Sterling reached over with his free hand, trying to pry himself from his father’s grasp, but the old man’s fingers fixed on the younger man’s arm like a steel trap. The collector’s marks rose up from Maguire’s body, deserting first his left arm, then his torso. The whole design, now a living band of energy, wound its way around his right arm, forming a tight coil. Then it rose up, in a sudden flash of activity, and a head like a serpent’s shot out and buried its fangs into Sterling’s arm. The younger man began screaming, but May could only feel contempt as she noticed urine puddle on the floor around him.
The head of the marking buried itself into the young man’s otherwise unblemished soft pink skin, then writhed its way through his arm. Just below his agonized cries, May could make out the sound of flesh separating from muscle to make way for the mark. It may have taken a mere minute, maybe two, but soon the marking had completely deserted the father’s body and insinuated itself fully into the son. The pattern that had once covered Fletcher was now in the same configuration on Sterling. Fletcher’s body had been left with nothing but the scars of May’s mama’s attempts to end him.
Then there was a bright flash of light, one so blinding it caused May to remove her hands from the figure etched into the floor and shield her own eyes. That light, she realized in a breath’s length of time, had come from those same hands. For a few moments the world around her was drowned in piercing light, then her right vision slowly came back to her. When it did, she could see in an instant something had changed.
The elder Maguire sat staring down at his wrinkled and spotted hands, his eyes wide in horror. “Father,” the old man’s voice creaked out as he looked up at Sterling. “What have you done?”
A wide smile broke across Sterling’s face. “I thought you agreed it was a shame to let someone waste their potential.” The voice belonged to the younger man, but something in his tone spoke of Fletcher Maguire.
“You,” May began, not quite sure how to phrase it, “you took your own son.”
“Ah, May, don’t look at me like that,” Sterling said. “A body can only be marked as a collector once. You get one mark, and then you have to tend it, like a garden. Your mama corrupted that body,” he nodded to the old man in the wheelchair, “she salted the fields, so to speak. I had no choice but to find new accommodations.”
The old man raised his head. “Help me,” he called to her. “Help me.”
“Now, now,” Sterling said, crossing the room to retrieve the shirt that had been cast aside earlier. “Why on earth would she want to do that?” He pulled the shirt on, and began buttoning it, clearly delighted with the nimbleness of his new fingers. May stood, never once taking her eyes off the pair, and stepped away from the diagram.
Once he was dressed, Sterling knelt by the old man’s wheelchair and started to button up the shirt that had been his own just moments before.
“Father,” the old man pleaded.
Sterling reached back and slapped the old man, the sound of the blow echoing in the large room. ?
?Don’t ever call me that again, or I’ll have you committed. And it would be a shame for Fletcher Maguire’s reputation to be ruined by having him end his days in a madhouse.”
Sterling looked up at May. “You’re free to go,” he said. “You’ll find there are stairs at the far end of the hall.” He smiled and gave her a wink. “Of course the exit lets out at a different point each time. Let’s hope you don’t find yourself stranded too far from home.”
May had no idea what the man was saying, but she started backing her way toward the door all the same.
“Oh, May,” Sterling called. “One more thing.” She froze in place. “Now that you have access to all that magic, don’t go thinking you’re done with me. What’s yours belongs to me, girlie, ’cause you belong to me.” He stood and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair, nearly running as he pushed the old man’s body right up to her. “And don’t be thinking about trying to run away either, ’cause I got ways to cure you of your drapetomania right quick.”
TWELVE
A cloud of dust kicked up around May as she made her way home. She didn’t stop, didn’t look up to determine its source. She knew it had to be the same police car that had been trailing her for miles. It would come to a stop every quarter of a mile or so, wait for her to pass, then continue to move. It was a message from Maguire. She was being watched, and the whole damned world was on his side. This time the car didn’t rev up its engine and speed past. It pulled up alongside her instead.
“You ain’t thinkin’ ’bout leavin’, now are you, Auntie,” a voice called out. She glanced up at the deputy who’d spoken to her, but she couldn’t risk doing or saying anything that would give them the excuse to put her in the back of that patrol car. Maybe that was Maguire’s intent by having them follow her. No doubt, he delighted in the thought of her stewing behind bars, helpless in the knowledge there was nothing she could do to save the girls from the monster he kept in his jar.
