Of Witches and Werewolves Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  Gustav’s heart fluttered. He hadn’t seen his father in nearly a year. And even though his father had always been closer to Gustav’s brother, Johannes, his brother was no longer around.

  Finally, it’s my time.

  “Father! I come bearing terrific news,” Gustav began, bowing low. He felt giddy, almost wishing he could sneak a quick shot of laudanum.

  Ludwig peered down his beaked nose at his son. With a curt nod, he said, “Oh? And what, pray tell, Gustav, might that be?”

  It pained Gustav to hear his forename, rather than “son,” come from his father’s lips, but he hid his disappointment.

  Two men surrounded Baron Ludwig: a blond inquisitor who seemed strangely out of place in his robes, and a young assistant who couldn’t have been more than fifteen years of age. Gustav ignored their disapproving stares.

  “A witch, father! And a Protestant!” Gustav exclaimed.

  “There are many witches and many Protestants in Trier, unfortunately,” Ludwig calmly replied.

  Gustav raised a finger. “None like this one.” Glancing at his father’s two companions, he said, “If we may speak in private, father?”

  “I’m busy, Gustav. You may speak plainly here. Samuel and Gregor will stay. What am I to charge this woman you’ve brought me with?”

  Gustav tightened his jaw. “She helped kill Johannes.”

  For a moment, Gustav thought he saw a hint of surprise play across his father’s eyes. But it didn’t last. “And you brought this woman to Trier for . . .”

  “For your—no, for our benefit, father.” He threw up his arms in frustration. “I figured it would be fitting to try her together. Also, now that she’s in custody, that may well lure her husband here as well—the man physically responsible for killing Johannes! And I’m sure we can then get a confession from both of them—the witch and her murderous husband.”

  Ludwig donned a dark expression. “We won’t be trying anyone together, son”—finally that word, and Gustav’s heart jumped before quickly sinking—“though I appreciate you bringing the girl to my attention.”

  “F-father . . .” he murmured. “Why are you acting like this? I believed we could do this together. For Johannes.”

  Ludwig ignored Gustav’s whining, his arms still crossed. “And what do you hope to gain from this, Gustav? What reward would you like?”

  “This is the woman who would have married your other son. Your favorite son.” Gustav’s voice got lower, angrier. Ludwig raised a brow at his son’s disrespectful tone. “I would like what you would have given Johannes, father.” Gustav spat out the last word. Which apparently worked, for his father’s demeanor softened, slightly.

  Ludwig cleared his throat. “I know you would never bring this person to me charitably. You are like your brother in that reagrd. So, I ask again: What do you want, Gustav?”

  Gustav had imagined this conversation many times over, and each time it had been far different from this. It angered him. After all this time, all this travel, all this hunting and searching and killing. He’d finally brought the white queen to the black king, on a silver platter . . .

  And for this? To be treated like an insolent child? No differently than he’d always been treated by his father?

  Gritting his teeth, Gustav said, “I want your place on the seat of parliament, old man.”

  Ludwig snorted. “There it is.”

  “I’m deserving of it.”

  “Are you?” Condescension reeked through the words.

  “I will bring you the heads of the man and woman who killed your son and my brother. Then you will see my worth. You are getting old, father. You can’t wield your estate forever. You know that—who else would you bequeath it to?”

  Ignoring his son’s question, Ludwig said simply, “Your work here is done, Gustav. I will see the woman and determine if she is fit to stand trial, or if she is too far removed from God’s grace for even that. You may watch from the pews, son, but you will not be sitting at the dais.”

  How I wish I had my poisons with me—even just a small dose.

  For the first time in his life, Gustav felt like throttling his father.

  Recognizing the wild look in his son’s eyes, Ludwig discharged Gustav like a common servant. “Good day, son,” then spun on his heels and marched up the steps with his two inquisitors in tow.

  Watching his father walk away, for a moment Gustav felt paralyzed. But almost instantly that was replaced with a thunderous wave of roaring anger. He reached in his tunic and took a healthy chug from his laudanum bottle.

