D. Jackson - A Plunder of Souls

“You can’t speak of this to anyone,” the guard said, taking a step toward him and lowering his voice. “If folks think the hospital is haunted, they won’t come here, and the epidemic will spread even more quickly.”

“I understand.”

The guard swallowed. “It’s been three nights now since we saw the first of them.”

“How many are there?”

“Six, right now. But we seem to get a new one every evening.”

“What do they look like?”

The guard cringed. “Demons,” he said. “They look like they’ve come back from the grave. They’re rotted, or they’re not much more than bone. Except their eyes, which glow as bright as little suns.” He faltered. “You say you’ve seen others?”

“Several,” Ethan said, silently cursing Ramsey.

“What do they want?” the man asked.

“The shades? They want to go back where they belong.”

Ethan walked around to the rear of the building and across the sloping lawn until he spotted a lone figure standing at a second-floor window, her frame silhouetted against the pale yellow glow of candles.

“Elli?” Ethan said, pitching his voice to carry.

“Ethan,” she answered immediately.

There was candlelight coming from the window just to the left of hers. The window to the right was dark.

“How is he?” Ethan asked, his gaze flicking toward that darkened window. He was thankful Elli couldn’t see him clearly; she would have been furious to know that she didn’t have his undivided attention.

“He’s resting, but he looks…” She shook her head. “The pox started on his chest, but it’s spread to his face now, and I’m afraid-” Her voice cracked. “I’m afraid he’s never going to look the same.”

“The important thing is that he get better.”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right. Of course.”

“You and Clara are well? Has there been any sign of the distemper in either of you?”

“We’re fine. They made us come here because they say we might have been exposed. It could be as long as two weeks before we know for certain. I would have come anyway, but I wanted to leave Clara with the family of one of her friends. The selectmen wouldn’t allow it.”

Ethan wasn’t surprised. “Do you need anything?” he asked.

“No. Thank you. I didn’t mean for you to come. I just thought you should know where we are, in case you decided to come to the house to see the children.”

“Thank you. I would have come sooner if had I known.” He glanced again at the darkened window and thought he saw a faint white glow emanating from the room. But he didn’t actually see a shade. “Are you comfortable?” he asked her, breaking a brief silence.

“Yes, though it’s crowded in here. I don’t understand why they have people in some rooms but not in others.”

He wasn’t sure what to say. “If you discover that you do need something-anything at all-get another message to me. I’ll bring you whatever you want.”

“Thank you. You were very kind to come.”

He smiled. There was a time, just a few years ago, when even this small praise from her would have set his heart afire. Not anymore. “Tell Holin that I expect to see him up and about in short order.”

“Yes, I will. Good night, Ethan.”

“Good night.”

She stepped away from the window, but Ethan lingered on the lawn, watching the window next to hers. Several times he thought he saw that faint silvery glow brighten, and he expected the shade to drift into view. But each time the light dimmed again. At last, Ethan walked around to the front of the hospital and started back toward the city, his eyes drawn to the illuminated steeple of the West Church.

He passed the houses on Cambridge Street, and as he neared Sudbury Street, he heard in the distance the cries of the night watchmen. It was midnight. Rather than returning to the Dowser, Ethan stopped along a lonely stretch of road, drew his knife, and cut himself.

“ Velamentum ex cruore evocatum. ” Concealment, conjured from blood.

He felt the spell, just as he did the others he had cast in recent days. Reg appeared before him, his bright eyes fixed on his face. But that was all. Usually when he cast a concealment spell, he felt the conjuring settle over him like a fine cool mist. Not this time.

“It didn’t work, did it?” Ethan asked.

The old ghost shook his head.

Ethan cast a second time. Again the casting failed. He could hear the pounding of his own heart as he raised his knife to his arm once more. But he hesitated, the blade poised over his raw skin. No doubt Ramsey, along with every other conjurer in the city, had sensed these failed spells. The captain might not be able to discern what kind of conjurings Ethan was attempting; he might not even know that it was Ethan casting the spells. But he would know that the conjurings were the same. And Ethan guessed that he would take satisfaction in this.

Ethan was certain that whatever the captain had done to bring the shades to Boston was also making it harder for other conjurers to cast their spells. He didn’t yet understand the connection, but he would eventually.

“I’m going to try this one last time,” Ethan said to Reg, who still watched him.

The ghost nodded, his expression even more grim than usual.

“ Velamentum ex cruore evocatum. ” This time the pulse of power was followed an instant later by the touch of the spell on his skin.

Reg appeared to exhale.

“Let’s hope I can remove the conjuring later,” Ethan said. “I’d rather not be invisible for the rest of my days.”

The ghost grinned.

They resumed walking and soon came to the Tyler house, a short distance south of the Dowser. Men had gathered there; several of them were already inside. Ethan could see torchlight shining from the windows.

He kept his distance, unwilling to risk exposing himself to the distemper. But he watched as two men carried the corpse out of the house. They had already wrapped her in a tarred sheet, as they did all those who died of smallpox, and now they lowered her into a plain wooden coffin. As another man nailed the lid in place, Ethan heard quiet sobs coming from his left. A white-haired man-Mr. Tyler, Ethan assumed-stood with two young women, watching the proceedings. With them was a minister in black robes and a white cravat.

Four pallbearers lifted the coffin, and with a man walking ahead of them to clear the streets, and Mrs. Tyler’s family following at the rear of the procession, they set out southward along Treamount Street. Ethan walked a short distance behind them, making as little noise as possible, and feeling a bit guilty for intruding upon the private grief of Mr. Tyler and his daughters.

It soon became clear to him that they were headed to the Granary Burying Ground. On instinct, he turned to Reg, who still walked with him, and whispered, “I don’t know who we might encounter in the burying ground. But just in case, Dimitto te. ” I release you.

Reg didn’t look happy, but he faded from view. Ethan followed the procession through the stone gate and to an open gravesite near the center of the burying ground.

The burial itself took but a few minutes. Once the pallbearers had lowered the coffin into the ground, Mr. Tyler and his daughters walked to the edge of the grave. There they were joined by the minister, who spoke in quiet tones as the pallbearers began to shovel dirt onto the coffin.

Ethan had seen enough. He knew where Mrs. Tyler had been buried; he could keep an eye on her grave. He didn’t think that he could stop Ramsey and his men from desecrating it if they chose to, not without getting himself killed. But if they managed to take control of her shade, as they had so many others, he would use Janna’s sachet and spell to enter the Tyler house and speak to her. He didn’t know for certain that she would be able to tell him more than had the other shades he’d encountered, but he hoped that in this case time would be on his side. She had died recently, and he hoped to confront her the night of her return to the house. Perhaps that would make some difference.