Year One (35 page)

“Yes.”

“Did you lose him in the Doom?”

“No. He got us out of New York. He got us away and kept us safe. They killed him. His brother killed him.”

“His brother?”

“His brother turned to the dark, his brother and the twisted witch
who turned him. His brother, and the men who hate us because we're not like them. They wanted to kill me. Her.”

She wrapped her arms around the mound of her belly. “Max saved us. He died for us. They killed him. Eric, his brother, and the Purity Warriors. They killed Max, killed people we were building a life with. Tried to kill more. I had to leave because they wanted me and would kill whoever stood in their way. They hunted me. They may still be hunting me.

“They'll try to kill you if you help me.”

He nodded, said, “Huh.” Then turned back to the stove. “You want the eggs scrambled or fried?”

She'd worked herself up again, was nearly breathless with it. Her hands clutched at her sides. “Who are you?”

“Swift. Simon Swift. In another life I was Captain Swift, U.S. Army. In this one, I'm a farmer. Who are you?”

Slowly, she took off her pack, set it aside. “Lana Bingham. I was a chef. I am a witch.”

“I got the second back in the coop when you gave me a little punch.”

“I didn't mean—”

“Just a little. Bet you've got more. A chef? Why am I cooking?”

She let out a breath, took in another, then crouched by her pack. She took out herbs, a tomato, a pepper, a couple of spring onions. “Would you like an omelette?”

“Sure.”

“It's a nice stove. It's a nice kitchen.”

Her voice shook again. He could see as well as hear her fight to steady it. “How do you get the gas?”

“Gas well.”

“A what?”

“Natural gas well.” He gestured vaguely toward the window. “It's
piped into the house. We've got gaslight, gas stove, gas every damn thing. Some wind power, too.”

She washed her hands in the farm sink, then the herbs and vegetables. “I need a few things. More eggs, a small bowl, a whisk.”

“I've got it.”

After heating the skillet, she put on bacon. She took a chef's knife—serviceable—from a block, pulled over a cutting board, and began chopping while it sizzled.

Cooking. Normal. How could anything be normal?

And yet, chopping herbs, she felt more herself than she had in weeks.

“You were in the army.”

“Yeah, for about ten years. I'd had enough, but I got out primarily because my mother got sick. Cancer. They needed help around here while she was fighting it. She fought it, beat it. And then … Well, fucking Doom.”

“I'm sorry.”

They worked together in silence for a few minutes. He got her the can he used to store bacon grease, the plastic tub he used for kitchen compost. And watched, mildly in awe, as she cooked.

“How long have you been on the road?” he asked her.

“I don't know. I lost track. It was the Fourth of July when … I left.”

“About six weeks. Where'd you start?”

“We were in a place we called New Hope, in Virginia. I think south of Fredericksburg. Where am I now?”

“You came a ways. This is Maryland, western.”

“What are the mountains?”

“The Blue Ridge.”

“Are there other people?”

“Some. There's a town—more a settlement now. We do some
trading. I was taking produce in. There's a mill. They're making flour. Got some sheep, a loom. A blacksmith, a butcher. You work with what you've got.”

She nodded, folded the egg over the vegetables. “Is there a doctor?”

“Not yet. A vet assistant's as close as we've got.”

She lifted the omelette onto one of the plates he'd set out, cut it in half, slid half onto the second plate.

“Are there any Uncannys?”

“A few sprinkled in. Nobody has a problem with it. Do you want that milk?”

“I hate milk, but yes, it's probably good for the baby.”

He got out the jug, poured her a short glass.

They sat at the kitchen counter, a classy and mottled gray granite. The first bite had her closing her eyes as her system absorbed.

He took a heftier bite. “Okay, you were serious about the chef deal. I haven't had anything close to this good in a hell of a while.”

Calculating, she ate slowly. “If I could stay for a couple of days, I could pay you back with cooking. And we had a garden in New Hope, so I learned how to garden. I could help there. A couple of days should be safe.”

For both of us.

“Then what?”

“I don't know. I haven't thought about anything but moving, getting away, keeping the baby safe.”

“When's she due? You said she, right?”

“Yes. The last week of September.”

“You figure to deliver her on your own, on the road?”

She knew how it sounded, had worried about it constantly, but hadn't seen a choice.

“I hope to find a place and … do what I need to. I won't let anything happen to her. Whatever it takes, nothing's going to hurt her.”

“There are women in the settlement—houses scattered around.”

“I can't … I can't risk so many people. The Purity Warriors, you don't know.”

