Year One (Chronicles of The One #1)(113)

She heard talk of putting together a softball team, one for adults, one for kids, and using the Little League field half a mile outside the town proper.

More talk of expanding the farm, moving it to one of the farms a mile out.

Good talk, she thought, hopeful talk.

She danced with Max over the green grass in a summer dress that billowed over her belly. Basking in the sunlight, she gossiped with Arlys while Eddie jammed on his harmonica. On the swings, Fred and Katie swayed back and forth with babies on their laps.

Was she happy? Max had asked her a few weeks before. On this day, at this moment, she could give him an unqualified yes.

She lifted a hand to wave at Kim and Poe, and sighed. “We’ll do this every year, won’t we?”

“I think that’s a definite yes. And,” Arlys added, “we’ll put something together for the holidays—Christmas, Hanukkah.”

“Yes! Winter solstice.” Lana rubbed circles over her belly. “It’ll be her first.”

Arlys lifted her face, shook back her hair—a sassy swing with highlights again thanks to Clarice. “You still haven’t come up with a name for the baby?”

“We’re playing around but nothing’s sticking yet. Last summer, I was just moving in with Max. It seemed so huge, so amazing. Now, here we are, expecting a child. Max is playing horseshoes. I’d bet my entire supply of baking powder he’s never played that before in his life.”

She let out a laugh when he threw one, had it pause and revolve in midair, backtrack, then drop neatly onto the post.

“And he cheats!”

The maneuver had Carla—his partner—cheering, and Manning—one of his opponents—erupting in mock outrage. Max lifted his hands in an innocent gesture, then glanced at Lana. Grinned, winked.

“He was also so serious about the Craft. He’d lighten up with me, but he would never have played like that before. It’s good to see him relax. I’m going to go pick more corn—and give the other team a little boost on the way.”

“I’ll give you a hand.”

Lana pushed herself up, wandered toward the horseshoe pitch. More corn, definitely, she thought as she scanned tables. And tomatoes. She’d check on the supply of wild turkey and venison burgers.

But first she guided Manning’s flung horseshoe to the post, had it execute a trio of flips before hitting with a clanging ring. Gave Max a grin and a wink.

Manning let out a laughing hoot, did a little dance, then blew her a kiss.

Yes, she thought, it was good, so good, to just play.

“Hey.” Will ran up, tugged Arlys’s arm. “We need another for boccie.”

“I was just going to—”

“Oh, go ahead. I’m an expert corn picker now.”

“I don’t know anything about boccie.”

“Good, neither do I.” Will grabbed her hand, glanced at the stars swaying on the branches. “It’s a good day.” On impulse he leaned over, kissed Lana’s cheek. Then turned Arlys to him, kissed her, slow and easy, on the mouth. “A really good day.”

Lana smiled all the way into the corn.

It smelled green and earthy, and the music, the voices, the ring of metal on metal followed her as she twisted ears of corn from the stalks. She heard children laughing, a magical sound to her ear, carried on the gentle sigh of the summer breeze.

Everything felt so peaceful, the blue sweep of sky, the tall green stalks, the brush of them against her skin.

She stood a moment, her arms filled with corn, giving thanks for what she had.

The baby kicked—a fast flurry of kicks—that nearly had her bobbling the ears. She heard one of Katie’s babies cry out, long and shrill over the music and voices. As she turned to start back, something fluttered to the ground in front of her.

She glanced down. Froze.

It was scorched, its edges curled and blackened, but she recognized the photo of her and Max together, the photo she’d packed before they’d left New York. The photo that had been in the house in the mountains when …

Overhead, in a sky going thick, going gray, black crows circled.

“Max!” Corn thudded to the ground as she ran, as she shoved through the verdant stalks. As she heard the first cracks of gunfire.

Screams echoed as she fought her way clear.

People ran, scattered, dived for cover, returned fire.

She saw Carla sprawled on the ground, eyes wide and staring. And Manning, oh God, Manning bleeding on the soft dirt of the horseshoe pitch.

Her own scream clogged in her throat as Kurt Rove smashed the butt of his rifle into Chuck’s face.

All around her men fired guns and arrows indiscriminately as men and women she knew grabbed children to shield them or to rush them to safety.

Rainbow, who taught yoga every morning, threw a shimmering shield over a woman with a toddler. Then her body pitched forward from a bullet in the back.

Lana saw a man—tall, lean, his golden mane of hair rippling— lift a rifle, aiming it up as Fred rose, wings furiously batting, one of the babies wrapped in her arms.

In seconds, only seconds, the world changed.

Lana had no weapon but her power, and threw it out, all instinct. The rifle aimed at Fred and the child flew out of the man’s hands. And he turned his crazed blue gaze on her.

“There.” He pointed. The man beside him, dark and muscular, the purity tattoo bold on his biceps, lifted his hands. He held a gun in each. “Kill the witch!” he shouted.