The Curse of Dark Root: Part Two (Daughters of Dark Root Book 4) (43 page)

“See, this place is fixable,” I said as we headed towards the kitchen. Before we reached the doorway, a small shadow caught our eyes as it slunk out from the corner booth.

“I wish I had my wand,” I whispered.

Shane lifted his finger to his lips.

The shadow trickled along the wall, gliding under tables and over chairs, without concern of being seen. Our eyes followed as it crept along the floorboards. It was a powerful presence, to stay manifested so long, though I didn’t sense malevolence. When the shadow reached the steps leading up to Shane’s apartment, it elongated, stretching itself like wet tar. Its lengthy form began slithering up the stairs.

“What is it?” he asked.

“My dead grandmother,” I said plainly. “Juliana Benbridge.”

One-by-one, the twinkle lights blinked out and the blinds fell shut of their own accord. The room cooled to a winter temperature and there was the faintest whisper on the air.

An inviting whisper.

The entity pulled into itself like a retracting slinky, then rose up into a tall column. My young grandmother now stood in the stairway. She wore a black dress adorned with large white buttons and an ivory broach. Her hair was done up in formal curls as if ready for a party.

Or a funeral.

Juliana held her skirt as she proceeded up the staircase, taking slow, deliberate steps that echoed throughout the café. Halfway up she stopped, extending her arm, beckoning us to follow.

“Should we?” Shane asked.

“Yes.”

We crept behind, maintaining a distance. I couldn’t look away. I had never seen her so fully manifested before. There was no transparency to her at all. Her breathing generated sound, and she clicked her nails against the walls as she walked, as if apprehensive.

When Juliana reached Shane’s bedroom, she slipped through the closed door. We continued up, uncertainly. Shane rubbed his elbows, then turned the knob. His room was even darker than the dining room, having only one small window and no working lights. I floundered to the window and stripped open the curtains while Shane retrieved a flashlight from his desk. He cast the beam around the room, searching for Juliana or her shadow, and finding neither.

“Did she leave?” he asked, searching the corners.

“I don’t know. She led me up here once before, after you’d gone. That’s how I found out you were married.”

“You women really do stick together, don’t you?”

I sat on the bed. “I learned that Jillian rented this apartment from your Uncle Joe. I wonder if it’s somehow related to my grandmother’s haunting?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” He lowered his flashlight like a sheriff putting away his gun. “Maybe she just wanted us to be alone together. Even ghosts appreciate a little romance.”

“Maybe,” I said, bouncing. “The mattress still seems to be in good shape.”

“It will be its maiden voyage.” He kissed me, lowering me down, folding himself on top of me.

“We’re probably being watched,” I said.

“I’m not sure if that’s sexy or troubling.”

I relaxed as he kissed my neck, my eyes drifting upwards. “Shane!” I whispered loudly, clawing into his back.

“Hmm?”

“She’s above us.”

He rolled onto his back and we stared at the ceiling.

Juliana Benbridge hovered there, facing us. Her mouth was frozen in a cry for help, her skin now without color. Even her clothes were now in tatters.

Her hands clutched at the base of her neck.

Then, as if being sucked up by a vortex, she disappeared into the ceiling.

There are hidden compartments in all of these old houses.

A cold wind blew through the room, though the window was shut.

SHANE HELD THE stepladder as I hammered against the hidden attic door with the butt of our flashlight. A shower of plaster fell over our faces, but we were rewarded when the door finally budged.

I pushed the panel to the side. “The space is big enough for me to fit,” I said. “I’m going in.”

“Please be careful.” Shane offered his cupped hands as a stirrup and hefted me upwards. With a bit of effort, I pulled myself into the cubbyhole and turned on the flashlight.

“What’s in there?” Shane asked.

I cast the beam through the darkness, gasping at my discovery. “Wonderful things.”

It was a mini-museum, in fact. Paintings and artifacts and unknown thingamabobs jostled for my attention. They were packed into the tight triangular room, presenting an unsettling homage to Dark Root’s past.

I scooted around, marveling at each new wonder. This wasn’t like the secret room in Sister House where everything was thrown about without regard to preservation. Someone had taken great care to categorize and label everything within. Peering closer, I could see it was Mother’s handwriting.

“The ghost is clear,” I called, grinning down at Shane. I edged to the side, giving him just enough room to join me.

“How did I miss this?” he asked, looking around. He’d brought another flashlight and our beams crossed as we inspected our find.

“It wasn’t meant to be discovered,” I answered, feeling the powerful residual energy of a spell, surprised when I sensed it wasn’t Mother’s work. This one held a trace of masculinity, though it wasn’t my father’s work, either.

