Dead Man's Reach (45 page)

And then his head rolled off his neck and blood fountained across his pillows and blankets.

Ethan could hardly believe what he had done. He stared at the body, at the head, at the torrent of crimson that stained the blankets and bedding. His hands shook, and he could hear that his breathing was uneven, ragged.

After some time he became aware of Ramsey's men, who made not a sound, but stared at the bed. Some wore expressions of shock, others revulsion. As he watched, they turned individually and in pairs to look at him.

“Go,” he said, his mouth dry. “I've no quarrel with any of you. Stay far away, and you needn't fear me.”

He didn't know if they would heed his words. He should have. These men, perhaps more than any others in Boston, understood the power a conjurer could wield. They dared not challenge him. Rather, they filed out of the warehouse through the jagged opening his shatter spell had created.

Ethan cast one spell to remove the warding he had placed before the warehouse wall, and a second to extinguish the flames.

Smoke continued to gather in the building. He knew he should leave, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. Not yet.

He stood, and walked toward the captain, his steps stiff. Only when he was within a few strides of the foot of the bed did he remember the last of Ramsey's men, the one who had been harvesting blood on the captain's behalf.

The man had been hiding, crouched on the far side of the bed. Now he lunged at Ethan, his blade held high. Ethan raised his uninjured arm to block the blow, felt a searing pain below his elbow. Ramsey's man pulled the blade from Ethan's arm and raised it to attack again.

“
Discuti ex cruore evocatum!
” Shatter, conjured from blood!

The blade broke, and the sailor's eyes widened. Ethan stepped and spun, kicking him in the side with his bad foot. The man let out a grunt, his body seeming to crumple. Before he could do more, Ethan kicked him again in the the side of the head.

“That was nicely done, Ethan! As I've said before, you should come and work for me.”

Ethan turned. Sephira stood by the doorway, a pistol in her hand. She strode toward him, her boot heels scraping on the rough floor.

“Is that Ramsey?” she said, pointing at the blood-soaked form in the bed as she halted beside him.

“Aye.”

Her gaze lingered on the corpse and her voice was more subdued as she said, “Once again, nicely done.”

“There's another man lying beside the bed. Ramsey was harvesting blood from him for spells. He needs healing; I'll see to his wounds when I return. Otherwise he's not to be touched.”

“And what about you? You look like you could use a bit of healing as well.”

Ethan wanted to refuse. He didn't have time even for this. But one arm was bleeding and the other was broken. “I need to find the sheriff and bring him here.”

“That arm looks broken.”

He hesitated. “It is.”

“Then don't be a fool. Let Mariz heal you and then you can find the sheriff.”

She was right. They went outside, where Ethan was surprised to see that the sun still hung in the eastern sky. It was not yet midday, though his body felt as it might if he had battled Ramsey for hours upon hours.

Upon spotting Ethan and Sephira, Mariz strode toward them, concern on his face.

“He needs healing,” Sephira said. “And he's in a bit of a hurry.”

“Then I shall work quickly.”

Mariz cast spells to heal both of Ethan's arms. The break was a clean one—Ethan thought of Diver, and his breath caught in his throat—and the knife wound, though deep, was straight and not overly long. Within a few minutes, much of the pain from both wounds had subsided. The arm that had been broken remained tender, but at least he could use it again.

“Thank you, Mariz.”

“Of course. You have other wounds?”

“None that matter. It's time I went in search of Greenleaf.” To Sephira he said, “I've let Ramsey's crew go. But they might return for their captain's body.”

“Should we let them take it?”

Ethan considered this. “They can have the body, but the head remains here. I have to prove to the sheriff that Ramsey is dead.”

To his surprise, Sephira blanched. “All right.”

He started up the lane.

“I've never seen you this way before, Ethan. So … cold.”

He faltered in midstride, but then walked on, saying nothing.

At the first corner he reached, he paused, unsure of where he ought to look for Greenleaf. It was a few seconds before he recalled their exchange on King Street during the night. There was to be a town meeting in Faneuil Hall. He hurried back toward Cornhill.

