Of Witches and Werewolves Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  A giant maw latched onto his arm, driving him to the ground.

  With pale, lifeless eyes, the lord inquisitor stared down at him, watching impassively as Gustav writhed and howled like the woman on the cross.

  He could hear his own flesh ripping.

  The last thing Gustav heard were the wolves howling back—or it might have been the man controlling them.

  And then everything went red.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  As the hood was ripped from her head, Sybil sucked in her breath. She blinked a few times to gain her bearing. The night was calm. A soft breeze blew through her sticky hair. Someone was holding her by the elbow, leading her along a roadway.

  She turned and there, off in the distance, was the northern gate of Trier.

  She turned toward the person leading her and her face lit up.

  Rowaine smiled back.

  She looked behind her and saw two more familiar faces grinning back at her. One of them was Daxton Wallace.

  The other was Georg Sieghart, Rowaine’s father.

  “H-how?” was all Sybil could muster.

  “My father says he was tailing Frau Odela for some time,” Rowaine said.

  Georg put a hand on Rowaine’s shoulder. “You’ve done well, Beele, bringing Odela to Trier. She was a much bigger part of this story than you might realize. I learned of her while recovering in Rolf’s—well, Heinrich’s—estate two years ago.”

  “Odela?” Sybil asked. She had no idea the old woman had burned in her stead. “What of her?”

  “I was waiting for her to lead me to Heinrich,” Georg explained. “She appeared here once before, a few months ago. I didn’t catch her with Heinrich, but I knew she’d be back.” He glanced over his shoulder, making sure they weren’t being followed. The road they were on was dark and winding—cut away from the main thoroughfare. “Keep your legs moving.”

  Sybil was still confused, but did as Georg instructed. Memories of Georg played in her mind. He hadn’t changed much. His injured left arm seemed to work again, and he still had the rugged beard and tough look of a seasoned huntsman.

  “I became a guard for the dungeons you were placed in, to hide in plain sight, if you will.” He chuckled. “I obviously didn’t plan to see you in those dungeons. Perhaps it was fate. But I found Cat . . .” His lip trembled, his wet eyes glistened in the dark. “I had no idea she was alive. It’s been a blessing ten years coming.”

  “You were waiting for Heinrich to play his hand?” Sybil asked.

  Georg nodded. “It didn’t take long for me to realize he was the lord inquisitor. How he came to that position, I have no idea. I suspect Archbishop Ernst had something to do with it.”

  “But wasn’t Heinrich . . . your friend?”

  Georg snorted. “He betrayed my trust and tried to blame me for the murders in Bedburg. Does that sound like a friend? When he vanished, my name remained tarnished.”

  “You did kill Uncle Konrad, father,” Rowaine said flatly.

  Georg pulled his beard and raised a finger. “True. Your uncle was a vengeful man, Cat. He blamed me for your mother’s death . . . and for yours. He tried to kill me—I had to defend myself. I’m sorry.” Though he didn’t sound terribly sorry.

  “When Odela arrived back in Trier, I knew my opportunity to act was soon,” Georg continued. “Then I saw you thrown in the dungeons and figured I should help.” He shrugged. “Catriona talked me into it.”

  Rowaine punched him in the shoulder. “He came to us, Beele. Popped out of the shadows, of course.”

  “How did you do it?” Sybil asked.

  “I tracked Odela, found her in a dark alley, and took her. Then replaced you with the old hag during your execution walk. Simple.”

  “That poor woman,” Sybil muttered. As her shock began wearing off, she remembered something vital. She stopped in her tracks. “We need to go back to Bedburg. My husband and my son are there.”

  Georg shook his head. “I can’t condone that idea. If I know Heinrich, I know there’s going to be a manhunt unlike anything we’ve seen before. You already have a title, Beele.” He grinned, as if having such a title was something good.

  “Oh? A two-time fugitive? A heretic? Succubus? Witch? Traitor? . . . What are they calling me now?”

  “The Daughter of the Beast. Quite ominous, though it does sound good off the tongue.” He repeated it. “Almost makes you seem more terrible than you are,” he joked with a wink. “Just by a bit.”

