In the Company of Wolves (Of Witches and Werewolves Book 2)

by Cory Barclay

  “We’re looking for a man named Claus, sir,” Sybil said softly, stepping next to Rowaine and using a bit more diplomacy.

  “What the hell do you want with me?” he asked, a smile forming as he eyed the two women. “Or am I still dreaming? Haven’t had two beautiful things like yourselves calling my name in . . . well, forever, now that I think on it.”

  Sybil blushed, but Rowaine frowned.

  “We’ve heard you know a man named Georg Sieghart,” Rowaine said.

  The affable look on the man’s face instantly disappeared. He sucked his lips together, his eyes darting from Sybil to Rowaine. “I haven’t heard that name in a time. What do you want with Georg?”

  Rowaine slammed her palms on the desk. “Y-you mean you know where he is?”

  Claus shook his head. “You mistake my meaning, lass. What I’m saying is, how did two pretty things like you come to hear that name? By all accounts, the man’s a savage heathen.”

  Sybil folded her arms over her chest. “That’s not true.”

  “Georg Sieghart was my father, old man,” Rowaine said, this time a bit more civilly. “So will you talk to me?”

  Claus appeared even more surprised than when first startled awake. “By God,” he said, leaning in closer and gazing into Rowaine’s face. “But you look . . . nothing alike.”

  “My name is Catriona Donnelly. He was not my father by blood, rather by ward—he rescued my mother from—”

  “Yes, yes, I remember now,” Claus said, wagging a hand at Rowaine. “He rescued a pretty young Irish thing while fighting with Alexander Farnese.”

  “Where’s Martin?” Dieter stood at the doorway, inspecting the small interior. He held Peter, but Martin was nowhere in sight.

  Sybil put a hand up, quieting him. Her eyes remained locked on Claus—like Rowaine’s were—eager to hear his next words.

  “H-how in the name of the Blessed Virgin do you know all that, old man?” Rowaine asked.

  Claus flashed a grin that belied his age. “Because I was with him when he rescued that girl.” He closed his eyes. “I was Georg Sieghart’s superior in the Spanish Army, my dear. They used to call me captain, a time ago.”

  Rowaine smiled. “They used to call me that, too.”

  Claus matched Rowaine’s grin. “Seems we have a few things in common, Catriona. You may not look like him, but you sure sound like the man I knew.”

  “What can you tell me of him, captain? How did he die?”

  Claus cleared his throat. “First of all, my dear, I don’t believe Georg Sieghart is dead. No corpse found!” He made a snorting sound, dipping his hand in the air like that proved his point. “Secondly—” Claus stopped himself, pointing a finger to the ceiling, closing his eyes again, then opening them, his expression bright and cheery.

  “Say, would you like some tea before I begin? I knew the man for years and have stories that could take the entire night. And I make a cup so mean it’ll sober up a wild boar.”

  He grinned. “Worked for your father, at least.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  HUGO

  After their pleasant stay at the travelers’ lodge, Tomas and Hugo’s group set off for Trier in the dark hours of the morning. They journeyed for two more days, barely stopping to rest. Frau Tabea complained the whole way, much to the dismay of everyone else.

  “My mind isn’t as nimble as it used to be,” Tomas told Grayson from the front of the carriage. “I believe I’m turning into you, Gray. I can’t heal from a hard night of drink like I used to.”

  Grayson chuckled, tightening his grip on the reins of the two horses. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the older mercenary said, “I feel as sprightly as an elf.”

  From the side of the carriage, Hugo listened, bouncing atop his steed as it expertly navigated the rough terrain. Throughout most of the day the sun showed little mercy, beating down on the riders with such intensity that it was a constant battle to keep the sweat from their eyes. They used anything available—pieces of clothing, bare arms, the sides of their hat—to wipe themselves off. Mord seemed to fare the worst, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth almost to the ground as he scampered along, trying to keep up.

  “It’s too hot!” Tabea screamed from inside the carriage, as if one of her escorts could change the climate.

  Hugo agreed with the woman, but would never admit it. Instead, he conversed with Klemens. “You have quite a talent with the lute,” he said. “Those songs you played were wonderful.”