I’ve been working on a spell that can hide a man in the apartment above my diner for forty years, if it comes to that.

Uncle Joe had said those words in a globe memory. Was this part of his spell that hid Leonard from the draft board? The tight quarters would have made for an uncomfortable stay, but luckily for Leonard, it had never come to that, thanks to his protection by the Council.

Mother must have taken advantage of Joe’s spell, however, and used it to hoard away her good stuff, stockpiling it for later.

“Whoa! Is that a real Picasso?” Shane pointed to a small portrait in the cubist style, wedged between a porcelain vase and an antique globe.

“I see some of Mother’s old furs, too. And her collection of Sunday hats!”

“This must’ve been the Council’s private collection,” Shane speculated. “Kept here to safeguard it from thieves.”

“Or from one particular thief.”

Through the globes, I’d learned my father had a penchant for taking things that didn’t belong to him. I assumed he generated the portal into Dip Stix to get to Jillian, but maybe he was trying to find something hidden here. Whatever it was, it must have been something very important.

“I’ll bet my father was searching for this place.”

“He must not have found it,” Shane said. “That hidden panel hasn’t been touched in decades. Maybe he never found this place, but sensed it was here?”

“That’s my guess. He was strong, but he probably couldn’t penetrate Joe’s spell, especially if it was layered with one of Mother’s.” I sniffed the air, finding a scent of roses––Mother’s calling card.

“There’s something up here that Juliana Benbridge wants us to find. What could it be?” I floated my hands over every object in my vicinity, searching for any special energy. But there was so much overlapping spell work that everything blurred.

I sighed. “It will take us forever to sort through all of this. We should bring Merry. She’s much better at reading objects than I am.”

Shane lifted an open velvet box cradling an old gold ring with sparkling gems. I had no idea if it was an expensive piece of jewelry or costume, as Mother wore both with equal rapture. He closed his hands around it, as if considering taking it, then returned it to its place. A wide smile radiated from his face as he spotted a signed photo of Elvis wearing his white jump suit.

“This must have been Uncle Joe’s,” he said, his voice wistful. “I’m hanging it up, when we get Dip Stix back in order.”

“That’s a great idea.” I tapped the flashlight against my thigh as a thought formed. “What about adding some photos and knickknacks from the past on the walls of your restaurant? A tribute to old Dark Root and your uncle, but modernized.”

“You’re a genius, Maggie Mae. The tourists will dig it. Let’s keep it classy, though––one bloated picture of Elvis is enough.”

He smiled and I smiled back, our eyes meeting like two junior high kids playing seven minutes in heaven.

“It is cozy in here,” I noted, scooting closer.

“Except for the whole ghost thing.” We looked around, wondering if Juliana was still here. I didn’t feel her. Maybe showing us this attic was all she wanted. “I think my grandmother was worried these things would be forgotten. Maybe she helped guard them from that fire, too.”

“Yeah, Juliana plus the protection spells.”

It was a sweet notion, my grandmother helping us from the grave. Maybe that’s why she appeared in Montana’s room, as well. I held on to that comforting thought.

I began lowering myself out of the tiny attic, when my hand bumped against something unusually cold. I looked down to see a small wooden jewelry box emblazoned with the initials
J.B.

I lifted it up, immediately knowing what my grandmother was trying to show me all along.

THIRTY-TWO

What Becomes of the Broken Hearted

I RETURNED TO the woods where I’d buried my ring.

I had learned that while I could try to hide from my past, there was no escaping it. The past always returned whether we buried it in the forest or at the far edge of the garden. Or even just in our hearts. The past and the future were always connected, always working in tandem towards our ultimate fate.

I dug up the small mound at the base of our tree, where Merry’s asphodel still bloomed, but the ring was gone. Inexcusably gone. I searched the ground around the tree, frantically kicking over rocks and digging in the dirt by hand. I found no clue.

Was this an omen?

“Oh, Shane,” I whispered, my face caked in mud and tears as I wondered what had become of it. Had it decomposed, like the dead? Or did it find its way back to the dream world from where it originated?

The ring didn’t matter, I tried to tell myself. We had created one ring, we could create another. Disheartened, I took my time walking home, reminding myself it was just an object. A symbol.

Symbols have power.

But so did forgiveness. Especially self-forgiveness.

Wandering through the deep woods, I concentrated on the sounds and scents around me, pushing away the troubles gnawing at me. Birds chattered, chipmunks scurried, a stream trickled somewhere in the near distance. Nature was alive––and nature was the place where real magick was born.