by Faith Hunter
Water Witch
By Faith Hunter and D.B. Jackson
Hannah Everhart is a witch. She’s also a thief, having stolen a priceless gem that she needs for a magical working.
Ethan Kaille is a conjurer and a thieftaker. He has been hired to recover the pilfered jewel.
But what begins as a pursuit through the streets of Colonial Boston, soon becomes an unlikely alliance, as Hannah and Ethan track down an otherworldly sea captain who has come to the city for dark purpose. Now these two must combine forces to fight a creature unlike any either of them has encountered before. And at stake is the life of Boston’s foremost revolutionary.
Water Witch is the first collaboration between Faith Hunter, New York Times bestselling author of the Jane Yellowrock novels, and D.B. Jackson, author of the critically acclaimed Thieftaker Chronicles.
WATER WITCH
ISBN 978-1-62268-076-4
Copyright © 2015 by Faith Hunter and D.B. Jackson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information contact Bella Rosa Books, P.O. Box 4251 CRS, Rock Hill, SC 29732.
Or online at www.bellarosabooks.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover illustration by Craig Faris – www.craigfaris.com
BellaRosaBooks and logo are trademarks of Bella Rosa Books
Authors’ Note
Thank you so much for buying Water Witch. This is a labor of love, a collaboration between writers who have been wanting to work together for a very long time, friends, colleagues, and admirers of each other’s work. With this story, we have found a way to combine our worlds, bringing an ancestor of Jane Yellowrock’s best friend, Molly Everhart Trueblood, into the time of thieftaker Ethan Kaille. We hope that you’ll enjoy reading this as much as we enjoyed writing it. We also want to write more about Hannah Everhart and Ethan—a lot more. So let us know what you think, and tell your friends about it.
Best wishes,
Faith Hunter
D.B. Jackson
Boston, Province of Massachusetts Bay, June 2, 1770
Hannah knew with the certainty of the damned that he followed her still, dogging her every step. Hunting her.
She had heard not a sound; he was too skilled to give himself away with a false step. Nor could she see him for the gloaming and the fine mist that dampened her lank hair and silvered her coat and tattered trousers. But she sensed him through the tiny droplets, and she marked his progress in the eddy and swirl, the dance of air and moisture and power.
She clutched the brooch in her left hand, gold and faceted gems digging into cold fingers. In her right, she gripped a knife, its wooden hilt crosshatched, scored to make the grip more firm, its blade glinting dully in the muted light. Her pursuer had cornered her, and Hannah had allowed it. She understood that now, and cursed herself for having been herded so easily to the lonely wharves along Boston’s South End waterfront.
“You haven’t the brains God gave a cow,” she muttered, peering over her shoulder, trying to catch sight of the man.
Warehouses loomed on either side of her and mooring ropes groaned and creaked, the ships they secured shifting with the gentle to-and-fro of the harbor waters. The cobbled stones of Belchers Lane had given way to the dirt and gravel fill of Tileston’s Wharf, and with each step she made the faintest scuffing sound. Could he hear?
Think, heifer. What does he expect you to do?
To which, Run, could be the only reasonable answer.
She halted, turned, planted her feet, stubborn to the bitter end. Running her tongue over her upper lip, she tasted cool water and the same hint of brine that salted the chilled air. She stood close enough to the harbor to cast. Puissance stirred in the tidal flow, in the surge and ebb of the swells lapping at the timbers of the pier.
Hannah drew a circle in the hard dirt with her boot tip, a shallow fosse in which to stand. The circle would do nothing to protect her, but it gave her place in the earth to call her own for her working. She reached for the water, for the current, and drew power down into the still well within her, cradling it, shaping it.
She wished to dissuade, to drive him away; she had no desire to maim or kill. But neither could she afford to be too gentle.
She whispered in Gaelic, the words still awkward on her tongue. Codail go breacadh an lae. Sleep until dawn. She had learned much from the tattered volume she found in a small South End print shop, but still the language did not come naturally to her.
As the incantation crossed her lips, she released the casting, the power leaving her body in a rush that tore a gasp from her chest.
An instant later she heard a grunt, the sound coming from closer than she had expected, in front of her and a bit to the left.
She listened for the thud of a body falling to the ground.
“That was a good spell,” she heard instead. A warm baritone shaded with an accent of south Britain. Southampton, or perhaps Bristol. Certainly not Boston-born.
She said nothing, but began to draw upon her power again. Perhaps she had no choice but to attack with all her might.
“If I hadn’t been warded it might have killed me.”
That brought her up short.
Hannah opened her mouth, closed it again. He was warded. A witch?
Silence met silence.
“No,” she said at last. “It wouldn’t have.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
Boot leather scraped on the wharf fill. Hannah started to back away, but then remembered her circle. It took all her courage to remain still.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “But there’s the matter of the brooch you stole. We need to discuss that.”
Another footfall, and he appeared before her, a shadowed figure half-obscured by the damned mist. Medium build, taller than she, though not so much that anyone would actually call him tall. He wore a tricorn hat, and the brass buttons of his great coat gleamed with the dying light. His face, however, remained shrouded, featureless.
