THE CURSE OF DARK ROOT: PART II
(Daughters of Dark Root Book 4)
by
April Aasheim
Copyright © 2016 by April Aasheim
Published by Dark Root Press
Cover Art & Design by Jennifer Munswami at
J.M. Rising Horse Creations
www.facebook.com/RisingHorseCreations
2015
Ebook Edition, License Notes
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SYNOPSIS
Things are tough in Dark Root. Shane is missing and presumed dead. Julianna Benbridge is haunting the town. And the mysterious curse has tightened its grip on Maggie.
The clock is ticking down and its not looking good. Can Maggie save herself and her family from the deal made with Larinda? Or will she be too late this time?
To Kathleen
Who has shown me the true love and strength of family.
PROLOGUE
I Put a Spell On You
AT THE TOP of a mountain sits a gray stone castle, its once sleek outer walls now covered in layers of filth and moss. Crafted by will and cunning long ago, the castle has since succumbed to the madness of the plane in which it resides––a shifting expanse of truths and untruths, woven together in a patchwork of drifting uncertainties.
Inside, a woman in a long red dress paces the main chamber, her sparse brows fused in concentration. A troubled expression lingers on her pallid face. She has spent months here––or perhaps years––waiting for the Darkness to come. A round clock on the far wall announces the hour, though its hands keep moving forward and back, ticking through every possible combination of time. It shifts too much, the woman thinks, keeping one eye forever on the timepiece, watching it like a cauldron of slow-boiling water.
Whenever the hands settle and she is certain the time-shifts have ended, they move again, forward and back, and she must begin her waiting anew.
A raven caws from one of the tall, crumbling pillars flanking the hall––a warning cry. The woman turns towards the corridor, peering into the shadows that separate the vast hollow rooms. Heavy footsteps approach––footsteps that sound with both purpose and apathy, made by a soul whose restlessness mimics her own. Gathering her skirts, she races up the platform steps, in order to greet her guest from her throne.
The raven calls again, then disappears into the gloom.
“You're early!” The woman shouts from her high-backed chair.
An auburn-haired man in his middle years checks his watch as he enters the chamber, a crooked smile on his face. “No, Larinda. I'm right on time.”
They stare at each other for a long moment, remembering earlier days. He has changed, she sees, but not much. There are now lines etched across his temples and silver streaks his hair, but he is still exceptionally handsome. Larinda motions for him to join her. It's been years since his last visit and his eyes explore every inch of the rich tiled floors and walls displaying grand works of art appropriated from museums around the world. His gaze lingers a moment on a watercolor painting of a horse before moving on to the cobwebs in a high corner.
“Looks like you could use a little help around here,” he says with a wink.
“Oh? Are you offering your services? How delightful!” Larinda claps, just once. “And here I thought the great Armand had better things to do these days.”
Armand clicks his too-long nails against one of the marble pillars, loosening dust from above, which he gracefully sidesteps. “Who said I offered to help?”
He clasps his hands in front of him and stretches his arms, cracking his knuckles. The sound echoes throughout the chamber.
“You know why I'm here, Larinda. You sent one of your minions to find me. This better be worth my time.” He reaches into the air and produces a long black feather, twirling it between two fingers. Raising it to his nose, he sniffs before sending it back to its plane.
“Seat?” Larinda motions towards a rug near the foot of her throne. He laughs, then snaps his fingers. Another throne appears beside hers, taller and more ornate, elevated to his advantage. Larinda's thin lips dip into a frown, though she quickly recovers and produces a sweet smile, batting her scant lashes as she extends a hand, inviting him to sit.
“If I had known you were coming so soon, I would have dressed up.” She waves her hands along her body and the red gown is instantly replaced by a black, sequined mini-dress. A jeweled band materializes on her forehead, showcasing three feathers in shades of black, white, and gray.
“Better?” she asks with a coquettish smile, crossing her legs to reveal a hint of her alabaster thigh.
“Sexier, but far less regal.” Armand takes his seat, planting his feet firmly on the tiled floor. “I know the toll that magick takes on you these days, without being able to charge in the real world. It’s a precious commodity that you shouldn't be wasting.”
He leans to the side, smiling as he caresses her chin before pulling away.
His touch weakens her, reminding her of the many nights they shared together, long ago. Does he remember those times, she wants to ask, but dignity keeps her in check. She is not the warlock's equal––in power or intellect––but she will not show weakness. If she hadn't succumbed to him so easily before, she would never have become trapped here in the first place.
Besides, she has something to bargain with now. Something important.
She pushes her back into the chair, sitting as tall as a queen. Her red dress returns, and a crown as well. “Sasha's dead, as you must have heard.”
Armand frowns but doesn't speak.
“As for Jillian and Dora...” Larinda continues, waving her hand dismissively. “Their powers are muted now, nearly useless.”
