by Cory Barclay
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
GEORG
Soon after the large black wolf was unveiled at the ball, all attention turned away from Georg. He had no qualms about that, as he felt out of place in the roomful of noblemen and women. They were dressed in their fineries, while he still wore his hunting furs and grimy clothes.
Not a single leader or noble offered him congratulations for bringing down the beast. Georg felt the wolf’s display was a simple ploy by Lord Werner to arrange a celebration, and to stifle the hysteria that had shadowed over Bedburg.
He decided to sneak out of the ball early, and no one tried to stop him. As he exited the front gates of the castle, Georg breathed in the crisp night air and gave a great sigh of relief. Outside, Konrad von Brühl waited for him.
“You look like you could use a drink or three,” Konrad said, nudging his chin toward Georg’s tired face. The patch-wearing soldier and former comrade of Georg’s was quickly becoming a close acquaintance—perhaps even a friend.
Georg pulled at his beard and nodded. “I’m not very fond of being the center of attention.”
Konrad smiled. “You should have thought about that before you brought down the biggest wolf this town’s ever seen.” The man squinted with his one good eye. “I thought you wanted to be known for killing the Werewolf of Bedburg. Your reaction isn’t exactly in line with your words, Georg.”
Georg shrugged. “That thing in there is no werewolf. You and I both know that. And I want to kill the monster for what it’s done, not for the accolades and rewards.”
“This town has changed you, my friend.”
Georg looked at the man’s grizzled and scarred face. That was the first time Konrad had called him ‘friend.’ “Maybe it has,” Georg said, “or maybe I just don’t know what I’m doing here anymore. Could there really be a werewolf out there?”
As the two men strolled away from the gates, Konrad asked, “What do you mean?”
Georg scratched his scalp and shrugged. “Don’t you feel there’s something amiss in this town? What connection could Dorothea Gabler’s, Josephine’s, and Karl and Bertrude Achterberg’s deaths all have with each other?”
Konrad said nothing for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Perhaps nothing. Maybe you’re looking too much into it. That is a question the investigator must answer, Georg. It’s not your job—you’re a hunter.”
His job or not, Georg couldn’t let the thought go. Something wasn’t right in Bedburg—he could feel it in his gut. Besides, Konrad didn’t know that it partly was Georg’s job to find out what he could, while Heinrich was away on business.
Why would Lord Werner send Heinrich away right after the investigator uncovered important clues and made an arrest? There’s something Heinrich isn’t telling me.
Konrad could see the slanted brows and scrunched face on Georg. It was the sign of a man in deep thought. “I wouldn’t think too much of it,” he said, placing a hand on Georg’s shoulder. “Stay out of the politics of this town, Georg. Let’s go drink ourselves into a stupor.”
As Konrad finished his sentence, a loud commotion broke out from behind them. Georg spun on his heels and saw a girl in a purple dress tripping out of a carriage. She tumbled, sprawled on the muddy ground, and staggered to her feet. Then she jumped into another carriage and shouted something at the driver.
Konrad laughed. “Ah, young drunk girls . . . they are a shining light in this dark place. Makes me want to drown myself in liquor and find my own light.”
Georg nodded, but was not laughing. He cocked his head to the side, thinking that he recognized the girl. “Go on without me, friend. I’ll meet you at the tavern shortly.”
Konrad opened his mouth to contest, but Georg was already jogging back toward the castle. Konrad shrugged and walked away—heading east—toward the tavern.
The carriage took off down the road and Georg was forced to jump out of its way. As it sped by, Georg saw the face of the girl in the window and was certain it was the Griswold girl. She had tears streaming down her face.
Georg sprinted after the carriage. He knew he couldn’t keep up, but it headed toward the southern, destitute part of town, and a horse-drawn carriage in a place like that would be easy to track.
He followed the lines that the wheels made in the mud, past the cathedral, into the town square where Bertrude’s execution had taken place that morning. The carriage barreled on toward the farmlands, but when it reached the southern edge of Bedburg, it veered to the right, in the opposite direction of the Griswold estate.
