“He won’t listen to you, Kaille,” said Ramsey’s illusion. “And he won’t stop unless I tell him to.” The figure grinned. “And I won’t.”
Ethan didn’t wish to hurt his friend, but it seemed he had no other choice. He cut himself and cast a fire spell, knowing that the conjuring would slow Mariz down without penetrating his wardings. Or assuming as much. As his conjuring drummed in the earth, a second spell made the ground tremble as well. And when the fire spell hit Sephira’s man it not only knocked him over, it also engulfed his coat in flames. Ramsey had used Ethan’s power to remove Mariz’s warding.
Ethan swore and ran to his friend, pulling off his own coat so that he might smother the blaze. Mariz flailed at him with his fists and feet, more intent on fighting Ethan than on saving his own life. But Ethan used his coat to subdue the man and extinguish the fire. And then he hit Mariz again and again until the conjurer lost consciousness.
He heard a sharp sound and looking up realized that Ramsey’s illusion was applauding, that same mocking grin on the lean face.
“Well done, Kaille. I had hoped you would have to do more damage, but it was entertaining nevertheless. And next time I’ll turn a more worthy opponent against you.” He looked back northward. Following the line of the figure’s gaze, Ethan saw in the distance many men approaching, several of them carrying torches. “My crew,” Ramsey said, facing Ethan once more. “You might want to be on your way.”
Breathing hard, the burns on his hands throbbing, Ethan swung his coat back on, though it was still smoking. He lifted Mariz, grunting with the effort, his battered ribs aching, and slung the man over his shoulder.
“I can make you kill him right now,” Ramsey said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Aye, I know it. What do you expect me to do, Ramsey? Surrender?”
“No, Kaille! I know you won’t. That is what makes this so delicious. You won’t surrender. I can count on that. But I think killing him sounds like a fine idea. You don’t really want to carry him anyway, do you?” Ramsey’s image laughed.
“Kaille!”
They both turned at the sound of the voice. Stephen Greenleaf stood a short distance off, a flintlock pistol in his hand. But that hand had dropped to his side and his eyes were fixed on the glowing figure, his mouth hanging open.
Ethan saw the sheriff’s lips move and knew that he said the captain’s name. But he heard nothing.
Ramsey’s illusion laughed again and glanced Ethan’s way. “I suppose your friend has just been given a reprieve. I assure you, it’s only temporary.”
An instant later he winked out of sight.
Ethan exhaled. Ramsey’s men were approaching and he didn’t wish to be here when they arrived. But with the sheriff now hurrying toward him, he couldn’t flee. Not yet.
“That was Ramsey!” Greenleaf said. “Or at least a ghost of him.”
“Aye,” Ethan said, shifting his grip on Mariz. “It was a vision Ramsey conjured to speak with me.”
“So, he’s alive!”
“I told you as much earlier this evening.”
“I remember. I didn’t believe you.”
“Of course not.”
The sheriff looked down at Ramsey’s man, who still lay in the snow, the blood on his leg appearing black in the moonlight. “Who’s this?”
“One of Ramsey’s crew.”
“What happened to him?”
“I tortured him.” Greenleaf’s gaze snapped to Ethan’s face, but Ethan didn’t pause. “In an attempt to learn where Ramsey is hiding.”
“You shot him.”
“Aye.”
“That’s what drew me here. I heard the gunshot.” He lifted his chin toward Mariz, who was still slung over Ethan’s shoulder. “And who’s that?”
“Sephira’s man. Mariz. I beat him senseless after Ramsey used a spell to make him attack me.”
The sheriff blinked. “Busy night.”
“You could say that.”
“Did you also murder a man on Leveret’s Lane?”
“Jonathan Grant,” Ethan said. “I was there when he died, but it was Ramsey who committed the murder, again with a spell.” He glanced once more toward the approaching men. They were close now. He could hear their voices so clearly they could have been speaking to him.
“It didn’t look like a spell,” Greenleaf said. “It looked like someone slashed his throat. You carry a knife, don’t you, Kaille?”
“It was a spell, Sheriff. Ramsey’s spell.”
“Damn you witches! I don’t care what you call it: conjuring, witchery, black magick. It’s the devil’s work. I should hang the lot of you.” He narrowed his eyes. “How do I know you’re not lying to me? How do I know you didn’t conjure that image of Ramsey to fool me?”
“You don’t. Can we be moving, Sheriff? Those are Ramsey’s men, and they’re not going to be happy with me after what I’ve done to their friend.”
Without waiting for an answer, Ethan started away. His back and shoulders already ached, and he had a long walk ahead of him.
“Tell me about Grant,” Greenleaf said, falling in step beside him.
Ethan explained to the sheriff what he could, taking great pains to avoid saying anything that Greenleaf could point to as evidence of his conjuring abilities. The resulting narrative served only to deepen the sheriff’s frustration.
“I understand little of this,” he said, “and I believe even less. I should throw you in the gaol and hang you come the morn.”
Ethan was too weary to argue. “Perhaps you should. And then you can fight Ramsey on your own.”
“I’m not sure Ramsey-”
Ethan halted, swaying under Mariz’s weight. “Ramsey is here, in Boston. He is responsible for murders and bloodshed. You can believe that or not, but it’s the truth. I intend to kill him when I find him, and then you’ll know that I wasn’t lying to you. But for now either help me carry this man the rest of the way to Summer Street, or leave me in peace.”
Greenleaf regarded him for several seconds, his lips pressed in a flat line. “Kill him then. I want to see the body. If you can do that, I’ll not trouble you about Grant. But if you can’t, you’ll swing for his murder. I guarantee it.” He started to say more, but then seemed to think better of it. In the end, he merely turned and stalked back toward the center of the city.
Ethan watched him go, adjusted his hold on Mariz, and marshaled his strength for what remained of his walk to Summer Street.
The first faint glow of dawn had touched the eastern sky over the harbor when Ethan again rapped on Sephira’s door. He had longer to wait this time, and when the door opened Ethan found himself face-to-face with an African servant he had never before seen. The man was as tall and brawny as Afton and Gordon, but he wore a suit rather than the clothes of a street tough.
“I have Mariz,” he said, barely getting the words out. He was breathless. His legs shook with the effort of remaining upright. “My name is Kaille.”
The man bent low to peer up at Mariz’s face. He seemed to recognize him, because he motioned Ethan into the house and shut the door.
“I’ll wake Miss Pryce,” the man said. He pointed toward the sitting room. “You may set him on the daybed.”
Ethan carried Mariz to the sitting room, lowered him onto the daybed, and collapsed to the floor. There he sat, with his back cushioned against the sofa as he tried to catch his breath. When he could muster the strength, he pulled off his coat, slipped his knife from his belt, and cut himself. With his first spell, he lit several candles in the room. When he could see well enough, he cut himself a second time, dabbed some blood on the burns that covered Mariz’s neck and jaw, and cast a healing spell.
He still held his hands over the burns when Sephira entered the room, her eyes bleary with sleep, her hair in tangles. It was, he realized, the first time he had seen her look anything less than perfect. And still she was lovely.
“What happened to him?” she asked, her voice more of a rasp than its usual purr.
“A fire spell,” Ethan said. “He has burns on his neck and face.”