  “Thank you. My mother taught me to pluck when I was a young whelp. Told me that if I couldn’t find honest work, I could always learn to swindle the drunks with song. The young minstrel flashed a grin.

  “She sounds like a wise woman.”

  “She was.”

  They made small talk for a while, until they started up a steep incline which, in the brutal heat, made conversation nearly impossible. Hugo prayed they’d finally stop for a break and a meal when they reached the top.

  “Not much farther,” Tomas said, reading Hugo’s thoughts. “The other side of this mountain is more forgiving, I promise.”

  “Because it’s downhill?” Klemens joked.

  “That, and more trees.”

  Hugo wiped his forehead again, wondering how Tomas knew about the other side of the mountain. Has he been on this trail before? This far from Bedburg?

  Eventually the long climb started to level off.

  The carriage creaked along the narrow pathway, the horses snorting and panting. When they came to a clearing, Tomas called for a much-needed break. Hugo sighed. At last. Clumps of bushes and small trees dotted the outskirts of the clearing.

  “Are we stopped?” came the shrill voice from within the carriage. “Why are we stopping? Ask them why we’re stopping, Samuel.”

  She complains when we’re moving. She complains when we’re not.

  Hugo dismounted, then found a rock to sit on. Mord panted over to join him. Klemens followed, sitting on the ground, his back propped against the rock. Hugo gently scratched the top of Mord’s head as the dog tried to find a comfortable spot to rest.

  “At least we don’t have to hear complaints from you, boy,” Hugo told the dog. Mord finally plopped between him and Klemens, apparently too hot for play or small talk.

  Despite the heat and exhaustion, Tomas stayed in charge, setting out a circle of stones near the center of the clearing, gathering and arranging dry kindling in a neat pile, then searching about for a good stone to start a fire. “We’re less than a day out, my friends,” he said, his voice strangely grim.

  Hugo noticed the peculiar look Tomas and Grayson shared for just a moment. Something seemed off.

  Arne, the tracker, walked in from the brush, pushing between two bushes to make his appearance. He confirmed to Tomas that the coast was clear, not a soul in sight, and sat down next to the kindling.

  By the time Tomas was ready to start the fire, the sun had mercifully begun to set, quickly disappearing behind the rock walls.

  Secretary Gregor stepped out of the carriage and leaned against it, blinking at his fingers as he counted something in his head. Inquisitor Samuel came out next, yawned and stretched, then quickly waddled toward a bush while unbuckling his belt.

  Hugo heard the steady stream that followed, the inquisitor sighing in relief with his back to the travelers.

  Curiously, Grayson circled around Hugo, heading toward the same bush Samuel occupied.

  Odd, Hugo thought, watching Grayson move quietly toward Samuel. There’s plenty of room to piss around here . . .

  Suddenly Samuel’s long sigh contorted to a chilling groan. Hugo swiveled around just as Samuel’s head slumped to his chest, bright red liquid replacing the yellow urine stream running down his legs.

  Casually, Grayson walked away, back toward the carriage. Hugo noticed the glint of sunlight reflecting off a steel, bloody knife Grayson held in his hand.

  Samuel collapsed into his puddle of piss and b
lood.

  Hugo sat dumbfounded, then turned to Klemens to see if he’d seen the same thing. But before he got the chance, a blood-curdling scream echoed from inside the carriage.

  “W-what?” Hugo gasped, reeling toward the sound. The answer was obvious; the white curtains shielding the inside of the carriage were now splattered with blood.

  The door flew open and Frau Tabea tumbled out, hitting the ground with a thud. She began crawling, wailing, a brown, sickening mixture of blood and dirt trailing behind her.

  Tomas stepped out from the carriage, sword in hand.

  With panic in his eyes, Secretary Gregor—who’d been leaning against the side of the carriage—took off running. But Arne blocked his way. Gregor winced as he ran into the boy. Arne, snarling wickedly, pulled back his arm as Gregor slid from the boy’s grasp and crumpled to the ground holding his chest.

  At the same moment, Hugo heard fast footsteps. It was Klemens, no longer beside him, running for his life toward the brush, his lute bouncing on his back, his dog chasing after him.

  “Get him!” Grayson shouted. “Don’t let the boy run!”

