“Tegimen ex verbasco evocatum.” Warding, conjured from mullein.
He felt the stone tremble, and he knew that the conjurer had felt it, too. But immediately that ethereal vine released him. Not that it mattered. If the finding spell hadn’t told the conjurer where he was, Ethan’s own spell had.
For his part, Ethan had some idea of the conjurer’s location. That finding spell had been double-edged. The conjurer had used it to locate him, but in doing so had revealed his whereabouts to Ethan. He was close, no more than a city block or two away. To the west and south. If Sephira hadn’t been on the street, and if Ethan hadn’t been so sure that her men were close by, he would have run. But whether by design or sheer coincidence, his two most dangerous enemies had him trapped. One might have thought that Diver and Derne had lured him here. He didn’t want to believe that Diver would have any part of such a plan, but at that moment he didn’t know what to think.
“There you are!”
He knew the voice. Anna.
She stood in the narrow, dark space behind him, glowing faintly, her expression cross, as if she were a parent and he a wayward child. She ignored Uncle Reg, but the ghost bared his teeth at her. Ethan could almost hear the old man hiss, like a feral cat.
“You shouldn’t have done that last night,” Anna said. “You shouldn’t have hurt me like that. You shouldn’t have killed that poor dog. There are a lot of things you shouldn’t have done.”
Ethan wondered if Diver and the others could hear her. At that moment he would have preferred Yellow-hair and every tough who had ever worked for Sephira Pryce to this little girl and the man who had conjured her.
He opened his mouth to shout for help, but Anna raised a finger to silence him.
Agony. Pain so sudden, so excruciating, that it banished all other thought from his mind. It felt as if someone had driven a spike through his right eye. Clutching his face, Ethan crumpled to the cobblestone. He drew breath, an anguished scream building in his chest.
“Shhh,” Anna whispered from just beside him.
As abruptly as it had come, the pain was gone.
“Don’t make a sound,” the little girl said, bending over him. “I’ll have to kill them all. And while you might want a few of them dead, I know that at least one is your friend.”
Diver. The conjurer knew that Diver was his friend. But far more important, the conjurer couldn’t be Derne. Whoever he was, Ethan had grown pretty sick of him.
The remaining mullein leaves were in the pouch hanging on his belt, and now he racked his brain for a spell to fire back. He could preserve the leaves for two spells, or he could use all the rest of them for one powerful assault.
“When they’re gone,” Anna said, staring down at him, “which should be just another moment or two, you’re going to get up and walk north on this lane.”
“Why not just kill me here?”
Her smile was so innocent, so normal, that Ethan shuddered. “Other plans,” she said, in a singsong voice.
He thought about asking what would happen if he refused, just to keep her talking and perhaps to distract the conjurer so that Ethan’s attack would have a better chance of success. But he knew what would happen if he asked, and he flinched away from the idea of it. He thought that years of forced labor and brutal floggings as a prisoner had inured him to pain. Apparently they hadn’t. At least not the type of pain this man was capable of conjuring.
Anna smiled again. “Smart, Kaille. I thought you would fight me, but you’re learning.”
Pain or no, this was too much.
Ambure ex verbasco evocatum. Scald, conjured from mullein.
At the thrum of power Anna straightened, then vanished. Ethan thought he heard a voice cry out. Not wasting these precious moments, he pulled out his knife and cut himself.
Discuti ex cruore evocatum! Shatter, conjured from blood!
Another pulse, another cry—this time he was certain. But still Ethan didn’t stop. Cutting himself again, he struggled to his feet. Ignis ex cruore evocatus! Fire, conjured from blood! The street felt alive with the power of his spell. Another cut, more blood, which he spread on his face, like some warrior from the realm of the dead.
Tegimen ex cruore evocatum! Warding, conjured from blood!
It was remarkable to him that so few people could feel this spell, that they could be unaware of the power rippling through the city lanes. Never had he cast so many spells in quick succession.
The last conjuring, the warding, continued to tingle along his skin—a shield that covered his entire body.
