Of Witches and Werewolves Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2018 by Cory Barclay

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  www.CoryBarclay.com

  First edition: May 2018

  Devil in the Countryside: December 2016

  In the Company of Wolves: September 2017

  The Beast Within: March 2018

  Cover Art by Vaughn Mir (wyldraven.deviantart.com)

  Cover Designs by Mike Montemarano (Devil in the Countryside, In the Company of Wolves) (mikemontemarano.com) & Nick Montemarano (The Beast Within) (nickmontemarano.com)

  Please consider signing up to my newsletter for new release information and specials at

  www.CoryBarclay.com

  CONTENTS

  Book One: Devil in the Countryside

  Book Two: In the Company of Wolves

  Book Three: The Beast Within

  This book is dedicated to my mom, dad, and brother,

  who have always supported me in any creative endeavor I undertake.

  *

  On October 31, 1517, the Protestant Reformation began by Martin Luther’s hand. Soon after, European Christians were killing each other at an unprecedented rate in the name of religion. Witch-hunts plagued the continent. And while these ghastly affairs took more than a century to gain traction across the ocean in North America, the European progenitors of these events found themselves often focusing on far different targets—werewolves.

  This story depicts one such actual werewolf investigation and trial—a particularly infamous one that took place in Germany, the birthplace of Martin Luther and the Protestant Reformation.

  So although some characters and events are fictional, the subject matter is not.

  *

  PART I

  The Case of Dorothea Gabler

  CHAPTER ONE

  HEINRICH

  1588 – Near the town of Bedburg, Germany

  It had been some time since Investigator Heinrich Franz had inspected a murder scene, and he relished the opportunity. As he removed his black gloves to inspect the body, a tingle ran down his spine.

  The victim’s body was situated near a tree, tucked away from any trails or passing eyes.

  “Our killer wanted to make it difficult to identify the victim, but not to find her,” Heinrich said to his right-hand man and bodyguard, Tomas.

  He crouched over the body. Her exposed entrails had been dragged around the trunk of the tree, separating her legs from her torso. Her right foot was missing three toes, and her left arm was missing altogether. Her mangled face was a canvas for flesh-eating insects. He could only tell the victim was female by the tattered blue dress she wore and the stringy blonde hair plastered against her head.

  Heinrich glanced at the dress. Maybe it will help to identify her, he thought, and then looked at her face. Because that certainly won’t.

  Heinrich prodded beneath the dress, but found no signs of defilement. The stench of decay was not yet overwhelming, but still strong enough to offend his keen nose.

  “She’s been dead for less than twenty-four hours,” the investigator said. He turned to the frightened farmer standing behind him. “And you found her when?”

  “This morning, sir.” The farmer held a grimy cap close to his chest. “I was walking my dogs when the wind brought her smell right to me. Then I saw crows circling—”

  “I didn’t ask how,” Heinrich said, “just when.”

  The investigator circled the tree and bent down to examine the torso with a magnifying glass. Flies and maggots crawled over her body and through her deep cuts. Heinrich put a finger to one of her small, exposed breasts. It was cold and clammy.

  “She was killed in broad daylight, sir?” the farmer asked.

  Heinrich ignored the man. He pocketed his magnifying glass, stood up with creaking knees, and wrestled his hands back into his gloves. “Judging by the size of her breasts and feet, I’d say she was no more than fifteen years of age.”

  “Just a child,” the farmer murmured. He started fidgeting with his cap, and then stammered. “There wouldn’t perhaps be any kind of . . . reward for finding the body, would there, sir?”

  Heinrich gave the man an icy glare and spat on the grass. Heartless swine, he thought, shaking his head. Trying to profit on the death of a child. He started pacing in front of the farmer, and then stroked his chin and twirled his thin, wispy mustache. He stared at the man’s fat, doughy face. He was middle-aged, with a patchy gray beard. His eyes were soft, and he looked harmless, but Heinrich knew that appearances never made the man, nor told the whole story.

  “The real question I have,” Heinrich said, “is what was a young girl doing out here alone, so far from any roads?”

  “Perhaps she was lured here?”

  The investigator eyed the farmer. “A fine observation,” Heinrich said with a disingenuous smile. Then it vanished. “My next question is what were you doing out here so far from the trails?”

  The farmer scratched his scalp, and then his face slowly distorted and his mouth fell open. He stammered some more. “Y-you can’t believe that . . . that I . . .” he trailed off. “I told you, sir, I was leading my dogs—”

  Heinrich nodded and Tomas came to the farmer’s side and grabbed his arms. The farmer shouted and squirmed and tried to break free.

  “You can’t do this, sir! I came to you only trying to help!”

  Yes, trying to help your purse.

  Tomas looked pale and queasy as he wrestled with the farmer.

  “Take him to the jail,” Heinrich ordered. “I’ll be by a bit later. Find out whatever you can.”

  Tomas nodded and turned away.

  “And Tomas,” Heinrich added. The soldier spun on his heels, and Heinrich stared into his eyes. “Whatever means necessary.”

