by Cory Barclay
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 purple 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.
Gustav squealed, his eyes darkening, his playful grabbing becoming more vicious.
As Hedda tensed for what was to come next, there was a sudden knock on the door.
Hedda and Gustav froze, then turned toward the source of the knock. A large man, almost as wide as the doorframe, stood at the doorway, calmly staring back at them.
Gustav straightened. Hedda used the moment to her advantage, adjusting her spectacles, then storming from the kitchen and, without uttering a word, squeezing past the large man out the front door.
The man turned to watch her walk away. “I . . . hope I’m not disturbing anything,” he said, then turned back to Gustav and smiled.
“She enjoys the gardens,” Gustav said, smiling back. “What are you doing here, Herr Davis?”
As he stepped inside, Timothy Davis’ smile disappeared, replaced with a frown from his sagging jowls. “I’m here on word of your . . . letter,” he said, speaking the last word as if he’d just stepped in a puddle of vomit.
Gustav stepped to the boiling pot on the stove as he spoke. “And? Isn’t that news for Reeve Bailey?”
“Indeed, but I wanted to bring my findings to your attention, first. In good faith, you see.” The fat man removed his floppy hat.
“If we’re going to talk business,” Gustav said, “I’ll need to put a shirt on. Forgive me.” He trudged past the taxman, into the separate room, appearing a moment later clothed in a brown, loose-fitting tunic. “Please,” he said, gesturing to the table in the middle of the room. “I’m famished and was preparing to dine. Won’t you join me?”
At that, the man was clearly conflicted—a war between brain and belly.
On one hand, Gustav thought, he feels out of sorts—wants to say his peace and be gone. On the other hand, a man that size isn’t likely to refuse a meal.
Gustav stirred the pot then walked to the table. As he sat, he called out to Hedda, then gestured for Timothy to join him at the table.
“It does . . . smell lovely,” Timothy said, sitting on the opposite side of the table.
“Good,” Gustav said. “By the way, it’s duck stew.”
Hedda re-entered the house with a scowl. After sharing a brief look with Gustav, who nodded to her almost imperceptibly, she walked to the stove to serve dinner.
Gustav, meanwhile, turned his attention to his new dinner guest. “Now, what is it you wish to tell me?”
“I’m here on good faith—”
“You’ve already said that.”
Timothy cleared his voice. “Then I’ll get to it. This . . . letter,” he started, pulling it out and shaking it in front of Gustav, “is made from Italian paper stock. But your father is from Germany, yes?” Without waiting for a response, he added, “Do they not have paper there?”
“Not as good as the Italians, I hear,” Gustav replied, folding his hands on the table.
“Right. Well, this stamp, too, it just isn’t right. The wax—”
Gustav’s voice was low as he interrupted. “What are you trying to say, Herr Davis?”
Timothy folded his hands on the table, imitating Gustav. “This letter is a forgery, Herr Koehler—if that is your real name.”
“You’re calling my father a liar?”
“No. I’m calling you a liar.”
Both men went quiet. As a ray of light shined through the window, Gustav could see the dust dancing in the air between himself and Timothy. He felt his mouth twitch, not sure whether his growing anger or the laudanum was to blame. The only sounds he heard were his heart pounding in his ears and Hedda pouring the soup in the kitchen. Several long moments passed before Timothy continued. “I don’t know what you’re doing here in Norfolk, sir, but it’s not as your father’s regent. And it’s not as the owner of this land. And it certainly is not as a tax-collector.”
Gustav unfolded his hands, scratched his chin, then casually leaned back. “What are we going to do about this, Herr Davis? Why haven’t you gone running to your master?”
Timothy frowned. “I’d like to get this settled, so you will leave. I’ll even offer you money if it means you’ll leave with haste. This is a peaceful land of Strangers—people who’ve been victimized, who were a
ccepted as refugees by the graciousness of Queen Elizabeth. We don’t want trouble.”
“You didn’t answer my question, taxman.”
“If I tell Clarence, he’ll most certainly involve Norwich and the guards . . . possibly even soldiers. You could be arrested for forgery, fraud, and banditry. I’d rather get this taken care of quietly.”
Hedda walked over, placed a bowl of stew in front of each man, and walked away.
“You’re offering me payment to leave?” Gustav asked, putting his wooden spoon to the soup.
Timothy’s face sagged as he tore into his stew and slurped it up. Gustav watched him eat.
