Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(26)

“Oh, you do, May. You do. That much has been clearly established.”

“All right,” she said, “but I still don’t know how to use it. I don’t know how to undo what you say my mama did.”

“You don’t need to worry about that, my dear. A battery doesn’t need to understand a flashlight. It just needs to provide the power.” He looked back over his shoulder at his son. “Is everything in order?”

“Yes, sir.” Sterling spoke the words without taking his eyes off May.

Maguire still clutched the jar that held the demon. He now lifted it using both of his weak and trembling hands. “We won’t be needing this, will we, May?” His eyes twinkled up at her, seemingly pleased by what they read on her face. He looked back at his son. “Return this to safekeeping.” Sterling took charge of the container, then wandered off to the far end of the room. May watched as he unlocked a panel in the floor, opened a trapdoor, and replaced the jar in the hollow beneath it. After he closed the door and locked it, he rushed back over to rejoin them.

“Move us into position,” Maguire said, waving his arm toward the far corner of the room. Obedient as always, Sterling began pushing his father in the direction of the older man’s impatient gesture. May followed a few paces behind, keeping an eye on the door, calculating the speed at which she’d have to flee to reach it before the younger Maguire could catch up to her. May realized her worn-out joints could never carry her quickly enough. As she followed, she cast a glance around this room of illusions, thinking that this unnatural space might be where she breathed her last. She began a prayer for safety, if not for herself, at least for her girls. Even if she managed to do what Maguire wanted, how could she be sure that he wouldn’t still come after them?

“I’m a man of my word,” Maguire said, like he’d somehow read her mind. “You do as I ask you, and you will see your granddaughters as soon as we’re done. So step quickly.”

When May joined them near the blank gray wall, her attention was soon drawn downward to a marking carved into the floor that resembled the number eight lying on its side. Each half of the eight was large enough for a body to stand inside. This reclining eight was encircled by a band of red, whether painted or inlayed, May couldn’t say. Far from being the outer boundary of the image, the circle served as the center of an eight-pointed star.

“The Star of Regeneration,” Maguire said, answering a question May wouldn’t have considered asking. She didn’t want to understand the star’s design or purpose. All she wanted was to put this nightmare behind her. Maguire placed his hands on the wheels of his chair and took control of its movement, wheeling himself into the center of the star.

“You, May, are the battery, and this,” he said, motioning to the space on the floor around him, “is the flashlight. Come closer, but don’t step into the circle.”

May hesitated, testing it before committing by touching her toe against an outer point of the star.

Maguire laughed. “Really, girl, it won’t shock you. I keep telling you, it’s you who’ll supply the current.” May took a couple of steps toward him, but stopped well out of his physical reach. “Your mama damaged this body,” he began, once again unrolling his sleeve to show his damaged flesh. “She did her best to kill it.” His wording, saying “it” rather than “me” struck May as strange, but most things about this horrible man seemed off to her. “Damned near did what she set out to do, too. I’ll give credit where credit is due. She took my legs. And she took my power.”

He began unbuttoning his shirt, and May’s stomach turned as she saw the newly exposed flesh, from collarbone to navel. Just like his arms, it was covered by the burn-scarred patterns of a collector. The markings had spread to his left arm as well, down to his elbow. She trembled, wondering how many lives he’d ended to complete this hellish pattern. “This took a long time to accomplish,” he said, catching her eye, “and, yes, many deaths. And your mama took it all from me in a moment.”

He held up his arms, and Sterling stepped up to help him remove the garment. He slid back into his chair, smiling at her, giving her the time to take in the full horror of what sat before her. The burned tattoos weren’t the worst of it—a mass sat over where his heart should be, woven from layer upon twisted layer of the ugly filigree, veins knotted and woven together. All the filaments that ran over his arms and torso seemed flattened, dead, and they gave off a scent that bore witness to that ruin. May brought her hand over her mouth. Her eyes returned to the center of his chest, drawn by the pulsing of the inky purple tangle there.

Maguire pointed to the movement. “That’s it, May, the last of my magic. And it’s fading fast.” He rocked the wheels of his chair, maneuvering himself into the right side of the figure eight.

May jumped at Sterling’s touch. He had come up behind her and grabbed her by the upper arms. Shifting her a good two feet backward with a strong, rough jerk, he said, “We need you here,” and shoved her down. She found herself sitting, her legs bent together and splayed out to the side, in the dead center of the design’s lowermost triangle. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small folding knife. After flipping it open, he knelt before her, grabbed her right hand, and made a quick slice in her palm. It hurt like hell, so she drew a quick breath, but that was it. She’d be damned before she gave him the pleasure of seeing her suffer. He placed her bleeding hand over the point where two lines intersected. Then he did the same with her left hand, which he also arranged at a crossing point of two of the star’s intersecting lines.