Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(41)

She wanted to be brave, but in truth, she’d never asked for any of this magic. She was frightened, and not only of what she was about to face. Deep down, she knew that she was still scared to death of the magic. Every time she felt it pulsing through her, she wondered if she were drawing herself closer to damnation. The good book said, “Suffer not a witch to live.” Was that what she was? Something dark and evil? Something the good Lord Himself would turn away from?

Yes, she was frightened and, more than that, she was tired. She would have liked nothing better than to walk away from it all. Leave this here earth to those who were fixing to fight over it. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing if it all did end for her here. Though it shamed her to even think it, Poppy could help raise her sisters.

Of course, this night could come to a peaceful conclusion. Maybe in an hour or so, she’d be back home with her babies. But was that really what she wanted? Didn’t a part of her hope things would go awry tonight? Wasn’t that what had truly pulled her from her home on Christmas night? Certainly she must have considered this confrontation might bring her to her own deliverance.

Even if she survived whatever evil was destroying the church, she could end it herself. Not rely on these fools. Reuben’s old razor. It was still packed away at the house. She could turn around. Go home right now and unpack it. One quick slice across her throat was all it would take.

May stopped dead in her tracks. These were not her thoughts. These thoughts were coming from outside of her, playing on her weaknesses. The voice of the White King. Seducing her with the promise of an easy rest. No, she was not going to let his malfeasance take root in her soul. She shook her head. “Not me, you old devil. Your brother might get me. Hell, he’s waiting for me just around the corner, but you ain’t ever gonna get May.”

She crept out of the graveyard to where she could witness the fire’s devastation. A group of men milled around in the hellish glow of the flames. She could hear them talking, but their voices were muted by the roar of the fire that was destroying the wood-frame church. Then the steeple tilted and fell, eliciting a powerful roar from those who had set the building alight. She approached them, unnoticed, from behind. Their attention was fixed on their handiwork. They stood there, not wearing the white robes she had expected to see, their faces not hidden by the pointed hoods. No. They stood out there in the open for all the world to see. Proud of themselves. Proud to be performing their civic duty. Jones was on his knees, one hand pressed against a wound on his head, staring up at the destruction with horror in his eyes.

The heat of the blaze beat back the cold of the black night. It would’ve felt pleasant had the fire not been the flames of hell.

One of the men looked back and noticed her arrival. “Well, who do we have here?” he called out, causing his fellows to turn.

She stretched herself to her full height and swallowed before speaking, praying her voice would not crack. “I’ve come for the preacher.” She strode up to them, trying to look confident, trying to act like she was in charge of the situation. She held out her hand to Jones.

He looked up at her through his one good eye, the other having swollen shut from the abuse these monsters had dealt to him. He waved her back with a bloodied hand. “Go. Go on. Get out of here.”

“No, sir,” May responded, walking up to him, taking his sticky hand in hers. “I ain’t leaving here without you.”

The reverberation of a gunshot caused May to jump, despite her determination to appear calm. A fat man with a rifle ambled up toward them, the other men parting to let him through. “Just who the hell do you think you are sticking your black nose in where it don’t belong?”

May released the pastor’s hand. She would try to solve this peaceably. Find a way to reason with these people. Yes, the church was lost, but it could be rebuilt. They’d hurt Jones, but he would heal. She would heal him. If she could get these men to let them go willingly, she could prevent any more bloodshed. But before she could respond, another spoke for her.

“Good heavens, Bobby. You mean to tell me you don’t recognize the great Mother Wills?” Sterling Maguire walked around the fat man and pulled the rifle from his grasp, breaking open the barrel and removing the remaining shell. May gaped in amazement. Sterling pushed the shell into this Bobby’s shirt pocket and handed the rifle back to him. “Y’all are done here now. You can go.”

Another man stepped forward and pointed down at Jones. “Come on, Mr. Maguire. You promised us a little fun with that one.” He pushed past Maguire and grabbed the pastor by the collar.

Maguire turned on this one, and the flames of the disintegrating church could not begin to match the fire in his eyes. “I said y’all are done here. Now go.” The man holding Jones seemed to know he’d overstepped. He released Jones without another word of protest.

The other men milled around, grumbling, but they left as they’d been ordered.

As the last of the men made his way beyond the fire’s glow, Sterling drew near May. Her eyes forced her to think of this man as the younger Maguire, though she knew for a fact it was the father walking around in the son’s skin. Same old hate in a different package. “Long time no see, huh, May?” For reasons May could not begin to imagine, Sterling began to undo his tie. He undid the knot, then pulled it out from under his collar and flung it to the ground. Then his fingers went to his shirt and began unbuttoning.