Thieftaker (20 page)

The girl marked his approach, a mischievous smile on her grimy face. “You came,” she said, when he was within a few paces of her. “That was smart, Kaille.” She gazed at the ghost beside him, looking him up and down for a moment before dismissing him with a flip of her hair. “He won’t be of much use to you.”

Uncle Reg bared his teeth at the girl, like a feral dog, but she didn’t spare him another glance.

Ethan looked around, though he didn’t expect the conjurer to allow himself to be seen.

“We’re quite alone,” the girl told him.

“I’ll have to take your word on that.”

“It’s better this way, you know. You’ll get the brooch, you’ll get your money, and no one else will be harmed.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” he told her, still glancing up and down the street. The conjurer had to be watching them; perhaps if he could figure out his or her vantage point … “Abner Berson wants to see someone punished for his daughter’s murder. He shouldn’t be denied that comfort.”

She smiled. “I agree.”

“You agree?” She had his full attention now.

The smile lingered as she gestured for him to follow her. “Come with me. I’ll take you to the brooch.”

He didn’t move. “What should I call you?” he asked.

“I told you last night,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m Anna.”

“I’m not talking to the illusion,” he said, raising his voice and turning a slow circle in the lane. His gaze flicked from one darkened window to the next. “I’m talking to you. I’m talking to the person conjuring this child. I’m here, I’m ready to take the brooch. But I want to see you.”

At last his eyes came to rest on the girl again. She was regarding him grimly, shaking her head. “I don’t think so. Call me Anna, and leave it at that.”

She started walking away again. Ethan and Uncle Reg had no choice but to follow. Walking after her, listening for footsteps other than hers—for the conjurer had managed to make her steps heard—Ethan began to wonder if his foe was so powerful that he could not only communicate through the girl, but also see and hear through her. If so, walking behind her gave him a moment’s advantage.

His knife still in hand, Ethan cut his forearm, and muttered, “
Locus magi ex cruore evocatus.
” Location of conjurer, conjured from blood.

He felt the blood being drawn from the wound he had made. He felt power flowing through his veins and then out of his body. And then an instant later, he felt that same power whip back at him like the lash of a plantation driver. The force of it knocked Ethan back off his feet. He landed hard on the cobblestones, the air leaving his body as if someone had stepped on his chest.

The little girl didn’t even break stride as she said, “Don’t do that again, or you’ll get worse.”

So much for catching this conjurer off guard. Ethan got to his feet slowly, took a long breath, and followed her once more.

She led him southward, navigating the streets of the South End with the certainty of a chaise driver, until at last they were clear of the smaller streets and were walking past the pastureland at the southern edge of the city. They followed a lonely stretch of road past Rowe’s Field, with its long, thick grass and old dried piles of cow dung.

“Where are we going?” Ethan asked.

The girl didn’t answer. She didn’t slow or glance back, but instead led him down Orange Street toward the Neck. Ethan wiped a sweaty palm on his breeches, wondering how he had been so foolish as to let her lure him out this far.

What truly amazed him, though, was that here in the open, where it would have been much more difficult for the conjurer to keep himself hidden, Ethan still saw no sign of anyone save the little girl. Her movements weren’t as fluid or as natural; she looked less like a child and more like a puppet. It seemed this other speller found it harder to maintain control of the illusion from a distance. But Ethan took the fact that he could maintain it at all as further proof of just how deep his powers ran.

Anna didn’t stop until they neared the town gate, at the end of the Neck. There were few houses or buildings. The breeze off the harbor had stiffened and the moon was higher, its glow brighter.

The girl stepped off the road and cut through the empty fields that lined the lane. The grass was wispy here, the ground more sand than soil. Anna led Ethan to the fortified wall that guarded this end of the Neck and pointed to a small bundle lying on the ground at the wall’s base. “There,” she said, her voice sounding as thin and hollow as a ghost’s.

Ethan glanced around again, then stepped past her and bent to pick up the ball of cloth. It felt light, but he could tell right away that something substantial lay at its center. Peeling away the material, Ethan found a small jewel. He pulled a few strands of grass from the ground at their feet, but then paused, eyeing the girl.

