Thieftaker (28 page)

“I would have,” Ethan said. “But Berson asked me to continue my inquiry. He won’t be happy to hear that you’re trying to stop me.”

“You said you were done working for him!”

“Did I?” Ethan asked innocently. “I must have lied.”

He couldn’t see her well, but there could be no mistaking the hard set of her jaw, or the widening of her eyes. She said something to the man closest to her and immediately he began walking around the fire ring, speaking in low tones to the others.

Ethan realized that the flames were burning down in some places. He scattered more grass and spoke the spell again. Even as did this, though, two men suddenly burst through the ring from opposite sides, both of them shielding their faces with their coats.

One of them came through unscathed; the tail of the other’s coat caught fire. Making his decision in an instant, Ethan charged the first man, pulling the stone from his pocket as he closed the distance between them.

This first man had drawn a blade, and as Ethan stepped closer, he swiped the knife at Ethan’s neck, forcing him to duck. The man lashed out with his foot, aiming his kick at Ethan’s lowered head. Ethan threw up both arms to block the man’s foot, but was staggered by the force of the blow. He righted himself, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the second man had stripped off his burning coat and was now stalking him as well.

Ethan was in the middle of the lane now, too far from either edge to get at the grass. He tried to sidle to the right. But the man in front of Ethan cut him off and closed on him.

Glancing behind him, Ethan saw that the other man was coming closer, too. Again he had to choose. This time he went for the tough whose coat had burned. He took a step toward the man, spun swiftly on his good leg, and kicked out with the bad one, which couldn’t take the weight of such a move, but worked fine as a club. His kick caught Sephira’s man in the chest, knocking him backward.

Ethan spun again, trying the same kick against the first man. Sephira’s tough was ready, though. He dropped to the ground and kicked at Ethan’s pivot leg, sweeping it out from under him. Ethan fell hard, landing on his back and cracking his head against cobblestone. Shaking his head to clear his mind, Ethan saw that Uncle Reg stood nearby, watching it all, a disapproving scowl on his glowing face.

“It’s not as easy as it looks!” Ethan growled at the ghost.

In the next instant, the first man dove at him, his knife raised.

Ethan managed to roll away from the blade, though the man still landed on him. He raised his knife a second time, but before he could stab down with it, Ethan hit him hard in the mouth with the stone he still held. The man dropped his knife, one hand clutching his face, the other grabbing for the stone. Ethan hit him again, and this time he heard the bone in the man’s nose break. Blood poured from the man’s face as he rolled away.

But before Ethan could get to his feet, or even catch his breath, the other tough kicked him in the side, in the same spot where Nigel and his friends had broken his rib a few days before. Ethan retched. A second kick to the head addled him. He saw the man lift his blade, and knew that he wouldn’t have the strength to block the blow.

“
Discuti,
” he said quickly. “
Ex cruore evocatum.
” Shatter, conjured from blood.

The ground pulsated. There was a terrible crackling sound, as if someone had stepped on dried leaves or brittle wood, and the man looming over Ethan collapsed, screaming in agony.

Ethan rolled onto his knees. Blood still flowed from the other man’s nose, though Ethan’s spell had wiped away much of it. He eyed Ethan, clearly terrified, and backed away from him toward the fire, which was dying down again.

“
Ignis!
” Ethan said. “
Ex cruore evocatus!
” Fire, conjured from blood!

Again the blood vanished from the man’s face. At the same time, the flames leaped higher than they had when fed by the grass.

The man dabbed at his face with his fingers and then stared at them.

“Wha’d ya do?” he asked in a trembling voice.

“Just used a bit of your blood. Hope you don’t mind.”

The tough gaped at him.

“Take him,” Ethan said, gesturing at the other man, who writhed on the cobbled lane. “And go.”

“But … but th’ fire!”

“You’ll have to move quickly then, won’t you? Now go!”

The man walked slowly to his friend, watching Ethan the entire way. For his part, Ethan kept his eyes fixed on the tough, more than willing to draw upon the man’s blood again if he had to.

In fact … He waited while the man lifted his friend and began to drag him toward the wall of flames. And at the moment the tough reached the fire, as he gathered himself for a rush through the blaze, Ethan began to speak another spell.

