The Curse of Dark Root: Part Two (Daughters of Dark Root Book 4) (40 page)

WHEN MY FEVER finally broke, I was given dry crackers and sent to bed with another mug of yarrow tea. As I laid on top of the sheets, seeing colored tracers, Michael slipped into the room and closed the door behind him.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I had to check on you, which wasn't easy. Dora must have been a prison guard in a past life.” He sat on the edge of my bed, his breath stinking of wine. “Are you alright?”

He put a hand on my knee and I brushed it away. “I'm better now but these attacks are getting worse.”

“That's only part of what I meant. Shane returned after you thought him dead. There must be psychological effects. It's no wonder you are fainting and feverish.”

He reached for me and I rolled away. “I'm fine, Michael,” I said, slurring my words. I could hardly feel my tongue anymore. “Go to bed. We'll talk in the morning.”

He looked me over. “Your face is still flushed.”

“I just had a bath.”

“You feel clammy, too.”

I pointed weakly to the door. “Michael, it's over. I'm sorry if I led you on. That's on me. I was heartbroken and distraught, trying to do what I thought was best for Montana. You caught me at a weak moment. Can you chalk it up to that?”

He paused, searching my eyes for the truth. At last he nodded, a silhouette of sadness. “I'll let you sleep, Maggie, but I can't let you go.”

“I will always care for you, Michael. I've gotten beyond my anger and I think we've developed an actual friendship, which was something we never had, even when we were together...

“We're friends,” I reiterated. “And that's all we can be. I'm in love with Shane. He's the other half of my soul.”

I thought Michael would laugh at me. I know I sounded silly and dramatic.

Instead, he looked down at his feet. “I understand. God has a plan for you. I hope he still has one for me.”

“I'm sorry,” I whispered as he disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.

And I really was.

SHANE APPEARED SOON after, a towel knotted around his bare waist. I caught my breath as our eyes met, his expression both mischievous and coy. He locked the door, dropping the towel to the floor.

The sight of his clean, naked body reinvigorated me. “Another shower?” I asked.

“Nah, just waiting for my clothes to dry. I hope you don't mind if I wait it out in here.”

“I'd have it no other way.” He laid beside me and I caught his scent of Irish Spring and beer.

“Feeling any better?” he asked.

“Better every minute,” I responded, locking into his eyes.

“Have you ever had anyone else in this bed?” He scooted close, his hand caressing my thigh. “Well?”

“I'll have to think on that.” I tapped my fingers against his hip, ignoring the spell his body cast on mine. “There may have been a few.”

“Oh?” Shane brushed the back of his hand along my leg. “Go on.”

I held up one finger. “Leo.”

Shane's face soured as he waved his hand, an invitation to move on.

“And Jillian. Oh, and Montana.”

He licked his lips, not breaking eye contact. “Michael?”

“Why, Shane Doler, are you jealous?”

“Should I be?”

“I don't know. Should I be jealous you've been with your wife?”

“Ex-wife. And nothing happened, Maggie.” He traced my lips with his fingers. “Not even a kiss.”

“Not even a little one?”

“A peck on the cheek when we parted ways. That's all.”

I searched his eyes. They were somehow gray again. “I believe you.”

“Good. I won’t lie to you again. That's not the kind of man I want to be.” He lifted his hand. “Scout’s honor.”

It wasn't the kind of person I wanted to be either. I rolled back my shoulders, knowing I needed to confess. “Nothing happened with Michael, but there were a few times I felt really... close to him.”

Shane's finger froze in place on my lips. “What stopped you?”

“The first time, I called him your name. The second time, you called mine.”

“Har!” A laugh, gritty yet amused.

I waited for him to pull away, but he laid still.

“Please don't be mad. I thought you were dead.” I brushed the hair out of his eyes, urging him to look me.

After several missed heartbeats, he finally responded, “It's alright. All I care about is that you're all mine now, and that we get you healthy.”

“I’m one thousand percent yours. One million, trillion percent. One gaz––”

“Maggie... be quiet.”

He kissed me, so softly our lips barely touched.

“Nothing will ever come between us again,” I promised. “Even death.”

He kissed me deeper. Warmth flooded my body as I surrendered to him.

I glanced at the leather case on my nightstand.

The last globe could wait another hour.

THIRTY

You Keep Me Hanging On

Dark Root, Oregon

August, 1986

Sister House

“THANK YOU FOR coming.” Sasha opened the front door of Sister House, surprising Armand by the darkness that greeted him. He removed his beaten hat, squinted uncertainly, and stepped inside.

