All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [46]
“Do me a favor,” Mr. Welmann said. He walked up to the Little Chicken Gate and set one hand on it. “Tell Robert whatever he thinks he’s doing, he’s in way over his head on this one. Tell him to leave Paxington and ride—just ride. He’ll know what I mean.”
Despite what Fiona had seen before, the gate was only wooden posts and loose chicken wire strung across their path.
Mr. Welmann opened it for them and gestured them through.
“Thank you,” Fiona told him.
“You’re welcome, kid. Take care, huh? And don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I don’t see either of you again.”
She nodded and stepped through.
The sun dimmed. The air felt heavier. Every color dulled.
But this was San Francisco. Fiona spotted the paved road and the National Cemetery. It would be a long walk home, but at least they could get home now.
She turned to thank Mr. Welmann again for everything.
But although there were footsteps in the grass, and even a little swish where the gate had opened—the Little Chicken Gate and Mr. Welmann were gone.
13. Ye Borderlands be not claimed by good or evil, or anything but whisper and void. Be the wend and winds through the Middle Realms. Shortcut, maze, and dangerous path. Filled with wonders beatific and demonic. Dream and nightmare. Even lost with ye proper guide. Be warned. Mythica Improbiba (translated version), Father Sildas Pious. ca. thirteenth century.
14. Little Chicken Gate is a rickety structure often mistaken for an abandoned garden or a long-forgotten graveyard. Appearing at random throughout mythohistorical accounts, the gate allows the dead one-way passage to the crossroads that lead them to their ultimate destinations. For living travelers, however, these rules of transit may be bent, and passage to the nether realms is permitted (although perhaps not desirable), and there is the possibility of two-way travel. Extreme caution is urged. The gate can disappear as quickly as it appears. A Primer on the Middle Realms, Paxington Institute Press, LLC.
12
HERO-IN-TRAINING
Robert Farmington sat on his Harley Davidson, a curve of blackened steel, dual twin matte black pipes, and the massive V of double cylinders between his legs. The ignition, though, was off, and the bike was in neutral as he rode in the freight elevator to the top of this six-story brick building in the Tenderloin District.
There was no way he was leaving his bike on the street in this neighborhood. Not that he could have found a parking spot if he wanted to.
The freight elevator ground to a stop.
This had been one giant hassle of a day—but nothing a ride down the coast, a few cervezas, some fishing, and a long nap in a hammock on the beach couldn’t fix.
The elevator door rolled up, and Robert pushed his bike into the loft where Mr. Mimes had told him to meet.
The top floor of this building had been one of those industrial sweatshop operations—now stripped, and in the process of being renovated into a tragically hip and overpriced condominium. Ugly brick walls had been meticulously restored. There were tangles of wiring and computer cables and sophisticated halogen lighting dangling from the rafters. Bluestone tiles made a jigsaw on the floor.
Robert pushed his bike ahead, but halted half in and half out of the elevator.
Aaron Sears was in the loft. He lifted a heavy punching bag onto a hook. He was four hundred pounds of muscle poured into jeans, desert combat boots, and a T-shirt that read BEEN THERE on one side and DONE THAT on the reverse.
Aaron was on the League Council, and had wanted Robert punished for his rule-breaking. Mr. Mimes told them he’d taken care of it . . . but if they found Robert here, unpunished, he was a goner.
Aaron was the Red Rider of the Apocalypse, Ares, the god of war, and half a dozen other aliases—all of them potential trouble and a nasty end for Robert.
He spared a glance at Robert. “I suggest you drag your bike in here, young man, before you lose it.”
The elevator door lowered. Robert pushed his bike inside.
The door clicked and locked behind him, and