D. Jackson - Thieftaker

Ethan held up the knife. “Anything I want,” he said. “One of your men has been kind enough to give me a blade.”

Her face fell and he saw her spit a curse, though he couldn’t hear what she said.

“You should leave now, Sephira. I can do far more with blood than I can with grass.”

“Maybe. But you can’t bleed yourself forever, and you don’t want to do anything that will draw attention to yourself.”

“I’m standing in a ring of conjured fire. Killing you with a spell won’t draw more attention than that.”

She smiled at him through the blaze. “Then you had better do it quickly.” She glanced right and left. “Now!”

On her word, every one of her men who remained standing rushed the flames and leaped through them, landing within the ring, their knives ready. Nigel grinned at him, as did several of the others.

Ethan pushed up his sleeve and slashed his forearm. “Who wants to die first?” he asked, turning slowly to look at all of them. “You?” he asked the brute. “You, Nigel? I probably can’t kill all of you. But I guarantee you that the first one to take a step toward me will die in more agony than he can imagine.”

None of the toughs moved, and not one of them was grinning anymore.

“ Ignis ex cruore evocatus! ” Fire, conjured from blood!

He said it as quickly as he could, felt power pass through him like a shaft of lightning. The man next to Yellow-hair exploded in flame. Ethan had been aiming for Nigel himself, but he was in motion as he cast the spell, and conjurings weren’t always as precise as he wanted. The burning man staggered, then dropped to the ground, flailing at his clothes and hair. Nigel and a few of the others also beat at the fire with their hands or their coats until at last they extinguished the flames. Several of the men had shied away from the one Ethan attacked, but now they faced Ethan again and started to advance on him. Ethan had already cut himself again and he lifted his bleeding arm for all of them to see.

“Who’s next, eh?” he said. “One step more, and you’ll be burning, too. Or maybe I’ll just snap your necks. I can do that, as well.”

Again the men faltered.

“Get him already!” Sephira shouted from beyond the ring of flame, which had burned down so low that she could have stepped over it. Ethan noticed, however, that she remained exactly where she was.

Looking beyond her, though, Ethan saw something that struck him dumb. He couldn’t decide whether to be terrified or elated. Two men were walking toward him, one slight and in black robes, the other taller, brawny, in a dark suit, his hair topped by a powdered wig. The first man he recognized immediately as Mr. Pell. And the man with the wig was none other than Sheriff Greenleaf.

“Stop where you are!” the sheriff called to them, his voice carrying, even here in open country.

Sephira spun around, as did her men.

“Miss Pryce!” Pell said. “I have to warn you that you’re in grave danger.” He pointed at Ethan. “That man is suspected of being a witch! He is a threat to you, your men, and all who live in Boston.”

Sephira glanced back at Ethan, confusion knitting her brow. “Well… yes,” she finally said, facing the minister again. “I’ve actually wondered about him.”

Pell pointed again. “That fire-did he do that?”

Sephira nodded, her face a mask of innocence. “Yes, he did. He also wounded two of my employees. He attacked them, unprovoked. That’s why my men have him surrounded now. We can deal with this for you, if you like.”

The minister shook his head gravely. “No, I’m afraid that won’t do, Miss Pryce. I was sent by the Reverend Henry Caner, and he was quite precise with his instructions. This is a Church matter. If we determine that this man is, in fact, a witch and that he has been casting foul spells and working his devilry, then he’ll be dealt with.”

Sephira’s expression had soured. Even she couldn’t murder a man with a minister and the sheriff of Suffolk County watching.

She eyed Ethan briefly, then made a small, sharp gesture. Immediately, Nigel and the other men started back toward her. Two of them carried the man Ethan had burned, and when the men reached the one whose bones he had broken, two more stooped to pick him up.

Greenleaf watched Sephira, looking almost embarrassed, and she glared back at him. As she stepped past him, Greenleaf whispered something to her. Ethan couldn’t hear what the man said, but he would have wagered everything he owned that the sheriff had apologized for meddling in her affairs.

Pell, on the other hand, appeared frightened, his face ghostly pale in the firelight. He kept a wary eye on Sephira as she walked past, but then turned back to Ethan. A moment later, he spotted Uncle Reg and his eyes widened slightly. The ghost leered at him.

Sephira looked from the minister to Ethan, perhaps sensing their friendship. Her expression darkened. At last, though, helpless to do anything about the fact that she had been robbed of her prey, she turned once more to follow her men. Then she stopped and turned again to face Ethan.

“I’ll take that blade,” she said to him.

“And I’ll take mine.”

She smirked, held a hand out to Nap. He pulled Ethan’s knife from his pocket and handed it to her. Sephira walked to where Ethan stood, her hips swaying provocatively, no doubt for Pell’s benefit. Stopping in front of him, she lifted Ethan’s blade, staring at him. After a moment, she flipped it over and handed it to him, hilt first. Ethan gave her the blade he had taken.

Sephira slipped the weapon into her pocket and looked into Ethan’s eyes. “You were fortunate tonight,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her breath smelled of wine.

“Being taken by the Church is fortunate? You know less about conjurers than I thought.”

“You’re not fooling me, and neither is your friend the minister.”

“He’s-”

She touched a finger to his lips. “Shhh. You’re my Grail, Ethan. I quest for you. You may have escaped me again, but you’ll be mine eventually. And before I’m through with you you’ll wish you were back laboring in the Indies.” She flashed a radiant smile and turned from him. “He’s yours tonight, Reverend, sir,” she said, walking past Pell without so much as a glance in his direction. “But all you’ve done is delay the inevitable.”

Conjurers in the American colonies and back in England and the rest of Europe had for centuries been persecuted as witches. Hangings and burnings had occurred in just about every country Ethan could name. Women had been executed as witches in Massachusetts within the last century, and to this day ministers throughout the colonies railed against the dangers of witchcraft, claiming that those who conjured were in league with Satan.

It probably didn’t help that in order to conjure, a speller had to bridge the gap between the living world and the domain of the dead, the ethereal realm of spirit and soul. That was why a speller needed a guide in the form of a ghost; it was why Ethan needed Uncle Reg.

Accusations of witchcraft often began within a family or a small circle of friends, and Ethan wondered if those who made the accusations were people like Bett, who themselves had forsworn conjuring, but saw those they loved, or were supposed to love, casting spells and communing with ghosts. Whatever the source of such accusations, he felt certain that even in Boston, even in 1765, a man such as himself, who was known to have conjured-who bore scars that proved as much-lived in constant danger of being accused, tried, and executed.

Ethan trusted Pell as much as a conjurer could ever trust a minister, but he felt little more at ease in the company of Stephen Greenleaf than he had when Sephira’s toughs had him trapped. The sheriff had yet to produce a gun, but Ethan did not doubt that he carried one.