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“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.
