A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by D. B. Jackson

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “That’s not the answer I was looking for.”

  “I know. But I have a previous engagement with a ghost.”

  She sobered in an instant. “Tell me.”

  He glanced back at the soldiers.

  “In here,” she said, gesturing toward the back rooms behind the bar.

  Ethan walked around the bar and joined her in the kitchen, where a large pot of chowder simmered over a cooking fire. He related to her what he had seen at King’s Chapel and the other burying grounds, as well as what Darcy and Ruth Walters had wanted of him. The lone detail he omitted was the mutilation of the cadavers’ feet. She would have worried, and he remained so perplexed as to what it might mean that he wouldn’t have been able to ease her mind.

  As it was, by the time he had finished, her forehead was creased and her lips pressed thin. “Where would you even begin to look for the people who did this?”

  “That’s a fine question. If they’re conjurers, they’ll cast eventually, and I’ll feel their spell.”

  Her expression hardened. “Didn’t you tell me that Sephira Pryce has a conjurer working for her now?”

  “I’ve considered that,” Ethan said. “This doesn’t feel like something with which Sephira would involve herself. Too much effort, not enough profit.”

  She started to say more, but Ethan stopped her with a raised hand. “I plan to speak with Mariz anyway. Even if he isn’t involved, he might have some ideas as to who is.”

  “And you expect him to help you? Sephira’s man?” She laid the back of her hand on his brow. “You must have taken a fever.”

  Ethan grinned.

  “Come on. Your chowder is getting cold.” She took his hand and pulled him back out to the bar.

  Ethan ate and sipped his ale. As he did, though, he thought about what he had said to Kannice. Speaking to Mariz was not as odd an idea as Kannice thought. If this actually was Sephira’s doing, she would be relying on the bespectacled man’s conjuring abilities. And if she had nothing to do with the grave desecrations, Mariz might well prove a valuable source of information.

  A year before, Sephira’s man was grievously wounded in a confrontation with other conjurers. Drawn to the site of the encounter by the thrumming of the spells, Ethan found Mariz, healed him as best he could, and summoned Sephira’s other toughs so that they could take the man back to her estate. Mariz remained unconscious for days, and when at last he woke he named himself Ethan’s friend, without Sephira’s knowledge, and swore to come to Ethan’s aid should Ethan have need.

  “I still work for Miss Pryce, and I will follow what orders she gives me,” the man said at the time. “But when I am not acting on her behalf, I am free to honor whatever friendships I choose. And like it or not, Kaille, you and I are now friends.”

  Janna hadn’t known what to make of the robberies and the symbols carved into the corpses. Maybe Mariz would.

  After some time, the regulars sauntered out of the Dowsing Rod. No more than a minute later, as if they had been watching the tavern door, several of Kannice’s usual patrons filed in. Ethan finished a second bowl of chowder, and lingered over a second ale until at last night fell.

  He waited until Kannice and Kelf had carried another tureen of chowder from the kitchen—to the cheers of Kannice’s hungry customers—before picking up his tricorn from the bar and catching Kannice’s eye. She was speaking to Tom Langer, one of her usual crowd. Ethan saw her falter, her grin slipping. He nodded once to her. She forced a small, thin smile in return.

  He wended his way through the crowd to the tavern door, and slipped out into the warm air. It was another hazy night; the gibbous moon cast dull shadows across the lanes. A freshening breeze out of the west carried the suggestion of rain, and perhaps a respite from the heat. But thus far this had been a summer of empty thunder and deceptive zephyrs.

  The streets of New Boston were largely deserted, and because this part of the city was sparsely populated, they were dark as well. Faint candlelight from a few windows spilled out onto the cobblestone lanes, but Ethan had to place his feet with care on the uneven pavement.

  The Walters house was more brightly lit than most; its windows beckoned to him with a welcoming glow. No one passing by would have guessed that the family within had been haunted by a shade, which perhaps was the point.

  Ethan approached the house and knocked once on the door. After several moments, it opened. Ruth stood before him, holding Benjamin, who was crying.

