Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(96)
After crossing the yard to his son, Maguire relieved the boy of the pistol. “Go on, you know what to do. Get started, and be quick about it.” As Thomas took off around the side of the house, Maguire wagged the pistol at Willy. “Come on, boy,” he said, “you look like you might be pretty fast. Why don’t you drop that little ape you’re holding and see if you can sprint out of here? I’ll even make it sporting. I’ll count to ten.” Willy looked first at him, then at Jilo, his eyes round with horror. He clutched Robinson even tighter, placing one hand behind the little one’s head, doing his best to shelter the boy from all that was going on around them. Jilo blessed the day Willy had followed Binah to her door. She was going to take care of him, take care of them both. She cast a glance in Guy’s direction. The truth was finally clear to her now, in this horrible moment—she would never share a life with this man, but she couldn’t let him die. Not like this. Not if she could help it. Especially since for once it looked like Guy was blameless; this mad buckra had only used him to get at her. If it were true this Beekeeper could heal Guy, Jilo would take care of him, too. She didn’t care what it might cost her.
The younger Maguire returned, holding a sword, one of those Confederate officer’s sabers she’d often seen carried by men dressed in Confederate gray and Kelly green as they marched in the Saint Patrick’s Day parade. He stripped down to the waist, then stabbed the sharp point of the saber’s slightly curved blade into the earth. He began cutting lines in the soil, his movements quick and practiced. Jilo knelt beside Guy, first tracing her hand along his brutalized cheek, then placing a hand on his still-rasping chest. “I’ll fix this,” she whispered into his ear. “I’ll make it right.”
She rose and began to cross to Willy and Robinson. “Uh-uh,” Maguire said, shaking his head. “No sweet reunions till we’re done here.” He took aim at Willy’s head. Jilo nearly jumped away from the boys. “You had your chance,” he said, addressing Willy. “Don’t go getting any ideas now.”
Maguire’s gaze softened. “Ironic really”—with those two words his tone changed from threatening to wistful—“that I’m reduced to using this popgun to keep you in line.” He sighed. “There was a time when I could have set loose the very hounds of hell on you, or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof. But what can I tell you? I cut the wrong ties. Backed the wrong side leading up to the war. A man lives. He learns. And now, well, you’re the first step toward helping me regain all I’ve lost.” Only then did Maguire lower the pistol, though Jilo figured the gesture was more for his own comfort than for any other reason.
She couldn’t bear to see the tears running down Willy’s cheeks, so she looked away. Her eyes fell on Thomas’s handiwork, all the while thinking how his movements as he carved up the earth reminded her of the Beekeeper’s dancelike stroll. She stepped far enough back to take in the larger picture. The young man had cut the symbol for infinity into the earth. Each of the two loops was around three, maybe three and a half feet in diameter. He drew a circular band around it, then began making long strokes, slices that came together to form an eight-pointed star.
When the final point had been joined, Thomas stopped and looked up at his father with an expression that seemed to combine great pride and expectation. His efforts had left his broad shoulders and taut chest glistening with sweat.
“Good boy,” Maguire said, then pointed with his free hand at the young man. “That,” he said, addressing Jilo, “is a good, strong body. I saw to it this time. Made sure the boy was disciplined, not soft and coddled like this body was raised to be.” He spoke as if he thought any of his rantings should make any sense to her. “And he’s going to share some of that strength with his father,” Maguire said, though his intonation told Jilo the words were meant as encouragement for his son, rather than for her own ears. “He’s going to share some of that glowing health, and once he’s got his old man set right, the two of us are going to go out and take over the world, aren’t we, my boy?”
“Yes, sir,” Thomas replied. “The whole damned world.”
Jilo remained silent, not daring to open her lips lest she begin screaming at Willy to run, to hold Robinson tight and run as swiftly as his long, strong legs could carry them.
“That’s my boy,” Maguire said, holding his free hand out to Thomas. “Bring me the saber, then take your place. Let’s get this finished.”
Thomas jogged to his father’s side, holding the sword out so that the elder Maguire could grasp its hilt. For a moment, Thomas turned his gaze on Jilo. The boy seemed so full of pride, so certain that this world was his birthright, his to carve and his to wound, his to rule or destroy, depending on his whim. He turned and strode into the inner circle, stationing himself in the left loop of the lopsided figure eight.
To Jilo’s surprise, Maguire held the saber out to her. “You’ll need this.” When she didn’t move, he shook the blade, angling its hilt toward her. “Good God, girl, come take it.”
She approached him with great care, fearful that at any moment he might swing the blade around and cut her down. Seeming to read her fears, he laid it down on the ground by his feet, then strode into the sign Thomas had cut into the wounded earth, entering the right loop of infinity. “Here, take this,” he said, holding the revolver out to Thomas. Once they had traded off the gun, Maguire reached out with his right hand and grasped his son’s left.