by Unknown
Angus placed his hand on Wilhelm’s head. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritūs Sancti. Give this man the clarity of spirit and heart to confess the truth, or may he suffer for his iniquities, for the wages of sin is death.” Using the persuasion of his Vamsyrian abilities, he willed the priest into unconsciousness.
Father Meier collapsed into the waiting arms of Stefano, who eased the priest onto his side on the stone floor. Angus strolled to his bed, grabbing a pillow and coverlet, and handed them to his deacon. Stefano slipped the pillow under Wilhelm’s head and shrouded his body with the coverlet.
“Thank you.” Angus inclined his head and turned to his desk. “As usual, I will summon you when he has awakened.”
“Sì, padre.” Stefano exited.
Abbot Cromer stood with his mouth open, glancing from Angus to Wilhelm, lying prone. “W-what just happened? How did you—?”
“I did nothing, Father.” Angus sat and opened his journal as if the man passing out was a casual occurrence. “You have witnessed the power of God, Abbot.” He pretended to ignore the confounded clergy while he scribbled some notes in his journal. However, his Vamsyrian abilities were listening very carefully to the abbot’s thoughts.
How is that even possible? In all my years, I had never witnessed such a miraculous display of God’s power. And this…this…youth summoned it like he calls for his attending deacons. To render a man unconscious! The abbot paced. I…why do I not have such access to God? I have served you, Lord, devoted my life to you for twice as many years as this arrogant young priest has even been—
Angus chuckled and turned his body in his chair to lean back and regard the abbot. “Such impure thoughts for such a pious man. You have it all wrong, Georg. How much time you’ve devoted your life to and what you’ve done for God have nothing to do with gaining access to him. Deeds don’t get you into heaven, so why would they be the method by which you obtain its power?”
Abbot Cromer paled and swallowed.
“Such sinful thoughts are what lead you down the same arrogant path Father Meier has taken, to join an elite group of people who think they are above the law of the Church, God’s chosen vessel for his salvation.” He waggled a finger at Cromer. “I suggest you change your attitude before you end up on the stake, right beside Father Wilhelm.”
“Of course, Inquisitor Campbell.” Abbot Cromer rushed to kneel before Angus, kissing his hand.
“No need for that, Georg. That will be all for now. Thank you.”
The abbot bowed his way out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Angus finished jotting down the notes he began, taking the opportunity to let some time pass. Once he was confident he wouldn’t be disturbed, he crossed the room and bolted the door, then marched to his chest at the foot of his bed. Prying back the lid, he extracted a polished wooden box, containing his protective gloves and ceremonial dagger, a corked pottery jar and a fresh kerchief, which he pocketed. He carried these to the desk, shoving his journal and writing instruments to one side. From within the polished box, he picked up the reddish-brown leather gloves—ensuring to grab them by the folded, fleece cuff—and slipped them onto his hands. Next, he grabbed the dagger and the jar and brought them to Father Meier, where he knelt at his back.
“You, my friend, are the final member I need.” Angus threw the blanket off Wilhelm’s shoulder. Uncorking the jar, he positioned the lip at the back of the priest’s neck and made an incision with the dagger. Wilhelm stirred while his blood oozed into the container and Angus set the dagger aside as the jar filled. Taking the fresh kerchief from his pocket, he waited until he had enough blood then pressed the kerchief to the cut, stopping the flow. The scent of blood tempted The Hunger to surface and his fangs extended. Angus pierced his thumb and shoved it into the priest’s mouth, forcing the Vamsyrian blood down his throat. Wilhelm stirred again, swallowing with a mild grimace, then stilled.
Angus waited.
The nonsensical ramblings of the priest’s dreams and unconscious thoughts grew loud enough for him to hear.
Angus smiled.
Corking the blessed blood in the jar, Angus set it aside, then pierced his thumb again to heal the incision on Wilhelm’s neck. Dabbing the priest’s skin, he wiped away any sign of blood and tossed the kerchief into the hearth. However, he didn’t want to take any chance some of the blessed blood tainted Wilhelm’s skin, so Angus pushed the priest’s sleeve up his arm to drink from his wrist. Father Meier moaned and Angus closed his eyes, enjoying the sweet flavor of blood…and gleaning more information on the inner workings of the Army of Light.
