A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) by D. B. Jackson Read Free Book Online Page A

everything in his power to keep from laughing. Gardiner glowered at them all.
    “Aye,” Ethan said, proffering a hand. “I’m your witch.”
    Thomson gripped his hand firmly and nodded, oblivious of having given offense. “Glad you’re here,” he said, and returned to the disturbed site. He squatted once more and pointed down into the grave. “It’s grim work they did,” he said. “Not seen anything like it in all my years here.”
    As soon as Ethan, Pell, and Gardiner joined him graveside, they were assailed by the smell of decay. Pell gave a soft grunt and turned away, covering his nose and mouth with an open hand. Gardiner retreated in haste, a look of disgust on his fleshy features. Ethan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his face.
    “They weren’t gentle about it,” Gardiner said, from a few paces away. “Seemed in a bit of a hurry, if you ask me.”
    Ethan had to agree with the warden. Dirt had been hastily shoveled aside, and the coffin had been splintered, most likely by an axe. Through the broken wood, Ethan could see that the linen burial cloth had been cut open and pulled away from the corpse, exposing clothing and part of the neck and chest.
    “They didn’t steal the entire body?” Ethan asked of the sexton, who seemed unaffected by the stench.
    “No. They took the head, and the right hand off of each. It’s strange, isn’t it?”
    “Aye,” Ethan said.
    “Not only that, but they also took an article of clothing from each grave, or at least a piece of something.” He pointed down into the grave. “This one was wearing a cravat, and that’s gone.”
    “Have you ever heard of other resurrectionists doing that?” Ethan asked.
    The sexton shook his head. “No, but then again, I’ve not heard much of anything about their kind. And I would have been content to keep it that way.”
    “I don’t doubt it,” Ethan said. “I gather that the family has already been here.”
    “No, why would you think that?”
    “Well,” Ethan said, “I didn’t expect that you could remember so clearly what the man was wearing when he was buried.”
    “He only went in the ground nine or ten days ago.” Thomson swept his arm in a wide arc, encompassing more than half a dozen graves, all of which appeared to have been desecrated. “Every one of these sites was dug in the last four months or so.”
    “Do you mean to say that every grave that’s been robbed is a new one?”
    “Aye. And that’s not all.”
    Thomson climbed down into the grave and unbuttoned the soiled linen shirt in which the corpse had been buried. On the left side of the dead man’s chest, carved into the rotting skin over his heart was an odd symbol: a triangle, its apex pointing toward the man’s chin, with three straight lines cutting across the shape from the left edge to converge at the bottom right corner.
    “What is that?” Ethan whispered.
    “I was hoping you would know,” the sexton said. “Come with me.”
    He covered up the chest of the cadaver and nimbly climbed out of the grave. He straightened and strode to another grave, which lay perhaps twenty yards from the first. Ethan followed, noting as he reached this second site that the gravestone was somewhat thicker than others nearby, and had more ornate carvings around the edges. The family name Rowan was engraved on the stone. Below etched in smaller letters, were the words “Abigail, Devoted Wife and Loving Mother, b. 23 September 1701, d. 28 May 1769.”
    “Abigail Rowan,” Ethan whispered. “I remember hearing of her death. Her husband is a man of some repute.”
    “Aye,” Thomson said, keeping his voice low, and looking back at Pell and Gardiner, who lingered near the first grave. “Rich men usually are.” He lowered himself into this grave, as well.
    Ethan squatted beside the site and peered down at the broken coffin. Again, the wood had been shattered, and the body of poor Abigail Rowan uncovered. As with the last, it seemed the