by Cory Barclay
“Mister Penderwick,” he bellowed, his intimidating crew pausing behind him. On the ship’s deck, boots ground to a halt as the men onboard poked their heads out over the railing. Passersby on the dock gave Gustav and his entourage a wide berth.
With a loud thud, Jerome Penderwick dropped his wooden chest on the ramp. “Y-yes?” the surgeon said.
“Do you remember me? I’d like to speak to your captain. Tell him Gustav Koehler would like to talk with him.”
“Talk? About what? We’re j-just getting ready to d-depart.”
Adrian pulled a pistol from his belt and aimed it at the man. “Get your skinny hide on that ship and get the damn captain, man, before I blow the few teeth you have left out the back of your skull.”
His words worked. Jerome scurried up the ramp without another word.
They waited for nearly five minutes at the bottom of the ramp. Gustav tried to formulate the speech he’d give when the captain arrived. But when Captain Daxton Wallace did finally appear, his plans were dashed.
Daxton stood at the ship’s railing, one foot hoisted on top of a barrel, his arms folded across his chest, with about ten other sailors circled around him in support.
Before any words were spoken, things quickly escalated. Most of Gustav’s men drew their guns. Daxton’s crew did the same.
A classic standoff.
“The hell do you want, Herr Koehler?” Daxton shouted. “And Adrian Coswell, you louse, you have a heavy pair to be showing yourself here.”
Gustav heard Adrian gritting his teeth.
“How does it feel to be a traitor, you weasel?” Adrian shouted back, his hand resting on the butt of his gun, still tucked in his waistband.
Daxton spread his arms out wide. “I feel like a captain,” he chuckled. Some of his men laughed nervously alongside him.
“Galager had it coming,” he continued. “Anyone could see that. He was sinking the ship by just being on it.” Several of his crewmen nodded.
Adrian seethed, but Gustav put a hand in front of him before he could do anything foolish.
“You seem to have climbed the ladder quickly, Herr Wallace,” Gustav told the captain. “From carpenter to first mate to captain in, what, the span of a week?”
Daxton shrugged. “I s’pose I’m blessed to be a friend of Rowaine Donnelly.” He reached into his shirt, drawing the immediate sound of clicking matchlocks from Gustav’s men. But he brought out a pipe, ignoring the weapons pointed at him. Casually, he packed it with tobacco, lit it, then sucked in several heavy drags. Smoke dribbled out his nose and mouth.
He’s enjoying this, Gustav thought.
Perhaps I can change that.
After exhaling a large cloud of smoke, Daxton said, “Now, state your business. You nearly stopped poor Jerome’s heart, sneaking up on him like that. He’s the one supposed to be fixing rotten hearts, not busting his own. So say your peace or begone, before my men lose their patience.”
“It’s regarding Rowaine Donnelly.”
“Oh?”
Gustav nodded. “Where is she?”
Daxton drew on his pipe again. The smoke came out in puffs as he chuckled. “Avoiding you, I imagine.”
“You won’t tell me where she might be, or where she’s going?”
Daxton stroked his chin. “See no reason to.”
“Is this reason enough?” Gustav reached into his shirt—drawing a new set of matchlock clicks from the men onboard—and pulled out the raggedy doll, holding it up for all to see.
The men on the ship let out a collective gasp, as if Gustav were holding the head of his enemy.
The pipe in Daxton’s mouth clanked to the deck. A shipmate whispered in his ear, but Daxton pushed him away. Trying to maintain his composure, Daxton asked coyly, “What’s that you got there, Herr Koehler?”
“You know what this is, Captain Wallace.”
“And where’d you get it?”
“You know that, too.” He wiggled the doll in his hand. The yellow hair curlings flopped in the wind.
Daxton drew his pistol and aimed it directly at Gustav’s face. He spoke slowly, decisively. “You could have made that thing, or stolen it from a shop.”
Unfazed, Gustav said, “Her name is Franny.”