  “She’s here,” the woman said, and walked back into the common room.

  He removed his hat and entered, shutting the door behind him.

  Darcy stood at the mouth of the corridor that led to Patience’s bedroom. His face was careworn, his upper lip beaded with sweat.

  “Thank you for coming back, Ethan,” he said over the sound of his son’s fussing.

  “She’s back there?” Ethan asked.

  Darcy nodded, swallowed.

  “Let’s go see her,” he said, trying to infuse the words with a confidence he didn’t feel.

  Darcy faced Ruth. “Do you want to—?”

  “We’ll wait out here,” she said, her voice tight.

  He nodded and led Ethan to the back room.

  The shade of Patience Walters made no effort to conceal herself. When Darcy and Ethan entered the room, she was by the window, gazing outside. Perhaps she could hear them, for she turned as they stopped in the center of the room. She looked first at her son before turning to stare at Ethan, and while she offered nothing by way of greeting—no gesture, no change in her countenance—she kept her eyes fixed on his.

  She looked much as Ethan remembered her; through the murky green glow that clung to her like silver mist on blades of grass, he could see the lines around her mouth and eyes, the smooth brow and high cheekbones, her upturned nose. She was dressed in a simple gown and petticoats; a kerchief covered her head.

  Her eyes shone so brightly that at first Ethan didn’t realize Patience was the sole source of light in the bedroom. Darcy had not lit the candle on her chest of drawers.

  “Try speaking to her,” Ethan said.

  Darcy glanced his way, looking nervous. But he gave a nod and faced his mother again. “Can you hear me, Mother?”

  The shade fixed her gleaming eyes on him and, after several moments, nodded slowly.

  “My God,” Darcy whispered. “Are you all right? Has something happened to bring you back to us?”

  She didn’t reply in any way. After staring at Darcy for a few seconds more, she turned back to Ethan. Her movements were slow, graceful; she almost appeared to be underwater. She reached with her right hand to her left arm, and began to push up the sleeve of her gown.

  “What is she doing?” Darcy asked.

  “Did she use blood to conjure?”

  “Yes, sometimes, but—” Darcy raised a hand to his mouth, reminding Ethan of Patience. “You’re right. That’s just what she’s doing. Can she—?”

  “No,” Ethan said. “But I can. I think that’s what she wants.”

  He pulled out his knife and held it up for the shade to see. The bobbing of her head was achingly slow, but for the first time a smile touched her lips.

  Ethan didn’t cut himself; he didn’t have to for what he needed to do. “Veni ad me,” he said in Latin. Come to me.

  Uncle Reg materialized beside him, his russet glow adding to the light in the room. He didn’t spare Ethan so much as a glance, but stared hard at the shade before them. She turned her gaze on him, her eyes widening.

  “Can you communicate with her?” Ethan asked.

  Reg nodded, still not looking at him.

  “Ask her—”

  Reg rounded on him, eyes blazing.

  “Right,” Ethan said. “You know what to ask her.”

  Ethan’s ghost faced Patience once more, and for a long time the two shades remained motionless, gazes locked.

  “What are they doing?” Darcy finally a
sked.

  “My spectral guide is finding out what he can from your mother’s ghost.”

  “To what end?”

  “I’m hoping he’ll be able to tell us why she’s here.”

  “Can he speak? Great-Grandfather never could.”

  “He can’t, either,” Ethan said. “But he can be quite expressive in his own way.”

  For several minutes more, the shades regarded each other, communing silently. At last they broke eye contact, and Reg turned to Ethan. He appeared troubled, his eyebrows bunched, his habitual scowl more pronounced than usual.

  “She’s not here by choice, is she?” Ethan asked.

  Reg shook his head.

  “Is she being held here?”

  The ghost hesitated before nodding.

  “What does that mean?” Darcy asked. “How can she be held here?”

  Reg’s gaze flicked to the younger man, but immediately fixed on Ethan again.