“It’s very good, dear,” Timothy said to Hedda, not answering Gustav. Then, between slurps: “If I may ask, what is it you’re doing here? Spying? Reconnaissance? Thievery?”
Gustav poked at a carrot bobbing in his stew. “You may ask, Herr Davis, but I am not inclined to answer.”
Timothy finished his stew, then looked toward the kitchen. “Then I’ll ask your ass . . . assistant.” But Hedda was not there. Timothy’s smile faded. His brow creased, lines formed on his forehead. He tilted his head, blinking uncontrollably. “W-what in God’s . . . g-good graces . . .” He couldn’t finish the words.
Gustav calmly took his first spoonful of food. “You should always watch how voraciously your guests are eating, Herr Davis. Not that it would matter in this case.”
Timothy’s eyes fluttered. “W-what’s wrong with . . .” Drool ran from the corner of his mouth.
“You’re losing function in your face, I believe,” Gustav said nonchalantly. “Your heart’s likely beating faster than a hornet’s wings. As you grow dizzier, the numbness will move to your extremities.”
“B-bast . . . bastard,” Timothy croaked, hands going to his neck. His fingers moved aimlessly, like he couldn’t feel what he was touching.
“Oleander from Portugal and aconite root from my home country,” Gustav smiled. “Also known as wolfsbane.” Gustav leaned back in his chair, watching Timothy suffer like a scientist gauging an experiment. “I considered using spotted hemlock or nightshade, both also from Germany, but those are too common and you may have recognized them.”
Timothy was now sweating profusely. Gustav leaned forward to get a better view as the man started to keel over . . .
Thwack!
Gustav jumped out of his laudanum-haze as Timothy’s face slammed into the table. The back of his head gushed blood. Hedda stood behind him holding the shovel—the one Gustav had left by the door after tending his lovely garden. With a thud, it fell to the ground. Hedda tilted her glasses up the bridge of her nose.
Gustav threw his arms up. “Dammit, woman, why’d you do that? I wanted to see what happened!”
“He was going from being alive to being dead. That’s what was happening, Gustav,” she said, walking away. “I simply hurried the process.”
Hours later, Reeve Clarence Bailey appeared at Gustav’s new home. He stepped off his carriage, admiring Gustav’s plants and flowers. “Quite a collection you have there, Herr Koehler,” he said as Gustav finished patting down a new plot of soil between two of his prized foxgloves from Germany. “I take it your tax rounds went without incident today?”
Gustav stood up and nodded. “The farmers are very understandable about the minor change, Herr Bailey,” he said with a grunt.
The reeve scratched his balding head. “Er, is there any reason why you’re gardening at night, sir? I would think the daylight would make the job easier.”
Gustav shrugged. “Wanted to fill this last hole.” He took a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Plus, it is much cooler this way.”
“Right . . .” Clarence said, trailing off. He turned to leave, then spun back. “Say, sir, have you happened to see my tax-collector around these parts? He was supposed to be back hours ago.”
“Who, Herr Bailey? I’m your taxman.”
“Indeed,” Clarence muttered, shuffling his feet. “I mean the other one. You met him last night—the one I sent running off. Timothy Davis was his name.”
Gustav stuck the shovel in the ground, inches from his newly-filled plot. “Ah, right. Can’t say I’ve seen Herr Davis, my lord. But I’ll certainly let you know if he turns up.”
CHAPTER NINE
ROWAINE
The Lion’s Pride docked near Amsterdam on an explosively sunny day, tucked far away from all other trading vessels. At least forty ships filled the harbor, all with storage rights to be there. The Pride did not have those rights.
But Captain Rowaine and her crew were not interested in conducting trade. She had a mind to repair, relax, and reinvigorate. The crew was exhausted. They’d been scavenging at sea far too long.
Trade could wait.
Walking up the rickety wooden dock, she couldn’t help but be awed by the enormity of the harbor. Ships and galleons and seafarers mingled together, rocking and bumping each other. The port was one of Europe’s centermost trading depots, connecting outlying towns through Amsterdam’s extensive waterways.
Still, she was surprised at the pace of Amsterdam’s economic progress. She reckoned that by the turn of the century, it’d be the most important trading hub this side of the North Sea.
She yawned, stretching her arms as she made her way along the dock. Her two-dozen seamen, all stinking and ragged, followed.
