As Ethan trudged along the icy street from Warren’s house back toward the Dowsing Rod, he began to tremble, his mind reeling, his chest tight.
For the second time in as many weeks, people had died in the streets of his city. Diver has lost his arm.
And once again the spell that caused all of this had been sourced in his power. Never mind that Ramsey was responsible; the captain was wielding him as if he were nothing more than a weapon, insensate, without will of his own. He was too weak, too ignorant of the conjuring Ramsey was using. Due to his failure people had died, just as had Christopher Seider on Middle Street.
Ethan halted in the center of Queen Street, swaying, his hands covering his face. A sob escaped him, but no tears fell from his eyes. He took several quick, deep breaths, trying to compose himself, knowing that he could not afford to give in to his frustration and sense of helplessness.
Because not only had he allowed Ramsey to use him to kill, he had also allowed the captain to strike at Kannice, and at Diver. And, he knew, Ramsey would make the attempt again. He would see to it that everyone Ethan loved died, and then he would kill Ethan as well. The man was mad, cruel, brilliant, and bent on revenge.
“Where are you, Ramsey?” Ethan bellowed at the sky.
Others on the street halted and gaped at him. Ethan didn’t care.
“Show yourself, you son of a bitch! Come out in the open where I can see your face before I kill you!”
The echo of his words died away, leaving only the murmur of lowered voices and the muffled beat of footsteps. Ethan glanced around. Those who still watched him averted their eyes at the touch of his gaze.
He started walking again, his hands shaking, his heart beating like a war drum. But with each step he took, his pulse slowed, and his hands stilled. There would be time later to mourn and reflect on all that Ramsey had done with his power. For now, he needed to see that Kannice was all right. After that, he would resume his hunt for the captain.
When he reached the Dowsing Rod, he found that the door was locked. He pounded on the wood with a gloved fist and waited.
He heard heavy footsteps and the click of the lock. The door swung open, revealing Kelf, implacable and huge, his cleaver in hand. The barkeep glared at him and didn’t move.
“Are you going to let me in?” Ethan asked. “Or am I going to have to fight my way past you?”
“Do you think you could?”
Ethan looked him directly in the eye. “I know it.”
Kelf considered him, and for the first time in the many years of their friendship, there was a hint of fear in his gaze. He took a step back out of Ethan’s way.
“Where is she?” Ethan asked, as he swept past the man.
“Where you left her. I’ve been sittin’ with her.”
“Has she awakened?”
“No. But there’s some color in her cheeks.”
Ethan made his way into the kitchen and knelt beside Kannice. Kelf was right: there was a blush to her cheeks that hadn’t been there when he left. Her breathing was steady and stronger.
His eyes stung.
He kissed her lightly on her brow, which felt warm again. “Kannice? Can you hear me?”
Her head moved slightly, and her eyelids twitched but then were still again.
“Kannice?”
She mouthed his name.
“Aye, it’s me.”
Kelf came to the doorway. “Did she say somethin’?”
“My name; nothing more.” Ethan smoothed her blanket and kissed her again, but she had fallen into a deep slumber and said no more. Ethan stood. “I can’t stay.” He kept his eyes on Kannice, but he said it to Kelf.
The barkeep seemed to understand. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Not tonight at least.”
“Thank you, Kelf.”
“I’m not doin’ it for you.”
Ethan met his gaze. “Thank you just the same.” He stepped past him into the great room, and crossed back to the door.
“Did you find Diver?” Kelf called.
“Aye. He was shot.”
“Shot?” Kelf said, his voice sharp. “Is he all right?”
“He’ll live.” The words almost caught in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to say more.
“Shot by who?”
“Have you heard yet what happened on King Street?”
“No.”
“You will,” Ethan said, and left.
He started back toward the Town House, walking at a swift pace, his hands in his pockets. Despite what Ramsey’s illusion had said to him, Ethan had not seen Morrison on King Street or in front of the barracks. And when Ramsey cast his spell, he used Ethan’s power rather than someone else’s. This was significant in some way; Ethan was sure of it. But he didn’t yet know why.
Following Queen Street eastward, Ethan was forced to stop well before he reached the Town House. A great many soldiers, likely every man billeted at Murray’s Barracks, had gathered at the near end of King Street, with the Town House at their backs, and had taken up firing positions. The men in the front row were on one knee, their weapons raised. Behind them, soldiers stood in rows ready to take their places after the men in front fired. Preston stood at the end of the front row, his cutlass in hand, and he eyed yet another mob that had formed before him.
With the church bells ringing, and word of the shootings on King Street spreading through the town, more and more people crowded the street. Boston was moments away from more killings.
More to the point, Morrison stood with his fellow soldiers, in the second or third row behind the kneeling men. He scanned the angry faces arrayed before him, as did his comrades. But Ethan sensed a purpose to Morrison’s search; the man was looking for him.
Ethan edged away from the mob, taking care not to draw attention to himself. When he could no longer see the soldiers, or be seen by them, he hurried on to Dock Square. Here, too, an angry crowd of men had gathered and were shouting insults at a pair of retreating figures, who made their way west and south, back the way Ethan had come.
