by Cory Barclay
Hugo sat in Bedburg’s cold jailhouse, listening through the walls to a prisoner’s choked screams echoing through the stale, damp jail. Hugo shuddered at the cries.
He wasn’t a perfect judge of time, but he reckoned he’d been in the cell for most of the day. There were three other cells in the room besides his: one belonging to the screaming prisoner next to him, and two empty ones across the hall.
Since arriving at the jail, Hugo hadn’t said a word, or complained, or raised a single racket. In fact, no one had even come to check on him. He felt his stomach groan in protest.
A large man finally appeared in front of his cell. He had big hands and old cuts on his hairy arms. He wore a dark apron covered with splotches of something even darker. This man had been sent to scare the bandit out of him. But if his job was to exorcise Hugo’s thieving demons, it was going to take much more than a bloody apron or veiny arms to do it.
On the other hand, the jailer’s face was downright terrifying: bald, shiny dome; small, black eyes devoid of hope; a large purple scar running down the side of his forehead and cheek; and a scowl unlike Hugo had ever seen.
I guess the city doesn’t mind that the jailer looks more criminal than his resident prisoners. It doesn’t matter what side of the cell we’re on, as long as we’re all kept from the public eye.
“So. You’re the little thorn.” The man had a deep, raspy voice.
“Thorn?”
The jailer leaned forward. “The thorn between the noblemen’s toes.”
Hugo shrugged.
“And a shoddy thief at that,” he added.
Hugo stayed quiet.
The man craned his neck and squinted his beady eyes. The scar on his face seemed to move with his tilting head, staring right at Hugo.
“I know you from somewhere,” the man whispered.
Hugo squirmed away from the purple scar, unnerved. “I doubt it,” he said, lips barely moving. “I’ve never been here, and I doubt you’ve ever left here. So our paths haven’t crossed.”
The man put his hands on his hips. “You’re lying. Let me know when you want to tell me where I know you from. I’ll be next door, getting information.” He smirked, pulling a three-inch nail from his pocket and leaving little doubt how he obtained information.
An excruciating hour later, the prisoner next door was silent, unconscious from the torture. Then Hugo heard footsteps, first growing louder, then stopping, and then fading back down the hall. As if the jailer had had second thoughts; first thinking he’d pay Hugo a visit, then changing his mind to let him stew a while longer.
Hugo heard a door slam on the far end of the hall.
Once he finally had peace and quiet, Hugo wasted no time.
After making sure no one else was coming down the hallway, he reached in his mouth and pulled out the small metal pick he’d hidden there back in the alley. It had been hard to talk with the thing in his mouth, which was why he’d stayed mostly quiet.
He checked the lock on his cell. A simple bolt—not too strong, not too weak. Luckily, the lock’s strength was irrelevant since only the finesse of the escape artist mattered.
Which Hugo most definitely was. He stuck the pick in the keyhole and played with it. Moments later, the lock clicked, then opened.
He pressed lightly on the bars. With a faint groan, the cell door opened. He tiptoed down the hall peering left and right. The terrifying jailer had gone to the left, through a door into a different room. So Hugo headed right, toward another wooden door.
He held his breath as he touched the door. His heart was pounding. If someone’s on the other side . . . he didn’t let himself finish the thought.
He gently pushed down on the door handle. It wasn’t locked. He slowly opened it and poked his head out.
The hall was empty.
Short-staffed.
He came to a small room with two cells on each side. He crept past the first two. Both were empty.
He kept moving, his heart hammering.
In the third cell a man was staring into a corner, his back to Hugo.
Hugo moved on to the last cell, which was empty. Then he did a double-take.
A small form sat in the corner, nestled in the shadows, knees brought to chest, head between legs, dark hair cascading over the person’s knees.
Hugo immediately recognized the shape and the pouting sounds the voice made.
“Ava?” he whispered.
The man in the cell behind Hugo ran to the bars. “You!” he shouted, “if you’re getting her out, get me out, too!”
