A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by D. B. Jackson

  The man shook his head. “You can’t.”

  “Not even if she were to stand by her window and I were to stay out here?”

  “Do you know which room they’re in?”

  Ethan fished in his pocket for a few pence. He held them up for the guard to see. “You could find out for me. The lad’s name is Holin Harper; his mother is Marielle Harper.”

  The man’s gaze shifted between Ethan and the coins. At last he held out a hand. Ethan dropped the coins into his palm, taking care not to let his fingers so much as brush the man’s hand. The guard nodded and went inside.

  Ethan waited on the path leading to the entrance, staring out across the river toward Cambridge. Mosquitos buzzed his ears, and whip-poor-wills called from over the Common. He glanced repeatedly at the door to the hospital, looking for the guard, but seeing no one. The minutes dragged on, and Ethan started to wonder if the guard had taken his coins and retreated to where Ethan couldn’t reach him.

  He considered knocking on the hospital door, but chose to give the guard a few minutes more. It was a large building, and no doubt there were many unwell people within.

  As Ethan gazed out across the water again, something caught his eye. A flash of light reflected on the river’s surface. He looked up at the sky and back at the building, but saw nothing. He assumed that he had imagined the light.

  He decided that he had waited long enough and resolved to knock on the hospital door. But just as he turned away from the water, he saw it again: a glimmer of white light that danced across the surface of the river for a few seconds between reflections of candlelight, and then vanished. He turned to face the hospital, gazed back over his shoulder at the spot where the light had appeared.

  And saw it again.

  He looked up at the hospital and saw its source. A glowing ghostly form had appeared in one of the windows. It stood there for but a moment before moving out of sight.

  Ethan knew that he shouldn’t have been surprised. People died at the hospital with some frequency. That shades should be appearing here, as well, made perfect sense. But he could only imagine how the hospital’s patients would respond to seeing spirits of the dead in their rooms.

  “You there!” The guard stood in the doorway. “She’s around back, on the second floor.”

  “Thank you.” Ethan walked to the door as the man watched him, wary and hopeful, as if unable to decide whether Ethan meant to give him more money or force his way inside.

  Ethan stopped a few paces short of the door. “How long have the shades been here?”

  The guard stared at him and licked his lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Aye, you do. I think that’s why some rooms are darkened and others aren’t. They could fill every room in the hospital, couldn’t they, but they’re forced to keep some of the rooms locked, because the ghosts show up every night after the sun goes down.”

  “That’s…” The guard rubbed a hand over his mouth. “How’d you know?”

  “I saw one in the window. And I’ve seen others all over the city. When did they first appear?”

  “You can’t speak of this to anyone,” the guard said, taking a step toward him and lowering his voice. “If folks think the hospital is haunted, they won’t come here, and the epidemic will spread even more quickly.”

  “I understand.”

  The guard swallowed. “It’s been three nights now since we saw the first of them.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Six, right now. But we seem to get a new one every evening.”

  “What do they look like?”

  The guard cringed. “Demons,” he said. “They look like they’ve come back from the grave. They’re rotted, or they’re not much more than bone. Except their eyes, which glow as bright as little suns.” He faltered. “You say you’ve seen others?”

  “Several,” Ethan said, silently cursing Ramsey.

  “What do they want?” the man asked.

  “The shades? They want to go back where they belong.”

  Chapter

  THIRTEEN

  Ethan walked around to the rear of the building and across the sloping lawn until he spotted a lone figure standing at a second-floor window, her frame silhouetted against the pale yellow glow of candles.

  “Elli?” Ethan said, pitching his voice to carry.

  “Ethan,” she answered immediately.

  There was candlelight coming from the window just to the left of hers. The window to the right was dark.

  “How is he?” Ethan asked, his gaze flicking toward that darkened window. He was thankful Elli couldn’t see him clearly; she would have been furious to know that she didn’t have his undivided attention.