  But this time it didn’t quell his fury.

  Gustav Koehler was now ready to take what was rightfully his.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  ROWAINE

  Rowaine and Daxton arrived in Trier in the middle of the night.

  Even so, the city was bustling with spirited activity.

  Hedda was now riding with them. Halfway through their hasty exit from Bedburg—once Rowaine’s nerves had settled from the battle at the inn—she’d agreed to allow Hedda to join them the rest of the way. She’d felt sorry watching the poor girl struggle to even start a fire. That, combined with Hedda’s steadfast denials that she had anything to do with Gustav’s plan to kidnap Sybil, had convinced Rowaine that Hedda deserved another chance at redemption.

  During a meal break, Rowaine had asked Hedda, “What did you presume he was going to do, after trying to enslave those poor folk? If the Lion’s Pride hadn’t shown up to intercede the tradeship you were on, Sybil and Dieter would be dead right now.” With a frown, she added, “Dieter still might be.”

  “I . . . don’t know,” Hedda said, taking off her spectacles to clean them. “I was simply supposed to keep watch on Gustav, by orders of his father.”

  All in all, to Rowaine, Hedda seemed harmless enough.

  I don’t know if I can attribute all of her misfortune to poor decisions, but I can’t fault her for wanting to stay with her man . . . or her charge . . . whatever Gustav is to her.

  Now, walking through Trier, they were in the midst of a wild celebration of some sort. A huge white cross was aflame, dazzling orange waves leaping and brightening their path. Daxton stopped to ask an incredibly drunk, tottering man what was going on.

  “Showing our discon . . . disconten . . . we’re mad, sir!” he hiccuped. “They can’t keep killing our people without retribu-taliation!” Gripping a bottle of wine, he raised it high, waddling off to join his drunken friends.

  “So, they aren’t celebrating,” Rowaine said. “They’re . . . angry?” She scanned the streets—slobbering drunks, topless whores, she even saw a couple copulating against a barrel. It was difficult distinguishing between celebration and outrage.

  “I guess that would explain the burning crosses,” Daxton said, pointing at one ready to topple over on an unsuspecting group.

  “I don’t think they know what they want,” Rowaine said, “or how to achieve it. They just want the killings to stop.”

  They hiked their way through the pandemonium, eventually coming to a quiet road. Rowaine sighed heavily, a worried look on her face.

  Daxton noticed. “What’s wrong?”

  “N-no, it’s just . . . I’m not eager to see Sybil’s heartbreak when she notices Dieter isn’t with us.”

  They kept walking. After a short silence, Daxton said, “It’s for the best, Row.”

  “Call me Catriona, Dax. Rowaine Donnelly is dead.”

  Daxton chuckled. “Well, I’m not going to ask you to call me John.” Rowaine stared at him blankly, so he elaborated. “In my mind, you’re still my captain. Rowaine Donnelly will never die. So, just as my real name will never see the light of day, as far as I’m concerned, neither will yours.”

  They continued on quietly for a while, trying to gain their bearings in the foreign city. They refrained from asking several passing guards for directions to the jailhouse, lest they stick out in someone’s mind.

  Eventually, they rounded a bend where
a monolithic structure loomed in the distance. As they neared it, they saw guards milling about, so assumed it was either a barracks or a jail.

  They hid behind a wagon abandoned on the side of the road across from the structure. Rowaine watched for a while, until she saw several guards forcibly shoving a clearly tipsy man through the gate, convincing her this was definitely a jail.

  Crouching by her side, Daxton asked, “Do you think Sybil’s in there?”

  Rowaine drummed her fingers on the edge of the wagon. “It’s our only hope. I have no idea where else she might be. But it’s much more protected than the jailhouse in Bedburg. It’s nearly the size of Amsterdam’s jail.”

  Daxton thrust a thumb back toward the loud chaos they’d just come from. “And you wonder why?”

