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

by Aasheim, April

  His mouth hovered near mine. His hand reached out to brush my hair. My body warmed, defying my heart.

  I glanced towards our son, who was now sleeping soundly in his crib. I flipped off the light and moved into the hall. “Michael...”

  “You don’t have anything better to do, do you?”

  “I need to sleep,” I weakly protested.

  “That never stopped you before.”

  “Hmm, true. But I liked you before.”

  “You liked the sex, too. Admit it.”

  “Shhh...” The walls had ears in this house.

  “Let’s go to your room where we can discuss this in private,” he suggested.

  I paused, exhaling audibly. “We can’t, Michael,” I said simply, walking to my room.

  “I think we can. It’s been awhile but I remember how.”

  “You do?” I laughed, stopping at my bedroom door, trying to remember if I knew how. “It’s like a jigsaw puzzle, right?”

  “Yep. The pieces just snap together.” He led me gently inside the room, locking the door behind us. My heart quickened and I didn’t protest. “Satisfaction guaranteed,” he smiled, unbuttoning his shirt. “Or your money back.”

  “Can I get my money back on all the other times?” I joked.

  It was late and I was exhausted. I knew I should turn him out, but I hadn’t been touched by a man in a very long time. Still, nothing good could come of this union.

  “I’m going to bed,” I announced, backing away. I went into the closet and changed into the bulkiest, fuzziest, pajamas I owned. Pictures of adorable sleeping sheep covered me from neck to ankle. All I needed to complete my “not ever interested in sex” motif was an old-fashioned sleeping cap and some cold cream on my face.

  “Sexy?” I asked, emerging from the closet and flopping onto my unmade bed.

  “You can cover up all you want, Maggie Mae, but I know what you look like naked. You can’t mask those memories with your lambie-pajamies.”

  I looked doubtfully down the length of my body. I might have been attractive once upon a time, but not anymore. I now had stretch marks, lopsided breasts, and a soft layer of padding around my hips. “I don’t look the same, Michael,” I admitted, feeling somehow ashamed.

  He sat down beside me. “You’re beautiful, Maggie. Stop putting yourself down.”

  “Well, men do keep running away from me,” I laughed bitterly. “It’s hard to rally after that.”

  He put a finger to my lips. Then, without warning or permission, he lifted my chin. Suddenly, we were kissing.

  “See?” Michael whispered between kisses. “It’s not bad at all.”

  The terrible realization of my deed slapped me in the face. I was a wanton woman without morals––an unfaithful Jezebel.

  But there was no one to save myself for, except maybe a ghost.

  It was all too horrible, too funny, and too surreal to wrap my mind around. I was 28-years-old now. Would I really go the rest of my life without another man’s touch?

  I needed escape.

  My shoulders relaxed and soon I gave in to the need, into the pain, and to everything in between.

  I moaned as our lips met again, and again. When my moans became groans, Michael laid me on my back, climbing on top of me, his kisses like fire, his hands lost in my tangled hair.

  “Oh God, Maggie. I’ve waited for this for so long.”

  His lips were warm and familiar and kind. His hands were both gentle and insistent as they traveled across my belly, pulling at my pajamas as I finished unbuttoning his shirt. Topless, we pressed our bodies together, staring into each other’s eyes.

  “You feel good,” I admitted, my fingers traveling over his back and broad shoulders. He was more muscular than I remembered. Soon, I was gasping for breath as his hands roamed and inspected every inch of me. I closed my eyes and lost myself in the sensation, consumed by the physical pleasure and the reprieve from reality. Would it darken my soul to sleep with a man purely to vanquish my grief?

  “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he whispered reassuringly when he felt me tense up. “It can just be sex.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, moaning as his fingers kneaded my bare thighs. I moaned again, parting my legs. A little.

  My body burned as if I were on fire. He kissed me, his entire mouth covering mine as I writhed beneath him.

  “I need you,” he said, biting my neck.

  “I need you, too,” I whispered back, lost in nothing but his touch and the raw emotion. I felt like I was floating away.

  His mouth traveled to my ear. “I love you, Maggie.”