Georg kept after the carriage, jogged up a small hill, and then he fell to his belly as he looked over the lip of the hill. The carriage had stopped at the Achterberg’s abandoned estate.
Sybil Griswold leaped out of the carriage and ran to the front door of the house. Georg’s eyes went wide as the front door opened and Sybil went inside.
What are you getting yourself into, young lady?
Still at the summit of the hill, Georg craned his neck to the left, west, where he could see Peter Griswold’s estate in the distance. Smoke billowed from a roof-vent, which told Georg that the house was occupied.
Georg couldn’t identify who had greeted Sybil, and the hunter debated going down and crashing through the door to figure out what the girl was doing in a dead man’s house. But the carriage was rounding back in his direction, and he decided on discreetness.
He stood and sprinted off the road, hiding in a bush as the carriage rolled by.
Then a realization came to him: He didn’t need to go down to the Achterberg’s house to know what was going on in there. He already had a good idea.
Instead, after the carriage passed him, he ran down the hill and headed in the other direction, toward the Griswold’s estate.
Georg hid behind a copse of trees and peered at the house of Peter Griswold. It didn’t take long before the doors opened. A hooded man walked outside and Georg immediately knew the man was hiding something—the man looked over his shoulders constantly, and his body language was skittish and fidgety.
The man wore a leather belt, and the moonlight gleamed and reflected off its surface. This was no expert of subterfuge.
Georg followed the man south, further away from the farmlands, and then east, toward a dark line of trees. Lit only by the murky moonlight, Georg realized they were headed toward the same woods where the hunt had taken place.
Georg followed the man through a long expanse of open-aired countryside, and he stayed back a ways, so as not to be seen.
After the man crossed into the dark trees, Georg felt his heart race. This man has quite a pair on him to be venturing into the wolf-infested woods this late at night.
The shadowy man cut further south, under thick branches and over ankle-high undergrowth, until he stopped, looked around as if he might be lost, and then finally continued on.
They came to a familiar clearing in the woods, and Georg hid behind a large birch tree.
At the back of the clearing was the same cabin that Georg had stumbled on during the hunt. It was dark and desolate, but the hooded man knocked on the door anyway—two hard knocks, followed by three soft knocks, and one more hard one.
The door swung open, and a long-haired silhouette greeted the hooded man. Even with the moonlight shining down on the clearing, it only created a shadow for the two, and Georg couldn’t tell who the people were. The long-haired person had a frame that suggested it was a female.
The two shadows embraced—possibly kissing as they did. Then another lanky body appeared in the doorway, shook the hooded man’s hand, and the three disappeared into the cabin.
Georg heard a rustling sound from behind, like someone had stepped on a brittle leaf. He snapped his head around and saw a small, dark form—also hooded—darting off away from him.
Georg growled and ran after the figure. How could I let someone trail me again? Georg thought, scowling. I’m a damn fool! Too caught up in my own chase.
The hunter
pushed his way through the dense foliage and trees, forgoing any semblance of stealth. The figure was small and quick and hard to track, so Georg used his ears to keep pace—a skilled tracker’s ears were just as useful as his eyes.
A few times he found himself within ten paces of the figure, trees whirling by on all sides, but then the person would dart off in some other direction.
Georg jumped over a fallen tree trunk, and the person cut left.
Bad move.
As the trees grew scattered and scarcer, Georg knew they were headed toward the open countryside.
The hooded man burst through the edge of trees, sprinting at full speed toward Bedburg.
Georg was just moments behind, and when he reached the cool, open air of the country he nudged his bow from his shoulder and reached for an arrow.
“Halt!” he shouted, nocking his arrow. “Or I’ll shoot you dead in the back!”
The figure hesitated, but decided it was in his best interest to stop. The cloaked figure was twenty paces away, back still facing Georg, and the hunter crept forward. His knuckles were white against the taut bowstring.
