The Council of Dark Root_Armand Read online

  THE COUNCIL OF DARK ROOT:

  ARMAND

  by

  April Aasheim

  Copyright © 2015 by April Aasheim

  Published by Dark Root Press

  Cover Art and Design by AnneMarie Buhl and Greg Jensen

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please visit an official vendor for the work and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Synopsis for Armand

  "Never trust a warlock..." Dora Maddock

  Before Maggie Maddock and her sisters returned to Dark Root, Oregon, a generation of witches and warlocks reigned over The Council – 13 men and women devoted to holding back the dark they believed would eventually end the world.

  This is the origin story of Dark Root's most notable warlock: Armand.

  A natural magician, Armand uses his abilities to indulge in pleasurable pursuits with little regard for others, but when a beautiful woman, a skeletal ghost rider, and a powerful witch enter his life, his world will forever change.

  This novella is a prequel to The Daughters of Dark Root Series. It can be read as a standalone book or as a companion piece.

  To Mike and Nick, my little warlocks

  ONE

  Santo Aldea

  Spain

  Late October, 1964

  Armand sat upright in his bed, a sheet draped around his waist, almost but not quite concealing the line of auburn hairs that ran from his navel to his pelvis. He reached across the naked woman, careful not to touch her as he retrieved the bottle of brandy from the nightstand beside her.

  He took a long swig from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then closed his eyes, giving the brandy time to seep down into his belly. The warmth hit him almost immediately.

  Much better.

  When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by the grayness of the room, a hue that deepened by degrees rather than shades.

  He eyed the woman in his bed again.

  She had been a beauty the night before, and he wasn’t sure if it had been the poor bar lighting or the fact that he’d been as high as Sputnik when they met. He could see now that she was not beautiful, not like the voluptuous, blonde skirts he’d partied with in Los Angeles, or the raven-haired locals of the village.

  His latest companion was attractive at best, bordering on plain.

  Taking another drink, he turned his attention to the stark wall in front of him, wondering how he would pass the time until she woke. Getting a woman into his bed was easy; getting her to leave was the hard part.

  In LA he would have gone to her place, but here, with nothing but traveling students and backpackers to choose from, Armand was forced to bring women back to his rented room unless he wanted to try his luck at the only motel in the area–a dump of a place rumored to be a front for a brothel, with payouts going to the local Policia.

  No, thank you.

  Armand slipped out of the sheets and stepped onto the cold, bare floor, looking for his pack of smokes. Ah, hell. He’d smoked them all the night before. Rifling through her purse, he saw that hers were gone, too.

  Come on, lady.

  A thought occurred to him as he hovered over the woman: she hadn’t moved in a very, very long time.

  His best friend John liked to joke that Armand would kill a woman with his lovemaking one day. He remembered John’s exact words, spoken during a late night tequila binge in West Hollywood. “You have the death touch, man. Everything you touch turns to shit. Except for me. I’m already shit.”

  What if John was right?

  There were too many instances of pets falling unexpectedly ill in his care, not to mention friends and acquaintances who’d died without warning over the last several years. At the time, Armand attributed it to hard living––a peril in LA––but what if it was more than coincidence?

  His mother had a green thumb. Maybe his was black.

  Armand lifted the woman’s limp wrist and watched it drop back on the bed with a muffled thump. She didn’t move, not even a little.

  “Ah, hell,” he said, pushing his hair behind his ears.

  He considered going down the hall to his landlady’s room to use her phone, but the thought of dealing with the local Policia left him cold. He had learned the lay of the land pretty quickly, and the two main rules were: foreigners were not to be trusted, and screwing without a marriage license was strictly forbidden.

  Even if she turned out to be all right, Armand might be charged with committing an Act Against God and thrown into one of those jails the other tourists whispered about. “No electricity or heat,” they joked. “But plenty of rats.”

  “Wake up.”

  If she was alive, she was too far under to hear him.

  He repeated the words, adding a soft nudge. When she still didn’t respond, he gave her a good shake, the sweat beading on his forehead.

  At last, the woman rolled onto her back, drool spilling from the side of her open mouth. Armand breathed a deep, brandy-sick sigh of relief. She wasn’t dead, but she wasn’t about to wake up, either.

  Maybe he had taken too much this time.

  The woman––what the hell was her name?––had given herself freely the night before, prompted by a few drinks and a shared joint. Even so, that didn’t mean she grasped the implications of allowing herself to be seduced by him.

  Maybe he should warn his future lovers, issue a disclaimer right from the start:

  “Screwing me will cost you a piece of your soul.”

  Let them decide if it was worth the risk. Then, if something did happen, the damage was not on his hands.

  Still grasping the bottle of brandy, Armand walked naked across the room. He seated himself in his only chair, next to his only window, resting his gaze on the woman’s boyish silhouette.

