The Curse of Dark Root: Part Two (Daughters of Dark Root Book 4) (10 page)

“No!” I slapped my palm into the counter, feeling the sting. “No home jarred peas. And no 'little somethings.' Got it?”

Merry put her clenched hands on her hips, her blue eyes penetrating mine. “You don't want me preparing Montana's food now? Why?”

“Yeah, Maggie,” Eve echoed, opening a sack of rice cakes. “What gives?”

“From now on, I'm the only one who is going to give him his food.” My breasts prickled and almost instantly my shirt was soaked. “See? This is why my son won't take my milk anymore! It’s probably because you two are sneaking him canned peas when I'm not around or giving him sleeping powder so he naps through dinnertime.”

I leaned forward, dunking my face beneath the running kitchen faucet while the others gawked behind me.

“You’re pale,” Merry observed, handing me a towel. “As white as a ghost. I think you're overtired.”

Overtired: a term she used when June Bug got cranky.

“I think you're right, Merry. I am tired. I'm tired of...” I looked around the outdated kitchen, with its outdated wallpaper and appliances that hardly worked, its collection of freakish knickknacks on shelves and rails and crammed wherever else they would fit. We were living in a museum. I opened my arms to showcase the worn room. “Aren't you tired of all of this?”

“No one's making you stay here.” Merry tossed the towel on the counter and stormed out of the kitchen. “As a matter of fact, you have a perfectly good house you refuse to live in.”

I snorted. She knew the reason I stayed away from Harvest Home. The three reasons, in fact: Jillian, Dora, and Michael. I wasn't speaking to Jillian and Dora after the deal they'd made on my behalf, and I tried to see Michael as little as possible for sanity's sake.

“I'm not saying I'm tired of this house...” I said, following her into the living room.

“Then what are you saying?” Merry asked, opening the drapes to let in the evening sun.

“I'm tired of being a witch.”

“How can you call yourself a witch? You're a
wilder
. You never use proper magick, and when you do...” She stopped, catching herself before she brought up the summoning circle incident.

“I'm still a witch, caster or not. It's no wonder I'm cursed. Normal people don't get cursed. Normal people get the flu and call in sick for two days. Maybe we should try to live normal lives for a change. Don't we owe that to our kids?”

Eve raised both eyebrows. “We're in Dark Root. There's no getting away from magick here.”

“Tell me, Maggie,” Merry tagged on. “How do you propose we find this normalcy?”

“We can start by cleaning out this house. There are weird things and pictures and whatchamacallits everywhere.” I marched around the living room, pointing out photos of mother and her coven, sipping tea in pointed hats out in the garden. I showed them book after book on the art, history, and science of witchcraft. And I presented shrunken heads and looking glasses and bottles labeled with obscure plants and herbs. “All of these things mark us as witches, even if we're the only ones who see them.”

“It's who we are,” Eve said. “We all tried to run from it, but each of us came back. Including you.”

I huffed, ignoring her, the fever working me into a lather. “Another thing––where's our damned cat? Maggie-Cat disappeared months ago. Doesn't that concern you?” I looked around, nearly hysterical.

“Even normal people have cats that that disappear for a while,” Merry argued.

“A while? I’m telling you, it's witchcraft. Maggie-Cat either disappeared because of magick, or ran away because she was afraid of it.”

“He,” Eve corrected.

“What?”

“Maggie-Cat is a he.”

“Thank you for the public service announcement, Eve. If he ever returns, I'll be careful not to hurt
his
feelings by calling him a her.”

“Look, Maggie,” Eve said, stepping beside Merry. They both faced me, hands on their hips, united. “We’ve put up with your crap for days, but we’re done being your emotional punching bags.”

Merry nodded quickly in agreement. “Yes. We're done.”

I slumped against the back of the couch, wiping the perspiration from my face. They were right. I had been a pain in the ass. “I'm sorry. I'm just so worried.”

“With all of us here, why would you worry?” Eve asked.

I hesitated for a moment. “Because the curse was never broken.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell us?” My sisters demanded in unison.

I shook my head. “It never left. I thought in time it would go away, but I'm feeling weaker now, like someone's slowly letting the air of out me. I don't know what to do.”

Merry hurried into the kitchen and briskly returned with a steaming cup of cinnamon and eucalyptus brew. Some families handled tragedy with counseling––ours handled it with hot tea.

“Chock full of nutrients with no extra magickal ingredients,” she said, winking.

“Thanks.” I breathed in the comforting aroma, feeling the warmth nourish me with each sip. “I should have told you about what was going on, but I didn't want to worry you guys.”

“So, you chose bitchy instead?” Eve asked.

