The Curse of Dark Root: Part One (Daughters of Dark Root Book 3)

by April Aasheim

  “Say,” the lady said as I made her change. “Do you have any idea when Dip Stix will reopen? I’m from out of town and I heard they make the best biscuits and gravy.”

  “No idea,” I shrugged.

  The lady looked disappointed and I directed her to the pie shop down the road.

  “Where is Shane, anyway?” Eve asked, joining me at the register. Her energy was calmer now. She must have added something to her tea.

  “He had an emergency,” I said. “Had to leave for a while.”

  Eve arched an eyebrow. “Hmmm. Must be some emergency, to leave you like this.”

  That evening, after closing up the shop, I tramped over to Dip Stix while Eve visited the bookstore to buy a gift for Nova. I peered through the smoky glass window and sighed. It was still hard to believe that the inside of Shane’s beautiful restaurant now lay under a layer of ash.

  Shane’s truck was gone and the front door was locked. I tapped my fingers against the glass. I had lost my temper with him and I regretted it. Still, he was the one who had left me.

  I checked my cell. Not one missed phone call or text. I should have put the globes off another day; he might have tried to visit me in my dreams. I could call him myself, but I knew he would contact me soon. I was certain of it.

  “You ready?” Eve yelled from across the street as she jingled Merry’s car keys.

  I nodded and joined her.

  “What are you doing tonight?” she asked.

  “Having supper and going to bed early.”

  “Sounds depressing.”

  My eyes wandered back to the Closed sign hanging in the Dip Stix window. “It is.”

  THIRTEEN

  Who’ll Stop the Rain

  Dark Root, Oregon

  April, 1968

  Sister House

  Sasha sat in a pile of junk, attempting to sort it out. Papers, folders, photos, and memorabilia collected over the years. How many years, Armand didn’t know. She was secretive when it came to her age, even vain. He knew she used her magic wand every once in a while to keep her youthful appearance––“cheaper than cold cream,” she said with a laugh––but the longer she was in Dark Root, the more angst she suffered over using it.

  A war was on the horizon, she assured him, and she’d need all the magic in the wand for that purpose, and not for mere vanity.

  “What war?” he asked. “Vietnam?”

  “Yes. It has the possibility of escalating. There might even be a draft. We need to use everything in our arsenal to minimize the suffering.” She fluttered her false eyelashes as she took the last drag from her Pall Mall. “Fight the Darkness, Armand. That’s what we do.”

  She was right, he admitted.

  Things were heating up in Vietnam, and there was no end in sight. Back in L.A., his friends were growing nervous, some threatening to move to Canada if the rumors about the draft came true. Others said they’d prefer to go to jail than to fight in a war they had no business being in. It was bad news, all around.

  Sasha and her small band of followers, including Armand, had performed several rituals of Light, each time asking for divine help. But how was anyone to know if all that wand waving and spell-casting did any good? The world went on, as screwed up and misaligned as ever.

  If Sasha was relying on her wand to end this war, she’d need a bigger wand.

  The pretty witch slumped and rubbed the sides of her temples as she gazed into the pile before her. “All of this stuff has residual energy attached to it and it’s making my head hurt. Let’s go outside a minute.”

  “Fine with me.” Armand was more than happy to get out of the stifling house. So many of the items they unearthed were old or magical or both. It was intoxicating at times, yet asphyxiating at others.

  Sasha opened the grand front door.

  It was raining. Again. Even in the springtime, Dark Root was the dankest place Armand had ever seen.

  “My kingdom for a clear day,” he sighed, pulling on a raincoat that had belonged to one of the home’s former residents.

  Sasha stepped outside, lifting her face to the clouds, raising her arms, letting the rain wash over her. “It’s purifying.” She smiled, her hair sticking to the sides of her face. “And good for your skin.”

  “It’s depressing.”

  She turned slightly, gazing at him over her shoulder. “I could make the rain stop. If I wanted to.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  She shrugged, tapping on the wand dangling from the macramé belt around her slim waist. “The rain keeps this land pristine. Unless it gets so bad we need an ark, changing the weather is a huge waste of magick.”

