by J. D. Horn
“I’ll get started on burying the bodies,” Tinker said, his voice flat, exhausted.
At the sound of Tinker’s words, Jilo looked up at him, for a moment forgetting the miracle happening before her. “There are four more in the kitchen.”
He nodded, drawing near, looking down at Guy. “See,” he said, his voice full of sadness. “There is magic in this world.”
ELEVEN
The Savannah Morning Star
April 9, 1958
Page D12
NEGRO COUPLE DEAD IN CAR CRASH
A single vehicle crash south of Hardeeville has claimed the lives of a local Negro man, identified as Guy Collier, 41, of the Ogeecheeton area, and his companion, Reena Jewel Lovett, 19, of Limehouse. Both were found dead at the site of the incident. Alcohol and evidence of illegal intoxicants found in the vehicle have led the Jasper County Sheriff’s Office to determine impaired judgment and excessive speed were factors in the accident.
Jilo sat in her nana’s chair, Guy’s throne, unwilling, unable to move. As best she could remember, the sun had peeked in through the windows on the east, then through those situated to the west twice, maybe three times now, since the call came, telling her that despite her best efforts, Guy was no more.
The second Guy was able to rise to his feet, he had stormed through the house, turning out every spot where she’d managed to tuck away any cash. Not enough to get him far from Savannah, but enough for a decent bender. He packed her suitcase, the one she’d carried with her to Atlanta so many years ago now. Back when she had thought she understood how the world worked. Back when she had known beyond the shadow of any doubt that there was no such thing as magic. She didn’t raise a finger to stop him, figuring it would be better for him to be far from her. He’d almost been killed because of her, and she’d already managed to drag Tinker down with her. Poor Tinker, covered head to toe in blood and dirt, had stood between them as Guy screamed insults at her. Raged at her till he saw the haint-blue sparks building on the tips of her fingers and then ran off like a scared jackrabbit. That was the last she’d seen him. The last she’d ever see of him.
She understood now why Opal had never visited, why Poppy had never set foot in this house after that long-ago Christmas. She remembered it all now. Waking to the sound of Henry Cook’s cries. Stepping out into the shadows to see her big sister standing over Henry, that fire poker in her hand, raised and ready to end him.
That demon in Poppy. She had no idea how it had found them, or how it had managed to possess her sister’s body. She still didn’t understand how she did it, but she now could remember peeling away the spirit’s own energy—taking it into herself, then turning it back against him. Her very next memory was of Nana coming home, pulling her into her arms and lying to her, over and over. Just a bad dream.
A bad dream. That’s what all of this felt like. Too much loss, too many lies. Her whole damned life had been a lie. Hell, she wasn’t even a Wills. Not really, at least not by blood.
She was broken, and she knew it.
Perhaps if Jilo hadn’t been able to count on Willy, as faithful as ever, to see to Robinson’s needs, she might have found the strength to move. But she knew Willy would take care of her boy. Now and again, he would come and set Robinson on her lap in an attempt to rouse her, to pull her back. She barely noticed. It was all she could do to dig her hands into the chair’s padded armrests and try to make the world stop swirling around her.
The sun circled around the room once more. She’d sensed no movement, no one approaching, but then out of nowhere, another person’s hands had grasped her own. She felt the weight of eyes on her. Her gaze rose up to meet Tinker’s. “You’re not going like this,” he said, taking care as he worked to loosen her grasp on the chair. “I’m gonna fix this. You’ll see. They don’t call me Tinker for nothing.”
TWELVE
June 1958
“Thank you for coming,” Jilo said, opening the door to Ginny Taylor. Less than a year had passed since she had shooed Ginny away from this very door, but Jilo found it hard to believe she was looking at the same woman. Any sign of Ginny’s feisty gaiety, of her sensuality, had been erased.
“I’m so pleased you’ve reached out to me.” The stylish dress Ginny had worn that night at the club had been replaced by a dark and sensible skirt that fell well beneath the knee, paired with a long-sleeved gray silk blouse. And pearls, each an identical match to the others in size, luster, and whiteness. Ginny’s hair had grown out, and she wore it pulled up in a twist.