  Hugo’s shock froze him in place. The gruesome scene and how quickly it unfolded literally paralyzed him. He tried staggering to his feet, but couldn’t move his legs—much less grasp what was happening.

  Severin bounded past Hugo, shouldering him out of the way. Drawing a pistol from his waist, he leveled it at the running boy twenty paces away.

  Severin fired.

  Acrid smoke filled the air.

  “No!” Hugo yelled.

  An instant later, Klemens’ hands and legs flailed as he pitched face-first onto the ground, dirt billowing around him. His lute bounced once on his back, then cracked as it struck the ground—an image and sound Hugo would never forget.

  Hugo turned in time to see Tomas plunge his sword into the still-moaning Tabea. With his boot on the woman’s back, he brutally twisted the blade, then pushed off with his foot, springing the sword free.

  Holstering his gun, Severin took out a knife and walked toward Klemens’ collapsed body, where Mord sat whining.

  “No, please!” Hugo cried again. “Not the dog!”

  Tomas appeared beside Hugo. “That’s enough, nephew.”

  Severin glared at Hugo, then stopped.

  The massacre was over.

  In all, it had taken less than two minutes to slaughter four souls.

  Hugo finally found his words. “W-what? Why?” His mouth was dry, his head spun.

  Tomas faced Grayson. He motioned at the bush where Inquisitor Samuel lay slumped over. “Find his paperwork.”

  Grayson obliged, leaning over the body and rummaging inside the man’s tunic. Finally, he let out an “Aha” and pulled a few pieces of crumpled parchment from Samuel’s clothes.

  “It’s something that needed to be done,” Tomas said, resting his hand on Hugo’s shoulder.

  Hugo shoved it away. He looked into Tomas’ eyes. It was like seeing a stranger for the first time. “You just killed the people we were ordered to protect and escort! What in God’s name are we doing, Tomas?”

  Ignoring the question, Tomas sheathed his sword and took the papers from Grayson. “Your services are no longer needed, my friend,” he told Grayson. “Nor are yours, Arne. Your payments await you near Trier.”

  “Very well,” Grayson said with a curt bow. Arne followed the motion.

  Tomas read the papers, then said, “It looks like Tabea was not on the docket, so we’re in luck. We will not need to find another woman in her place.” He looked at Tabea’s corpse and shook his head. “I tried to get her to stay home—told her it’d be dangerous, but the damn woman never chose to listen.”

  Severin chuckled.

  Still reading the paperwork, Tomas pointed at himself. “It seems myself and Inquisitor Samuel were of a near age—” he said, his tone as if he’d just finished a lunch of bread and wine.

  “He was prettier,” Grayson interjected.

  “—I’ll be taking his place as ‘inquisitor.’ Until we reach Trier, you’ll speak to me only as Samuel, or Inquisitor, or My Lord, so we can get accustomed to the names.”

  Hugo just stood there, still in shock, staring off into nothing.

  Tomas tucked the letters into his tunic. “It’s simple, Hue. We were paid to escort these people. But we were paid more to make sure they never arrived in Trier.”

  “For what cause? Who paid us?”

  Tomas shrugged. “I assume so we can be ordered around by the lord inquisitor of Trier. Simply put, we have been paid to be his puppets. I know no one wants to be a puppet, but that’s the nature of this life, boy. We work for the highest bidder, and do his or her handiwork. In this case, it was murdering and assuming the identities of these fine folk.”

  Tomas spread his arms out at the carnage around him: Samuel slumped over a bush in a pool of blood and piss; Tabea with a silent scream plastered on her gaunt face, a trail of red behind her; Gregor, a knife sticking in his heart; and Klemens, face-first in the dirt.

  With stunned eyes, Hugo surveyed the scene. “This is madness. What would Ulrich say about this?”

  Tomas leaned his head back like he’d been struck. “Ulrich? It was his idea, boy. There’s wealth to be made in Trier. We assume these people’s positions and take the money they’re owed for the executions they’re in charge of. Our ‘superiors’ get to kill the people they want killed, everyone walks away happy.” He scratched his forehead and looked around. “Well, almost everyone.”

