All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [150]
Fiona forgot her anger, suddenly curious but also wary. Her hand hesitated halfway toward him. “What are you going to do?”
“Give us a little space,” he replied. “It doesn’t always work—only when things are perfect . . . and only if I’m with the right person.”
He stared deep into her eyes and took her hand.
Mitch’s skin was soft and warm, but there was an underlying strength, as well. He pulled her gently along, three steps down the alley and around the corner—only it should’ve taken more than three steps to get there—and they turned onto the sidewalk.
There was the sensation of extra motion, like when you step on an escalator or moving sidewalk—then a sudden halt.
She stumbled. Mitch steadied her.
Fiona blinked. They weren’t near Presidio Park as they ought to be. They were still on a sidewalk, but the road now twisted and turned, switch-backing down a steep hill among picture-perfect gardens and houses.
This was Lombard Street . . .
. . . which was halfway across the city.
“How’d—?”
Mitch held up her hand, still twined within his. “Magic,” he whispered. “A gift a few in my family have . . . which seems to be working much better with you along. At heart, I guess, I’m nothing but a show-off.”42
Fiona grinned, not completely understanding, but nonetheless thrilled at what had just happened.
It was more than just moving miles in a single step. And it was more than holding hands with Mitch (although that was nice). It was that she’d left Paxington and all the stress and worries behind. Not just physically . . . but in her head, too.
Apparently, the universe had other plans: A counterbalance to her rare moments of happiness . . . because a few blocks away, she heard the rumble of an all-too-familiar Harley Davidson racing toward them (a motorcycle crafted by Uncle Henry to go faster than the speed of sound).
Mitch cocked his head, also hearing. “Robert hasn’t given up.”
“In more ways than one,” she muttered to herself.
Mitch tugged on her arm. “Want to try again?”
“Can we?” Fiona replied.
Mitch gestured ahead, and they strolled together down stairs, past pots of Christmas poinsettias and ferns. His forehead creased with concentration as they crossed into shadow—
—and turned. The sun was brighter and higher overhead. The sidewalk was now paved with pink bricks, and on her right was a wide canal filled with sailboats. There were bridges and hotels and restaurants everywhere.
“We’re in Texas,” Mitch explained, exhaling as if he had just lifted a great weight. “Would you care to find someplace to sit?”
She squeezed his hand. “Let’s go farther.”
Mitch considered her a moment, his grin widened, and he squeezed her hand back. “Very well. Let’s tempt fate.”
He gripped her hand harder, as if he was afraid she’d slip free. Maybe there was some chance that this was dangerous—that if he let go, Fiona might land someplace between steps. Or maybe he just wanted to hold her.
She gripped his hand just as tight.
She wasn’t afraid . . . although her blood pounded . . . and it wasn’t her all-too-familiar anger, either. This was excitement and elation, and maybe a dash of infatuation.
Fiona leaned in closer to him as they turned into the shadows, stepped—
—through darkness for a moment, so cold and empty, she found it hard to breathe. Like she’d frozen solid. But then they stepped out—
—and the light had dimmed and turned gray. Skyscrapers reached for the clouds; there were six lanes of patched asphalt filled with cars on her right. People were everywhere, none of them looking their way.
Mitch seemed perfectly at ease, knowing exactly where he was and where he wanted to go. He kept her hand in his and led her around the corner, where she spotted a piece of sidewalk art: large red three-dimensional letters, L and O balanced atop a V and E.
“Is this Manhattan?” she whispered.
He nodded and pulled her to a hot dog vendor on the corner.
“You take yours with mustard?” Mitch asked, fishing out his wallet.