The Curse of Dark Root: Part Two (Daughters of Dark Root Book 4)

by Aasheim, April

  But the globe just sparkled enticingly, as stardust danced in the liquid.

  The words August, 1977 were written on its base.

  And that was all I remembered.

  SIXTEEN

  Heard it Through the Grapevine

  Dark Root, Oregon

  August, 1977

  Jillian’s Ruins

  “HOW LONG ARE you two going to keep this up? I swear, you’re like an old married couple, minus the marriage.” Jillian turned her pretty face Armand’s way, her chestnut hair highlighted by the morning sun. Her eyes looked golden in this light, like a cat’s. The way she studied Armand also reminded him of a cat––slyly playing with her mouse before the kill.

  But what a way to die.

  “I don’t know, babe. Isn’t this the way it’s supposed to be?” Armand stretched his legs, watching Jillian from his spot on the floor as she painted and held conversation at the same time. It was a marvel to behold––a woman’s ability to be two places in her mind at once––without losing focus of either. He envied it.

  Patting down his pockets, he searched for the half-smoked joint. Damn. He must have dropped it on his way to Jillian’s studio. Maybe it was better this way––she wouldn’t have lectured him on his on-again, off-again vice, but she would have given him a disappointed pucker of the mouth.

  He grunted and took another draw of his coffee instead.

  “Sasha and I do better with this arrangement,” he continued. “Separate bedrooms, separate lives. It’s been that way for a while. This is just one fight of many. We’ll get past it.”

  Jillian shook her head, the ends of her sun-bleached hair clipping the small of her back. She smiled over her shoulder, even as she continued to dip her brush into a pallet of mixed paint. Armand wished he had some artistic abilities of his own, so that he could capture this moment and commit it to canvas. Art was real magick. Though he might be able to set a few things on fire or cross a few realms, he would never match Jillian in that form of creation. He shook his head wistfully.

  “Why don’t you just take a picture?” she asked with a grin.

  “Ah, a picture!” He set down his Styrofoam cup and leapt to his feet, circling the young woman and her canvas, his hands framing her. “And here I was wishing I could paint you. I should have brought my Polaroid.”

  “I’m smart. That’s why I make the big bucks.” She wiped her brow, smearing green paint on her face. “Or in this case $9.99, if this thing sells.”

  “You’ll sell it. Paintings of the woods go like Sasquatch snacks around here, especially come festival time. Plus, you’ve got talent, babe.”

  “Now Armand, you know I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

  “Babe or talented?”

  She laughed and elbowed him. “Either. The first sounds like I’m your girlfriend and the latter sounds like you pity me.”

  “What? I don’t pity you. I envy you.”

  She lowered her head, a blush spreading across her face. “Okay. I just read you. You’re telling the truth.”

  “Did you doubt me?”

  “I’ll always doubt you, a little.”

  When she finished her portrait––a horse running into a grove of trees––Armand stepped back to admire it.

  “Like?” she asked, wearing the self-critical expression of an artist, her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed, her head tilted.

  To Armand, it was the most beautiful painting he had ever seen. “I love!” He stepped closer to the canvas. “The way the horse’s mane flies as he runs, screams ‘freedom.’ Lucky horse. I’ll buy it right now.” He reached into his pocket and removed two tens. “I’d pay more but this is all I have on me.”

  “That’s more than its worth.” Jillian tucked her hair behind her ears and took the money, setting it under the pallet so it wouldn’t blow away.

  “Freedom,” Armand repeated. “That’s what I’ll call it.”

  “I hate taking your money, but I won’t lie and say that I can’t use it. I’m saving up.”

  “Oh?”

  She smiled, though her eyes were worried. “We’re provided for here, but if the proverbial shit ever hits the fan, we’ll need cash.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Exactly! We’ll need to make sure we’re taken care of. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell everyone.”

  “I don’t feel any better about taking your money now,” she laughed.