  I was in a dark place now, but there was sunshine ahead. A man with soft gray eyes smiled at me in my mind.

  “I love you, too,” I said. “I’ll always love you, Shane.”

  I DIDN’T SLEEP with Michael.

  When I called out Shane’s name, Michael’s entire body stiffened on top of me. We laid there, pressed against one another, neither speaking, both hardly daring to breath. At last, he peeled himself from me and handed me my pajama top.

  “You’re burning up again, Maggie,” he said, letting us both off the hook.

  He left my room, returning with a glass of water, ordering me to drink. I complied like an obedient child. He watched from the rocking chair, his elbows pressed into his knees, his fingers pressed into his temples.

  It wasn’t a lie when he said I was hot. Fever had overcome me and I took the pajamas off completely, no longer caring if he saw me. Really hot. We had missed my fever in our delirium.

  What would have happened had I not called out Shane’s name?

  Would we have gone through with it? If so, then what? Would it have been “just sex” as Michael insisted, or would it have bound us together in yet another way? And could I have faced myself in the morning, knowing the only reason I’d given myself to him was to quell the constant emptiness that came from missing the man I really loved?

  I didn’t know.

  Michael handed me an aspirin, swearing he’d keep an eye on Montana so I could sleep. He also promised to check on me during the night.

  I acquiesced, too tired to reject his offer or to add anything more.

  When he left the room, I reached for another globe. Pulling again from the energy above, I levitated the ball from my radiating hand. I read the date: 1981.

  Soon thereafter, I succumbed to my dreams.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Respect

  Dark Root, Oregon

  December, 1981

  Larinda’s Cabin

  ARMAND RUBBED HIS arms as he stood in the open doorway of Larinda’s cabin. It was cold out. The kind of cold that makes you question whether you should trade in your suede jacket for a parka. He tugged at the beige tassels on his sleeves and shook his head to reassure the jacket he wouldn’t be getting rid of it any time soon. “Diamonds are forever, but a fringed suede jacket will get you through life pretty damned well, too.”

  “What did you say?” Larinda sat up in bed, her bare chest revealing small breasts, looking practically adolescent. Her dark hair, normally tight with curl, sagged across her thin shoulders. Her lips had lost their crimson hue and were now a subdued pink. She must have noticed her glamour spell had slipped––the next moment her breasts increased several cup sizes, her hair was as tight as her ass, and her lips were a luminous red.

  Armand tried not to snarl. He actually liked her better without the guise. A human woman, no matter how plain, beat the hell out of the robot-creature she transformed into.

  “You were saying?” she pressed, standing so that he could take in her entire naked body. Her hips had also widened, and the hair between her legs removed. She must be trying new things to keep his interest. The idea made her even more distasteful to him.

  “I was saying all a man needs in life is a good jacket. And possibly some brandy.”

  “And a good woman,” Larinda added, walking seductively towards him. Her curls loosened and lengthened with each
step, spiraling down her back like Sasha’s in her youth. “We can get through this life and the next together, Armand. Mark my words. We will be a formidable team.”

  “I’d say we already make one.” He wrapped one arm around her slim waist and bent her into a dip. His cowboy hat slipped from his head, but he caught it as it fell. He had already taken her, hours ago, harnessing enough energy for some of his needs. But he needed more. “You’re so beautiful. I’m horny again. What about you?”

  Larinda pretended to blush and he pretended not to be disgusted by it. She lowered herself to her knees as her hands traced the waistband of his jeans, finding the zipper.

  One hand gripped his hips while the other undid his pants. He grew hard, and pulled her to standing by her hair. “You don’t need to warm me up,” he said, smiling. “I’m ready for you now.”

  He lifted her naked body and carried her back to the bed, not bothering to close the door. Outside, snow fell, and Armand concentrated on the cascading snowflakes as he took the witch. She moaned and writhed beneath him. He was used to that. But when she begged him to give her a child, it caught him off guard. Sometimes she was so much a caricature, constantly morphing into guises she thought he’d enjoy, that he forgot she could do mortal-woman things––like getting pregnant and having children.

