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

“Robert Helms.” The name tumbled out of his mouth in a jumble.
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Robert.” Ethan surveyed the burying ground. “Have resurrectionists struck here, too?”
    “Aye,” the man said. “Graves have been disturbed each of the last three nights. Six in all.”
    “What was taken?”
    Robert shook his head. “It’s a gruesome business.”
    “I realize that. But I need to know what they took.”
    “Heads off of each one,” he said. “And a hand, too. Damn surgeons and their dissections. I’ll have nothing to do with any of them.”
    “Was that all?” Ethan asked, keeping his voice level. “Just the heads and hands?”
    “I think so. Why? Isn’ that enough?”
    Ethan didn’t answer. “Would it be all right if I took a look at the graves that have been disturbed?”
    “Aye. I can take you around, show you where they are. They’re scattered about, and it’s a large burying ground.”
    “I’d appreciate it.”
    “This was the first one right here,” Robert said, gesturing with his shovel at the grave he had been working on when Ethan found him. “We can’ bury him again until that coffin is repaired. I’ve been clearing away as much dirt as I can so that we can bury him proper a second time.”
    Ethan bent to look at the gravestone, which read, “Emmett Peter George, b. 5 November 1728, d. 26 February 1769.” Glancing down into the grave, Ethan saw a grisly and now-familiar sight: a broken coffin and a burial cloth slit to reveal a decayed corpse, headless, a hand missing.
    He didn’t want to have Robert with him as he examined the corpses to see if each one had been marked and had its left foot mutilated. He felt ghastly enough climbing down into the graves and handling the dead. Having an audience would make it that much worse. But he couldn’t imagine how he might ask the man to keep his distance.
    “Forgive me, Robert, but I need to look at Mister George’s corpse.”
    “What d’you mean? Look at it how?”
    “I need to see his chest, and his left foot.”
    The caretaker’s eyes glinted dangerously in the sunlight. Ethan could see that he had tightened his grip on the shovel. “Why?” he asked.
    Ethan sensed it would be a mistake to mention that he had already looked at one corpse here in the Granary Burying Ground. “Because every corpse in every disturbed gravesite at King’s Chapel has been … marred in the same ways.”
    Robert paled. “Marred?”
    “Aye. I expect you’ll want to stay right here, so that you can make certain I do nothing to harm this grave or the body therein. But, with your permission, I need to look.”
    The man wet his lips and nodded, his head jerking up and down. “All right.”
    Ethan eased himself down into the grave and reached into the coffin to unbutton Emmett George’s shirt. When he exposed the cadaver’s chest, Robert gave a small gasp.
    “Lord have mercy!”
    “Aye,” Ethan said, the word coming out like a sigh. “I’m not done yet.” He pulled the man’s foot free, drawing another sharp breath from the caretaker.
    “They did that to all of them?” Robert asked.
    “So far.”
    Ethan tucked the corpse’s leg back in place and climbed out of the grave. “Was he wearing a cravat when you buried him?”
    “I don’t remember. Why?”
    Ethan shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Shall we check the others?”
    The caretaker nodded, but didn’t move. “Why would someone do those things?”
    “You’re not the first to ask me,” Ethan said. “I don’t know the answer yet, but I’m going to find out.”
    “I bet it’s witchery,” Robert said, still gazing down into the grave. “Word is there’s witches all through this city, workin’ their mischief, tryin’ to lure regular folk to their devilish ways.” He looked at Ethan. “You should have a care. You spend enough time in a buryin’ ground, you’re bound to run into one of them.”
    “I’m sure that’s true,” Ethan said. On another day