The Complete Trilogy: The Books of Conjury #5

  The Books of Conjury

  The Complete Trilogy

  Kevan Dale

  Copyright © 2018 by Kevan Dale

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7329853-1-5

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  The Magic of Unkindness

  The Grave Raven

  The Halls of Midnight

  Appendix

  A Word From Kevan

  Enjoy this book? You can make a big difference

  Dedicated to Jean Patricia Carey Davis

  * * *

  I got my love of books from you - I wish you could have read these.

  The Magic of Unkindness

  The Books of Conjury, Volume One

  1

  My Master's Wake

  The ship towered behind us. Rope and spar creaked with the swells of the harbor, the water tarnished green in the late afternoon.

  “Now no need to be nervous,” Silas Wilkes told me. The hand he placed on my shoulder, trembling and damp in the palm, was no doubt meant to be reassuring. “We’re here. We’re safe. Fortune—well. I suppose a word or two might be appropriate. Do you think?”

  A humid wind snapped the hem of my dress. I nodded, watching him. He chewed the corner of his lip. His large nose—easily his defining feature, lending his forward-thrust head a distinctly birdlike air—pointed one way then another as he took in the scene before us. He blinked once, twice.

  “Sir?” I offered.

  He blinked again and looked down at me with a smile. “Here I am, putting on airs. Like a gentleman. Our fortune is here, if we’re lucky. How’s that?”

  “I think it’s perfect, sir.” I slung his threadbare haversack over my shoulder.

  He hefted the trunk containing his tools, his bowed shoulders and thin arms straining under the weight. “Here we go, then, Miss Kate. Keep your eye out for fortune. I suspect we’ll find it but one penny at a time.”

  I gave the ship one final glance and followed him through the crowds spilling onto the wharves. That the Atlantic hadn’t swallowed us seemed fantastical, as did the feeling of solid ground beneath my thin soles. We passed between crates of salted mackerel and codfish that filled my nose with a briny bite. Other ships had their planks down and crewmen unloaded bins and crates of tobacco, cotton, oranges, and more. A tattered pennant of hope fluttered in my chest. Boston had a little bit of everything.

  But so had London.

  We cut through a market busy with tradesmen. Crowded stalls held ears of corn stacked in fragrant heaps, squashes and pumpkins of every imaginable shape. Geese pecked the cobbles within wooden pens. Shadows stretched from buildings of brick and timber, daub and wattle. I nearly stumbled. I’d seen shadows slip from corners, floating ever closer, deadlier than the sharks that had trailed the ship as we’d crossed the Atlantic. Blurs. Faint shades, twisting and slinking like drifts of fog. Those shadows had murdered everyone in my life.

  The only comfort I took as I followed in my master’s wake was that I felt none of the chill that accompanied the spirits—a dreadful sensation, one which rendered me forever jumpy in the presence of a draft. Wilkes’ optimism notwithstanding, I considered Fortune’s less kindly cousin, Fate. The pennant inside me ceased its flutter.

  I adored Silas Wilkes, though I’d known him but forty-three and one-half days. He’d never cuffed me, never once even raised his voice. He hadn’t a cruel bone in his body. A lopsided smile was his face’s natural disposition. He’d looked after me throughout the entire crossing as though I weren’t his indentured apprentice, but his younger sister. Or even his daughter.

  Fate—cruel, relentless Fate—wasn’t going to kill him too, I decided.

  With a twist in my belly, I slowed, hanging back. All I needed to do was drop the haversack and dart off. Disappear into the crowd. He mightn’t notice for a minute or more. By then, I’d be racing between unfamiliar buildings, down unseen streets, leading the terrible spirits as far from Silas Wilkes as possible. The details after that were—vague, I confess.