He left the narrow lane and strode around the north corner of Ship Street, intending to call to Diver. Derne and Sephira be damned. But they were gone. He ran to where they had been standing and scanned the street for any sign of them. Nothing.
“Damn!”
And then he was on the ground again, his body rigid, molten iron in his veins, blades impaling him through the eyes, a taloned claw raking his heart. He couldn’t scream or breathe. He couldn’t even curl up into a ball and die. Torment pinned him to the cobblestone, obliterating all else.
Except her voice—Anna’s voice—which somehow managed to reach him through his suffering. “You are a fool, and you will endure agonies you can scarcely imagine before you die!”
He had managed not to drop his knife, and even as the assault on his mind and body continued, Ethan tried to move his hand, tried to cut his arm one more time.
The conjurer didn’t like that at all. Ethan hadn’t believed that anything could hurt more than what the man had already done to him. He was wrong. He heard a cracking sound. Several of them. Bones. In his hand. The knife fell free. Pain crashed over him like a storm-driven breaker. He rolled onto his side and vomited on the cobblestone lane.
“No more spells!” Anna said severely.
He would die before he would agree to that. Through all that he had suffered, he realized that the conjurer was coming nearer. He was still to the south, but closer, perhaps less than the distance between lanes. Useful information.
Desperation could prompt a man to do strange things, things he had never even considered before. It wouldn’t sustain another fire or a shattering spell, but perhaps something less violent would also prove less expected.
Scabies ex vomitu meo evocata. Itch, conjured from my sick.
The foul mess vanished from beneath his face, and the stone street hummed along the length of his body. He didn’t hear a scream this time, but the image of the little girl vanished again. Ethan assumed that meant his spell had worked. He would have preferred to cause the man pain; he wanted desperately to kill him. But the idea of such a powerful conjurer convulsing at what would have felt like ten thousand flea bites, and scratching his skin raw, gave Ethan a certain amount of satisfaction. And if he could find a man on the street madly scratching himself, he would know at last who this conjurer was.
He picked up his blade and sheathed it. Then he struggled to his feet, cradling his ruined hand against his gut and clenching his teeth against another wave of nausea. He fell against the side of the nearest building, his head spinning, his body aching in every joint and muscle. He felt the way he had after Sephira’s men beat him in his room, except worse. Much worse. He pushed himself away from the wall and staggered across the lane, heading north, away from the conjurer. The man’s abilities went deep—the power he wielded dwarfed that of any other conjurer Ethan had encountered—but he was still subject to the laws governing spellmaking. The greater the distance between them, the less effective his spells would be. The same could be said of Ethan’s spells, of course, but at this point that was a trade Ethan was happy to make.
Each step jarred his aching bones, especially the painful jumble of bone shards in his hand. Still, he forced himself to keep moving. Earlier in the day he had all but sworn that he would kill the conjurer. Now he cared only about getting as far away from him as possible, about living to fight this battle another day.
He hobbled to the next corner, pausing br
iefly to get his bearings. He had reached North Street. He could head south, toward the residences of the North End, but that would take him too close to the conjurer. His choice, though, was to head north, to Lynn Street, another lane of wharves and warehouses. Beyond them lay the harbor. He had allowed the conjurer to corner him here. He was hurt, weakened, exposed. And he expected at any moment to be attacked again.
He decided to turn south, hoping that the conjurer wouldn’t expect that. He hurried to the next corner—Charter Street—and turned westward.
There were people on the streets here, but they took no notice of him. Apparently his concealment spell was still intact. Not good. He needed help. He lifted his knife again, intending to cut himself and remove the concealment charm.
But before he could draw blood, he felt a pulse of power, sensed it rushing toward him, speeding beneath the stone, seeking him out. An instant later, it found him, coiled around him again. Another finding spell. The conjurer was still to the south, but Ethan could feel him approaching.
A second surge of power followed closely on the heels of the first, and before this one hit Ethan knew it was different. He tried to flee, but he could no more outrun this conjuring than a ship at sea could sail clear of the dawn.