“I’m going to summon a light,” he said. “A simple living spell. Is that all right?”

Uncle Reg eyed him avidly, pleading with him to try a stronger spell against the girl. Ethan knew better than to make the attempt.

Anna nodded jerkily. “Just light. Nothing else.”

“Right.” Ethan held the grass in his hand and said, “
Lux ex gramine evocatus.
” Light, conjured from grass.

A bright light, faintly tinged with green, kindled in the palm of his hand, consuming the grass as if it were a flame, but causing Ethan no pain. He held the light closer to the jewel and saw that it was oval in shape, rubies and diamonds set in gold, just as Jennifer Berson’s servant had described. Turning it over, he saw the initials—CN—carved into the back.

“Well?” Anna asked him.

“It looks like the brooch Abner Berson hired me to find.”

“That’s because it is.”

“How did you come by it?”

The girl smiled, or at least that was what Ethan thought the conjurer intended. The image wavered as though reflected on river waters, distorting her features.

“You have the brooch,” she said. “Your inquiry is at an end.”

Ethan shook his head. “I was hired to find this jewel. But I was also hired to find the person who took it and see to it that he or she is punished, for thieving and for murder.”

“It is over, Kaille. Accept that, or die.”

“It can’t be over until—”

“Until the murderer is punished,” the girl said, sounding bored. “I know. What you don’t understand is that he has been punished. This matter is closed.”

“Punished how?” Ethan demanded.

“He’s dead.”

Ethan shivered, feeling that cool wind wrap itself around his throat. “Who are you blaming for this?” he asked. “Who’s dead?”

But of course he already knew what she would say.

This time her smile was unmistakable, and cruel. “Daniel Folter.”

Ethan took a step back from her and found himself pressed against the rough stone of the town wall. “Folter couldn’t have killed her.”

“You don’t know that. And neither will Berson.”

“I do know it. Folter wasn’t a conjurer.”

She wavered again. After a moment Ethan realized it had been meant as a shrug. “So?” she said. “Why does that matter?”

“Jennifer Berson was killed by a spell!” Ethan said, his voice rising. “You can’t blame Folter for this!”

“Prove it,” the girl said, grinning like a demon.

“I will! I’ll—” He stopped, realization crashing over him like a breaker in a winter storm.

Ethan let the light die away, wrapped his fist around the brooch, and strode past the girl.

“You’re too late, Kaille,” Anna called after him. “Folter is dead, and Berson will be all too willing to believe that he killed his daughter. There are even witnesses who saw him with Mackintosh’s mob later that night.”

Ethan spun around to look at her. “That’s a lie! There couldn’t be!”

The girl merely smiled.

Ethan started walking again. After a few more strides he broke into a run, though he knew it was no use. His limp would slow him, and the distance was too great.

She had lured him to the Neck not to kill him, but to keep him as far from King’s Chapel as possible.

Chapter

E
LEVEN

B
y the time he reached the gate to the chapel grounds, he was barely running at all. Pain from his bad leg radiated up into his groin and gut, and his breath came in great aching gasps. He stumbled up the path to the chapel entrance, pounded on the door with his fist, turned and slumped back against the wall of the building to wait for a response.

Before long the door opened.

“Yes, who’s there?” A head poked out from the doorway, illuminated from below by a candle. The play of light and shadow exaggerated the size of his nose, the boniness of his face, and the sallow hue of his skin.

Ethan forced himself to stand and stepped out where the man could see him. Troutbeck started and backed away, his eyes growing wide.

“Who are you?”

“It’s Ethan Kaille, Mister Troutbeck,” he said, still breathing hard. “I’m sorry to have startled you.”

“Mister Kaille,” the minister said, the fear in his voice giving way to petulance. “What could you possibly want at this hour?”

“I need to speak with Mister Pell. Is he inside?”

Troutbeck’s brow knitted, and for a moment Ethan thought the man would send him away. But then he walked back into the church, muttering “This way” as he went.

Ethan limped after him.

Candles placed at regular intervals illuminated the sanctuary, and several more had been lit on a sconce beside the altar, giving the interior of the chapel a welcoming glow much at odds with Troutbeck’s demeanor. Ethan hadn’t made it far into the church before the minister halted, forcing him to stop as well.