  I trailed Wilkes by a yard, then two, then four as he passed well-dressed gentlemen conferring in low voices, merchants haggling with patrons. Around the square, smiths and coopers peered out from their shops. A group of young men unloaded barrels of inks at a printer’s shop, their work aprons stained, sharing a laugh. Most took no notice of me, save for those who marked the faded cloth patch I wore over the twisted, empty notch that had once held my left eye. I scanned the lanes opening off the market square, choosing my escape route.

  “Oh, thank the Lord,” said Wilkes—out of breath and red-faced—as he dropped his trunk with a clang. We stood before a tavern called the Atlantic Nag, tucked in among the sea-warped buildings next to the wharves. It stood low, its roof sagging, its once festive blue walls now peeled and mildewed. “Bloody arms about to fall out. I’m sorry. What say I hire us a carriage? I’ve a few shillings to spare. Can’t make a fortune without arms, can we?”

  I caught up to him.

  “Will you be all right to watch over the trunk?” he said. “If I’m quick?”

  No other master—not even my brothers, maybe not even my father—had ever given half a moment’s thought to how I’d feel about a task.

  I had to leave him. Soon. “Of course, sir.”

  Wilkes rubbed his bony wrists, straightened up from his usual slouch, and passed into the dim public room of the tavern. After he slipped from view, I stepped away from the trunks, eyeing the road away from the square as though following some instruction from Wilkes. No one paid me any mind. I was just a young woman, practically invisible, my choices controlled by anyone but me. By the time I reached the far edge of the tavern, my heartbeat galloped.

  Come on, I urged Fate. This way. You’ve missed your chance.

  I darted around the corner. Coils of thick rope lined one wall, strands of netting piled high next to them. Four fishing hands—stained breeches, faded shirts, cheeks and foreheads burnished by wind and sea—lingered by the side of the tavern. One clamped a briarwood pipe in his teeth and spoke around it as he noticed me. “There, young James—your wishes granted.”

  The bunch of them laughed, even as one grew a shade redder. I turned to hurry back the other direction, but the one with the pipe grabbed the sleeve of my dress.

  “No, no,” he said. “Don’t let his missing teeth frighten you. Proper husband he’ll make. Won’t you, James?”

  James—missing at least half a dozen teeth at the front of his mouth—smiled and raised his eyebrows.

  “Give her a kiss,” another of the men said, nodding his head at me. “Convince her.”

  “Please let me go.”

  “You don’t find him charming?” the one holding me said. “The smell of the catch takes some getting used to. Fair enough.”

  “What’s wrong with her eye?” James said.

  That brought howls of laughter from the others. “Oi, now he’s choosey,” one said, shaking his head. “Rest of her looks fair enough. Gangly—but you like them tall, don’t you?”

  “He likes them with a pulse,” said another. “Tall don’t matter.”

  The man holding me shoved me toward Jame
s. “At least give him a hug.”

  James leaned forward and caught me as I slipped into him, the boards of the wharf slick with water and fish scales.

  “Don’t,” I said.

  He locked my wrist in a hard grip, laughing. I yanked and only managed to lose my balance. Whether it was all a lark or something more sinister, I would never get the chance to find out: the ghost stalking me, quiet for six weeks at sea, saw to that. A chill rose around me, an exhalation of deepest winter strong enough to prickle my skin, to force my belly to contract. Shadows, like a flock of twilight birds, crossed James’ face. He let go of my wrist and stepped back.

  “What—” was all he got out before his arms flew up in front of him, flailing at the queer darkness. It did little good. Thin dots of blood rose in pinpricks across the backs of his hands and his red cheeks.

  I stepped away from him, the ends of my hair rising as though lifted by the crackle of a wool shift pulled over the head on a winter’s morning. The laughter died in the mouths of the other men as James’ face turned a darker red, scribed now by scarlet lines of blood. His eyes bulged, beseeching help. Before anyone could move to lend a hand, he flew off the edge of the wharf, dragged down into the foam-flecked water as though he had the anchor to the largest ship in the harbor tied to his neck. A lick of water lifted as the soles of his shoes disappeared beneath the surface. Hints of his legs showed through the murk then vanished. Nothing rose but bubbles—though was that a muffled scream I heard beneath the slap of the waves and the cry of the gulls?