It struck at his legs, like steel barbs ripping through the muscles in his calves. He stumbled, fell forward, crashing heavily on his maimed hand and splitting his lip on the cobble.
The pain in his hand threatened to overwhelm him. He was drowning in it; he felt consciousness slipping away, and a part of him welcomed the darkness.
But not the strongest part. Forcing his eyes open, Ethan willed himself up, onto his side, and to his hand and knees. He staggered to his feet and managed all of three strides before stopping again.
Anna stood just in front of him, murder in her large, pale eyes.
Ethan and Uncle Reg faced her, the ghost’s eyes blazing like cannon fire. People and carriages passed by, oblivious. Ethan opened his mouth to shout for help.
But Anna made a small gesture with her hand and the bone in Ethan’s bad leg gave way. He managed not to fall on his wounded hand again, but he landed awkwardly on the shattered leg, which hurt every bit as much.
The girl loomed over him, shaking her head, fury on her thin face.
Ethan heard footsteps approaching.
Anna looked up at the sound and smiled. Then she bent down and with one finger reached toward the center of Ethan’s brow. He hadn’t even the strength to shy away from her.
“Enough,” she whispered, touching her finger to his forehead.
The blackness took him after all.
Chapter
TWENTY
Consciousness came to him slowly, like an advancing tide.
At first Ethan retreated from it. There was no pain here, no fear. Only rest. He was sleeping. How long had it been since he had slept this deeply, this comfortably? Just a few more hours, he whispered. Did he really? Did he say it out loud?
“It can’t wait. You have to wake up now.”
Anna’s voice. He was really starting to hate her.
He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the glare of a fire. Night had fallen; except for the gleaming white full moon above him, he could see little beyond the blaze and the glowing little girl. A warm breeze touched his face, smelling faintly of fish and the low tide.
He was manacled at the wrists and ankles, his back pressed against the bark of a large tree, his arms pulled back, leading him to guess that the chain joining the manacles circled around the trunk. He was also gagged. And yet, though his circumstances were dire, he also realized that he was no longer in pain. Carefully he flexed the hand the conjurer had crushed. Then he wiggled his fingers more boldly. The hand was fully healed.
Both legs also felt whole again, although the chains were tight enough that he could barely move them. Yet another chain led to a metal cuff around his neck, to keep him from moving his head more than a few inches. Predictably, all the manacles—those at his wrists and ankles, as well as the one around his neck—were cushioned, wrapped in cloth, from the look and feel of them. He couldn’t chafe his wrists, ankles, or neck on the metal cuffs. The conjurer had left him with no way to draw blood; even the cloth in his mouth kept him from biting his tongue or his cheek.
His coat, which still bore bloodstains from Nigel’s bullet, was gone. The rest of his clothes had nothing on them that he could use to fuel a spell, except the cloth itself, which was too far from its living form to be suitable for a conjuring. He didn’t have to check to know that his knife had been taken.
The tree itself, on the other hand, offered him plenty of material for a spell. Either the conjurer hadn’t thought of this, or he didn’t think that a spell that drew upon anything less than Ethan’s blood would be strong enough to harm him. Ethan had little doubt as to which of these was the case.
He could feel the conjurer; he was near. The power he used to create the illusion of Anna coursed through the ground and the body of the tree like blood through veins. It seemed the night itself was alive with it. Ethan should have been frightened. Chances were, he would be dead in another few moments. But he felt strangely calm. His battle with this conjurer had gone on long enough. For better or worse it would end here, tonight.
“You’re more than I thought you were, Kaille,” Anna said. “You have some talent with conjuring, and more than a bit of courage. I had hoped to find a way to spare you.”
Unable to speak because of the cloth in his mouth, Ethan raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise.
She cocked her head to the side and smiled. “You don’t believe me.” Even now, a long figure in the firelight, she acted and sounded so much like a child that Ethan had to look away. He could have learned something about spelling from this conjurer had they met under different circumstances.
But if he was going to die here, he wouldn’t do so talking to this illusion of a little girl. He wanted to face the conjurer; he wanted to know who had bested him.