  As she contemplated their next move, adrenaline coursed through she veins, just like whenever she bore down on an unsuspecting ship on the high seas. Then a feeling of dread engulfed her.

  “If she’s still alive . . .” she muttered.

  Daxton leaned in. “What was that?”

  Rowaine shook her head.

  “Let’s go to the nearest inn and plan our approach,” Daxton said. “Nothing will be accomplished if we go in blind. It will just add three more bodies swinging from a rope.”

  “I agree with John,” Hedda said, speaking for the first time. With a determined expression, Hedda was bent over, her hands on her knees like this was exactly the type of situation her analytical mind was made for.

  At hearing his true name mentioned, Daxton gave the girl an icy glare. “Don’t make me regret allowing you to come along.”

  Hedda visibly gulped.

  Rowaine clenched her jaw. She knew Daxton and Hedda were right, but it wasn’t easy staying put. Every fiber in her body wanted to charge ahead, slay the guards keeping watch, and save Sybil from certain doom.

  If she’s in there . . .

  But just as quickly as it had surged, her adrenaline began to fade. Exhaustion was taking over. The swift pace of their trip from Bedburg had begun to show its effects on her mind and body. Her head ached and her vision blurred.

  “Fine, we’ll take refuge for the night, but only to plan things better. Sybil doesn’t have much time—”

  “They have to put her to trial before burning her, Row.”

  “And they couldn’t have arrived much earlier than us,” Hedda pointed out.

  “I hope you’re both right,” Rowaine said, still not comfortable leaving despite her waning strength. Finally, she relented. Stepping from behind the wagon, she crept along the shadows, Daxton and Hedda close behind. When they were far enough away to avoid being seen by the guards, they moved onto the roadway to find an inn.

  As they neared the boisterous protests, Rowaine’s eyes caught the blur of the passing faces, peasants and drunkards moving in all directions. Suddenly something white and familiar caught her attention. Her face shot back around. Walking away was a small head with long white hair.

  Odela?

  She gasped, blinking rapidly. But the image was gone—evaporated into the crowd.

  Had she imagined it?

  She said nothing and continued on with her group. Several minutes later, they found an inn, a small place, but from the western window of the corner room the jail would still be in sight.

  The clerk inside was delighted to greet three sober customers. Daxton approached his desk. “We’ll take that corner room,” he said, “the one that views west.”

  The clerk’s smile faded. “That room is taken, my lord.”

  Without hesitation, Daxton pulled out his pistol, sighed, then told the women, “I’ll be back shortly, ladies,” and headed for the stairs.

  “Don’t hurt anyone, Dax,” Rowaine called out, but he was already gone.

  Two minutes later, a young naked couple came running down the stairs, clothes awkwardly held to shield their privates as they raced out the front door.

  Daxton came back down with a wide grin on his face. “It’s a shame,” he said. “I had to break it up just as it was getting good.”

  Rowaine rolled her eyes.

  Hedda said, “I’m retiring for the night, then. I’m exhausted.” She started up the stairs, holding the railing tightly to guide her unsteady feet.

  Rowaine wasn’t ready to be cooped up in a room just yet, so she headed for the inn’s front door. Daxton followed.

  “Bring fresh sheets to the room,” Rowaine called back to the clerk as she walked out the front door.

  Once outside, the city seemed like a place on fire, though strangely fitting. Warm wind blew through Rowaine’s hair, tangling around her face. Leaning against a barrel by the doorway, she closed her eyes.

  “What’s eating at you, Row?” Daxton asked, sidling up to her.

  Eyes still closed, she said, “I want to rescue Sybil, of course, but I must remember the reasons I came here in the first place. Heinrich . . . My father . . . And I think I saw Odela heading into that crowd.”

  Daxton tilted his head. “The old lady you spoke of? Are you sure?”

  Rowaine pondered for a moment. “If I can find Odela, I can find Heinrich. Of that I’m sure.”

  “Why can’t we do both? Rescue Sybil and find Heinrich?”