Hugo whirled on the man with an icy scowl, instantly quieting him. Then he rushed back to Ava’s cell. “Ava, it’s Hue!” he whispered louder.
At the sound of his voice, Ava slithered up from her knees. Her green eyes were dark and downcast. Her face wet with sweat, or tears. She obviously hadn’t bathed since her capture the day before.
“Hue!” Dimples formed a smile. She pushed herself off the ground.
Hugo’s heart filled with joy.
“Come on, let me out of here, dammit!” The man yelled from the other cell.
“Quiet, man, or we’ll all be caught!” Hugo urged.
But the man wouldn’t relent. Rattling the bars of his cage, he pushed and pulled as hard as he could.
Hugo used his pick in Ava’s lock. He felt the click a few seconds later and threw open the cell door.
Ava rushed into his arms.
“Come on, we must hurry,” Hugo whispered. He led Ava out through the first door, meanwhile leaving the remaining prisoner behind to shout obscenities.
The intimidating jailer—nearly twice Hugo’s height and thrice his weight—stood in the middle of the hallway, blocking their way. A cruel grin formed on his face, slithering his scar toward his nose.
Hugo’s eyes went wide.
“Run!” he shouted, while doing the only thing he could think of—rushing the jailer.
Being the Falcon, Hugo was quick and sprightly. He imagined he’d be able to pivot and dodge the big man’s hands.
But the man wasn’t as clumsy as he appeared.
With surprising speed, the jailer grabbed Hugo by the wrist. At the same time, Ava streaked past them both.
Glancing back at Hugo, much the way she’d done when first captured in the town square, her sad eyes creased with worry.
“Keep running, Ava! Go!” Hugo screamed.
Ava opened the final door. Hugo saw a flash of sunlight as it opened. He smiled as Ava vanished up the stairs, out of view, before his face hurtled toward the nearest jail cell bars.
The Raven was free!
With a violent smash, everything went black.
When he came to, his head ached and his mind buzzed. Frankly, after that head slam he vaguely remembered, he was surprised he woke at all.
Now, everything just hurt.
He was in a different cell, arms tied to a chair. Across from him sat the jailer, eyes drilling into him.
“You must be Old Ulrich,” Hugo said.
The jailer frowned. “Old Ulrich? I may be ugly, but I’m not old. Who said that?”
“The guard who captured me.”
Ulrich’s frown grew. “I’ll have to teach him the error of his ways. But you’re first.” He smiled.
Hugo shifted his weight. “If it’s ‘information’ you want from me, I have none.”
“You’re just a stupid boy. What kind of information could you possibly have?”
“Exactly.”
Ulrich stood and stepped in front of Hugo. He leaned down and stared at the boy. He was so close Hugo could taste whatever god-awful thing the man had had for lunch.
But to Hugo’s surprise, Ulrich reached over and untied his arms.
“That was a . . . courageous thing you did back there,” he said. “Rescuing your little friend. Stupid, but courageous.”
He pronounced “courageous” as though a foreign word, one he’d never uttered before.
“I love her,” Hugo said.
Ulrich scoffed. “I’m sure you’ve been told this before, but you have no idea what love is. Do you really believe that girl would have done the same for you?”
Hugo felt his cheeks grow hot. “I remember my father saying that to my sister, years back. But never to me.”
Ulrich squinted. It was only then that Hugo realized the man had no eyebrows, which is what probably made his face so monstrous—besides the nasty scar.
“Your sister and father . . .” Ulrich said, tapping his chin. “Ah! That’s how I know you. You’re Peter Griswold’s son.”
Hugo reeled back. “How in God’s name did you know that? Do I look like him?”
Ulrich pondered for a moment “Actually, you look nothing like him. But I’ve seen you before. That much I know.”
Hugo put his hands in his lap. The silence dragged on for what seemed like hours, until Hugo said, “What happens now?”
Ulrich shrugged. “I guess I knock you around a bit, maybe slice off a finger or two so you can’t go thieving again, then let you be on your way.”