  His friends rushed to the lip of the wharf. I backed off. He wasn’t coming up—not if the ghost had him.

  Turning, I tried to dart off, but the one with the pipe blocked my way back to the street. I batted his hands away and ducked left—he followed my feint. I leapt right and spun past him, brushing past his grasp and stumbling out into the street.

  I crashed into man in an embroidered waistcoat who stepped back with an annoyed “I beg your pardon.”

  And then there was Wilkes, looking about with worried eyes. He spotted me and put a hand to his narrow chest. “There you are. Goodness, I thought I’d gone and been the worst kind of fool, leaving you alone like that.” He shook his head and the smile reappeared. “All I could think about was my mother’s hundred warnings about Boston. Which I’d scoffed at, naturally. It’s fine. It will be. Perfectly safe. Plenty of people here. And none look utterly terrified. I’ve been making sure.”

  I hurried back to Wilkes. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “No, no. My fault. We’ll stick together. Come, I have a ride for us. But we have to hurry.”

  Not needing any prodding, I followed him along the street past the tavern. I glanced over my shoulder more than once, but didn’t see any of the fishing hands coming after me. We soon reached a stained wagon hitched to a pair of swaybacked, gray-around-the-muzzle horses. The driver wore his hair long beneath a battered tricorn, and the fellow next to him had the forearms and rough hands of a stone mason, with a bald head and a red beard.

  “Hand with those trunks?” the driver said.

  Wilkes shook his head, lifting the trunks one after another into the wagon, then turning and helping me up over the side. “More than fine, sirs.”

  I settled myself in next to his trunks, shocked at the stench of the stained boards of the wagon—rot, old fish, and white spatters of gull droppings. The wagon lurched forward in a clatter of tack and hoof, setting off at a good clip along the streets that followed the harbor’s edge. A small forest of masts caught the last rays of the sun and disappeared against the coming dusk over the harbor. My pulse pounded in my ears: how long until the ghost tired of his victim and sought me out yet again?

  I glanced with pity at Wilkes. He bantered with the driver and his partner, cheerfully offering them descriptions of the storms we’d passed through at sea, recounting news from London, humbly recounting various snippets of praise his carvings had earned from this Lord or that—one a member of Parliament, no less. Evening came on as we trundled through the serpentine roads of Boston. I made note of all we passed, already drawing a map in my head. Twice, I almost leapt from the wagon—but both times I balked. Whom might I stumble into in along some narrow lane or alley? I scolded myself for hesitating. No, there were no guarantees—unless I stayed with Wilkes. Then, he would die.

  I eyed loud taverns and coffee houses with rising suspicion. Nearby barbers, dyers, soap makers, and the were closed for the night. I read sign after sign: Crown and Comb, Painter’s Arms, Six Sugar Loaves, Cromwell’s Head, Faust’s Statue, Hoop Petticoat, and more. Here and there, poles of black wood rose a dozen feet with lanterns atop, set back behind wrought iron posts connected by chains. A river came into sight before us, and the driver steered the team toward a wide dock where a ferry waited, tied to a landing.

  Wilkes peered at the river. It shone with the fading colors of sunset. “King Street is across the river?”

  “On both sides runs the King,” the driver said. “This is the way. Convenient for us. Need to pick up those couple of headboards I mentioned. Sister-in-law will have my chestnuts if I put it off another week.”

  “I see.”

  “Boston’s ferrymen are no laggards. We’ll be quick, though I suppose you’ve had your fill of water travel.”

  “To be sure, sir. To be sure.” Wilkes didn’t sound thrilled at the prospect.

