The Line (Witching Savannah, #1)(4)

Jilo was the undisputed queen of Savannah’s root doctors, the large brim of her yellow sun hat shading cruel and mercenary eyes, her folding chair serving as the throne from where she ruled her empire. Only a local fool or an outsider ignorant of Savannah’s ways would ever mistake Jilo as anything other than the powerful tyrant that she was.

A much younger woman followed in Jilo’s wake, scurrying to catch up to her. When she got in front of Jilo, she collapsed onto her hands and knees. “Mother! I beg of you! I want to take it back,” she half moaned, half screamed as she reached out, trying to catch the older woman by the ankle.

Even in the failing light, my eyes were dazzled by the colors of Jilo’s ensemble—a large daffodil yellow sun hat and a violently purple dress that probably once fit her but now hung loosely from her bones. Her outfit was jarring against the vibrant green of the folded lawn chair she was half carrying, half using as a cane and the small red cooler she was clutching in her other hand. I shuddered as I considered the likely contents of the cooler.

“What do you think is going on there?” one of my guys asked as I approached them.

“I think that is something we best stay out of,” I responded.

Jilo managed to avoid the woman’s frantic grasp, stopping to swat at her with the chair. “Jilo done told you it too late to take back.”

“But I was wrong,” the woman cried, ducking her head beneath her raised arms. “He never cheated on me.”

“Well that between you and yo’ man.” Jilo wheezed and took another lumbering step toward the gate of the cemetery.

“But he’s going to die, Mother!” The desperation in the woman’s voice was heartbreaking The tall, paternal member of my group stepped in front of me, placing himself as a protective barrier between me and the unpleasant goings-on. Lord knows, growing up in Savannah, I’d seen much worse skirmishes than this little drama. I poked my head out around him.

“That right, he is,” Jilo responded, her voice as cold as ice water. “That what you done paid Jilo for.” The old woman straightened her back and coughed repeatedly, then bent and spat on the ground.

“But I was wrong! I’m sorry.” The woman fell facedown into the turf, sobbing.

“That ain’t Jilo’s fault. Now, if you want Jilo’s help getting a new man, you let her know. That she can help you with, but yo’ old man, he as good as gone, and the quicker you get used to it, the better.” Jilo continued on her way as though nothing untoward had happened, passing beneath the eagle as we silently watched her.

“That was really quite extraordinary,” the tall guy said in an undertone. “This ‘mother’ arranges murders for hire?”

“Isn’t that a police station on the other side of the wall there? Should we maybe go report this?” my round fellow asked. Beads of sweat had popped up on top of his bald head.

“That would be a waste of time,” I responded. “The police know exactly what she’s up to.”

“And they don’t do anything about it?”

“Honestly, there isn’t much they could do. You see, Mother Jilo isn’t any kind of hit man, she’s a magic worker.”

“A witch?” the tall one asked, laughing. The sobbing woman had pulled herself up off the ground and was weaving toward the exit as falteringly as a drunk.

“No, definitely not a witch,” I said, “but as close as you can get to one without being the genuine article. She works spells for revenge, for money, for love …” I was suddenly struck with an idea that I wasn’t comfortable entertaining. It was the kind of idea that could lead me down a path I knew better than to tread.

“For gullible people, like that poor soul,” the quietest member of my crew chimed in.

For a few moments the guys stood around, staring wordlessly at me. “Ah, I get it,” the round one blurted out with a snort. “You’re still lying to us aren’t you?”

I laughed along with him. “You got me,” I lied. “I don’t have the slightest idea what any of that was about.” I heard the bells from St. John’s begin to ring the hour. It was 8 P.M., and I knew the city workers would show up at any moment to lock Colonial up for the night. “Come on, y’all,” I said, moving toward the gate. “I am going to introduce you to the ghost of Billy Bones.”




TWO


“Mercy!” Sam’s gravelly whisper carried across the field like the call of a cicada. Even at this distance and in the dark, I recognized the old man. The moon reinforced the silver in his hair and his pronounced limp as he hurried toward me. “Mercy, you know you should not be here. Not even during the day, but specially not at night,” he said as he reached me.

“It’s okay, Sam…” I tried to protest, but he interrupted me.

“No, it is not okay. There are men out here—hell, even women—who’d rape you or kill you just for the fun of it.”

“Sam, I’m just a couple of miles from home,” I said.

“And you are a world away. Normandy Street ain’t your Savannah. Trust me on this,” he said, reaching out in an attempt to place a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. “I know you think you safe ’cause you a Taylor, but they some people out here, they no better than animals. They might decide killing you a smart way to make they mark.” He paused. “Let me accompany you home. I’ve known you since you were a tiny little thing. It’d kill this old man to let him think he let something happen to you.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he was already dead, that his body had been turned over to the medical school three months ago. Now Sam was just another spirit caught in Savannah’s web.