Jilo wondered if Ginny, too, was appraising her appearance. She’d lost weight. Too much weight. She couldn’t bring herself to don one of Mother Jilo’s fandango costumes, so she had dressed herself instead in a drab and shapeless dress her nana had picked out for her to wear in Atlanta a million years ago. Jilo had assumed she’d given the thing away, left it in a church charity box, but it had been lying there, all this time, folded in a drawer, just waiting for Jilo to fall far enough to find it.
“Of course,” she said as Jilo stepped aside to allow her entry, “we’re family now. Practically sisters.”
Jilo’s nerves betrayed her, causing her to titter at Ginny’s words. What dim light had remained in Ginny’s eyes froze and faded.
“I’m sorry,” Jilo said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s only the whole world has gone sideways lately.” Her agitated laughter turned as quick as a breath to an unwanted spray of tears. Ginny dug into her purse, then offered Jilo a crisp white handkerchief. Jilo noticed the monogram, VKT, embroidered on its exposed corner.
“Katherine,” Ginny said as she forced the linen into Jilo’s hand, somehow picking up on Jilo’s dim curiosity. “Virginia Katherine Taylor,” she said, closing the door behind her. Placing a hand on Jilo’s shoulder, she guided her into her own front room. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Ginny said, adding, “Guy,” as if by some slim chance Jilo would not have understood. What this decorous woman didn’t understand was that it wasn’t just Guy that Jilo had lost. She had lost herself, too, and she was only now finding the misplaced pieces. “He was a great talent, a loss not only to you, but also to the art world.” Ginny stopped talking and bit her lip, evidently realizing that Jilo couldn’t give a damn about the art world. At least not today. Someday, maybe, someday the old news articles, the ones Guy had kept in a beat-up leather scrapbook, the cuttings that spoke of his genius, of his sense of composition and his use of color, perhaps she would be able to present these to Robinson, engender a sense of pride in her son. That kind of thing was important for a boy.
“I would have come sooner,” Ginny continued, bringing Jilo back to the current moment, “but my own life has undergone great changes since Uncle Finnian died.” Her gaze grew soft, falling away from Jilo. “I’ve inherited certain familial duties that once belonged to him.” She glanced back at Jilo. “Edwin felt quite fortunate to have dodged my fate,” she said, for a moment a bit of her old self shining through.
“You’ve spoken to Edwin?” Jilo asked. From what she’d gleaned from Binah’s letters, Edwin had been out of touch with all of the Taylors.
“Of course,” she said, “he was here in February, for the drawing of lots. He didn’t have a choice. Family schism or no, the line won’t be denied. Of course,” she continued, as if Jilo had the slightest clue what she meant, “he didn’t remain for the investment ceremony.” Again she turned inward, “I wish he would have. I could have used his support.”
“And Binah?” Jilo couldn’t believe her brother-in-law could have come and gone without even a word. And Binah hadn’t mentioned Edwin’s visit in any of her letters. It was almost like she had been ignorant of her husband’s travels.
Jilo didn’t care whether it was fair or not. She let herself wonder if a visit from Edwin might have somehow changed the course of events. Maybe her son wouldn’t have been left without a father if Edwin had popped by, even for an hour, to spend time with his great friend, Guy. Maybe he could have somehow anticipate
d that fool Maguire’s machinations.
Ginny seemed almost surprised at the mention of Binah’s name. “Oh, no, she remained abroad. It wouldn’t have been appropriate for her to come,” she said, not bothering to justify the claim. Binah was Edwin’s wife. How could her presence at this gathering be inappropriate? Inconvenient, that was more like it, Jilo reckoned. “Besides, Edwin was only here for the day, and he didn’t travel by . . .” She paused, seeming to search for the right word. “. . . conventional means. I’m sorry”—her tone suggested she wanted to change topics—“but I can’t stay long, and I do want to answer your questions, as best I can. May we sit?”
Jilo cast an eye to the sofa covered with the toys Tinker had insisted on bringing for Robinson, and the battered chair whose gravity she’d barely escaped. “Of course,” she said, “come through to the kitchen. I’ll make coffee . . .” She choked on the word. She hadn’t even considered brewing a pot since Guy’s passing. “If you’d like.”