  Although... a child might solve more than a few of his problems. If her body was still capable of such things.

  He resumed screwing her, siphoning what was left of her strength, breathing it deep into his lungs and letting her life force fill him completely. Her energy was dirty and polluted, like nicotine. But also like nicotine, it was life-affirming, bolstering him. He would need the energy later. At the last moment, he pulled out before she could object.

  Though he needed his heir, he wasn’t sure if he wanted a mutant Larinda-Armand hybrid running around. The child would be an atrocity that not even the devil could love. Still, he’d consider it as a last resort.

  Spent, he collapsed on top of her, unconcerned that he might be crushing her.

  “That was nice,” she said, wrapping her quivering arms around his shoulders.

  “Yeah? Someday I’m going to screw you into another plane,” he said, looking into her nearly colorless eyes. “Maybe I shouldn’t draw so much from you.”

  “Then I’ll die happy, knowing I was of service.”

  He rolled off of her, masking his expression of contempt.

  “Marry me,” she said, smiling, propping her head on her elbow.

  “Ah, hell. You know I’m not a marrying man.” It was a simple statement. And very true.

  She sat fully upright, her eyes wide. “But The Dark is coming! Dora showed me the images of what will be. We can get through it––no––we can thrive! And...” She lowered her eyes as she chewed on her bottom lip. “I could give you your son. Sasha’s too old now.”

  “You’re the same age, or thereabouts. Both cave dwellers.”

  She glowered, and he hoped that was the end of her baby-making talk. He stroked her cheek. In his most sincere tone he said, “Sorry about that. If you’re a cave dweller, you’re the prettiest one ever.”

  She softened and he knew she bought it. With very few exceptions, most women could be won over with compliments and chocolate, no matter how you treated them beforehand. Just tell them they’re pretty and you can’t live without them––then they’re willing to do anything to keep you around.

  Anything.

  “If I’m so pretty, you should marry me,” she continued, undaunted. “We can leave Dark Root and start anew. Find a place on a high mountain where the Dark can’t touch us. We’ll take Sasha’s wand and that crystal bracelet of hers with us.” She rubbed his cheek with the back of her hand. “I don’t know why you stay here, now that you’ve left Sasha. This town can’t save us. Dark Root’s domes will be as fragile as soap bubbles when the end comes.”

  He licked his lips, his excitement rising as she spoke of The Darkness. She feared it, but he would embrace it. Especially once he got his bargaining chip. “You’re right to be worried, babe. I’ve seen glimpses of the End Times when I’m in the tunnels––floods, blackouts, riots. Wars. And that’s just the beginning. From there, things only get worse.”

  “Do you know when, Armand?”

  “No,” he admitted honestly. “Time has a strange sense of humor. It can feel very close and very far away at once.”

  Larinda shivered. Armand knew she wondered if her witchcraft could save her. It couldn’t. But maybe his could. She looked up at him with large, pleading eyes. “I will give you my body, Armand. And my soul. And all my children. I don’t want to face it alone.”

  It was fucking pathetic. Sasha may collaborate with warlocks, but she wasn’t betting on one to save her. Nor did Jillian. He almost couldn’t look at Larinda anymore. She was like a half-dead cat that kept coming to the back door for whatever scraps he would throw at her. It hurt his stomach.

  But...

  If she were a pathetic alley cat, he was either the kind benefactor that fed her, or the pathetic home owner who enjoyed the feedings because he had nothing else in his life. He chose to believe he was the former.

  He looked her warily in the eye, wondering if she knew the full extent of what she offered. He had hinted about the deal he’d made––a deal with whom he could only refer to as The Dark One. The creature had no substance or form, just a presence of incredible power that wasn’t drawn from the Light. In return for elevated magickal ability, Armand promised The Dark One his first male heir.

  Armand wasn’t naïve. He had studied such deals in Joe Garris’ library and Sasha’s spell book. It was never as simple as a handshake and a quick exchange. But if he delivered on his end of the bargain, he would be in the clear. And upon payment, his powers would increase exponentially. It was for this reason that he was intent on summoning demons. A legion of demons under his control would allow him to ride out The Dark very nicely. And then he wouldn’t have to make any further distasteful deals.

