Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(23)
“Yes, I do as well,” Maguire said, turning back to May. “It’s a pity, really, that power should be wasted on one such as you. The Beekeeper—you saw her last night, don’t pretend you didn’t—that’s where your mama’s—and your—power comes from.” The name made sense to May, from the creature’s heavy veils to the way it broke apart into a thousand stinging wasps. “I’ve only ever seen the creature twice, but I’ve felt her presence many times. You could even say I’ve courted her, but she has never warmed to my overtures. This creature’s magic feels infinite. The wonders I could perform if I had access to it . . .” Maguire’s voice took on a wistful quality. “Oh, the wonders I have performed with what little power I could attain.” Images, unclean and full of cruelty, rose up in May’s mind. Her hands rose to her eyes, as if they could shield her from those scenes.
Maguire chuckled at her distress and rubbed his hands together in pleasure. “Perhaps, once I have been set to rights, I should make a study of you, but for now I believe it is I who will give you a little lesson.” He looked over his shoulder at the ever-attentive Sterling. “Help me take off my jacket.”
Sterling stood behind his father and helped him extricate himself from his suit coat, which the son then folded and draped over his arm. Freed of the jacket, Maguire unbuttoned the sleeve of his starched white shirt and slid it toward his elbow.
A scent like a freshly struck match reached May’s nose. Her nostrils flared as she pulled away from the scent. May was shocked to see the elderly man’s arm covered by scarred and blackened flesh that ran from his wrist to beyond the point on his elbow where the fabric was bunched up.
“This here,” he said twisting his arm so that May could fully take it in, “is your mama’s handiwork. A parting gift, if you will, from old Tuesday.” May shook her head and tried to avert her eyes. “Look at it,” Maguire’s words came out in a snarl, “so that you may understand what has been taken from me. You see, some people, are born to magic. It’s born right in them. Others, such as yourself and your mother, have magic come to them. Then there are people like me, those who seek magic out. I am . . . I was what some refer to as a ‘collector.’ ” The sleeve slipped down, and his ancient, mottled hand caught it and forced it back up above his elbow. “A long time ago,” Maguire said, his voice taking on a singsong quality, as he held out his forearm for her examination, “I did someone very powerful—someone who was born to magic, call him a witch if you will—a very big favor. In return, he put his mark on me. It was nothing more than a single band back then, but over time it grew.” He rubbed his hand along the scarred tissue, stopping to tap his index finger on the ruined remains of what must have been some kind of symbol. As he did so, it took on a faint and sickly luminescence, which spread out along a spider’s web of increasingly visible traces.
Maguire looked at May and nodded. “Thanks to your mama, there’s not much magic left in me at all. She damaged me so these markings no longer work the way they once did,” he said as the lines began to take on new shapes. He leaned in toward her conspiratorially, intimately, as if they were lifelong friends. “The energy of every life I took with this hand would become mine to do with as I wished.” His smile fell flat in reaction to something he must have read in her eyes. “Oh, May, even you must admit that so many people waste their potential. Rather than letting them continue to shuffle from disappointment to disaster, I relieved their worthless, unhappy souls of their burdens and turned their energy toward something more productive. In a way, it could be argued that I showed these unfortunates great kindness.
“But your mama”—his eyes took on a strange fire—“she didn’t see it that way. No. She didn’t like how I got my magic, and she sure as hell didn’t like what I did with it. I tried reason, but reason is not an arena in which the weaker sex excels.” He nodded backward toward Sterling. “Even a young fellow here like Sterling can attest to that. Can’t you, boy?”
“Yes, sir,” Sterling responded, dropping his answer as mechanically as a jukebox will play a favorite song for a nickel.
“Your mama was an extreme case. So rebellious, she was, but the women in your family always were. No matter how many times you faced the whip”—a smirk rose on his lips—“or the rod.” He leered at her, leaving May feeling soiled. His voice changed in the next instant, taking on the patient and benevolent timbre of a Sunday school teacher. “This world, you must understand, was built to work in a certain way, but your mama refused to see it. Refused to see that this world needs to have its masters. We’re the ones who carry the weight of the world and maintain order. We protect you.
“This, my girl, is the white man’s world. The way it was intended to be. I’ve spent so many years, more than you can begin to know, dedicating myself to protecting the natural order. Without men like me, there would be chaos. Your mama, she refused to understand, and she did some damage. Now it’s up to you to set things right.
“You see, May, even without my magic or my health, I am still a very powerful man. I’ve been pulling strings in your life you never even knew were there. It took no magic to make your daughter-in-law’s dreams come true. Dangle a shiny bauble before her, and I knew she’d drop those precious little grandchildren of yours right into your lap. And I knew the second you sensed one of your girls was in danger, you’d show me that magic you’ve been hiding, my girl.