Jilo

by J. D. Horn

  Maguire looked at May and nodded. “Thanks to your mama, there’s not much magic left in me at all. She damaged me so these markings no longer work the way they once did,” he said as the lines began to take on new shapes. He leaned in toward her conspiratorially, intimately, as if they were lifelong friends. “The energy of every life I took with this hand would become mine to do with as I wished.” His smile fell flat in reaction to something he must have read in her eyes. “Oh, May, even you must admit that so many people waste their potential. Rather than letting them continue to shuffle from disappointment to disaster, I relieved their worthless, unhappy souls of their burdens and turned their energy toward something more productive. In a way, it could be argued that I showed these unfortunates great kindness.

  “But your mama”—his eyes took on a strange fire—“she didn’t see it that way. No. She didn’t like how I got my magic, and she sure as hell didn’t like what I did with it. I tried reason, but reason is not an arena in which the weaker sex excels.” He nodded backward toward Sterling. “Even a young fellow here like Sterling can attest to that. Can’t you, boy?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sterling responded, dropping his answer as mechanically as a jukebox will play a favorite song for a nickel.

  “Your mama was an extreme case. So rebellious, she was, but the women in your family always were. No matter how many times you faced the whip”—a smirk rose on his lips—“or the rod.” He leered at her, leaving May feeling soiled. His voice changed in the next instant, taking on the patient and benevolent timbre of a Sunday school teacher. “This world, you must understand, was built to work in a certain way, but your mama refused to see it. Refused to see that this world needs to have its masters. We’re the ones who carry the weight of the world and maintain order. We protect you.

  “This, my girl, is the white man’s world. The way it was intended to be. I’ve spent so many years, more than you can begin to know, dedicating myself to protecting the natural order. Without men like me, there would be chaos. Your mama, she refused to understand, and she did some damage. Now it’s up to you to set things right.

  “You see, May, even without my magic or my health, I am still a very powerful man. I’ve been pulling strings in your life you never even knew were there. It took no magic to make your daughter-in-law’s dreams come true. Dangle a shiny bauble before her, and I knew she’d drop those precious little grandchildren of yours right into your lap. And I knew the second you sensed one of your girls was in danger, you’d show me that magic you’ve been hiding, my girl.

  “My Klan brethren were ignorant of my true aim, but they were all too happy to participate in the ceremony. Men like that are best kept ignorant. Makes it much easier to turn their hate toward your own purpose. They only ask that you let them believe the pallor of their unwashed skin is all they need to be worthwhile. You know,” he said, placing his hand under his chin, “most of the men who fought and died to preserve the institution of slavery never owned a slave. Never would, even if the North had been turned back. I believe those fellows were fighting for the right to feel superior to someone. The fools never realized they shared the same masters you colored did, only we didn’t even have to feed them.” He nodded his head as he spoke, seemingly in agreement with his own idea.

  He lowered his voice and leaned in to take her hand, acting as if there should be a shared sympathy between them. She snatched it from his grasp. The look he gave her was that of an adult weary of dealing with a recalcitrant child. “If Tuesday hadn’t lied, if it were true you had no magic, then this would all be settled. Sure, you would have faced some anguish upon waking to learn the child was gone, but her fate would have remained a mystery. Each night, you could have laid your head on your pillow without the burden of involvement. But as with Eve, your rebellious nature has cost you your right to innocence. Now, I’m afraid the choice falls to you.”

  Maguire reached back and motioned to Sterling. “The satchel. The satchel,” he said again, never looking at his son, merely wagging the fingers on his upturned hand until Sterling delivered the black leather bag. Maguire’s knuckles turned white as he set the bag on the plaid blanket covering his lap.

  He released the handle and unzipped the bag. “If it hadn’t taken so long to track down my old friend here, we would have had this conversation much sooner.” He reached his hand into the opening and pulled out an odd-shaped container. May’s soul chilled at the mere sight of it. “Alabaster,” he said, “very cool to the touch. It belies the fire contained within.” May noticed some kind of lettering had been carved onto the bottle. At least she thought they were letters. Might be they were just pictures. One looked like an arrow.

