D. Jackson - Dead Man's reach

He headed south on Sudbury to Queen Street, which he followed toward the city gaol. On most occasions he took pains to keep his distance from Brattle Street and Murray’s Barracks, but on this night there could be no avoiding the soldiers occupying the city. Indeed, Ethan was headed to the very seat of the Crown’s military presence in Massachusetts.

As he came within sight of the gaol, however, he saw a large crowd gathered in the street outside the austere building. Here, at last, was the gathering he had thought to find in the lanes. Many carried torches, and though from this distance he could not make out what the throng was shouting, he could imagine easily enough. He retreated a short distance and found a lonely byway in which he could remove his greatcoat, cut his forearm, and whisper, “ Velamentum ex cruore evocatum. ” Concealment, conjured from blood.

His conjuring hummed in the street, and Reg appeared before him, vivid against the whites and grays of the city in winter. At the same time, the spell settled over Ethan, like a fine cool mist.

“This might be incredibly stupid of me,” he said.

The ghost grinned and vanished.

Once more, Ethan headed toward the gaol, placing his feet with care so as to make as little noise as possible on the lane. Even so, his shoes crunched the ice and snow. Fortunately, by the time he was near enough to other people to be heard, the clamor from the mob was enough to overwhelm the sound of his footsteps.

He slipped through the crowd, avoiding any contact when he could, and when he couldn’t, making it seem that some other person was responsible for the gentle jostle or shove.

“Give ’em to us and we’ll be on our way!” one man called to the young regulars guarding the prison door. Several men laughed.

Cries from others gathered there were less humorous.

“They’re murderers, and should be dealt with as such!”

“Damn lobsters! Protectin’ child killers!”

“Richardson and Wilmot deserve what’s comin’ to them! And so do them what keeps ’em safe!”

With each new imprecation, the mob grew increasingly agitated, until Ethan wondered if he would be able to extricate himself before the gathering became a riot. He could find no path of escape; the throng had closed in on all sides. He could do nothing but continue forward, pushing his way closer and closer to the front of the crowd and the facade of the city gaol.

When at last he slipped free of the mob, with a final shove that left a tall young man glancing about in confusion, Ethan found himself even closer to the gaol’s ancient oaken door than he had expected. From so near, the four regulars posted in front of the gaol appeared younger and more frightened than they had from the rear of the crowd.

He saw no way past the men, nor could he think of any means by which he might enter the gaol through the door without drawing notice.

With slow, deliberate steps, he circled around the building and made his way back to where he knew the prison cells were located. There were several small windows along the wall-each looking in on a cell. But they were too high for Ethan to reach, and even if he could have climbed the brick walls, he couldn’t accomplish much from outside.

Reluctantly, he concluded that he had but one choice. Leaving the prison, he cut across a snowy lea, strode past the church grounds of King’s Chapel, and turned onto Marlborough Street. From there, he continued south to West Street, where lived Sheriff Stephen Greenleaf.

Greenleaf’s spacious stone mansion stood a short distance from the edge of the Common. It was a stately home with extensive gardens that were, during the warmer months, among the most admired in all of Boston. It was, Ethan had decided long ago, a finer home than the good sheriff deserved.

Greenleaf might well have had the most difficult job in the entire Province of Massachusetts Bay. As sheriff of Suffolk County, he was responsible for keeping the peace in Boston. Any and all crimes committed within the city and its environs fell under his jurisdiction. But other than the men of the night watch, most of whom were either incompetent or dishonorable, or both, the sheriff had no men under his command. He was expected to see to the safety of Boston’s citizens, and their personal property, almost entirely on his own. It was no wonder Ethan and Sephira had worked for so many clients over the years.

The near-impossible duties with which the sheriff was tasked should have made Greenleaf a sympathetic figure. As it happened, though, the sheriff’s abrasive manner prevented that. He and Ethan had been at odds practically from the day they met. The sheriff had long been determined to see Ethan hanged as a witch; only Ethan’s discretion, and a few strokes of uncommon good fortune, had kept Greenleaf from following through on his frequent threats. Moreover, when the sheriff wasn’t trying to prove that Ethan consorted with the devil, he was often working with Sephira Pryce to hinder one of Ethan’s inquiries.

Still, on those rare occasions when the sheriff required Ethan’s aid-more often than not to investigate crimes that involved conjurings-he did not hesitate to press Ethan into service. And every now and then, Ethan had no choice but to turn to the sheriff for help, as he did this night.

He walked up the path to the sheriff’s front door and rapped twice with the brass knocker.

Only then did he remember that he was still under a concealment spell. Sparing not a moment, Ethan yanked off his greatcoat, slashed his arm, and whispered in Latin, “ Fini velamentum ex cruore evocatum. ” End concealment, conjured from blood.

The spell pulsed in the ground and Reg issued forth once more. But concealment spells did not take effect or wear off instantly, and when the door opened, revealing the formidable figure of Stephen Greenleaf, Ethan knew that he was only partially visible. The sheriff wore his usual garb-a coat, waistcoat, and breeches-and he bore a candle, which threw his face, with its hook nose and steep forehead, into sharp relief.

He raised the candle higher and peered into the night through narrowed eyes.

“Who’s there?” he said, the words coming out as a low, menacing growl.

“Sheriff Greenleaf, it’s Ethan Kaille.”

“Kaille?” the sheriff said, leaning forward. He had spotted Ethan, but still he squinted. “Is that really you?”

Ethan took a step toward him. “Aye. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour.”

Greenleaf held his candle still higher. “I couldn’t see. It’s like your witchery hovers over you, blending you with the night.”

“I require your aid,” Ethan said.

“My aid? Why should I give my aid to you?”

“I can’t offer you any compelling reason why you should. Helping me will bring you no tangible benefit. But I’m hoping you’ll listen to my request anyway.”

“So you want a favor from me, and while you, no doubt, will profit nicely from whatever it is I’m supposed to do, you offer nothing in return.”

“Actually,” Ethan said, “there’s no profit in this for me, either.”

That, of all things, seemed to give the sheriff pause. “What is this about?” he asked.

“Ebenezer Richardson.”

Greenleaf straightened and lowered the hand holding his candle. “What about him?”

Ethan hesitated, searching for some way to tell the sheriff what he wanted without as much as admitting that he was a conjurer. “I can’t tell you everything-”

“Witchery,” the sheriff said, spitting the word.

“Conjuring.”

“Call it what you will, Kaille. It’s still-” The sheriff stopped, his mouth hanging open. “You admit it?”

“I admit nothing about myself. But yes, I do believe that a conjuring may have played some role in the events that unfolded on Middle Street.”