Jilo

by J. D. Horn

  Jilo looked on as the collected energies joined together in a large pool arranged before a large and monstrous statue. It was familiar to her, yet she couldn’t place it. After a moment, it dawned on her that this was the Sphinx, though its head was a jackal’s head rather than that of a man in headdress. This head, Jilo suspected the original, was much larger than the one she’d seen in pictures. It seemed to suit the body much better, both in size and in composition. Jilo realized the familiar human face must have been hewn from this canine head.

  “I suspect that you,” Ginny said as Jilo watched the energy drain from the pool and coil up through the Great Pyramid, “are part of a planned assault against the safety net of magic we’ve woven. You have been created as part of the outsiders’ attempt to collapse the line.” The power shot up through the pyramid’s golden apex, but then turned, spinning in on itself, weaving a net of energy that stretched out in less than a blink of an eye to surround the entire globe. Then the light faded from sight.

  “Not all were shut out by the barrier we raised. There were a few outsiders, functionaries and bureaucrats, here to see to the final stages of the operation. They were trapped within the boundary of the line. Most were captured. Executed. But a few escaped, and those few began working to create a new kind of witch, one to whom they could give magic—or take it away—however it suited their cause. I fear you might be one of their creations, no more to them than an appliance waiting to be connected to the power supply of their choice. Within each race, on each corner of the globe, throughout time, they have placed a weapon such as yourself in preparation to put their plan in motion. They intend to turn you all on when it suits them, cause the line to falter, and finish the job they set out to do when the witches first rebelled. I have no idea how this might connect to the Beekeeper, but I’m sure it’s why you caught her attention. It would seem that even among your peers, there’s something special about you. That you might have a pivotal role to play.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t help them. And if you witches still exist, certainly you must be capable of maintaining the protections you created.”

  “Not all the witches want to keep the line. They resent that we’re not so special anymore, that we’re no longer the masters of this world the way we were when we served the outsiders. Some witches want to bring the line down, strip this world, and flee into the sky to join their masters. Help them spread the contamination of colonialism from world to world, star to star.”

  “Well, they can’t make me help them. I won’t help them.”

  “You must never practice magic,” Ginny said, her words a warning, “not even the charlatan tricks Mother Jilo has been peddling. Now that you’re connected to the Beekeeper, you’ll find her magic may just rise up in you even if you’re only attempting a ruse. And if that happens, you’ll begin to draw attention, unfriendly attention, to yourself.”

  “Or maybe,” Jilo said, her ire stirring at being told what she was and was not to do, “if this Beekeeper is on my side, I should start practicing magic in a grand way. If you witches are so afraid of her, sounds to me like I can handle any ‘attention’ you all care to throw my way.”

  Ginny stiffened. “Of course, that would be your choice. But it might cause far more harm than you could even guess.”

  “I,” Jilo straightened her spine, “will worry about the harm I do after I know my own family is safe.” She raised her hand, shaking it in anger. “You’re telling me to hide. To keep my head low. To pray that no one takes notice. Well, I’ve had enough of living that way, Miss Almighty Taylor. Maybe you should try it for a change.” The two women stood facing each other for several moments, their eyes locked together.

  Ginny flinched first. “Don’t ever let me off easy,” she said, and Jilo was surprised to see a smile building on her face. “Stand up to me. I’ll need that more from you now than ever.” Her smile pulled into a tight, straight line, and her gaze sharpened. “There’s one more thing, though. Something I think you should know about your Beekeeper. Then, if you choose to use the magic she’s offering, so be it.”

  Jilo nodded. “All right, I’m listening.”

  Ginny’s gaze fell to the floor, giving Jilo the impression that the other woman felt ashamed by what she was about to relate. “The Maguire family has been influential in this state for generations now, and my family has long been aware of Maguire and his activities.” She paused, her gaze drifting up to meet Jilo’s, an unspoken request for forgiveness. “But we did nothing, as . . .”

  “As his crimes didn’t touch you.”