“
Dormite omnes, evocatum—
” Slumber, all of them, conjured—

The phrasing slowed him down, made him stumble over the Latin. Not a lot, but just enough. It was the difference between putting one man to sleep and putting all of them to sleep. And somehow Sephira knew this. Even as he spoke, he heard her cry out something unintelligible. Whirling, Ethan saw Nigel raise his pistol. He dove to the side, just as he heard a loud report that echoed across the Common. He hit the cobblestones hard, scraping his hands and bruising his knees and elbows. He also felt a burning pain in his upper arm. Looking down, he saw blood spreading over his coat sleeve and glistening in the glow of the fire.

He had been lucky. An inch to the right and the bullet would have shattered his shoulder. A few inches more and it might have hit his neck, likely killing him. As it was, the bullet had merely grazed his arm.

Ethan started to push himself up, but as he did, he saw something glinting on the road before him. The knife dropped by the man he had hit with his stone. First things first, though. He spoke another fire spell, using the blood on his shoulder to build up the flames once more. Then he cast a second fire spell, and directed it at Nigel’s pistol. He knew it would have taken Yellow-hair some time to reload, but he didn’t want to risk being shot at again.

Finally, he picked up the knife and climbed slowly to his feet. Blood had started to flow once more from the bullet wound. “
Remedium ex cruore evocatum,
” he said. Healing, conjured from blood.

“We’re back where we began, Ethan!” Sephira said, walking slowly around his fire.

“Aye. Why don’t you send a couple of more men over? I’m sure I can make good use of their blood, too. Or maybe I’ll just kill them and be done with it. I can take all of you, two at a time.”

“Or we can all fight our way through the flames at once. What will you do then?”

Ethan held up the knife. “Anything I want,” he said. “One of your men has been kind enough to give me a blade.”

Her face fell and he saw her spit a curse, though he couldn’t hear what she said.

“You should leave now, Sephira. I can do far more with blood than I can with grass.”

“Maybe. But you can’t bleed yourself forever, and you don’t want to do anything that will draw attention to yourself.”

“I’m standing in a ring of conjured fire. Killing you with a spell won’t draw more attention than that.”

She smiled at him through the blaze. “Then you had better do it quickly.” She glanced right and left. “Now!”

On her word, every one of her men who remained standing rushed the flames and leaped through them, landing within the ring, their knives ready. Nigel grinned at him, as did several of the others.

Ethan pushed up his sleeve and slashed his forearm. “Who wants to die first?” he asked, turning slowly to look at all of them. “You?” he asked the brute. “You, Nigel? I probably can’t kill all of you. But I guarantee you that the first one to take a step toward me will die in more agony than he can imagine.”

None of the toughs moved, and not one of them was grinning anymore.

“
Ignis ex cruore evocatus!
” Fire, conjured from blood!

He said it as quickly as he could, felt power pass through him like a shaft of lightning. The man next to Yellow-hair exploded in flame. Ethan had been aiming for Nigel himself, but he was in motion as he cast the spell, and conjurings weren’t always as precise as he wanted. The burning man staggered, then dropped to the ground, flailing at his clothes and hair. Nigel and a few of the others also beat at the fire with their hands or their coats until at last they extinguished the flames. Several of the men had shied away from the one Ethan attacked, but now they faced Ethan again and started to advance on him. Ethan had already cut himself again and he lifted his bleeding arm for all of them to see.

“Who’s next, eh?” he said. “One step more, and you’ll be burning, too. Or maybe I’ll just snap your necks. I can do that, as well.”

Again the men faltered.

“Get him already!” Sephira shouted from beyond the ring of flame, which had burned down so low that she could have stepped over it. Ethan noticed, however, that she remained exactly where she was.

Looking beyond her, though, Ethan saw something that struck him dumb. He couldn’t decide whether to be terrified or elated. Two men were walking toward him, one slight and in black robes, the other taller, brawny, in a dark suit, his hair topped by a powdered wig. The first man he recognized immediately as Mr. Pell. And the man with the wig was none other than Sheriff Greenleaf.

“Stop where you are!” the sheriff called to them, his voice carrying, even here in open country.

