The Curse of Dark Root: Part Two (Daughters of Dark Root Book 4) (35 page)

“Oh, my god, it is you!”

I sprinted, but Michael beat me to the truck. He flung open the truck door, and pulled Shane from the driver’s seat.

Shane staggered, looking too thin and disheveled. He held up his arms as Michael’s fist landed square in his face.

TWENTY-FIVE

My Boyfriend’s Back

SHANE SHOOK HIS head, wiping a dab of blood from his lip. He tottered, dazed by the blow, then raised his chin to meet Michael’s eyes. “What the hell was that for?”

Michael swung again. Shane dodged the fist which smacked into the truck door instead. “Mother...!”

I stalled before them. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. My head spun. It all seemed like a dream.

“Back it up, buddy,” Shane said, holding his arm out stiffly.

But Michael continued swinging and kicking, having lost all control of his “chi.” He rushed headlong like a stampeding bull, slamming Shane into the front panel of the truck. They wrestled, Michael heavier but Shane quicker, while I looked on, dumbfounded.

“Maggie...” Merry appeared beside me and I gripped her shoulder for support. “Do something.”

“But Shane’s dead,” I repeated again and again, until I sounded as crazy as I felt. He was
supposed
to be dead.

Michael took a last, breathless swing. Shane caught him by the wrist, locking him in an arm bar. He held him there, immobile, until Michael’s breathing relaxed. At last, Shane released him, pushing him away.

“Stay off me, man!” Shane ordered, wiping his arms.

The two stared at one another until Michael took a step back, his eyes showing more embarrassment than physical pain.

I snapped out of my daze and ran forward.

“Maggie!” Shane opened his arms wide.

I stopped before him, my mouth agape. Then I slapped him. Hard.

“Maggie, it’s me!” Shane grabbed my hand as I reached to slap him again. I struggled against his grasp, wriggling and screaming and possibly crying, until I too had expended the last of my energy.

“You’re dead!” I sobbed.

He pulled me in to his arms and I cried on his shoulder. There were a thousand emotions I felt at once, some I couldn’t even describe. Joy. Pain. Betrayal. Anger. Love. One melded into the next, like a chain necklace, eventually looping back around to experience each one all over again.

“This isn’t real. You can’t be here, Shane. You just can’t.”

“I’m so sorry, Maggie. I’m so goddamned sorry.” He gently hushed me, stroking my hair.

I pulled away, studying his face. It looked both the same and different. His jaw was unshaven, his face dirty and gaunt. And there was something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on. “You are not supposed to be here.”

He removed his hat. His shaggy brown hair was plastered against his head. “You really want me to go?”

I shook my head, still not daring to believe. Instead, I turned, bolting into the woods as fast as I could run.

“Maggie!” Michael called after me, then I heard Merry say, “Let her go.”

I sprinted through the coolness of the dark forest, now unencumbered by either pregnancy or mourning.

Where was I going? I didn’t know, but a hazy, dreamlike confusion spurred me on. Ruth Anne said the last stage of grief was acceptance. But what happens when the dead return to life? There was no sixth stage for this turn of events. Only delirium.

I pushed harder, listening to my footsteps hit the earth as I trampled over gnarled roots and ducked beneath moss-covered limbs. At last, I collapsed against the trunk of a tree. I coughed, then cried, then choked.

Firm hands grabbed my shoulders, spinning me around. Shane’s hands. Shane’s face.

“Please, leave me alone!”

He simply held me. I caught a whiff of his familiar minty aftershave. “Maggie, you’re in shock. But I’m here now, and everything’s going to be alright.”

“Everything is not alright.” I spoke softer now, the haze slowly releasing me. “You died out there, Shane.” I pointed a finger to the real world. “And you died in here.” I held a finger to my heart.

He unexpectedly lifted me up, wrapping my legs around his waist. His body smelled musky, like the woods. He nudged his forehead to mine, our eyes meeting. I knew what was different now––his eyes were brown, not gray.

“I’m not going to leave you ever again,” he said. “Got that?”

I tried to articulate my thoughts. “How should I feel? You left me. I was sick and you left me to be with your... with your wife.” I rubbed my temples, blinking away the next string of tears. “We thought you were dead and now you show up? After all you put me through, I’m supposed to be okay? No, Shane, it doesn’t work that way.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, lowering me to my feet.

“Make it up to me?” I took a step back. “I’d already forgiven you because you died. I’m not sure I can forgive you now that you’re living.”