A pretty park, a happy celebration. Bodies scattered, smoke rising. Max's blood soaking the brown earth.

“Yeah, I do. Some of them came through the settlement a few weeks ago. They didn't get a warm reception.”

Fear jumped back into her voice. “They were here.”

“From what I hear there are some of them traveling around, looking for others who think like they do. Like I said, they didn't find that here.”

He ate, considered. Between the Purity Warriors, Raiders, and general assholes, the road wasn't close to safe for a woman alone. Add in that that woman was due to give birth in about eight weeks.

And fierce or not, she apparently had a target on her back.

He scooped up the last of his eggs, turned to her. “You should think about staying here. You can take over the kitchen, that's for damn sure. You should think about staying at least until after you have the kid. Four bedrooms upstairs. I'm only using one.”

“They could find me. Eric—”

“That's the brother?”

“He's mad with power. There's something about my baby, something special. Important. I don't know. But Eric and Allegra want to kill her.”

“Well, if she's special and important it's just more reason to get her here safe. I don't like people who start trouble, start wars, look to generally fuck things up. However they're built, I don't like it.”

“You don't even know me.”

After nudging his empty plate aside, he shrugged. “What the hell difference does that make?”

Nothing, nothing he could have said would have reassured her more.

“I'm so grateful. And I'm so tired. I'm just so tired. Can we take it a day at a time?”

“Sure. You can pick a bedroom. It'll be clear which one's mine.” He rose, started to clear.

“I'll do the dishes. Part of the deal.”

“Next time they're all yours. No offense, but you look pretty done. So go up, pick a bed, tune out. I need to get the produce into town. You ought to take my parents' room. It's one of those master deals. Got its own bathroom.”

“Simon. Thank you.”

He carted dishes to the sink. “Can you make meatloaf?”

“If you have the meat along with what I've already seen, I can make amazing meatloaf.”

“You put that together for dinner, we're square.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Lana found the master suite with its four-poster bed at the top of the stairs. A duvet of deep forest green covered it along with four thick shams in the same color edged in a quiet and dull gold that matched the walls.

His parents had died here, she remembered. He'd put their room to rights again, cleaned what must have been heartbreaking, cleared the room of all signs of illness.

Even through a gnawing fatigue, she recognized that his caring to restore the room to how his mother certainly would have wanted it said something about the son.

A man who'd given her food and shelter. It made her think of Lloyd, what he'd said at that first full community meeting.

Still, she locked the door behind her, adding a charm to block entrance. She didn't consider it overkill to carry a chair over and prop it under the doorknob.

She wanted to sleep, just wanted to go away for a while. On clean
sheets, with pillows, under a duvet of forest green. Thinking of his mother, she considered the dirt and grime she carried from the trail, and stepped into the adjoining bath.

She wouldn't disrespect the woman whose home offered sanctuary by besmirching her bed.

Here, too, he'd put things to rights. A stack of fluffy towels on clean, if dusty, counters. Setting aside her pack, she opened the glass door of the shower.

Shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, even a woman's shower razor. As her own supplies had dwindled, Lana ignored the niceties as she stripped down. She'd use whatever she needed now, apologize later.

If she wept a little as hot water beat down on her, as she watched the dirt—that quick washes in streams and creeks hadn't touched—spiral down the floor drain, she told herself she was entitled to a few tears.

She indulged—who knew how long this bounty would last?—wrapped her hair in a towel, her body in another.

Soft, so blissfully soft.

Turning, she studied herself in the mirror. Her breasts, her belly, so ripe. She must be at thirty-three or thirty-four weeks now. With all her heart she believed her daughter remained healthy and strong. She felt that light, that life—both depending on her.

If that meant
she
had to depend on the largess of a stranger, she would. Cautiously, but she would.

She eyed the baskets on the open shelves beside the mirror.

Body lotion, skin cream, all so wonderfully female.

“Madeline Swift,” she murmured. “I'm grateful, and hope you don't mind.”

She slathered herself, all but felt her thirsty skin gulp in the moisture. As nothing in her pack resembled clean, she borrowed the robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

Trembling with gratitude, she turned down the duvet, slid into the sheets. She slept, and slept dreamlessly.

Awoke with a jerk, her heart pounding as she tried to remember where she was.

The farmhouse, the man with the tough face and careless generosity. She got up as quickly as her heavy belly allowed, tidied the bed, rehung the robe. Dressed.

The sun told her it was after noon—she'd gotten good at gauging the time. So she'd slept at least two hours. If she wanted to stay the night—God, she wanted to stay the night—she had to earn her keep.

