against....When unethical drug researchers detect that they could result in striking psychological powers utilizing psychotropic medicines, they start making plans to elevate a drug-enslaved military of mercenaries and develop very, very wealthy. yet this will get the eye of Aerune mac Audelaine, lord of the darkish Unseleighe Sidhe, who hopes to exploit the medicine to wreck via to the human international and feed at the affliction there. either plans will deliver terror to the area -- and either are threatened through the very life of Eric Banyon. along with his probably dependable partners -- a gorgeous elven half-breed and a gargoyle -- Eric heads for a three-way conflict of wizardry that may confirm Gotham's destiny -- and his personal.
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Extra info for Beyond World's End
He’d created LlewellCo to do that. He’d created Ria to run it, to deal with the daily grind that elves had so little taste for. And after years of plotting, he’d managed to buy the Fairegrove where the Nexus was—in order to destroy it, bulldoze the great trees that anchored the Nexus in the World. The warriors and mages of the Sidhe Court were powerless against him, lost ages before to Dreaming and despair. It should have been easy. But at the eleventh hour, the Sidhe had found an unlikely champion.
He had reached out to her, stripping away all her carefully constructed shields and defenses with no more than a thought, making her nothing more than a tool of his madness, a wellspring of Power for him to draw upon in the fight. Imprisoned by his magic, she had been forced to watch as day became night, as the sunlit hillside became a shadowy glen filled with billowing black fog, as the Seleighe Sidhe had clashed with nightmare monsters of Perenor’s summoning. They had died to music, to the clashing of blades and the wild howl of guitars, to the hammering of drums and of sword-blows.
From her Manolo Blahnik pumps to her fashionably disheveled ash-blond hair, Ria Llewellyn looked as if she belonged here. Once she had. The world of mega-corporate high finance had been her element, and she had moved through it as naturally as a shark moved through water. Until the Accident. Oh, Christ, Ria. Tell the truth, if only to yourself. Before Beth Kentraine hit you over the head with a Fender guitar and the backlash from your loving father’s magic scrubbed your brain like a copper pot.