“Wait here. I’ll summon him.”

Ethan nodded, and as the curate hurried back toward the vestry, Ethan lowered himself gingerly onto the nearest pew. Leaning back, he closed his eyes, wishing he had thought to ask for a drink of water.

Moments later, he heard footsteps. Opening his eyes, he saw Pell striding toward him, concern etched on his young face. Troutbeck lurked at the back of the chapel, behind the pulpit. Ethan had no doubt that he would try to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“Mister Kaille,” Pell said, licking his lips nervously. He glanced back at the curate. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Certainly not at this hour.”

“I know,” Ethan said. He stood, tentatively putting weight on his bad leg. It very nearly gave out under him. He grabbed at the back of the pew in front of him to keep from toppling to the floor. “I need to see the body of Jennifer Berson again.”

Pell shook his head. “You can’t. She was buried this afternoon.”

He couldn’t say that he was surprised; Anna had all but told him as much. Still, he had to resist an overpowering desire to scream at the top of his lungs every curse he knew.

“Why?” he asked after a moment. “I thought it was customary to wait four days.”

Pell glanced at Troutbeck again. “It is,” he said. He motioned for Ethan to follow him and started toward the chapel entrance.

Ethan pushed away from the pew, stepped out into the central aisle, and hobbled after him, wincing with every step.

Pell waited for Ethan to catch up with him. “What have you done to your leg?”

“It’s an old wound.”

They walked out of the chapel into the cool night air and the silver glow of the moon, and made their way down the path into the churchyard. Ethan checked the street and the grounds, expecting to see the conjurer’s girl or Sephira’s henchmen. But aside from a pair of gentlemen walking past in earnest conversation, their shoes clicking on the cobblestones, the street was empty.

“Tell me about the girl,” Ethan said.

Pell grimaced. “There’s not much to tell. Her family demanded the funeral. We couldn’t refuse. You didn’t expect us to keep her here forever.”

“No. But another day would have helped.”

“Why?” the minister asked, dropping his voice. “What’s happened?”

“What hasn’t happened? I’ve been beaten, threatened, I’ve even been summoned to speak with Thomas Hutchinson himself.”

“Hutchinson!” Pell repeated, sounding impressed. “What interest does he have in this?”

“He believes Jennifer Berson was killed by the same mob that destroyed his home.”

“Is he right?”

Ethan shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The important thing is I have the brooch.”

Pell’s eyes widened. “You do? That’s remarkable!”

“Actually, it’s not. The conjurer who killed her wanted me to have it. He or she is assuming that once I’ve given it to the Bersons, they’ll be satisfied.”

“I don’t understand,” Pell said, shaking his head. “You’ve got the brooch, but you don’t know who gave it to you?”

“Essentially, yes. It’s too much to explain right now. But the conjurer wants me to believe that Berson’s daughter was killed by a petty thief named Daniel Folter, who allegedly was part of the mob.”

The minister frowned. “Folter,” he repeated. “Why is that name so familiar?”

Could he really be this fortunate? “Is it possible,” Ethan asked, “that you know his name because his body is lying in your crypt right now?”

“Yes!” Pell said. “I mean, no, he’s not there. But that is how I know about him. He was brought here earlier this evening. Mister Troutbeck had me send the men who carried him to another church.”

“Do you know which one?”

Pell shook his head. “No. But I can tell you there’s no doubt as to how he died. He had been beaten and then stabbed several times. He looked a mess.”

Of course. Sephira and her men had killed Folter; the conjurer was merely using his death to mask his own crimes.

“You don’t believe Folter killed Jennifer Berson?” Pell asked.

“I know he didn’t. He wasn’t a conjurer. But now I can’t prove it to anyone else, not even her father.”

Before Pell could respond, Ethan heard someone approaching along the lane. He reached for his blade.

“It’s all right,” Pell said quietly. Then, in a louder voice, he called, “Good evening, Mister Caner.”

The man walking toward the chapel paused in midstep, but then walked on. “Is that you, Trevor?”