D. Jackson: A Plunder of Souls

The raiding of the King’s Chapel graves and the mutilation of the corpses struck him as too odd, too sinister, to be nothing more than the work of a thief with odd predilections. And yet Janna raised a legitimate question. With other sources for living spells available, why would a conjurer go to such great lengths to steal bone? Perhaps he hadn’t needed to come to Janna after all.

“You don’t think that these thefts were committed by a sorcerer,” he said.

She shook her head. “I never said that.”

Ethan’s apprehension had begun to abate. Now it returned in a rush.

“I can’t imagine anyone who wasn’t a conjurer stealin’ specific body parts like that,” she said. “But it wasn’t done to sell the bone.”

He reached for his wine, but thought better of drinking it. “There’s more,” he said. He didn’t want to tell her, but Janna was the one person who might help him judge what sort of threat he faced. “I said that the robbers took feet. That’s not quite right. They took part of the left foot on each body. And that part corresponds to the part I lost when I was a prisoner.”

Janna gaped at him and pulled her shawl tighter. “I don’t like the sound of that, Kaille. Not one bit.”

“Also, there was a symbol carved into the chest of each corpse. Do you have something I can use to write?”

Usually Janna would have told him where he could find a quill, ink, and parchment. Not this time. She got up herself, walked behind the bar, and came back seconds later with what he needed.

“This was cut into the men,” he said, drawing the triangle with straight lines within. “And this was cut into the women.” He drew the second symbol. “Do those mean anything to you?”

She shook her head, her jaw muscles tightening.

“Do you have any idea what kind of conjuring the people behind this might have it in mind to do?”

“No. I don’t know for sure that it’s for spells. But I don’t like it. It just seems … wrong.”

Ethan couldn’t argue. He stood.

“My thanks, Janna.”

“For what? I didn’t tell you anythin’.”

His smile was rueful. “No. But you confirmed everything that I was already thinking. There’s something wicked at work here.”

“Yeah,” she said. “And it’s aimed at you.”

“I’d prefer that we keep this conversation between us.”

“All right.”

Ethan crossed to the door.

“Who are you workin’ for?” she asked, as he reached for the door handle.

“King’s Chapel,” Ethan said. “But I’m working for free.”

She nodded her approval. “You use that mullein, all right? It won’t protect you from everythin’ but it’ll keep you safer than just a regular wardin’.”

“I will. Again, thank you.”

He stepped out of the tavern into blinding daylight and oppressive heat. Remembering what the King’s Chapel sexton had said-that King’s Chapel wasn’t the only place where this was happening-he retraced the path he had taken the night before. Rather than following Orange Street back to the South End and Cornhill, he cut up to the unpaved road that ran along the edge of Boston’s Common.

Children played tips on the grass, laughing and shouting taunts at one another. A pair of women walked toward him, each carrying an infant. Swallows and swifts swooped and darted overhead, chattering, and high above them a lone hawk circled lazily in the hazy sky. It felt much like any summer day in Boston, save for the shadow that hung over him.

There weren’t many other conjurers in Boston other than Ethan and Janna, and none of those of whom Ethan was aware would have resorted to robbing graves for spells. Which meant that someone new had come to the city, someone with unholy purpose.

Before long, Ethan arrived at the Common Burying Ground, the newest of Boston’s cemeteries, and also the largest. Although it had been established just thirteen years before, it was already crowded with gravestones. Ethan entered the grounds and walked a short distance before halting and looking around. Unlike the King’s Chapel Burying Ground, this expanse was not affiliated with any church. Ethan wasn’t certain where to begin his search for someone he could ask about any possible desecrations.

He resumed his wandering, and for what seemed like an hour he walked up one row of graves and down the next, seeing no sign of disturbed earth. The burying ground was vast, but eventually Ethan realized he had covered all of it without finding any desecrated graves. He should have been relieved; perhaps the sexton had been mistaken, and these incidents were limited to the King’s Chapel Burying Ground. Try as he might, though, he could not convince himself of this.

His trepidation growing, he left the Common Buying Ground and continued along the edge of the Common to the old Granary Burying Ground, one of the oldest cemeteries in the city; only the grounds at King’s Chapel and at Copp’s Hill, in the North End, were older. Here were buried several men of note, including Peter Faneuil, for whom the marketplace in Cornhill had been named, and Samuel Sewall, the judge who had presided over the witch trials in Salem in 1690, and who had seen the sentence of death carried out for the convicted.

Ethan followed a narrow stone path into the burying ground and once more searched for a caretaker or gravedigger. There was no church in this burying ground either. The granary located in the middle of the expanse was just that: a building constructed long ago that housed the town’s supply of grain.

He began to walk the perimeter of the grounds, the sun beating down on him. A few years before, elms had been planted along the road, but they were too small to offer much shade, and the property was otherwise devoid of trees. Still walking, Ethan removed his waistcoat and draped it over his arm, all the while sweeping his gaze over the graves before him, searching for signs of disturbed earth.

Before long, he found what he sought: a single grave had been dug up much as those at King’s Chapel had been. He faltered in midstep, both relieved that he had managed to find what he sought, and troubled at the thought of more desecrations. Forcing himself into motion once more, he approached the site, but faltered a second time when the stink hit him.

“Damn,” he muttered.

Pledging to himself that he would never again take on an inquiry that required him to look into grave robberies, he closed the remaining distance between himself and the grave. He looked around the grounds again. Seeing no one-and hoping no one could see him-he lowered himself into the grave and examined the damage done to the coffin. As with those at King’s Chapel, the wood appeared to have been shattered with an axe. The burial cloth had been cut open, and the corpse-that of a woman, judging from the clothing-had been beheaded. The right hand was missing as well, and it appeared that a piece of cloth had been torn from her dress.

Steeling himself, he pulled down the front of the dress until he could see the rotting flesh over her breastbone. The symbol he had seen on the dead women at King’s Chapel had been carved into this corpse, too. Finally, he worked her left foot free. Or what was left of it.

“Damn,” he said again.

He covered up the corpse as well as he could, climbed out of the grave, and resumed his search, now walking with greater urgency. He did not immediately find another desecrated site, but he did spot a man working on a grave, a shovel in his hands. Ethan strode toward him, wiping sweat from his face.

“Well met, sir!” he called.

The man glanced up from his work, but said nothing, and soon turned his attention back to the grave at his feet. He looked to be about Ethan’s age. He was short, powerfully built, with small dark eyes and black hair. He wore torn brown breeches and a stained blue linen shirt that was soaked through with sweat.