Year One (Chronicles of The One #1)(105)

How could he have not seen the changes? How could he have been so blind to them? If he had let himself see, there would have been enough time for him to pull Eric back from the edges of the dark before he’d leaped into it.

He should have looked after him. He should have been more aware. Instead, he’d killed his brother.

What he’d become at the end couldn’t erase all he’d been before. Just as the horror of her end didn’t erase all the girl they’d buried had been.

But he’d never have the chance to bury his brother, to mark his name, say his name. To send his soul to peace.

To live with the choice he’d made, he pushed along the path of what had to be done next. Food, shelter, movement. Following the signs. He’d killed again, to defend the lives of those who’d become his responsibility. An it harm none, a vow he believed with every cell of his being. He’d broken it, made that choice because he saw no other choice, and accepted he might have to make that choice again.

He had a chance now to build a life here, with Lana, with their child, with the children that might come after. So he would do what had to be done next.

Beside him, Lana stirred in sleep, as she often did now. Dreams dogged her sleep, dreams she couldn’t remember. Or claimed she couldn’t remember. But this time instead of curling toward him, she turned away, and got out of bed.

“Are you all right?”

She walked to the window, stood naked in the blue moonlight.

“To make the Savior is your fate. Life out of death, light out of dark. To save the Savior is your fate. Life out of death, light out of dark.”

He rose, went to her. He didn’t touch her, didn’t speak as she stared through the window with eyes as deep as the night.

“Power demands sacrifice to reach its terrible balance. It calls for blood and tears, and still it feeds on love and joy. You, son of the Tuatha de Danann, have lived before, will live again. You, sire of the Savior, sire of The One, embrace the moments and hold them dear, as moments are fleeting and finite. But life and light, the power of what will come, the legacy within, are infinite.”

Lana took his hand, pressed it to the sweet mound of her belly. “She is. A heart beating, wings fluttering, light stirring. She is the sword shining, the bolt that strikes true. She is the answer to questions not yet asked.

“She will be.”

Lana kept his hand, walked back to the bed. “She is your blood. She is your gift. Sleep now, and be at peace.” Lana drew him down, lay beside him. Rested a hand on his cheek. “You are loved.” She closed her eyes, sighed. Slept.

And so did he.





DARK TO LIGHT

And the light shineth in the darkness;

and the darkness comprehended it not.

—John 1:5





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The self-appointed town council decided there’d never be a better time to hold a public meeting. Having the power back up boosted morale and mood, but it wouldn’t take long before that minor miracle faded into the expected.

They agreed to strike while the spirit of gratitude and appreciation rode high.

Spreading the word posed no problem, nor did finding volunteers to set up row after row of chairs at the Legion’s hall, as the school cafeteria wouldn’t hold the expanded population if, as expected, most showed.

They set up long tables on the platform while Chuck got the sound system up and running.

Arlys stood in the empty hall, imagined it full. Imagined countless scenarios—raging from pretty good to ugly chaos.

“Do you think we’re ready, Lloyd?”

“As we’ll ever be, I guess.” He looked down at the binder in his hands. “It’s a good agenda, a sensible one. Doesn’t mean it’s going to fly. Starting with asking everybody to stow their guns in the vestibule out there. Some won’t.”

“And I’m worried the some who won’t are the ones most likely to cause trouble. But we have to start somewhere.” She turned as Lana came in carrying a huge basket. Then sniffed the air. “My God, what is that amazing smell?”

“Bread. Fresh baked.” She set the basket on the platform, one full of small rounds and loaves. “We’ve got a variety. I’ve got a lot of different starters going. We had packaged yeast, but that won’t last forever, so I’m making more right now. And I’m going to try my hand at making dry yeast.”

“You can make yeast?” Arlys all but buried her head in the basket.

“Yeah. It grows on fruits, potatoes, even tomatoes. I’m going to experiment. Somebody else has to figure out how to mill flour.”

“If I don’t have a chunk of that”—Lloyd breathed in hard through his nose—“I might just die right here and now.”

“Help yourself. The idea was having some for every household. They’re small, I know, but—”

“Praise Jesus,” Lloyd said with his mouth full.

“Community action at work.” Arlys broke a chunk of her own from Lloyd’s round. “We’re going to have rules, we’re going to have structure, but…” She bit in. “We’re also going to have bread that brings a tear to your eye. It’s still warm!”

“Bread symbolizes hospitality. We break bread together.” Lana smiled at the basket. “I liked using the community kitchen for the first time with this symbol.”