Dead Man's Reach

by D. B. Jackson

  Reg shook his head.

  Do you know what kind of spell it was?

  No.

  So then it’s possible that the conjuring had nothing do with what happened on Middle Street.

  Reg did not respond at first. After a few seconds he gave a slow shake of his head. He tapped his chest with his fingers and then made a sweeping motion with his hand.

  You believe the spell was related to the shooting of the Seider boy. I understand that much. But the rest … Ethan shrugged. I’m sorry. Sometimes I really wish you could speak.

  The ghost nodded at that.

  Were there other conjurers there today? Did you sense that anyone was casting spells on the street?

  No.

  Is there a conjuring I can try that would—

  Reg held up a hand, forestalling Ethan’s question. He tapped his chest again.

  “You,” Ethan whispered.

  Reg nodded. He made that same sweeping gesture again.

  Ethan shook his head. “I don’t—”

  The ghost frowned and rubbed a hand over his face. After considering the matter, he placed an open hand to his brow and swiveled his head, as if he were searching for something.

  You were looking around. On Middle Street?

  A nod. He pointed to his chest again, then to his eyes, and once more to his chest.

  I don’t— A chill passed through Ethan, making him shudder. “My God,” he said under his breath. You were looking around, and you saw a ghost, a spectral guide, a being like you.

  Reg nodded with great enthusiasm.

  A ghost, Ethan said within his mind, wanting to be clear on exactly what Reg was telling him. Not an illusion spell.

  Reg tapped his chest again, more emphatically this time. A ghost.

  Ethan’s heart had started to labor. “Was it one you had seen before?”

  A man seated at an adjacent table glanced Ethan’s way, his expression a blend of dismay and alarm. At that moment, Ethan didn’t care who heard his question or what they thought of him speaking to himself.

  “Was it Nate Ramsey’s guide?”

  Nate Ramsey was the merchant captain and conjurer who, during the previous summer, had nearly managed to kill Ethan, as well as Mariz and Ethan’s friend Tarijanna Windcatcher. He did kill Gavin Black, another friend and an accomplished conjurer in his own right. The captain had raised an army of shades by desecrating graves throughout the city, and had come within a hairsbreadth of rendering powerless every conjurer in Boston except himself.

  During their final confrontation on Drake’s Wharf, Ramsey set a warehouse ablaze and appeared to perish in the conflagration. But though Sheriff Greenleaf had men of the watch search through the rubble, no one ever found the captain’s body. To this day, the possible implication of that fruitless search haunted Ethan’s dreams, and lurked in the back of his mind during his waking hours.

  To Ethan’s profound relief, Reg shook his head. No. It wasn’t Ramsey’s ghost.

  You’re certain?

  Yes.

  Could it have been one of the ghosts Ramsey controlled last summer? Is he trying to deny us access to our spellmaking power again?

  Reg shook his head yet again.

  Ethan didn’t realize until he exhaled that he had been holding his breath. You didn’t recognize this specter?

  No. He tapped a finger to the side of his head, beside his eye, and then raised his hand to his brow again, as if searching.

  But you think it was watching, or rather, that the conjurer was watching through the ghost. You think he cast the spell when he did for a reason.

  Reg sat back in his chair and nodded, a look of relief on his lined face.

  I see. Thank you.

  The door to the tavern opened, and a man stepped inside. Every person in the Dowser turned to look at him.

  “Richardson and Wilmot have been before Justices Ruddock, Pemberton, Dana, and Quincy,” the man said, his voice carrying through the great room. “They’ve been sent to the gaol and will be tried before the superior court on the thirteenth of March.”

  “We don’ need the court!” someone shouted back. “We all seen what they done. They should be hanged, and good riddance to them!”

  Others cheered this.

  The man at the door shrugged. “That’s not for me to say. I’m only tellin’ you what’s happened.”

  “What about the lad?” another voice called.

  “I’ve no word on him. I’m sorry.”

  He tipped his hat to Kannice, and left the tavern.

