T he sheriff and his men were silent as they led him through the lanes. None of the men so much as looked at him, at least not that Ethan could see. They also didn’t shackle his wrists or ankles; he had feared that they might.
He tried to stay calm. He had done nothing wrong. Even if they put him in a prison cell, they couldn’t hold him for long. That’s what he told himself.
But still his limbs trembled, and he had broken out in a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the hot August sun hanging over the city.
The last time men working for the British government had come for him, they had locked him away for more than thirteen years, first in a filthy cell in Charleston, then on a barely seaworthy ship bound for London and in a second filthy cell, and finally on the sugar plantation in Barbados. Just thinking of the island made the scars on his back itch with the memory of too many floggings. He had lived in a hovel with other prisoners: cutthroats, thieves, deserters. He labored in the cane fields from dawn to dusk, under a scorching sun and in air so damp he felt that he was drowning with every breath. At night, he slept on a vermin-infested pile of straw and covered himself with a threadbare, moth-eaten blanket.
He was allowed two meals each day: water, hardtack, and a morsel of cheese at midday, and much the same in the evening, with the occasional bit of rancid meat thrown in. Their one delicacy was a small piece of sweet, red fruit they were given every second or third day to keep scurvy at bay. The fruit was usually half rotted, but it was so much better than everything else they ate that it tasted ambrosial.
But even with this treat, Ethan recalled constantly being hungry. When it became more than he could bear, he ate roaches, beetles, and moths. Once he caught and killed a rat behind the hovel and ate it raw, but it made him violently ill and he never tried that again. He prayed for rainy days, not because they offered a respite from the labor-they didn’t-but because working in the rain was so much less onerous than working under the sun.
Harvests were the worst: backbreaking work, endless days. One year, a stray blow from an old man wielding a cane knife left a bloody gash on Ethan’s left foot. At this time, he had forsworn conjuring the way a reformed drunk rejects spirits. Spells, he decided, had robbed him of his reason, and thus of his freedom and his love. But even had he still been casting, he would not have dared attempt to heal himself while living in such close proximity with his guards and fellow prisoners. Within two days, the wound was infected. Within four, Ethan’s entire leg from the knee down was bloated and hot to the touch. The overseers managed to save the leg, but they had to cut off three of his toes to do it.
Memories of the plantation pounded at him. Ethan didn’t know why Greenleaf had come for him, but he decided in that moment that he would die before he allowed himself to be transported again.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” he muttered to himself, trying once more to calm his nerves.
One man of the watch walking beside him laughed. Ethan glowered, but the man just stared back at him, obviously enjoying himself, knowing all too well that Ethan could do nothing to wipe the grin from his face.
The people they passed in the streets eyed Ethan with unconcealed curiosity. A few shouted at him, and though he couldn’t make out all they said, he gathered they thought him part of the mob that attacked Hutchinson’s home. Hearing their remarks, Ethan wondered if the sheriff thought this as well.
Leading him from the Dowsing Rod to the Boston prison, the men had to march him down Queen Street, past the ruined home of William Story. Story’s yard had been cleaned up since the day before, and there were fewer gawkers now. Still, as they walked by, the sheriff’s men eyed him keenly. Ethan refused to look directly at any of them.
Boston’s prison stood opposite Story’s home, where Brattle Street intersected Queen. It was an odd spot for a prison, set in the midst of some of the nicer houses in Boston and within hailing distance of the First Church. The prison itself was a simple building, notable only for its ancient, ponderous oak door and the heavily rusted iron hardware that held it in place. Its windows were small, the stonework plain and homely. It was no more or less inviting than any other gaol. Yet, as they approached it, Ethan couldn’t help but quail. Too many memories; too many years lost.
Then they were past that massive door and the shadow of the building itself, still walking eastward on Queen Street. Relief washed over him, followed immediately by a new kind of fear. If they didn’t intend to place him in the prison, what was this about?
