Dead Man's Reach

by D. B. Jackson

  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.

  While his spell was still humming in the floor and walls, he heard footsteps behind him. He looked to see who had come, fearing that Ramsey’s men had returned. But it was Mariz.

  “I sensed your conjuring. What are you doing?” He halted at the sight of the man. “Ah, meu Deus! What happened to him?”

  “Ramsey was using his blood for spells. I couldn’t bring myself to leave him here. So I’m healing him.”

  “I can help you, if you would like.”

  “I’d be grateful.”

  Mariz joined him beside the man, cut himself, and cast a healing spell. And for the next hour or more, Ethan and Mariz cast spell after spell, until the worst of the man’s wounds had been mended. When they were done, Ethan took the bloodstained blanket off of the bed and draped it over the man.

  “He’ll wake eventually,” Ethan said. “And hopefully he won’t remember too much from this ordeal.”

  He covered Ramsey’s body and head, so that they wouldn’t be the first things the man saw upon opening his eyes.

  He and Mariz walked outside into the brilliant sunlight; Ethan blinked against the glare and shaded his eyes.

  “What will you do now?” Mariz asked.

  “I need to speak with Samuel Adams, and also with Thomas Hutchinson.”

  Mariz’s eyebrows went up. “These are important men. They will speak with you?”

  “I hope so.” Ethan proffered a hand, which the conjurer gripped. “My thanks, Mariz. Without your help, and without your warding, I would never have survived my battle with Ramsey.”

  “I am glad to have helped you, Kaille. And though I know that you did not wish to kill Ramsey, I am pleased that he is dead.”

  “So am I,” Ethan said. “More than I can say.”

  Chapter

  TWENTY-FIVE

  As it turned out, Adams and Hutchinson were together by midafternoon. Those who first met at Faneuil Hall had dispatched Adams, along with several other delegates, to the Old South Meeting House, where they presented to Hutchinson their demand that General Gage’s soldiers be removed from the city and sent to Castle William, a fortified island in Boston Harbor. The meeting had been intended for the Town House, but the crowd that followed Adams, Hancock, and the others was so huge that the discussion had to be moved to a building that could accommodate all who wished to attend.

  This time, Ethan was not able to push his way through the mob, and so had to be content with hearing of the encounter from others, who, no doubt, had themselves heard of it from those fortunate enough to be present.

  It seemed that Adams had not been the only man to speak with eloquence of the dangers of keeping the soldiers in the city. If the regulars did not leave, Royall Tyler was said to have warned, ten thousand men from the countryside would descend upon the city and kill them all, “should it be called rebellion—should it incur the loss of our charter, or be the consequence what it would.”

  Unable to see either Adams or Hutchinson, Ethan waited in the street for word of what was to be done with the billeted soldiers. When word came that Hutchinson and Colonel Dalrymple, who was in command of the men in Boston, had capitulated and would be sending the soldiers out of the city, he surprised himself by shouting his approval with the others, and, like so many standing with him, wiping a tear from his eye.

  As night fell and the air grew cold he retreated to the Dowsing Rod, where the celebration had been fully joined. As he entered, Tom Langer, one of Kannice’s regulars, was standing on a table slurring a toast to Samuel Adams and the Sons of Liberty.

  Kelf spotted Ethan and his expression darkened. Undaunted, Ethan stepped to the bar.

  “How is Kannice?” he asked.

  “She’s restin’,” the barman said, not meeting his gaze. “She was asking after you. But she doesn’t need to be cookin’ and servin’ and she definitely doesn’t need you … gettin’ her all worked up, if you catch my meaning.”

  “I do,” Ethan said. “She’s in her room?”

  Kelf scowled. “Aye.”

  “My thanks.”

  The barman turned away without a response.

  Eventually, the two of them would have to find some way to repair their friendship, but for now Ethan was more concerned with seeing Kannice. He climbed the stairs and followed the corridor to her room. There he knocked on the door—he couldn’t remember the last time he had done so.