  Tomas nodded again. “What are your thoughts, sir?”

  Heinrich sighed and put his hands on his hips. “I’m thinking the Werewolf of Bedburg has returned.”

  The search for the Werewolf of Bedburg had gone cold over the previous two years. Prior to that, the terrible beast rampaged across the German countryside for a decade, unopposed.

  When he vanished, no one knew why.

  There hadn’t been any definitive sightings since. Sometimes a peasant clamoring for fame would claim to have seen the beast, and it would stoke the flames of fear around Bedburg all over again. The sightings were always unfounded—a Protestant minority trying to scare the Catholics, or the other way around.

  This latest discovery, however, could not be ignored. In the past, Heinrich had seen wounds as grotesque as those on the latest victim.

  Finally, the hunt was on again, and Heinrich felt the hair stand on the back of his neck.

  He made his way back to the town of Bedburg, and decided to postpone his interrogation until the morning, to let the farmer stew in the dank cellars of the jail for a while.

  The investigator decided to stop in at the local tavern on the eastern side of town. He meandered through the muddy roads of Bedburg until he came to a stone building with a brick-tiled roof. As he arrived, the sun was setting behind the trees to the west. He opened the front door and was greeted by a stale wave of heat across his face.

  Inside, the place was bustling. Travelers and peasants and tradesmen alike sat at circular wooden tables, drinking, laughing, and telling storie
s to each other as they ogled the passing bar wenches.

  A large hearth was lit on the left wall, and the bar was located opposite the hearth. Heinrich took a seat at the bar, next to a broad-shouldered man. He took off his gloves, rubbed his eyes, and ordered a mug of ale. Within seconds of sitting, a short-skirted, redheaded girl with freckles dotting her nose sashayed over to him and gave him a coy smile. She opened her mouth to speak, but Heinrich waved her off before any words came out. She frowned and stormed off to a nearby table.

  “If you don’t take her, I might have to.”

  Heinrich faced the big man sitting next to him. He had a leathery face, and a long, dark beard. His tunic was ragged, and he had scars on his thick arms. The most telling sign was his eyes—the hardened eyes of a man who had seen many horrors in his life. Heinrich deduced that the man was a soldier.

  “Have at her,” the investigator said.

  The man let out a raspy, rumbling noise that sounded somewhere between a laugh and a battle cry. He took a large pull from the mug in front of him, belched, and then stuck out his hand. “Georg Sieghart,” he said.

  Heinrich paused, stared at the man’s bear-like hand, and noticed an iron ring around his fourth finger. He took Georg’s hand—the man had an iron grip—and said, “Heinrich Franz.” Then, with his chin, he gestured to the ring on Georg’s hand, and then to the redheaded girl nearby. “What would your wife think of that?”

  A smirk formed beneath Georg’s long beard, and he shrugged. “She wouldn’t mind. Haven’t seen her in some time.”

  He looked at Heinrich’s hands, noticed a similar ring, and said, “Is that why you resist the temptation?”

  “You could say that.”

  Georg lifted his mug. “To chivalry,” he said with a smile.

  Heinrich bumped mugs with the man and took a large gulp. “Have you just returned from warring?”

  Heinrich spoke of the Cologne War, which had ravaged the state for nearly seven long years.

  “How did you know?”

  “It’s my job to know. You haven’t seen your wife for some time, and you sit like a soldier.”

  Lines formed on Georg’s forehead. “How does one sit like a soldier?”

  Heinrich looked Georg up and down. “Slumped shoulders, but still with a disciplined posture. You hold your mug with both hands, as if it’s going to run away, and your eyes dart around, looking for the nearest threat.”

  Georg frowned. “You’ve known me for two minutes, and you gathered all that? What are you, a Protestant spy?”

  Heinrich looked over his shoulder and then leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m the chief investigator of Bedburg,” he said in a low voice.

  Georg frowned. After a moment, he grinned, and then he clapped Heinrich hard on the back and let out another deep belly rumble. “Well, Investigator Franz, you are only half right. I was a soldier, but not any longer.”

  “Wounded? Discharged?”

  Georg finished his ale, and then he leaned close to Heinrich. “Deserter,” he said with a straight face. “But don’t tell your lord.”

  Heinrich couldn’t be sure if the man was being serious. “And you’re Catholic?”

  “Of course. Born Jesuit. But I’ve killed enough Calvinists and Lutherans to last a lifetime. The Protestants may be heretical fools, but from what I’ve seen and done, I’m not too sure we’re much better.”

  Heinrich leaned back in his stool, somewhat startled at Georg’s bluntness. “Those words can get you killed around here.”

  Georg stared at Heinrich and frowned. “Should I be worried you’re goin’ to squeal on me, Investigator Franz?”

  Heinrich paused. Then he smiled and patted Georg on the back. He decided he liked this man. We need more people like him—not afraid to say what they mean—men with conviction. “No,” he said. “We need people with spines like yours. Our country is being overrun by gutless sods and rodents.”