Hugo’s heart caught in his chest.
“Or, I could dump your head in a bucket of cold water, rip off your fingernails, ask where the rest of your gang is holed up. Maybe I’d even get to hang you, eventually, if Bishop Schreib allows it.” Ulrich eyed the ceiling as he rambled.
A bead of sweat dripped down Hugo’s upper lip. He imagined being fingerless. Not a good image, he decided.
Ulrich chuckled, as if he read Hugo’s thoughts. “How many of you are there?”
“Thieves . . . in Bedburg? Hundreds. Of my own crew? Five. Well, four—our friend Danny went missing some time ago.”
Ulrich pinched the skin beneath his chin. “Daniel Granger?” he asked.
Hugo’s eyes perked. “Yes! Have you seen him?”
Ulrich let out a sucking sound. “I hanged him.”
Hugo cringed.
Another silence lingered in the stagnant room.
“I am sorry about your father,” Ulrich said at last. “I don’t think Peter Griswold was a bad man.”
“What do you care?” Hugo said. “He was just another victim to you.”
“True. But it’s different when you know a man’s innocent.”
Hugo’s eyes lifted. He felt the red rage pulse through him. “You knew he was innocent, but you killed him anyway?”
Ulrich lifted his arms. “Orders, son. Heinrich Franz and Bishop Solomon gave them. I followed them. I didn’t like it anymore than you.”
“I doubt that.”
Ulrich sighed. “For what it’s worth, I apologize for leaving you an orphan bastard. In a way, you remind me of me, when I was your age.”
Hugo snorted. “You remind me of the Devil.”
“Fair enough. I suppose I deserve that.”
“And much worse.”
“Actually, I’ve been in your position more than I care to count. I used to run with a gang, wreaking havoc wherever I went. I didn’t have much choice. Same as you, I suspect. But that only brought me pain and grief. If I were you, I’d leave your vagrant cohorts and start a new life.” He shrugged. “If I don’t kill you first.”
“A new life . . . like you? What happened, exactly, to turn you to the noble path of torture and execution?”
Ulrich grinned and winked. “I found God.”
After a bit more talking, Ulrich closed the cell door to let Hugo sleep. Much to the boy’s surprise, during their entire “meeting,” Ulrich never touched him. In fact, they left on much friendlier terms than how they began.
Despite his tough talk of finger-slicing, nail-yanking, and hanging, Ulrich remained remarkably peaceful. He never even searched Hugo’s person or stole the ring still in Hugo’s pocket.
The next day, Hugo awoke cold and sore. He still had a lingering headache from being smashed against the jail cell.
Stumbling to his feet, he walked to the front of his cell and grabbed the bars. As he leaned forward to look out, he felt the bars move with him. Gently, he pushed a little harder and the cell door opened.
His eyes narrowed. Would the jailer actually forget to lock my cell? Not likely . . .
Whatever the reason, it didn’t take much coaxing for Hugo to take off down the hallway.
Proceeding cautiously, he called out as he walked. “Hello?”
But the hall was empty.
Definitely short-staffed . . .
He tiptoed through the first wooden door. It too was unlocked.
Entering the main lobby, he started up the stairs.
Less than sixty seconds later, he was free, walking down the road with the sun on his back, just another peasant out for a stroll on a lovely day.
So befuddled by his unexpected “escape,” he actually began skipping. Then he reached in his pocket and clutched Ava’s ring, smiling as he headed home.
To the slums, to his friends, to Ava.
He wondered how Severin would react to seeing him after being beaten nearly to death the previous night.
But he decided it didn’t matter. There was only one person that mattered. And he desperately wanted to hold her as soon as possible. More than that. He wanted the two of them to have a life together.
Hugo stopped skipping when he got to the slums in the southern part of town. Walking briskly, he rounded the corner leading to the alley. The ramshackle place he called home came into view.
And, at that moment, it never looked better.
As he shoved open the front door, his heart was ready to burst.
