“Miss Pryce!” Pell said. “I have to warn you that you’re in grave danger.” He pointed at Ethan. “That man is suspected of being a witch! He is a threat to you, your men, and all who live in Boston.”
Sephira glanced back at Ethan, confusion knitting her brow. “Well… yes,” she finally said, facing the minister again. “I’ve actually wondered about him.”
Pell pointed again. “That fire-did he do that?”
Sephira nodded, her face a mask of innocence. “Yes, he did. He also wounded two of my employees. He attacked them, unprovoked. That’s why my men have him surrounded now. We can deal with this for you, if you like.”
The minister shook his head gravely. “No, I’m afraid that won’t do, Miss Pryce. I was sent by the Reverend Henry Caner, and he was quite precise with his instructions. This is a Church matter. If we determine that this man is, in fact, a witch and that he has been casting foul spells and working his devilry, then he’ll be dealt with.”
Sephira’s expression had soured. Even she couldn’t murder a man with a minister and the sheriff of Suffolk County watching.
She eyed Ethan briefly, then made a small, sharp gesture. Immediately, Nigel and the other men started back toward her. Two of them carried the man Ethan had burned, and when the men reached the one whose bones he had broken, two more stooped to pick him up.
Greenleaf watched Sephira, looking almost embarrassed, and she glared back at him. As she stepped past him, Greenleaf whispered something to her. Ethan couldn’t hear what the man said, but he would have wagered everything he owned that the sheriff had apologized for meddling in her affairs.
Pell, on the other hand, appeared frightened, his face ghostly pale in the firelight. He kept a wary eye on Sephira as she walked past, but then turned back to Ethan. A moment later, he spotted Uncle Reg and his eyes widened slightly. The ghost leered at him.
Sephira looked from the minister to Ethan, perhaps sensing their friendship. Her expression darkened. At last, though, helpless to do anything about the fact that she had been robbed of her prey, she turned once more to follow her men. Then she stopped and turned again to face Ethan.
“I’ll take that blade,” she said to him.
“And I’ll take mine.”
She smirked, held a hand out to Nap. He pulled Ethan’s knife from his pocket and handed it to her. Sephira walked to where Ethan stood, her hips swaying provocatively, no doubt for Pell’s benefit. Stopping in front of him, she lifted Ethan’s blade, staring at him. After a moment, she flipped it over and handed it to him, hilt first. Ethan gave her the blade he had taken.
Sephira slipped the weapon into her pocket and looked into Ethan’s eyes. “You were fortunate tonight,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her breath smelled of wine.
“Being taken by the Church is fortunate? You know less about conjurers than I thought.”
“You’re not fooling me, and neither is your friend the minister.”
“He’s-”
She touched a finger to his lips. “Shhh. You’re my Grail, Ethan. I quest for you. You may have escaped me again, but you’ll be mine eventually. And before I’m through with you you’ll wish you were back laboring in the Indies.” She flashed a radiant smile and turned from him. “He’s yours tonight, Reverend, sir,” she said, walking past Pell without so much as a glance in his direction. “But all you’ve done is delay the inevitable.”
Chapter Fifteen
Conjurers in the American colonies and back in England and the rest of Europe had for centuries been persecuted as witches. Hangings and burnings had occurred in just about every country Ethan could name. Women had been executed as witches in Massachusetts within the last century, and to this day ministers throughout the colonies railed against the dangers of witchcraft, claiming that those who conjured were in league with Satan.
It probably didn’t help that in order to conjure, a speller had to bridge the gap between the living world and the domain of the dead, the ethereal realm of spirit and soul. That was why a speller needed a guide in the form of a ghost; it was why Ethan needed Uncle Reg.
Accusations of witchcraft often began within a family or a small circle of friends, and Ethan wondered if those who made the accusations were people like Bett, who themselves had forsworn conjuring, but saw those they loved, or were supposed to love, casting spells and communing with ghosts. Whatever the source of such accusations, he felt certain that even in Boston, even in 1765, a man such as himself, who was known to have conjured-who bore scars that proved as much-lived in constant danger of being accused, tried, and executed.
Ethan trusted Pell as much as a conjurer could ever trust a minister, but he felt little more at ease in the company of Stephen Greenleaf than he had when Sephira’s toughs had him trapped. The sheriff had yet to produce a gun, but Ethan did not doubt that he carried one.
“Twice in as many days, Mister Kaille,” he said at last. “This time it seems that I’ll be taking you into custody.”
Pell had been standing in the same spot, watching Sephira as she followed her men down the lane. Upon hearing what Greenleaf said, though, he strode over to Ethan. Uncle Reg started to fade as the minister approached, casting one last glance Ethan’s way.
“We’ll be taking him to King’s Chapel, Sheriff,” Pell said.
Ethan could tell that he was trying to sound authoritative, but Greenleaf showed no sign of being impressed.
“I don’t work for you or the Reverend Caner, Mister Pell,” he said. “If Mister Kaille has broken laws in this county, it falls to me to see that he’s punished.”
“I was defending myself against Sephira Pryce and her men,” Ethan said. “They outnumbered me twelve to one! And you’re worried about me breaking the law?”
“Miss Pryce’s reputation is unimpeachable,” Greenleaf said, raising his chin. Ethan noticed that the sheriff had yet to come close to where Ethan stood. “Mister Pell says that you used… witchcraft against them. Is this true?”
“No,” Ethan told him, his eyes meeting the sheriff’s. “I don’t engage in witchcraft.”
This was true in the strictest sense. Conjurers weren’t witches. Like most spellers, Ethan believed that witches were the stuff of legend-an imagined threat dreamt up by overzealous ministers. Conjurers were as real as the flames he had just summoned.
Greenleaf didn’t seem to know what to make of Ethan’s denial, but he continued to keep his distance.
“Are you hurt?” Pell asked. His gaze fell to Ethan’s bloody shoulder. “Is that a knife wound?”
“A bullet wound, actually. What are you doing here?”
Pell glanced quickly at the sheriff and swallowed. “Arresting you, as ordered by the Reverend Henry Caner of King’s Chapel, Boston. We’re to take you back to the church.”
Greenleaf shook his head. “As I’ve already told you, I don’t answer to Mister Caner.”
“We all answer to the Lord, Sheriff,” Pell said. “Or do you deny His authority as well?”
The sheriff opened his mouth, but then snapped it shut again. The sky had dimmed almost to black, but Ethan could see that his cheeks burned red.
“Mister Kaille,” Pell said, turning to face him. “May I have your blade please?”
Ethan hesitated, but only for a brief moment. Even without his blade, there was enough blood on his clothes for a conjuring. He handed the knife to his friend.
“Very good,” Pell said, slipping it into a pocket within his robe. “As long as you cooperate, there’ll be no need for us to use force. At the first sign of resistance, we’ll have no choice but to resort to harsher means of controlling you. Do you understand?”
“Of course.”
“We’ll see to your wounds when we reach the church. Then you’ll be apprised of the charges against you.”
“All right.”
“Lead the way, Sheriff,” Pell said to Greenleaf.
It was cleverly done. The sheriff couldn’t object to being offered the lead, and this way Ethan and Pell could walk together and keep an eye on the man.