  “He’s resting, but he looks…” She shook her head. “The pox started on his chest, but it’s spread to his face now, and I’m afraid—” Her voice cracked. “I’m afraid he’s never going to look the same.”

  “The important thing is that he get better.”

  “Yes. Yes, you’re right. Of course.”

  “You and Clara are well? Has there been any sign of the distemper in either of you?”

  “We’re fine. They made us come here because they say we might have been exposed. It could be as long as two weeks before we know for certain. I would have come anyway, but I wanted to leave Clara with the family of one of her friends. The selectmen wouldn’t allow it.”

  Ethan wasn’t surprised. “Do you need anything?” he asked.

  “No. Thank you. I didn’t mean for you to come. I just thought you should know where we are, in case you decided to come to the house to see the children.”

  “Thank you. I would have come sooner if had I known.” He glanced again at the darkened window and thought he saw a faint white glow emanating from the room. But he didn’t actually see a shade. “Are you comfortable?” he asked her, breaking a brief silence.

  “Yes, though it’s crowded in here. I don’t understand why they have people in some rooms but not in others.”

  He wasn’t sure what to say. “If you discover that you do need something—anything at all—get another message to me. I’ll bring you whatever you want.”

  “Thank you. You were very kind to come.”

  He smiled. There was a time, just a few years ago, when even this small praise from her would have set his heart afire. Not anymore. “Tell Holin that I expect to see him up and about in short order.”

  “Yes, I will. Good night, Ethan.”

  “Good night.”

  She stepped away from the window, but Ethan lingered on the lawn, watching the window next to hers. Several times he thought he saw that faint silvery glow brighten, and he expected the shade to drift into view. But each time the light dimmed again. At last, Ethan walked around to the front of the hospital and started back toward the city, his eyes drawn to the illuminated steeple of the West Church.

  He passed the houses on Cambridge Street, and as he neared Sudbury Street, he heard in the distance the cries of the night watchmen. It was midnight. Rather than returning to the Dowser, Ethan stopped along a lonely stretch of road, drew his knife, and cut himself.

  “Velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” Concealment, conjured from blood.

  He felt the spell, just as he did the others he had cast in recent days. Reg appeared before him, his bright eyes fixed on his face. But that was all. Usually when he cast a concealment spell, he felt the conjuring settle over him like a fine cool mist. Not this time.

  “It didn’t work, did it?” Ethan asked.

  The old ghost shook his head.

  Ethan cast a second time. Again the casting failed. He could hear the pounding of his own heart as he raised his knife to his arm once more. But he hesitated, the blade poised over his raw skin. No doubt Ramsey, along with every other conjurer in the city, had sensed these failed spells. The captain might not be able to discern what kind of conjurings Ethan was attempting; he might not even know that it was Ethan casting the spells. But he
would know that the conjurings were the same. And Ethan guessed that he would take satisfaction in this.

  Ethan was certain that whatever the captain had done to bring the shades to Boston was also making it harder for other conjurers to cast their spells. He didn’t yet understand the connection, but he would eventually.

  “I’m going to try this one last time,” Ethan said to Reg, who still watched him.

  The ghost nodded, his expression even more grim than usual.

  “Velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” This time the pulse of power was followed an instant later by the touch of the spell on his skin.

  Reg appeared to exhale.

  “Let’s hope I can remove the conjuring later,” Ethan said. “I’d rather not be invisible for the rest of my days.”

  The ghost grinned.

  They resumed walking and soon came to the Tyler house, a short distance south of the Dowser. Men had gathered there; several of them were already inside. Ethan could see torchlight shining from the windows.

  He kept his distance, unwilling to risk exposing himself to the distemper. But he watched as two men carried the corpse out of the house. They had already wrapped her in a tarred sheet, as they did all those who died of smallpox, and now they lowered her into a plain wooden coffin. As another man nailed the lid in place, Ethan heard quiet sobs coming from his left. A white-haired man—Mr. Tyler, Ethan assumed—stood with two young women, watching the proceedings. With them was a minister in black robes and a white cravat.