  He continued. “I know this is sour, Hugo. But we are paid to do ugly things. You said you wanted to learn what we do. Well, here you go. If you can’t live this life, I’ll understand. But you need to tell me now.”

  “What do I get to do?” Severin asked excitedly.

  Tomas eyed Hugo one more time, then turned to Severin. “Since you’re a bit older than Hugo, and because the boy doesn’t seem ready, I suppose you’ll be the inquisitor’s assistant.”

  Severin frowned. “I have to be a secretary?”

  “Play your hand right and you could ascend the ranks, I’m sure. Hugo, it says there’s a cook on this entry list, so I suppose that’s what you’ll be. You’ll take Klemens’ place. It’s all right that you can’t play the lute—I think the thing broke on his fall anyway.”

  How much of a fool I was to think I could trust these people, Hugo thought, shaking his head. Ulrich and Tomas both . . .

  Tomas clapped his hands. “Come now, boys. Get the bodies off the mountain. We’re less than a day from Trier. There are witches that need killing.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  GUSTAV

  Gustav and his group made their way into Amsterdam while the moon still brightened the purple-black sky. Adrian Coswell and Alfred Eckstein were at his sides, Hedda shuffled along a bit behind, and the other eight of Adrian’s crew brought up the rear

  Glancing at the two men beside him, their contrasting demeanors were striking: Adrian, edgy and wired; Alfred, much more at ease. But at least both were focused and serious.

  Nevertheless, Gustav had some concern about where Adrian and his crew had come from. As prior shipmates on the Lion’s Pride, they’d rebuked Rowaine Donnelly’s mutiny and fled with First Mate Coswell upon arriving in Amsterdam. They were thus loyalists of the ship’s original leader, the late (and mutilated, so he’d heard) Captain Galager. As such, they likely felt cheated at the sudden death of their captain, and the loot they were owed.

  Perhaps I should have brought Jergen’s men with me—men who don’t have a vested interest in this parlay.

  Gustav reached into his tunic and took a sip from his brown bottle to ease his nerves.

  Or maybe I can use this vitriol for my benefit . . .

  Addressing his two aides, Gustav said, “Remember, I want this to go smoothly.”

  “If the bastards are still there . . .” Adrian growled.

  “Do I have your oath that you won’t start a firefight, Herr Co
swell?” Gustav asked.

  “My oath? Only people I’m giving an oath to are my women and God. I don’t make promises I can’t keep, Koehler.”

  Alfred leaned into Gustav and whispered, “I’ll try to keep the hound from baying.”

  Gustav patted the ex-rigger on his shoulder. “I’d appreciate this going without any spilled blood. Threats should be enough to win the day.”

  “Indeed, but Coswell has always been a man of action first, talk later.”

  “Well, try your best.”

  “Using the right words, we should be fine.”

  They trekked through a richly decorated shopping district, a less-crowded town square, and over three bridges. The canals were dotted with boats, even at the late hour.

  Love never sleeps, Gustav thought, distractedly, as he glanced at a passing boat. Then he looked at Adrian’s angry face. And neither does hate, apparently . . .

  As they made their way to the docks, Gustav scanned the area carefully. The stench of salt, birdshit, and fish wafted in the air. He pinched his nose. He hated that waterfront smell, and the laudanum only heightened his senses, making the odor worse.

  His eyes passed over different banners and flags belonging to tradeships and galleons, until they lit upon the distinctive flag of the Lion’s Pride—the red lion and gold coin—flapping in the wind.

  Adrian noticed the ship as Gustav did and quickened his stride down the rickety plank leading to it, forcing Gustav to hurry his pace to keep up. Even when Gustav reached out and grabbed Adrian’s arm to slow him down, the anxious first mate shoved it away.

  Frustrated, Gustav stopped walking. “If you want the rest of your money, you’ll let me do the talking, Herr Coswell. I know emotions run high, but this is neither the time nor place to start a brawl.”

  Adrian froze. His eyes twitched. “By all means, my lord.” With a dramatic wave he gestured for Gustav to take the lead. Storming past him, Gustav pushed Adrian’s fluttering coat out of the way.

  As they approached the ship, Gustav spotted a small man on the boat ramp, straining to push a rolling chest on board. Gustav recognized him from his first encounter with Rowaine.