  “We’re going to the Lion’s Pride, my lady.” Daxton spoke for the first time. The normally cheery captain didn’t sound quite so at the moment. “We can hide away on the seas for a while, until things calm down.”

  And like Georg, Daxton also kept looking over his shoulder.

  “But what about Dieter and Peter? And Martin?”

  “They’ll have to survive without us for a time,” Rowaine said. She ran a hand down Sybil’s shivering back. “They’ll be fine, Beele,” she added gently. “We need to keep you out of harm—”

  “Shit. I hear something,” Georg said. He and Daxton stopped and turned, while Rowaine and Sybil kept walking.

  At first it sounded like the breeze rustling through the trees. Then more like creatures in the brush.

  Then footsteps.

  “Run!” Daxton shouted, pulling his pistol. Georg drew his trusty bow and both men faced the rear while backpedaling behind the women.

  “Keep running!” Georg shouted to the women. “If you hear them close by, hide in the trees!” He waved them on.

  Sybil could hear faraway voices as she broke into a sprint alongside Rowaine.

  “There they are!” a voice called out.

  Sybil glanced back and saw armed troops running through the darkness.

  Georg let loose an arrow and turned to follow Rowaine and Sybil. Then Daxton’s gun erupted and a muffled cry sounded in the distance.

  Georg and Daxton continued behind the women, Georg turning every so often to launch an arrow back toward their pursuers while Daxton would reload his gun and do the same.

  But the trackers were gaining, their banter growing louder.

  “Get the witch!

  “In the white dress!”

  Realizing they couldn’t outrun their pursuers, Daxton and Georg waited until the women had rounded a bend, then hid behind trees on opposite sides of the road.

  The first man to reach them got a knife in the back from Georg. A second one, seeing his mate go down, crouched on one knee, aimed, and fired just as Daxton snuck up beside him, put his gun against the man’s temple, and blew the other side of his head onto the roadway.

  At the same instant, Georg heard a yelp from the women. Twisting around, he realized that the half-headless tracker Daxton had just killed had hit his mark before dying.

  Rowaine was on the ground, face-first.

  “Row!” Sybil cried, rushing to her friend’s aid.

  Rowaine groaned, her hand reaching behind to her lower back and coming away bloody.

  Sybil grabbed Rowaine’s other hand and tried to pull her along. “Get up, Row, please!”

  “Keep running, dammit,” Rowaine croaked. She somehow managed to pull her pistol from her waistband, remaining prone on her stomach. Sybil reluctantly moved off to hide behind a tree.

  Daxton and Georg had dispatched two more approaching guards, but a third had gotten through and was charging down the road toward Rowaine.

  As the only one of his group still standing, the attacker knew his best chance of survival was to simply run for his life. But his bloodlust got the better of him. He stopped and took aim at Rowaine’s fallen body . . .

  Just as Rowaine pushed off, rolled onto her back with a painful shriek and, clutching her weapon by her stomach, aimed and fired.

  Before the man had a chance to get off his shot, his eyes bulged as his groin erupted in a red, thick cloud and he crumbled to the ground screaming. Georg rushed up to him and finished him off with a quick slice across the thr
oat.

  With all five hunters dead, Georg resheathed his knife, then scooped up his daughter and rushed on, carrying her like a baby.

  “I told you—Rowaine Donnelly will never die!” Daxton cried out, running past Georg to take the lead. “Keep moving, come on! More bastards will be right behind!”

  They fled down the road, Rowaine groaning in her father’s arms, the four of them—the father, the daughter, the witch, and the captain—heading northwest toward the water, the Lion’s Pride, and freedom.

  EPILOGUE

  A week later in Bedburg, Dieter watched from a window in Claus’ inn as a parade marched by. He was on his back in bed, nestling his left arm—or what was left of it. Amputated at the elbow, it was rolled in a thick cushion of white bandage.

  In his other arm he held his child. He kissed the boy’s head.

  Word had spread quickly through Bedburg of Sybil Griswold’s “death.” Dying at the stake in Trier, a proclaimed witch and traitor to the Holy Roman Empire.

