D. Jackson - Thieftaker

Why couldn’t Ethan do something similar?

He closed his eyes and, drawing on the flames once more, summoned another illusion-the first form that came to mind. This one, though, didn’t form in the circle of firelight. Instead, he sent it out in the same direction Darrow had gazed a moment before. As before, he drew on the flame. Videre per mea imagine ex igne evocatum. Sight, through my illusion, conjured from fire. He felt the power. So did Darrow.

“What are you doing, Kaille?” the conjurer asked, sounding alarmed.

Ethan ignored him. Suddenly he was on a road, or it felt like he was. He could see three people approaching, walking quickly.

“Wha’ d’ you mean, wha’s he doin’?” Mackintosh’s voice. “He’s not doin’ anythin’.”

Ethan’s illusion approached the men and Ethan saw with elation that he knew them. Mr. Pell, whom Ethan had sent to keep watch on Darrow; Samuel Adams; and James Otis. Ethan had his illusion stop in front of Pell, who regarded the figure with obvious suspicion.

“Who are-?”

“I haven’t much time,” Ethan made the illusion say.

“Stop it, Kaille!” Darrow warned.

“Ethan Kaille is by that fire, with Ebenezer Mackintosh. They’re in danger; they need your help. Ethan said to tell you that if you really want to be a thieftaker, this is the time to start.”

Pell had been eyeing the illusion doubtfully, but his eyes widened at this last remark. “She’s telling the truth!” he told the others.

“Darrow is a conjurer,” the illusion said. “You’ll need hel-”

“I said stop it!”

The spell with which Darrow fractured Ethan’s knee hurt even more than the one that had shattered his shoulder. He was wrenched off the road and back to the tree and his chains. He collapsed again as far as the shackles would allow, gasping at the agony in his leg and his shoulder. He assumed that his illusion had vanished, and he wondered what Pell, Adams, and Otis would make of what they had seen and heard.

He opened his eyes and found Darrow standing directly in front of him. Rage smoldered in his dark eyes, and Ethan could see that it was all he could do to keep himself from smashing every bone in Ethan’s body.

Despite the throbbing pain in his knee and shoulder, despite the gag in his mouth, he flashed a quick smile Darrow’s way, which only enraged the man more.

“Tell me wha’ he’s doin’!” Mackintosh demanded, still panicked and far beyond his depth. “He’s a speller, you say. An’ he says you are, too. Fine then. Wha’s he doin’?”

“An illusion spell, like before,” Darrow told the cordwainer. “He’s communicating with his friends, trying to bring help.”

“Help?” Mackintosh said, his eyes like those of a scared child. “You mean more witches?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Darrow said. “He’ll be dead before they get here.”

Uncle Reg had been standing utterly still, watching all of this unfold. Now, though, he turned to Ethan, avid, a plea in his eyes. Ethan had never seen the old ghost so eager for a spell.

But what to cast? Blood still oozed slowly from the finger he had ripped open; the blood on his hand was growing sticky as it dried. He would have only one chance at a blood spell. His best hope lay in surprising Darrow, and he could only do that by attempting something he had never done before.

Imago ex igne evocata. Illusion, conjured from fire.

Power pulsed and Darrow pulled the blade from his belt.

But then he saw the figure Ethan had conjured. The same figure Ethan had sent to speak with Pell, Adams, and Otis.

Anna. Or at least Ethan’s best imitation of her.

“Very clever, Kaille,” Darrow said.

“I don’t want to die,” Ethan said through the image of the girl. “And I don’t want to be tortured anymore.”

“I’m sure you don’t. You should have thought of that before you set yourself against me.”

“Is it too late for that partnership you spoke of earlier?”

Ethan barely listened to the man’s response. He concentrated instead on maintaining the illusion spell while at the same time casting again. Ambure ex cruore evocatum! Scald, conjured from blood! It had worked once; Darrow told him as much. Perhaps it would work a second time.

Ethan felt a change in the pulse of his conjuring, and knew that Darrow had, too. He had hoped that by masking the power with his illusion spell, he would catch the man off guard. And since Darrow wouldn’t expect him to have access to blood, the spell should have been strong enough to break through whatever warding Darrow used.

For an instant, he thought that it would work. Darrow stiffened suddenly, and he growled through gritted teeth-he was obviously in agony.

And then he wasn’t. Ethan felt Darrow’s spell, too. It had to have been a warding, cast with nothing more than a thought, fueled by something other than blood. In the span of a single heartbeat, the rictus of pain vanished from Darrow’s face, leaving only an angry glare.

“Scalding again? Not very creative, are you?” He dragged the edge of Ethan’s knife across his hand. “Fine. Here’s an old favorite for you.”

It couldn’t have been any more painful if Darrow had taken a bayonet, plunged it through Ethan’s head, and pinned him thus to the tree. Ethan let out a wail that echoed across the surrounding fields and beat his fists against the tree trunk until he thought the bones in his hands would shatter again.

“Two spells at once,” he heard Darrow say. “You’re learning. A pity that you won’t live long enough to put your new skills to use. Your time is up.”

The agony ended. But immediately, Ethan felt a sudden odd tugging at his chest. It didn’t exactly hurt. But his heart had begun to labor; he couldn’t draw breath. A shadow darkened his sight; the firelight faded. He could barely keep his balance.

And he thought, This is what it’s like to be the source for a killing spell.

Life was draining from his body like blood flowing from an open wound. And Ethan could do nothing to stanch it.

“Wha’ are you doin’ to me?” Mackintosh asked, sounding panicked. Apparently he felt something, too. How ironic. At last, he sensed Darrow’s power, and it was too late for Ethan to do anything to save them.

“Darrow!”

Ethan raised his head, the effort taking every ounce of his ebbing strength. Darrow had turned at the sound of his name. So had Mackintosh. Dimly, Ethan saw Samuel Adams and James Otis standing at the edge of the firelight. Both men held pistols.

The conjurer sighed, sounding more annoyed than alarmed. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“Put down the knife and untie Kaille,” Adams said, stepping forward, his firearm aimed at Darrow’s chest.

Darrow laughed. “This knife? It’s nothing. A trifle.” He tossed it to the ground so that it landed beside the fire. “You believe you’ve tamed me now? You have no idea what you’re dealing with. Go home, Samuel, before you get yourself hurt. And take James with you.”

Ethan could stand again. He felt stronger, more alive. He glanced at Mackintosh only to find that the cordwainer was already watching him. He still looked scared, but there was anger in his gaze as well. Ethan understood. Darrow had tried to use a conjuring on him; Mackintosh had felt it. At last, he had chosen sides in this fight, and like the good street captain he was, he now looked to Ethan for orders.

“What is it you hope to accomplish here, Peter?” Otis asked, his protuberant eyes alight with the glow of the fire. “And what does Kaille have to do with any of this?”

“He’s a witch,” Mackintosh said. “They both are. Bu’ Darrow-he tried t’ work a spell on me.”