  She opened her eyes and stared at her friend. “This is a big town, Dax.” She kicked at a rock on the ground. “What can we expect if we rescue Beele? The guards will be on us. We’ll be recognized, sure as day, and I may never be able to get close enough to strike Heinrich again. Not if we rescue Sybil first . . .”

  Daxton frowned. “You said it yourself, captain. She may not have much time.”

  Just then, the inn’s door swung open and a face poked out. It was the innkeeper. With a troubled look, he said, “My lord, my lady, I spotted your friend climbing out the window when I went to put fresh sheets in your room.” His head disappeared and the door slammed shut.

  “Dammit,” Daxton mumbled.

  Rowaine chuckled, shaking her head.

  But neither of them moved. They knew it was futile trying to catch Hedda.

  Let her return to her abusive master. We have bigger things to do.

  Daxton’s face took a serious turn. “It sounds like you have a decision to make, captain. Luckily, you’ve always been pretty good at that.”

  “Heinrich or Sybil? I hate that it’s come to that.”

  A voice spoke flatly. “Perhaps I can help.”

  Rowaine nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun around, but only saw shadows. Squinting, she realized the voice had come from the alley next to the inn.

  The speaker emerged from the dark.

  Rowaine’s heart raced. “It’s . . . you.”

  A nod.

  “H-have you been following me?” was all she could say.

  Daxton glanced back and forth between the two of them.

  “No, Catriona, I haven’t been following you. I didn’t know you lived. But I have been following someone else . . .”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  SYBIL

  Sybil sat in her cell, her filthy dress chafing her knees and legs. She’d paced the small chamber until she felt herself going mad. She’d bitten the ends of her fingernails raw.

  She’d been in a similar situation before, in another cell, in another town, so she thought she’d be able to cope with the loneliness better. But in Bedburg she’d had Dieter to comfort her. Here, there was no one.

  Staring absently at the rocky stone wall, she tried to send her mind somewhere else. But the first thing that came to her almost brought her to tears.

  Hugo, my dear brother.

  She recalled what Odela had told her before the skirmish outside Claus’ inn.

  Could Hugo really be the son of that man—the son of Heinrich? The son of a slaughterer, a madman?

  Why would father never tell me? Is it why he always put so much weight on my shoulders, to do right by the family, for our legacy, for our land? Because I was his true blood . . . while poor Hugo was j
ust an afterthought?

  But wasn’t Hugo a family miracle? When Mother gave birth to a stillborn, then died? Hugo appeared! The only brother I’ve ever known. Could he possibly . . . know the truth?

  No. It would have devastated him.

  Or would it? Would he find relief from learning he was not the son of Peter Griswold?

  If I ever see him again, what will I say? Will he think I deserted him because I knew the truth and didn’t love him?

  She shivered, shutting down those thoughts. There was nothing she could do, trapped here in this cage.

  Who am I fooling . . .

  They will kill me. I will die in this Godforsaken city.

  Gustav is too clever to allow me to live. He will say anything to strengthen his future.

  I can only hope Dieter and Peter will not see my burning corpse . . .

  The isolation continued to churn up past memories.

  Tears welled up again. Visions of the grisly battle in Bedburg rushed back to her.

  So much blood, screaming, crying.

  But I saw Martin escape with Peter. My son is safe—I trust Martin.

  She looked through the bars to the empty cell across from her, half expecting to see Martin there, sitting in the shadows like he’d been when she was in the Bedburg prison.

  Dieter was injured. Is he dead?

  She gritted her teeth, slapping her fist into her thigh. She longed to do so much, see so much, to make sure everyone she loved was alive and safe. But she could do nothing.

  With the darkness of her cell unchanging, she lost track of time. She was fed irregularly, so even that didn’t help identify day from night.

  Eventually, she heard the creaking of a door opening somewhere above her. Peering through the bars, she heard footsteps descending stairs. Boots echoing against the stone walls. Finally, a man stood just outside her cage. He grumbled to himself as he unlocked the cell, motioning for Sybil to follow.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. But the man said nothing.