D. Jackson - A Plunder of Souls

“I thought so. That being the case, I would urge you to let us conduct our business and be done with it.”

“Of course,” he said, sounding rueful. “Even now, I delay you. Forgive me, Miss Pryce.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Mister Rowan.”

He walked away. Ethan and the others followed Sephira into the warehouse. Nap closed and locked the door and planted himself there. The rest of them approached the piles of rubble. The Rowans, it seemed, specialized in imports of furniture. Ethan saw tables, chairs, bureaus, and desks that had been splintered or burned or both.

“That was well done with Rowan,” he said to Sephira. “Perhaps I can learn a thing or two from you.”

She smirked before turning her attention back to the damaged items. She surveyed the destruction, hands on her hips, a look of disgust on her features. “If it turns out that you did this, I really will have them kill you.”

Ethan said nothing.

“All right,” she said, facing Ethan first and then Mariz. “How do we do this?”

“We’ll need Nigel,” Ethan said.

“Me?” Yellow-hair said. “I’m no conjurer.”

But Mariz was already nodding. “Yes, he is right.”

“What can Nigel do?” Sephira asked.

Ethan grinned. “He can’t do a thing. But I lit his coat on fire with a spell, which means that there is a residue of my power on him. A conjuring will reveal the color of it, which you can compare to the color of the spells used on the furniture.”

Sephira’s gaze shifted to Mariz. “Is that what you were going to say?”

“It is.”

“Fine,” she said. “Do your witchery. Him,” she said for Ethan’s benefit, pointing at Mariz. “If you so much as look at your knife, I’ll give Nigel leave to do with you whatever he wishes.”

Ethan offered no response, but he was thinking about the night before, when Mariz had let him escape after the two of them shared their concerns about failed spells.

Mariz drew his knife and cut his arm.

“What am I supposed to do?” Nigel asked of no one in particular.

“Stand there and look addled,” Ethan said. “Oh, my apologies. You were already doing that.”

Sephira actually laughed. “Cast your spell,” she said to Mariz.

Mariz spoke the spell under his breath, so that Ethan could barely make out the Latin. But there could be no mistaking the thrum of power that echoed in the walls and floor of the warehouse. A ghost appeared at Mariz’s shoulder: a young man who looked much like the conjurer, wearing clothes more appropriate to Renaissance Portugal than contemporary Boston, and glowing with a warm beige color that Ethan recalled from his first encounter with the conjurer a year ago.

None of the others noticed either the rumble of the spell or Mariz’s spectral guide. They were all staring at Nigel, whose coat was now covered with a glow of its own. It was a rich russet, the color of a full moon balanced on the horizon; the color of Uncle Reg.

“That’s Ethan’s magick?” Sephira asked.

“Aye,” Ethan said. “It is.”

“I have seen his fantasma ,” Mariz said. “His spirit. It is the same color.”

“Yes, very well.” She waved a hand at Rowan’s broken furniture. “Get on with it.”

“What about me?” Nigel said, as the rest of them approached the piles of debris. “How do you make this go away?”

Sephira ignored him, so Ethan did the same. It warmed his heart to think that for just a short while Yellow-hair believed the glow of Ethan’s power would remain on him forever.

Mariz had cut himself again, and now he cast a second revela potestatem spell. Ethan felt this conjuring as well. He caught Mariz’s eye and nodded. For right now at least, the conjurings were working as they were supposed to.

Ethan heard a small intake of breath from Sephira and knew that the spells had convinced her of his innocence. He turned to look at her, feeling just a bit smug. But when he saw the glow that clung to the broken furniture, all thoughts of gloating fled his mind, to be replaced by a cold foreboding.

“Are you sure you did that correctly?” he heard Sephira ask.

“Yes, Senhora . These items were destroyed by a different conjurer.”

A boot scraped; Sephira turning to look at him. “I suppose that means I don’t get to kill you today,” she said.

But Ethan couldn’t bring himself to speak. He stared at the broken table legs, the split chair backs, the charred remains of chests and desks, and he couldn’t even bring himself to blink. That color-deep aqua, like the ocean on a calm summer morning-he had seen it before, and its presence here made his heart labor.

“Do you know who that color belongs to?” Sephira’s voice.

“No, Senhora . I do not.”

“I do,” Ethan said. He turned at last to face Sephira and Mariz. “This is far, far worse than I thought.”

“Worse for whom?” Sephira asked.

Ethan glanced at Mariz again. He desperately wanted to speak with the conjurer alone, away from Sephira and her toughs. But that conversation would have to wait.

“For all of us,” he said. “That color belongs to a man named Nate Ramsey.”

She shook her head, unmoved. “That means nothing to me.”

“It will,” Ethan said. “I encountered Ramsey nigh unto six years ago. His father was captain of the merchant ship Muirenn , just as Nate is now. And he was also a conjurer, as is the son. Captain Ramsey the elder had dealings with a pair of merchants-Isaac Keller and Deron Forrs.”

“Keller and Forrs?” Sephira said. “They’re both long dead.”

“Aye. I’m telling you how they died.”

Her cheeks might have paled. She nodded for him to continue.

“Keller and Forrs knew that the older Ramsey was, as they put it, a witch. And they used that knowledge to cow the man into doing their bidding. He smuggled on their behalf, running molasses up from Martinique, and they paid him barely enough to cover his expenses. When he informed them of his intention to end the arrangement, they threatened to have both him and his son hanged as witches.”

“What does this-?”

“Patience, Sephira. In the end, the old man saw only one way to escape them. He had lost his wife years ago, and his son was old enough to take care of himself and captain the family’s vessel. So Captain Ramsey hanged himself from the main yard of the Muirenn .

“The son took command of the ship, and refused to do business with Keller and Forrs. Instead, he vowed revenge. He swore that the merchants would suffer for what they had done to his father.”

He gazed at the aqua glow again. Six years later, the memory of his failure still tasted bitter. “The merchants came to me,” he said. “Actually, Sheriff Greenleaf brought them to me. He has long suspected that I’m a conjurer, though he hasn’t been able to prove it. But in this case, rather than wanting to see me hanged for a witch, he thought to make some coin off of my ‘dark talents.’ He introduced us, and Keller and Forrs hired me to protect them from Ramsey.

“Of course, they told me their side of the conflict and nothing more: The father was mad, they said; he had accused them without cause of stealing money from them, and now the son was making threats. I went to speak with Ramsey, and it was from him that I heard what the merchants had done to his father. But by then, of course, I was working for Keller and Forrs. And the rest you know.”

“He killed them,” Sephira said.

“Aye. I saw him kill Keller. He and I battled and I managed to hurt him, but he was relentless, bent on revenge. He would gladly have traded his life for theirs; in the end there was nothing I could do to stop him. He had burns on his face and hands. He had a broken leg thanks to a spell I cast. And still he got away from me and killed Forrs, too.”