Shane tilted his head. His hair was scraggly and caked in dirt. “Everything I did, I did for us. For you.”

“Liar!” Rage refueled me. I balled up my fists. “You did this for yourself!”

“Please, just listen.”

“Dead people can’t talk.”

“I love you, Maggie. I love you more than my own life. You have to believe me.”

I stared, not responding.

“I will never, ever let you go again.” He grabbed my wrists and reeled me in, wrapping his arms around me. “Do you hear me?” he asked, forcing my lips to his mouth. His breath was masculine and warm. He tightened his hold, his arms moving up and down my back, covering me like a cloak. The longer he held me, the less I fought. Finally, all I was aware of was his breath and his heartbeat.

Shane was home.

I had lived through his death and now his resurrection. I could live through the end of the world now, if I had to. I burrowed my nose into his neck, tasting his sweat.

There was no hesitation in his eyes as he pushed down my shorts, sending them to the ground. He lifted me again, shoving me against the tree.

He kissed me again, with more need and urgency than I had ever known, even in our most elaborate dreams. He pushed his tongue deeper into my mouth. I returned his kisses as fervently and demanding as he gave them. Something had awakened in me––the need to bond with him, to
bind
with him, in any way possible.

I tore at his shirt, ripping the collar and exposing his shoulders. I moaned as my hands made contact with his firm biceps, tugging the shirt over his head. My hands grazed his slim waist and snaked up his muscular chest.

“I’ve needed you, Maggie.” He moaned into my ear as he removed my shirt. I stood before him, bare-chested yet unafraid. “I’ve needed you more than I’ve ever needed anything.”

He laid me onto the bare ground. With a turn of his wrist, he unbuckled his belt. “I’ve waited longer for you than I’ve ever waited for any woman. I’ve done things to be with you I wouldn’t do for anyone else.” He sat up on his knees, more perfect than a Renaissance statue.

“Shane...”

“You want me to stop?”

“Yes.”

“Like hell you do.” He took my face in his hands and stared down at me, with his strange new brown eyes. “Tell me you want me, Maggie.”

“No.”

“Then tell me to stop.”

We held our positions. Sweat beaded on his forehead, a single drop falling onto my exposed navel. He now took my hands, caressing my fingers, lowering his body onto mine until I was pressed firmly into the earth. “It’s up to you, Maggie.” He blew on my neck. “Tell me you want me or tell me to leave.”

I breathed deeply, feeling his heartbeat align with mine. The world had gone to hell but now there was light again.

“Well?” he asked in a kiss.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“What do you want?” His finger hooked beneath my chin.

“You. I want you, Shane Doler.”

Before I could process my own words, he was inside of me. I moaned deeply as we writhed together on the forest floor. My fingers clawed and tugged at his shoulders. I smelled his sweat. Felt his desire. Reveled in the muscles on his back and the dark scent of his maleness.

I wrapped my legs around his lower waist, pulling him in deeper, even as my mind exploded.

The little-death some called it. But it wasn’t little for me.

It was monumental. A burst of color and sensuality and bliss.

If I had actually died in that moment, I would have been greeted by angels. Or demons.

I didn’t care.

It would be a death worthy of writing about.

TWENTY-SIX

I’m a Believer

SUNSHINE FILTERED THROUGH the branches, splitting ribbons of light down upon us. We lay half-naked on our backs, satiated, staring at the clouds parading across the blue sky. From the tree directly overhead, a lone red leaf fluttered down, swirling as it meandered towards us, settling in the crease between our bodies.

Shane took my hand and kissed it, then held it down on his chest. His sexual energy had smoothed, replaced by a drugged, dreamy smile. His hair was mussed and his cowboy hat lay beside him. I rolled onto my side, pressing my chin into his shoulder so that I could study him.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well, what?”

I disentangled my hand and traced the lines of his face. He had several new wrinkles cutting across his temples, and two new vertical indents between his brows. He’d aged several years in just a few months and I wondered what had happened. But I didn’t ask, because I wasn’t ready to ruin our moment.

“Well...” he chuckled, a blush hitting his cheeks. “How was... it?”

I sat up, looking around for my bra. I found it buried beneath my shorts. “It? What
it
are you referring to, sir? The economy? The state of world peace? Or did you mean my breakfast this morning? The answer to all of those questions is wobbly at best.”

“You’re going to make me spell it out, aren’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, pulling leaves from my hair as I dressed.

“You’re many things Maggie Mae, but coy doesn’t suit you.”

I yawned, feigning disinterest.

“Sex, Maggie. How was the sex?”