  He pulled the hood up on his raincoat. “I don’t get it.”

  “There’s only so much magick in the world, Armand, even in Dark Root where it’s as thick as pudding. It’s not unlike moisture in that way, stored in every living creation around us and harbored in the earth at our feet. Every spell we cast depletes it. It will recycle and return to its natural state of balance, but it may take a while.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that you can’t stop the rain?”

  “I’m saying, we need to choose our battles, especially when Mother Nature is involved.”

  He laughed. “Maybe I should get a notepad.”

  She bounded from the steps into the graveled lot, her arms open and wide. “This is what it’s all about,” she said sniffing the air, breathing in the scent of azaleas, pine and rain as Armand followed. “Once this place gets in your blood, it’s there forever.”

  He said nothing as he tagged along.

  He didn’t love the woods like Sasha did, but he sensed their power. Sasha claimed the local Indians held this region sacred, and had refused to build on it. But that hadn’t stopped Sasha’s mother, Juliana, from staking claim to it and using its magick for her own purposes. Armand felt it too, felt it seep into him day by day, strengthening him like fresh oxygen.

  He had once charged up his abilities through sex. Now he just breathed it in. He was on his way to becoming as powerful as Sasha, and itching to use those powers in ways that reaped tangible rewards.

  The two wound their way past an overgrown gated garden, currently supplying nothing more than weeds and dead onions, and towards an outcrop of smaller trees near the edge of the property where the clearance met the forest.

  Armand caught sight of the golden chain that dangled around Sasha’s neck, once again feeling the allure of its enchantment. In less than two years, the ankh would be his.

  “You ever think of using your abilities for anything other than war?” he asked casually, glancing at their run-down house over his shoulder. With their combined talents, they could fix the house. Hell, they could build a new one with modern amenities. “I feel like I’m living in a Third World country sometimes.”

  Sasha turned to face him, her eyes cold. “You saw the Horseman yourself in Spain, Armand. Do you recall how he held his scale out to you? The end is coming. There is only one more Horseman left before…” She shivered, her brown curls loosening themselves from the knot on top of her head. “...Before the Darkness comes for us all.”

  “Hell, I’m not sure what I saw in Spain anymore. It could have been all the brandy I was drinking. Or the psychedelics.”

  He shrugged, trying to dislodge the memory of that day last October. He had been drinking and gambling and it had ended badly, with him being ripped out of the cantina through a back door. Three guys had started to rough him up but had been spooked away by a skeletal rider holding a set of scales. The Third Horseman, Sasha claimed.

  From that she had determined, the end of the world was in sight and Armand was somehow involved.

  Sasha puckered her lips thoughtfully. “Never doubt that you’re here for a reason,” she said. “And I’m charged with helping you. We will make the best of it.”

  Charged? She said it as if it were work that had been assigned to her.

  He continued to follow, watching her small fr
ame, wondering what went inside that mind of hers. Did she really only think of him as her “student with benefits?” Or were her feelings deeper than what she revealed?

  She waded through knee-high grass beyond a small upshot of trees, to a tiny vine-covered knoll which she cleared away with her booted foot.

  Armand slipped behind her, fastening his arms around her waist. She smelled good. “I enjoyed myself last night,” he said. “I can still feel your energy flowing through me. You’re a powerful woman, for someone who doesn’t weigh a buck-fifty soaking wet.”

  Her body relaxed against his. “Yes, that was really good. I’d almost forgotten how sexy you can be.”

  “Forgotten? Since when? The night before?” His hands drifted from her waist to her small breasts, cupping them. “I’ll remind you again later.”

  Sasha’s foot made contact with something hard in the earth and she squealed. Breaking free of his arms, she fell forward to her knees. “Armand, look!”

  She pointed to a round stone swallowed by weeds. The words Juliana Benbridge were etched crudely into the rock. “My mother’s grave marker.” Sasha pulled at the thorny vines encasing it.

