Thieftaker tc-1

by D. B. Jackson

  And then the body of Jennifer Berson began to glow. The light emanated from just to the left of her breastbone and spread slowly, radiating out over her entire body, spreading up over her face and head, out to the very tips of her fingers, and down to the soles of her feet. At first Ethan thought the light had no color, that it simply reflected the hue of the candle fire. But when he moved the sconce away and looked at the girl’s body once more, he saw that the glow was actually pale silver, the color of starlight.

  Usually the spell Ethan had cast would have concentrated the glow at the point where the murderer’s conjuring had struck her, but the light surrounding Jennifer’s body was as even as moonglow on a snow-covered field. And that shade of silver… Every conjurer’s power had a different hue; the variations were subtle but distinctive. Ethan’s was rust-colored, like the brick facade of the Boston Town House in the late-afternoon sun. His other sister, Susannah, was also a conjurer. Her spells left a residue of greenish blue, the color of the ocean on a clear day. But never had he seen power like this before. It was as if all the color had been sucked out of the conjuring, and this silver was all that remained.

  Old Reg’s ghost flashed a mocking grin. Then he vanished again.

  Ethan had no doubt that Jennifer had been killed by a conjuring, but he couldn’t imagine what kind of spell had been used against her. It was possible that the way the glow had spread over her body offered some clue. An attack aimed at her heart might have produced such an effect by following the flow of her blood, though in Ethan’s experience such an assault, when revealed by the spell he had cast, should have left a gleaming spot over her chest.

  There was another spell he could try, one that could tell him what the murderer had used to fuel his spell. Every conjuring had to draw upon its source, be it one of the elements-fire, water, earth, or air-for the simplest spells, or something drawn from a creature or plant for living spells. The revealing spell Ethan had just tried demanded his own blood. Other living spells could be cast using herbs or tree sap or wood.

  Just as every conjurer left his or her color on the residue of a spell, so the source left an imprint as well, if one knew the casting required to reveal it. Ethan did. And perhaps knowing how the spell had been cast would help him learn a bit more about the murderer. He had told Pell that he would speak only the one spell. But this would likely be his only chance to examine the girl’s corpse, and it struck Ethan as foolish not to do everything in his power to learn the identity of her killer.

  The wounds he made to conjure began to heal themselves almost as soon as he spoke his spells, which meant that he needed to cut himself again for this second casting. He retrieved his knife from the table, bared his arm, and laid the blade against his skin.

  Before he could draw blood, however, he heard a light footfall behind him.

  “Don’t you dare!” a voice warned, echoing off the ceiling and stone walls. “Not in this place!”

  Chapter Five

  Ethan turned slowly, holding up the knife and extending his arm to show that he hadn’t cut himself again.

  “Hello, Bett.”

  His sister frowned at him and then shifted her gaze to Jennifer’s body. “What have you done to her? Why does she look like that?”

  “I tried to learn something of the conjurer who killed her.”

  “She was killed by witchery?” Bett said. She walked past him, her satin dress and petticoats rustling. “You’re sure?”

  “Look at her,” Ethan said.

  “You did that.”

  “I merely made the power reveal itself. Her killer did that.”

  Bett stared at the dead girl for a long time, chewing her lip; he remembered that from when she was young. She and Ethan had never gotten along, even as children. He and Susannah, on the other hand, had been inseparable, which probably had made matters worse for their middle sister. Bett had always been so serious, so righteous, far more like their father than their mother. She even looked like Ellis. She had his straight brown hair, his dark blue eyes, his square, handsome face. Susannah was Sarah’s daughter in every respect. Not only did she resemble their mother; she also had Sarah’s sharp wit and hearty laugh. Ethan had always felt a kinship to both of them. But except for the scars he now bore, he looked just like Bett and just like their father. Throughout his life he had thought this ironic, though he couldn’t help thinking that those who knew him best-Kannice, Diver, Henry-wouldn’t have seen the irony. They thought him grave, even ill-tempered at times, and they were right. The years had left him far more like Bett and his father than he had been in his youth.