“Where are you taking me?” Ethan asked.
Greenleaf glanced back at him, amused. “I was wondering when you would ask.” He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the prison. “You assumed we were taking you there. A guilty conscience, perhaps?”
Ethan ignored the gibe. “Where are we going?”
“The Town House,” the man said, facing forward again.
Ethan couldn’t have been more surprised if the man had said that he was being taken to the governor’s mansion.
“Why?” he asked.
The sheriff didn’t answer, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.
The people of Boston referred to the brick building on King Street as the Second Town House. The first structure built on the site had burned to the ground at the beginning of the century. The Town House that stood before Ethan now had also burned, back in the 1740s. The brick exterior survived, but everything within its walls was gutted and had to be rebuilt yet again.
Ethan had been in the Town House countless times before. As a thieftaker he was often interested in the proceedings that took place in the courtrooms at the west end of the second floor.
That was where Greenleaf and his men led Ethan now. They entered the building, crossed the great hall to the nearer of two broad stone stairways, and began to make their way up to the second floor. As they climbed the stairs, Ethan thought he saw a shock of bright yellow hair that reminded him strongly of Sephira’s tough. But when he paused on the stairs and tried to get a better look, the man vanished from view.
“Come along, Mister Kaille,” the sheriff said.
Ethan searched for another few seconds, but he didn’t see the man again. He would have liked to go back down and find him. If Sephira’s henchman was here, Ethan wanted to know why. But the men of the watch stood with him, and Greenleaf was waiting. Ethan followed him up to the second floor.
They turned at the top of the stairway and walked to a pair of polished wooden doors: the entrance to the chambers of the Superior Court. The sheriff halted.
“Wait here,” he said.
He opened one of the doors and slipped inside.
For several moments, Ethan and the rest of his escort stood together in the broad corridor, saying nothing. Outside the representatives’ chamber, in the middle of the second floor, men in wigs and suits spoke in groups of three and four, their voices echoing and blending into an incoherent din. None of them took much notice of Ethan and the men with him.
At last, the door to the court opened again and the sheriff peered out into the corridor.
“The chief justice will see you now,” Greenleaf said.
Ethan didn’t move. “The chief justice?”
“He asked to speak with you.”
“What about?”
“Just get in here. He isn’t a man to be kept waiting.” He motioned Ethan into the chamber.
Taking a long, steadying breath, Ethan entered.
The chamber was empty save for the sheriff and a man who sat behind the grand, dark wood court’s bench at the far end of the chamber. Seeing the man, Ethan understood at last, and he chided himself for not reasoning it out sooner. The chief justice of the province also happened to be the lieutenant governor. Thomas Hutchinson.
Ethan walked to the bench and stopped in front of Hutchinson. The man regarded him appraisingly for a moment.
“That’s all, Sheriff,” Hutchinson said. “Thank you.”
Greenleaf let himself out of the chamber, closing the door behind him.
Hutchinson faced Ethan once more, and for what felt like several minutes, as their eyes remained locked, they were like foes in a card game, each taking the measure of the other. Hutchinson was a tall man and he sat forward in his chair, his shoulders thrust back slightly, which gave him a barrel-chested look despite his slender build. He had large, dark eyes, a high forehead, and a long, prominent nose. The curls of his powdered wig framed his face. His clothes were simple, but immaculate: a black suit with a white shirt and cravat. His eyes were bloodshot and there were dark rings under them. He looked to Ethan like he hadn’t slept in days.
“I hope you weren’t inconvenienced much by my summons,” Hutchinson finally said. He didn’t ask Ethan to sit, so Ethan remained as he was and answered.
“No, Your Honor.”
“I understand there was an incident.”
“Sir?”
“At the tavern, where they found you. A man was injured. A friend of yours.”
Ethan didn’t know what to say. Had the sheriff told Hutchinson about the attack on Diver? And if so, how had he explained what happened?
“Well?” the lieutenant governor said, sounding impatient.