The door swung on its hinges then bounced back. Hugo blinked, unsure what had just happened. The door had sprung back with such force, had he not put up his hand, it would have smashed into his face.
He pushed the door open again, slowly this time, then moved just inside the doorway for a better angle.
His fat friend Karstan was not on his cot. Instead, he was hunched over Hugo’s cot.
“Kars what’s going—”
As the full scene took shape, Hugo’s stomach knotted and his mouth dropped open. The ring almost slid from his hand.
What Karstan was hunched over was . . . Ava. She was sitting on Hugo’s cot and she and Karstan were locked in a deep embrace, lips touching.
Images of past betrayal instantly flooded Hugo’s mind—Sybil promising to never leave him, to never forget him; his father’s promises to always be around.
Promises never kept.
And now his best friend and the love of his life.
In his home. On his bed.
The ultimate betrayal.
Fighting back tears, Hugo stood stone-still.
“Hue, what are you doing—” Ava began, then saw the look on Hugo’s face and stopped.
Karstan turned around. “It’s not . . . Hue, it’s not what it looks—”
But Hugo was already out the door.
Running.
From the only people he trusted.
Soon, he found himself back at the jailhouse, facing the big, terrible jailer.
“You were right,” he said through tears, “I should have never gone back.”
“And?” Ulrich said.
“I think I’ve learned what love is.”
Ulrich chuckled. “And what, do you imagine, I can do about that?”
With a dark expression, Hugo stared into the man’s eyes. “Teach me what you do.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
GUSTAV
The sun shined on Gustav’s back as he struck the soggy ground with his shovel. He grunted, put his foot on the lip of the shovel, and pushed down into the earth. When he’d dug a three-foot hole, he backed away to survey his work, running his forearm across his forehead, wiping away sweat.
Hedda struggled to drag a shrub to the hole. With gloved hands, she positioned the plant in place, then carefully packed the earth around it.
She clambered to her feet with a sigh. Gustav rested his arm on her shoulder, motioning at his makeshift arboretum. Yellow hibiscus flowered alongside purp
le lavender from Spain, violet foxglove and larkspur from Germany, and other brightly colored flora. “Nearly finished,” he said, smiling.
Hedda removed his limp wrist from her shoulder as if it were a dead rat. “Why did we do all this if we’re just going to be moving soon?” she asked.
“We don’t know how long we’ll be here, Hedda. I’d like to see what dies and what grows in this climate.”
Hedda faced the sun. Squinting, she shielded her eyes. “We have another hour or two of sunlight, if you’d like to finish that last plot.”
Gustav sighed at the only bit of empty soil remaining, a hole large enough for a small casket. “Maybe tomorrow,” he said. “You go inside and get supper ready. I’ll be there soon.”
Hedda walked inside the place they called home as Gustav watched her leave. When she was gone, he rested the shovel against his leg, reached into his tunic for his bottle of laudanum and took a quick pull. The familiar sense of fuzzy euphoria enveloped him almost immediately. He followed Hedda into the house, setting his shovel against the open front door.
It was a small home—two rooms, a hearth, a kitchen—and had been vacant for some time. Entering the living area, Gustav’s eyes focused on Hedda’s backside as she set a pot of water on the stove to boil. The sight brought a pang of sharp lust. Grinning, he slithered behind her and rested a hand on her rear. Hedda’s shoulders slumped. “You said to make food,” she sighed, stirring the soup.
Gustav leaned in closer. “The food can wait,” he whispered, nibbling the nape of her neck. “I’m hungry for something else.”
It was always the same when Gustav was in one of his laudanum hazes. His body tingled as he ran his hand down her slender shoulder.
Hedda tried to move away from him, but Gustav growled, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her in closer.
“Stop, Gustav!”
But he would not. “Enough of that,” he barked, forcing himself onto the much smaller woman.
Hedda sighed, resigned to her fate. She was his assistant, after all, and to him that meant he was entitled. She put down the spoon and mechanically began caressing his smooth face. Then, as he leaned in closer for another kiss, she stomped on his foot as hard as she could.