Wilhelm wasn’t lying. He had been serving the Church and was faithful to God in all he did since he was an orphan seeking refuge behind these walls. But he did lie about his involvement with the Army of Light, which he joined fifteen years ago. And, as luck would have it, Wilhelm served in the Archives for three years! What a rare find, indeed. Of the eighteen members Angus had fed from and harvested their blessed blood, only one other member had worked in this vast library network of the Tzava Ha’or.
Father Opfer and Sister Schuld had both heard rumors about the prophetic line ending since the last Seer had been barren or at least never bore a successor. Some speculated the Prophetess did bear a child and was in hiding to protect her. However, as the decades passed with no sign of a new Keeper of Secrets, the Army of Light lost hope in keeping track of the prophecy. Only through her visions would the Tzava Ha’or uncover the milestones of the prophecy.
But Father Meier had actually met the Prophetess. Angus pulled away from Wilhelm’s wrist, healed the gash in his skin and wiped it clean. He paced, the smile on his face growing with each step. A Vamsyrian? He laughed. The Prophetess is a Vamsyrian and was the second sign! How ironic. She’d told Wilhelm she was the custodian of the prophecy and immortality would give her the ability to be so.
“So, Prophetess. You were the one who thought you could protect Broderick from me by giving him the incantation. Your manipulation knows no bounds.” Angus picked up the pottery jar of blessed blood and placed it on his desk. Reaching into the chest at the foot of the bed, he pulled out the lambskin, hooded cloak he’d made, dyed the same reddish-brown as his gloves and matching lambskin leather boots…save for the last, bottom corner of the floor-length garment, where the leather was still raw and unblemished. Combining sheep’s oil with Father Meier’s blessed blood, he would use it to finally finish the protective garment. “Now, brother, you can no longer hide behind the protection of the Tzava Ha’or.” Once and for all, Angus’s soul would be at peace.
Chapter Fourteen
Weak from the herbs, Marcus staggered into the woods and away from the monastery. Once out of sight and hidden by the trees, Marcus finally ripped the sachet from his neck and picked a tree unique enough for him to recognize. He hung the sachet on a twig protruding from the trunk so he could collect the herbs during the day. Though he loathed the transformation, he at least would feel his strength return. Stepping away from the power of the herbs, he dropped to his knees, grunting and groaning through the agonizing process. His consolation, though, was he’d finally have the cure and not have to endure this painful transition every cycle.
He charged through the woods, hungry for a kill.
Skirting the edge of Vollstadt, he spied the young man Jason walking alone down the road. “I’m glad we’re leaving anyway. I won’t have to see Monika with her lover.” He mumbled something Marcus couldn’t understand. “Betraying bitch! Selfish bitch only thinking of herself. Barrel maker not good enough for you, eh?” He picked up a rock and hurled it into the forest.
Marcus grinned. This poor sod had walked right into his doom. Marcus had the text from Katrina’s book, which proved Monika’s father was a werewolf. Looks like you’ll not only be convicted as a witch, my dear, but you’ll command the hounds of hell as well. Marcus snickered and charged. Jason’s gut-wrenching screams echoed over the sleeping village of Vollstadt.
* * * * *<
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Monika staggered to the door, wiping the sleep from her eyes, and squinted at the bright light. “Just a moment!” she snapped at the frantic pounding on the door. She threw back the bolt and the door burst open. Edda pushed Monika back and slammed the door shut. “The village of Vollstadt is in hysterics! A young man named Jason Kiefer was found torn to pieces at the edge of town and they’re saying you cursed him.”
“What?” That most certainly woke her out of her stupor. “Why me?”
“Someone said something about you kicking him and saying you’d do worse if he didn’t leave you alone.”
Monika moaned and covered her face. “The man was obsessive and forced me against a wall. I had to kick him, but I—”
“No one will care! The inquisition is here, Monika.”