  Ginny didn’t try to defend herself or her family. She nodded. “But that isn’t all. You see, after the war, we thought he’d lost all access to magic, but up until just before the war, Maguire was a collector, a practitioner of blood magic.” She paused. “A servant of the Red King, and by extension, of the Beekeeper herself.” She gave Jilo a moment to drink in her words. “Your magic,” she continued, “his magic, are of the same source.”

  Jilo’s mind flashed to the wreck that had taken Guy’s life only days after she and Tinker had made a deal with the Red King to save him. She had no doubt the report had it right when it said drugs and alcohol had played a role in the crash. But the paper got it wrong when they called the wreck an accident. Jilo felt certain that in some fiery hell, the Red King and his mother were laughing at her gullibility. Laughing at the bargain price she’d placed not only on her own soul, but on Tinker’s as well.

  “My nana,” Jilo said, growing ice-cold in an instant, “kept a scrapbook on Maguire.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Ginny said, again casting her glance downward. “It seems Maguire’s relationship with your family goes back several generations.” She halted, seeming to feel it was unnecessary to say more, but Jilo needed to hear the whole story. She needed to hear it spoken aloud.

  “Go on.”

  “Maguire. He got his start in blood magic by willingly letting himself be possessed by a demon, a nasty piece of work called Barron. Maguire was the vessel by which the demon was brought from the old world to the new. And,” she bit her lower lip, seeming to weigh her words, “the vessel that carried Maguire was his own ship. A ship he customarily used to transport human cargo.”

  “Damn him.” The words came out as a reflex, without premeditation. But they felt so right, so good on the tip of her tongue. “Damn him,” she said again, this time letting it take on the full weight of a curse.

  “Yes,” Ginny said, her voice tight, quiet, “damn him, indeed.” She crossed the room to the kitchen’s entrance. “I’ll see myself out.” She took a step, then turned back. “If you make a choice that puts the line in danger, I’ll have no alternative but to act against you. But I promise to respect you. I’ll never ask you to hide again.”

  “And I promise to never let you off easy,” Jilo said, wishing there would come a day when she would truly be able to call this woman a friend.

  “I’ve seen to it that the disappearance of the Maguires won’t be traced back to you. Now I’m going to head out back and set a concealment spell on that little graveyard you’ve got hidden in the trees behind the house.” Jilo gasped at her words. “You know, the one you’ve been trying not to think about,” Ginny said, apparently by way of explanation. “Even if someone sees those dips forming in the ground, they’ll take no notice.” A smile twisted her lips. “I’m helping you hide the bodies, Jilo. If that doesn’t make me a friend, I don’t know what does.”

  THIRTEEN

  October 14, 1958

  My dearest Jilo,

  I do so wish I could have been there to attend your wedding. This Tinker of yours sounds like a wonderful man, the kind of husband I’d always dreamed we’d both find. I can see from the snapshot you sent how deeply he loves you.

  I understand your decision to retire Mother Jilo. It’s for the best, I’m sure, what with Tinker being such a successful entrepreneur. Mother Jilo’s activities might reflect poorly on his reputa
tion with other businessmen. Still, a part of me will miss the old girl. The good Lord knows she took care of us when no one else would. Funny, isn’t it, that I still think of her as being somehow separate from you, a distinct person in her own right. May the dear lady rest in peace.

  You look so beautiful in the snapshot, and I’m going to risk that you will scowl at this page by saying you even look happy. You. Willy, too. He has found a home with you, and I thank you for caring for him. He’s a special soul, our Willy.

  And Robinson! He has grown so, since I last saw him. I’m happy he’ll have Tinker as a father. Tinker seems like the kind of man who’ll stay around, unlike Guy. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have written that. I should tear this page up and start over, but, well, perhaps it’s better you know how I felt about Guy. It may help you to understand how I’ve come to feel about my own husband.

