D. Jackson - Thieves' Quarry

“ Velamentum ex cruore evocatum. ” Concealment, conjured from blood. With the hum of power, and the sudden appearance of Uncle Reg, came the odd, familiar sensation of the concealment spell-like a sprinkle of cold water washing down over him from head to toe.

He stepped out of the small lane, but paused to look at the old ghost.

“I don’t know who might be watching for me,” he said. “You can’t come along.”

Reg’s expression soured, if that was possible for such a dour figure, and he winked out of sight.

Greenleaf had planted himself outside the Workhouse, daring Ethan to return, just as Ethan had assumed he would. The sheriff swept his gaze back and forth over the street, his arms crossed over his broad chest, a fearsome look on his face. But he stared right through Ethan, as did everyone else on Common Street. Ethan crept past him, taking care to make no noise, and entered the building. Once inside, he returned to the small room where lay Gant’s corpse. Greenleaf hadn’t bothered to put the covering sheet back in place over the body, which made things a bit easier for Ethan.

He cut himself once more, and marked Gant’s body with blood. “ Revela potestatem ex cruore evocatam, ” he whispered. Reveal power, conjured from blood.

Feeling the thrum of his spell, he glanced back toward the doorway, though he knew that Greenleaf wouldn’t have sensed anything. Reg, who had reappeared with the casting of the spell, glared at him from the far side of Gant’s body, but Ethan ignored the ghost and stared down at the corpse.

He had known what he would see, had guessed the instant he heard from Greenleaf that Gant was dead. Still, the sight of that bright orange glow spreading from the center of Gant’s chest over the rest of his body made him wince, as from a physical blow. It was the same color he had seen on the dead sailor aboard the Graystone , and also on Mariz after the attack that left him unconscious. Ethan had been following the wrong person all this time. It had never been Gant.

What else had he gotten wrong? What other assumptions had he embraced without thought, without question?

He considered leaving the spell’s glow on the dead man’s body. He could imagine Greenleaf walking back into the chamber and shrieking like a little girl at the sight. But he didn’t wish to frighten anyone else, nor did he want to give the sheriff any new excuse to pay him another visit.

“ Vela potestatem ex cruore evocatam. ” Conceal power, conjured from blood. Reg looked disappointed.

Ethan exited the Workhouse, and snuck past Greenleaf once more. A part of him-perhaps not the wisest part-wanted to remain on the street and, while still concealed, toy with the sheriff for a while. But his better instincts prevailed. Instead, he made his way to Sephira’s house.

Several times now-during the night, again as he argued with Hutchinson in the Town House, and once more just now as he saw that orange glow on Gant-it had occurred to him that there was one other conjurer in Boston whom he had yet to factor into all that had happened in the past day. If Gant was dead and Osborne alive, where did that leave Mariz, who had seemingly hovered in between life and death the last time Ethan saw him? If death could be feigned, so could unconsciousness. It seemed too convenient that Mariz should be incapacitated all this time.

Afton stood by Sephira’s doorway as Ethan neared the house. Ethan had not yet removed the concealment spell, but he made no attempt to mask the sound of his footsteps. Hearing him approach, Afton stepped away from the door and planted his feet at the top of the small stairway leading up from the stone path. He scanned the street, frowning, cocking an ear toward the path, trying to figure out where Ethan was.

Ethan didn’t give him the chance. Without breaking stride he said, “ Dormite ex gramine evocatum. ” Slumber, conjured from grass. Power flowed through the ground and the stone, and Reg fell in step beside Ethan, ethereal in the silvery light.

Perhaps recognizing the cadence of a spell from the time he had spent with Mariz, Afton threw up a hand to ward himself. A second later he staggered back against one of the grand marble columns outside Sephira’s door. As the spell began to take effect, he slipped down to the ground, his eyes closing, a contented smile touching his lips. By the time he tipped over onto his side, he was slumbering deeply.

Before pushing the door open and entering Sephira’s house, Ethan reached for his knife, rolled up his sleeve, and cut his arm yet again. Yellow-hair and Nap were in the common room, and they leaped to their feet at the same time. Nigel brandished his pistol, Nap his blade. Both of them gaped at the doorway, waiting to see who had come. Seeing no one, Yellow-hair opened his mouth, no doubt to call for Sephira.

The words of Ethan’s spell were on his lips before the big man could get out a word. “ Dormite ambo ex cruore evocatum! ” Slumber, both of them, conjured from blood.

The men swayed, dropped their weapons, and toppled to the floor, Nigel smacking his head on the wood boards with a satisfying thud, Nap-appropriately named-landing on a colorful rug.

“Nigel?” Sephira’s voice.

Ethan dragged the blade over his forearm again. “ Fini velamentum ex cruore evocatum. ” End concealment, conjured from blood.

The reverberation of this spell was still dying away as Ethan strolled into Sephira’s dining room. She sat at her long table before a sumptuous breakfast. Her hair was down, and he could smell her perfume from the opposite end of the table.

Her eyes blazing, Sephira started to rise. But Ethan had cut himself once more, and he shook his head, his blade pointing at the welling blood. “Don’t,” he said.

“Where are Nigel and Nap?” she demanded, her voice higher than usual.

“Sleeping in your common room. I expect Nigel will have a bit of a headache when he wakes.”

She sat back in her chair, glaring at him, no doubt biding her time. “And Afton?”

“Napping outside. Where are Gordon and Mariz?”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “No idea.”

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

The spell thrummed, and the eggs, bacon, and bread on her plate burst into flames.

“I’m not playing games. Where are they?”

“What are you doing here, Ethan? You must know that I would be justified in killing you for this. Not now perhaps, not while you have your knife out and blood on your arm. But eventually. So, what could possibly lead you to do something this stupid?”

“Desperation. Fear of something more dangerous than you.”

Oddly, that seemed to set her at ease. She nodded and reached with a steady hand for the wineglass next to her blazing platter of food.

“Is this going to burn out on its own, or do you have to magick the flames away?”

“It will burn away, just like any other fire.”

“What a shame. It was a fine breakfast. I could have offered you some.” She sat back and regarded him through narrowed eyes. “You don’t look well. The past few days haven’t been kind to you.”

“Where are Gordon and Mariz?” he asked again.

“Gordon is away on an errand. Mariz is upstairs.”

“Take me to him.”

She sipped her wine. Then, “No.”

“Humor me, Sephira,” he said, his knife still poised over his bloodied arm. “Pretend for a moment that I’m not myself, that I’m so exhausted and frightened and frantic I might do something crazy, beyond conjuring my way into your house. Pretend that I’m just foolish enough to shatter every bone in your hand or use my ‘witchery’ to squeeze your heart until it stops beating.”