I looked over at my son. He laid curled up in his bassinet, the tip of his thumb tucked into his mouth. “I don't want Montana to be around magick, at least until I figure out the source of this damned curse.”

Merry nodded. “I understand, but Maggie, kids naturally believe in magic. There's Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, and fairies and leprechauns and rainbows.” She shrugged. “Would you really want to take that from him?”

I clenched my jaw. “I don't know. Maybe.”

“Sounds pretty boring to me,” Eve said.

“Me too,” I admitted. “But a little boredom might do us all some good.”

THAT EVENING, MERRY, Eve and I ate a silent dinner while Ruth Anne regaled us with tales from her third visit to Wings and Wrenches. “And just when you think the wings are gone, poof! More!” Her eyes sparkled as she wiped her lips with a restaurant napkin. “They said no one has ever finished ‘The Cluckin' More Platter’, but I did it in less than an hour. They took my picture and everyone clapped.” She leaned forward, lifting a finger. “Then they brought in the ‘Gobble Till You Wobble’ plate and the whole restaurant grew eerily quiet.”

I stabbed at one of her leftover wings with my fork. “So, to make a long story––”

“––very long,” Merry interjected.

“A very long story short,” I continued. “Many chickens died for your stomach today.”

“They didn't all die,” Ruth Anne said sourly. “Just their flappers.”

Suddenly full, I put my fork down and gave her a tough glare.

“What crawled up your nursing bra?” she asked.

“Maggie is going through magick detox,” Eve explained, dabbing at the barbecue sauce on her cheek. She had no trouble eating Ruth Anne's leftovers.

“What does that mean?” Ruth Anne asked.

“Apparently, our sister is still cursed,” Merry announced, her voice flat.

“Ah, shit. I'm sorry.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“No,” Eve agreed. “She just wants to be passive-aggressive about it.”

“Aggressive-aggressive,” Merry corrected.

“So she is trying to get away from magick?” Ruth Anne asked, as if I wasn’t in the room.

“Apparently,” Eve said.

“Good luck with that, but I'm here for you if you need me. I promise not to take you on any more ghost hunts until you're uh, better.” She glanced at Montana in his highchair. “How's the munchkin doing?”

“He's fine as long as he has a bottle. I guess it's a good thing he's taken to canned baby food and formula.” I looked briefly into my lap.

“Don't worry, Mags. Little Monty will be fine. You just take care of you right now.”

“Please stop calling him Monty. Makes him sound like he's part of a British comedy troupe.”

Ruth Anne scratched her head. “How about MJ?”

Merry shivered. “I hear MJ and I think dead pop star. Next?”

We all glanced at my son, who was pushing a Cheerio around his highchair tray with his finger, a goofy grin plastered on his face.

“How about pumpkin?” Merry suggested. “It's both sweet and accurate.”

“But what if it sticks?”

“He won't need a costume for The Haunted Dark Root Festival,” Ruth Anne said pragmatically.

“With those eyes, we could call him Goldie,” Eve offered.

“Locks or Hawn?” I asked.

“How about Rusty?” Ruth Anne asked.

I pursed my lips. “Wasn't that the name of our first dog?”

“Our only dog,” Ruth Anne said, solemnly.

Montana caught us studying him. He giggled so hard that bubbles sprung from his nose. My heart both melted and felt like it wanted to burst at the same time. I retrieved him from the highchair, pressing his cheek into mine. He pinched at my hair with his fingers, drooling all the while.

“Let's just call him Montana,” I said. “The poor kid has enough going against him, already. He doesn't need a bad nickname, too.”

“And you think calling him a state will help?” Ruth Anne asked.

I shut her down with a hard look.

“Fine,” she said, pulling back from the table. “But that kid’s going to need therapy, mark my words.”

“You're probably right,” I agreed.

But not necessarily because of his name.

SEVEN

Proud Mary

I WOKE THE next morning, stiff from the sofa but happy I'd talked to my sisters. If we got rid of magick––all magick––perhaps we'd be rid of the curse. Creating a normal life was the first step in freeing me of my sickness. I felt better already, in fact.

“It's hard to believe there's anything wrong with the world on a day like this,” I said to Montana as I put him in the sling draped across my chest. He wrestled me, kicking and squirming, but I finally won. “Ha, ha,” I teased, sticking out my tongue. He smiled and poked his own tongue out in mimicked response.

Outside, we were greeted by a sky so blue it felt as if I'd stepped into a masterwork painting. Wildflowers bloomed along the sides of the house and in the backyard, and the entire world smelled of honeysuckle and lavender. There was a quiet coolness to the air that nearly required a sweater––a gentle reminder that summer didn't last and soon we'd all be bundled up again.