Jilo by J.D. Horn Page B

face. May knew she was the bird, and that even though he was enjoying every second of batting her around, soon tooth and claw would come out. She hesitated, her skin tingling as she contemplated fleeing.
    “Look at it, Sterling,” Maguire’s words pulled her from her calculations. “Isn’t it beautiful?” May’s eyes followed the men’s stares right down to her own hands, her own fingertips that were alive with the same blue-green sparks she’d spent a lifetime trying to extinguish. “This isn’t just some old Doc Buzzard hair, spit, and metal shavings buried under your porch. That there is real magic.”
    Doctor Buzzard . A single name shared by many root doctors, men who with varying degrees of sincerity and skill worked Hoodoo, taking your hard-earned money to put a fix on your enemy or—worse yet—remove the fix your enemy put on you. A lot of the Buzzards were charlatans, plain and simple, but there were a few, a precious few, who really did know how to work magic. These men, the ones who weren’t just playacting, mostly didn’t mess around with curses and fixes. No, the men with real power spent their time trying to help people.
    ’Course it wasn’t just men. Plenty of women working the Hoodoo, too. The women weren’t called “Doctor,” though. They were always referred to as “Mother.” Folk around Savannah had always assumed May’s mother was just another of these root doctors, but deep down May had always known better. Even though Mother Tuesday had refused to share the details of her magic with her daughter, May had always known her mama had tapped into a source of power that the others didn’t even know about. May had always known that if she so desired, she could draw from that same well.
    “Closer,” the older man’s voice startled her. “Closer!”
    Sterling scrambled to navigate his father’s chair nearer to May. In his haste, the younger man bumped into the table, causing his half-full coffee cup to jitter around in its saucer. Maguire’s body lurched forward, unprepared for even the slightest jarring. It chilled May’s soul to watch as the elder Maguire looked up at his own flesh and blood with complete disdain. “You clumsy oaf. You tip me out, and I will see you horsewhipped. You hear me, boy?” Sterling blanched, his reaction telling May that this was no idle threat. Maguire pushed on the arm of his chair so that he could turn a tad more toward his son. “I asked if you heard me.”
    “Yes, sir. I heard you,” Sterling replied. May nearly felt a twinge of sympathy for this young man. What kind of upbringing must he have had? What daily tortures had he faced at the hands of his own father? Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts, for Sterling seemed to take note of May’s softening toward him. His face hardened, forming creases and lines that shouldn’t find a home on a face so young. His eyes narrowed with a hatred so complete May shuddered under its weight. She looked away before it could bore any more deeply into her soul.
    May felt Maguire’s focus return to her. She reached down and wrapped her hands up in the length of her apron, but Maguire snatched up her right hand. She struggled to free herself from his grasp, but even though his lower extremities had failed him, his hands revealed a steely strength. He watched the sparkles with an enraptured glee in his eyes.
    “Yes, I knew old Tuesday was lying,” he said, turning May’s hand over so that he could see the palm. He traced the crease of her hand with his index finger, then leaned forward and attempted to kiss her palm. May’s revulsion was so complete that it gave her the added strength she needed to break free. In the same movement, she scooted her chair back a good two feet.
    The old man tilted back, his eyes widening for a moment in anger, but then a hearty laugh broke free from him.
    “I don’t use it.” May tried to make the statement sound matter-of-fact. Final. “I promised