Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(42)

“Whatever the hell you think you’re doin’, you better stop it right now,” May raised her hands, fingers pointed toward each other as a ball of blue lightning, the largest she’d ever mustered, formed there, ready and waiting to be launched. She guessed it’d burn a hole clean through a normal man, but this servant of the Red King, with his monstrous living tattoos, well, she hoped it would at least buy her enough time to get Jones to Henry’s truck and get back to her house.

“My, my, my, how you have grown, my girl,” Maguire said. “You’ve been practicing.” He stopped for a moment, but then resumed what he was doing. “I, too, have seen many changes since we last met.” He shrugged off his shirt, and May prepared herself for the demonical sight of his markings. But they were gone, and his pasty white skin was now a clear canvas. He drew closer, presenting himself for inspection.

“Who did you kill? What child did you offer to your demon for this?”

Maguire leaned back, clasping his hands before him. “Ah, May, can’t you tell the world is changing?” He paused. “No. Not changing. Returning to the normal, rightful order. Sanity is being restored.” He released his clasp and shook his head. “Not a single little one was harmed for this miracle, although I would’ve gladly commissioned a new slaughter of the innocents for it. No, I no longer have any need of the Red King’s crumbs. There is magic out there, the likes of which neither you nor I ever imagined. We, you and I, your mother and I.” His eyes widened. “Your grandmother and I. And hell, even her mother before that. Honestly, girl,” he said with a chuckle, “I’ve done lost track of how far back we go. Over the years, we have been slinging pebbles at each other with home-crafted slingshots. Our magic has been like the power of steam. But there are those out there with the power of lightning. The power of the very void from which existence sprang. The power . . .”

“The power of devils,” Pastor Jones surprised May by speaking.

Maguire stepped forward and used the sole of his foot to push the battered man from his knees, causing him to land on his side. “The power of gods,” he said, then spat on the minister. Maguire looked at the pastor as if he’d like nothing better than to gut him, but his expression smoothed over in the next instant.

“The old order is returning,” he said, turning toward May. “As soon as tomorrow. And when it does, there will be a need for men like me. There are those who recognize that need, and they’re the ones who did this for me.” He waved his hands before himself. “Old lines are being redrawn. Old ways renewed.” He took another step closer, and May prepared to aim her shot, but Maguire reached out and placed one hand above and the other below the ball of energy she’d been cradling. He brought his hands together, and though his face contorted in pain, he squeezed the ball tighter and tighter until it collapsed and went dark. May stumbled back, feeling all her energy fail her. When she raised her arms, it was not in attack, but in surrender.

Pastor Jones pushed himself back up to his knees and made a failed attempt to rise to his feet. “Do what you need to do with me, but this woman is innocent. Just let her go.”

Sterling went to the preacher’s side and squatted down beside him. “Oh, Pastor. Don’t fool yourself. No one who knows that kind of power is innocent. And”—he held a hand out to Jones—“don’t be so quick to assume this is about you.” The pastor slapped away the white man’s hand.

“Fine,” Sterling said, rising, “have it your way.”

A movement some yards away caught May’s eye, and her heart fell at the sight of Henry stepping out of the shadows. The last thing she needed was for him to get mixed up in her struggles with Maguire.

“I told you to stay put,” she said, anger punctuating each word. Henry came forward and helped the pastor up.

“And I told him to come along,” Maguire said. The dance of the wicked flames turned Sterling’s lopsided sneer into a demon’s mask. “You can get on home now, boy,” he said, giving Henry a rough shove. “Your work here’s done.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Wills,” Henry called out. “I’m sorry,” he said again, even though he was already leading the pastor away from them. “I didn’t want to do it, but he said he’d kill my little sister if I didn’t get you out here. He said he’d feed her to the devil. He promised he wouldn’t hurt you if I did bring you.”

“Go on, boy.” Sterling said, miming a pistol with his hand and aiming it between Henry’s eyes. “I ain’t gonna tell you again to move.”

“I’m sorry,” Henry dared again before turning. May watched the boy and the pastor disappear into the darkened cemetery.

Maguire let loose a deep laugh. “How the boy exaggerates. Not the devil. Just a devil. My old friend Barron. You remember him, don’t you?” He reached for her, moving too quickly for her to avoid his touch. He caught her arm in his grasp, tightening, tightening, until the pain drove May to her knees. “You know, May, it’s funny how the world can change in an instant. Not so long ago that demon, that old genie in a bottle of mine, was my most prized possession on this earth. Now, he’s completely superfluous to my existence. Just like you and your seed.” He knelt before her without ever relinquishing his grip. “So today is his Emancipation Day.” He nodded, his eyes opening wide in parody of her own horror. “That’s right, May. I just let him go. I let him go right outside your sweet little quarters.”