Of Witches and Werewolves Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  “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 could 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.”

  God knows it’s never that easy, Rowaine thought.

  To be as thorough as possible, each of them assumed a different task. Dieter combed through his list of Bedburg’s deceased for the past two decades, first looking to see if anything interesting stood out. Rowaine continued reviewing her list of eighteen murder victims to familiarize herself with the killer’s methods. And when each of them would finish a page, they’d hand it over to Sybil who then began circling names common to both lists.

  Dieter was impressed with the level of detail the church had maintained for the town’s dead.

  “Not only do they list dates of death, and their backgrounds, and when they moved to Bedburg, but they even have a sidebar with possible affiliations for each person.”

  Nearly all the victims on Rowaine’s pages were female, killed in the countryside in terribly gruesome ways. At some point, Rowaine began reading aloud.

  “Helga, seventy-three years aged, killed seventeen of August, 1575. Found naked, throat torn, in the lowlands near the Peringsmaar Lake. Possible Waldensian.” Rowaine drank a sip of ale. “She must have been one of the early victims.” She continued with another passage. “Gretchin, eighteen years aged, found near the northern woods in the hills, third of October, 1580. Stomach opened, suspected unborn child missing.” At that, Sybil nearly gagged.

  When Rowaine got to one of the more recent names, she stopped, squinting at the entry for a while. “This is odd. It shows my . . .” she cleared her throat. “It shows my uncle as a victim. Konrad Brühl.” The other two looked up.

  “I mean, first, he doesn’t really fit the killer’s pattern—being a man—except for his throat being torn out. And then, it lists his place of death as ‘unknown.’”

  At that moment, Aellin happened to set down three more mugs of ale and, overhearing the conversation, said, “Ain’t no secret where your uncle was found, girl.” The three of them stared up at her. “At least not to anyone who lives here. I’m guessing the jailer wanted to save himself the embarrassment.”

  “What do you mean, Aellin,” asked Sybil.

  The wench put her hands on her hips. “Konrad was found in a tunnel beneath the jailhouse.”

  Sybil’s mouth dropped. “Why didn’t you tell us that when you mentioned him last night?”

  “Figured you already knew. Everyone knows. Some say it’s a secret underground passage.”

  “Leading where?” Dieter asked.

  “Hell should I know? I ain’t no explorer, priest—and it ain’t none of my business.” She sauntered away, again drawing Rowaine’s attention for a brief moment.

  “Cat, what do you think?” Sybil asked.

  Rowaine’s eyes veered from Aellin’s alluring backside to Sybil. “I think we’re getting closer to the truth. But before we’re forced to ask Balthasar Schreib any questions, let’s see what this tunnel is all about.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  SYBIL

  The opening to the underground tunnel was exactly where Aellin said it would be. Just after dark, Rowaine, Sybil, and Dieter had snuck around to the back of the jailhouse to see if Aellin’s information about the killing under the jail might prove useful.

  Before leaving, Sybil had once again entrusted her son Peter with Claus, the jolly old man whom she’d quickly come to trust and respect.

  “Do you suppose the jailers know of this?” Rowaine asked, staring down the black fissure. Old rocks and refuse surrounded the sunken crevice, partially hiding it from view.

  “If it’s common news that your Uncle Konrad was found dead down there,” Sybil said, “how could they not?”

  “Why would they not cover it over?” Dieter wondered aloud.

  “There must be a reason for keeping it open,” Sybil said.

  They descended down the shaky ladder that rested against the lip of the crevice, Dieter going first. Once the three were gathered at the base of the ladder, they waited for their eyes to adjust. Except for a small perimeter of diffused moonlight filtering down from the opening above, everything around them was pitch-black. Fortunately, Dieter noticed an unlit torch resting against the wall near the ladder, and Rowaine fou
nd a suitable rock nearby and used her knife to spark it.

  With Rowaine in the lead with the torch, they proceeded down the only pathway.

  The tunnel had the rank odor of a catacomb—stale and pungent. Water droplets from the concave ceiling occasionally trickled on their heads as they moved along single-file. After a while the tunnel widened, allowing them to travel abreast of each other.

  If this place is a catacomb, it’s much bigger and goes much farther than I imagined, Sybil thought.

  At one point, the path split into a three-way fork, with two narrower walkways branching left and right while the wider one in the middle continued straight. They chose to continue straight because it seemed to be the main corridor and, thus, the best chance to find something important.