  “It’s an odd color,” Bett finally said, her voice low.

  “I was thinking the same thing before you came in.” He regarded her slyly. “Maybe you have a knack for conjuring.”

  One might have thought from the smoldering look in her eyes that he had accused her of thievery, or worse. “That’s not funny.”

  Susannah would have laughed. So would Mother. But he kept these thoughts to himself. When they were young, their mother had taught all of them to conjure. But while Ethan and Susannah had quickly shown an aptitude for spellmaking, Bett had not. It was one more reason why Ethan and Susannah had been so close to each other and to their mother. As a boy he had thought Bett difficult; only later did it occur to him that she had probably felt left out, lonely.

  “I don’t know what that color means,” he said. “I suppose it could be the color of the spell that killed her, though I’ve never seen conjuring power that looked like this. It’s more likely that her killer is strong enough to mask his or her castings.” He glanced at her. “That’s why I was going to try the second conjuring. It might tell me something more about the spell itself.”

  “You shouldn’t be using witchery in here. Not for any purpose.”

  He gestured toward the body. “Not even to find out who killed this girl?”

  “If God wants us to learn the identity of her killer, He will reveal it to us in His own way.”

  “I was just noticing that my conjuring feels stronger in here than it does anywhere else in Boston. Maybe this is His way.”

  The look she gave him would have kindled damp wood. “You are speaking of witchcraft in a house of God!”

  “Witchcraft?” Ethan repeated, his voice rising. “You know better, Bett! I expect that kind of nonsense from people who know nothing of conjuring, but not from you!”

  “Why not from me? Just because I’m your sister, that doesn’t mean-”

  “Yes, you’re my sister! If you’re going to call me a witch you have to accept that you’re one, too!” His words echoed loudly through the corridor, and belatedly he thought of the two ministers upstairs in the sanctuary.

  “I’ll thank you to keep your voice down,” she said with cold intensity. “You may have forsaken the Lord and His word, but I have not. Neither has Geoffrey, nor our children. This is our church, and I won’t have you desecrating it.”

  Ethan inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to keep his temper in check. “I haven’t desecrated anything. This murder is the true desecration. I merely want to find the person responsible. Is that so terrible?”

  Bett stared at the girl again. “You’ve gotten Mister Pell in some trouble, you know.”

  “Pell had nothing to do with this.”

  “ Mister Pell was asked to keep vigil over this girl,” she said. “Instead, he left her with you. He should have known better.”

  “I sent him away, Bett. I asked him for a cup of wine. That’s why he left me.”

  She pursed her lips, and Ethan held his breath, hoping that Pell had been smart enough to tell a similar tale. Apparently the minister was better at all of this than Ethan had thought, for at last Bett said, with some reluctance, “He told Mister Troutbeck the same thing.”

  “Then perhaps you should believe him,” Ethan told her, masking his relief.

  “Still, he shouldn’t have left her side.”

  “Perhaps,” Ethan said wearily.
“I hope you’ll be kind enough to speak with Tr-with Mister Troutbeck on his behalf. Feel free to blame me. That should come naturally.”

  Her expression soured, but when she spoke again, her tone had softened. “You might also wish to consider the danger to yourself. I felt your spell, Ethan, and so did anyone else who… comes from a family like ours. Even if you don’t respect this church you should be fearful enough for your own life to keep your blade in its sheath and your blood in your veins.”

  “Unless you believe that Mister Caner and Mister Troutbeck are conjurers, I really don’t think I have much to fear on that account. Anyone saying that he felt my spell would be declaring himself a conjurer as well.”

  Bett frowned. Clearly this hadn’t occurred to her. She had spent too many years pretending that she didn’t have spellmaking abilities.

  “Well, then,” she said, drawing herself up. “If you don’t care about yourself, and you won’t respect this church, then I have no choice. I’ll reveal you as a witch myself. I’ll tell Mister Troutbeck exactly what you were attempting to do.”

  “Even if it means that you also will be revealed as… as a witch?”

  “I’ll tell him that our mother was a witch, and that she lured you to her ways. Mister Troutbeck knows that I’m a pious woman. And Geoffrey will vouch for me. He’s as well respected as any man in Boston.”

