Free The Curse of Dark Root: Part Two (Daughters of Dark Root Book 4) by April Aasheim Page A

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