Year One (Chronicles of The One #1)(17)

Relieved she understood, he rested his cheek on the top of her head. He’d found his place here, in this city, considered it his power center—for the writing he loved, the magicks discovered inside him. Here, he’d truly begun, studying, practicing the Craft, building a satisfying career. Here, he’d found Lana; and here, they’d started to build a life together.

But now the city burned and bled. He’d seen enough to know it would take them into hell with it if they stayed. Whatever else he might risk, he wouldn’t risk Lana.

“I need to find Eric, but you—keeping you safe—that’s the most important thing to me.”

She turned her head to brush her lips over his throat. “We’ll keep each other safe. Maybe one day we’ll come back, help rebuild.”

He said nothing to that. He’d been outside the loft, he’d scavenged the streets for supplies. His hopes of coming back had already died.

“One of Eric’s group’s family has a vacation home in the Alleghenies, so they’re heading there. It’s fairly isolated.” Max continued to watch out the window where birds—were there more of them now?—circled in the rising smoke. “It should be safe there, away from urban areas. I’ve mapped out the route.”

“It’s a long way from here to there. Reports—the reliable Arlys Reid—say the tunnels are blocked. And the military has barricades up now, trying to keep people contained.”

“We’ll get through.” Drawing her back, he gripped her shoulders, ran his hands down her arms as if to transfer his determination to her. “We’ll get out. Pack up what you need, only what you need. I’m going to go out, get some supplies. Then we’re going to steal a car—plenty of them abandoned. I can start it.”

He looked down at his hands. “I can do that. We’ll head north, get into the Bronx.”

“The Bronx?”

“The main problems are the tunnels and bridges. We’ll need to get over the Harlem River, but the last I heard, people aren’t being stopped from going into the Bronx.”

“How do we get there?”

“The Park Avenue Bridge looks like the quickest.” He’d been studying maps for days. “It’s a train route, but a truck or SUV could handle it. It’s only a little more than three hundred feet, so we’re off nearly as soon as we’re on. And we keep going north until we can cut west into Pennsylvania. We have to get out of New York. Worse is coming, Lana.”

“I know. I can feel it.” Gripping Max’s hand, she turned toward the TV. “She’s saying that the government, the scientists, the officials are all claiming they’re close to a vaccine, but I don’t feel that. I don’t feel that, Max, as much as I want to.”

Resolved, Lana stepped back. “I’ll pack, for both of us. We won’t need much.”

“Warm clothes,” he told her. “And wear something you can move in, run in, if necessary. We’ll pack up food—but keep that light for now, too. Flashlights, extra batteries, water, a couple of blankets. We can get more supplies once we’re on the road.”

She looked at the wall of shelves—floor to ceiling like the windows—and the dozens and dozens of books—some with his name on them.

Understanding, he shrugged. “I’ve read them anyway. I’m going out, getting us a couple of backpacks. Meanwhile, pack one bag, Lana, for both of us.”

“Don’t take any chances.”

He cupped her face, kissed her. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“I’ll be ready.” But as her nerves skittered, she held on another moment. “Let’s just go now, Max, together. We can get whatever we need once we’re out of the city.”

“Lana.” Now he kissed her forehead. “A lot of people who took off unprepared ended up dead. We’re going to keep our heads, do this step-by-step. Warm clothes,” he repeated, and went to put on his own coat, pulled on a ski cap. “An hour. Bolt the door behind me.”

When he went out, she turned the locks he’d installed since the madness began.

He’d come back, she told herself. He’d come back because he was smart and quick, because he had power inside him. Because he’d never leave her alone.

She went into the bedroom, stared at the clothes in her closet. No fun or pretty dresses, no stylish shoes or sexy boots. She felt a little pang, imagined Max felt the same pang about leaving the books.

Necessity meant leaving things they loved—but never each other.

She packed sweaters, sweatshirts, thick leggings, wool trousers, jeans, flannel shirts, socks, underwear. One blanket, one big, warm throw, two towels, a small bag for basic toiletries.

In the bathroom she sighed over her collection of skin-care products, hair products, makeup, bath oils. Convinced herself that one, just one, jar of her favorite moisturizer equaled necessity.

She walked out into the living room as Arlys Reid ended her broadcast with a report of a naked woman riding a unicorn on Madison.

“I hope it’s true,” Lana murmured, shutting off the TV for the last time.

For sentiment, she selected her favorite photo of her and Max. He stood behind her, his arms around her. Her hands crossed over his. He wore black jeans and a blue shirt rolled to his elbows, and she a floaty summer dress—with the lush green of Central Park around them.