  Ethan had always thought that Bett’s husband was a prig and an ass. But he was also a fairly well-placed British customs official, and that probably counted for something among those in Bett’s congregation.

  “Fine, Bett.” He sheathed his knife and began to roll down his sleeve. “It’s been a pleasure seeing you as always.”

  She looked disappointed, as if she hadn’t expected him to give up so easily. “You’re sure that a conjuring killed her?”

  He threw his hands wide. “I don’t know how many different ways to say it! Yes, she was murdered with a spell! I don’t know what kind or who cast it, but a conjurer killed her.”

  “And you’ve been hired to find her killer? I didn’t know you did that.” She said it without any trace of malice, which surprised him.

  “Actually, I don’t,” he said, lowering his voice. “I recover stolen property, and that’s what I’m doing here. Something was taken from her, presumably after she was killed. Berson hired me to find it, no doubt hoping that I’ll also find the person who killed her.”

  She said nothing.

  Ethan finished rolling down his sleeve and reached for his waistcoat. “Good-bye, Bett,” he said, starting toward the stairway.

  “Wait.”

  He stopped, sighed. His sister still faced the stone table, her back to him.

  “Was your spell really stronger here?”

  Ethan nodded, then realizing that she wasn’t looking at him, said, “I don’t know. It felt stronger. Would that really be so surprising?”

  She glanced back at him, her expression dark. “Of course it would.”

  “Why? If I could paint like Copley or work silver like Revere, you would tell me that my talent was a gift from God. Why is this any different?”

  Ethan wasn’t sure he had ever seen her more offended. “Don’t you dare claim your… your black art as a gift from the Lord!” she said, her voice trembling. “When you’re alone, or with your witch friends, you can justify your conjuring any way you like! But in this chapel, in my presence, you will say no such thing!”

  Ethan started to respond, but stopped himself. He and his sister had battled on similar terrain too many times before, and too many of their wounds remained raw. “Very well,” he said, turning once more to go. “I’ll leave it to you to explain to Abner Berson why I couldn’t find his daughter’s killer. It’s really not a conversation I wish to have.”

  “That’s unfair,” she said, actually sounding hurt. “You know how I feel about this, Ethan. I haven’t said anything today that I haven’t told you a thousand times before. What did you expect?”

  “I expect nothing, Bett. But however much you hate me-”

  “I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you. I pray for your redemption every night.”

  It would have been rude to laugh. “Thank you for that. What I meant to say is that whatever you might think of me and what I do, you must know that I never seek to do harm with my conjurings. Surely you understand that I never use my spellmaking to kill.”

  “I know.”

  “But whoever murdered Jennifer Berson did just that. Wouldn’t you like to see that person punished?”

  He watched her, hoping in spite of all he knew of her that she would listen to reason this once. But she showed no sign of relenting and at last Ethan crossed to the archway leading back to the stairs.

  “All right,” she said, her voice echoing so loudly that it startled him. Then she said more softly, “Speak your spell. You’ve already desecrated our church. You might as well learn something of value.”

  Ethan didn’t say a word or hesitate, lest he give her an excuse to change her mind. He put down his waistcoat once more and walked back to where she was standing. He eyed her briefly, expecting her to leave. When she didn’t, he pulled out his knife, pushed up his sleeve, and cut himself for a second time. Ethan felt self-conscious with Bett there watching him, no doubt disapproving of everything he did. But he tried to ignore her as he dabbed blood on the girl again in the same pattern.

  “ Revela originem potestatis, ” he said, “ ex cruore evocatam. ” Reveal source of power, conjured from blood.

  Again, the air in the chamber came alive. The ghost appeared beside Ethan, and Bett let out a small gasp. Reg leered at her. Ethan saw Bett shudder and fold her arms over her chest, even as he felt the blood on his arm evaporate and watched it vanish from the dead girl’s face, neck, and chest. The glow surrounding the corpse flickered briefly, like a flame in a sudden breeze, but otherwise the light didn’t change at all.