Curious, she moved quietly along the second floor, found another bathroom, smaller than what he'd allowed her, and obviously what he used.

A towel hung over the shower door, a toothbrush stood in a cup on a small vanity.

She found a guest room—as she didn't imagine Simon Swift slept under a cover dotted with pretty violets—another room, a spare bedroom and sitting room combination, she supposed, with a sewing station under the window.

Lastly, his room—unmade bed, a shirt tossed over a chair back, and air that carried the faint hints of earth and grass.

She noted the shotgun propped in the corner, respected his choice to keep a weapon close while he slept.

She didn't find him downstairs, so she looked out windows until she spotted him working in the garden. Sweat dampened his shirt as he hoed between rows. The dogs slept under the apple tree, by the grave markers, and the horses watched him with their heads over the fence.

Her first thought was to go out and offer to help, but she noted the dishes they'd used that morning sat, clean, dry now, beside the
sink. She saw no other signs he'd made a meal while she'd showered, slept, explored.

So she'd earn her keep by scouting through the kitchen and making him lunch.

When he came in, hot and hungry, the dogs bursting in ahead of him, he saw her at the stove. Something smelled damn good, and some of that, he realized, was woman.

She'd wrapped her hair up somehow or other, and it shined like butterscotch candy. When she turned, her face struck him. Quiet and wary beauty.

The wariness for him, he thought, as the charge of the dogs, their manic tail flapping didn't appear to bother her.

He kept it light. “What's cooking?”

“Stir-fry—vegetables and rice. I thought you could use lunch more than a hand in the garden.”

“Good thinking.” He moved to the sink, washed the dirt off his hands and arms. “Where'd you cook? For a living?”

“New York.”

“Big city.”

“It was.” She plated the food, added one of the cloth napkins she'd found in a drawer, handed him both. “I saw some sourdough starter in your refrigerator.”

“Yeah, my father liked to bake bread. He couldn't cook anything else worth a damn, but he liked baking bread. I've been feeding it, but…”

“I'll bake some bread if you want.”

“That'd be good.” He sat. “Aren't you eating?”

She nodded, but didn't get a plate, or sit. “I want to thank you—”

“You already did.”

“I haven't had a real shower in … I'll apologize if I get emotional. Some of it's hormones. But being able to wash my hair … I used
your mother's shampoo, and her shower gel. And she has—had—skin cream. It was open, and I used some. I just used it without…”

“You could do me a favor and not cry over that.”

He looked at her as he ate with annoyed hazel eyes. Eyes that blurred green and gold together. “It'll put me off this stir-fry, and it's damn good. She wouldn't care, and I sure don't. Look, I dealt with my dad's stuff like that. I couldn't seem to go through hers. So use what you want.”

“She has backups. Unopened. You could barter them.”

“Use it.” This time his tone snapped a bit. “If I'd wanted to barter her damn face cream, I would have.”

Understanding pain, and loss, she said nothing more until she'd plated some lunch for herself and sat.

“If you'd tell me if there are any off-limits rooms in the house while I'm here.”

“Other than the locked room in the basement full of the mutilated bodies of my victims, no.”

She scooped up some stir-fry. He was right. It was damn good. “All right, I'll stay out of there. Do you have any food allergies?”

“I'm temperamentally allergic to spinach.”

“Then I won't put any in the meatloaf.”

*   *   *

Simon gave Lana plenty of space. He expected she'd stay for a couple days, pull herself together. He didn't have a problem giving her that time and space, especially since, Jesus, the woman could cook.

Plus, she carried her weight, no question, during those couple of days. Maybe he hadn't noticed the dust and dog hair—but he noticed when it was gone. Maybe he hadn't had a problem snagging
clothes or towels out of a laundry basket, but it didn't hurt his feelings to find them all folded and where they belonged.

The dogs liked her. He'd walked by the library late one night and had seen her sitting in the dark—grieving for her husband—with Harper's head on her knee, Lee sprawled over her feet.

He figured to take her into the settlement once she'd gathered herself, turn her over to one of the women he knew. Any one of them would know more about dealing with a pregnant woman and delivering a baby than he did.

As for her insistence that the baby she carried was both special and a target of dark forces, he'd reserve judgment. While he couldn't deny he'd gotten used to looking out for himself alone, and the farm, he couldn't just turn her out.

He'd been raised better than that. He
was
better than that.

She wasn't much for conversation, and that was fine, too, as he'd grown accustomed to the quiet.

He thought of her as a kind of temporary, live-in farmhand who put together three solid meals a day, and dealt with the house so he didn't have to.