“There was, Your Honor. One of the sheriff’s men… my friend thought that he meant to hurt me, and he-”
“The man shoved you from behind,” Hutchinson said, his tone brusque.
“That’s right.”
The lieutenant governor nodded once. “The sheriff will speak with him.” He cleared his throat. “I take it you’ve heard of what was done to my home two nights ago.”
Hutchinson was a strange sort. On the one hand, his manner was haughty-abrasively so. And yet he had just shown Ethan, and Diver as well, more consideration than Ethan would have expected from a man of his station, particularly one whose home had recently been wrecked by the very people he was expected to govern.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Ethan said. “I walked by there yesterday. I’m sorry for how you and your family have suffered.”
The corners of Hutchinson’s mouth quirked upward into a fleeting, bitter smile. “Seeing it from the street, you would have no idea of how we’ve suffered. The damage to the exterior was nothing compared to what those devils did to the inside. They demolished every wall and every door in the house, leaving it nothing more than a shell. They left not a single piece of furniture whole. They stole my wife’s jewels, took every bit of clothing any of us owned, took every book in my library. They shattered or stole our plates and glasses, they walked off with our food and drink. They stole nine hundred pounds, and pieces of silver that had belonged to my father, and his father before him.”
The litany came easily to the man; Ethan had the feeling that he had recited it many times in the last two days.
“They left me nothing,” Hutchinson went on. “And had I remained, rather than fleeing my own home like a thief in the night, I would have lost far more. As it is, I fear to show my face in the streets. I will be leaving Boston for our home in Milton in another day or so, and I’ll be taking my wife and children. I fear for their safety even more than I do for my own.”
“Again, Your Honor, you have my deepest sympathy,” Ethan said. “No one should be treated so. But if you believe that I-”
“I don’t,” Hutchinson broke in. “You’ve been hired by Abner Berson. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir,” Ethan said, narrowing his eyes. Why would the lieutenant governor of Massachusetts take an interest in his business dealings? And what else did Hutchinson know about him?
“You wonder how I heard of this.”
“I assume you have it from Mister Berson himself, or from a mutual acquaintance,” Ethan said. “What I wonder is why the inquiries of a common thieftaker should draw the notice of a man of your importance.”
Hutchinson frowned, which served to give his face a fearsome aspect. “If you need to ask, Mister Kaille, I must recommend to Berson that he reconsider the faith he’s placed in you. Isn’t it obvious? The same villains who abused my family and me with such violence are responsible for the death of Berson’s daughter.”
“You know this as fact, Your Honor?”
“I know it from what I’ve seen, from what was done to me. This mob was whipped to a frenzy, not just that night, but over the course of weeks. It was bad enough what was done to Oliver’s properties. But then to compound it like this.” He had been speaking very quickly and he paused now, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed at his upper lip with a shaking hand. “They were exhorted to these acts of barbarism by James Otis and Peter Darrow and Samuel Adams, and every other carnival barker who claims to be a champion of… of liberty.” He said the word as if it were an imprecation. “And then they were directed through the streets by that cutthroat, Ebenezer Mackintosh.” He dabbed again at his lip, folded the handkerchief, and stuffed it back in his pocket. “If you want to find Jennifer Berson’s killer, I would suggest you start with him.”
“With Mackintosh, sir?”
“He is being held down the street at the gaol. At least for the moment. Already his brethren are agitating for his release, as if he had been arrested merely for being drunk. They revere him so. What is it the rabble call him? The Commander of the South End, or some such nonsense? And Captain Mackintosh. As if such a man could be captain of anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hutchinson regarded him briefly, suspicion in his gaze. “Do you know Mackintosh, Mister Kaille?”
“Only by reputation.”
“And what reputation would that be?”
“Merely that he has a following among those who march on Pope’s Day, and that whatever his faults, he’s respected by the men in the street.”
