The Curse of Dark Root: Part Two (Daughters of Dark Root Book 4) (22 page)

To keep out dark witches and malevolent spirits.

“She’s worried about Larinda coming, isn’t she?”

“Yes. She salts the house daily and reads tea leaves on the hour, waiting for signs.” Jillian sighed. “Maggie, your aunt is not well. I stay here as much for her as for you.”

“What can we do?”

“Break this curse.”

“But how, Jillian? I’m lost.”

“Me, too. But you might find the answer in the globes. Call it witches’ intuition.”

She nodded towards the hardwood floor. Peeking out from beneath my bed was the leather case. It seemed my sisters hadn’t gotten rid of our things after all, they’d relocated them.

Jillian put the case on my bed. I felt immediately drawn to it, like an old friend I’d been missing. “Learn what you can from these, for yourself and your son. The key to the future can usually be found in the past.” She patted my hand and went to the door.

“Jillian...” I stopped her before she left. “There is something I’ve been wondering about––why does Larinda want me to know the history of Dark Root so badly?”

She shrugged uneasily. “If I could tell you, I would. Some things you have to discover on your own.”

I wondered briefly about Larinda’s motives. Did she want me to know my father’s faults? Or implicate Jillian as a home-wrecker? Or perhaps, she just wanted me to know that Mother was so focused on her mission, she could also be cold and uncaring.

Or was there even more?

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I know you’re bound by Mother’s spell. I won’t ask again. But there is something else.”

“Yes?”

“I took something from another plane.”

Her eyes became slits. “Pardon?”

I lifted my left finger. “I used to have a ring. Shane gave it to me in the dream world and I brought it back with me. He said he’d never heard of that happening before.”

Jillian’s chest heaved quickly. “Then your abilities are even more developed than I thought. Magick is passed down through lineage, sometimes getting more potent with each generation.” She paused, considering the implications. “You’re going to need to be a strong and confident witch, capable of handling a strong warlock son. We need to get you healthy as soon as possible.”

“I’ll do whatever I can. I’m done running.”

“Me too, Maggie,” she said. “Goodnight, sweet dreams.” Her eyes flickered to the case once more, before she turned off the overhead light.

Once she closed the door, I plucked the next globe from the case. It had an expectant energy about it, buzzing in my hand like a purring kitten. I rolled the sphere across my palm, pedestal side up, feeling its gentle currents tickle my skin.

Magick is passed down through lineage.

I concentrated on the globe, willing it to rise from my hand. It wobbled, or perhaps warbled, pushing away from my palm like a hesitant balloon. It felt heavy and I wanted to drop it.

But if Montana could steal Ruth Anne’s keys by pure force of will, I could do this. I
needed
to do this.

I looked around the dark room, searching for something to draw from. The surrounding land had been drained of energy, but there were other things to pull from.

My gaze went upwards. Michael was in the attic. My father had drawn from other people and it made him stronger. Maybe...

No!

I wouldn’t walk my father’s path.

I sat in concentration, the globe on the verge of succumbing to gravity. Though I was a wilder, I was still fed. But by what?

The answer came quickly and out of nowhere.

The sky. The rain. The electricity in the air.

How could I have not seen it before? My problems with lights blowing out. The heavy rains. Killing the radio.

I visualized a thin bolt of white lightning piercing down through the roof and the attic, into my hand. I felt it charge me, like plugging into an outlet. My body vibrated gently.

I had been powered on.

Returning my focus to the globe, it lifted higher into the air, steady and firm. It was no longer heavy, but weightless.

I leaned back, sinking into the pillow, smiling at my victory while I continued to study the globe.

Eventually, my eyelids dipped and I let the ball sink––light as a feather––back into my hand. I placed it on the pillow beside me, sensing the magick within.

“If you’re somehow behind this curse, I’ll crush you,” I promised, rolling it beneath my palm.

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.