  “This type of ancient jar is what lies behind the stories of genies trapped in bottles,” Maguire said, lifting it up in a quivering hand. “It does contain a sort of djinn. A demon, if you will. Conjured into this world by none other than Gilles de Rais himself.” He returned the jar to the bag. “Sterling,” his son’s name formed a full, if unspoken, command. Sterling stepped to his father’s side and zipped up the case while it still sat on the older man’s knees. Then he moved it to the table behind his sire.

  “The demon’s called Barron, but don’t let the sound of his name fool you. He’s no more royalty than you are. Just a minor sprite, really, otherwise I never would have managed to trap him in a container such as this one. No, he’s no great shakes in the grand scheme, and sadly his dark powers do not include the ability to repair the damage your mother has done to me. But he has plenty enough magic to wreak havoc on your little world.” He held up his damaged arm again as if May could possibly have forgotten the sight of it. “Barron has very particular tastes. I’m sure you understand, don’t you?”

  May found herself mute with fascination. Her head turned left and right and back again, but then her eyes found his arm, and she froze in shock. The lines of Maguire’s tattoo had settled into a pattern May recognized way too easily. The features of her own grandbabies smiled up at her from three tiny faces. In the next instant, they faded clean away. May bounded to her feet, knocking the heavy, embroidered chair over. She stepped backward around it, never once taking her eyes off the Maguire men.

  “There, there,” Maguire said. “No need for a scene. No need to offer up any minstrel-style shenanigans. Sterling,” he addressed his son, commanding him with a nod of his head. Sterling circled around and righted the fallen chair, then returned to his place behind his father. “So tell me, what’s it to be? Are you going to right your mother’s wrongs, or shall I set poor, starved Barron loose on those tender little girls?”

  “You, you,” May stammered a moment before she found her voice, “are out of your goddamned mind?” She spun around, nearly tripping in her haste to leave.

  “Think it over, May,” Maguire said in a calm, even voice. “Claim the magic that is yours. Undo your mother’s misdeeds. Save your granddaughters. Or run, knowing that Barron will be nipping at your heels the entire way, eager to suck the marrow from your grandchildren’s bones.”

  May froze in her tracks, knowing she’d been defeated. Her best hope, perhaps her only hope, was to accept the power she’d tried so hard to escape. She doubted that Maguire would be sated even if she did manage to heal him. She was going to have to learn how to use the magic, fast, and hope it was enough to protect her family. There was no hope that she might one day best the man; how could she succeed where even her mama had failed? And so she turned back to the pair, the same smug smile pasted on both their faces, and asked, “What do you need me to do?”

  ELEVEN

  At Fletcher Maguire’s bidding, she followed him and his son to the guest elevator, a rarified contraption that May had only cleaned, never ridden. At the sight of the three of them approaching, the operator stepped out of the elevator and held the door open for them. May stationed herself as far as possible from the men, pressing her back into the wooden wall. To her surprise, the young man in the gold-piped maroon uniform and cap did no
t join them, but rather let the door close behind them. Sterling shifted around his father, taking the utmost care not to jostle him in the tight space, and produced a large and substantial-looking key. After inserting it into a hole in the brass plate, he gave it a turn to the right, released it, and then twisted the control to the left. May felt the elevator begin to descend. She watched as the hand on the dial that showed the floor shifted from 1 to B for basement, then continued to move counterclockwise as the car descended farther than she’d believed a body could go.

  The car came to a smooth stop, and a moment later the doors opened. Sterling removed the key and grabbed hold of the handles of his father’s wheelchair, easing him over the space between the elevator carriage and the floor. When May didn’t move, Sterling looked back at her. “Come,” he said.

  She stepped out of the car and into a hallway that seemed to run close to the full length of the hotel above. Lights shone down from overhead, but rather than filling the length of the hall, the beams just provided dots of light in the surrounding gloom. The walls, floor, and ceiling appeared to be made of the same concrete—uniformly gray, but polished so that it gave off a sheen in those places where light reached it.