And just like that, the fight left Daxton’s face, his eyes widening, his shoulders slumping. “What have you done with my family, you fucking mongrel? God preserve you, if you’ve hurt them—”
“Your wife and daughter are fine, captain. I have them holed up for a bit until I receive the information I require. They are mere bargaining chips. Nothing more. Don’t take it personally.”
Daxton growled. “What guarantees do I have that they’re safe?”
“My word.”
“Your word is as useful as rat-piss.”
“Then rat-piss will have to do. If I’m injured or killed . . .” Gustav didn’t need to finish the sentence. He cleared his throat. “Now that we’ve gotten the pleasantries out of the way, tell me where Rowaine Donnelly is.”
Daxton slammed his gun down on the railing, a loud crack echoing across the dock. “Forgive me, Row,” he muttered, peering down at the floorboards.
“I can’t hear you,” Gustav said, cupping his ear with his hand.
“She went to Bedburg, Germany.” Daxton raised his eyes from the deck’s floor and scowled at the two men beside Gustav. “You actually put yourself in this evil man’s company, Adrian? Alfred? You heartless bastards.”
Bedburg. I should have guessed.
“Should we make him lead us to her, Gustav?” It was Hedda, leaning in to whisper in his ear.
Gustav swayed his neck back. “He probably doesn’t know that much. I’d be worried he’d slit our throats as we slept.” He turned back to Daxton.
“Where is she going from there? Why Bedburg?”
“She thinks that’s where her family’s killer is. She’s following the farmer’s daughter and the priest.” Daxton bent down to pick up his pipe. “No idea where she’d go from there. You’ll have to ask her.”
“I intend to,” Gustav answered, spinning around and pushing back through his men as he left.
“W-wait, where are you going? What about my family?”
Gustav stopped, his back still to Daxton. “I left very specific instructions, Captain Wallace. As long as I returned before the light of day, they would remain unharmed.” He turned toward Daxton and smiled. “So I’m sure you understand the need for me to return to your house before dawn.” He turned away, then thought of something else. “Follow me and they both die. Do you understand?”
Reluctantly, Daxton nodded.
“It’s been a pleasure, and congratulations again on becoming captain. I’m sure you’ll make a fine one.”
As Gustav turned to leave, he dropped Franny from his hand. The doll bounced once on the dock, then slowly rolled into the sea. It wasn’t long after Gustav and his team left that the doll had sunk to the bottom.
By the time Gustav arrived back at the Wallace estate, the first glimmers of pink were already peeking up the horizon. Yet the house still stood, neither burned nor razed. He scowled at being disobeyed.
But what caused his scowl to deepen was how strangely empty the surroundings were. As he approached the dwelling, Mia and Kevan and Paul walked out to meet him.
“Jergen’s men all left about an hour after you did,” Mia explained. “Said they weren’t getting paid enough to kill women and children. Said it was Satan’s work.”
Gustav frowned. He’d lost six men. But men he hadn’t trusted anyway. He walked through the front door and looked around. The house was as empty as the outside. Darlene and Abigail were gone.
“Where are they?” he yelled.
Mia put her hands on her hips. “I let them flee once the men left. You had the doll—proof of your hostages—you didn’t need them anymore. They didn’t need to be harmed.”
“And what if things hadn’t gone as planned? They could have been valuable.”
Mia shrugged. “It seems everything worked out.”
“Where’d they go?”
“Didn’t ask. Besides, I’m not killing women or children either, Gustav.”
“Need I remind you that two of the people we’re hunting are also women—one of them your lover?” Gustav said.
Mia whisked past Gustav out the door. “Should we get going? Don’t we have better places to be than this sorry estate?”
Gustav watched her walk.
She’s right.
Time to head into the belly of the beast—where my brother was murdered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ROWAINE
The monolithic gray structure loomed high in the dreary morning light. Bedburg’s jailhouse cast a long shadow over Rowaine as she lingered in front, surveying the main gate’s security measures.
Which, surprisingly, was lacking. Apart from the building itself, there were no guards, no sentries, no one to stop her entry.