One who didn't look to be entertained, one who wasn't hard on the eyes, especially since after a couple of days she'd lost most of the living-on-raw-nerves edge that had haunted her eyes.

In truth, he had to admit he'd miss knowing he'd come in after the early chores to a hot breakfast—and having someone who knew their way around tending crops.

She wouldn't go near the cornfield, and he didn't ask why.

By day four, they'd fallen into a routine, one comfortable enough it worried him. Routines led to depending on each other.

Best thing all around? Nudge her into moving to the settlement, nesting there until she had her kid.

He started to ease her in that direction over a dinner of fried chicken and potato salad—his request.

“I'm going to take a load of produce into the settlement tomorrow.”

“If you're bartering, you could use more flour.”

“You've got a better sense by now what we're low on in the pantry. You ought to come in with me. It'd give you a sense of things.”

Her gaze shifted up—deep, sad blue—met his. “I can make you a list.”

“You could. There're probably things you need. Personal things.”

“I don't need anything. If you're ready for me to move on—”

“I didn't say that.” Thought it maybe, but that was different. “Look, there are women in there who've been through what you're going through. Who've, you know, had babies. Plus, people pass through. Some stay. Maybe somebody's come in who has medical experience.”

Her fingers moved restlessly over the ring she wore around her neck. “I've still got time. I can do more until—”

“Christ, Lana.” He rarely used her name, and did so now in pure frustration. “Give me a small break. I'm saying you'd be better off with people who know what they're doing when the kid decides she wants to come out. If you're not nervous about that, you're made of fucking steel.”

“I'm scared to death. Terrified. Even knowing, absolutely knowing, she's meant to be born, meant to live and shine and do amazing things, I'm terrified.”

Studying her face, he sat back. “You don't look scared.”

She kept her gaze steady, laid a hand on the baby mound. “Before I looked down, saw the farm, whenever I was tired and hungry, I couldn't let myself be scared. If it snuck through, I had to shove it away again or I'd have stopped. Just stopped and given up. I told myself I'd find a place, a safe place to bring her into the world. Then I looked down, and saw the farm. The house, the fields, the animals—like a painting of before the world stopped.”

Now her hand made slow circles over the baby.

“Still, I didn't let myself hope. It was just the immediate. Tomatoes on the vine, bees humming, chickens clucking. I thought, Food, because I needed it. I didn't let myself think shelter or rest. Until you spoke to me. You told me to come inside and eat, and then I began to hope.

“It's not fair to put my hopes on you, but I am. Because she needs me to.”

No, she didn't look afraid, he thought. Neither her voice nor her face held a plea. He'd never have resisted a plea. Instead they held a quiet, steady strength.

That, to him, was even more irresistible.

“How about we compromise on it? I'll bring one of the women back with me—her name's Anne. Grandmotherly type, and she'd probably kick my ass for saying that. You could meet her, see how you feel then. I know she's had kids. When the time comes I could go get her, have her help you out.”

“She comes into your hands first.”

“Huh?”

Her eyes changed, seemed to stare straight into him, now dark as midnight.

“Into yours on the windswept night. And lightning heralds the birth of The One. Will you teach her to ride, and think she was born knowing? I teach her the old ways, what I can, but she has so much more. Safe, time out of time, while the dark rages. Until in the Book of Spells, in the Well of Light she takes her sword and shield. And with the rise of magicks she takes her place. She will risk all to fulfill her destiny, this precious child of the Tuatha de Danann. For this she grows in me, for this she comes into your hands.”

She'd gone very pale, and now reached an unsteady hand for her water glass.

“What was that?”

“It's her.” Lana sipped slowly until the dizziness passed. “I don't know how to explain it. Sometimes I see her, as clearly as I see you. She's so beautiful.” As she sipped again, Lana's eyes filled, but the tears didn't spill. “So strong and fierce and lovely. Sometimes I hear her, a voice in my head. I think I might have given up a dozen times without that voice telling me to keep going. And sometimes, like now, she speaks through me. Or lets me know enough to speak for her.”

In that moment, Simon believed her. Absolutely. “What is she?”

“The answer. When I'm afraid, I'm afraid for her, for what's going to be asked of her. I know what I'm asking of you,” she began, and the dogs scrambled up from their evening naps.

“Yeah, I hear it.” With his eyes still on hers, Simon rose. “Somebody's coming. You should go down into the root cellar until I see who it is. Take the shotgun with you,” he added as he retrieved the 9mm he'd set on top of the fridge for the meal.