  The driver said a quick word to the ferryman and tossed him a coin, steering the team and wagon onto the flat-decked boat without trouble. A thick rope stretching shore to shore ran through a pulley hooked to the side of the vessel. The ferryman chucked blocks of wood beneath the wheels of the wagon to keep it from shifting. Using a pole, he heaved off from the shore, and switched to poling from the side. Between his poling and the current, the ferry moved evenly across the river. One horse spooked, and the driver climbed down and adjusted his blinkers, running a hand along the poor beast’s crest. During the commotion, I might have scrambled over the sides of the wagon and the ferry—but the site of dark water at dusk filled me with dread, especially after having seen the second of my seven masters drown in the Thames at Billingsgate under similar conditions.

  “Almost there.” The red-bearded companion leaned back, his feet by the reins, a short, unlit clay pipe wedged upside down in the corner of his mouth. The words were the first he’d spoken, and his voice was hoarse as though he spent much of his days yelling. He stared at the nearing shore.

  “Brilliant,” Wilkes said. “And can you recommend a tavern to find a hot bite?”

  The red-bearded man tilted his head and nodded, but offered no particulars. As the ferry came to a gliding stop against the other landing, the wagon shuddered and the horses adjusted their balance, their feet clopping on the deck. The driver climbed back onto the bench as the ferryman kicked out the blocks and bade us well. In a moment, the team pulled us up an incline and onto a rutted lane. A grazing common extended to our left. Not much farther on, a smaller road opened, passing through an unkempt hedge that stretched between thirty-foot hemlocks. Beyond their tops, a fingernail moon rose in the east. I gripped the side of the wagon, forgotten by the men. My chance had come.

  “This is King Street?” Wilkes said.

  The driver shook his head. “Water Street. King is up ahead. You’ll see it soon.”

  I glanced at Wilkes, who chewed the side of his thumb. In the deepening nightfall, it was hard to tell where the road led. The wagon jounced over ruts and stones, and I heard the knocking of the tools in Wilkes’ trunks. I lifted my foot, getting one leg over the side of the wagon.

  “This doesn’t seem right,” Wilkes said.

  I paused. As the lane passed an overgrown pasture, a house came into view, striking me as peculiar even in the gloaming—the roof appeared to have given way, blackened timbers showing. Where the door had been, light shone, while above the windows on both the first and second stories, black soot rose in patterns left by fire. I recognized the bitter scent of bu
rnt timber, for it wasn’t half a year since the last two of my six brothers had perished. I found myself transported back to the morning I’d stared dumbstruck at the smoldering ruins along Stanhope Row in Mayfair, London, coming to understand that I was alone, adrift in the world.

  If I hadn’t been so lost in my own hard memories, I might have grabbed Wilkes by the sleeve and pulled him back. I might have better grasped the peril. I might have denied Fate its next cruel strike.

  “Thought you might appreciate this, sir, being a carver,” the driver said, pointing at side of the house where a few horses grazed. Wilkes lifted himself and stood behind the driver’s bench, grasping the sidewalls as the wagon slowed. In that instant, the red-bearded man drew his hand up from his side, swinging his arm in a merciless arc even as he leapt to his feet. A short club connected with the top of Wilkes’ head. The cracking thump sounded louder than a cannon. I didn’t even have time to drop my jaw before he swung the club again. Wilkes collapsed, raising one arm, but the man grabbed him up by his collar and delivered a brutal series of blows to the back of poor Wilkes’ head and neck. One of those strikes caused Wilkes’ limbs to shudder as though hit by a bolt of lightning—and then he was still, the life beaten from him.

  The driver pulled the horse to a stop in front of the house. “You’re bashing,” he said in a scolding tone.

  The red-bearded man grimaced at Wilkes, his chest and shoulders rising and falling, a bull who’d just charged.

  “I’m not having a good day,” he said, the pipe still clenched between his teeth. He flicked his wrist and something wet hit the back of the wagon.

  “Don’t ruin him. Bad day or no.”