She gasped. “Where is Oma?”
“She was still at Irma’s, sitting with her and the baby. There’s a mob with the Roman Catholic Church headed this way. Helmut is taking you and Mina to Nordenham now to be with your father. Let’s go!”
Monika grabbed her shawl, bodice and skirt, and slipped on her leather shoes. Edda peered out the door. Nodding, she waved for Monika to follow her and they ran across the courtyard to the blacksmith shop.
“Monika!” Mina whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Come child, we must go.”
Angry shouts echoed around the platz and Monika whirled toward the crowd of people flooding in from the northeast path, a caged wagon rumbling behind them.
“Edda, get her out of here!” Monika hissed, throwing her clothes at her friend, and marched toward her cottage.
Otto the innkeeper was leading the pack. “That’s her!”
“Back away, if you please!” shouted a voice with a strong Italian accent. The shouts of the crowd dissipated as two men—whom she guessed were priests—dressed in long black cassocks pushed forward. One held up his hands toward the gathered mob. “This will be done in an orderly fashion.”
“We already know she’s guilty!” Otto yelled and spit at Monika’s feet.
Monika glared.
“That is not for you to decide, but your testimony will be considered during the trail.” He swiveled around and approached Monika, then read from a decorative parchment scroll he held in his hands. “By order of the Bishop of Rome and the authority of the Roman Catholic Church, Monika Konrads, you are hereby charged with witchcraft and heresy. You are to be taken into custody and given a fair trial before the Inquisition.”
Monika’s throat tightened, but she refused to let her tears fall and clenched her fists at her sides. The crowd behind the priests roared, many raising their fists in support. Helmut, Hans and a few of the other residents of Kostbar rushed forward, protesting.
“You will be charged with harboring a witch if you do not cease this riotous behavior!” The scroll reader nodded, seemingly satisfied when her friends retreated.
Monika shook her head and offered a reassuring smile to her neighbors, so willing to champion her.
“Where is your cottage?” the other black-robed priest asked Monika.
Resisting was futile and would only make matters worse. She pointed to her dwelling.
He nodded and ushered three monks in brown, hooded robes into her cottage along with the scroll-reader. After a few moments, the monks emerged, their arms loaded with herbal jars, the house broom and her mother’s book.
“If you wish to help Fräulein Konrads,” the scroll-bearer said to her neighbors. “You will have the chance to bear witness at her trial. That is all.” He waved his hand, beckoning the guards standing beside the caged wagon. One of the tall men in chainmail grasped her arm and guided her toward her prison on wheels. The other inserted a large iron key into the lock and opened the barred door, then held his hand out to assist her.
A member of the mob held a torch aloft above the crowd. She just needed to call the flames to do her bidding. Monika twisted around to survey the people hungry to see her burn. Although some may be afraid of what happened to Jason and that they may be next, Otto certainly must be enjoying this from a vengeance standpoint, his self-satisfied grimace a testimony to his black heart. Then she regarded the people she’d known all her life standing in the platz, huddling with each other, tears staining their cheeks or fists clenched in anger or mouths twisted with fear.
She would risk all their lives if she used magick to save herself.
Monika nodded to the guards, her lips in a tight smile of resignation. They bound her wrists with rope. Once her hands were bound, she was defenseless. Her chance at wielding magick had passed. She stepped up into the cage with their assistance.
Hugging her knees to her chest at the center of the cage, she finally let the tears fall as the wagon lumbered away from her home and the people she loved. She dropped her forehead to her knees, praying Broderick would be safe. He could rescue her and not risk innocent people…if they hadn’t already taken him from his ship. But he was most vulnerable during the day. “Please be safe, my love.”
* * * * *
Broderick inched his way down the long, dark corridor, orange light flickering on the stone wall at the far end. His wrists burned. His legs dragged as if he trudged through mud. “Blossom! Where are you?”
“Broderick!”
He clawed to reach the end of the passage. Slightly ajar, a rough-hewn wooden door with a small barred window fluttered with passing shadows—a dangling chain, an arm wielding a whip.
