Free A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) by D. B. Jackson

this.
    His trepidation growing, he left the Common Buying Ground and continued along the edge of the Common to the old Granary Burying Ground, one of the oldest cemeteries in the city; only the grounds at King’s Chapel and at Copp’s Hill, in the North End, were older. Here were buried several men of note, including Peter Faneuil, for whom the marketplace in Cornhill had been named, and Samuel Sewall, the judge who had presided over the witch trials in Salem in 1690, and who had seen the sentence of death carried out for the convicted.
    Ethan followed a narrow stone path into the burying ground and once more searched for a caretaker or gravedigger. There was no church in this burying ground either. The granary located in the middle of the expanse was just that: a building constructed long ago that housed the town’s supply of grain.
    He began to walk the perimeter of the grounds, the sun beating down on him. A few years before, elms had been planted along the road, but they were too small to offer much shade, and the property was otherwise devoid of trees. Still walking, Ethan removed his waistcoat and draped it over his arm, all the while sweeping his gaze over the graves before him, searching for signs of disturbed earth.
    Before long, he found what he sought: a single grave had been dug up much as those at King’s Chapel had been. He faltered in midstep, both relieved that he had managed to find what he sought, and troubled at the thought of more desecrations. Forcing himself into motion once more, he approached the site, but faltered a second time when the stink hit him.
    “Damn,” he muttered.
    Pledging to himself that he would never again take on an inquiry that required him to look into grave robberies, he closed the remaining distance between himself and the grave. He looked around the grounds again. Seeing no one—and hoping no one could see him—he lowered himself into the grave and examined the damage done to the coffin. As with those at King’s Chapel, the wood appeared to have been shattered with an axe. The burial cloth had been cut open, and the corpse—that of a woman, judging from the clothing—had been beheaded. The right hand was missing as well, and it appeared that a piece of cloth had been torn from her dress.
    Steeling himself, he pulled down the front of the dress until he could see the rotting flesh over her breastbone. The symbol he had seen on the dead women at King’s Chapel had been carved into this corpse, too. Finally, he worked her left foot free. Or what was left of it.
    “Damn,” he said again.
    He covered up the corpse as well as he could, climbed out of the grave, and resumed his search, now walking with greater urgency. He did not immediately find another desecrated site, but he did spot a man working on a grave, a shovel in his hands. Ethan strode toward him, wiping sweat from his face.
    “Well met, sir!” he called.
    The man glanced up from his work, but said nothing, and soon turned his attention back to the grave at his feet. He looked to be about Ethan’s age. He was short, powerfully built, with small dark eyes and black hair. He wore torn brown breeches and a stained blue linen shirt that was soaked through with sweat.
    “Can I speak to you for a moment?” Ethan asked, stopping a few steps from the man.
    “I suppose,” the laborer said without pausing.
    “Is this a new grave, or one you’ve had to cover up again because of a robbery?”
    At that, the man ceased his labors and turned. “Who are you?”
    “My name is Ethan Kaille. I’ve been asked by the Reverend Henry Caner to inquire into a series of desecrations at the King’s Chapel Burying Ground. I spoke this morning with Mister Thomson, the sexton there.”
    “You know James?” the man said, squinting against the sun.
    “Aye.” Ethan extended a hand. “You are?”
    The man stared at Ethan, his mouth twisting. At last, he wiped his hand on his breeches and gripped Ethan’s for just a second.