Georg walked within five paces and said, “Show yourself—and do it slowly, man, if you value your life.”
The man turned, but was facing the ground.
“Unveil yourself.”
The hood went down, and Georg almost accidentally let his arrow fly right into the person’s neck. This was no man, but rather the nun who aided Father Nicolaus at the church.
Sister Salome had a solemn expression on her face.
“What in God’s good name are you doing out here, and why the hell are you following me?” Georg asked after collecting himself.
“I was ordered to, Herr Sieghart,” the woman said, her voice quivering.
Georg lowered his bow. “By whom?”
“Are you going to kill me?” Salome asked.
Georg shook his head, and Salome took a deep breath. “Who ordered you to follow me?” he asked again. “And what do they want with me?”
“Father Nicolaus, my lord. I believe Bishop Solomon ordered him to watch you.”
“Why?” Georg slung his bow back over his shoulder. “What have I ever done to your precious congregation?”
Sister Salome shook her head. “It’s not what you’ve done, my lord. You are a mystery to us, and the church likes to keep records of everyone who lives in town.”
“Am I a threat to the bishop?”
“He isn’t sure. That’s why I followed you.”
“And what did you see?”
“I’m . . . not sure,” Salome said. Her eyes darted to the left and right.
“Was it you who followed me to the tavern some weeks back, and escaped into the night?”
The nun hesitated, and then slowly nodded. “Please, I wish you no harm. I’m simply following orders.”
Georg sighed and shooed her away with a wave of his hand. “It’s dangerous out here. Return to your church. If you’re smart, you won’t relay what you’ve seen here—whatever that may be. And if I see you following me again, I won’t be as nice as I was tonight.”
Sister Salome swallowed loudly, and her head bobbed up and down. When Georg said nothing more, she turned and ran toward Bedburg.
Georg shook his head as he watched the nun become smaller and smaller in the distance. “Stupid woman nearly got herself shot.”
Georg made his way to the tavern and huffed as he sat down next to Konrad. He rubbed his temples.
Konrad patted him on the back. “You look even worse than before, if that’s possible. What took you so long to get here?”
“Errands,” Georg said. He sighed and put his hands on the table, motioning for the barkeep. “I found something strange tonight.”
“What’s that?” Konrad asked, taking a pull from his mug. The ale dripped down his chin and beard.
Georg didn’t mention the nun. Georg believed Salome when she’d said she was just following orders. The church loved to keep tabs on everyone, and Bedburg was no different than any other town or city.
No, it was the cabin that stuck in his mind. He had so many questions: Who was inside? What was going on there? What purpose did the cabin serve?
Georg knew he would be venturing back into those dark woods some day, and the thought gave him a sharp chill down his spine.
“Something that might change everything,” he said, mostly to himself. The vagueness in his voice caused Konrad to chuckle, but Georg decided not to expand on his words. He wanted to answer some of his own questions and tell Investigator Franz what he found, first. Though he thought he could trust his new acquaintance, he’d still only just met Konrad. Then he scratched his chin, realizing that he didn’t know if he could trust the investigator, either.
The barkeep brought a mug of ale for Georg. The hunter tilted his head as the barkeep walked away.
“How ominous,” Konrad said, smiling.
“That’s not Lars,” Georg said, motioning toward the barman with his chin. Lars was tall, with blond hair and a twinkle in his eye, whereas this man was shorter and had dark hair.
“Very perceptive of you, Georg.”
“Where’s Lars?”
Konrad shrugged. “No idea, but this man’s ale is just as good as the other man’s.”
Georg nodded and massaged his temples again. What a night, he thought, closing his eyes. He grabbed his mug and took a long drink, wanting to forget—or at least understand—everything that had transpired.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
DIETER
A loud knock came from the door. Dieter stood from his chair. It was late. He snuffed out the candlelight and crept to the other side of the dark room. He slowly opened the door.
Sybil stood in the way, and a horse-drawn carriage was behind her, wheeling around to leave.