*   *   *

Had he not witnessed it himself, Ethan would never have believed that so many people would fit into Faneuil Hall for any reason, and certainly not for a town meeting. But the previous night's events had left the citizenry of Boston shaken and angry. Forced to guess, Ethan would have said that there were at least three thousand people in the building and the streets surrounding it. There were soldiers here as well, and tension hummed in the air like a conjuring.

It was no small feat for Ethan to gain entrance to the building, much less to thread his way through the throng to the front of the chamber, where Samuel Adams and others negotiated the wording of a formal message to the lieutenant governor, calling on him to have the British soldiers removed from the city.

Adams, Ethan could see, was in his element. The events of the night before had given him the upper hand in his ongoing battle with Hutchinson over the fate of Boston and, some would argue, all the American colonies. His demeanor remained appropriately somber—only the most partisan of observers could accuse him of gloating, or of taking pleasure in the tragedy that had befallen their city. But neither could they say that he had wilted in the face of a crisis. Ethan had missed much of the discussion, but he could see that Adams and his allies—including Otis, John Hancock, and a man Ethan heard others refer to as William Molineux, whom he recognized as the broad-shouldered gentleman who had kept Ebenezer Richardson from being hanged the day Chris Seider was shot—had convinced the mob to express their rage and grief through political petition rather than additional violence. He wondered if the result would have been different if Ramsey yet lived, and could cast more of his spells.

On the thought, he surveyed the throng and soon spotted Sheriff Stephen Greenleaf leaning against the wall at the far end of the great chamber, his eyes watchful, his expression characteristically grim.

Ethan made his way to the sheriff, who didn't notice him until Ethan was but a short distance from him.

“Kaille,” he said. “I thought you didn't fancy yourself part of Adams's rabble.”

A few men standing nearby stared daggers at them both.

“I came looking for you, Sheriff.”

Greenleaf frowned and eyed Ethan's shirt, coat, and breaches, which looked a mess from all that Ethan had endured in the warehouse on Wiltshire Street. “More trouble with Ramsey, I take it.”

“He's dead.”

The sheriff's gaze sharpened. “I've heard that before.”

“Not from me you haven't. You know that as well as I.”

“Aye, I remember. You're sure he's dead.”

“If you'll come with me, I'll show you the body.”

Greenleaf, scanned the chamber and appeared to convince himself that he wouldn't be missed. “All right, then,” he said. “Take me to him.”

They left Faneuil Hall, strode past the barracks on Brattle Street, and crossed through New Boston. Greenleaf's strides were long and quick; Ethan struggled to keep pace. In no time, his bad leg had started to ache. But he was as eager to show the sheriff that Ramsey was dead as Greenleaf was to see the corpse for himself. The nearer they drew to the rope yard and its warehouse, the more uneasy Ethan grew. He knew what he had done and seen; he knew Ramsey was dead. But a part of him couldn't help but wonder if somehow the captain had managed to bring himself back, to use the awesome power he wielded to cheat death one last time.

When at last they reached the warehouse, however, they found Sephira and her men waiting outside, appearing bored and impatient.

“Good day, Miss Pryce,” Greenleaf said, removing his tricorn.

“Sheriff.”

“Why are you out here?” Ethan asked her.

Sephira regarded him as she might an insolent child. “Because I didn't wish to remain in there with that dead … thing.”

“Have Ramsey's men come back?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. I'm not convinced they will.”

Ethan entered the warehouse, Greenleaf behind him. Sephira, he noticed, followed them.

To Ethan's profound relief, the inside of the warehouse appeared exactly as it had before he left to find the sheriff. The body of Nate Ramsey still lay in the bed, half covered by his blood-soaked blanket and bed linens. The captain's head lay on the bed as well, a pool of blood beneath it.

“Damn,” Greenleaf whispered. He stepped past Ethan, and approached the bed, moving with caution, perhaps fearing that at any moment the corpse might animate itself and attack. “He was bedridden?”

“Aye,” Ethan said. “The burns from the Drake's Wharf fire left him incapacitated.”

