The Beast Within

by Cory Barclay

The universally feared torturer and jailer swiveled his neck slowly, scanning from one side to the other. No one spoke as he slowly marched to the center of the room.

  Dieter’s heart pounded. Casually, he turned back toward the bar while trying to pull his hood tighter around his head. Martin did the same. Cristoff gave Dieter and Martin a scornful look, as if it was their fault for the intrusion, before he finally looked up and addressed Ulrich.

  “Can I help you, Herr Ulrich?” he said, feigning calmness.

  Ulrich’s gruff voice rang out. “Yes, barkeep, I’m here to arrest a certain person . . .” he trailed off as he stomped toward the bar. “Ah!” he called out suddenly. “There she is!”

  She?

  “Aellin Brandt!” Ulrich barked, now looking up the staircase. “You are under arrest for treason, for conspiring to rebel against the lordship of Bedburg. Please step down here.”

  Turning to his left, Dieter looked up the stairs, keeping his face hidden. Aellin stood at the top of the stairs, her curly black hair in a bun. Her face flashed pure terror as she gripped the staircase railing with both hands. Dieter could tell by her eyes that she was considering making a run for it.

  But to where? Out a window?

  Please don’t run, Aellin . . .

  While Aellin remained frozen, Ulrich bounded up the stairs, more quickly than a man his size should have been able to do, and grabbed her by the shoulders. Aellin writhed from his grip, as Ulrich roughly pulled her down the staircase and out the door, his men quickly following.

  “This is madness!” she screamed, her voice trailing off as they took her away. “I’ve done nothing wrong!” she yelled down the quiet street of a still-waking Bedburg.

  Dieter considered what had just happened. Then realized something was wrong.

  He reached into his tunic and found the crumpled note.

  The message was wrong.

  “Dammit,” Cristoff said, pounding his fist on the bar top. “She’s my best earner!” Then he returned to his chores like it was just another day. Glancing over at Dieter, he returned to their earlier conversation. “What urgent news did you have for me?”

  Dieter was still staring at the message in his hand. Then he realized something he hadn’t noticed before. He got up quickly, pulling Martin along with him, and returned to Claus’ inn. There, he retrieved one of the earlier notes they’d received.

  And noticed it immediately.

  The handwriting was different. Noticeably.

  Especially the curved lines of the signature, since it—Mord—was the only word found in both notes, and thus easy to compare.

  “These notes were written by two different people,” he said, looking up at Claus and Martin.

  “We’ve been compromised.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  HUGO

  “I’m not in love with you, Hugo. I never was.”

  Ava’s words hit him like a spear through the heart. Even locked in a cell, her tone was anything but submissive. Undeterred by her surroundings, the woman’s words were unkind, combative, defiant. Hugo could barely speak, his face twisted. “B-but, when we were younger . . . in the Vagabond Five . . .”

  With knees drawn up to her chest and her arms across her legs, Ava sat back against the wall of the cell and shook her head without emotion.

  “I never thought of you like that,” she said. “We were good friends, nothing more. I’m sorry if you think I led you on . . .”

  That’s exactly what you did! he wanted to shout. But Ulrich and Karstan were in the next room and he didn’t want them to hear him grovel.

  Shifting from heartbroken to angry, he squinted at her. “You’re heartless, Ava. You played us against each other—Severin, Karstan, me.”

  She scoffed. “You’re delusional, Hue. I never did any such thing! If anything, I tried to keep us all together, even when things began falling apart.”

  “So you never loved Karstan, either?”

  Ava shook her head. “Of course not. That was a moment of weakness. I had just been freed of this place—”

  “By me.”

  She sighed, ignoring the comment. “I wasn’t in my right mind.”

  “You still aren’t,” Hugo spat. “You wouldn’t know a good man if he stood right before you.”

  With a bemused look, Ava said, “Is that what you are, then? A good man?” She blew out a breath. “Any man who follows so closely in the shadows of that evil, despicable investigator—”

  “Lord,” Hugo interjected. “He’s called Lord Heinrich Franz.”