  Ethan turned back to Reg. Is there anything else you wanted me to know?

  Reg shook his head.

  Very well. Thank you. I’ll be more attentive next time and I’ll try not to send you away before you’ve had your say.

  A rare smile curved the ghost’s lips.

  Dimitto te. I release you.

  Reg faded from view, leaving Ethan to ponder the implications of what his spectral guide had seen. The pulse of a random spell could be dismissed as mere coincidence, even if it did come only moments before Richardson fired his musket. But if there had been a specter there, watching all that happened, waiting for the precise instant when a spell might do the most harm … that was a different matter.

  He recalled Gordon’s sudden attack on Will Pryor the previous night, and the spell he and Mariz thought had preceded the assault. Were the two incidents related? Ethan didn’t see how they could be—one mattered only to himself and to Sephira Pryce. The other had implications for all of Boston. Once more he wondered if he and Mariz had imagined that pulse of power the night before.

  On that thought, something else occurred to him. It seemed like folly, but before this night was through he might have no choice but to test his theory.

  He had few ideas of how he might proceed, none of them very good. But he couldn’t sit there doing nothing. Making up his mind, he drained his tankard, stood, and walked to the table Diver shared with Deborah.

  “May I join you?”

  Diver looked up at him, but said nothing.

  Deborah eyed her beau before indicating the chair between them. “Of course you may, Mister Kaille. Please, sit.”

  Still Ethan waited, watching his friend. At last Diver offered a slight shrug, which Ethan took as an invitation.

  He sat and, holding up his tankard, caught Kelf’s eye. “Can I buy you one?” he asked Diver.

  “No, thank you.”

  If Ethan needed further proof of the depth of Diver’s anger, here it was: He couldn’t remember the younger man ever refusing a free ale.

  “I was there today,” he said. “I saw Christopher Seider get shot.”

  “I thought you might have.” Diver didn’t face him, but at least he replied. “I knew that they were going to be at Lillie’s shop, and I know that you’re working for him.”

  Ethan’s anger flared. Diver had known that there would be a mob on Middle Street, and he had given him no warning. He held his tongue, knowing that no good would come of another confrontation. But something in his chest tightened. Once he had been Diver’s closest friend; now, apparently, Diver felt greater loyalty to the Sons of Liberty than to him.

  “I have been working for him. I don’t know if I can anymore.”

  At these words, Diver met his gaze.

  “Truly?”

  “He made excuses for Richardson; he said the boy deserved what he got.” Ethan cringed. “How can I take his money after that?”

  Diver leaned forward. “You can’t,” he said. “He doesn’t deserve to have you working for him, Ethan.” It was the nicest thing Diver had said to him in months.

  Kelf arrived with Ethan’s ale and glanced first at Diver and then at Ethan. “It’s nice to see the two of you chattin’ so amiably,” he said, the words a great jumble.

  A smile crossed Diver’s face, though it vanished as quickly as it had come. Once Kelf was gone he said, “I owe you an apology, Ethan. With all the fool things I’ve done over the years,
and all the times I’ve made trouble for you—and you’ve always stuck by me. I shouldn’t have said all those things to you last night.”

  “It’s all right,” Ethan said, waving away the apology. “I have to ask you, though—” He dropped his voice. “Do the Sons of Liberty ever use conjurers to help them with all they do?”

  Diver fairly beamed. “You’re ready to join the cause?”

  Ethan was too pleased by the civil turn their conversation had taken to disabuse Diver of the notion. Also, he didn’t think Diver would take well to being told that Ebenezer Richardson might have been the victim of a spell, and was not the villain so many thought him to be. “For now I’m asking out of nothing more than curiosity,” he said, hoping that he sounded coy rather than evasive. “Do they have access to spells?”

  “Well, not that I know of, but I’m still new to the Sons. I’ve been to only a few meetings.”

  “Of course.”

  “But if you want me to ask—”

  “No, that’s not necessary.”