“Yes,” Ginny said. “Let’s settle wherever you’re most comfortable. But no need to play hostess. Lead the way.” There wasn’t much way to lead, but Jilo directed Ginny down the hall to her kitchen. “Truth is,” Ginny said as they entered the room, “I’ve never been much of one for coffee. Always preferred chicory myself.”
For a moment, Jilo felt an odd and unexpected sense of comradery with this woman. “I could—” she began, but Ginny held up a hand.
“No, please, I don’t want to be a bother. And our time is short.”
Jilo motioned to a chair at the table. “Have a seat.” Tinker had offered to replace the furniture, but these battered pieces had once belonged to her nana, and Jilo found it too difficult to part with them, even though she was tormented by the knowledge of her nana’s deceptions. Willy had cleaned the soiled table set, scrubbing it with bleach water and a wire brush before painting it with a fresh coat of lime-green enamel. Jilo had told him he could choose the color. He’d been so proud of his efforts, Jilo found herself proud of them, too.
Ginny placed her hand on the back of a chair and froze. “I’m sorry.” She jerked her hand away. “I can’t.” She traced a finger along the top of the backrest. “I can still sense them.” She looked up. “Yes, the bodies, but the forces that were connected to them, too. I can’t risk letting myself come under their influence.”
Jilo nodded. Perhaps she should let go of the pieces. Commit them to flames.
“I’ve asked about these entities,” Ginny said, “at least as freely as I can without arousing the suspicion of the others. All I’ve learned is that there isn’t much to learn. They’ve been around seemingly forever, lurking in the periphery. The one thing every source and contact I’ve found agrees upon is that they are tricksters, and tricksters are always dangerous, regardless of what their intentions might be.” Her tone turned sharp. “You do not want . . . we do not want anyone to learn you have been in contact with them, let alone that they have taken an interest in you. The Red King, your fellow in the top hat, is the most notorious of the quartet. He draws his energies from all—animal and human—who die through mishap or murder. He’s been giving his mark to those who kill for him as far back as anyone remembers. I wouldn’t be surprised if the story of Cain and the mark placed on him was a remembrance of an early pact between this king and a man seeking magic.
“This one. The one who sat here,” Ginny focused on an invisible point inches from her nose. “He calls himself the White King. He feeds from the leftover energies of those who take their own lives. He is the youngest. And the most loathsome.”
“He made himself look like me.”
“Of course, he would. The better to distort your true self.” Ginny’s eyes traced a path around the table. “The others. They, too, call themselves kings. The Yellow King, he was your fellow with the paper-thin skin, the Black King, your shadow. Like their brothers, they feed from the residual energy we leave behind when we die. It’s a bit like Jack Spratt, though; each can reputedly only digest the energies left by a particular type of death. Our ‘friend’ the White King would choke on the leftovers of a murder victim.”
“The bastard should choke.” Jilo felt her bile rise at the memory of his presence.
“Indeed,” Ginny said. “But as real as they may have seemed to you, they’re only doorways, portals to your Beekeeper, the source of this world’s first magic. Now, the Beekeeper, she is the stuff of legends among my kind.”
“Your kind?”
Ginny’s head tilted to the side. “Oh really, Jilo, by now you must have guessed. We’re witches, my brother and I, though your understanding of the word is without a doubt vastly different from its true meaning. I don’t mean to sound condescending when I say that. There are only a handful of those not of our kind who even know we exist. Even fewer know of our influence. The knowledge of how we came to be, well, that information is jealously guarded, even among witches. As a matter of fact, it was a bit above my own pay grade until Uncle Finnian’s passing.”
“Edwin is a witch?” This was the one point that stuck with Jilo.
“Yes, though Father has seen to it that his power has been greatly curtailed since he took off with Binah. My little brother has given up much more than you can guess for love.” She smiled. “But I suspect your sister’s love is worth any cost.” The smile drained away as quickly as it had arisen. “Listen, I need to be sure you have understood me regarding the Beekeeper. No one”—she pointed to Jilo as if she were reprimanding a child—“no one can learn of your connection to this force.” She lowered her hand, nearly placing it on the top rail of the chair before snatching it back. Stepping away from the table, she crossed her arms over her chest. “There are those who won’t judge you in terms of innocence and guilt. They’ll only see you as harmless or a threat. And you’ve been touched by a force we witches don’t understand. Witches are, in spite of our powers, still human, and humans tend to fear what we don’t understand.”
