D. Jackson - Thieftaker

Henry nodded, frowning with disgust.

“Well, he’ll make you another. He’s been smithing for you for ages.”

“I know. But I wanted this one done by today. I have other things t’ do.”

“Well, this should brighten your day.” Ethan pulled from his pocket the pouch given to him by Berson’s man and handed two pounds to the cooper.

“That should pay for my room through the rest of the year.”

Henry stared at the coins as if he had never seen so much money in one spot. “I should say it does. Where’d ya get all this?”

Ethan shook his head. “Not important,” he said. It wasn’t that Henry didn’t approve of thieftaking; in fact, he enjoyed the stories Ethan told about his past jobs. But he grew alarmed whenever he knew too much about what Ethan was working on at any given time. Ethan wasn’t sure how much of his concern was for his shop and the room above it, and how much was for Ethan himself, but he couldn’t deny that the old man fretted after him, as if he were Ethan’s father. Truth be told, the diminutive cooper worried about him far more than Ethan’s father ever had.

“Well, thank you, Ethan. Ya’re welcome in that room for as long as you want it.”

Ethan patted the man’s shoulder. “You’re just saying that because you’ve been paid.”

Henry grinned at him, wide-mouthed and gap-toothed. “Aye,” he said. “In advants, no less.”

The thieftaker laughed as he walked back to the door and pulled it open. “I’ll see you later, Henry.”

The old man was still grinning. But he sounded deadly serious when he said, “Be careful, Ethan. That much money-ya’re bound to attract someone’s eye.”

Ethan glanced back at him. “Aye, thank you, Henry.”

Once outside again, Ethan saw that both dogs were still awake. Pitch was on his feet, his tail raised, his ears pricked. Ethan looked around, but saw nothing. As he started away, he heard the dog growl.

Wary now, he walked around to the back end of Henry’s building, and climbed the wooden stairs to his door. Just as he reached for the door handle, he heard footsteps on the stairs below him. Glancing down, he saw a large man making his way up the stairway. He was dark-haired, young, and when he looked up at Ethan, catching his eye, he leered menacingly. No wonder Pitch had been on edge.

Ethan quickly ducked into the room and locked the door behind him. He had just started to consider what kind of spell he might use on the man when he felt a powerful hand grab his shoulder and spin him around. Ethan found himself face-to-face-or rather, face-to-chest-with another large man, this one yellow-haired with a long, horsey face. Two other pairs of hands grabbed his arms, pulling them wide.

“Get his knife,” a woman’s voice commanded calmly from behind Yellow-hair.

The man in front of him yanked Ethan’s blade from the sheath on his belt. The other two released his arms, but before Ethan could move, Yellow-hair dug a hammerlike fist into his gut, doubling him over and stealing his breath. One of the other men knocked him to the floor with a hard chopping clout high on his cheek.

Before he could clear his vision or remember how to inhale, a pair of hands hoisted him to his feet. Someone pounded him in the gut a second time, and then they set to work on his face. A blow to the jaw, another to the eye, a third to the cheekbone. Ethan felt his knees buckle, felt blood trickling from his mouth and from a burning cut just below his right eye. He was tempted to conjure, but wasn’t sure he could incapacitate more than one man at a time. And before he could think of a spell, a fist to the stomach made him heave, though he managed somehow to keep from throwing up. They straightened him, and Ethan braced himself for another blow.

“Enough.”

One word, but it stopped his attackers cold. It came from Ethan’s bed, as had the demand for his blade. He didn’t have to see Sephira Pryce to recognize her voice, but he would have preferred to look her in the eye.

The hands holding him up released him, and Ethan’s legs gave way. He fully expected to fall to the floor, but someone had placed a chair behind him. He flopped into it.

He heard the door rattle behind him.

“Someone let him in,” the voice said, sounding both bored and amused. “Gordon’s going to be disappointed that he missed all the fun, Ethan. You shouldn’t have locked the door.”

Ethan forced his eyes open, and then concentrated on the face swimming before him.

As it came into focus, he was reminded once again of how dangerous it could be having any dealings with Sephira Pryce. Everything about the woman lent itself to seduction. Her voice was low for a woman’s, and slightly gravelly, so that with every word she sounded like she was purring. Reclining on his bed, her shining black curls cascading over her shoulders, she looked like some lithe, preternaturally intelligent creature from the wilds of North America. Her oval face tapered to a sharp chin, but her other features were soft, womanly. Her cheekbones were high, but her cheeks retained enough roundness to give her a pleasant look-some might even have called it friendly. Her eyes were large and bright blue, the kind of eyes that should have belonged to a child. They could convey innocence, even kindness. God knew they could be alluring, at times brazenly so. But more often than not, they were hard, shrewd, and watchful, as they were now. They were always moving, scanning faces, appraising her surroundings, preparing for a fight even as she purred and charmed her way through another negotiation.

Her nose was lovely, finely upturned and as perfect as it was the day she was born. No one who spent his or her life working Boston’s rougher lanes could avoid scars, and Sephira had plenty: small ones on her cheeks, her brow, her temples, and one long one along her otherwise smooth jaw.

But those whose work found them in the streets of Boston usually had broken their noses at least once. Not Sephira. Actually, this was something she and Ethan shared. At least for the moment. Who knew what this encounter would bring?

She always smelled subtly of lilac and she wore more jewelry than the king’s consort: glittering gemmed earrings, rings of gold and silver on her hands, and bracelets to match. The only concession she made to her profession was in her dress. She wore breeches, a blouse, and a waistcoat, like anyone who worked in the lanes, although her blouse was cut lower than a man’s, and her waistcoat was just a shade tighter. The effect could be distracting for even the most disciplined man. Already this day Ethan had been beaten and kicked, and he couldn’t be certain that Sephira didn’t intend to have him killed in the next moment or two. Yet he couldn’t keep his glance from straying to the gentle swell of her bodice as she reclined before him on the bed.

Noting this, she smiled and sat up. “You’ve missed me,” she said, as if they were old friends.

“No,” Ethan told her. “I can’t say I have.”

She replied with a small pout, stood, and began to pace the room. There was a taut grace to her movements-again Ethan saw something animal in the way she stalked across his floor.

She stood as tall as Ethan, and while she looked at first glance to be as slender as she was fair, the appearance was deceiving. He had seen her fight; once, he had felt the bite of her blade. She was as strong and quick and cunning as any man Ethan had ever battled. But her sex remained her greatest weapon. Her hair, her body, her eyes-she was bewitching. Ethan couldn’t help but watch her as she walked, and, he noticed, neither could the men who worked for her.

And yet, for all her sensual beauty, she seethed with pent-up violence. Sometimes it simmered below the surface. Sometimes it manifested itself in those who traveled with her, like the toughs who had beaten Ethan and still loomed over him, threatening to renew their assault at any moment. On occasion Sephira herself lashed out. Ethan had seen her beat a man senseless in a tavern brawl simply because the poor fool had failed to recognize her and had ordered an ale without waiting for Sephira to be served.