  Dieter’s eyes were bloodshot from weeping. As he kept watch of the activities out his window, his heart suddenly tensed and his face blanched white.

  There, in front of a large retinue of followers, rode Heinrich Franz. Perched on his horse like a hero, receiving a king’s welcome.

  Dieter breathed in sharply.

  “What’s wrong, Dieter?” Martin asked, sitting near Dieter’s bed, holding Ava’s hand. Ever since Ava had tried to steal from Sybil, the two had become close. When Karstan was jailed, Martin had followed Ava to her hideaway and had managed to convince her to join him and his friends, promising to eventually help her get out of Bedburg.

  So far, he hadn’t fulfilled that part of the bargain.

  When Dieter didn’t answer, Martin touched the priest’s good arm. “I don’t believe the rumors, and you shouldn’t either,” he said. “I won’t believe Sybil is dead until I see her body for myself.”

  Dieter looked away from the window. “There won’t be a body. She was burned alive, Martin.”

  “Have faith, sir,” Ava said softly.

  “Yes, Dieter,” Martin said, squeezing his shoulder. “It should come as second nature to you. If there was ever a time for faith . . . it is now.”

  Which is exactly what Dieter did; was all he could do; was all he knew how to do.

  Keep the faith that his God wouldn’t fail him—that his beloved wife was still alive.

  Somewhere, somehow, some way.

  Heinrich Franz met with Archbishop Ernst and Bishop Balthasar Schreib in Bedburg Castle. He brought Tomas Reiner and Hugo Griswold with him. As the witch-hunts and trials in Trier started to lose favor with the peasants, an exorbitant tax had been levied to continue in earnest the examinations, investigations, and eliminations of witches throughout the countryside.

  But with that tax, the bloodthirsty zeal of the people began to wither.

  Following this last debacle—with Sybil Griswold and the old hag who had taken her place—Archbishop Schönenberg had had enough.

  And Heinrich had left Trier shortly after.

  At the steps of his castle lobby, Archbishop Ernst embraced Heinrich, then held the investigator out at arm’s-length, staring into his gray eyes. “You did a wonderful job in Trier, my friend.”

  Heinrich smiled wryly. “Lord Inquisitor Adalbert did a wonderful job, my lord.”

  Ernst chuckled. “Of course, of course.” He winked. “What a wily fellow he was. Especially about a certain trial in particular.”

  Heinrich furrowed his brow, unsure of the archbishop’s meaning.

  “Odela Grendel,” Balthasar Schreib explained, his chins wobbling as he beamed. “How did you do it?”

  Heinrich’s heart fluttered. “W-what do you mean?”

  “We’ve been searching for that woman for ages, Herr Franz. You had to know,” Ernst said. He leaned his head and rubbed his chin. “She was a major benefactor to the Protestants—one of their longest-lasting spies. Giving secrets to Gebhard and Calvinists across the land!”

  “We never knew she was hiding right under our noses, in Bedburg . . . as a kitchen-maid, no less!” Balthasar added, resting his hands around his belly and laughing.

  “Oh, yes . . . yes of course,” Heinrich said, trying to keep his wits about him.

  “Trying her as a witch and a traitor? And with such a public execution? Brilliant!” Ernst patted Heinrich on the back. “Let’s see the Protestants rebound from that!”

  “Merely doing as you ordered, my lord.” Heinrich bowed.

  Ernst spread his arms wide. “I’ve given you land and wealth for the terrific work you did here in Bedburg, so what else can I offer you?”

  “I don’t seek reward, my lord. I do this for the goodness of Catholicism,” Heinrich lied.

  Ernst waved that off. “Nonsense.” His eyes darkened, and he shared a look with Bishop Schreib. “I do believe there’s a vacant position in town.”

  Heinrich opened his mouth to protest. He didn’t want a new job. He hated staying in one place for too long. He had wolves to raise, mouths to feed, an estate to look after.

  How is old man Rolf doing, anyway? That old bastard will be happy to learn Odela is dead.

  “Heinrich? What say you?” Ernst asked the investigator pointedly.

