D. Jackson - A Plunder of Souls

Ethan cut himself. “ Fini velamentum ex cruore evocatum. ” End concealment, conjured from blood.

Mariz glanced at Uncle Reg when he appeared, and he kept his knife over his arm, but he didn’t cut himself.

Ethan held his blade ready as well. “What is this about, Mariz? What are you doing?”

“We need to speak, you and I.”

“About what?”

“Let us begin with the spells you have cast this evening. You responded to my finding spell with three conjurings. I would hazard a guess that the first was a warding, and the last was the concealment spell you just removed. But what was the middle one?”

“What does it matter?” Ethan asked.

“It matters a great deal, and you know it.”

Ethan said nothing.

“All right,” Mariz said. “Let me tell you about a spell I cast earlier today. It was to be what my father used to call an unlocking spell.”

“Does Sephira have you gutting houses now, Mariz?”

The other man flashed a quick smile. “That is not important.” His expression turned grim. “What does matter is that the first time I tried the spell, it failed. I felt my conjuring as I always do. My guide appeared, and indicated when I asked that I had performed the spell correctly. But it did not work.” He paused, eyeing Ethan. “Just as I believe your first attempt at a concealment spell failed a short time ago.”

“Had this happened to you before today?” Ethan asked, an admission in the question.

“Not since I was first learning to conjure.”

“It was the same for me, although I will admit that this may have been the second time today one of my spells failed. I didn’t realize it until now.”

“Do you know why this is happening?”

Ethan started to say that he didn’t but stopped himself. “Before I answer, let me ask you a question. Have you and Sephira been robbing graves?”

“Graves!” Mariz repeated, his voice rising. “Never, Kaille! I would not do such a thing, and I do not believe Miss Pryce would either.”

He didn’t share Mariz’s confidence in Sephira’s scruples, but this, too, he thought it best to keep to himself. “Forgive me for asking,” he said. “There have been a series of grave desecrations in the city over the past several days. And I know of at least two families being haunted by shades.”

“Shades?”

“Ghosts.”

Mariz frowned. “And you believe that this has something to do with our conjurings?”

“I do. I have no proof, but I trust my instincts, and that’s what they’re telling me.”

“Mariz!”

They both turned to look back at the mouth of the alley.

“That is Nigel. You should go, Kaille.”

“Sephira won’t be happy with you.”

“Sephira will not know, will she?” He grinned and so did Ethan.

“We’ll speak of this again.”

“Yes,” Mariz said, “we will.”

Ethan eased toward the far end of the byway. “Sorry for knocking you over the other night.”

“We will speak of that again, as well.”

Ethan smiled and slipped out of the alley. He knew better than to think that Mariz would have let him go had he not been concerned about the failure of his spell earlier that day, just as he knew not to expect such kindness when next they met. But he had to admit that he liked the man.

More, he was deeply alarmed by their conversation. He had to resist an urge to start visiting the names on Pell’s list this very night-propriety be damned. He knew, though, that angering the families of the dead would do him no good.

He cast another concealment spell and, accompanied by Uncle Reg, walked with speed and stealth to Cooper’s Alley, only to find that Nap and Gordon had planted themselves in front of Henry’s cooperage.

He thought about putting them to sleep with a spell, and getting past them that way. But such a conjuring would not last long, and he didn’t want them trying to break into his room as he slept, or worse, breaking into Henry’s room and threatening the cooper.

After a few seconds’ consideration, an idea came to him, one that promised not only an escape, but also some amusement. Interested in a bit of sport? he asked within his mind.

Reg nodded, eager as a hunting dog.

What he intended could have been done with an elemental spell, but Ethan wanted to make it convincing. He pulled up a tuft of grass growing beside the road.

“ Imago ex gramine evocata, ” he said under his breath. Illusion, conjured from grass.

His spell worked on the first attempt. The image of himself that appeared between him and Reg looked quite convincing. This second Ethan was dressed in the same clothes, and even had the faint, yellowed remnants of a bruise on his jaw, from where Nigel had hit him two nights before.

Ethan, still concealed by his previous conjuring, scraped the sole of his boot on the cobbled street and made a small sound, like a gasp of surprise.

Nap and Gordon spun around.

“There he is!” Nap said.

Ethan sent his illusion running back up Cooper’s Alley toward Water Street. The two toughs followed, passing so close to Ethan that he could feel the brush of air on his skin.

Because he had used grass rather than air, or the thin mist hanging in the air over the city, he could maintain the illusion for some time and at a considerable distance. That insubstantial Ethan would lead them all the way back to Cornhill before he vanished. Sephira’s men would be searching the streets for hours.

He smiled at Reg. “My thanks. Good night.”

The ghost faded from view, still staring after the toughs, still pleased. Ethan made his way up to his room, making little noise, and eschewing the use of candles. He locked and warded his door, removed the concealment spell, undressed, and climbed into his bed. He was asleep in moments.

Despite being exhausted, he slept poorly, driven from his slumber again and again by odd, elusive dreams. Most of them slid by without leaving any impression, but one was more vivid than the rest.

He was back in the street, walking through the same narrow alley in which he had hidden from Nigel and the others. There was little light, but he soon realized that there were corpses strewn throughout the byway. All of them were naked, headless, handless, marked on the chest with the odd symbols he had seen in the burying grounds. All of them were missing three toes from their left feet. He should have stopped to examine them, but he was stalking someone, or something. At first he thought it must be Sephira, but eventually he saw her, leaning against one of the walls, looking as beautiful and alluring as ever.

“It’s that way,” she said to him, nodding in the direction he was already walking.

He had his knife out, and she glanced down at it before looking him in the eye again. “He has one of those, too.”

He said nothing to her, but kept moving. By now the alley had stretched into a long, narrow road that he didn’t recognize. At the far end, he thought he saw a flame, inconstant and dim. The color wasn’t right-it wasn’t a normal fire-but it struck him as familiar somehow. He couldn’t say why. He looked back and saw that Sephira was following him, a pistol in her hand. He started to ask what she was doing there, but even as he opened his mouth to speak the flame in front of them flared with such brilliance Ethan had to shield his eyes. Someone screamed. Ethan felt the heat from the fire slam into him like a fist. He turned, saw that Sephira was gone. He wanted to run, but before he could take a step, he felt a hand close around the ankle of his bad leg, vise-strong. He drew breath to cry out.

And woke to an emphatic knock on his door.

He was sweating, breathing hard. His bed linens were tangled around the ankle of his bad leg. Morning light streamed through his window. He extricated his foot with a mirthless laugh and rolled out of bed.