  “Hell, I do. If the painting is as good as I know it is, I’ll make double that when I sell it.” He winked teasingly.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” she probed casually. Her aura flared with interest. “Where did you get the money? We both get the same… allotment, don’t we?”

  “A kid’s allowance,” he agreed with a scowl.

  Sasha had been divvying up Council funds since time began, and they’d never once gotten a raise. “Why should they?” Sasha argued. The Council members had homes and food and even cigarettes. What else did they need? That was the problem with Sasha––she lived in the future while everyone else lived in the now. It didn’t jibe.

  Armand cleared his throat. “I’m a saver,” he lied, immediately wishing he hadn’t. He could read auras and occasionally thoughts, but she could read him, too. She knew who he was at his core, no matter how he tried to bullshit her.

  She nodded, but didn’t press.

  In truth, the money had been given to him by a charming benefactor––an older woman from Linsburg he’d met at a bar, who appreciated some of his other talents.

  “Take care of my painting,” Jillian said, cleaning her paintbrushes. There was sadness in her voice. Armand knew she hated parting with her work.

  “I’ll guard it with my life.”

  As Jillian continued cleaning up, Armand stared out one of the pane-less windows, towards the thick woods. In his years in Dark Root, he had never taken to the forest. That is, not until he started hanging out in Jillian’s studio a year ago. Now he felt at home in this tranquil place. He’d begun to appreciate its serenity and its depth.

  When he’d asked Jillian how she found this solitary little stone building, she explained that it appeared in one of her meditations and she was led here.

  Armand claimed he’d also been led here through meditation. Another lie. But Jillian was either too classy or too kind to call him out.

  Or maybe she believed in him too much to accept that he would lie to her? The thought of this possibility knotted his stomach.

  He forced the thought from his head as he took his painting from the stand.

  “Everyone needs their own room,” she had explained when he first found her here. He got it. Privacy. Something they all lacked in this town. The ruins soon became a sanctuary for them both, a retreat from Sasha’s hocus pocus shenanigans, Dora’s disapproving stares, Larinda’s neediness.

  He shivered at the thought of Larinda. She had become a real drag, wanting all of his time, pouting when he left immediately after sex, begging him to marry her and take her out of Dark Root.

  “We’ll build a castle in the sky,” Larinda promised. “And rule forever.”

  “Sure, babe,” he’d answered each time. If only he didn’t need to siphon from her.

  But hell, women were all trouble.

  Except Jillian.

  He had never met a broad... scratch that, woman, like her. Kind. Sweet. Good. And so beautiful. She was as perfect as one of her paintings, and it was for this reason he kept his physical distance. If he so much as touched her, he was sure to screw things up. And he just couldn’t do that. When he was with her, he was good too.

  Armand desperately wanted to hold on to that small part of himself because so many other parts had been taken by The Dark. Pieces of his soul were now doled out among various unsavory patrons. He’d made his beds. Now he was lying in them. Jillian was his last connection to the Light. If he had to chew off his own hand to keep from touching her, he would.

  “Ready to practice?” he asked, settling himself on
to the sun-warmed, stone floor.

  “I guess I should.”

  Jillian sat opposite Armand, crossing her legs. Armand watched as she closed her eyes and breathed, noticing how the color of her aura changed from pale white to yellow, then to red and back to a vibrant white that lit up the room. Her energy purred like a wind up clock, and when she re-opened her eyes, they were nearly colorless.

  Her serenity was magnetic. He could bask in it all day, if she allowed it. It called to him like freshly laundered sheets.

  “Stop staring,” Jillian said, catching him again. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She was a natural beauty––even her torn cutoff jeans and K-Mart T-shirt didn’t lessen her allure. In fact, they made it stronger. Where other women went out of their way to impress, she simply was.

  “Okay, I’m ready.” She shook her hands, then looked around the room for a target. “That book on Monet,” she said, nudging her chin towards a thrift store bookcase that Armand set up earlier that week.