  Edwin’s changed since Juliette was born. He’s so distant. Resentful is the word that comes to mind. Always finding excuses to be out, away. He tells me he’s looking for work, but I know he spends his days in bars and most nights in the boîtes de nuit, as they call the clubs here. As you know, Edwin’s father has cut him off from the family trust and other sources that might have helped make our existence easier. I swear, we would starve if it weren’t for his sister Ginny’s kindness. I’m sorry. I meant this to be a congratulatory letter, not one for a newspaper’s agony aunt.

  No more words, only my love.

  Your sister, Binah

  May 4, 1959

  My dearest Jilo,

  The cord has been pulled tight, past the breaking point. I’m laughing and crying as I write you. It’s all such a sad and embarrassing cliché. Edwin has been gone a week now. Gone without warning, having told me he was going out for cigarettes—yes, cigarettes. He evidently prefers a brand sold only in America, for that is where he’s gone. It’s far too comical, really. A night and a day passed without word from him, then a strange man, a man with a briefcase full of documents for my signature, knocked at our door.

  Edwin has returned to Savannah, and is, as I write this, probably readjusting to the luxuries he so sorely missed during our time together. He can salve whatever conscience he may still possess with the knowledge that his family has agreed to support us financially—I’ll never have to worry about money again, and though I know you have Tinker to help provide for you, neither will you. I can see to that.

  In exchange for their largesse, the Taylors demand that I never reveal my marriage to Edwin to anyone. There will be no divorce. It seems a divorce decree would just be another piece of evidence that could one day be used to sully the prodigal son’s soon-to-be-rehabilitated reputation.

  Nor can I identify Edwin as Juliette’s father. They insist we no longer use the Taylor name, so from now on we will live as Binah and Juliette Wills. (I hope your father will look kindly down upon us.) I assume this same prohibition will extend to our unborn child, too—yes, I’m sorry to bury this news in with the rest, I am pregnant again—once they learn of his or her existence. If it is a boy, I’ll name him Jude. I hope it’s a boy, though I don’t know why, growing up as he will, without his father. I hadn’t even found a way to tell Edwin I’m pregnant again, but if he could leave his firstborn, a second child probably wouldn’t have swayed his decision.

  I know you’re hoping that I’ll come home now, but they won’t allow that. I must never set foot again in the state of Georgia, let alone Savannah. But that’s all right. I’m going to head north, and I hope, in time, I can convince you and Tinker to join me. Paris is a museum, and Savannah is a graveyard, but things are happening in Detroit. That place is alive. I’m going to take this fortune of blood money I’m receiving from the Taylors, and though I’ll never see Savannah again, I will use it to see to it that Edwin will never be able to forget me or his children.

  They want to hide me and my children from the world, but I will see to it that we’re hidden in plain sight. And Jilo, my dearest sister, don’t worry about me, as I am going to make this world mine. I love you.

  Your sister, Binah

  May 1959

  Jilo stood before the Taylors’ enormous house, a well-maintained Victorian that took up the better part of the city block, by far the largest house in the immediate area. The house struck Jilo like an oversized and overly adorned princess surrounded by crumbling ladies-in-waiting. Jilo clutched her sister’s letter to her breast, waiting to confront Edwin with it. She’d read the letter over and over, unfolded and folded it so many times that the creases had cut through the words, angry tears, and the sweat from her hand causing Binah’s careful script to blur and run. She had stood before the house for an hour now, determined to catch that son of a bitch Taylor boy either coming or going, hoping he wouldn’t be coward enough to slip out through the back.

  But he may have done just that. Weak and soft, he’d make a tasty morsel for the Red King, one she’d gladly offer up without asking for anything in return. She felt the Beekeeper’s untapped magic rising up in her like sap, begging her to release it on the residents of this turreted monstrosity.

  There hadn’t been a single sign of movement the entire time she’d stood there, but finally she saw the edge of a curtain pull back. A few moments later, the front door eased open a crack, then closed tight. Perhaps another five minutes or so passed before the door opened again, emitting a sturdy woman with red hair and freckles. Her gray uniform and apron revealed her as the Taylors’ domestic. The woman cast a cautious eye down each side of the street, then closed the door behind her and scurried across the street to Jilo’s side.