“I see.” Hutchinson considered Ethan for several seconds. “Perhaps I should have asked this earlier. Are you one of these so-called Sons of Liberty?”
“I’m a son of the British Empire, Your Honor. I sailed in the Mediterranean under Admiral Matthews and would have fought the French in Canada if I’d had the opportunity.”
Hutchinson looked impressed. “You sailed with Matthews?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Who was your captain?”
“Thomas Cooper, sir.”
Hutchinson’s eyebrows went up. “You were on the Stirling Castle? At Toulon?”
“Yes, sir.”
The lieutenant governor actually smiled. “Well, then perhaps it is I who should reconsider my first impression. You must understand; a man hears things, and it’s not always easy to know what to make of them.”
“I do understand, sir. I’m sure much of what you’ve heard about me is true.”
Hutchinson’s smile faded slowly. “I see. Well, Mister Kaille, I merely wished to tell you what I knew about the events of two nights past. The mob that attacked my home showed utter disregard for both our personal well-being and our property. I have it from Abner Berson himself that his daughter was not only murdered, she was also robbed. The similarity between these incidents is obvious to me, and I would hope it is to you, as well.”
“I understand, Your Honor.” He tried to keep his voice level, but apparently he failed.
“What is it you think you understand?” Hutchinson demanded.
“Merely what you told me, sir.”
The man continued to stare at him. “No. You think I wish to fix the blame for Jennifer Berson’s murder on those who destroyed my home.”
“You did just tell me that they were guilty of both crimes.”
“Because they are! This isn’t a matter of vengeance! It’s simple logic!”
“Yes, Your Honor. And if my own logic leads me to the same conclusion, I assure you I won’t rest until these men are punished.”
“I think I see,” Hutchinson said. “Perhaps you would like me to hire you, too. For a fee, you can find my silver and my money. Is that it?”
Ethan bristled at the insinuation, but he kept his voice even as he said, “No, sir. I only work for a single client at any one time. If you need to hire a thieftaker, you’ll have to go to Sephira Pryce.”
Apparently the lieutenant governor hadn’t expected him to respond as he did. The man regarded Ethan for another moment. “Very well, Mister Kaille. You may go.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ethan strode toward the door.
“I’ll be interested to hear how your inquiry progresses.”
Ethan didn’t face Hutchinson again, but he did pause at the door. “Yes, sir,” he said, and let himself out of the chamber.
Greenleaf and the men of the watch were there in the corridor. The sheriff nodded to him, and one of his men, perhaps the one who had shoved Ethan, glowered, but none of them tried to keep Ethan from leaving. They even returned his knife.
He exited the building, and started back toward his home, still seething at what Hutchinson had implied. He hadn’t gone far, though, when he spotted that same shock of yellow hair that he had seen in the Town House. He ducked behind a carriage that was rattling by, and, crouching low, jogged along beside it, keeping himself hidden until he could see this man more clearly.
A well-dressed gentleman sitting in the carriage leaned out over the door and stared hard at Ethan. Ethan ignored him, keeping to the side of the vehicle until at last he reached a narrow alley between a tavern and a storefront. He ducked into the shadows, and then, once the carriage had passed, peered back toward where he had seen that blond hair.
It was still midafternoon and the streets were crowded. The lanes stank of horse piss and flies buzzed around piles of droppings. It took Ethan a moment to spot the man again, but as soon as he did, he recognized him. Yellow-hair. Sephira’s tough. The bruises on Ethan’s face and body throbbed with remembered pain.
Another carriage rumbled down the street, harnesses creaking, the dry clop of unshod hooves echoing off nearby buidlings, and as it rolled past Ethan stepped out of the alley and walked with it, again taking care to keep the carriage between himself and Yellow-hair. If he could keep out of sight long enough to reach Leverett’s Lane, he could cut back to Water Street and make it home without being seen. That was the plan, anyway.