  Four pallbearers lifted the coffin, and with a man walking ahead of them to clear the streets, and Mrs. Tyler’s family following at the rear of the procession, they set out southward along Treamount Street. Ethan walked a short distance behind them, making as little noise as possible, and feeling a bit guilty for intruding upon the private grief of Mr. Tyler and his daughters.

  It soon became clear to him that they were headed to the Granary Burying Ground. On instinct, he turned to Reg, who still walked with him, and whispered, “I don’t know who we might encounter in the burying ground. But just in case, Dimitto te.” I release you.

  Reg didn’t look happy, but he faded from view. Ethan followed the procession through the stone gate and to an open gravesite near the center of the burying ground.

  The burial itself took but a few minutes. Once the pallbearers had lowered the coffin into the ground, Mr. Tyler and his daughters walked to the edge of the grave. There they were joined by the minister, who spoke in quiet tones as the pallbearers began to shovel dirt onto the coffin.

  Ethan had seen enough. He knew where Mrs. Tyler had been buried; he could keep an eye on her grave. He didn’t think that he could stop Ramsey and his men from desecrating it if they chose to, not without getting himself killed. But if they managed to take control of her shade, as they had so many others, he would use Janna’s sachet and spell to enter the Tyler house and speak to her. He didn’t know for certain that she would be able to tell him more than had the other shades he’d encountered, but he hoped that in this case time would be on his side. She had died recently, and he hoped to confront her the night of her return to the house. Perhaps that would make some difference.

  Keeping his concealment spell in place, Ethan walked back down to Tileston’s Wharf. He didn’t know what he expected to find, but he wanted to know what Ramsey was doing.

  Upon reaching the wharf, however, Ethan halted, his gaze sweeping over the pier. The Muirenn was gone.

  He strode toward the bollards to which it had been moored, heedless now of making noise. There was no one on the wharf, and he had nothing to fear.

  Or so he thought.

  As he neared the bollards, he felt the brush of a conjuring on his face, neck, and chest, as if he had walked through a spiderweb.

  He knew that feeling. Detection spell! he had time to think.

  The blow caught him full in the chest, knocking him off his feet. He landed hard on his back, the air rushing from his lungs. He rolled over, tried to stand, but already he sensed that his vision was darkening. He collapsed to the ground again, and knew no more.

  * * *

  Consciousness lapped at his mind like gentle waves. The floor beneath him seemed to roll and he squeezed his eyes shut, fearing that if he opened them, his vision would spin. Sounds reached him—the familiar creak and groan of a ship—and he realized that he was asea.

  “A concealment spell? A deserted wharf? You’re fortunate that we found you at all.” Ramsey’s voice.

  Ethan forced his eyes open and saw the captain and several members of his crew standing over him. They were on the deck of the Muirenn. Torches burned in sconces mounted on the masts. “After a few minutes of searching, some of my men were ready to leave you there, to be trampled in the morning.” Ramsey squatted. “But I wouldn’t do that to you, Kaille.”

  Ethan sat up, and found himself staring down the barrels of three flintlock pistols.

  “Slowly,” Ramsey warned, straightening. “They probably won’t shoot you without me telling them to, but you wouldn’t want to take any chances.”

  One of the men chuckled; the others leered at Ethan.

  “A detection conjuring,” Ethan said, rubbing the back of his neck. His entire body hurt. “That was quite a precaution to take when your ship wasn’t even moored at the wharf anymore.”

  Ramsey shrugged and took a drink from a flask of wine. “Not really. It was specific to you. Anyone else could have walked onto the wharf, and they wouldn’t have known I’d cast.”

  “Why were you so interested in me?”

  “What were you doing on that dock?” This last he asked with sudden intensity, and with none of his usual sardonic humor. He glanced at the men standing with him. “Leave us, lads. Our friend isn’t going anywhere, and I don’t imagine he’ll do anything too foolish.”