“And yet he could do his mischief.”

“He remained a powerful conjurer until the very end.”

The sheriff glanced back at him. “But not so powerful that you couldn't defeat him.”

“I was fortunate.”

“You call it fortune. I call it witchery.”

Ethan was too weary to argue.

Greenleaf grinned and faced forward once more. He halted at the foot of the bed and bent low to examine the hairless, fire-ravaged head. He made no effort to touch it. “You're sure this was Ramsey? It looks nothing like him.”

“I'm sure,” Ethan said.

“I saw him last night and—”

“You saw an image Ramsey conjured for my benefit and that of anyone else who saw him. He might have been cruel and mad, but he was also proud. He wished to hide from all the world what he had become. But this is him. I swear it.”

“It's true, Sheriff,” Sephira said.

“But…” Greenleaf straightened and shook his head. “Very well. I've little choice but to believe you.”

“I wanted him dead as much as you did. Probably more. I've no reason to lie to you.”

“You have every reason! Jonathan Grant's murder remains unexplained, and your life hangs in the balance!”

“Ramsey killed him. I've told you that.”

“I would have preferred to hear it from Ramsey.”

Ethan threw his hands wide. “You wanted Ramsey dead! You can't tell me to kill him and then hear his confession. That is, unless you're a witch.”

Greenleaf's face shaded to crimson. Sephira snorted.

“Fine,” the sheriff said at last, the word clipped. “What of his crew?”

“I let them go,” Ethan said. “Though there was one who I beat senseless.” He looked at Sephira.

“He awoke while you were gone,” she said. “I told him to leave.”

“They're guilty of crimes as well,” Greenleaf said. “They gave aid to Ramsey in all he did.”

“Then I would suggest that you find them before they sail the
Muirenn
out of the harbor. But you'll have no help from me in that regard. I defeated Ramsey, as I told you I would. I'll not fight the crew for you as well.”

He thought the sheriff would argue, but instead he said, “Very well, Kaille. I assume that after today, I won't have to hear again of Nate Ramsey and his damned witchcraft.”

“I assume so as well,” Ethan said.

Greenleaf eyed the head and body again then turned and strode back toward the warehouse entrance. “I should return to Faneuil Hall. The lieutenant governor wants me to keep an eye on Adams and his friends.”

“I'm sure he does.”

The sheriff's expression soured. “You'd best watch yourself, Kaille. With Ramsey dead, you won't have anyone else to blame for the magicking that happens in this city. It'll be you and that African woman who thinks she's so smart. And eventually I'll find a way to slip a noose around both of your necks.”

“You're welcome,” Ethan said. “I was glad to help.”

Greenleaf frowned. If anything, Sephira's laughter served only to deepen his consternation. He regarded them both and then stormed out of the building.

“He doesn't like you very much,” she said, staring after the man.

“Neither do you, if I remember correctly.”

Sephira smiled. “Not very much, no. But I do find it convenient to have you around, for the entertainment you provide, if nothing else.”

Ethan grinned. “Thank you for all that you did today. And also for allowing Mariz to help me.”

She waved away his gratitude, much as Janna often did. “Greenleaf has a point, you know. Ramsey was a common enemy. Now that he's dead, you and I have no one left to fight but each other.”

“We've done that before.”

“Yes, we have. And I look forward to our next encounter.” She sauntered toward the door.

“Sephira.”

She stopped, turned.

There was much Ethan wanted to say, but not to her, not yet. There were others to whom he would have to speak first.

She quirked an eyebrow. “You have something else to say to me?”

“No. Again, my thanks.”

Sephira gave a small shrug and left him there in the warehouse. Ethan took one last look at the body of Nate Ramsey and then at the damage his own fire spells had done to the building. He walked around to the far side of the bed, where lay the unfortunate man from whom Ramsey had been taking blood for his spells, the man whose life he had considered using as the source for a spell of his own. Sitting on the floor beside the man, he cut his own arm, dabbed his blood over the worst of the man's many wounds, and whispered a healing spell.