“Oh?”
Larinda suppresses a smile. “I struck a deal with them, and they did not keep their end of the bargain. They have forfeit their right to cast magick. The domes are failing, crashing over Dark Root as we speak! Soon, I shall be able to transport there at will, as will you.”
Armand's jaw tightens and his fingers strum against the armrest. “Deal or not, they will not be daunted. You greatly underestimate their abilities. You always have.”
“As did you.”
He strokes his chin, thoughtfully. “What about Maggie? Are her powers muted, too?”
Larinda smiles, her eyes gleaming. “You shouldn't worry so much, Armand. It will add more lines to your handsome face.” She touches his knee playfully. “As for Maggie, the girl is powerful, but she's also headstrong, stubborn, and unable to control her abilities. A wilder that Sasha never trained. She lacks discipline. Besides, she's still cursed and her bracelet wears thin. She won't stand in our way for long.”
“Undisciplined and headstrong. That's what they once said about me.” Armand stretches his legs across the floor, clicking his heels into the tile.
He is wearing his cowboy boots, Larinda notes, the only ones she’d ever seen him wear, but his cowboy hat is oddly missing.
Armand presses his fingertips together below his chin. “Sasha should have told me about the girl instead of hidden her. How foolish I was to believe she wasn't mine. I could have trained her myself, and things would have been muc
h different.” His eyes once again travel to the horse painting, and for a moment, his aura softens.
“Never underestimate anyone, Larinda,” he continues. “Especially when there's love involved.” He speaks the word love with contempt, one side of his mouth curling into a snarl. Armand despises that word. It holds too much power.
She turns slightly, looking into his green eyes. They are deadened now––incapable of much expression anymore. Still, when she peers deep enough, she sees that he is the same man she once knew, hidden beneath the layers. “Leave this to me, master,” she purrs, her voice as smooth and promising as his favorite brandy. “I promise, I'll please you.”
“Master, huh? You've never called me that before. I like it.” He stands and snaps his fingers. His throne disappears. He moves towards the watercolor painting, staring at it with detached curiosity. The portrait expands outward, growing taller and wider, until Larinda is unable to make out any details.
“Once upon a time we planned to rule in this castle together,” she reminds him. “You filled it with treasures and promises. Now, I'm alone, trapped for all eternity. Unless you release me.”
He turns, his green eyes surging electric red. “I warned you when you came into my bed that you could lose your soul! You gave yourself willingly.”
“My soul but not my life! And what of your promise? Have you forgotten that?”
“My promise?” The chandelier above shakes, snuffing several candles. “What about your promise to me? The domes should have already come down. The second ankh should have been found and the whole Council dismantled once and for all! Instead, the Council has reformed...
“You've had time!” he shouts, stepping forward.
The chamber echoes with his roar.
“...In fact, I've given you all the time in the world!” A large hourglass appears in his hand, the sands quickly draining. He closes his fist and the hourglass dissolves. “And yet, you summon me here and offer me nothing.”
The pillars shake, loosening more dust, and the floor around Armand's feet trembles, cracking the tile.
Larinda curls her hands under the armrests, her nails digging into the mahogany. “Time! What good is time here? This whole castle––this whole world––mocks me with time.”
Agitated, she stands. She wants to yell, to make him see the error of his ways, but she knows that diplomacy is needed, and perhaps some ego stroking as well. “But none of that is important now. Listen, Armand. The deal I made with Dora and Jillian––there is more!”
He stares, his long unwashed hair clinging to the sides of his face. “What is this deal?”
“Maggie has a son now!” Larinda announces, her voice strengthening with her new leverage. She steps confidentially towards him. “A son, Armand! Your oath can be fulfilled!”
He runs his thumb along his fingers, licking his lips. The ground stops trembling and the tiles reform. “So, she had the little bastard, huh?”
“Yes. I sense he's strong, too.” She pauses for effect. “Perhaps the strongest of us all.”
“Well, where is he?”
“I will have the boy shortly. I've bargained for, and won, his first six years.”
“That old bat, Dora, will never allow that. Nor will Jillian.”
His voice softens when he speaks Jillian's name, and Larinda coughs into the crook of her arm to hide her bitterness.
Calmly, she says, “They have no choice.” She removes a mirror from an antique desk and shows it to Armand. An image of Dora and Jillian, both of them tired and thin, appears in the glass. Their auras are dim, almost extinguished. “They are just two old women now.”
Armand shrugs. “I don't know, babe,” he says, using a term he last spoke when he was far more human. “They’re resourceful old fools, even without magick. How will you get past them?”
“Leave that to me.” She advances with light, graceful feet that hardly touch the floor, wrapping her slender arms around his waist and nuzzling her pointed chin into his shoulder. “I'll present you with your grandson, and then you'll release me.”