“We gonna keep an eye out on you.” The officers in the car laughed, then hit the gas, showering her with a cloud of dirt and tiny stones.
May ignored the sting of rocks meeting flesh. She had to focus on the problem at hand. She had to figure out a way to protect the girls.
Martha had promised to look in on the girls while May was at work. May and Martha had never been the closest of sisters-in-law—Reuben had never enjoyed the best of relations with his brother, Martha’s husband—but May knew she could count on Martha to keep her word. She was probably with the girls now. And even though Martha couldn’t stand the sight of the girls’ mama, she wouldn’t hold that against them. She’d help May protect them.
How far from home would May have to go to escape Maguire’s reach? Perhaps her only hope was to learn how to use the magic she’d now claimed to protect herself and the girls. Problem was she had no idea where to start.
May rounded the corner to discover the patrol car that had been following her sat at the head of the turnoff leading to her home. She lowered her gaze and quickened her pace, but an odd feeling crept over her as she turned wide to avoid going near the patrol car. She looked up.
It struck her at once that the car appeared to be empty, though she could hear the idling of its engine. Fearful that they might be planning an ambush, she scanned the area around the car and picked up her pace, though not fast enough for it to be perceived as running, an act that might cause the policemen to give chase. She had made it only a few yards when a sound, something caught between a dog’s pant and the whimper of a frightened child, caused her to look into the tall grass growing around the drainage ditch that lined the road. The unexpected gore made her startle and nearly scream. A cloud of flies was feasting on a sea of blood, already baking dry in the morning sun, on a large stone by the side of the road. One of the officers from the car was writhing on his back in the grass, his belly ripped clean open, his hands frantically trying to restore his insides to his abdomen. May knew he should be screaming, would be screaming, but the flies that had failed to find purchase on the stone had packed his mouth full with their wriggling and opalescent bodies.
May barely had time to take three steps back before a scream from a few yards farther down the road wrested her gaze from the bloody scene. Her eyes landed on the man’s partner, struggling near a patch of blackberry bushes. Turning in wild gyrations, he was swatting and clawing at something black that rode on his head. As he stumbled closer, May could make out what that blackness was. Lester, the rooster she greeted each dawn, had his claws buried in the man’s scalp, and was happily going about pecking out his eyes.
May heard her own voice rise up, ready to give witness to her own terror, but a few strained groans were all it could muster before her mind commanded her to flee. She ran. Not like the old woman she was, with stiff hips and aching knees, but like a frightened deer that has heard the first gunshot and knows that there are hunters in the wood. She carried on, not stopping and not looking back until she arrived at the gray dirt road that led to her house. Then her years caught up with her. Drops of sweat rained from her forehead, even though she felt colder than she’d ever been. Her heart was pounding so fast in her chest she thought this might be the death of her, but the white walls of her small house peeked through the scraggly pines, and their promise of safety urged her on. The adrenaline that had carried her home deserted her completely, leaving her to struggle the short distance to the house, feeling every bit like there were lead weights around her ankles.
She carried on around the bend, one heavy halting step after another, already breathless when she arrived home. Though she thought she’d had all the fright a body could survive in a single day, the sight that welcomed her stopped her dead in her tracks. The Beekeeper, masked by her heavy veil, stood at the center of a miraculous garden that had sprung up since morning. A few hours ago, there had been only spotty grass and dry soil in this place. Now buds were bursting into full bloom, their opening timed for May’s arrival.
May drew nearer, and after several moments passed, she realized her feet were no longer touching the ground. A part of her mind told her that she should be terrified of this creature, but its warning voice grew fainter the closer she got. May rubbed her eyes, certain the shock she had just suffered had stopped her heart. She could not be floating. She knew that. And this impossible creature could not have returned. Could not be standing dead center in a miniature miraculous Eden. No. None of this could be real. She opened her eyes, sure the image would have faded.
Still, the Beekeeper remained, and now May recognized the buzzing sound that accompanied her presence. It was matched by a kind of fluttering, shimmering vibration that made it impossible, even beneath the glare of the full sun, to capture a steady image of her.