  “She was the founder of Dark Root, right? See, I pay attention to my history lessons.” Armand caught a quick smile on her face. “Why isn’t there a date marker on it?”

  “No one knew how old she was. Not even me.”

  “Like mother, like daughter.”

  She sighed wistfully. “Time has a strange way of stopping here.”

  “So it’s like purgatory then?” He pulled down his hood and scratched the back of his neck, sensing that someone, or something, was watching him. He looked around warily but saw nothing. “Ah, hell.”

  Sasha stood, wiping the dirt from her hands and knees before unbuttoning and removing his rain jacket. “Don’t be cynical. We have work to do. Lots and lots of work. The Dark won’t hold back itself.”

  “I wish it would.” He raised an eyebrow, still sensing the presence of something, but decided against mentioning it. Sasha was a sensitive, too. If it were bad, she would surely know.

  “So,” he asked as she worked her fingers on his button-down, green paisley shirt. “What happens if we don’t hold back the Dark? If we just give in to it? Would that be so bad?”

  She cocked her head and her sunshine aura dimmed to a murky brown. “Then we fall, Armand. Just like other planets and planes have fallen across the universe. We become another failed experiment.”

  “But we have fun first, right?”

  “Warlocks!” She threw him a disdainful headshake and marched her way back towards Sister House.

  FOURTEEN

  Turn Turn Turn

  Dark Root, Oregon

  March, 2014.

  Sister House

  “Gather ‘round girls!”

  Aunt Dora’s firm voice called up to us in Merry’s room, where Eve was performing a gender test for my baby with the aid of a pendulum. I reclined on the bed with my shirt pulled up while she hovered a pendant above my abdomen. If it swung in straight lines, I was going to have a girl and if it swung in circles, I was having a boy. I suffered moments of silent alarm when the chain merely hung limp. Then, it went haywire, undulating in crazy figure eights.

  Eve pocketed the chain. “This won’t work. Maggie’s energy is too intense.”

  “I already know it’s going to be a boy,” I said, pulling down my shirt. “I had a vision.”

  “It does have a masculine energy,” Merry admitted as she gave my stomach a soft pat.

  “But so does Maggie,” Eve said, quite matter-of-factly.

  Ruth Anne watched the proceedings with an entertained expression, occasionally extolling the virtues of modern technology for such tasks while Eve reminded her that pendulums were cheaper and had been used for centuries.

  “Girls!” Our aunt’s voice was more insistent.

  I adjusted my clothes and we went into the living area, where Aunt Dora stood with a tray of tea while Jillian balanced several silver platters filled with pastries and finger foods.

  “It is teatime,” Aunt Dora announced when she had our full attention. Using her cane, she hobbled to the sidebar and produced a conical purple hat which she fastened beneath her chin. She pointed to a line of hats in various shapes and colors, indicating that we should each choose one.

  “This is going to give me hat-hair,” Eve complained. She assessed the assortment, puckering and frowning as she sized each one up.

  “A real tea party calls fer proper headgear,” Aunt Dora said. “And don’t forget yer gloves.”

  Michael meandered in from the den, carrying a set of nunchuks. He twirled each one in turn, then spun them both at once. It was a clunky maneuver and I laughed when he hit his head.

  “You ladies have fun,” he said. “I’ll keep practicing.”

  “Don’t break the TV.” Ruth Anne eyed the poor TV on its last legs.

  “If I do, I’ll buy another.”

  Ruth Anne’s eyes lit up but Merry gave her a “don’t-get-any-ideas” look and she backed down.

  Merry touched Michael’s shoulder. “Eve’s got crumpets in the oven. Can you keep an eye on them?”

  “I’ll be glad to keep an eye on Eve’s crumpets,” Michael winked.

  Aunt Dora opened the front door. “We’ll meet in the garden.”

  Merry seized a wide-brimmed sunhat and placed it on her head. “I feel so glamorous,” she said, catching her reflection in the mirror. “I just need some oversized sunglasses and a convertible.”