If a man were to escape his cell, he could easily saunter out this gate and be free. Not a very efficient means of captivity. Unless of course no one ever left one’s cell, nor saw sunlight, nor saw the justice of a real trial.
She gazed down the empty road where, earlier, she and her two “captives” had parted ways. Hopefully Sybil and Dieter wouldn’t abandon her now that they were on their own.
Surely, she thought, they too want to see this to its end. They’ve come this far with me.
Rowaine took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. Will this be where my questions are finally answered?
She involuntarily shuddered from the morning chill, then strode onward toward the front entrance.
The gate was heavy but unlocked. Inside, a staircase led her deeper into the bowels of the dismal prison.
The steps were stone, damp, and grimy. The pitter-patter of water dripping from the ceiling sent a shiver down her spine, the liquid trickling down each step and pooling at the bottom. She doubted the place had ever seen repair since its original construction.
At the bottom of the stairs, a man with a scarred face sat in a chair against the wall, half-hidden by shadow, next to a closed door. His legs were crossed and he appeared to be sleeping with his eyes open. A torch protruded out from the wall, partially illuminating the gruesome scar on his face.
The man glared at her, his eyes unblinking.
Could he be dead?
After a long pause—each watching the other—the man’s forehead wrinkled as he tried to raise eyebrows that weren’t there. “It’s been some time since a beautiful woman stepped foot in this place. Am I dreaming?”
“That’s the second time in as many days I’ve heard that,” Rowaine answered, confidently, without hesitation—the only way she knew to act. Now was not the time to show weakness.
A man like this no doubt preys on that.
The man smiled, the scar on his cheek sliding up with his lips. “What is it you need, Frau . . .”
“Donnelly,” Rowaine said, giving a curt bow. “My name is Catriona Donnelly. I’ve heard you knew my father.” No sense in skirting the issue. A jailhouse was no place for small talk, unless at the torturer’s behest.
“Donnelly, you say.” The man scratched his chin. “I haven’t had a ginger-bearded man as a prisoner in some time. I am Ulrich. Who was your father, Catriona Donnelly?”
“His name was Georg Sieghart.”
Ulrich visibly tensed.
“I’ve also heard you were acquainted with Heinrich Franz,” she added.
Ulrich rose from his chair with surprising agility and stormed toward Rowaine, who stood tall, not backing away even though her heart raced.
“I knew Heinrich more than I knew your father, girl,” he said, slowly pacing around and behind her. “But I haven’t seen either in some time, so I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. The last time I saw Georg Sieghart, he gave me a good contusion on the head. And helped two prisoners escape.”
Rowaine’s shoulders tightened. She knew those two prisoners.
“But for his rudeness, I hardly knew the man,” Ulrich said, stopping behind her. She refused to turn, instead staring at his empty chair. “I’m guessing you know all of that,” he continued. “I’m also guessing you know the two prisoners he helped free. And that they’re somewhere in town right now.”
At that, Rowaine turned. “What will you do about them?”
Ulrich smiled. “Nothing. It’s none of my business, though it is foolish for them to have returned. But since they became fugitives based on hearsay and a wrongful investigation, I have no claim of indictment against either . . .”
He paused. Then, to prove he wasn’t bluffing, he slowly spoke their names. “Sybil Griswold and Dieter Nicolaus . . . are of no concern to me.”
Rowaine nodded. “They’re both of the Nicolaus family now.”
“Good for them. As far as I’m concerned, they’re safe in Bedburg until Bishop Schreib says otherwise. In actuality, I feel for the girl. I put Peter Griswold through much misery and pain. Had I known the facts—that he was an innocent man—I might not have taken such satisfaction in watching him suffer. In the end, it was all for show.” He shrugged.
Rowaine crossed her arms. “I’ll tell Sybil you said as much.”
Ulrich chuckled, his tone dark. “If you know your father isn’t here, what are you really doing in Bedburg, Catriona Donnelly?”
“Searching for the Werewolf of Bedburg.”
“Join the pack.”
