He left the tavern, climbed the steep stairway, and stepped out onto Union Street once more. A soft rain still fell over the city, blown in off the harbor by a stiff, cool wind. Ethan began to make his way toward the Dowser. When he was halfway there, he changed his mind and continued south toward King’s Chapel. Henry Caner’s objections notwithstanding, Ethan needed to speak one last time with Mr. Pell. Probably the minister wouldn’t be able to help him, but there was always a chance.
Treamount Street was crowded with people making their way home from the market and from their work. Carriages rattled past, and Ethan had to twist his body one way and then another to avoid others walking along the side of the lane.
As he walked, he spotted Mr. Caner walking in his direction. He lowered his gaze, hoping that the rector hadn’t seen him. The last thing he needed was for the minister to inquire as to where he was headed. He walked quickly, his head down, occasionally sending furtive glances in Caner’s direction.
And so at first he didn’t notice the carriage that halted just ahead of him. But then the door swung open and he heard a familiar voice speak his name.
“Kaille.”
Ethan stopped and looked into the carriage. Nigel leaned forward from his seat, staring out at him, smiling. He held a pistol, its hammer pulled back, its barrel aimed directly at Ethan’s heart.
Firearms were crude weapons, not known for their accuracy or reliability. But Nigel was only a few feet from him, and not for a moment did Ethan doubt that he would shoot if Ethan gave him the opportunity. No doubt only the crowd around them had kept him from pulling the trigger already.
“Go for yar knife, an’ ya’re dead,” the man drawled.
Ethan took a step back, then stopped, feeling something sharp pressed against his lower back. He glanced over his shoulder. Nap was behind him, knife in hand.
He took Ethan’s blade from its sheath, and said “Get in,” in a low voice.
People on the lane had started to take notice of them, and Caner had to be close by. For a moment Ethan considered shouting for help. But these were Sephira’s men; some on the street already seemed to have recognized them as such. No one would come to his aid if they thought for a moment that it might mean incurring the Great Lady’s wrath.
He searched again for anyone who might help him. But there was no one. He didn’t even see Caner anymore. Perhaps the minister had walked past without Ethan knowing it. Having no choice, he climbed into the carriage.
“Tha’s smart that is,” Nigel said, as Ethan took the seat opposite his. “It’s too bad y’arn’t always tha’ smart.”
Nap climbed in after him and sat beside his comrade.
Nigel pulled the door closed and rapped twice on the outside of the door. Immediately the carriage lurched forward.
“Where are we going?” Ethan asked.
The two men stared out their respective windows, saying nothing.
They followed the one lane a long way, until Ethan wondered if they intended to take him over the Neck, through the town gate and out into the country along the road toward Roxbury. If they intended to kill him and leave his body, that would be as convenient a place as any. But they turned to the west off Orange Street before they reached the gate, and turned a second time soon after. At last, they rolled to a stop. Nigel got out first and motioned with his gun for Ethan to follow him. Nap simply grinned, toying with Ethan’s knife.
A light rain still fell on the city, and the sky had begun to darken.
“Hello, Ethan.”
He knew that voice, too. Herself.
Ethan ignored her for the moment, and tried to get his bearings. In the gathering gloom, it took him a few seconds to figure out where they were. He could make out Beacon Hill in the distance, shrouded in mist, and closer he saw the Common Burying Ground. He thought they must be at the end of Pleasant Street, a deserted stretch of road that jutted into Boston Common. He noticed lines of ropewalks in the distance, but the workers had abandoned them for the night. Aside from a few cattle, there wasn’t another soul in sight. This, he realized, would also be a pretty convenient place for them to kill him.
At last, he looked at Sephira. She stood in the lane, flanked by eight men, including Gordon and the brute he had seen on the street the day before. Ethan glanced back and saw four more men standing with Yellow-hair and Nap.
“Sephira. We should really stop meeting like this.”
“Oh, I assure you,” she said, without even a hint of a smile, “this is the last time.”
Ethan stared back at her and pushed up his sleeves, knowing that he could scratch at his arms enough to hold off a few of her toughs, but not all of them. He heard Sephira laugh.
“You going to claw at yourself again, Ethan?”
“If I have to.”
“Oh, you’ll have to.” She held two fingers to her lips and whistled loudly.
Immediately her men stepped in front of her and spread to form a broad arc. Nigel and his men had done the same. Within moments Ethan would be surrounded. He searched for anything he might use against them, but didn’t see much. Although …
Deserted as it was, this part of the lane was rough and overgrown with weeds. Stooping quickly, Ethan grabbed two handfuls of grass, straightened, and scattered the stalks in a wide circle all around him.
“Ignis,” he said in a low voice. “Ex gramine evocatus.” Fire, conjured from grass.
Uncle Reg appeared, shining like the rising moon, his teeth bared.
Flames shot up around Ethan and the old ghost, throwing off enough heat to warm Ethan’s face and hands. There were a few spots where the grass hadn’t spread evenly, but Ethan pulled some more from the ground and filled the gaps, muttering the spell to himself. He would have to keep feeding it; the spell wouldn’t last forever. But it offered him some protection from Sephira and her men.
“We can wait,” she said. “You can’t keep that fire burning forever.”
“Can’t I?” he shouted back. But Sephira was right. His circle wasn’t wide enough to encompass that much grass, and what he had wouldn’t last more than an hour or two. And the more he pulled up, the closer he would have to venture to the ring of flame the next time he needed some.
He stooped again, picked up a stone that fit comfortably in his fist, and dropped it into his pocket, just in case. He also pulled up more stalks of grass, and watched for any slackening of the flames around him. Sephira and her men lurked just beyond the ring of fire, their faces glowing with the blaze, the heat making their features swim, so that they looked like Hell’s demons.
“You should have listened to me, Ethan,” Sephira called to him, sounding bored. She still wore the sapphire around her neck, and it glittered in the firelight. “You should have taken your money and found another Ezra Corbett to occupy your time.”
“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 a
rms 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 talle
r, 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.
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