  “I . . . I suppose that would be fine, my lord.”

  “Excuse me?” Ernst said flatly.

  Heinrich hesitated, then bowed low. “It would be an honor, Your Grace.”

  Archbishop Ernst clapped his hands and put them on Heinrich’s shoulders. “Would you like an alias again?”

  The investigator paused. “I think not. My name will be fine,” he said.

  “Very well,” Ernst said with a smile. “Then let me be the first to welcome you back home, Lord Heinrich Franz of Bedburg.

  “It does have a nice ring to it . . . does it not?”

  Fact Versus Fiction

  Like Devil in the Countryside, this novel is based on true events in Germany between 1581 and 1593.

  The Trier Witch Trials was perhaps the biggest series of witch trials in European history, and the largest mass executions in Europe during peace time. 368 people, the vast majority women, were confirmed killed, though others say the number exceeded 1,000. In two villages, the entire female population was exterminated save one female per village.

  Everyone who was not real in the first book was also not real in this one. Rowaine and her entire crew (and ship) were made up. Same with Mia and Dolly, all of Hugo’s friends—including his gang of thieves and the group of inquisitors traveling to Trier. Same with Odela, Rolf, and Heinrich’s estate (House Charmagne).

  The “Elizabeth’s Strangers” in Norfolk was a real group of Protestants who fled to England to escape Catholic persecution. The individual Strangers in the novel, however, were fictionalized.

  The suffragan bishop of Trier, Peter Binsfeld, was a real person and one of the prominent witch-hunters of his time. He also wrote about the “Classifications of Demons” in 1589.

  A very real Archbishop Schönenberg was the prince-elector/archbishop of Trier during the witch trials, though I did take literary license about his possible association with Archbishop Ernst of Cologne.

  Despite my literary liberties, I thought the Trier Witch Trials was a fascinating subject, and it just so happened to fit into the time period as a sequel to Devil, so I ran with it. I'm not sure what tragic historical event(s) will provide the backdrop for Book Three, but I’m sure I’ll find one!

  Thanks for reading!

  THE

  BEAST

  WITHIN

  ~

  CORY BARCLAY

  ~

  Of Witches and Werewolves

  Book III

  This book is dedicated to my dad, who has helped make my books better than I ever could have alone.

  PART I

  Shadows of the Past

  CHAPTER ONE

  HEINRICH

  Submerging his brother’s bloody head unde
r the rushing water, he felt no remorse.

  He was eight years old, his brother ten.

  Earlier that morning he’d woken before sunrise to the sound of cackling roosters, the sky still purple and misty from a rainy night. Hopping out of bed, he’d begun his daily ritual of preparing breakfast for his mother and brother. He’d started a large pot of water on the fire, then loaded up an armful of eggs to transfer into the pot once it began boiling. He’d handled the eggs with care, knowing full well there’d be hell to pay from his mother if he dropped any. She was a strict and mean woman, especially when directing her wrath at him.

  As he began gingerly placing the eggs into the bubbling water, he ignored the rapidly approaching footsteps coming down the hall. At the last moment, his brother Oscar ran up behind him and gave him a shove, laughing as half the eggs tumbled to the dirt floor, splattering around his feet, the gooey liquid flowing around his bare toes. Eyes wide, he gazed at the mess in disbelief as Oscar ran off, his laughter echoing through the small house.

  At the sound of the crashing eggs, his mother, Edith, came bounding into the room. Wearing a nearly translucent white shift, his eyes momentarily fixed on the outline of her chest and nipples before he forced himself to gaze back down to the floor. Though she was a beautiful woman, with dark curly hair framing a pale face and high cheekbones, his mother’s dour expression of anger and disgust masked any hint of that beauty.

  “Damnit boy! Again?” she screeched, her voice high and piercing. “Can you do nothing right?”

  His eyes grew hot, ready to burst into tears. It was Oscar’s fault! he’d wanted to scream. It was always his fault.

  But he knew he couldn’t say that, because it would do no good. He was the younger child—the “troubled” one.

  It was because of him that Father had left them.