  May watched in silence as Sterling inserted that key of his into a panel on the wall and turned it right. The doors of the elevator closed of their own accord, and May heard a hum as cables lifted it up, returning it, she assumed, to the hotel’s main floor.

  The hall was bereft of any sound other than the squeaking wheels of the elder Maguire’s chair along the stone floor, syncopated by the tapping of his son’s leather-soled shoes following behind. If May’s tread made any noise, it was drowned out by the beating of her heart.

  Each spot of light gave way to shadow, and in those dim places in between, May sensed a presence, reaching out from the emptiness of the hall, craving the light she carried in herself, or perhaps only yearning to blot it out. Feeling something brush up against her, she quickened her pace so that she could follow the Maguires in a tighter pack. Then, repulsed by their nearness, she lied to herself, trying to dupe herself into believing there was nothing lurking in the shadows, that she’d disturbed a cobweb and nothing more. She allowed herself to drift back once again, but this time something small and furry ran across her feet, brushing up against her ankle. She felt the tickle of unseen fingers along her forearm. An invisible hand grasped her wrist. She gasped and pulled away, rushing into the next circle of light. Sterling looked back over his shoulder at her. His smile lifted only one side of his mouth, and there was a gleam of dark joy in his eyes. Her fear amused him. She was left in a dance of gooseflesh and queasiness; left to choose between the devils she knew and the ones that traveled unseen.

  Sterling stopped his father’s chair before a red door dominated by a brass knocker in the shape of a grimacing, bearded face. Though May would be happy to be out of the long hall, she found herself wondering what horrors might lay behind the incongruous door. Sterling grasped the bottom of the beard and knocked three times before reaching down and turning the oversized doorknob.

  “You’ll want to enter backward, my girl,” Maguire called out to her, “or you might not like what you see. I do have a wee bit of magic left to me despite your mama’s best efforts.” Sterling opened the door wide, then gripped the handles of his father’s chair and backed it into the room. She hesitated, not wanting to turn her back on the men, but she didn’t see as she rightly had any choice. Grasping hold of the door frame, she stepped backward over the threshold. As soon as she cleared it, she turned to face the interior—it was a large room, bigger even than the hotel’s grand ballroom, but still, as far as her eye could tell, a perfectly normal room.

  Six square pillars, constructed of the same buffed concrete as the hall, were spaced evenly around the room. The walls were also concrete, but two were covered in murals wrought by a hand that had brought a nearly photographic quality to them. Their coloring was far more natural than any of the painted photographs May had ever seen. One featured a pine forest that looked natural enough to walk into, and the other, a long stretch of beach, buffeted by blue sky overhead and what looked to be miles of white sand stretching off in the distance. A third wall remained blank gray concrete, and the fourth was painted white with what appeared to be the early stages of a sketch of a pasture with tall mountains.

  Unlike the sparsely lit hall, this room was as bright as midday. May’s eyes drifted upward to find the source of the light, surprised to see that the ceiling overhead appeared to be a blue summer sky. The light itself was projected by a single golden source in the center of the room that, for all the world, May would have sworn was the sun itself. It astounded her to think she had worked at the Pinnacle for years without knowing this subterranean room existed.

  May felt the weight of the men’s eyes on her. She turned to face them. “What is this place?”

  Maguire’s face beamed with joy, his eyes widening and a genuine smile rising to his lips. “It’s a work in progress, is what it is.” He slapped the side of his chair and waved his hand forward, signaling for his son to push him closer to May. “But when it’s finished,” he said, “it will serve as sanctuary, a refuge . . .” He held up his hand to tell Sterling he should stop. “A shelter.” He raised both hands and gestured around the chamber. “When the big boy drops,” he said, “and I assure you he will, this will be the place to be.”

  May shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “No,” Maguire said, then laughed. “You wouldn’t. But take my word for it. There are greater waves washing over this world than anything you or your mama could’ve ever kicked up. And I intend to ride that wave, May, but I need you to set me right before I can do that.”

  May felt a chill and pulled her arms around herself. “I done told you, I don’t know what you want from me. Even if I had magic . . .”

  “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.”