Armand lifts one of her black curls, tugging on it until it straightens. “You smell good. Familiar. I've missed that.” He kisses her lips and Larinda feels the cord between them strengthen. They had been close once. They could be again.
“What do you say?” she asks, looking at him with milky-blue eyes.
He stiffens. “You know what my plans are for the boy, correct?”
She nods, slowly. She knows of his deal with The Dark One: A male heir to be offered in return for unlimited power, riches, and health, even as the Darkness takes hold of the rest of the world. But time was running out. Armand had already received partial payment, and if he could not deliver before the end of his life span, eternity for him would be most unpleasant. “The boy is a small sacrifice, but a necessary one,” she agrees.
“You bring my grandson to this castle, and I'll see that you are free to return to the real world.”
“And what of your other promise? Will you recommit?”
“Ah, hell! The marriage thing again?” He runs his hands through his thinning hair. “Does that even apply now?”
“Yes. You know how much I want that. We can rule together, Armand. Once we turn over Montana, we'll be unstoppable.”
“Montana?”
“The name of your grandson.” Larinda smiles, pleased that she has knowledge he doesn't. “I personally would've gone for something simpler, but you know these modern mothers.”
Armand inhales deeply and releases it. “I don't know, babe. I'm not a marrying man. I told you before.”
“You told me only after we were engaged.”
“You let me use your body without first fulfilling my oath. That's on you.”
“But I have a new bargaining chip now, and I will not turn it over so easily this time, despite your many charms.”
Armand grits his teeth, his face reddening. He smiles but his eyes are clouded. “You bring him to me, and I'll see.”
“That's not good enough!” A single tear slides down her cheek. She hates that he sees it and quickly wipes it away. “I forgave you for abandoning me and Leah––the daughter you never visit, by the way.”
“Why would I visit that creature? She's weak and homely. And you promised me a son!”
“Listen, Armand, that is the past. If I secure the child and you don't release me from this prison, and marry me, you will have Hell to pay.”
He sighs and spreads his arms. “Too late, babe. I already do.”
Outside, lightning cracks the sky, illuminating the thirteen windows of the main hall. Armand stares at Larinda with renewed interest. “Did you do that? You've gotten more powerful.”
He licks his lips and Larinda senses his arousal. She is not responsible for the lightning, but says nothing. Let him think she can command the heavens.
“It's settled. I will deliver the boy and we will finally fulfill our destiny together. We'll rule side by side and thrive when the Darkness comes.” She lifts a hand, palm facing out.
Armand studies her outstretched hand, warily going through the checks and balances in his head. At last, he makes his decision. He thrusts his own palm into hers, and she feels their united energy swirl around them, coalescing into a single point––the space between their hands.
“So mote it be,” she says with a smile.
“So mote it be.”
With that, he vanishes, returning to the endless tunnels he loves to travel, or perhaps to his home in L.A., where it is rumored he has concubines and drugs and hundreds of followers who do his bidding.
And she is left alone, again.
Larinda falls back into her throne. She replays the events of the past in her mind, always coming back to the moment when Armand took the last of her life force shortly after the birth of their daughter. He'd left her barely alive, trapping her between two realms––the corporeal and the incorporeal––allowing her only short visits to the real world, like a whale
coming up for air.
But he could give it all back to her.
“If only I'd had a son in the first place, Armand would have stayed. Stupid, stupid little girl.”
Outside the castle, the storm rolls on.
Within the stone walls, the dark witch falls asleep, unaware that her daughter, Leah, has witnessed everything from the shadows of one of the long corridors that comprise Larinda’s eternal prison.
ONE
Mr. Tambourine Man
The Dark Root Woods
July, 2014
I STOOD NEAR the yew tree where Shane once carved our initials. My sisters––Ruth Anne, Merry, and Eve––gathered with me in the deep woods, donning sundresses and wide-brimmed hats, or in Ruth Anne's case, camouflage shorts and a dubiously clean T-shirt.
The burial plot was small, no larger than a doll's bed, but big enough for my needs.
I stared at the pit, wondering how I could commit something so precious to the earth below.
It had been three months since Shane disappeared. His truck had been found in a river, and I’d had three months to convince myself that he was not just missing.
He was gone. Forever.
It was supposed to be time for me to move on.
“Maggie,” Merry whispered. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
She stepped forward, concern in her wide blue eyes. Her fingers gently grazed the top of my wrist.
“She needs closure,” Eve said from behind us. “She can't move forward until the circle is complete.”
Circles. Everything came back to circles.
The circle of family. The circle of life. And today, the small golden circle that still graced my ring finger. I stared at the band, remembering how Shane had given it to me in the dream world as we made plans for our future together in the real one.
The Curse of Dark Root: Part Two (Daughters of Dark Root Book 4) Page 1