  Every so often they’d pass another small walkway snaking left or right, which led Sybil to wonder what these underground routes were really for. “If this tunnel follows the breadth of Bedburg—” she began, but Rowaine was already nodding and continued her thought.

  “It would be an easy way to travel through the city without notice.”

  “And perfect for a killer,” Dieter added.

  Eventually, the main passage turned muddy, the ground wet and more difficult to walk on. They crunched along the soggy gravel until they came to another ladder, this one more decrepit than the first. Three feet past the ladder, their passageway dead-ended. As Sybil sloshed her way to the ladder, she abruptly raised her hand, quieting the others.

  They heard voices. From above.

  Sybil grabbed hold of the ladder and slowly began climbing. With each step the thing wobbled in the mushy soil, forcing the other two to hold its sides to keep it steady. When Sybil reached the top, an iron grate blocked her path. She tried pushing it and felt the dirt begin to give, but she couldn’t budge it further.

  “It will move, but I’m not strong enough,” she murmured, climbing back down.

  Dieter volunteered to try, but Rowaine took the lead. Wedging the torch into a large crack in the wall by the ladder, she climbed to the top, then gently began wiggling the grate while applying upward pressure. For several minutes she kept at it, trying to be as quiet as possible, until it finally began to dislodge.

  Mud and debris spilled onto her face. She turned her head and spat out the grime, then managed to raise the grate high enough to slide it to the side. She poked her head through the clearing, then leaned back down.

  “It opens into a dark room,” she whispered to the others.

  Sybil and Dieter both waved her on, so she climbed up the rest of the way and disappeared through the hole.

  A moment later she reappeared, on her stomach with her head hanging over the edge, motioning for the others to climb up. As they did, she helped each one off the ladder and into the room.

  It was a storage area of some sort, musty, dark, and cold. Enough light seeped through the bottom crack of a door on the far side for them to make out bags of wheat and moldy crates of fruit scattered about.

  Quietly, they made their way to the door. Sybil gently turned the knob. It opened. She peeked out.

  To her left, a woman with white hair—holding a knife—was leaning over a table, chopping carrots, her back to Sybil. Flickering torchlight lit the room. A younger girl dressed in a maid’s gown stood next to the woman, facing in Sybil’s direction. When Sybil materialized from the shadows, the younger girl recoiled, then tugged the older woman’s dress.

  The older woman turned slowly, still holding her carrot knife. Surprisingly, she didn’t seem startled. Instead, she calmly turned to the younger girl and, with eyes fixed on Sybil, said, “We’re fine for tonight, Isabel. Run along now.”

  Isabel stared at the woman in the shadows, now joined by two more strangers. “Should I alert the guards?” she asked in a squeaky voice.

  The old woman shook her head. “No. Just get some rest. We have a big day tomorrow.”

  Isabel’s dark curls bobbed on her shoulders as she left through a side door. In unison, Sybil, Dieter, and Rowaine stepped closer to the white-haired lady.

  “How may I help you?” the woman asked evenly. She followed Sybil’s eyes to the knife she held. “Oh, pardon me.” She set it down on the table.

  Wasting no time, Rowaine stepped out from behind Sybil and unfolded the picture from her pocket. “We mean you no harm, my lady. We’re seeking this man. Do you know him, perhaps?”

  The woman’s eyes creased near the edges. Sybil sensed a certain sadness overtake her. Then the woman’s face contorted and her eyes grew moist. She looked up from the picture.

  “What is your name, young lady?” she asked Rowaine.

  “I am Catriona Donnelly, and this man—”

  But Sybil put her hand on Rowaine’s shoulder, stopping her, then stepped forward. It was the look in the woman’s eyes that Sybil read. She spoke softly to her.

  “He’s a friend of ours, and we’re earnestly trying to find him. You know him, don’t you?”

  The woman blinked several times. “Of course I know Heinrich. Or should I call him Herr Franz now? Or ‘my lord?’” She chuckled to herself.

  Rowaine shared a look with Sybil, unsure of the woman’s meaning.

  “I am Sybil Griswold,” Sybil said, using her given surname for the first time in years. It felt odd saying it.

  The woman frowned. “Ah, the Griswold girl. I was sad to hear of your father.”

  Sybil arched her brow. “You knew my father? Who are you?”