“But you don’t understand, and you don’t fear me.”
“No, I don’t fear you, but I fear for you. For a multitude of reasons.” She lowered her arms. “Now, I’ve answered your questions. I have one of my own for you.”
Jilo bit her lip, waiting to see where this was heading.
“The man, the one you’re trying not to think of, the one you don’t want me to know about,” she reached out and took Jilo’s hand. “Who was he?”
Jilo yanked back her hand and lowered her eyes.
“I know who he was already. Perhaps even better than you do. I just want to hear it from your own lips.”
Too much. Too much. Jilo began trembling.
Ginny drew her into her arms. “Tell me.”
“His name was Robert Jones,” she said, whispering the words in Ginny’s ear. “He used to be a pastor. I lived with him and his wife in Atlanta while I went to school. And I think . . . I think . . .” She swallowed hard. “I think he may have been my father.” She pushed back, freeing herself from Ginny’s embrace, astounded to hear herself give voice to those words. “He talked such nonsense. About being taken up by angels. Being showed visions of the disasters about to befall us. He disappeared. And then just before the Beekeeper came to me, he appeared here in my house. In the front room. He told me he’d been wrong all along—they weren’t angels who took him. They were devils. And he told me these devils took my mama, too, and used the two of them to make me. It’s nonsense. It has to be.”
“I wish it were, but I’m afraid it isn’t. That night at the club, I sensed there was something different about you. Your ability to tap into my magic makes sense to me now. It seems you weren’t so much born, as engineered. You were created as a weapon.”
“I’m no kind of weapon,” Jilo said, sure that at least one of them had lost her sense of reason. “I’m only a woman. A mother.” Her voice nearly broke, but she forced herself to remain strong.
“Oh, you are indeed a weapon, even more potent than that H-bomb these mad scientists have
blown out their balls. But you are also a woman. And I believe you are an honorable woman,” Ginny said. “A trustworthy woman. That’s why I’m about to bet my life on my faith in you. If the others even dreamed that I might share this with you, they would kill me. No, worse than kill me, they would bind me, leave me in a permanent coma, no more than a seat for the power that has joined itself to me.” Her face hardened. She lifted her chin and pierced Jilo with a sharp gaze. “I once said to you that I hoped someday we’d be friends. I meant it then. I mean it now. I trust you, Jilo Wills, I trust you with my very life. Will you trust me?”
Jilo stared into the eyes of this woman, so complex in the way she seamlessly combined admirable attributes and detestable ones. Still, when Jilo delved to the root of her soul, asking if she could trust Ginny Taylor, her heart said yes.
Jilo nodded, and Ginny reached out and placed her fingertips on Jilo’s temples.
Images rose before Jilo’s eyes. Places, structures, some seeming to reach back in antiquity, others gleaming towers of polished glass. She saw them laid out together on a single plane, like the time separating them meant nothing at all. “We witches”—Jilo heard Ginny’s voice sound all around her, as if she had fallen deep into a well—“we built the machine, like the outsiders commanded.” Jilo could see strands of light, the exact shade of haint blue she’d grown up around, surge up from the different points of the field. They rose up, converging on a single point. She’d seen this point in many pictures. It was the Great Pyramid.
“But we were clever, rebellious monkeys, we witches. We made a plan. A plan to chase away the outsiders.”
“But what was this machine meant to do?”
“It was meant to strip this world of all life, of all magic, to beam its energy across the stars, through the dimensions, leaving Earth nothing more than a dead rock. And once we’d delivered them this planet’s very life force, we were to spread out among the stars, like some kind of virus, to find other worlds to devour. But we tricked them. Took advantage of their own technology to cast them out. We shifted our world, our whole reality, to a slightly different frequency, then wove a net of magic—what we call the line—to keep them out.”