He hadn’t gone far, however, when he caught sight of another familiar face. Thick features, a ruddy complexion, widely spaced eyes and a wide mouth. Gordon. Another of Sephira’s men. And this time Ethan had no chance to hide. The man spotted him, a broad grin splitting his face to reveal crooked, yellow teeth.
Ethan halted, glanced back over his shoulder, and saw Yellow-hair walking his way, though the man hadn’t seen him yet. Gordon whistled sharply, no doubt to point out Ethan to his friend. Ethan didn’t wait to see what Yellow-hair did.
His route home was blocked, so he went north instead, dashing up a small lane-he thought it was called Pierce’s Alley-toward Faneuil Hall. He could hear footsteps behind him, and so knew that both men were after him. He assumed that Sephira’s other henchmen were close by.
It didn’t take long for his bad leg to start aching, but he couldn’t allow his limp to slow him down. Emerging from the shadows of the alley into the afternoon sun, still at a full run, Ethan chose to cut through Dock Square toward the Dowser.
Before he had gotten far, however, he spotted two more of Sephira’s men. One of them, another brute, stood at the southwest end of the square, blocking his access to Cornhill Street and Hillier’s Lane. The fourth man-Ethan remembered once hearing Sephira call him Nap-stood opposite this other, guarding the corner of Union Street. Nap was muscular and tall and Ethan had no doubt that he was a competent fighter-better than Gordon and the brute, probably. But he was the smallest of Sephira’s crew, and, like the other man, he hadn’t yet caught sight of Ethan.
That wouldn’t be true for long.
He ran hard toward Nap, sweat soaking his face, his limp worsening. Another shrill whistle cut across the normal street noise of the square. Gordon, no doubt. Nap whirled at the sound, searching for its source. A moment later, he looked directly at Ethan, recognition making his eyes widen. He reached frantically for his blade, but by then Ethan was bearing down on him.
Lowering his shoulder, Ethan rammed into the man, hitting him full in the chest. Nap and Ethan were about the same size, but Nap hadn’t managed to brace himself. He flew off his feet and crashed into a group of ladies wearing fine linen dresses. All of them wound up in a heap on the cobblestones. Ethan stumbled, but kept his feet and ran on, his shoulder screaming agony.
He was on Union Street now. He had no doubt that the others were right behind him. Rather than continue toward the Dowsing Rod and risk leading Yellow-hair and the others right to Kannice, Ethan followed Ann Street eastward, down along the wharves and warehouses.
His leg was growing worse by the moment, and his lungs burned. He didn’t slacken his pace, but he knew he couldn’t outrun Sephira’s men forever. They were younger than he was, stronger. He scanned the street for somewhere he might hide, even as he continued to run. Too late he realized that the lanes were less crowded here, that he was more alone than he would have been had he taken a different route.
At the next corner, he turned, intending to head up into the central part of the North End. But he halted immediately, his chest heaving with every breath.
“Damnit!” he said.
A single man stood at the corner of the next street, waiting… For him. Seeing him, the man smirked and started in his direction. Ethan backed away, and then ran back onto Ann Street, still heading north.
“Kaille!”
Ethan spun. Yellow-hair was behind him with Nap, who didn’t look at all pleased to see him. Yellow-hair was grinning, though, standing in the middle of the lane, a pistol held loosely in his right hand.
Ethan started away again, but a moment later, two more men emerged onto the street a block in front of him. He slowed. Gordon and the brute who had been with Nap stepped onto the lane from Cross Street, joining the two other toughs who had blocked his way.
They had herded him to this spot, like wolves nipping at his heels. And he had let them do it. He had been too quick to run, too predictable.
Ethan stopped and positioned himself so that he could watch Gordon and the men approaching from the north while also keeping an eye on Yellow-hair and Nap.
“What does Sephira want with me now?” he asked, still breathing hard. “She’s not satisfied with having you beat me to a bloody mess… now she wants you to finish the job?”
“If only,” Yellow-hair said. “She wants us t’ deliver a message. Tha’s all.”