  “Come in,” Kannice called. Her voice sounded strong. Once more, his eyes welled.

  He pushed the door open and was greeted with a radiant smile.

  “I was wondering when you’d come to see me.”

  He crossed to the bed, sat, and kissed her brow.

  “I would have come sooner. I’m sorry. I’ve been…” He shook his head. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Ramsey?”

  “Ramsey’s dead. I killed him.”

  “No doubt?”

  He smiled. “No doubt.”

  She closed her eyes. “Thank God.”

  Ethan took her hand. “How are you feeling?”

  “My chest is sore—it hurts if I take a deep breath. But other than that, I’m fine.”

  He nodded. “Good. Let me see the scar.”

  She pulled down the front of her nightgown, exposing the wound. It was an angry shade of red, but the skin around the wound did not appear to be swollen or fevered.

  “You’ll be fine in another day or two,” he said. “As long as you rest.”

  “Aye,” she said, her tone arch, “like you always do when you’ve been hurt.”

  He grinned and took her hand once more. She smiled as well, but not for long.

  “What happened between you and Kelf?”

  Ethan looked away. “Why? What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing. Just that you had saved my life. But there was something in the way he spoke of it that made me wonder. And when I told him that I wanted to see you, that he should send you up here as soon as you reached the tavern, he grew sullen.”

  Ethan faced her again. “He knows I saved your life.”

  “Well, of course, but that’s—” She stopped, her eyes going wide. “Oh, Ethan. I’m sorry. I should have understood.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not your fault. It’s not Kelf’s either. But I don’t know if he’ll ever accept … what I am.”

  “He’ll have to. He works here, and you’re going to be coming around for a good while longer. At least I hope you are.”

  He raised her hand to his lips. “I am.”

  “Then, Kelf will have to get accustomed to it.”

  Ethan wasn’t convinced that it would be quite that easy, but he kept his doubts to himself.

  “Did you hear about what happened on King Street?”

  He had to smile. Only someone who had been confined to her bed all day could even ask such a thing. “I was there. I saw it all, and felt the spell from Ramsey that made it happen.”

  “He did that, too?”

  “Aye. Diver was shot.”

  She paled. “Is he all right?”


  “I assume he’s still alive. I haven’t seen him today. But I kept him from bleeding to death, and then I carried him to the home of Doctor Warren. He … he lost an arm.”

  “Dear God. Ethan, I’m so sorry.”

  He nodded, unable to speak.

  She scrutinized his face. “When was the last time you slept?”

  A small laugh escaped him, sounding more like a sob. “It’s been some time.”

  “You should lie down.” She started to slide over and make room for him.

  Ethan gave her hand a squeeze, stopping her. “I’ll sleep, but in my room at Henry’s. You need rest even more than I do.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “Well, I am. And I think that if I dare spend the night, even if just to sleep, Kelf will have my head.”

  She gave a small pout. “All right.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then allow me to bring you some chowder and a bit of Madeira. I’ll even sup with you.”

  Her face brightened. “I’d like that.”

  He left her and descended the stairs to the tavern. Kelf was being run ragged serving all the drinks and taking care of the food as well. And it seemed to Ethan that the barman took some satisfaction in making him wait. But eventually Ethan managed to buy two bowls of the fish chowder, a cup of Madeira, and a tankard of ale. It took him two trips to carry all of this to Kannice’s room, but soon he was sitting with her once more. To his pleasure, Kannice made short work of her chowder, prompting Ethan to get her a second bowl.

  When he returned, he again joined her on the bed, and for several moments he kept silent, searching for the best way to say what was on his mind.

  “So, I have a question for you,” he began at last.

  “Hmm?” Kannice said, intent on the chowder.

  “Are you still willing to have me as a partner here at the tavern?”

  She nearly dropped her spoon, and she did manage to spill a good deal of stew onto her blanket, though she hardly noticed. “Are you serious?”