  But if Armand didn’t come through with payment... he couldn’t bring himself to imagine the consequences.

  “Armand?” Larinda snapped her fingers, bringing him back to the present. “You didn’t answer me.”

  He had to reply carefully. The witch had already become more guarded with her body lately. Despite his disdain, he needed her. She was his vessel. And perhaps his muse.

  “Alright,” he said, standing and putting on his jeans. “We’ll get married. Then, we can ride this ‘end thing’ out together and live like royalty. Hell, we can even build a castle in the sky if you want.”

  “Yes!” Her eyes held a dreamy cast. “A castle. I’ll be the queen and you’ll be...”

  “Sleeping with all the serving wenches,” he winked. When her expression soured, he held up both hands. “Kidding, babe. Kidding.”

  The sound of footsteps on the porch interrupted them. Sasha and Jillian appeared in the open doorway, bundled in their Winter Solstice costumes. Larinda snapped her fingers and was instantly cloaked in a fur coat. Armand jumped into his jeans and turned to face the women. The absurdity of being caught screwing in Larinda’s illusionary cabin, as well as the stone expression on Sasha’s face, made him laugh out loud. But when he caught sight of Jillian, both embarrassed and sad, he wished he were somewhere else.

  “So this is where you spend your nights.” Sasha stated flatly.

  “And his days,” Larinda added.

  “We should wait outside,” Jillian said, stepping backwards.

  Sasha grabbed her by the arm. “No. This is Armand’s mess and he must be the one to clean it up! Immediately.”

  “Now, what the hell did I do?” Armand demanded. “Besides pay a visit to your charming cousin?”

  Larinda joined him at his side, and he wished he could blink her out of existence.

  “Last I heard, you turned Armand out of your bed, cousin,” Larinda said. “Is it any wonder he comes here, where it’s warm?”

 
“Yours isn’t the only bed he visits,” Sasha said, causing both Larinda and Jillian to redden. “Anyway, my beef isn’t with you. It’s with the warlock. Jillian will explain.”

  Jillian’s eyes were wide and nervous. Armand could tell she had been forced to come. “Armand, remember when you helped me, uh, paint my apartment last week?” She looked at her feet before speaking again. “You didn’t try to...”

  “Were you summoning demons in Joe’s Deli?” Sasha interrupted, her gaze firm and lacking compassion.

  He was genuinely taken aback. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded, pulling on his boots. “I have never tried to summon anything in Joe’s place. That, I can promise you.”

  It was a technicality only. In truth, he hadn’t tried to summon one there yet. But he had tried in other places.

  Sasha narrowed her eyes, attempting to read his aura. He could hide from her, but it was harder to hide from Jillian. Not only was she better at reading people, she knew him too well. Luckily, Jillian was more concerned with getting the hell out of there than on delving deeper in his mind.

  But Sasha wasn’t letting him off the hook so easily. “There’s a dark presence in the diner now, one that wasn’t there until recently. I know Jillian and Joe aren’t responsible. I can only assume it was you.”

  He shrugged. “First off, this town attracts all kinds of loonies, thanks to you advertising it as ‘haunted.’ One of our creepy tourists may have brought it along with them.”

  “Armand?” Sasha pressed.

  “No. I haven’t summoned any demons so you two can cool your jets. And even if I did try, I wouldn’t do it in Delilah’s. For cripes’ sake, that’s where I eat.”

  Sasha’s face softened slightly. “So our new visitor isn’t your doing?”

  “Hell, woman, I don’t know. Jillian’s always talking about ‘hitchhikers.’ Maybe it’s one of those.”

  Jillian nodded, hesitantly. “It might be. It’s a dark entity, but I can’t get a read on it. It could have very easily followed him in.”

  Sasha puckered her lips, staring him down, waiting for him to break. But he didn’t. She breathed deeply, trying to control her rage. She wanted to catch him, to prove once and for all that warlocks were bad and witches were good. Sasha and her double standards.