  “For God’s sake, he killed your father! How can you ever trust a man who’s done such terrible things?”

  “And he’s been more like a father to me than anyone else—including Peter Griswold,” Hugo blurted out, surprising himself at publicly voicing such disrespect for his own father. It was as if the words weren’t his, like hearing someone else speak them.

  Ava shook her head sadly, “He has you on a leash, Hugo. A puppy dog yipping at his every command. If you don’t see that, then you’re beyond help.”

  “You don’t know anything, foolish girl.”

  “And that’s always been your problem,” Ava shot back. “You always know more than everyone else, you’ve got all the answers. Well Hugo, have you seen the city recently? Does it look like Lord Heinrich is doing a good job of keeping Bedburg peaceful?”

  “We’re in a war,” Hugo muttered, his confidence waning.

  “The Cologne War ended three years ago! That wicked man is stirring up trouble that shouldn’t even exist. Darkness follows everything Heinrich Franz touches—including you.”

  Hugo shook his head violently, trying to shake off Ava’s words. But the truth was, her points were strong and sensible. Bedburg was indeed in an uproar. The two sides, the Protestants and Catholics, hated each other more than ever. And there was no denying that all the latest upheaval was traceable to Heinrich’s recent actions, not the least of which were the murders of barons Ludwig and Josef—two of the wealthiest, most influential men in the county. With no thought of possible ramifications. Solely on a whim.

  But Hugo’s doubts had to remain private. His survival depended on it. He certainly couldn’t confess them to this foolish girl. So he stayed quiet and just stared at her. Which wasn’t hard to do. Even in her filthy clothes, even in this grimy prison cell, she was still beautiful.

  But she wasn’t done destroying him. “Martin is twice the man you’ll ever be, Hugo,” she said as he stared, her words crashing his world to pieces.

  Gritting his teeth, he gripped the bars tightly, his knuckles turning white. Yet all he could say was, “You don’t mean it.”

  With a rueful look, Ava answered quietly, “I do. You’ve turned into something I could never have dreamed of.”

  He inhaled, then let it out. “And I thought I knew you, too, Ava. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. You’re just like every other girl . . .”

  Hearing his words come out, he realized how silly they sounded, like a wounded schoolboy.

  Ava narrowed her eyes. “While you do Heinrich’s bidding, Martin works to help people. Helping your sister’s husband. When they rescued me from the streets of Bedburg, I realized something about myself.”

  Placing her hands on the cold floor for support, she slowly stood. “I never belonged with you, Hugo—the whole lot of you: Karstan, Severin, Daniel. We were fooling ourselves, just bringing misery to regular people, the same folk I’m now trying to help.” She looked away. “I suppose I’m trying to redeem myself for the terrible things I’ve done, before I leave this awful city.”

  She turned back to him, stepping toward the bars, gazing into his eyes. “Unfortunately, I think you’re beyond redemption,” she said, and Hugo snapped.

  “Say it again, you cold bitch,” he snarled, his face coiled like a rabid dog.

  And she did.

  Leaning in even closer, she whispered, “You’re beyond redemption.”

  “I’ll kill you!�
�� Hugo yelled, his arm darting between the bars, catching a handful of hair and yanking her forward. As her face smashed into the metal rods, her nose cracked and she screamed, blood spurting everywhere. Gagging, she sunk to the floor as a shout came from down the hall.

  “That’s enough!” yelled Ulrich, rushing over with Karstan steps behind. Grabbing Hugo by the shoulders, the jailer pulled him away as Ava quietly wept, her hands covering her bloody face.

  “Jesus, Hue,” said Karstan, eyeing the sobbing woman. “Why’d you do that?”

  Hugo thrashed in Ulrich’s arms, breaking the big man’s grip and dashing down the hall and up the stairs.

  A few hours later, Hugo was back in the comfort and safety of House Charmagne. Though exhausted, both physically and emotionally, he’d at least calmed down a bit. He’d never been that angry and it scared him.