  Back home, he would have had a TV or a radio to occupy him. Here, his only diversion was a Bible provided by his landlady. He picked it up and thumbed through it, stopping at a painting of angels and sinners, their flesh melting in flames. Spanish Bibles got right to the point. He shut it and stuck it under his chair.

  He considered making noise, clanging some pans together or something. That might rouse her, but it would also bring his landlady. He wanted to get rid of one woman, not invite in another.

  Instead, he peeled back a corner of the dark-paneled curtain to let the light in. The sky outside was as gray as the room, a long streak of nothingness separated only by a pane of glass. Despite what the travel agent told him, it wasn’t sunny everywhere in Spain, especially in the late fall.

  A black bird the size of a football landed on his windowsill. It regarded Armand with large charcoal eyes, tilting its head up and down, taking him in. The bird’s appraisal was unnerving, as if it knew his every secret.

  Armand rapped on the window twice, hoping to frighten the bird away. The creature threw back its head and emitted a loud, guttural screech––a sound so horrible the woman in Armand’s bed sat suddenly up, clutching the sheet around her.

  The bird gave him a long, knowing look, and then flew from the sill, fading into the steel-gray sky.

  Armand’s heart thumped in his ears. He took a slow breath, not wanting the woman to see him startled.

  “I just had a nightmare,” the woman said, her voice jittery as she looked around the room. “It was horrible…” She wiped her face with the corner o
f the sheet, then brushed a strand of her blond hair from her face. Her bare midriff extended outwards as she stretched, allowing Armand another glimpse of her small, pendulous breasts.

  She’d claimed to be in her early twenties when he’d met her the night before, a traveler from London out for one final adventure before she had to grow up. With the muted light from the window falling on her face, Armand noted that she was at least a decade older than she’d claimed. Soft lines formed at the edges of her eyes and two deep crevices swept across her forehead. She was thirty if she was a day.

  Not that age mattered to Armand; he was only interested in her energy.

  “Hello, you,” she said, gathering her hair into a low ponytail as she smiled. “I was really out, wasn’t I? Are you sure you didn't drug me?”

  It was a fair question, and one that came up surprisingly often. Armand arched an eyebrow and offered her a half-smile in return.

  “It’s cool if you did give me something,” she continued. “I just need to know so I don’t take it again.”

  Armand clicked his fingers against the half-empty bottle as she droned on. She wasn’t going to let it go, so he decided to amuse himself instead. “I didn’t drug you, but I did steal some of your life force.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t worry, though. It was only three days’ worth and I can see you are going to live a very long time, anyway.” He nodded to her pack of empty cigarettes on the nightstand. “You might even get those three days back, if you quit smoking. I hear it’s bad for you.”

  She shook her head and laughed, thinking he joked. “You may have stolen my heart, as well.” She smiled, the lines around her mouth deepening. “How did you sleep?”

  “I don’t sleep.”

  She furrowed her brows. “You don’t sleep? Ever?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  Her eyes flickered with curiosity but she didn’t pursue it. “I have to meet my friends at 3:00,” she said, searching under the blankets for her clothes. Armand remembered the moment she had removed her blouse, unbuttoning it slowly and tossing it on to the bed with the grace and tease of a show girl, her blue-grey aura flaring with anticipation.

  Armand took a sip from the bottle, clearing the image from his head.

  “What time is it now?” she asked.

  “I don't keep track of time.”

  She stared at him, expressionless. “You’re a strange and charming man, Sir.” She held up her blouse to show him that she’d found one article of clothing. “But some of us need to sleep and know the time. We can’t all be barons.”

  “Touché.” Armand recalled the story he’d told her the night before. Of course, she hadn’t believed that he was actually a baron––his buckskin vest and cowboy hat screamed American––but his story interested her enough to stick around, even after her friends had left the bar for the night.

  “I’ve got a watch somewhere.” She dug through her purse. “It must have fallen off during…” a blush crept across her face. She would get naked with a man but she wouldn’t talk about it.

  English women.

  He went to his dresser and produced an ornate silver pocket watch from the top drawer.

  “11:00,” he said, staring at it for a long moment. His mother gave the watch to him on his thirteenth birthday, claiming it was the only thing she had that belonged to his father, Sebastian Diaz. Armand clamped it shut and returned it to the drawer.

  “We have time for lunch then,” she smiled, buttoning her blouse up to the neck.

  Her aura was returning, a shimmering blue that swirled around her in small, heady waves. It illuminated her face, lending her a beauty she would not have otherwise possessed. Armand felt a sudden need to have her again.

  “Want to get a bite to eat?” she asked more directly. “I’m buying.”