  “Right,” Diver said, grinning. He cast a look at Deborah. “Our friend here has had dealings with Samuel Adams himself. You don’t need my help talking to them, do you, Ethan?”

  “At some point I might, and I’ll be sure to let you know when that time comes.” He sipped his ale.

  Diver did the same, clearly pleased.

  An instant later, though, the Dowser’s door opened again and a different man stepped inside.

  “He’s dead,” this man said, his voice forlorn. “Chris Seider’s dead.”

  Ethan placed his tankard on the table and closed his eyes, a dull pain in his heart.

  “God grant him rest,” came a voice from near the bar.

  “To Chris Seider,” another man said. “May he rest in peace.”

  “Chris Seider,” the other patrons answered, the lad’s name resonating like a spell through the tavern.

  Ethan opened his eyes again. Deborah was crying. Diver had walked around the table to where she sat and put his arm around her shoulders. Ethan searched the tavern and soon spotted Kannice near the bar; she was already looking his way. Her cheeks were dry, but he could see grief in her lovely eyes.

  He stood with a scrape of his chair legs on the tavern’s wooden floor, and picked up his hat off the table.

  “Where are you going?” Diver asked.

  “There’s something I need to look into. I told you, I was on the street today when Richardson shot him, and while I was there … well, it’s hard to explain.”

  Diver’s face fell. “You’re not going to try to prove that he didn’t do it, are you? I know that you protect people when they’re innocent and all, but this—”

  “He did it, Diver. I saw him pull the trigger. I could no more prove Ebenezer Richardson innocent than I could teach him how to fly.”

  “Good,” Diver said. “I want to see him swing for this.”

  Chapter

  FIVE

  Kannice was not happy to see him leaving, but he assured her that he would be back before long, and that he would try to explain where he had gone and why.

  Leaving the warmth of the tavern, he found the icy street hushed save for the tolling of several church bells around the city—no doubt a tribute to the fallen lad. He had feared that a new mob might take to the lanes upon hearing the news of Christopher Seider’s death, but for now at least, all remained quiet. A pall had fallen over Boston.

  He headed south on Sudbury to Queen Street, which he followed toward the city gaol. On most occasions he took pains to keep his distance from Brattle Street and Murray’s Barracks, but on this night there could be no avoiding the soldiers occupying the city. Indeed, Ethan was headed to the very seat of the Crown’s military presence in Massachusetts.

  As he came within sight of the gaol, however, he saw a large crowd gathered in the street outside the austere building. Here, at last, was the gathering he had thought to find in the lanes. Many carried torches, and though from this distance he could not make out what the throng was shouting, he could imagine easily enough. He retreated a short distance and found a lonely byway in which he could remove his greatcoat, cut his forearm, and whisper, “Velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” Concealment, conjured from blood.

  His conjuring hummed in the street, and Reg appeared before him, vivid against the whites and grays of the city in winter. At the same time, the spell settled over Ethan, like a fine cool mist.

  “This might be incredibly stupid of me,” he said.

  The ghost grinned and vanished.

  Once more, Ethan headed toward the gaol, placing his feet with care so as to make as little noise as possible on the lane. Even so, his shoes crunched the ice and snow. Fortunately, by the time he was near enough to other people to be heard, the clamor from the mob was enough to overwhelm the sound of his footsteps.

  He slipped through the crowd, avoiding any contact when he could, and when he couldn’t, making it seem that some other person was responsible for the gentle jostle or shove.

  “Give ’em to us and we’ll be on our way!” one man called to the young regulars guarding the prison door. Several men laughed.

  Cries from others gathered there were less humorous.

  “They’re murderers, and should be dealt with as such!”

  “Damn lobsters! Protectin’ child killers!”

  “Richardson and Wilmot deserve what’s comin’ to them! And so do them what keeps ’em safe!”

  With each new imprecation, the mob grew increasingly agitated, until Ethan wondered if he would be able to extricate himself before the gathering became a riot. He could find no path of escape; the throng had closed in on all sides. He could do nothing but continue forward, pushing his way closer and closer to the front of the crowd and the façade of the city gaol.

