Нора Робертс - Year One

“Eight people. One of them had wings. I can’t get used to seeing that. They skirted around D.C. a few days ago.”

Since the table was set—she tended to fuss with that sort of thing—he washed up in the sink.

“They heard gunfire, saw smoke. One of them was getting the hell out when he hooked up with them. He said, word is— God, what’s her name?” He paused, rubbed his temple. “MacBride’s still alive, and what’s left of the government’s trying to hold the city. Every time they get communications up, somebody takes it out again.”

“It seems like another world. Like a story about another world.”

“Yeah, it does. But it isn’t. There are rumors about people in camps and labs.”

“Magickal people?”

“Yeah, but not just. The estimate is…” He’d considered saying nothing to her, had nearly convinced himself to take that tack.

But he couldn’t.

“I’m telling you because it’s not right you don’t know, but it’s not confirmed, okay?”

She turned to him. “Okay?”

“They’re saying the plague’s finished, run its course. That’s the good news. The bad is they’re estimating it took about eighty percent of the population. That’s world population. That’s more than five billion people. It could be more.

“I need a drink.”

He went to the pantry, got a bottle of whiskey, poured two fingers.

“I heard the same a few days ago.” He downed half the whiskey. “There’s a guy with a ham radio in the settlement, and he’s been able to reach a few others—even a couple in Europe, and it’s no better there. Adding the ones who offed themselves, the ones killed for the fucking hell of it, you can up the percentage. New York … Do you want to hear this?”

“Yes. But more, I need to hear it.”

“New York’s under the control of the Dark Uncannys. There’s talk of human sacrifice, of stake-burning people like you—who aren’t like them. The military’s holding some areas, especially west of the Mississippi, but from what I get, the chain of command’s pretty fractured. There are offshoots, and they’re posting bounties on all Uncannys: dark, light, doesn’t matter.”

“The Purity Warriors.”

“They’re leading the charge. Raiders are keeping mobile, doing hit-and-runs. And they’re bounty hunting.”

Calmly, she ladled stew into one of his mother’s fancy dishes—she did like to fuss. “So it’s bad for everyone, but for someone like me? We’re hunted by all sides. It’s hard to believe what you said the other day about getting it right this time could happen.”

She carried the bowl to the table.

“I have to believe it.”

Now she ladled stew from the dish to the bowls.

She sat, waited for him to join her.

“When I was in New Hope, I saw what people could and would do together. I saw how others tried to destroy that. You were a soldier.”

“Yeah.”

“So was Max, at the end. He made the choice to fight, to lead because it needed to be done. You did the same, killing to protect someone you barely knew. You gave the people who were here food you worked to grow, and that was a choice. The people who try to destroy won’t win because there will always be people like Max, like you, like the people I left behind who make the choice.”

She held a brighter view than he did at the moment. He didn’t mind the balance.

“I read one of his books. Not the one you have,” he said, when she stared at him. “One of the others. It was good. He was a good writer.”

“He was.” She smiled over the ache in her heart. “He was good.”

* * *

Habitually after a long day, after the evening meal and the evening chores, Simon worked in the barn. He usually wound down before bed in his mother’s library for an hour or two with a book.

He missed TV, and wasn’t shamed to admit it, but books made up for it. He missed beer, and had high hopes the group trying to put together a little brewery would succeed. He settled most nights for tea, and had—almost—acquired a taste for it.

That didn’t make up for the lack of beer.

The dogs generally settled down with him, making it a nice, easy way to end the day. He’d let them out for a last round before heading up.

The book took his mind off the work, the world, the woman sleeping upstairs. The work would always be there, he couldn’t do a damn thing about the world. And he limited his thoughts regarding Lana to a very narrow window.

The last few nights he studied. Books were good for that as much as entertainment.

He’d done plenty of scavenging in the months since his parents died. Running a farm the way things turned out was a different prospect than growing up on one the way things had been.

He’d added considerably to the library.

Books gave him instructions on beekeeping, on butchering—though he’d happily turned that task over to the settlement—on making butter, cheese, holistic medicines and treatments.

Cooking—before Lana had come along.

So he did what he thought of as his homework with a mixture of fascination and horror—laced with a good dose of dread.

When he heard her coming, it surprised him enough to have him slap the book shut and rise. She never stirred out of her room once she’d gone in, shut the door.

But she stepped in now, her hair tumbled over her shoulders, the big, baggy T-shirt flowing over Baby Mountain and barely reaching the middle of her thighs.

She had damn nice legs, he thought, then immediately shut that part of his brain down.

“Sorry. Couldn’t sleep.”

“No problem. Do you need something?”

“I thought maybe a book…” She trailed off as she caught sight of the one he held. “ Home Birthing Guide ?”

She’d distracted him, he realized. Her legs had distracted him, and he’d left the cover facing out.

“They’ve got a lot of books at the settlement you can borrow. I stole this one because I couldn’t figure out how to explain borrowing it. I figured I should know what the hell to do when the time comes.”

“Good idea, because that’ll make one of us.” She pressed a hand to the aching small of her back. “I talked to Rachel some—the doctor in New Hope—and we were going to start birthing lessons in September. That was the plan. Anyway, I thought maybe a book, and I’d make some tea.”

“I’ll make it. No, you look a little ragged.”

“I’d be insulted except I feel the same. Should I read that?”

“Not if you want to sleep tonight.” He added a smile that made her laugh.

And press a hand to her side. “Whoa.”

“Must be hard to sleep with her kicking you from the inside.”

“I don’t know—I don’t think. Rachel said Braxton-Hicks contractions are like a preview of coming attractions.” Her voice hitched through the words as she braced on the back of the sofa.

“You’re hurting?”

“It’s just … It’s not that bad. Enough to keep me up.” She let out a breath, straightened.

“Maybe it’s … the thing.”

“‘The thing’? Labor? Oh, no, it’s just those fake contractions. I’d know. I mean, I’d have to know. I think some chamomile tea and a book. Maybe just the tea, actually.”

“Okay.” He tossed down the book, went to the kitchen with her. “I can bring it up.”

“Thanks, but being up feels pretty good. I’m just restless. Looks like the dogs are, too. Should I let them out?”

“Yeah, go ahead.” He put on the kettle as she opened the door.

Wind moaned in.

“It’s really blowing,” she murmured, standing for a moment and letting the cool air blast over her. “Might be a storm coming in.”

He turned away from the vision of her hair flying, the shirt dancing high on her thighs, appalled by the attraction.