  “I’ll rent one and take you for a drive,” Michael offered, tossing one set of nunchuks into the air and catching it clumsily with his other hand.

  Eve looked at me in exasperation.

  I focused my attention on the weapon in Michael’s hand. When he swung it between his legs, it cracked him right in the groin.

  “Oomph!” His face went white. He doubled over.

  Eve laughed and Merry’s eyes widened. Michael slowly rose to standing, composed himself, and then limped off towards the kitchen.

  “Let’s get back to the task at hand,” Jillian said giving me a knowing glance before setting down her tray to search for a hat of her own.

  Ruth Anne grabbed a red baseball cap with the words “Eat at Joe’s” stitched across the front. She pushed it onto her head, covering most of her short hair. “Got mine!”

  After much deliberation, Eve picked up a bright pink beret, grumbling that she had just shampooed and conditioned. She popped it on and looked as cute as ever.

  “Your turn, Maggie,” Merry said.

  After trying a few on, I settled on a tall conical hennin much like Aunt Dora’s, with silver ribbons that streamed from the top. It looked ridiculous but I knew it would make my aunt happy.

  “That’s June Bug’s,” Merry smiled, her lips soft and her eyes drifting towards the window. “She’ll be glad to know you chose it. I’ll tell her when I call her tonight.”

  At last, Jillian took her turn, her index finger locked into the dimple of her chin. Her eyes glistened when they fell upon a tie-dyed, crocheted beanie with a bright purple flower.

  “This used to be mine!” she said. Her energy shimmered around her like pixie dust. “I thought for sure Sasha would have thrown this out when I…when we ended things. I’m glad she kept it.”

  I couldn’t imagine fashion-forward Jillian wearing such a thing, until she placed the beanie on her head. It fit perfectly––in size and personality.

  “Mama never threw out anything,” Merry said.

  Jillian checked her reflection in the window. “I miss wearing this.”

  “Take it with you,” I said. “I’m sure Mother would want you to have it.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Jillian sighed heavily as she continued to gaze at her reflection. But she was no longer looking at her current self, I realized. She was looking into her past.

  We gathered in the garden, which was now coming alive again under Merry
’s ardent care. Some of the flowers I recognized. There were golden lilies, with their mouths turned up towards the sky, nested in among the abundant violets Eve used for her love potions. A lilac bush sprouted in the far corner, its amethyst sprigs a hub for honeybees. And near the gate a rose bush stood guard, its delicate buds starting to open, breathing again after a cruel winter.

  There were other flowers I couldn’t name––a vibrant splattering of color besieging us, as if some master painter had dipped his brush into an endless palette and flecked it across a cream-colored canvas.

  “I wish Mama were here,” Merry said wistfully as she ducked beneath a tree limb that hung over the wrought iron gate. She breathed in deeply, enjoying the scents of honeysuckle and the freshly baked scones she carried.

  There were clouds smattered across the baby-blue sky, white and fluffy like cotton candy.

  “It’s even more beautiful now than I remember,” I said as I called up images of our childhood. We four had played tag and hide-and-seek among the rose bushes and azaleas once upon a time. Ruth Anne and I were always so careless in our crusade to “win,” trampling plants in the process, but Merry would stay after, tending to the injured, blowing on them as if cooling a bowl of hot soup. With her magic breath they were whole again, just as they were now.

  “You’re amazing, Merry,” I whispered and she smiled back at me.

  “Tea Time will be over before ya slowpokes get here,” Aunt Dora bellowed, her voice carrying across the garden. We paraded to a round table beneath the overhang of a large oak tree, draped in white-laced cloth and surrounded by six brightly-painted wooden chairs in various colors.

  “Aunt Dora, this is beautiful,” Merry decreed, her eyes aglow as she took in the delicate china cups and silver spoons, the pink roses that sat at the side of each place setting, the piles of cookies and cucumber sandwiches neatly arranged on a three-tiered platter, and the cracked porcelain teapot decorated with powder-blue flowers and fine golden scrollwork.

  Aunt Dora’s chest puffed with pride but she didn’t respond.