The man took another step toward her, an odd hitch in his gait.
“Stay back!” She brandished the knife, and at the same time hid behind her back the hand holding the brooch.
He raised his hands, a placating gesture. “I told you: I’m not going to hurt you.” He took another step, and this time there could be no mistaking his limp. Had she done that to him?
Hannah could see his face now. He was older than she had thought he would be, with lines around his mouth and dark eyes. His hair was streaked with silver, and he wore it pulled back in a plait. With his square jaw and high cheek bones, he might once have been handsome, back in the Middle Ages. Now he just looked hard and worn, like a river rock.
“My name is Ethan,” he said. “Ethan Kaille.”
He did not give her his full name, something she might have used to harm him . . . or to call him. Had this been intentional on his part? Did he understand the nature of her craft?
He watched her, clearly waiting for her to respond in kind. After several moments, he raised an eyebrow.
“Hannah Everhart,” she said in surrender, even as she kept back her full name as well.
“How old are you, Hannah?”
She bristled. “Old enough.”
“Fourteen? Fifteen?”
“I am not fourteen!”
He grinned. She narrowed her eyes, wishing she’d hit him harder with her castin
g.
“You live in the streets? Or perhaps the Almshouse?”
“I see no reason why I should tell you that.”
The grin fell away. “Very well. Where is Missus Grew’s brooch?”
“I don’t believe that’s your concern, either.”
Kaille eyed her, a faint smile alighting again on his features. “You don’t speak like a street urchin. But to your point, the brooch is very much my concern. Thomas Grew made it so, when he hired me to retrieve it.”
“Hired you?”
“I’m a thieftaker.”
Hannah tightened her grasp on the jewel. The gold and diamonds meant nothing to her. But the sapphire set in the middle of the piece was something else entirely. Not that she could explain as much to this stranger. Or could she?
Are you a witch?
The question burned her tongue, and she very nearly spat it out. But caution—uncharacteristic for her—kept her from doing so.
Rather, she asked, “How much is he paying you?”
“I don’t think I’m going to tell you that.”
“Less than it’s worth.”
“Well, of course. He shouldn’t have to pay twice for his own property.”
She supposed that made sense, though she did wonder why the thieftaker wouldn’t simply recover the jewel and sell it himself. That seemed the more profitable course.
“Give me the brooch, Hannah. I’ll let you go, but first you have to give it up.”
“I haven’t got it.”
He laughed, not kindly. “Of course you have. It’s in your left hand.”
“I can’t let you have it. Not yet.” She chewed her lip. “If you give me a day. Just one day. I can give it to you tomorrow. I’ll bring it wherever you’d like. You have my word.”
His smile lingered, and his gaze had narrowed again. She had his attention; she could tell that much.
“And how far from Boston will you be by this time tomorrow?”
“I’ll still be here. I swear it. But . . . but I need the brooch. For a single day. I . . . I’ll pay you. Whatever Grew is giving you, I’ll double it.”
“And where will a gutter seed like you get enough money to pay me? Unless you intend to sell what isn’t yours?”
“I’m not—” Hannah clamped her mouth shut.
“You’re not what? Not going to sell it? Or not a gutter seed?” He took another step toward her. “Where did you learn to cast spells?”
“My mother,” she said softly. A lie, masked by the loss in the words, which was all too real.
“Where is your mother now? Where do you live?”
She shook her head, staring past him into the misty gray, the gold edges of the brooch still cutting into her hand. Of course Thomas Grew wanted it back. It was probably worth a hundred pounds. Not that coin mattered to her. Only the stone.
“Tell me your name again,” he said, his tone gentle.
“Please. Just give me a day.”
“Your name. Hannah, I remember. But the family name.”
She closed her eyes. “Everhart. Hannah Everhart.”
“I believe that’s my cue.”
A woman’s voice, low, gravelly, and cocksure.
“Hide it!” Kaille whispered, the command so quick and low that for a moment Hannah thought she had misunderstood.
Before she could ask him to say it again, he turned, shielding her from the woman who stepped out of the mist, her hips swaying, her boot heels clicking.
She might well have been the most beautiful woman Hannah had ever seen. Eyes that could have been blue, though it was hard to tell in the murky light, long black curls, and a nearly flawless oval face that would have appeared friendly but for the predatory grin that curved her lips. She wore garb more appropriate to a man—breeches, a waist coat, and a dark cape around her shoulders—but if anything this made her appearance more unusual, more fascinating.
Three men followed her out of the fog. Two of them were behemoths, the third about the same size as Kaille. All of them held flintlock pistols, the barrels aimed not at her, but at the thieftaker.
“Hello, Ethan,” the woman said, seeming to purr his name.
“What are you doing here, Sephira?”
The woman nodded toward Hannah. “Searching for her. Her aunt hired me to find her. She’s a runaway.”
“Her aunt?”
“Emma Everhart Smythe.”
Hannah winced.
“Of course,” Kaille said. “That’s why it sounded so familiar.”