“Damn you, Hutchinson!” cried one man bearing a cudgel. “Stand like a man!”
Others around him laughed. Ethan wondered if one of the figures in retreat was truly the lieutenant governor.
Once again, though, he was surrounded by men, many of them bearing weapons of one sort or another. He continued past and through Dock Square, before heading south on Merchant’s Row. He intended to follow it past King Street, thinking that surely it would not be safe to return to that bloodied lane.
But as he crossed the street and gazed westward, back toward the Town House, he saw that the area in front of the Customs House was now largely deserted. Unsure of why he did so, Ethan turned and walked back to the scene of the shootings.
Aside from a few stragglers who wandered the street, their eyes drawn to the bloodstains on the ice and snow, most of the mob had moved on, as had the uniformed men. The rest of the wounded, he hoped, were being attended to; the dead had been removed. Only the blood in the street told of the recent tragedy.
“Is that you, Kaille?”
Ethan spun, reaching for his knife, but the man approaching raised his hands in a placating gesture.
“It’s all right,” Sheriff Greenleaf said. “It’s just me.”
Ethan exhaled, vapor billowing in the night air, and let his blade hand drop.
“Who did you think I was?”
“Nate Ramsey, or someone working with him.”
Greenleaf nodded, but said nothing. His gaze wandered the street. It was a measure of how calamitous this night had been that Ethan’s mention of Ramsey drew so little response from the man.
“Were you here when it happened?” the sheriff asked.
“Aye.”
“You seem to have come through unscathed.” There was no goad in the words; it was merely an observation.
“I was fortunate,” Ethan said. “A friend of mine was shot: Diver Jervis.”
Greenleaf looked at him. “Dead
?”
Ethan shook his head. “I suppose he was fortunate, too. How many died?”
“Three so far. But some who were hit won’t last the night.”
“There’s another mob on the far side of the Town House. And Preston has his soldiers lined up to fire. This isn’t over.”
“Aye,” the sheriff said. “The lieutenant governor was on his way, but another mob chased him off. I’m not sure where he is now. We know how bad this night has been; we’re trying to keep it from getting worse.”
Ethan said nothing. The pealing of bells echoed through the street, but thus far he had heard no more musket fire.
“What did you see?”
“I’m sorry?” Ethan said.
“You were here; you saw it happen. And I’m asking what exactly you saw.”
“I hardly know where to begin. The soldiers were besieged—outnumbered, surrounded by a mob that was shouting insults and pelting them with snow and ice. One soldier was hit by an object thrown at him; it appeared to be a stick. He fell, got back up, and fired. Before those in the street could flee, the rest of the soldiers—perhaps eight in all—opened fire as well.”
“Did they fire more than once?”
“Not that I saw,” Ethan said. “But after the initial volley, I took Diver away to a surgeon. Why?”
“The soldiers claim they only fired the one volley. But we know of three dead, and many others wounded. More, frankly, than can be accounted for given the number of regulars present.”
“Perhaps they double-loaded their weapons,” Ethan said. “I’ve heard of soldiers doing that.”
“As have I. You may be right. Did Preston give the order to fire? I’ve spoken to a number of witnesses who say he did.”
Ethan hesitated. “As you may recall, I have no love for Thomas Preston.” Captain Preston, along with the sheriff himself, had arrested Ethan during the Graystone affair. Ethan passed a miserable night in the town gaol, the memory of which still gave him nightmares. “But I heard no order. There were people in the mob yelling for the soldiers to fire; it would have been easy for someone to mistake these taunts for an order.”
“My thanks, Kaille. That will be helpful to us.”
“You should know something else, Sheriff. Before the first man pulled the trigger, before he was struck by that thrown club, I felt a conjuring.” He didn’t mention that the power for the spell had been his. Greenleaf’s understanding of conjurings was rudimentary at best, and despite the civility of this conversation, he still would have been glad for an excuse to put Ethan back in prison.
“Was it like the one you felt the day the Seider boy was shot?”
“Aye. And I know now beyond any doubt that Ramsey is back in Boston. What happened tonight may have been as much his doing as it was Preston’s or anyone else’s.”
“I want him caught, Kaille. I want him dead.”
“No more than I do.”
He thought Greenleaf might argue, but the sheriff merely nodded again, his gaze straying once more toward the Town House.
“I need to be on my way,” Greenleaf said. “I have men to question tonight, and already there’s talk of a town meeting tomorrow at Faneuil Hall. We could see more blood before this is over. But, still, I want to know when you find Ramsey.”
“You will.”
Greenleaf tipped his hat and strode off toward the western end of King Street.
Ethan watched him go, wondering how he might win access to Murray’s Barracks once more. He wanted to speak with the soldier Morrison. If he was going to find Ramsey, he would need information from the man helping the captain.
Even as he thought this, however, another man he recognized meandered by. This young gentleman, wearing a woolen cape and carrying a brass-tipped walking cane, halted a few paces from where Ethan stood to stare down at a large, red stain in the snow.
“Mister Grant?” Ethan said.
The young conjurer Ethan had met in the Green Dragon tavern started at the sound of his name, and took a step back. He gawked at Ethan for a few seconds, recognition dawning in his expression.