  They stood utterly still for several moments. At last Ethan frowned and cast a quick look at his sister. He half expected her to gloat at the apparent failure of his spell, but she merely continued to stare at the still form on the slab and rubbed her arms to keep warm.

  “Well, that was damned peculiar,” Ethan said eventually.

  She shot him a disapproving look. But instead of chiding him for his oath she said, “You expected more to happen.”

  “Aye.” Ethan thought about trying the spell a second time, but he didn’t think Bett would stand for it. He also didn’t expect that it would make any difference. The killer had gone to great lengths to mask the nature of his-or her-conjuring, something Ethan hadn’t thought possible.

  This conjurer possessed skills that Ethan couldn’t fathom, much less match. Where had he-she? — come from, and what had brought such a cursed presence to Boston?

  Bett had been watching him, and now she said, “There’s blood on your shirt.”

  Ethan glanced down at the stain. “It’s from last night. And it’s not mine.”

  “You should put on some clean clothes. You look like a ruffian.”

  He laughed. “Do I?”

  “I’m serious, Ethan,” she said, sounding so earnest, the way he remembered from when they were children. She had always been far more concerned than he with social niceties.

  “I’ll change before I see Mister Berson. You have my word.”

  Bett nodded, then turned back to the body. “What will you do?” she asked. “About the girl, I mean. Now that the spell didn’t do what you thought it would.”

  Ethan shrugged. “I’ll find another way to track her killer. That’s what I was hired to do.”

  Her laugh was dry and humorless, just the way he remembered. “You actually sounded like Father when you said that.”

  “He wouldn’t be pleased.”

  Bett dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand and turned to leave. “That’s not true and you know it. Good-bye, Ethan.”

  “Thank you, Bett.”

  She stopped at t
hat and regarded him with obvious surprise. “For what?”

  “For not interfering with the spell, even if it didn’t work.”

  Her brow creased, as if she realized for the first time that she had done exactly that. “I did it for the girl,” she said. She glanced toward the body. “Will that glow go away, or do you need to cast again?”

  He could have claimed that he needed to do one more conjuring. That way he could try the second spell again. But he couldn’t bring himself to lie to her in this place.

  “It’ll fade on its own. She should look normal by nightfall.”

  “Good,” Bett said, and left him there.

  He put away his knife and pulled his sleeve back down. Then he picked up his waistcoat and shrugged it on. He paused at the doorway to look at Jennifer once more. “Grant her rest, Lord,” he whispered.

  Ethan climbed the stairs back to the sanctuary. Troutbeck was nowhere to be seen, but Pell stood by the altar. Ethan raised a hand in farewell and continued to the door.

  The young minister merely watched him leave.

  Ethan thought about making his way directly to the Berson home, as Abner Berson’s man had instructed. But Bett’s remark about the blood on his shirt had reminded him that he ought first to change. He walked down School Street and then on to Water. With each step the stink of the harbor grew stronger.

  Dall’s cooperage, which had been built by Henry’s grandfather, stood on the east side of a lane named, appropriately enough, Cooper’s Alley. It was a modest building, but sturdy, with a small sign out front that read simply “Dall’s Barrels and Crates” and a second sign, on the oak door, that read “Open Entr.” Blue-gray smoke rose from a small, crooked chimney on the roof.

  Shelly and Pitch lay together outside the door. At Ethan’s approach they raised their heads, their tails thumping the cobblestones in unison.

  Ethan stepped over them, pushed the door open, and entered the shop. It was warm within. A fire burned brightly in the stone hearth. Henry sat on a stool by his workbench, his leather apron covering a worn gray shirt, the sleeves of which he had pushed up. The cooper was a small man with a lined, grizzled face, a bald head, and thick, muscular arms. Whenever he worked he furrowed his brow in concentration and opened his mouth in a sort of grimace, revealing a large gap where his two front teeth should have been. That was how he looked now, as he struggled to set the final hoop in place on a large rum barrel. There were fewer distillers in Boston now than there had been as recently as five or ten years ago, but Henry still did a steady business supplying barrels to those that remained.