“Davina!”
“Confess to the crime of witchcraft!” a voice commanded, thick with an Italian accent.
“The rack!” another voice cried.
Clutching the doorway, Broderick pulled himself through the entrance to the dungeon. Chains rattled and clanked as a black-robed priest turned a massive, spoke wheel. Davina lie prone on an iron table and grimaced as the shackles on her ankles and wrists tugged at her limbs.
“We have the evidence of your crimes,” another priest robed in black announced, and picked up Katrina’s book, hoisting it over his head.
Davina screamed at the chains pulled tighter, then slumped into unconsciousness. The priests unlocked her shackles and bound her hands with rope. Broderick strained against his own shackles, searing his wrists. Her body fell forward and they caught her before she hit the stone floor. One of the priests grabbed a handful of her dark hair and yanked her head up, revealing Monika’s tear-stained face before they dragged her through another door.
“Monika!”
Broderick opened his eyes, but was still surrounded in darkness. His wrists were on fire and the pungent odor of burning flesh assailed his nostrils. Weakness governed his limbs, weighted with lethargy as if filled with lead, and he knelt against the hard, unforgiving floor. Swinging his head from side to side, his eyes searched the darkness and discovered a square spot of light. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed light shining on a small tin cup perched on a stool in the corner next to a bucket. He shook his head and squinted back at the square of light. A small barred window in a door? He yanked his arms and chains rattled. Based on the images in his dream, he and Monika were most likely imprisoned for witchcraft. He gritted his teeth and jerked against his bonds, but to no avail. The draining of his immortal powers and the burning on his flesh gave every indication his shackles were most likely blessed with the incantation. But by whom? Since Marcus didn’t get what he wanted, Broderick assumed the werewolf may be behind their capture, but Marcus didn’t know the ward. Who was he working with?
The clanging of keys rattling in the lock jarred him from speculation. The black-robed priests Broderick recognized from his dream filed into the room, the first one carrying a torch, which he dropped into the iron bracket on the wall. Marcus Sparenland followed, a triumphant grin on his bearded face, confirming Broderick’s suspicions. He was obviously taking advantage of the werewolf ward from Katrina’s book. Marcus stood on the opposite wall of the priests. In his weakened state, Broderick wasn’t surprised when his fangs extended. He glared
at the clergy and they recoiled, most likely seeing the silver core glowing in his eyes.
“Oh, don’t fear this one, my faithful servants. I know how to handle him.”
It can’t be!
“At last.” A tall, cloaked figure sauntered forward, the sweet scent of blood wafting off him like perfume. Angus Campbell pushed back the hood of his reddish-brown cloak and grinned. “I have waited a very long time for this moment.”
Broderick mumbled the incantation, erecting a protective barrier—floor to ceiling and wall to wall, a few feet in front of him to keep his enemy at bay.
Angus’s mocking laughter stoked Broderick’s anger. “Did you hear that, gentlemen? The Vamsyrian is using magic against us. Please stand back. I don’t want you to be harmed.”
Marcus and the priests retreated a few feet, while Angus stepped forward. He stretched his hand in front of him toward the barrier. His fingertips hissed when they pressed against the invisible wall.
Angus yanked his hand back, shaking off the burn. “You see that? It seems he’s protecting himself with some kind of demonic wall.”
His servants gasped and nodded. Marcus smirked.
Broderick snorted. “And how is it a Vamsyrian like yourself, Angus, is in such a position to work with the Church?”
The room echoed with chortles. “You see how predictable he is?” Angus shared his amusement with the priests and Marcus before glaring at Broderick. “As I told you, he would try to say I was one of his kind.” He waved his hand toward the barrier. “Marcus, would you please come forward and try to put your hand through the wall? Only if you wish to prove how wrong MacDougal is, of course.”
The werewolf grinned. “My pleasure.” Reaching his hand out in a similar manner as Angus, Marcus’s fingertips made contact and sizzled against the barrier. He also shook his hands in a demonstration of pain.
The priests nodded and frowned. Broderick shook his head.