“Mister Kaille?” he said, sounding unsure of himself.
“Aye.” Ethan walked over to the man and proffered a gloved hand, which Grant gripped briefly.
“Terrible business,” the clerk said, looking down at the blood again. “I was here when it happened.”
“I was as well,” Ethan said.
“Then you know. I feared this day would come. I suppose we all did when the occupation began.”
The realization came to Ethan as an epiphany. “Wait! If you were here, then you must have felt the conjuring as well. Seconds before the first soldier fired his weapon.”
Grant’s eyes widened. “Yes, I did! I thought at the time that I had imagined it.”
“Would that you had,” Ethan said. “It was a powerful spell; I don’t see how you could have confused it for anything but what it was.”
Under the light of the quarter moon, Ethan saw the man’s cheeks color. “I’m not as skilled in matters of spellmaking as I should be,” he said. “But … but you say it was real?”
“Aye.”
Before Ethan could say more, shouts went up from beyond the Town House. He froze, listening again for the report of muskets. But he heard naught but voices. He wondered if the mob had seen Hutchinson or the sheriff. Neither would be well received on this night.
“What do you suppose is happening there?” Grant asked. “Shall we go and see?”
“I think I would be better off remaining here.”
“Yes, you’re probably right. There’s no sense tempting fate a second time.”
Ethan regarded the man through narrowed eyes. “Why were you abroad tonight, Mister Grant? I can’t imagine you would have chanced being part of Mister Adams’s assembly.”
“No, of course not. But I was on my way back to the Customs House to see to some ledgers Mister Paxton wanted. When I arrived, the mob had already started to congregate.”
It made sense. And yet something in the man’s manner gave Ethan pause.
“And you, Mister Kaille? What brought you here? From what I understand, you’ve shown little interest in casting your lot with the patriot cause.”
“That’s true. I was drawn here by something else. I can’t say what.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
Ethan offered a thin smile. “Won’t.”
“I see.”
Another memory stirred in Ethan’s mind, one that should have come to him sooner.
“Did you feel my finding spell earlier this evening?” he asked.
“Naturally.”
“And you knew it was mine?”
Grant faltered, then forced a smile. “Not until this moment, no.”
“You’re lying. You knew I had cast it, and so knew that I could place you here. Perhaps more to the point, you might have guessed that I was on my way to King Street. And you would have had time to communicate that information to someone else.”
“To whom would I communicate it?” Grant’s laughter was brittle. “You think quite highly of yourself, Mister Kaille, to assume that your comings and goings are the stuff of my conversations.”
“How long have you been working for him?”
“For whom?”
“Nate Ramsey.”
Grant’s mouth twitched.
“He chose poorly in you,” Ethan said. “You don’t lie well, and your face gives you away.”
“He chose well enough. Dormite ex—”
Before he could finish the sleep spell, Ethan lashed out with his good leg to kick the man in the stomach.
Grant grunted a curse and collapsed to one knee. But moving faster than Ethan had expected, he swung his cane, hitting Ethan solidly in the side of his bad leg. Ethan fell.
Grant got to his feet and fled, moving awkwardly, one hand gripping his gut where Ethan’s foot had connected.
Ethan forced himself up and hobbled after the man, who led him of
f King Street onto Leverett’s Lane. As he ran, he bit down on the inside of his cheek.
“Pugnus ex cruore evocatus,” he said. Fist, conjured from blood. The conjuring pulsed and abruptly Reg was running alongside him.
He aimed the blow at Grant’s back. As he had hoped, the spell was enough to knock the clerk off balance. He sprawled onto the ice, his cane clattering out of reach.
Ethan heard him mutter something and had time to think that it must be a spell. He felt it hum, saw Grant’s ghost, the finely dressed woman with the pale orange glow, appear on the narrow lane.
An instant later, a ball of fire crashed into Ethan’s chest, pounding him to the frozen ground and setting his greatcoat ablaze.
Ethan rolled right and left until the flames were extinguished. By then, though, Grant was on his feet once more, and but a few strides from the corner of Water Street.
Sitting up, Ethan grabbed his knife and cut the back of his hand.
“Discuti ex cruore evocatum!” Shatter, conjured from blood.
Grant cried out, crumpled in a heap, and grabbed at his broken leg.
Ethan got to his feet and advanced on the man. As he did, he pulled leaves from his pouch of mullein. “Tegimen ex verbasco evocatum.” Warding, conjured from mullein.
His spell pulsed, and was followed only an instant later by a second conjuring. This one struck Ethan as a blow, knocking him back on his heels, but doing no more damage. His warding had held against whatever spell Grant had attempted.
The clerk made a sound like a trapped animal. Ethan saw that he had a knife in hand. Before Grant could cut himself to conjure again Ethan covered the remaining distance between them and kicked the blade out of the man’s hand. It hit the wall of the nearest building and vanished in a small pile of loose snow.
Grant bit down, probably on his tongue or cheek, as Ethan himself had done while pursuing the man. A spell rang in the street, and once more Ethan was hammered by the power of Grant’s conjuring. But as before, the spell had no other effect on him.
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