D. Jackson - Thieftaker

“No,” Ethan said. “You’ll release him now. Or I swear to God, I’ll find you and I’ll tear you apart with my bare hands.”

Anna laughed, a high tinkling sound, like the laughter of any small girl. “Fool,” she said.

He felt the pulse of the conjuring an instant before it slammed into him.

The next thing he knew he was on the ground, writhing so violently that he could feel his head and hands and arms flailing painfully against the cobblestones. He could do nothing to stop himself. It felt as if someone had sliced him open from sternum to gut and poured molten iron into his body. He heard a scream echoing off the buildings around him, realized it was his own. But there was nothing he could do to stop that, either.

She had laughed at his warding, at the mullein, at his empty threat. Now Ethan understood why. He had never before sensed such power; he had never felt so helpless, so utterly betrayed by his own conjuring abilities.

And then it was over. Ethan lay on the stone, panting, rain washing over his face. In that moment he would have done anything the conjurer asked for a simple promise that he would never endure such blazing agony again. He was sure that was exactly what the bastard wanted.

He forced himself up, staggered, but quickly righted himself. His ghost watched him. Normally Reg would have been laughing at his failure, or shaking his head in disappointment. Not this time. The ghost actually looked scared.

“If you think,” Ethan said to Anna, “that I’m going to let you have him just because you managed to hurt me a little, you’re-”

Gods! Weren’t mullein and a warding worth anything? Ethan was on the ground again, his back arched, his teeth clenched so tight he thought they would shatter. Red-hot iron flowed like blood through his limbs, his body, his head. He wanted to scream again, but couldn’t. He wanted to tear his skin open to get the iron out, to let that rainwater cool him. He could imagine it sizzling, turning instantly to vapor. He could-

Breathe. He could breathe, again. He opened his mouth to let in a few drops of rain, coughed, and sat up too quickly. When his head stopped spinning he climbed to his feet once more.

Tegimen, he thought. Ex verbasco evocatum. Warding, conjured from mullein. He used more of the leaves this time, hoping for a more potent casting.

“Another warding won’t help you,” the girl said. “It doesn’t matter how many leaves you use. My power flows too deep for the likes of you.”

More than anything in the world just then, Ethan would have liked to punch this conjurer in the mouth. Obviously he was enormously powerful. But how did he know so much about Ethan’s gift? The conjurer had to be close. The last time Ethan had seen the little girl-far from here at the town gate-the conjurer had barely been able to maintain the illusion. That wasn’t the case tonight. In fact, the conjurer had managed to attack Ethan with one spell while maintaining that image of Anna. Ethan couldn’t have done that; he wouldn’t even have known how to make the attempt.

“Then you’ll have to kill me,” Ethan said, stalling now. “Because I won’t let you have Holin.”

Too often during these encounters with the girl, Ethan allowed himself to think about the conjurer’s power, and how weak he was by comparison. The time had come to consider what he could do, not what he couldn’t. He had tried a finding spell the second time he saw the girl, and it had failed. But why did he need a finding spell at all? Why not let an attack spell find the conjurer for him?

He still had his knife in hand and now he held it up for the girl to see. She gazed back at him, frowning in confusion. As she watched, Ethan fitted the blade back into its sheath, guiding it in with the other hand. But as the knife slid in, he allowed it to cut the skin between his thumb and forefinger.

Discuti! Shatter! The word echoed in his mind as blood began to flow from the wound on his hand. Ex cruore evocatum! Conjured from blood!

Again, Ethan felt the conjuring, and he knew that the conjurer had as well. But he hoped that the conjurer wouldn’t be expecting an attack when Ethan had yet to try a finding spell, and that watching him through Anna’s eyes, the man hadn’t noticed the blood on his hand and so would be expecting a weaker spell.

For once, fortune was on Ethan’s side. He heard a sound-half cry, half snarl. A man’s voice, beyond doubt, colored in equal measure by rage and shock and pain. At the same time, Anna disappeared, as if snatched away by demons. Ethan sprinted to Holin’s side as quickly as his leg would allow.

The boy yet breathed, though only just, his chest rising and falling in a shallow, irregular rhythm. The rain had soaked through his clothes. His skin felt cold and his lips were a pale shade of blue.

Ethan slid his arms under the lad, knowing that Holin wouldn’t survive much longer without a fire, dry clothes, and warm blankets.

“You shouldn’t have done that!” He knew without looking that Anna was back and standing behind him. She didn’t sound like a child anymore. Her voice was taut and harsh; a little girl’s voice blended with that of a grown man.

In the next instant, Ethan pitched forward over Holin, landed hard on his shoulder, and rolled onto his back. The molten iron seared his entire body from the inside, filling every inch of him, to the very tips of his fingers. He opened his mouth to scream, felt himself vomit instead. But still the anguish continued to build until he feared that his mind would melt or explode or simply cease to function.

He won’t stop until I’m dead. Ethan didn’t need Anna to tell him this. He knew it, and for an instant he welcomed the idea. No more life; no more pain.

As soon as he formed this thought, the agony ceased, and again Ethan wondered if this conjurer could read his mind.

“Fine, Kaille.”

Ethan stared up at the illusion. She still looked like a little girl, even if she sounded like some creature from beyond the living world.

“You leave me no choice but to end this matter. You’ll watch the boy die, and then in the morning you’ll go to the sheriff, and you’ll tell him that you’re the one who killed Jennifer Berson, and that little boy last fall, and this one as well. You’ll admit that you’re a conjurer; you’ll tell him you used your ‘witchery’ to commit these murders so that you could cast control spells. I’m sure he’ll piece together the rest.”

“I’ll go to him tonight! I’ll tell him what’s really happened.”

“You won’t remember what’s really happened. By the time I’m done with my spell, you’ll be passed out in the lane. You’ll wake, find yourself next to the boy’s body, and you’ll know, as you do your own name, that you killed him.”

Ethan reached for his blade, but before his hand even found the hilt, the same burning agony poured into his veins again. His body went rigid; his stomach heaved again. He would have clawed out his own eyes to make it stop.

“I can do this all night, Kaille. I can make you suffer in ways you never imagined, and well before my power is exhausted you’ll beg me to kill the boy and cast my spell. Or you can accept that you’ve lost, and be spared that torment. It’s your choice.”

“Yes!” he rasped. “Just stop! Please!”

As soon as Ethan spoke the words, his pain drained away, leaving him spent and limp, his heart laboring. He forced his eyes open, saw the girl standing over him, tiny, luminescent, a fierce grin on her waiflike face.

“Good, Kaille,” she said. “A wise choice, for once.”

Ethan turned away from her, and doing so caught a glimpse of movement on the other side of the lane. Briefly-the span of a heartbeat; no more-he thought that someone had come to help him. But the form was too small, too dark. It took him a moment to recognize Pitch, his dark eyes shining with the distant glow of Anna’s conjured fire.