She breathed in deeply. The salt, the birds, the buzz. It was enough to make a lesser person dizzy.
“Dom,” Rowaine called out, “get the boys situated at Dolly’s.” A few approving grunts rang out. “First round’s on me.”
Several cheers followed while others stayed silent. There’d been a telltale awkwardness on board the Pride since Rowaine had taken command. Half the crew still didn’t trust, or like, her. And she knew it.
I’ll have to win them over with my . . . feminine wiles, she joked to herself. I don’t need them to like me, just respect me, and to know I’ll be a good leader. After all, she’d always been the tomboy, not giving any quarter. Captain Galager’s fate should be proof of that.
“Dom?” Rowaine called again, turning her head. He was nowhere in sight.
“He’s near the back, Row.” Daxton came up beside her, running a hand over his shaved head. “I’ll get the boys settled.”
“Thank you,” she said, eyeing the thick-armed carpenter.
Could it be him—the most talkative and supportive of my little entourage? Could he be the traitor?
The question hadn’t left her mind since Captain Galager had met his fate. Someone had given her up, gotten Dominic hurt. She would never forgive that wretch, but it wasn’t easy hiding her thoughts with everyone constantly pestering her. She’d attempted to implore Dominic to be her hideaway investigator, but he’d been despondent since his incident, and not exactly the most reliable detective.
She tried to let the thoughts of vengeance and turncoats drift from her mind. As she and her crew strutted into the bustling city, everyone cleared a path.
Not long ago, she’d been begging for scraps, eager to make a name for herself. Now she was the captain of a notorious gang of pirates.
Not exactly the illustrious profession she’d dreamed of, but it certainly fit her nature. If people wouldn’t give her what she wanted, fine. She’d take it. Things were different now. The richest merchant wouldn’t dare disrupt her lunch.
Fear outweighs money. And I carry both.
A few passersby hailed Rowaine as she strolled by. She was well-known in this place, but now carried a new air. She sensed it, as did all those around her. She tried to think of a word.
Magnetic. That’s what it was. She was magnetic.
That’s how I’ll build my new company, she thought. The promise of money, respect, dignity . . . the people will listen to that. My job is just finding the right people.
They passed a dozen shops and markets, but Rowaine had her sights set on Dolly’s, her favorite tavern and brothel. Captain Galager had been a part-owner.
Guess that makes me part-owner now.
A favored destination for both vagabonds and the hard-nosed, there wasn’t a better recruitment office in all of Amsterdam. Her face lit up as the tavern appeared in the distance.
Dolly’s was a two-story affair, a perfect balance of depravity and self-indulgence. The place had the best whores in town and the ale was always frosty.
Rowaine felt her mouth water before she even pushed through the creaky double-doors.
Rising cheers erupted as she entered. Her crew pushed past, taking seats, reuniting with lost friends, brothers, and wenches. A few crewmen grabbed the nearest women they could find and dragged them upstairs.
Unfortunately, one of the girls so grabbed wasn’t one of Dolly’s workers, and a scuffle broke out between the pirate and the girl’s husband. It ended quickly when the pirate smashed the man’s own beer mug over his head and took the girl.
“This isn’t the place to bring a suitor,” muttered Alfred, standing beside Rowaine.
Rowaine searched the smoky tavern with half-lidded eyes. The person she was looking for wasn’t there. She frowned, thinking, Maybe upstairs . . .
Before she could go, Daxton shoved a mug of ale in her hand and shouted, “Beat you to it! Got the whole bar a round!”
A bit of beer splashed on Rowaine’s leather shirt. She wiped it off, took the beer, and stared daggers at Daxton.
“Don’t worry,” he said, putting an arm around his captain. “I used your money!”
Jerome Penderwick sauntered by with a girl on his arm, flashing his best three- or four-toothed grin.
Half the tavern patrons left when Rowaine and her crew took over the place. Dolly herself came downstairs to welcome her guests. She was a large woman with a tight corset shoving her breasts up to her neck. Her two chins wobbled, and entirely too much makeup mucked up her eyes.
“Look who’s here to steal all my business,” Dolly grinned.
“Technically, it’s my business I’m stealing,” Rowaine replied.
After a short pause, Dolly’s face broke into a smile. “Get over here, you cold bitch,” she said, wrapping both arms around Rowaine. She leaned into her ear. “I hear you’re captain now. Slit the bastard’s manhood off, did you now?”