“No response, Kaille?”
He shook his head, still refusing to look at her.
“I can make you answer me. You know I can.”
He shrugged, gazing off into the darkness, trying to figure out where exactly he was. Candles shone in the windows of a few distant houses, but he was far from the crowded lanes of Cornhill or the North End.
Ethan could tell that the girl was staring at him; he could imagine the annoyance on her face.
“I think I understand,” she said. “You want to see … him.”
Ethan nodded. Anna glanced to the side. Then she grinned at Ethan once more.
“All right.” A man’s voice, one Ethan thought he recognized.
An instant later, Anna disappeared. Ethan heard the scrape of a boot on cobblestone, and Peter Darrow stepped into the firelight. He was dressed as he had been earlier that day: a dark blue silk suit, an ivory-colored shirt, a tricorn hat nestled on his perfectly groomed and powdered hair. He looked every bit the country gentleman. Even if Ethan managed to get away, there wasn’t a person in Boston who would believe that this handsome, dapper man was in fact a conjurer and a murderer.
Because they wouldn’t be able to see the ghost walking next to him, the guide who made his conjurings possible. Remarkably, it was a little girl who could have been Anna’s twin, except for the golden yellow glow that suffused her form, and the bright yellow eyes that stared back at him, as if she were some otherworldly owl. Seeing her, the calm Ethan had enjoyed only moments before began to give way to despair.
“You should have listened to us, Mister Kaille,” Darrow said. “Samuel, James, and I tried to tell you that Mackintosh was your man. You should have gone along.”
Ethan stared at him, knowing that he shouldn’t have been so surprised. Darrow had looked terrible that morning. His eyes had been bloodshot, and he had been hobbling much the way Ethan did when his leg bothered him. Were these the results of the spells Ethan had used to attack him the night befor
e? The shattering spell and the blindness casting that had cost Pitch his life?
“Because of you, I’ve had to spill a lot of blood for healing spells. On both of us.” He pointed to a red mark on his arm. “This one proved particularly troublesome. That scalding spell was quite effective. I hadn’t faced it before. Well done. And as for your wounds.” He shook his head. “You were a mess. As I say, it took a lot of blood.”
Ethan gave the man a puzzled look. Why heal me if you’re going to kill me?
The lawyer smiled again. “You’re wondering why I would go to all that trouble. Anna already told you: other plans.”
Ethan didn’t like the sound of that at all. He twisted his neck and raised his chin, trying to fight free of the gag. The chain and cuff at his neck restricted his movement too much.
“Now, now, Kaille. None of that. I’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to keep you from conjuring. I won’t have you biting your tongue for blood.” He walked to Ethan and tightened the cloth. While he was there, he also checked the manacles and their cloth linings. Finally, he stepped back, apparently reassured that his prisoner wasn’t going anywhere.
“I really did have some hope that it wouldn’t come to this,” he said. “You impressed me last night with your resourcefulness. A killing spell. I hadn’t expected that.”
Ethan glared back at him.
“This may surprise you, but I think you and I could have worked well together, if only you had proven yourself a bit more malleable. I’m sure I could have convinced the others. Even Sephira Pryce would have had to admit that you would make a valuable ally.”
“Th’ uhthahs?” Ethan managed to say past the gag, hoping the man would understand. “Ah-hams? Oh-his?”
Darrow laughed and shook his head. “No. The others aren’t Adams and Otis. They’re men you don’t know, men who don’t approve of these self-proclaimed Sons of Liberty, or the so-called Loyal Nine.”
Ethan’s eyes went wide.
“You’re surprised. Don’t be. Without me, there might have been more of this. More riots, more lost property, more protests. Adams and Otis and their rabble might not seem like much now. Samuel is always one shilling away from debtor’s prison, and James is half mad. But they have talents as well. Adams is a visionary, and Otis has a silver tongue, and they’re both good with a pen. They’ve drawn the attention of men in London. Powerful men who wish to see these disturbances ended now, before they grow into something more.
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