Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(107)
“Bargain?” Jilo felt her spine stiffening.
“Yes, my silence in exchange for the fortune paid to your sister.” She gave Jilo a sideways glance. “Notice the word ‘small’ wasn’t part of that sentence.” She tilted her tumbler to her lips, draining the rest of her drink. “Now I just wish I’d pushed for double.” She rose and reached out for Jilo’s glass. “Let me top that off for you.”
Over the last year, Jilo had gotten into the habit of avoiding the stretch of Ogeechee Road that passed by the cemetery, even though it often meant adding a mile or more to her journey. Each time she passed the cemetery, her mind’s eye would envision the family she’d been led to believe were her flesh and blood, sitting there side-by-side in lacquered white rocking chairs. Together they would rock, taking their ease in the shade of the large oaks, shaking their heads as one at the mess she’d made of things. Maybe it was only the Dutch courage of Ginny’s scotch, but today, she finally felt ready to face them.
She paused, but only for a moment, as she passed beneath the gate. It felt foolish. Coming here to confront people who were dead and buried. Just a couple of years ago, she would’ve considered it a mad waste of time. The dead were dead, she’d thought, not listening, and certainly not capable of talking back. She knew better now. Sometimes dead didn’t mean gone. Perhaps it was this knowledge that kept her feet on the marked path, following the circuitous route rather than cutting straight over strangers’ graves to where her nana and the man she still thought of as her father lay buried.
Soon she stood before their graves. There were no rockers. No disapproving stares. There were only four stones in a row. The leftmost was her nana’s, and next to it was the oldest of the four, honoring Reuben Wills, the averred grandfather she’d never met. To Jilo’s right lay Jesse Wills, a man she only remembered from photographs, gone as he was before she could walk, and beside him, Tuesday Jackson, her nana’s mother, related to her, Jilo sensed, through inherited magic, if not by blood. She let her gaze return, right to left, over their stones before coming to rest on the newest of the granite quartet.
She walked up to the foot of the grave. “You could’ve warned me of what I’d be up against, old woman.” The words came out angry, sharp. Instantly she felt a pang of regret. “I’m sorry. I know you were only trying to protect me. I just wish you’d let me know what you were protecting me from.”
“Not to worry, dearie,” a voice came from beside her.
Jilo startled. A moment before, she’d been alone. Now a veiled form swayed next to her.
“She can’t hear you. None of them can. They’re all at rest. You can thank me for that, you know.” The black lace shroud billowed up around the specter even though the wind was still. “You took long enough to come find me.”
“I didn’t come for you . . .” Her first impulse was to flee, but she felt caught in the Beekeeper’s gravity.
“And yet you knew you’d find me here. I waited for you to come. Willingly. I did not search you out or force my presence on you.” She took a few sashaying steps back, then spun around and reached out to caress Jilo’s cheek before dancing away again. “No matter what lie you’ve been telling yourself, I was the one you were avoiding. And I am the one you’ve come to see.”
Jilo shook herself. She ran her hand over her cheek to wipe away the sensation of the Beekeeper’s touch. “No. You’re the liar. You’re a trickster. You and your ‘sons.’ You deceived me. Tricked me into letting you have influence over me. And Tinker.” Guilt nearly knocked the wind out of her. She struggled to catch her breath. “God, Tinker. I helped you tarnish one of the purest souls ever to walk this earth.”
“My, my, listen to you now, you ungrateful child. God. Souls. You are indeed a preacher’s daughter.” She paused, as if to make sure Jilo had felt the sting. “Perhaps,” her tone changed, sounding of regret now rather than venom, “I am a liar, but when all is illusion, only the trickster speaks the truth.” A gloved hand extended toward her. It held a bottle. A conciliatory gesture. “Rum?” she offered. Jilo didn’t budge. She could feel the creature’s disappointment at her refusal turn to anger. “Unless, of course”—the sharpness returned to her speech—“you’ve already had too much of that prig of a witch’s brew.” She lowered the bottle. “Shame, she has to die as she does, our poor Ginny. I’ve grown rather fond of her, now that we’ve gotten to know her.”
“You won’t harm her.” Without thinking, Jilo advanced on the Beekeeper, only then realizing that a ball of blue lightning, unbidden magic, had formed in her hands, ready to shoot out and destroy the interloper. “You won’t harm anyone I love ever again.”
“Very good. Very good, dearie. You were indeed made for magic.” She leaned back as if she were admiring a work of art. “But can you really believe that little spark is going to do you any good against me?” The Beekeeper waved her free hand in a circular motion and laughed as Jilo’s magic took the shape of a hummingbird and flitted away. “You are but the lightning, dearie. I am the storm.” She swept away her veil, and Jilo stood there staring into the face of the void.
For a moment Jilo felt like she was lost in that unending emptiness. No, not lost. Searching. Searching for something important. Someone important. A girl. A girl who could never exist.