  He eyed the book. It was large and heavy, meant to sit on coffee tables, not tossed around a room. “You sure you don’t want to start with something lighter?”

  “There is no such thing, Armand. Weight is all in the mind.”

  “You’ve never been to a bar at closing time,” he chuckled. “Okay, let’s see what you got.”

  With an expression of steel resolve, she focused on the book. Her white aura flickered, then a wave of purple color burst around her. Slowly, the book rose from its spot on the shelf, quivering in the air before drifting over to the space between them.

  “Ah hell, look at that, babe! You’re one of only three on the Council who can do that!”

  “I did it,” she said through gritted teeth. Her forehead dampened with the effort. “Can’t…hold…”

  Armand took over, imagining a hammock cradling the book. As in his vision, the book swayed gently in the air, never touching the ground. He smiled, then sent it spinning like a top.

  “Armand!” Jillian beamed. She poked it, stopping its rotation, leaving it hovering between them. “That didn’t strain you at all, did it?” She shook her head in wonder.

  Armand plucked the book from the air and handed it over. “Not a bit.”

  “I suppose I should be impressed, but I’ve seen you do so much.” She hugged her legs into her chest and rocked back. “At least I’m getting better control now. The meditation’s helping, I think. But you rarely meditate, so how is it all so easy for you?”

  Armand shrugged. “Beer. Books.” Broads. This last contribution he didn’t speak aloud. “Warlock’s luck.”

  “Yes, that must be it.” She eyed him warily.

  Armand was relieved she didn’t question him further. She knew full well that magick was drawn from somewhere, but didn’t know the lengths he’d gone to get his. The women he’d used, the deals he’d made––the many corridors and tunnels that had taken him from the light and into the exhilarating and terrifying dark. It was a part of him he could never share with her, because she could never join him there.

  Jillian stood, lifting her arms into a stretch and revealing a hint of navel. The sight stirred something in him, though he quickly shut it down. She was so much more than a bare navel.

  She offered him a hand up and he accepted. His knees complained along the way. He lamented out loud that he was getting old. And he grumbled silently that if Sasha weren’t so selfish, she’d use her wand on him more willingly.

  But Sasha guarded that thing like a monkey guarding its last banana, insisting The End was coming and they’d need it then. But in the decade he’d known her, The End hadn’t shown its face, and he was getting older by the day. Lines showed on his forehead and pits were forming in his soul.

  He wasn’t the only one pissed off by Sasha’s decree.

  There were whispers among the Council members that her wand was spent. That her powers were diminishing. That she had lost her fucking mind. There was growing dissent and only a few remained unquestioningly loyal: Dora, who didn’t mind growing older, as it fit her like an old war uniform; Joe and Leonard, who’d never utter a word against Sasha; Rosa, who grew more senile by the day; and Jillian, who had no need of the wand, because she was still young and vibrant.

  But the others were feeling the effects of time, and were not happy about it.

  “You should eat better and take up yoga,” Jillian said.

  Ah, hell. She’d been reading him.

  “Sorry.” She blushed. “I didn’t mean to. It just happens when someone has especially loud thoughts.”

  Armand promptly cleared his mind. “How much did you hear?” he asked, reddening.

  “Enough to know you’re feeling a bit… tired. Your thoughts are pretty clean.”

  “They’re only clean when I’m with you.”

  She slugged him playfully in the arm.

  “What?” he protested, rubbing his bicep like it hurt. “That’s a compliment.”

  “It’s not a compliment when you’ve hit on every woman in Dark Root except for me.”

  “That’s the highest compliment. It means you’ve earned my respect.”

  “I’m honored.” She tilted her head and the sun lit the fine strands of her hair. “I suppose.”

  He edged closer. “You want me to hit on you?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then what did you say?” He stared deep into her eyes, resisting the urge to overpower her with sexual energy. “Or do I have to read your mind, too?”

