“I mean,” Ethan said, looking up at him, “what do you want to make this stop? You say you want to kill me. Fine. Tell me where to go, and I’ll go there. We can fight to the death. And if you prevail, so be it.”
“No, Kaille. No. This is better by far than killing you could ever be. You’re weak, desperate, filled with guilt and self-loathing for all that your power has wrought. These past few days have brought me more pleasure than I imagined they would. And I am in no hurry for them to end.” He glanced once more at Grant’s body before facing Ethan once more and smiling. But he didn’t vanish. Not yet. Instead he turned, facing back toward King Street. “Murder!” he cried. “Murder most foul!”
Ethan saw figures gathering at the mouth of the lane, pointing in his direction.
“Until next we meet,” Ramsey said.
The illusion faded much as it had appeared, withdrawing into the inky darkness, and leaving Ethan alone with the corpse of Jonathan Grant.
Chapter Twenty
He remained on his knees for a moment after the conjured figure disappeared. Ramsey was exactly right. He was desperate and filled with self-loathing. In their previous encounter, Ramsey had used spells to burn him, to break his bones, to keep him from drawing breath. Indeed, the spell he had used to choke Grant might well have been one that he used to torture Ethan the previous summer. Yet nothing Ramsey did to him then hurt half as much as what he had made Ethan endure this night. So great was Ethan’s anguish that as he watched the clerk die, he had been ready to give up his life to make it end.
But he would not die by the hangman’s noose.
The crowd at the end of the lane was growing, and a few intrepid souls were edging toward him, perhaps trying to catch a glimpse of his face and to make sense of the scene before them.
Ethan lurched to his feet, driven by cold and fear and the knowledge that he hadn’t the power to undo his own failure, which had cost Grant his life. He dashed out of the lane and across Water Street, keeping his head lowered, hoping that no one abroad at this hour would recognize him by his limp or his clothes or his features.
He needed help, and the last time he had spoken to Sephira Pryce, she had made an uncharacteristically generous offer.
Running as fast as his bad leg would allow, he continued southward until he reached the New South Meeting House, with its soaring spire, which gleamed white in the glow of the moon. The bells in the church still pealed along with those of the city’s other sanctuaries, but here at the southern end of Boston, the tolling drifted across pastureland and fields, incongruously peaceful on such a bloody night.
Ethan turned up Summer Street and soon stood once again at Sephira’s door, breathing hard, his eyes streaming with the cold.
Despite the late hour, Sephira’s windows were alight with candle flame. He knocked, and could not have been more surprised when Sephira herself opened the door.
“Mariz has been expecting you,” she said without preamble, and walked away from the door. Ethan entered the house, closed the door, and followed her into the sitting room.
Sephira had already taken a seat by the hearth. Mariz and her other toughs were arrayed around the room.
“You knew I’d come?” Ethan said to the conjurer.
“Yes. I sensed many spells, and I feared for you. They came from the center of the city, but I could not locate them precisely enough to find you. I thought that, if you survived, you might come here.”
Ethan didn’t know what to say. Here was more kindness than he had thought to find.
“What’s happened, Ethan?” Sephira asked, her tone as gentle as he had ever heard it, at least when directed at him.
He gave a high, choked laugh, and at the same time blinked away fresh tears. “Ramsey is using me … The shootings tonight on King Street-you’ve heard about them?”
She nodded.
“I was there. The spells that caused them to fire…” He broke off. He knew he wasn’t making sense, but he was torn between his need and his fear of confessing too much to this woman who had tormented him so over the years. “A friend of mine was shot. He also used me to start a brawl in a tavern, and the woman I love was stabbed.”
“Is she-?”
“I healed her in time.”
“And your friend?”
“He’ll live as well. But…” Even now, he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud that Diver had lost his arm. “But just now,” he went on, “as I was about to learn something of value from another conjurer, Ramsey appeared as an illusion. This other conjurer is dead. People saw me looming over him. They think I did it.”
“I don’t understand,” Sephira said. “You say he used you. Used you how?”
Ethan looked to Mariz.
“He is casting spells using Kaille’s power,” Mariz said, watching Ethan even as he spoke to Sephira. “I do not know the magick, but it means that Ramsey does not have to be present to cast; wherever Kaille is, Ramsey can conjure.”
“Including here?”
Ethan felt himself go pale. “Aye. I’m sorry, Sephira. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll leave right away.” He headed back to her door.
“Ethan, come back here.” She sounded more annoyed than frightened, like a parent summoning a wayward child.
“It’s not safe for you,” he said, remaining by the door.
“I would think that would make you all the more willing to come closer.”
He had to grin. But he didn’t move.
Seconds later, Sephira joined him in the foyer. “I told you the other day, I’m not afraid of Ramsey.”
“You should be. I’m terrified of him.”
“I’m sorry about your woman. I’m glad she’s all right.”
“Thank you.”
“Come back inside.”
“I came to speak with Mariz. He and I can go outside and talk there. That would be the more prudent thing to do.”
“I find prudence boring. Didn’t you know?”
He smiled again.
“Let me see if I understand,” she said. “Ramsey is using you to hurt others, including the people who mean the most to you. Am I to infer that it was your witchery, wielded by Ramsey, that caused tonight’s shootings?”
“Aye.”
“And now he’s managed to make it seem that you’re a murderer.”
“That’s right.”
“Impressive.”
Ethan looked to the side, his mouth twitching.
“Relax, Ethan. I have no intention of helping Ramsey or of taking advantage of what he’s done to you.” She grinned. “At least not right now.”
“Why not?” he asked, facing her.
“Because he killed Nigel. And because someday I’m going to ruin you myself, and I certainly don’t need his help.”
Ethan couldn’t help but laugh, though his chest ached.
“Mariz,” she called.
The conjurer joined them.
“Ethan wants a word with you. I think he’d be happier discussing these matters outside.”
“Of course, Senhora.” Mariz retreated into another room, only to emerge again, shrugging on a coat.
“You and I will speak again soon,” Sephira said.
“Did you go to Medfield?” Ethan asked.
“Nap and Gordon did. They found the girl and the jewels. The soldier is gone, I think. But you have my thanks.” She flashed a dazzling smile. “It was the easiest four and ten I’ve earned in some time.”
“My pleasure.”
He and Mariz stepped outside onto the portico. Ethan gazed northward toward the lights of Cornhill. Mariz pulled the door shut.
“I have communicated with my mentor as I told you I would,” the conjurer said, coming forward to stand beside Ethan. “He has heard of borrowed spells and even knew of a conjurer who used them against another man. But he could tell me nothing about how to guard one’s power from the use of another. The magicking, he said, was beyond any he had learned.”
Ethan’s disappointment was mild; he had not expected anything more. “Thank you for trying. I’ve never sent an illusion so far to speak with someone. Was it difficult?”
Mariz shrugged. “He is in the city of my youth. I know the place well, which made it easier. But it is Ramsey’s illusion of which I wish to speak. You have spoken to him?”