D. Jackson - Thieftaker

Ethan had been in battle, and had seen such wounds before. He nodded for the man to go on.

“I examined the wound when he was brought to us,” Pell said. “It was terrible. The boy’s skin had been ripped, as if he was mauled by a feral dog, and I could see that the blood vessels in his arm had been torn. Now, I saw my father do surgeries. I know what happens when a vessel in one of the limbs is broken that way. There should have been blood everywhere. Forgive me for being crude, but it would have gushed from that wound as long as his heart continued to labor. The boy should have bled his life away before his other injuries killed him. But there was hardly any blood on his clothing, and when I asked the men who brought him to us, they said that there was little more on the street. The poor child had to have been dead before the bone shattered.”

Ethan pondered this for several moments. He couldn’t deny that every fracture of this sort he had seen bled profusely. “Have you mentioned this other incident to anyone else?” he finally asked.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t say that. I’m merely asking if you’ve spoken of the boy’s death in the past day or two.”

“No. I didn’t make the connection until I watched you examine the Berson girl. That’s when I started thinking about the boy, and how strange his death had been.”

“Why didn’t you say something while we were in the crypt?”

Pell shrugged, his brow creasing. Suddenly, he looked terribly young. “I wasn’t sure my memory of the boy’s death was reliable, and… and I feared you would think me foolish for mentioning it. But tonight, as I was readying myself for bed and I was supposed to be praying, I couldn’t get the two of them out of my head. That’s when I decided to find you.”

“Where do you live, Mister Pell?”

“Mister Caner has been kind enough to let me a room in his home. For a most reasonable fee,” he added.

“Did anyone see you leave his house?”

That brought a smile to the minister’s face. “No. Back in my youth, before I was sent to study for the ministry, I was something of a rascal. I became quite adept at slipping from my home and back in again without my parents’ knowledge.” His eyes danced. “Until, of course, I got caught and wound up reading for Orders.”

Ethan decided in that moment that he liked Pell. “And is it this same penchant for mischief that makes you want to learn a spell you’re forbidden to use, a spell that could get you banished from the Church, and possibly even burned as a witch?”

The minister blushed and grew pale at the same time, so that the only points of color on his face were bright red spots high on each cheek. “I’m no fool, Mister Kaille. I wouldn’t get myself banished or burned or hanged. And I’ve been thinking that I’ve spent too long denying this part of my ancestry.”

“I can appreciate that. But I’m not willing to risk your life by teaching you spells. And if by some chance my sister were to learn that I had so much as mentioned such things to you, she would have my head.” Ethan paused, looking at the minister. “Then again, if you hope to return to the Chapel without anyone knowing that you left, you had best let me heal that bruise on your jaw.”

Pell probed it gingerly with his fingers, frowning again. “I could say that I fell.”

“Yes, you could,” Ethan said, keeping his expression neutral.

“You don’t think that would fool anyone.”

Ethan couldn’t hide his amusement any longer. “No, I don’t.”

Pell’s frown deepened, and for several moments he sat, seeming to wrestle with his conscience. “All right then,” Pell finally said. “Go ahead.”

Ethan reached for his knife, cut his forearm, and gently dabbed a bit of his blood on the minister’s jaw. “ Remedium ex cruore evocatum. ” Healing, conjured from blood.

Ethan felt that familiar pulse of power, and Pell shuddered as if from a sudden chill. Reg blinked into view at Ethan’s side. His sudden appearance drew a quick intake of breath from the minister.

“What is that?” Pell asked, recoiling.

“I’m not sure there’s time to explain right now. He’s basically a ghost.”

Reg scowled.

“All right. He’s a guide who helps me draw on the power I need for conjurings. Better?” he asked the ghost.

The glowing old man nodded.

“Does he appear every time you conjure?”

“Aye,” Ethan said. “Without him the spell wouldn’t work.”

Pell watched the ghost warily. “I don’t think he likes me.”

“I’d be surprised if he did,” Ethan told him. “He doesn’t even like me.”

The minister raised a hand to his jaw again. Already the swelling was going down.

“The air around me, it… it buzzed, when you cast the spell. Does it always feel like that?”

“It does to you, because the blood of a conjurer flows in your veins. Others who have no history of spellmaking in their families wouldn’t feel a thing. Except for the healing, that is.”

The minister touched the bruise again, more boldly this time. The discoloration had faded. By the time Pell was back at Caner’s house, there would be no sign that Ethan had hit him.

“Why don’t you heal your own wounds?” Pell asked. “Surely you could do for yourself what you’ve done for me.”

“I could,” Ethan said. “Other than me, no one saw your bruise. But after I was beaten, I was found by the cooper whose shop is below. He lets this room to me. He’s a decent man and a friend, but he doesn’t know I’m a conjurer. I’m not sure how he would feel about me living here if he did.”

“Of course,” Pell said. “I should have known.”

Ethan shrugged. “You don’t live the life of a speller. There’s no reason you should have to think as I do.” After a moment, he looked up and found the minister watching him. “Go back home, Mister Pell, before you’re missed.”

Pell stood. “All right.” He stepped to the door. “You’ll let me know what you find out about these killings?”

“Of course. Thank you for telling me all of this. And my apologies for assaulting you.”

Pell smiled and pulled the door open. “It wasn’t too bad. To be honest this night’s been more of an adventure than I’ve had in some time. I rather enjoyed it.”

He stepped out of the room and quietly pulled the door shut behind him. Ethan could hear the man descending the stairs, but only just. It seemed Pell remembered much from his mischief-making days.

It had grown late and Ethan’s appetite had long since vanished in a haze of fatigue and pain. He locked his door, and then as an afterthought, propped a chair against it, jamming the back of the chair firmly against the base of the doorknob: a little extra protection in case Sephira and her men tried to pay him another visit.

He undressed and fell into bed, and he was asleep within moments of closing his eyes.

Immediately upon awaking, Ethan knew that he had slept far longer than he intended. The daylight streaming into his room through the one window was far too bright, and he could hear Henry in the shop below hammering away at the stays of some new barrel.

He sat up quickly-too quickly. The pain in his head, his neck, his sides and back actually ripped a gasp from his lips. He sat still for a long time, allowing the agony to drain away while he cursed Sephira Pryce with a vehemence that would have shocked Mr. Pell. When at last he could move again, he did so with great care.

Once he was dressed and had managed to pull on his boots, Ethan left the room for a nearby grocer, intending to buy some food, tea, and molasses for his long-neglected larder-on credit, of course, since Sephira and her men had taken all of his coin. As if sensing his purpose, Pitch and Shelly met him at the bottom of the steps and fell in alongside him as he walked.