Ethan cast a quick look toward Gordon. He and the brute were closer than Ethan expected.
“Stop there,” Ethan called to them, pulling out his knife.
Gordon laughed. “Ya think ya kin kill us all with tha’ blade?”
“He’s a speller, fool!” Yellow-hair said. “He doesn’ have t’ kill us with th’ knife.”
Gordon halted in his tracks, throwing out a hand to stop the other men. His face had gone white.
“I’ll conjure if I have to,” Ethan told them, looking first at Yellow-hair and then at the rest. He pushed his sleeve up, exposing his scarred forearm. “I could kill all of you, and there would be nothing you could do to stop me.”
“Easy, Kaille,” Yellow-hair said. He had stopped, too, and now he raised his pistol for Ethan to see and then slipped it back into his coat pocket. He opened his hands. “Ya see? I jus’ wanna talk t’ ya.”
“All right,” Ethan said. “Talk.”
Sephira’s man beckoned to him with a wave. “In private. Come with me.”
Ethan didn’t move. “I don’t think so.”
Yellow-hair frowned, but said, “Miss Pryce heard tha’ ya’d been offer’d Jennifer Berson’s missin’ brooch.”
Ethan stared at him, at last letting out a small, breathless laugh. “Where did she hear that?”
“Is it true?”
“Retrieving the brooch means nothing if I don’t find her killer.”
“Miss Pryce disagrees,” he said. “Ya’re a thieftaker. Yar job is t’ retrieve stolen goods.”
Ethan was fast tiring of Sephira and her men always being a step ahead of him.
“Is it true?” Yellow-hair asked again. “Have ya been offer’d th’ brooch?”
“Yes.”
The man smiled. “Tha’s good, Kaille. Miss Pryce says tha’ ya’d be wise t’ take it, return it t’ Berson, an’ be done with this bus’ness.” His smile widened. “She also said tha’ this time ya can keep whatever he pays ya.”
“That’s generous of her. But why should she care? I happen to know that this is one crime you and your friends didn’t commit.” Ethan glanced back at Gordon, who had started to creep forward again. Immediately he raised his blade to his bared forearm. Gordon froze. Ethan gestured with the knife, and the man took a few steps back.
Yellow-hair beckoned once more for Ethan to join him. “Come on, Kaille. There’s somethin’ she wanted me t’ show ya. These others’ll stay here. It’ll jus’ be th’ two of us, an’ ya can keep yar knife.”
Ethan eyed the other men. He didn’t trust any of them, but he had a better chance of escaping if he was only with Yellow-hair. He walked to where the man stood and indicated that he should lead the way. Yellow-hair grinned and started down a narrow alley that ran parallel to the waterfront. Ethan followed.
They walked a short distance in silence, before Ethan asked, “What’s her interest in this? Do you even know?”
“She has an interest in ev’rythin’ tha’ happens in this city. Ya should know tha’ by now.”
Ethan glanced back to make sure none of the other men had followed them. He saw no one.
“She wanted me t’ tell ya tha’ this is no time for ya t’ try an’ be some sorta hero. Ya should take th’ brooch an’ be done. Ya’ve had a taste o’ workin’ for th’ Beacon Street crowd-th’ Abner Bersons an’ their kind. Ya could make a lot o’ money. This is no time for ya t’ do somethin’ stupid.”
“Yesterday she told me that I was never again to work for the Abner Bersons of the world. Now she’s trying to tempt me with their silver? Tell Sephira she should make up her mind.”
They crossed Fish Street and entered another alley. It seemed that they were headed toward the North Battery.
“Where are we going, Yellow-hair?”
The man looked at him. “Yellow-hair?”
Ethan shrugged. “That’s what I call you. I don’t know your name.”
The man shook his head and laughed. “It’s Nigel.”
“All right. Where are we going, Nigel?”
“Not much longer now.”
They fell into another brief silence.