  When at last he slipped free of the mob, with a final shove that left a tall young man glancing about in confusion, Ethan found himself even closer to the gaol’s ancient oaken door than he had expected. From so near, the four regulars posted in front of the gaol appeared younger and more frightened than they had from the rear of the crowd.

  He saw no way past the men, nor could he think of any means by which he might enter the gaol through the door without drawing notice.

  With slow, deliberate steps, he circled around the building and made his way back to where he knew the prison cells were located. There were several small windows along the wall—each looking in on a cell. But they were too high for Ethan to reach, and even if he could have climbed the brick walls, he couldn’t accomplish much from outside.

  Reluctantly, he concluded that he had but one choice. Leaving the prison, he cut across a snowy lea, strode past the church grounds of King’s Chapel, and turned onto Marlborough Street. From there, he continued south to West Street, where lived Sheriff Stephen Greenleaf.

  Greenleaf’s spacious stone mansion stood a short distance from the edge of the Common. It was a stately home with extensive gardens that were, during the warmer months, among the most admired in all of Boston. It was, Ethan had decided long ago, a finer home than the good sheriff deserved.

  Greenleaf might well have had the most difficult job in the entire Province of Massachusetts Bay. As sheriff of Suffolk County, he was responsible for keeping the peace in Boston. Any and all crimes committed within the city and its environs fell under his jurisdiction. But other than the men of the night watch, most of whom were either incompetent or dishonorable, or both, the sheriff had no men under his command. He was expected to see to the safety of Boston’s citizens, and their personal property, almost entirely on his own. It was no wonder Ethan and Sephira had worked for so many clients over the years.

  The near-impossible duties with which the sheriff was tasked should have made Greenleaf a sympathetic figure. As it happened, though, the sheriff’s abrasive manner prevented that. He and Ethan had been at odds practically from the day they met. The sheriff had long been determined to see Ethan hanged as a witch; only Etha
n’s discretion, and a few strokes of uncommon good fortune, had kept Greenleaf from following through on his frequent threats. Moreover, when the sheriff wasn’t trying to prove that Ethan consorted with the devil, he was often working with Sephira Pryce to hinder one of Ethan’s inquiries.

  Still, on those rare occasions when the sheriff required Ethan’s aid—more often than not to investigate crimes that involved conjurings—he did not hesitate to press Ethan into service. And every now and then, Ethan had no choice but to turn to the sheriff for help, as he did this night.

  He walked up the path to the sheriff’s front door and rapped twice with the brass knocker.

  Only then did he remember that he was still under a concealment spell. Sparing not a moment, Ethan yanked off his greatcoat, slashed his arm, and whispered in Latin, “Fini velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” End concealment, conjured from blood.

  The spell pulsed in the ground and Reg issued forth once more. But concealment spells did not take effect or wear off instantly, and when the door opened, revealing the formidable figure of Stephen Greenleaf, Ethan knew that he was only partially visible. The sheriff wore his usual garb—a coat, waistcoat, and breeches—and he bore a candle, which threw his face, with its hook nose and steep forehead, into sharp relief.

  He raised the candle higher and peered into the night through narrowed eyes.

  “Who’s there?” he said, the words coming out as a low, menacing growl.

  “Sheriff Greenleaf, it’s Ethan Kaille.”

  “Kaille?” the sheriff said, leaning forward. He had spotted Ethan, but still he squinted. “Is that really you?”

  Ethan took a step toward him. “Aye. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour.”

  Greenleaf held his candle still higher. “I couldn’t see. It’s like your witchery hovers over you, blending you with the night.”

  “I require your aid,” Ethan said.

  “My aid? Why should I give my aid to you?”

  “I can’t offer you any compelling reason why you should. Helping me will bring you no tangible benefit. But I’m hoping you’ll listen to my request anyway.”

  “So you want a favor from me, and while you, no doubt, will profit nicely from whatever it is I’m supposed to do, you offer nothing in return.”