  “May I help you?” the maid asked.

  Jilo never took her eye off the house. She saw the curtain move once again, and a lovely face peered out. Sun lit up the blonde hair framing the face, then the curtain winked closed.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Taylor. Mr. Edwin Taylor, please.” She nearly choked as she used a title of respect for the boy.

  The maid flushed red. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I don’t see how that is appropriate.” Jilo finally turned to face the maid. She came close to explaining to this blotchy creature just how appropriate her request was, but the fear in the woman’s eyes stopped her. She wasn’t a Taylor, she merely worked for them, her experience probably not so different from what Jilo’s nana’s had been when she worked at the old Pinnacle. “Mr. Edwin doesn’t make decisions about hiring for the household, and I can assure you we’re fully staffed. There are no openings.”

  “I’m not looking for employment,” Jilo said, and the woman relaxed a bit. Perhaps she was only worried about a perceived threat to her position. “Please, if you will just tell Mr. Taylor that Jilo is here. He’ll know me. He”—she prepared herself to lie—“will want to speak with me.”

  The maid hesitated for just long enough to arouse the curiosity of the woman who was still peeking out from behind the drapery. The door opened, and the woman whose lovely face Jilo had seen shining from behind the pane stepped out. “Is there a problem, Coleen?” she called out, her voice pristine, sweet. The perfect voice to sing lullabies.

  The maid—Jilo surmised named Coleen—sprinted back to her mistress. Jilo watched the maid’s animated gestures, obviously intended to persuade the young miss to go back inside. To Jilo’s surprise, it was the maid who found herself shooed away. The young blonde stood on the doorstep for a moment, seeming to consider Jilo. Jilo felt a sensation almost like a tickle as the beautiful blonde witch—yes, witch, the magic in Jilo sensed the magic in her—with the long neck and clear eyes took Jilo’s measure from a distance. What she read, how much she understood, Jilo didn’t know, but the odd prickling stopped, and the beauty strode with a practiced grace down the steps and across the street to Jilo.

  “What business do you have with my fiancé?”

  Her question struck Jilo as hard as a slap. She staggered back a few steps and placed her hand, still holding Binah’s letter, against her temple.

  “Are you quite al
l right? Do you need to sit down?” The young woman grasped Jilo’s free hand, wrapping an arm beneath hers to support her. “Would you like some water?” Jilo wondered that this usurper should seem so kind, so gentle, so honestly concerned about Jilo’s well-being. Jilo froze and turned to look into the woman’s sweet eyes. Could she be as innocent as Binah had been? Was she unaware of the situation she was walking into? Jilo fingered the letter in her hand, wondering if she should simply hand it over to the young woman and walk away. Let Binah’s words save this girl from making a huge mistake.

  “Come into the kitchen,” the woman said, guiding Jilo across the street toward the Taylors’ house. They got as far as the lowest step, but then the woman stopped, seeming to remember herself. “Well, of course, you’ll have to go in the back way,” she said, releasing Jilo’s arm and motioning toward a stone pathway that led around the house. “I’ll go tell Coleen to see to your needs.”

  “No,” Jilo said, causing Edwin’s new woman to startle. Let this buckra woman sleep in the bed she’d made for herself. “No,” she said again, this time her voice coming out softer. “I’m fine now. I apologize for being a nuisance.” She spun on her heel and began walking away, moving as fast as her feet could carry her.

  “Wait,” the woman called. “You wanted to speak to Edwin. It seemed like it might be an important matter.” Jilo felt the tingling sensation begin again, this time around her temples. She knew the witch was making a weak and clumsy attempt to see her thoughts. Somehow, without fully understanding how she’d known to do it, Jilo slammed a heavy curtain down between them. The young witch stammered. “He isn’t here right now, but I’ll pass on a message if you’d like.”