“Missus Smythe is eager to have her back, as you can imagine.” The woman frowned, though the shrewd expression in her eyes didn’t change. “But if you’re with her, there must be more to this than I was told. Is our lost little darling a thief?”
Remembering Kaille’s whispered instruction, Hannah drew upon the harbor waters again. She cast a glamour this time, a working that would conceal the brooch from all who didn’t possess abilities like hers. As the casting settled over the jewel, Kaille peered back at her, a scowl on his face. Hannah returned his gaze, keeping her mien neutral.
“Search her,” the woman said. “Gently.”
The smallest of her three toughs walked to where Hannah stood. He trained his pistol on her now, and when he held out his hand, she gave him the knife, hilt first, misery in her heart. This was a new blade, the third she had been forced to buy in the past four months. Every time her aunt found a knife in Hannah’s room, she took it from her. It was a miracle she hadn’t found this one yet. And now, for all Hannah knew, she had lost this newest blade to the woman and her tough.
The man pocketed her knife before looking within her coat and patting her trouser pockets. His touch wasn't immodest, but it was unexpected and unpleasantly personal. Hannah kept herself still by an effort of will, holding her left hand palm up, as if empty, knowing that none—except perhaps for Kaille—would see the glamoured brooch.
“She doesn’t have anything, Miss Pryce.”
“You’re Sephira Pryce?” Hannah asked.
Pryce smiled. “How charming. She knows of me.”
It occurred to Hannah then that being taken back to her aunt’s home might have been the best outcome for which she could hope. She made her decision. With as much petulance as she could muster, she said to Kaille, “I told you I didn’t steal anything.” She turned to Pryce, lowering her gaze. “I’m ready to go home now, Miss Pryce. I . . . I know I shouldn’t have run away. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, my dear. We’ll take you to your aunt. She’ll be so pleased to see you again. A happy ending for all.” Her smile deepened. “Except for you, Ethan. It seems you had the wrong girl. I wonder if you’ve grown careless. Or perhaps you were never as good at this as you thought.”
Pryce beckoned Hannah over with a wave of her fingers, and when Hannah joined her, she wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders.
"Come,” she said to her men.
The toughs converged on them, surrounding them like an honor guard. Hannah allowed Pryce to steer her off the wharf, and when the woman smiled down at her, offered a tentative smile in response.
But as they stepped onto the cobbled lane, Hannah glanced back at Kaille. He appeared as little more than an apparition, a dark smudge in the mist. She sensed, though, that he was watching her still.
• • •
They walked to Boston’s North End without speaking, the echo of their footsteps on cobblestone muffled by the fog that had enveloped the city. Hannah and her aunt lived in a brick home on Love Lane, in the shadow of the North Church’s elegant steeple and near the writing school where her aunt taught. As they turned on to the narrow street, Pryce halted, raising a hand so that her men would do the same.
“Nap,” she said, holding out a hand, “the girl’s blade.”
Hannah still carried the glamoured brooch, but now she slipped it into the pocket of her breeches, her eyes never leaving Pryce’s lovely face. The dark-haired man who had taken her knife pulled it from
his pocket and handed it to Pryce.
The woman turned back to Hannah, but held fast to the weapon. Hannah tried to keep her attention on Pryce, but her eyes were drawn to the steel blade, which glinted with the glow of candles and oil lamps from a nearby window.
“You’re a most curious young lady,” Pryce said. “A girl of means who takes to the streets in the garb of a waif? Your aunt frets over you, no doubt believing you defenseless, and yet you carry a blade, and I’d wager every coin she’s paying me that you know how to use it.”
Hannah made herself face the woman, but couldn’t hold her gaze for long.
A sly smile lifted the corners of Pryce’s mouth. “No response. Perhaps I should give this knife to your aunt rather than to you.”
“No!”
Pryce’s laugh was throaty; it might have been pleasant had it not been directed at her. “What did you and Ethan discuss? Why was he after you?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes flicked once more toward the knife. “You said it yourself: He had the wrong girl.”
“Don’t mistake me for a dupe, Hannah.” The smile remained, but the look in the woman’s eyes had turned flinty. Hannah had to resist the impulse to back away. “Ethan may be a sentimental fool, but he’s clever and he has some skill as a thieftaker. By the way, if you tell him I said so, I’ll deny it, and I will tell your aunt about the blade.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, what did he want with you?”
Hannah had a feeling that continuing to insist she knew nothing would only make matters worse. It didn’t take a genius to perceive that Kaille and Pryce were rivals, and not friendly ones. The woman wouldn’t confirm any of what Hannah said with the thieftaker. And perhaps a few well-placed truths could forestall further questions.
“He’s after some sort of jewel. A brooch, I think he said. It was stolen from a Missus Thomas Grew, apparently by a girl who resembled me in some small way. Kaille thought I had it. And . . .” She glanced off to the side, hoping that the act of lying would bring some color to her cheeks. “And when I didn’t, he asked me to help him. He even offered me a few shillings should I learn something of value. I liked the idea of working for him.”