“Ya’re wastin yar time, ya know,” Nigel said at length.
“It’s a waste of time to learn who killed Jennifer Berson?”
“We already know who killed her. Ya’re not helpin’ th’ Bersons, an’ ya’re not helpin’ yarself.”
“That’s crazy!” Ethan said. “You don’t think Berson and his wife want to find out who killed their daughter and why?”
“Ya’re no’ listenin’, Kaille! He’ll be satisfied when he gets his jewel back, an’ when he knows for certain tha’ she’s dead ’cuz o’ tha’ mob. Whoever killed her was takin’ orders from Ebenezer Mackintosh. He’s gonna hang for this, an’ when he does, justice’ll be done.”
He sounded too sure of himself. Ethan felt uneasy. He slowed, then halted. “Where are we going? What is this all about?”
Nigel didn’t stop. “Jus’ a bit farther.”
Ethan began to follow again, his grip on his knife tightening. He said nothing more to the man, and Nigel seemed content to walk in silence. Eventually they reached the North Battery and turned onto Battery Alley. They hadn’t gone far on the narrow lane when Nigel stopped.
Ethan looked around warily. “What are we doing here?”
“Miss Pryce had one more message for ya,” Nigel said. He paused, his brow creasing. “It went like this: Ya owe me a word o’ thanks for cleanin’ up yar mess.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Yar mess, Kaille. Daniel Folter.”
Ethan felt the blood drain from his face. “What about him?”
“Miss Pryce is sure it was an oversight. Ya were supposed t’ hand him over t’ th’ sheriff, or failin’ that, take care o’ him yarself. But ya didn’. Th’ people o’ Boston have t’ feel safe. They have t’ know tha’ th’ men who steal from them will be dealt with. Mercy is weakness, she told me t’ say, an’ she thinks ya’re weak.”
“That… demon.” It came out as a whisper.
Nigel grinned. “Ya shoulda taken care o’ it yarself. We only did wha’ you had been hired t’ do.”
He turned his head slowly and looked into an alley. Following the line of his gaze, Ethan saw a form lying in the shadows. He couldn’t see a face, but what he did see-long legs, torn breeches, a worn, bloodstained waistcoat, and more blood staining the cobblestones-told him all he needed to know.
“I should kill you where you stand,” Ethan said, raising his knife to his forearm.
Nigel grabbed his pistol from his pocket and leveled it at Ethan’s chest.
“Ethan?”
They turned at the same time to stare at the boy who had stepped onto the street from another small alley leading off toward the wharves.
Holin Harper, the oldest child of Marielle, Ethan’s former betrothed, stood at the corner, flanked by Pitch and Shelly. Ethan had no idea what the boy was doing here or how he had found them, but he could not allow Marielle’s child to come to harm. Yellow-hair appeared to sense this, like a wolf smelling fear in its prey. His eyes flicked in Ethan’s direction, and there was a grin on his lips.
Both dogs growled deep in their throats, their hackles rising.
“Don’t even think about it,” Ethan said, his voice low.
This had to be done carefully. Neither Holin nor his sister knew that Ethan was a conjurer and Elli would have his head if they found out. Worse, she would forbid them to see Ethan again.
“Leave us now,” he told Sephira’s man. “Or I swear I won’t care at all what happens to me.”
Fear flashed in the man’s dark eyes. But his grin returned quickly, even as he put the pistol back in his pocket. “Fine, Kaille.” He looked at the boy again and chuckled. “But ya better give a thought t’ Miss Pryce’s message.” He nodded toward the alley where lay Daniel’s body. “Tha’ could be you.” He smiled at Holin and started back the way he and Ethan had come.
Ethan stood silently, his forearm itching, his blade hand shaking. He wanted to feel hot blood running over his skin. He wanted to draw upon the power coursing through his body and reduce the smug bastard to a pile of ash.
But he merely stood there, feeling utterly helpless as he watched Sephira’s man walk away.