“Beele, I told you no one could know we were meeting here!” Dieter said with a frown. Then he noticed her tattered and mud-caked gown, her distraught face, and red-rimmed eyes. “Good God, what’s happened? Are you hurt?” Dieter stood aside and made the sign of the cross over his chest.
Sybil stormed past the priest. Dieter followed her, and then she abruptly spun around and lunged at Dieter, embracing him. She nudged her damp face into his chest. “This has been the worst day of my life!” Her thin body shook from silent sobs. “I don’t think I can trust my father ever again.”
Dieter held Sybil out at arm’s-length. “Slow down, Beele. Start from the beginning. What are you talking about?”
So she told him, starting with the image of Bertrude Achterberg’s burnt body that flashed in her mind every time she closed her eyes, then how her father had forced her to go to a ball with the repulsive Johannes von Bergheim, and her eventual escape from the nobleman.
“That man was an utter snob and miscreant. You wouldn’t believe how these nobles speak to one another!”
Dieter sighed and led Sybil by the arm. He sat her down at the table. The candle’s wick still smoked. He took a seat and pushed aside the open Bible. “I’ve known enough nobles to know how they act, my dear. Don’t let them get the best of you.”
“You don’t understand,” Sybil said. “My father expects me to marry this brute! Johannes tried to get me drunk without even knowing me for more than an hour. If my father finds out I ran away, he’ll kill me.”
Dieter’s heart dropped to the pit of his stomach at the mention of marriage. He felt a lump in his throat. “I’m sure there’s . . . something that can be done.” He stared at the Bible sitting at the other end of the table, then back to Sybil. “Your father is only trying to do what’s best for you, I’m sure.”
“And how would he know what’s best for me?” Sybil spat. She shook her head. “No, he’s only trying to help himself. I’ll never forgive that bastard!”
Dieter’s eyes went wide. “Please, calm down, Beele. You mustn’t say such things. He is your father, and he loves you. I’m sure this feeling will pass.”
Sybil was st
ill shaking her head, and she started fidgeting and biting her fingernails. “I don’t think so.” She stared back at Dieter and her eyes were bright and twinkling. “Don’t you see, Dieter? This . . . feeling I have . . . I don’t want it to pass.”
Dieter leaned back, and his eyebrows jumped. “What do you mean?”
Sybil struggled to speak. Finally, she said, “What I’m feeling isn’t about my father or that noble bastard. It’s about you.”
Dieter was still confused, and his face showed it.
Sybil blushed and looked at the floor. Her voice cracked as she said, “I love you, Dieter. You’re the only one who understands me, and who’s been kind to me. I love you, Dieter Nicolaus. And I think you love me, too.”
Dieter coughed and stuttered, unable to find his breath. His heart started to pound in his chest as he was caught thoroughly off-guard. All he managed to say in a small squeak was, “Y-you can’t, Sybil.”
“Why not?” Sybil asked, tilting her head.
“No, no, I mean, I can’t. I am a man of God, Sybil. You are the daughter of a wealthy farmer. The notion is completely unheard of and out of line.”
“So what? Is that supposed to mean that our hearts can’t yearn for each other?”
Dieter still struggled to speak. He took a moment to calm his nerves. “We can’t love each other, Beele. It is against everything I’ve been taught. We come from two completely different stations in life.”
“Damn our stations in life!” Sybil shouted. Her voice grew angry, and she slammed a fist on the table. “Tell me, then. Tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll leave you alone right now—and forever.”
Dieter’s mind swirled, and he felt dizzy. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the words—again, those pesky words. He turned to the Bible, ashamed, as if he’d failed, and slowly brought his gaze back to Sybil’s muddied face.
Even under puffy red lids, her eyes looked like pools from a waterfall, waiting to wash him over. Even with her muddy face and makeup, her skin was like the moon—glowing and peaceful. Her hair was like a bright sunflower, waiting for its petals to be picked. Her rosy lips were like the lifeblood that coursed through every man’s veins.