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.”
She considered him for another few seconds, drained her cup, and stood. “This way,” she said.
He followed her into the common room. She paused, looking down at her men and giving a small shake of her head. Stepping over them, she walked to the broad, curving stairway they had used the other day, when he and her men brought Mariz back to her house from New Boston. Reaching the top of the stairs she led him down the same corridor, and into that same small bedchamber.
Mariz lay in the bed; as far as Ethan could tell, he hadn’t moved at all since the last time he had been there. His color was better, but in all other ways he was unchanged.
“He still hasn’t woken,” Ethan said in a whisper.
“No. The doctor seems confident that he will, but he doesn’t know when. It could be any day now.”
Blood continued to flow from the fresh cut on Ethan’s arm, but he barely noticed. He sat in a chair near the bed and stared at Mariz.
“Perhaps you should leave now, Ethan. Like the fire on my food, your sleeping spells won’t last forever, and when Nigel and the others wake, they’re not going to be very happy with you.”
“Tell me about Gant and Osborne,” he said.
She laughed. “I’ve told you before-”
“Please,” he said, turning to look up at her.
The first quirk of her mouth he recognized-the beginning of her usual mocking smile. But she didn’t answer him right away, and when at last she did it was with a question rather than another refusal.
“Who’s after you?”
“Thomas Hutchinson,” Ethan said. “He’s threatened to put to death every conjurer in the city if I can’t give him the information he wants by tomorrow morning.”
She blinked. “You’re serious.”
“Yes. I don’t expect you to tell me everything. I know better, and I won’t believe half of what you do tell me.” He held up his bloodied forearm again. “But I need answers, and I’m not feeling particularly patient.”
Sephira stood unmoving; once more, as the last time he had spoken with her, he could almost see her weighing the risks and rewards of helping him. At last, though, she gave a small shake of her head and a breathless laugh. “You’re mad,” she muttered. “There’ll be a price for this. You understand that, don’t you? I can strike at you any time I want, and I don’t have to come near you to do it. You have friends, and I know who they are.”
He didn’t say a word, although the Latin for several painful spells leaped to mind.
“Fine,” she said. “Have your fun. Gant and Osborne worked together for years. They were with me for a time, as inseparable as Nigel and Nap. But they both claimed to be conjurers. As you know, I’m not an expert in such things, but it seemed to me that Osborne was the more talented of the two. I’m sure he was the more clever.”
“At some point they turned on you?” Ethan asked.
“That was Gant’s idea, or so I’m told. They secreted away a few items for themselves. Small things at first-worth a few pounds; no more. But with time they grew more ambitious.”
“And that’s when they stole the pearls?”
He knew from Sephira’s tight smile that whatever impulse led to her candor had passed.
“I won’t discuss that with you,” she said.
“I understand. Tell me this, though: Did you or your men kill Simon Gant?”