  Am I starting to take after Heinrich?

  Being around so much death at the hands of Heinrich, Ulrich, and even Tomas Reiner, he knew he was unraveling, becoming desensitized to the violence. Thinking back, he could even pinpoint when it had started: that day he’d pushed Severin off the cliff—how easy it had been for him to do that, feeling virtually no remorse.

  Perhaps I am being blinded by Heinrich. What has he truly ever done for me? Given me a false sense of importance by making me his “liaison” or “emissary” or “regent” while he’s away? Is that really anything?

  The mansion’s butler, Beauregard, broke into his thoughts, approaching him in the hallway with a letter.

  “A message from Cologne, young master,” Beauregard said, before scurrying off.

  Opening the envelope, Hugo sighed then read the short note.

  Hugo,

  You are the only person I can trust with the contents of this letter. Keep this information close to you.

  I am indisposed in Cologne, trying to win back favor from Archbishop Ernst. Prior to his death, I believe Ludwig Koehler was attempting to conspire against our interests in Bedburg.

  Help me find proof of that!

  Go to the jail and free Tomas. Tell him to ready the garrison, that battle may be imminent. I fear the battleground will be Bedburg.

  Do not trust anyone. I shall return shortly. Until then, I trust you to watch over our enterprises.

  ~HF

  Ignoring his doubts from just moments earlier, Hugo smiled at the last two words of the letter.

  “. . . our enterprises.”

  A sign that Heinrich really did trust him? Though it left far more questions than answers.

  Who will take over Ludwig’s sword now that he’s fallen?

  If “battle may be imminent,” where will these enemies come from?

  And how do I prepare for that? I’ve never been in a war.

  Can I truly turn to Tomas for advice?

  Folding the letter back into its envelope, he tucked it away in his tunic. Then a thought struck him. He walked down the hallway to the stairs leading to the cellar and dungeon. As he descended the steps, he pinched his nose to avoid the foul odor. When he reached the bottom, the air was cold and damp. Tightening his tunic against the chill, he grabbed a lit torch from the wall and, once his eyes adjusted, headed for the cages.

  Heinrich’s wolves frightened him. He still didn’t understand why the man kept such feral beasts as “pets.” One of many things about Heinrich that made no sense.

  In the corner of the room, Lady Lucille Engel sat curled up, hiding her face between her knees. Hugo called out, “Lady?”

  Slowly, the woman lifted her head. Her face was dirty, her blonde hair greasy and plastered to her scalp. She hadn’t bathed since her father’s death weeks earlier, still wearing the wedding gown she’d had on that night, though the once lavish dress was now torn and covered in blood.

  Yet through all the ugliness around her, for the first time Hugo noticed how attractive she was. Despite being in her early thirties, almost twice Hugo’s age, her body was lithe and her cheeks slightly sunken in a sultry way.

  As Hugo approached, she squirmed backward toward the wall. He stopped, putting his hands out in a calming gesture. “I’m not here to hurt you, my lady.”

  “I’m not a lady any longer,” she groaned. “Since you killed my father . . . I lost that title.”

  “I’m sorry, Frau Engel. I did not know that was going to happen.”

  Lucille snorted. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Heinrich is a very impulsive man.”

  Tilting her head, she squinted up at him. “That’s what you call your murderous, vile lord? Impulsive?”

  Hugo looked down without responding.

  A moment later, Lucille said, “I’m sorry, I . . . please don’t shut down. I haven’t spoken to anyone in weeks. How long have I been locked away here?”

  Hugo looked up, feeling pity for the former noblewoman. Heinrich had done a heartless thing. Hugo looked over into the wolves’ cage, noticing the dark blotches of dried blood smeared everywhere. Not content with simply murdering the woman’s father, Heinrich had fed the man’s body to the animals while she’d been forced to watch. It was yet another thing Hugo could not comprehend about his mentor: the need to torture someone after already winning.

  He turned back to her. “Would you like to talk, then?”

