Year One (Chronicles of The One #1)(122)

Simon looked at the paper, at the excellent sketch of Lana. “She’s a looker. I wouldn’t mind finding her myself.”

“She’s pregnant, ’bout seven or eight months. We got word she might be wandering around this way.”

“I think I’d remember seeing that face, and a pregnant woman, wandering around here. How’d you lose her?”

“Ain’t none of your business,” the scarred man snapped.

“Just making conversation. I don’t get many visitors.”

The bearded one pulled his nose. “It must get lonely, out here on your own.”

“Like I said, I keep busy.”

“Still. You’re pretty out of the way, kind of … cut off. Looks like you’ve got enough food going here to feed an army. It happens we’ve got one. We’ll take that trailer of yours, along with two of those cows.”

“I’m not looking to trade, thanks all the same.”

“Nobody said nothing about trading.” The scarred man pulled his gun. “We’re taking. Now you go on and hitch that trailer up to the truck.”

“You know, that’s not very friendly of you.”

Simon moved fast. The scarred one held his gun like some B-movie cowboy, all show, no sense. Simon slapped his forearm out, jabbed his other elbow into the bearded face, and had the scarred man’s gun in his own hand in three smooth moves.

“I’d shoot you both where you stand,” he said, his tone pleasant and skimmed with ice. “But I’m not in the mood to dig the graves. You’re going to want to think before you reach for that gun,” he warned the bearded man. “Now take it out slow—two fingers—and set it down on the porch. Otherwise I’ll just gut shoot your friend and let you haul him away to bleed out in your truck.”

“Didn’t say he was my friend.”

Simon could have handled it, intended to. Then he heard Lana’s voice.

“I don’t mind digging graves.”

Lana’s voice, Simon thought, trying not to react, as the woman standing with the shotgun pointed at the uninvited guests looked nothing like her.

A sturdy build—not a pregnant one—short, dark hair instead of the long butterscotch-candy blond. Wearing a sneer that suited the tough, lean face.

“It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”

“Now, don’t shoot them unless you have to, honey.” Putting amusement into his voice, Simon yanked the gun out of the second man’s holster. “We just painted the damn porch last spring. She’s meaner than I am,” Simon commented. “And the men upstairs, out in the barn? The ones with guns trained on you? They’re meaner than she is—that takes doing. An army you said. Yeah, we eat pretty well here. Now, we’d’ve been happy enough to give you some food to take on your way, but bad manners can’t be rewarded. Right, honey?”

“You know how I feel about it, and that one’s already bleeding on the damn porch. Maybe I’ll just shoot the other one in the leg.”

“Told you she’s mean. Now, if I were you, I’d get back in the truck and head back the way you came. Otherwise, she’s going to get irritated and shoot you. That’ll whip up the rest of them, and they’ll Bonnie and Clyde the shit out of you.”

“I’d like my gun back.”

“Consider the loss a consequence of poor manners. Get the fuck off my land or I’ll let her put a hole in you. Then I’ll sic the dogs on you.”

At the word sic, both dogs bared teeth, growled.

The men backed off the porch, got into the truck. Simon saw the move, and still waited until the scarred man jerked another gun up to the side window.

He shot him, center of the forehead, tracked his aim toward the driver. The truck reversed fast, tossing up gravel and smoke, spun around to speed up the lane. When he stopped, Simon switched handgun for rifle, then held off when the passenger door opened, and the driver shoved his dead companion out.

“Hell, looks like I’ll be digging after all.”

He waited until the truck vanished over the rise.

“You didn’t say you were a shapeshifter.”

“I’m not.” Lana lowered the shotgun, then staggered the few steps toward the porch. Dropped heavily on the step. “It’s an illusion,” she said as it faded. “Just like a … costume. I’ve never tried it before. It took a lot.

“You killed him.”

“His choice, not mine.”

She nodded. “They were in New Hope, part of the attack. His face—the dead one—I did that to his face. I don’t know how. They nearly found me awhile back.”

“I told you to go down to the root cellar.”

“And do what?” The fierceness snapped back as her head jerked up. “Tremble and wait, expect somebody to protect me and mine? I’ve been finished with that for a long time now. Feels like a lifetime ago. I thought if I let them see me—the illusion—they’d have more reason to believe you hadn’t seen me. They’d leave you alone. Then I heard what they said about taking, and knew they weren’t going to leave.”

She sat in silence when he released the dogs and sat beside her as the dogs bumped against them for attention.

“I’ll leave in the morning. I’d like to be sure he’s a good distance away first.”