  He stretched his arms, allowing her to gaze at his naked body. She stopped dressing, her pupils dilating with excitement. Without waiting for an invitation, he left the bottle on the dresser and returned to the bed, pulling her along with him. He pushed her backwards, straddling her, his fingers crawling up under her blouse.

  “You don’t like me, not really,” she said, as her head hit the pillow. “You’re just using me.”

  “No, I like you. I like you a lot, in fact.” He paused for effect, running his fingers along the curve of her jaw, before burying his face into the crook of her neck. She smelled like dime-store perfume, sweat, and beer.

  She pushed his head back, forcing him to make eye contact with her. “If you really like me, say my name.”

  Armand stared down, biting his lip. “Your name?”

  “My name,” she repeated. “Or you’ll get nothing.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes.” Her smile cooled as she crossed her arms across her chest.

  “Your legs are open and bare. I could take you if I wanted to.”

  She clamped her legs shut, calling his bluff.

  The move excited him. Still, Armand enjoyed a good mental game. He pulled himself upright, his knees still flanking hers.

  Her name?

  She mentioned it last night, but Armand had been preoccupied, listening to a man at the next table recount his experience at a real bullfight.

  The woman pushed herself up on her elbows, grabbing for the sheet. “Well, it’s obvious you weren’t paying attention when…”

  Armand softly snapped his fingers. “Shhh…”

  The woman blinked rapidly, but laid back down. The confusion trick would only last a moment. He needed to work fast if he wanted to win.

  He focused his attention on the area between her eyes. Reading her thoughts would take a great reserve of his energy, but that could be replenished. He inspected her aura. It was steadily growing, fueled by her desire and her indignation. He licked his lips, tasting brandy and salt.

  What was her name?

  A series of letters flipped through his brain, like cylinders on a slot machine. At last they stopped on four letters: K A T E.

  He knew with certainty that her name was Kate.

  “So?” She undid the top button of her blouse again, revealing the hollow of her bare neck. “Tell me my name and you’ll get everything you deserve.”

  She was offering him a treat, like one would a dog that performed a particularly clever trick. Armand could have KATE again, if he were a good boy.

  Armand was not inclined to be good.

  “Your name,” he said, straightening his body onto hers as he bit into the lobe of her ear. “Is Edna.”

  TWO

  Autumn arrived and the tourists left the mountain village of Santo Aldea in search of sunnier weather, or places with real mountains to ski. Armand thought about leaving, too, as the once blue Spanish skies became nothing more than a colorless painting. But he had come here on a quest to find out more about his father. He had saved up money for the better part of a year, living on nothing but eggs, cheap beer, and whatever else he could con some skirt into buying him. He wasn’t about to leave until he knew something.

  It had been two weeks since his night with the English woman. She left with her friends for larger cities where they could witness the spectacle known as Day of the Dead, a time when the living honored the deceased with a play and a parade.

  Armand had no interest in paying homage to the dead; he rarely paid homage to the living.

  With the tourists gone, he was left with only the local women to entertain him. Those women were watched carefully by their chastity-defending brothers, fathers, and priests. Armand thought about abstaining altogether, but he knew it would weaken him. He’d take his chances and deal with the consequences later.

  There was a heavy nip in the air and he put on his long leather jacket, the one he’d bought for the trip because he thought it would make him less conspicuous. He saw what a joke that was now. The people of this village did not wear jackets that hugged the backs of their knees, nor did the other tourists.

  There was o
nly one bar in Santo Aldea, a lively establishment at the far corner of the square that served both drinks and dinners. Unlike the other buildings in the village, it shared no walls with neighboring businesses. It held its own, open long after the lights went flickering out in the rest of the town.

  The cantina was crowded for a Wednesday night, even with the sudden exodus of the other tourists. Armand attributed it to the change in weather, a signal that the festival season had begun. Customers laughed and embellished stories as they swilled their brandy, while an old man played acoustic guitar near the front window.

  Armand seated himself on a rickety stool near the end of the counter, lowering his head and listening to the conversations around him. Young men and old men spoke on topics of weather and wars and women.

  “…headed for another civil war…”

  “…changing world…”

  “…Franco can’t live much longer.”

  “…Shhh…”

  “…he caught his wife…”

  The chatter around him grew louder, rumbling together like idling cars on a crowded highway.

  These Spaniards, so passionate about everything. It was refreshing actually, after living in California where all his friends talked about was an impending draft. At twenty-five, Armand was too old to be called up for service unless Uncle Sam became really desperate.

  Armand shook his head to block out the noise, feeling the swish of his ponytail against his cotton t-shirt. He would have left his auburn hair loose, had it not been for the disapproving stares from some of the older men when he’d first arrived. There would be a time to let it down, but that would come later in the evening.

  A conversation to his left caught his attention.

  “…and then, Sebastian died…”