  The men holding pistols lowered them, and all of the sailors moved off toward the ship’s stern. Ramsey extended a hand to Ethan. Ethan gripped it, and the captain pulled him to his feet. He braced his feet, enduring a moment of dizziness—a result of Ramsey’s spell, no doubt. As a younger man, he had spent much of his time at sea; already he could feel himself adjusting to the gentle pitch and roll of the vessel.

  “What were you doing?” Ramsey asked again.

  “I had planned to spy on you.”

  The captain nodded and clapped him on the back. “I’ve always liked that about you, Kaille. Whatever else you might be, you’re honest.”

  “How did you know to cast the detection spell?”

  Ramsey laughed. “You had to come back, after what I said the last time we spoke.”

  “But you had left. There was nothing for me to see. I don’t understand this, Ramsey.”

  Ramsey found an empty pewter cup on a barrel, poured some Madeira into it, and handed the cup to Ethan. “I know you don’t. You’re not supposed to. Soon perhaps. But you must realize, even after you’ve learned everything there is to know, you won’t be able to stop me.”

  Ethan sipped the wine, eyeing him over the rim of his cup. “Then there’s no danger in telling me what you intend to do.”

  The captain flashed a wicked grin and took another swig from the flask. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  “All right, how’s this?” Ethan said. “I can stop you, and I will. It’s not the hands and heads that are most important. I understand that now. And the mutilation of the feet—that was just something you did to draw my attention. Which means that on some level you want me to understand it all. But the key to it all lies in that symbol you carved into the chests of the cadavers.”

  Ramsey gazed back at him, his grin had faded, though the ghost of it remained on his lips. His eyes gleamed with torch fire.

  “What does it mean? Where does that symbol come from?”

  The captain tapped his temple with his forefinger. “It’s one of my own. But go on. This is all very interesting.”

  “All right,” Ethan said. He knew little else, but if he co
uld keep Ramsey talking, he might learn something of value. And as long as they were speaking, Ramsey wouldn’t kill him. Or so he hoped.

  “The ghosts you’ve brought back are yours to control. You haven’t done anything with them yet, but you have it in mind to.”

  Ramsey shook his head, appearing disappointed. “You’re grasping now. You don’t know anything at all, do you?”

  He should have known better than to allow himself to be goaded, but Ramsey had a way of twisting Ethan’s emotions, of turning them to his own purposes. “I know more than you think,” he said. An image of a ghost appeared in his mind: Patience Walters, her form suffused with that odd green glow. “For instance,” Ethan said, “I know that the ghost of a conjurer looks different from these other shades you control.”

  Ramsey’s face fell. “What are you talking about? What conjurer?”

  “The conjurer’s form hadn’t been mutilated,” Ethan said, ignoring the questions and thinking back on what he had seen at the Walters house. “There were no signs of decay, either. Nothing to indicate that the conjurer had been dead and buried. Whatever you’re doing affects conjurers differently.”

  “What conjurer?” Ramsey asked again, his voice rising. Several members of the Muirenn’s crew looked their way.

  “I had thought you ignored this person’s grave because it wasn’t in one of the older burying grounds, where you did your dark work. It wasn’t with Cotton Mather, John Sewall, and John Cotton. That was intentional, wasn’t it? Violating the burying grounds where those who have persecuted conjurers are buried?” When Ramsey said nothing, he shrugged and went on. He was guessing now, still grasping at whatever came to mind. But Ramsey grew more agitated with every word he spoke, and Ethan sensed that he had stumbled upon a weakness in the captain’s planning. “I wonder now if you would have intentionally disturbed any grave belonging to a conjurer. I think not. That would have made all of this much harder. Isn’t that so?”

  Ramsey lunged forward and grabbed Ethan by the collar. “Tell me who it was!” he demanded, his breath stinking of wine.