Sephira spun around, as did her men.

“Miss Pryce!” Pell said. “I have to warn you that you’re in grave danger.” He pointed at Ethan. “That man is suspected of being a witch! He is a threat to you, your men, and all who live in Boston.”

Sephira glanced back at Ethan, confusion knitting her brow. “Well … yes,” she finally said, facing the minister again. “I’ve actually wondered about him.”

Pell pointed again. “That fire—did he do that?”

Sephira nodded, her face a mask of innocence. “Yes, he did. He also wounded two of my employees. He attacked them, unprovoked. That’s why my men have him surrounded now. We can deal with this for you, if you like.”

The minister shook his head gravely. “No, I’m afraid that won’t do, Miss Pryce. I was sent by the Reverend Henry Caner, and he was quite precise with his instructions. This is a Church matter. If we determine that this man is, in fact, a witch and that he has been casting foul spells and working his devilry, then he’ll be dealt with.”

Sephira’s expression had soured. Even she couldn’t murder a man with a minister and the sheriff of Suffolk County watching.

She eyed Ethan briefly, then made a small, sharp gesture. Immediately, Nigel and the other men started back toward her. Two of them carried the man Ethan had burned, and when the men reached the one whose bones he had broken, two more stooped to pick him up.

Greenleaf watched Sephira, looking almost embarrassed, and she glared back at him. As she stepped past him, Greenleaf whispered something to her. Ethan couldn’t hear what the man said, but he would have wagered everything he owned that the sheriff had apologized for meddling in her affairs.

Pell, on the other hand, appeared frightened, his face ghostly pale in the firelight. He kept a wary eye on Sephira as she walked past, but then turned back to Ethan. A moment later, he spotted Uncle Reg and his eyes widened slightly. The ghost leered at him.

Sephira looked from the minister to Ethan, perhaps sensing their friendship. Her expression darkened. At last, though, helpless to do anything about the fact that she had been robbed of her prey, she turned once more to follow her men. Then she stopped and turned again to face Ethan.

“I’ll take that blade,” she said to him.

“And I’ll take mine.”

She smirked, held a hand out to Nap. He pulled Ethan’s knife from his pocket and handed it to her. Sephira walked to where Ethan stood, her hips swaying provocatively, no doubt for Pell’s benefit. Stopping in front of him, she lifted Ethan’s blade, staring at him. After a moment, she flipped it over and handed it to him, hilt first. Ethan gave her the blade he had taken.

Sephira slipped the weapon into her pocket and looked into Ethan’s eyes. “You were fortunate tonight,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her breath smelled of wine.

“Being taken by the Church is fortunate? You know less about conjurers than I thought.”

“You’re not fooling me, and neither is your friend the minister.”

“He’s—”

She touched a finger to his lips. “Shhh. You’re my Grail, Ethan. I quest for you. You may have escaped me again, but you’ll be mine eventually. And before I’m through with you you’ll wish you were back laboring in the Indies.” She flashed a radiant smile and turned from him. “He’s yours tonight, Reverend, sir,” she said, walking past Pell without so much as a glance in his direction. “But all you’ve done is delay the inevitable.”

Chapter

F
IFTEEN

C
onjurers in the American colonies and back in England and the rest of Europe had for centuries been persecuted as witches. Hangings and burnings had occurred in just about every country Ethan could name. Women had been executed as witches in Massachusetts within the last century, and to this day ministers throughout the colonies railed against the dangers of witchcraft, claiming that those who conjured were in league with Satan.

It probably didn’t help that in order to conjure, a speller had to bridge the gap between the living world and the domain of the dead, the ethereal realm of spirit and soul. That was why a speller needed a guide in the form of a ghost; it was why Ethan needed Uncle Reg.

Accusations of witchcraft often began within a family or a small circle of friends, and Ethan wondered if those who made the accusations were people like Bett, who themselves had forsworn conjuring, but saw those they loved, or were supposed to love, casting spells and communing with ghosts. Whatever the source of such accusations, he felt certain that even in Boston, even in 1765, a man such as himself, who was known to have conjured—who bore scars that proved as much—lived in constant danger of being accused, tried, and executed.