  “I’m just a simple old kitchen-maid, my lady. My name is Odela. And no, I did not know your father personally, but I weep for any man who leaves children orphaned.” For a “kitchen-maid,” Odela’s voice bespoke wisdom and education.

  “Do you know where Heinrich is, Odela?” Sybil asked.

  “I do not. I have not seen poor Heiny in some time.” The sadness overtook her again, her eyes dipping downward.

  Heiny?

  “What was Herr Franz to you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Odela studied the three faces, then zeroed in on Dieter. “Who is your handsome friend?”

  Dieter stepped forward. “My name is Dieter Nicolaus. I was once a priest here—”

  “I know who you are,” Odela said.

  “How do you know so much?” Sybil asked. Clearly, this woman was more than a simple staff-lady. Sybil looked around the room. “And . . . where are we, exactly?”

  Odela chuckled sweetly again. “Why, you’re in Castle Bedburg of course, my dear.”

  Sybil tried to mask her surprise.

  “And to answer your question—what was I to Heinrich? . . . I suppose I was a great many things to him. I’ve known him since he was a boy, so I might be considered his godmother. Though I doubt he would agree with that.”

  “Why?” Rowaine asked.

  Odela sat on the bench near the table. She motioned for her company to join her. They did.

  “We had a falling out, you could say.”

  “What was he like?” Sybil asked. “Heinrich. As a boy.”

  Odela let out another soft snicker. “If I had to choose a word? . . . Wild.” She paused. “Rambunctious. Different from the rest. His mother died when he was young. But he was still old enough to feel the pain.” She shook her head slowly, her eyes staring off. “And I just couldn’t stand to see the boy suffer, so—”

  “You took him in?” Rowaine ventured.

  Odela nodded. “He loved nature, playing in the woods,” she said, smiling, thinking of the memory. “One time I went to find him in the woods. When I heard him laughing, my heart soared. But when I found him, I was shocked.”

  The trio waited, leaning forward.

  “He was surrounded by wolves.”

  Sybil gave a small gasp.

  “Oh, don’t worry yourself, my dear. It was not like you think. He had befriended them! Can you believe it? He was throwing a stick, playing fetch with them. It was astounding.” She got a dreamy look. “I do miss those days,” she mumbled. Then her
face tightened and she refocused on the group. “But he grew up so strangely. I don’t know why.”

  “What do you mean, my lady?” asked Rowaine.

  Odela clasped her hands together and rested them in her lap. “I don’t know if I should be telling you this. But since you say you’re friends . . .” She bent forward conspiratorially.

  “I would often catch him . . . dressing up.”

  “Dressing up?”

  Odela shifted in her seat. “Sometimes he would wear his mother’s old stockings and heels. When he learned to knit, I wondered what he was making. Until one day I saw him wearing the dress he’d knitted.”

  Sybil leaned her head back. What a strange, strange thing, she thought. But why?

  “I don’t know why,” Odela said, reading Sybil’s mind. She giggled. “Judging by the looks on your faces, I’d say it’s as strange to you as it was to me. But I still loved the boy like a son. Perhaps he was confused.”

  “Maybe it was guilt,” Rowaine added.

  Odela frowned. “Guilt? Over what?” Her face softened and she waved her hand. “No, no, my dear, that wouldn’t come ‘til later.”

  “How do you mean?” Sybil asked.

  “Oh my . . . Heiny would be so angry if he knew I was saying all this.” She smiled and shook her head. “I haven’t seen him for so long, and I do miss his company. It feels good to reminisce.”

  Sybil smiled as warmly as she could.

  Odela continued reminiscing. “He worked the kitchens with the women as he grew. Until Count Adolf must have seen his potential. He was a smart, smart boy, after all. He was my little helper, and it was sad to see him go.”

  “Where did he go?” Rowaine asked.

  But Dieter had another question first. “Count Adolf? Do you mean the Protestant general who served in Gebhard Truchsess’ army? The man who ruled here before Lord Werner?”

  “Ah, so the priest has found his words. No, this was before all that—before the talks of war and such. I don’t know in what capacity Heiny worked for Adolf, but I didn’t like it. I saw him change. He became a bitter young man. It pained me to see . . .” she trailed off, remaining quiet for a long moment, as if mentally reliving the past. Finally, she clapped her hands on her knees and sighed.