  “I’m afraid you’d be disappointed about what goes on in my little brain.” She smiled, waving her fingers through the air. “Nothing but stardust and horsey paintings.”

  “Sounds like a nice place to visit.”

  “It is. But you wouldn’t want to live there.”

  Oh, yes he would.

  He cleared his mind again before she caught him. Why had he let himself go there? Flirting with Jillian would only lead to trouble. He took a step back. “Speaking of places you wouldn’t want to live, I was with Larinda earlier...”

  “Oh?” She turned quickly, pretending to reorganize her paintbrushes.

  Armand caught sight of her witch’s mark, a butterfly, on the side of her knee.

  “I don’t want to hear about your escapades, Armand. Besides, if I really wanted to know, I could just read your mind, anyways.”

  He grinned, purposely deepening his dimples. “But the way I tell it is so much better than the way it happened.”

  “I know,” she laughed, her voice soft and lyrical. “I swear, some of those memories of yours! I feel sorry for those ladies.”

  She was fucking with him. He hoped. It was probably a good thing she’d stopped him. If he’d told her about his encounter with Larinda the previous night, she might’ve caught glimpses of things that would make her hate him.

  Armand shoved his hands into his pockets, continuing his search for his missing joint as his mind drifted back to his evening with Larinda. The raven-haired witch had led him to a small clearing, not far from town. It was a full moon and she’d set out a picnic blanket and bottle of wine. He let her drink the wine, all of it, waiting until she could barely stand. It was then that he took her. Hard and fast and without repentance, right on the ground. He siphoned her life force until she passed out in his arms. It was a dirty energy––as Larinda’s always was––perfect for summoning a demon.

  As Larinda slept, his fingers traced Sasha’s spell book with nervous excitement.

  He had met some bad things in his tunnel travels and even brought a few back on accident. But he had never actually summoned one directly. Oh, how it would serve him!

  “Armand...” Jillian interrupted his thoughts. Had she seen them? Gods, he hoped not. Judging by the sweet look on her face, he guessed he was safe.

  “What’s up?” he asked with an easy smile.

  “If you’re not busy later, will you drive me to Linsburg? I’m running low on paint and one of my brushes is beyond repair
.”

  “Sure.”

  She tossed him her keys. She had an old Dodge, but rarely drove it. She claimed her vision was poor but Armand knew that her parents had been killed in a car wreck––a wreck that put her in a coma before she was twenty. “It was a blessing and a curse,” Jillian admitted one night after a couple of beers. “I lost everything, but it awakened my abilities. Sasha insists they were always there, just latent.”

  Armand recognized that these abilities not only included telekinesis and energy reading, but predicting the future and communing with the dead. While she held the other realms in awe, he saw their potential.

  Jillian walked to the doorway, crossing her arms. It had started to rain. Again. She lifted her face, letting the mist coat her. She hadn’t been in Dark Root long enough to hate the rain yet.

  “We should go,” she said.

  “Holy mother of Ganges Khan,” he said as they ran through the trees. Halfway to town, Armand removed his shirt and used it as an umbrella for the two of them, until they were safely in her car. He took the driver’s seat, watching her soaked body out of the corner of his eye––her long hair clinging to her face, her t-shirt tightly hugging her small breasts and narrow waist.

  He caught her stealing a glance at his own bare chest. He was getting older but he still looked good for a man who considered brandy and tobacco the staple food groups. He tossed his wet shirt into the back seat. “I’d give my kidney to the devil for a month without rain,” he said, firing up the engine.

  “You shouldn’t make deals with the devil,” Jillian teased, fastening her seat belt. “Not even in jest.”

  Armand put the car in reverse, a perverse smile cracking his face. “It’s too late for me, babe, save yourself.”

  “Behave, Armand.”

  But he wasn’t kidding. He had made the deal.

  And the devil always collected his due.

  SEVENTEEN

  A Hard Day’s Night

  Dark Root, Oregon

  Late July, 2014

  Harvest Home

  “MAGGIE…”