D. Jackson: A Plunder of Souls

“And what about the pistols I pinched?” Salter asked.

“Those have been forfeit from the moment I learned your name.”

The pup’s mouth twisted sourly. “So, you’re a thieftaker, too?”

“Aye.”

Salter narrowed his eyes. “Where did you come from, Kaille? Tonight, I mean. I didn’t see you before; not until I came to.”

Ethan glanced toward the spot where Salter had been digging. “What are the pistols in?” he asked. “A box?”

Salter continued to stare at him. “I’ve heard of your kind,” he said, his voice hushed. “You’re a witch, aren’t you? That’s how you crept up on me, and how you managed to knock me down without getting yourself shot.”

Conjurers didn’t think of themselves as witches. Witchcraft was the stuff of myth and nightmare, a term used by those who possessed no spellmaking abilities to explain powers they didn’t understand. Conjuring, on the other hand, was real. Nevertheless, the better part of a century after the tragic executions of twenty men and women in nearby Salem, so-called witches were still put to death in the Province of Massachusetts Bay. Ethan had hoped to finish this encounter without having to admit to Salter that he was a conjurer-a speller, as his kind were known in the streets of Boston.

“What are the pistols in, Peter?” he asked, hoping to change the subject. He should have known that wouldn’t work.

“I’d wager Miss Pryce would be interested to know that about you. It might be worth some money…” He trailed off, his newfound confidence wilting at the sound of Ethan’s laughter.

“She knows, lad. How do you think I’ve survived as her rival all these years? How do you think you’re going to survive the night?” He paused, allowing the words to sink in. “Now, the pistols?”

Salter didn’t respond at first, and Ethan had to bite down on his tongue to keep from hurrying him. A year ago he wouldn’t have feared a confrontation with Sephira. Yes, she was deadly, not to mention brilliant and beautiful. But he was far from defenseless. He could cut his arm to draw blood for conjurings, or he could use the grass growing around them to fuel spell after spell. Sephira’s men were as dangerous with their fists as they were with blades and pistols, but Ethan’s spellmaking was more than a match for them.

In the past year, however, Sephira had added a conjurer to her retinue of toughs. The man, a Portuguese spellmaker named Gaspar Mariz, had claimed Ethan as a friend after Ethan saved his life. But he still worked for Sephira, and Ethan had no doubt that he would follow any orders she gave him. With a conjurer in Sephira’s employ, Ethan’s one advantage over the Empress of the South End was gone.

Ethan heard voices coming from the direction of Orange Street. He gazed into the darkness for a second before facing Salter again. “Now, Peter. The pistols.”

“They’re in a sack,” the thief finally said. “Burlap.”

Ethan nodded. “Good. Quickly then, here’s what we have to do.”

He explained his plan, making every effort to be succinct.

For several moments after he had finished, Salter gaped at him. “That might be the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard,” the lad said.

“Aye, but it will work.”

“All right,” Salter said. “Let me up and I’ll retrieve the pistols.”

Ethan read a different intent in the pup’s eyes and tone of voice.

“You do that, lad. And remember as you dig that with my … my witchery, I can turn you into a human torch with no more than a thought.”

Salter licked his lips and nodded, the defiance Ethan had seen in his eyes vanishing as quickly as it had come.

Ethan removed his knife from the lad’s throat and watched, wary and alert, as Salter resumed his digging and retrieved the burlap sack.

Sooner than Ethan would have thought possible, Sephira and her men emerged from the gloaming. She led them, and notwithstanding the dim light, Ethan could see that she looked as lovely as ever. Black curls cascaded down her back and framed a face that was as flawless as it was deceitful. She wore her usual attire: black breeches, a white silk shirt opened at the neck, and a waistcoat that hugged her curves like a zealous lover. Behind her strode Nigel, yellow-haired with a long, horselike face; Nap, dark-eyed, lithe, watchful; Gordon, hulking, ginger-haired, and homely; and Afton, as huge and ugly as Gordon. Mariz brought up the rear, appearing tiny beside the others, a knife poised over his bared forearm should he need to cut himself for a conjuring.

Nigel and Nap held pistols and kept them aimed at Ethan.

“Whatever you’re doing, stop it,” Sephira said, a note of command in her throaty voice.

Salter darted a nervous gaze Ethan’s way.

Sephira halted a few paces short of the hole Salter had managed to dig. “So good to see you again, Ethan.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

She pouted. “I would have thought you were expecting me. You know how I feel about you working for men as wealthy as Ellis.”

“Aye, and you know how little I care.”

Her expression hardened and she turned to Salter. “I take it this is our thief?”

The pup said nothing.

“Peter Salter,” Ethan said. “He was just digging up the pistols for me.”

Sephira’s smile was dazzling. “I think you mean to say he was digging them up for me.”

Ethan glared at her. “Ellis hired me, Sephira. That may nettle, but it’s the truth.”

“Yes, and you know as well as I how little that truth is worth. When I return the pistols to him, he won’t care who he hired. He’ll pay me the balance of your fee-no doubt less than my services would have commanded, but I’m sure a substantial amount nevertheless-and he won’t give you a second thought.” She reached out her hand toward Salter and nodded toward the mud-stained sack he held. “Give me that.”

Salter looked at Ethan again.

Ethan grabbed the sack from him. “These are mine to give to Ellis. And that payment will be mine as well.”

“I don’t think so,” Sephira said, her tone glacial. “Nigel.”

Nigel and Nap turned their weapons on Salter. The thief stumbled back a step.

“Give me the pistols, Ethan, or he dies.”

Ethan drew his knife once more. Mariz shook his head, his own blade still hovering over his arm.

“Do not try it, Kaille,” the conjurer said, the words thick with his accent.

Sephira smiled again. “You see, Ethan? Even your witchery isn’t enough to save you anymore.” Her expression turned stony. “My patience has limits. Give them to me.”

Reluctantly, Ethan stepped forward and handed her the sack, her cool hand brushing his.

“Very good,” she purred.

“There’s enough grass around us for me to kill every one of you, Sephira,” Ethan said, his voice tight. “You’ve got what you wanted. Now leave.”

“Salter-”

Ethan shook his head. “You’re not to touch him.”

“Ellis won’t be happy.”

“I don’t give a damn.”

She smirked. “You’re too tenderhearted for your own good. You know that, don’t you?”

“Just go,” he said.

She continued to eye him, and Ethan wondered if she would make an attempt on the pup’s life, or on Ethan’s. But at last she nodded once to her men, and started to lead them away.

“My thanks, Ethan,” she said, holding up the burlap sack, but not bothering to look back at him. “It’s always a pleasure to do business with you.”

Ethan didn’t deign to answer. He and Salter watched as she and the toughs receded into the darkness. Only when they were beyond hearing did Ethan say, “That was well done, lad.”

“What do we do now?” Salter asked. “Before long, she’ll look in that sack and realize what you’ve done.”