  “He didn’t like the way I phrased the question,” Ethan said. “I’m not sure yet what he means.” He chewed his lip, eyeing Reg. “It’s not that she’s being held here. Rather, something is preventing her from moving on. Is that right?”

  This time Reg didn’t hesitate at all when he nodded.

  “A conjuring?”

  Another nod, emphatic.

  “Is this related to what we saw at the burying grounds today?”

  Reg answered with a small shrug.

  “We have work to do, you and I.”

  A fierce grin split the old ghost’s face.

  “Is she … is she well?” Darcy asked. “I feel foolish asking that about a spirit. But is she … suffering in any way?”

  Ethan looked to Reg, who shook his head, though he appeared troubled once more. “I don’t think she’s suffering,” Ethan said. “But this isn’t right. She doesn’t belong here, and until she can move on to the realm of the dead, she won’t be content.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help her?”

  “Don’t be afraid of her,” Ethan said, watching Reg. “Let her see you. Let her see her grandson.”

  Reg nodded. Patience, who had been watching Ethan’s exchange with his ghost, turned her glowing eyes to her son and smiled.

  Darcy smiled in turn. “We can do that.”

  Ethan turned back to Uncle Reg. “Dimit—”

  Reg threw up a hand, forcing Ethan to stop. He had been about to say Dimitto te, Latin for “I release you.”

  “There’s more?” he asked.

  Reg nodded. He pointed to Patience, and to himself. He held up two fingers. Then a third, a fourth, and a fifth. He held up his other hand, and opened his fist one finger at a time.

  “God help us,” Ethan said, breathing the words.

  “What is it?” Darcy asked. “What is he trying to say?”

  Ethan let out a long shuddering breath. “There are more shades like your mother,” he said. “They can’t leave either, and there are a lot of them.”

  Chapter

  SEVEN

  After delivering these last tidings, Uncle Reg agreed to be released. Ethan and Darcy joined Ruth in the common room, where they offered her assurance that as unsettling as it might be to have a shade in her home, the ghost of Patience Walters posed no danger to her child or to her. Soon after, Ethan departed their home and, hesitating but for an instant, left New Boston for the opulent mansions of the North End.

  This time he made certain to avoid Brattle Street and the barracks of the Twenty-ninth Regiment. Still, he saw many regulars on the streets, including four soldiers who were being taunted by yet another group of reckless young men. “Bloody-backed scoundrels!” the pups shouted. “Lobsters!” One called, “Damn the king! Damn his soldiers!” This drew laughs from his companions. These regulars, like the others Ethan had seen earlier in the day, held their rifles waist high, their bayonets fixed. Ethan half expected them to open fire.

  He gave the regulars and the pups taunting them a wide berth, and crossed into the North End by way of Hanover. He then followed Back and Salem streets, making his way past the North Meeting House, with its soaring spire and clock tower, to Ellis Street and the impressive mansion of Alexander Rowan.

  It was late to arrive at anyone’s home uninvited and unannounced. It was especially so for one as wealthy and influential as Mr. Rowan. Ethan didn’t care.

  The entire Rowan family had behaved strangely in the King’s Chapel Burying Ground, and after his encounter with the shade of Patience Walters, Ethan thought he knew why.

  Like the Walters house, the Rowan mansion was constructed of brick. The resemblance ended there. Alexander Rowan’s home stood three stories tall, and had banks of windows across the façade and marble columns on either side of the entrance. The door itself was oak, with a polished brass lion’s-head knocker. Candlelight still glowed in several of the windows on the first and second floors, but not all. Ethan wondered if some in the family were already abed.

  He followed the stone path to the door and rapped with the knocker. At first there was no response, and Ethan knocked a second time.

  At last the door opened, revealing not a servant, as he had expected, but Mr. Rowan’s son. He was in shirtsleeves, and kept one arm hidden behind his back.

  “Yes, what is it?” the young man demanded, sounding cross.

  Ethan moved forward a half step, so that the light from within fell upon his face. Rowan the younger retreated a step and produced a pistol, which he held in the hand that had been hidden. Ethan raised his hands to show that he carried no weapon.

