D. Jackson - A Plunder of Souls

Reg looked at Ethan again and shrugged.

Ethan stood, holding his hands where Flagg’s shade could see them. He opened his mouth to ask one of the many questions running through his mind, but stopped without asking any of them. When he had seen Abigail Rowan he had thought he glimpsed some faint hue in her form. Now, looking at Flagg, he was certain of it. Silvery light suffused the figure, but his face and head were tinged with a color Ethan recognized as Ramsey’s aqua. So was the shade’s right hand.

“Ask him if Ramsey has communicated with him in any way.”

Reg stood motionless for a few seconds, then turned quickly back to Ethan and nodded once more.

His heart began to race, though at the same time his frustration grew. How did he ask a ghost who couldn’t speak to tell him what another mute ghost had said?

“Is he giving them instructions?”

Reg shook his head.

“But Flagg knows that Ramsey is the one holding him here.”

The old ghost nodded.

Ethan looked at the shade again. “I’m trying to help you. You have my word on that.”

Flagg still looked angry, but he gave a reluctant nod, and he was using his cane for support again, rather than as a weapon, which Ethan took as a minor victory. He regarded the shade, marking once more the hint of color in his hand and head. The ghost’s foot, he noticed, had no hue at all. It seemed that had been something Ramsey did entirely to grab Ethan’s attention. And it had worked.

He eyed the ghost again. The head and hand. The foot.

“His chest,” Ethan whispered. To Reg, he said, “Can you ask him to open his coat and shirt. I need to see his chest.”

Reg scowled. Ethan had noticed a year ago, when he had Reg summon the murdered conjurer to his room above Henry’s cooperage, and again in the past couple of days in dealing with the shades roaming Boston, that the old ghost was protective of the dead. Ethan thought he understood, but he also knew that Reg couldn’t refuse him in this matter or any other.

“You know why,” Ethan said. “I wouldn’t ask it otherwise.”

The old warrior’s expression softened and he faced Flagg once more. After a brief pause, the shade released his cane, which remained upright, and unbuttoned his coat, his waistcoat, and finally the shirt.

When at last he pulled the shirt open to expose his chest, Ethan could not help the oath that escaped him.

On the left side of his chest, over his heart, the symbol that had been carved into the skin of every male corpse mutilated in the burying grounds-the triangle with three straight lines cutting through it-blazed like sea-green fire. Here alone, the color of Ramsey’s power was not muted or diminished by the white glow of the shade. Rather it shone so brightly that it cast Ethan’s shadow in stark relief on the wall behind him.

He was more convinced than ever that the shade’s head and hand were what held it here in the mortal world. But he knew intuitively that this symbol controlled the spirit and turned him to Ramsey’s purpose, whatever that might be.

The door to the study opened, and Missus Flagg walked in.

“Mister Kaille I believe-” She halted at the sight of her husband’s shade, and drew a sharp breath. When he turned to her, his glowing chest still exposed, she cried out. “What have you done to him?” she asked in a strangled voice.

“I did nothing,” Ethan said. He stepped out from behind the desk, followed by Reg, whom he assumed the woman could not see.

“This was done to his corpse at the burying ground, and I believe that those who desecrated his grave intend to use that mark as a means of controlling his actions.”

“I don’t understand any of this. How could they control him? What you’re describing sounds like … like witchcraft.”

He didn’t correct her. “Aye, it does,” he said. “You can call it that, if you wish. The powers used by the men who did this are real-you can see that for yourself. This is why they have to be stopped.”

“Is he in pain?”

Ethan cast a quick look Reg’s way. The old ghost shook his head.

“I don’t believe he is, at least not as I think you mean it. But he does not wish to be here. He doesn’t want to scare you or your children. And that, I suppose, is a kind of pain.”

“You said before that there are other shades in Boston right now. Do they all bear that mark? Are they all trapped here, as Bertram is?”

He almost said yes before remembering Patience Walters, who was caught here as the others were, but who looked so different and who glowed with what he now realized was a blend of Ramsey’s aqua and the color of her own powers. Was it just Patience who looked this way, or were there others? And if so, had all of those who looked as Patience did been conjurers in life?

“To be honest, ma’am, I don’t yet understand all that’s happening. I know that there are other shades like this one-that the cadavers mutilated at the burying grounds seem to be manifesting themselves in their old homes, while looking as they do now in their graves. But there are other shades as well.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

The shade had buttoned up his clothing. It seemed odd to think of a ghost as being modest, but Bertram Flagg had retrieved his cane and now stood by the window, gazing out into the night. Ethan had the distinct feeling that he was ashamed to look his young wife in the eye.

“I think I should go,” he said. “Thank you, Missus Flagg.”

“Of course,” she said, eyeing her husband’s shade.

“I can let myself out, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Mister Kaille.”

Ethan started to leave. “He won’t hurt you,” he said, facing her once more. “He can’t, and he wouldn’t want to.”

She looked at him, nodded.

Ethan left the house with Reg beside him, waiting to be released. As Ethan walked, he seethed. Ramsey was playing with forces he couldn’t have understood, and inflicting pain on people who had done nothing to deserve such cruelty.

“Do you have any idea how we can stop him?” Ethan asked.

Reg shook his head. Ethan could see that the ghost’s rage was a match for his own.

“Would killing Ramsey do it?”

Reg faltered, nodded.

Ethan frowned. “It would, but you don’t think I can kill him, do you? He’s gotten too strong.”

The ghost averted his bright gaze. Ethan didn’t need to see him nod to know that it was true.

“Damn.” He took a long breath. “Thank you for your help tonight,” he said to the ghost. “ Dimitto te. ” I release you.

He walked back to the Dowser, knowing that he should have gone to see the other shades that had been driven from their graves, but knowing as well that he couldn’t face them. Not tonight. He wasn’t sure he saw the point in going tomorrow night either. He knew what he would find: lost souls like Abigail Rowan and Bertram Flagg, families too ashamed or frightened to ask for help until it showed up at their door, and more evidence of Ramsey’s power and his own inability to match it.

By the time he reached the Dowser, his legs felt leaden and his shoulders drooped with exhaustion. For a panicked instant, he thought he might be growing ill, but he knew better. He had spent the day walking from one end of the city to the other, and he had little to show for his efforts. He wasn’t sick; he was dispirited. Before entering the tavern, he drew himself up and put on a brave face, lest he scare Kannice.

It was warm and loud in the great room, and even the aromas of chowder and bread couldn’t mask entirely the stink of sweat that clung to the workmen drawn in by Kannice’s cooking. Kannice and Kelf were so busy ladling out chowder that they didn’t notice that Ethan had come in until he stepped to the bar.