The place was haunted, he realized, but not by ghosts. Or even demons.

It was haunted by Sasha herself.

Her energy was so dense he coughed as he followed her through the living room, as if wading through layers of smoke. A sharp wave of nostalgia hit him as he recalled his first day in Dark Root, so many years ago. The couple had marched into the house then, reclaiming it while making plans for the future as they tore away sheets cloaking the furniture.

Sasha had promised him her ankh that day––a promise she never fulfilled. When all was said and done, it was her fault for the way things turned out. The forgotten ankh was just one of the many promises she never kept.

Armand clapped his hands as he passed a lamp, lighting the room, but not by much. He kicked several small boxes out of the way as he made for the sofa. He fell into it, ignoring the dust geyser that plumed up from the cushions. He thought he’d only been gone a few years, but by the looks of the house–– dusty, cluttered, and dark–– it could have been decades.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, crossing his feet and slinging them onto the coffee table. “Homey.”

Sasha was as stiff and formal as an old school teacher, wearing a high-collared dress with sleeves that reached her hands. “I’m a mother now, Armand. I’ve no time for trivialities like cleaning.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Hey, babe. I’m not judging. It’s just different, that’s all.”

A little girl with round glasses and straight brown hair emerged from the kitchen, holding Dora’s hand. In her other hand, she carried a book with a cookie balanced on top. Armand inspected her a moment––just to see for himself. A quick scan of her appearance and her energy confirmed that she was not his. He folded his hands behind his head and returned his attention to Sasha, feeling Dora’s evil eye as she and the girl ascended the staircase.

“Cute kid,” he said.

“Her name is Ruth Anne, and you remember Dora.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Tea?” Sasha motioned to a tray of cookies and an iron kettle centered on an oddly clean end table.

Armand sniffed a cookie, then took a bite. It was a bizarre scene, him and “Old Lady Sasha” together again. He wondered briefly if he’d wandered into another dream. The Netherworld could be tricky to navigate, with its multiple planes and altered realities, so walking into someone’s dream wasn’t unheard of. He sat quietly, second-guessing his decision to return, waiting for Sasha to explain herself. When he could no longer tolerate her loud chewing and the incessant tick of the grandfather clock, he broke.

“Why the hell did you call me here?” he demanded, uncrossing his legs and slamming his boots onto the floor. The tea cup rattled on the table beside him.

Sasha put down her tea and studied him, her face expressionless. She must need something from him, and badly. When he left Dark Root for L.A., she swore she’d never waste another breath on him. Whatever plagued her now was enough to overcome her tremendous pride.

She bent forward in her high-backed chair, opening her palms. “I need you to come back. The Council needs you. Your talents are wasted in L.A.”

“What do you care of my talents? You’ve never respected them before.” He leaned forward, pressing his elbows into his thighs, his hands fused together beneath his chin. “I’ve got a following now. I’ve built a name for myself and I tell you, when the shit hits the fan, I’ll have people behind me.” He sat up, waving his fingers in mimic of her spell casting. “You think you’re safe here?” He sneered, and the sneer turned into a laugh. “You’re ill prepared, Sasha. The old guard is dying. You need people. Supplies. A hideout. And possibly... allies.”

Sasha lifted her chin. “Those entities you’re allying yourself with are the loan sharks of the Netherworld. Not to be trusted––no matter what they promise. I’m worried about you.”

Armand turned his head and coughed into the crook of his arm. “Bullshit.”

“Pardon?”

“I call bullshit. You’re not worried about my wellbeing. You’re worried about your own. Don’t take me for a fool. Tell me why you need me? And if you’re going to answer with another lecture, tell me now so I can get the hell out of here.”

She sighed deeply, her chest filling out her pinstriped dress. “The Council is falling apart, Armand. Leonard is ill. Rosa is aging. And Dora has her hands full with my girls.”

“Girls? As in more than one?”

“I have two daughters––Ruth Anne and Merry.”

Armand’s eyebrows arched. “Is Merry mine?”

Sasha laughed, tapping her knee in amusement. “She’s only three. You do the math.”

“Then who’s the father?”

“A charming, sensitive man. You wouldn’t know him.”

Armand flopped back against the sofa. “Unbelievable. Two kids now and not a daddy in sight. Don’t you know some spell that will keep you from getting knocked up? You never had that problem with me.”