“I have a drawing here, something I penned when I was young. A picture of the man who killed my mother and brother. Sybil already identified the man for me.”
Ulrich extended his hand. “May I see it?”
Rowaine reached into her jerkin, then held the picture up for Ulrich to see. He slowly exhaled, trying to remain expressionless, though Rowaine immediately noticed his subtle change of expression.
“It does look a bit like him,” Ulrich said. “You either are quite an artist, Catriona Donnelly, or you have quite a healthy imagination.”
“Have you seen him?” Rowaine asked, carefully folding the paper before slipping it back in her jacket.
“Not in over two years.”
“Where might he have gone?”
“No idea. Anything I say would be pure conjecture.”
“If you had to guess?”
Ulrich scratched his scarred cheek. “Somewhere far from here, possibly to do another man’s bidding, or to rest on his laurels. He was never my friend, merely a business associate. He ordered me around. But he was a friend to your father. How that must sting. Knowing your father was best friends with his wife’s—your mother’s—murderer.”
Rowaine felt a wave of heat reach her ears. The man was frustrating and knew which buttons to push. But, then again, as the resident torturer, it was no wonder he was well versed in such tactics.
“There are other people who might know more about Heinrich Franz’s whereabouts,” Ulrich said at last, possibly sensing her building anger.
She arched her brow, waiting for more.
“Balthasar Schreib, our bishop, might be one.” Ulrich wagged a finger. “But that’s playing a dangerous game, is it not? Speak with him and he might decide to arrest and try your friends. Are you willing to risk their lives to get the answers you seek?”
“Why would Bishop Schreib know anything about Heinrich Franz?”
Ulrich shrugged. “Like I said, Catriona Donnelly . . . pure conjecture. But he is a man who seems to know things.”
Rowaine bit her lip, tasting the coppery flavor seep down her throat. This man’s off-handed riddles are getting me nowhere.
“What can you tell me about the werewolf?” she asked.
Ulrich strolled back to his seat. “All I can tell you about the Werewolf of Bedburg is who he killed. From there, you’ll have to make your own way.”
“If you could give me that information, I’d be in your debt.”
“It’s the least I co
uld do for a poor orphan girl. Consider it recompense for losing your mother and brother . . .
“And for whatever happened to your father.”
Back in the tavern, Rowaine had been at a corner table for the past two hours, reading through the list of names Ulrich had given her.
When Sybil and Dieter arrived, they pushed their way back to Rowaine’s table. Hearing them approach, Rowaine looked up, then blinked a few times to shake off her blurring vision. Immediately, she noticed the papers Dieter was carrying.
“What’s that?” she asked.
Dieter grinned, dropping the yellow parchment pages on the table. “Church records. Names. Lots of names. With plenty of details.”
Rowaine motioned for them to sit. Aellin brought over two mugs of ale as they scooted in their chairs. She winked at Rowaine before sashaying away, and Rowaine’s eyes followed her hips back to the bar.
Dieter sipped his drink, then motioned to the papers. “All the deceased folk in Bedburg, going back twenty years—since the murders began, and a little before.”
Rowaine raised her brows. “How’d you manage that?”
Dieter leaned closer. “Using Sister Salome’s undying love for me.”
Sybil rolled her eyes. “He stole them.”
Rowaine chuckled, more shocked than anything. “That’s not very Godly of you, Herr Nicolaus. Thou shalt not steal?”
Dieter pointed a finger, suddenly serious. “Wrong,” he said. “It’s for a good cause. I promised Him I’d return them when we’re done.” He nodded, pleased with himself. He picked up one of the pages and began reading. “Now we just need to decipher what they might mean.” He motioned to the papers in front of Rowaine. “What do you have there?”
It was Rowaine’s turn to smile. “Something that might help shorten our search. These are the names of the people supposedly killed by the Werewolf of Bedburg. Eighteen in all. In dark detail. How, when, where. I’m shocked the torturer kept such records.”
Dieter slapped his hands on the tabletop. “Excellent! Now we can link the names on this list with the names on your list.”