  “I’m unarmed, Mister Rowan.”

  “Who are you?” Rowan asked, though Ethan saw a flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes.

  “I’m Ethan Kaille, sir. Reverend Caner has engaged my services to inquire into the unfortunate incidents in the King’s Chapel Burying Ground.”

  Rowan lowered the pistol, looking much relieved. “Of course, Mister Kaille. I remember you now.” He frowned. “Are you in the habit of disturbing people in their homes at such a late hour?”

  “No, sir, I’m not. I wouldn’t have come without good reason.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to say that my father has already retired for the night. If you wish to speak with him, you’ll have to come back in the morning.”

  “I believe you can help me, sir.”

  If anything, this prompted a deepening of Rowan’s frown. After a brief hesitation, however, he beckoned Ethan into the house and closed the door after him.

  “I wonder, sir—”

  “Not here,” Rowan said. He walked away, leaving Ethan little choice but to follow.

  They crossed through a large parlor, followed a dim corridor toward the back of the house, and entered a well-lit study. An open book rested pages-down on a wooden side table beside a plush chair. When he had shut the door, Rowan faced Ethan, looking like he intended to say something. Instead, he glanced down at the pistol he still held and crossed to a writing desk along the far wall of the study. After placing the weapon in a drawer, he turned to Ethan again.

  “Now, what is it you want?”

  “Today, at the burying ground, I asked your father if he had noticed anything odd, either here or at your family’s warehouses.”

  “Yes, I remember. And he told you that he hadn’t.”

  “Aye, he did. But you and I both know that wasn’t true.”

  “Now see here, Kaille—!”

  “Do you truly expect the ghost to leave of its own accord?” Ethan asked, his voice echoing in the small room.

  Rowan gaped at him, looking frightened and young. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Of course you do, sir,” Ethan said, speaking in softer tones. “When did your mother’s shade first appear?”

  Rowan shook his head, saying nothing. After a lengthy silence, he dropped into the nearest chair and asked, “How did you know?”

  “Yours is not the only family in Boston being haunted. How long has it been?”

  “She
appeared three nights past. My wife noticed her first. We’ve been living here since Mother died. Father has not been himself since he lost her, and Esther and I felt that he shouldn’t be alone in a house of this size. The servants are all quite competent, of course, but … well, you understand.”

  “Aye.”

  “On Tuesday night, Esther went into Father and Mother’s room to make certain that his bedclothes had been laid out properly. And when she entered, she saw the … you called it a shade. That’s as good a word as any. It’s a foul, horrible thing. I shudder to think of the fright Esther took.”

  “Wait,” Ethan said, his eyes narrowing. “The shade doesn’t look like your mother?”

  “Heavens, no. It’s—” He shook his head again. “I suppose there is really no delicate way to say this: It looks like a ghoul in Mother’s clothes.”

  Ethan considered this, staring down at his tricorn, which he held in his hands. He had assumed that this ghost would resemble Mrs. Rowan, just as Patience’s shade resembled her.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said at length. “Please go on with your tale.”

  “There isn’t much more to tell,” Rowan said. “Esther screamed, and the rest of us hurried to the room. The apparition didn’t flee, as one might expect. It merely stood at the window, gazing out into the night.”

  “Did it make any sound? Did it seem to recognize any of you, or make an attempt to communicate?”

  “We didn’t give it the chance,” Rowan said, sounding appalled at the very idea. “We removed my father’s personal effects the following morning, and have not been back in the room since. For the past several nights he’s been sleeping in the room that used to belong to Margaret.”

  “So, you don’t even know if it’s come back,” Ethan said.

  Rowan took a long breath. “We do, actually. Late at night, when the candles in the corridor have been extinguished, I can see the fiend’s glow seeping out from beneath the door.”

  “Have you seen it tonight?”

  “I haven’t yet looked.”

  “I realize that this is an imposition, Mister Rowan, but I would like to see this shade.”

  “You mean now?”