  Lucille gave an almost imperceptible nod. In contrast to her huge presence on the night of the wedding dinner, as she now huddled in the corner she looked so very small, a mere shell of her former self. Hugo’s pity intensified. He stepped forward, moving very slowly so as not to alarm her. When he was three feet away he sat down on the cold hard floor across from her, laying the torch beside him, then resting his hands in his lap.

  Lucille studied him for a long time. It seemed to go on forever until, feeling unsettled, Hugo had to look away, crossing his feet and toying with his boots. When he glanced back up, Lucille had a strange smile on her face.

  “You are a peculiar young man, Hugo Griswold.”

  He tilted his head. “How so?”

  “For some reason, I feel that I can trust you. I’ve been wrong before, mind you”—her head nudging toward the stairs, referring to Heinrich—“but I’m usually right about these things. Can I trust you?”

  Hugo nodded dumbly, feeling like he was trapped under some sort of spell. He gazed into her eyes—amber in color, large and inviting. He glanced downward, to the top of her dress, to the clearly-defined curvature of her tight corset around her abundant chest. Catching him staring, she smiled. Embarrassed, he immediately looked away.

  “Do you think you could do me a favor, Hugo?” she asked softly.

  He again nodded, trance-like. Then he chuckled. “As long as it’s not to break you out of here . . .”

  “Of course not,” she said. “Do you think you could get me a fresh dress? Surely your master has clean clothes for his many female guests . . .”

  Hugo’s head swiveled left to right before responding. “He doesn’t really have any female guests.”

  Lucille put a finger to her chin. “I find that odd. And what about you?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is odd.”

  With a twinkle in her eye, she clarified, “I meant, what about your female guests.”

  Hugo stammered. “I-I, n-no, no.”

  She giggled, an angelic sound that stirred Hugo. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, his mind utterly blank.

  “Was there a reason you came down to speak with me, Hugo? Or were you just lonely?” She paused, then, “Like me?”

  Suddenly he couldn’t recall why he’d come down. To ask her something? Then he remembered.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, trying to regain a more serious tone. “Do you have any idea who would attack Bedburg? I mean, if you were your father—”

  “My father’s dead,” Lucille said flatly. “Your master made sure of that.”

  “R-right, my apologies. But, if you were in his predicament—”

  “If you’re asking whether or not my father was planning
something egregious against your city, you’re asking the wrong person. My father never involved me with talk of battle and war. I’m sure he figured I wouldn’t understand, or care.”

  “And . . . do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Care or understand battle and war.”

  Lucille shrugged. “I understand its necessity. But no, I don’t care for it at all. You men and your weapons and strategies and barbaric nature . . . it’s really quite dull.”

  “And what kind of things do you fancy?” Hugo asked.

  “Clean clothes,” Lucille said with a wry smile.

  He let out a nervous laugh and again toyed with his boot. “O-of course, my apologies. Let me see what I can do . . .”

  He stood, reaching down for the still-flaming torch on the ground. Looking into his eyes, Lucille said, “You don’t seem like a terrible person, Hugo. Unlike your master.”

  “You mean your husband,” Hugo retorted, immediately regretting his words.

  But Lucille took the jab in stride. “Heinrich Franz will never be my husband. To me, he’ll never be anything more than a murderer.”

  “And what about me?” Hugo asked.

  She tilted her head, mulling the question over. “I’m not sure yet what I think of you, Hugo Griswold,” she replied. “Only time will tell . . .”

  His heart began racing as Lucille waved him off.

  “Now go, I beg of you. Please find me that fresh dress.”

  Hugo nodded then hurried away. As he headed up the stairs, he imagined Lucille watching him from behind, increasing the pace of his pounding heart. When he reached the top, he closed and locked the door behind him, then leaned back against it, sighed, and sunk down to the floor.

  He was no longer thinking of Ava. In fact, she was the furthest thing from his mind.

  But a woman had taken over his thoughts.

  And he was feeling something powerful.

  Immensely more powerful than anything he’d ever felt.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  SYBIL