  “That doesn’t sound very Catholic of you, Investigator Franz.”

  Heinrich eyed the large man. “Who said I was Catholic?”

  Georg’s face lost its color. It wasn’t until Heinrich began chuckling that Georg’s face lit up. The big man grinned and said, “What are you investigating?”

  “I’m trying to find the Werewolf of Bedburg.”

  “Ah. I heard the beast has returned.”

  “How? The newest victim was just found today.”

  “It’s my job to listen,” Georg said with a wink. He stood from his chair, stretched his thick arms, and groaned. “Word travels fast.” He gave Heinrich another hard slap on the shoulder, and then began to walk toward the door of the tavern. “Have a good night, investigator.”

  Heinrich looked over his shoulder and called out, “What are you here for, Georg Sieghart?”

  When the big man reached the door, he turned and had a mischievous grin on his face. “You’re here to find the werewolf? Well, I’m here to kill him.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  GEORG

  Georg strolled half-drunkenly to an inn near the tavern. As he clomped through the muddy roads, he looked up and smiled at the yellow moon that lit up the cloudless sky. The usual commotion of horses and people was replaced by an eerie silence. The townsfolk stayed indoors and shuttered their windows, frightened of the word that a killer had returned to their town.

  As he stumbled along, Georg wondered if he’d said too much to the investigator. In hindsight, he realized it wasn’t smart to blab about deserting his military post to a complete stranger.

  It’s the alcohol’s fault.

  Georg also couldn’t tell if the man was being truthful when he said he was the chief investigator for the lord of Bedburg, Lord Werner. If he was telling the truth, then Georg figured he’d see more of Heinrich Franz in the future. Also, it meant that the investigator would be his rival in the search for the killer.

  Since leaving the army, Georg had followed the werewolf’s bloody trail, first from the city of Cologne, and then west, to Bedburg. He thought he was closer to finding the beast than anyone else was, but then the murders stopped happening, and the trail went cold.

  Now everything had changed.

  He came to the small inn and wandered inside. A crackling fire warmed the lobby, and an elderly clerk stood near the far wall. Next to the clerk was a staircase that led up to the bedrooms.

  “Claus,” Georg said with a nod.

  “Welcome back, Herr Sieghart. Find what you were looking for?”

  “Always and never,” Georg said, shrugging. He disappeared up a staircase and went to his small room. When he plopped himself on his hard cot, his brain started swirling.

  I’ll need to find more work if I’m going to pursue this beast, he thought, laying his head down. And I’ll need . . . he started, but darkness found him before he could finish his thought.

  He had a horrible dream that night—the same nightmare he’d had nearly every night over the last few months. It always started differently than the time before, but always ended the same.

  This time, he was in a dark village. Owls hooted from nearby trees. The rank odor of burning hair, wood, and flesh reached his nose. It lingered like an unwanted lover. He could hear screaming and shouting coming from nearby houses.

  This was a Protestant village, and the people here were poor farmers and peasants. More importantly, these people worshiped the teachings of Martin Luther.

  Georg fought for the city of Cologne and for the Catholic prince-elector, Archbishop Ernst of Bavaria. He was joined by Spanish troops, and the poor Protestants in this village were his enemies.

  Men and women and children burned, and their death-woes pierced the sky as ashes billowed and choked the night air. Many of the women were burned as witches—without trial or proof—and their children for being spawned from demons. The men were forced to watch their women being raped by the Spanish soldiers, before their own throats were cut. The bodies piled high. Then, to scare off other reformers, the village itself was ra
zed.

  Then the dream took a familiar turn.

  Georg was ordered to kill a mother and an infant she carried. There could be no witnesses to this awful, senseless massacre. Georg hesitated. Staring at the horrified mother, he was reminded of his own wife and unborn child. What crimes could these two possibly have committed? Why must they die?

  And just before swinging his blade, the nightmare adjusted to his life at home, returning from the war, and the horrors he found there . . .

  Georg jolted awake with a gasp. He was covered with thick sweat. He looked outside his small window and saw that the sun was rising. He decided he’d attend early Mass to try and find solace from his perpetual nightmares.

  Hunting the werewolf had become the only escape from the life he once led. But sleep brought out the worst in him, as if God was telling him that he’d never be forgiven for the atrocities he’d committed.

  After a quick meal of boiled eggs, Georg left the inn and headed to the nearby church. The early risers were preparing for their hard day ahead. Men pushed wheelbarrows to and from the farmlands, and cattle were set to graze the pastures. People kept to themselves.

  The church was located in the center of town, easily accessible for all. It was one of the grandest structures in Bedburg, and had a huge, golden cross fixated on its pure-white gable, and a stained-glass front door.

  People of all sorts attended Mass: old women trying to find answers for their sickly children; starving farmers; worried soldiers. Usually, Bishop Solomon ran the morning Mass. He was an old, Roman Catholic parish leader who gave enthralling sermons, issued indulgences, and gave confessions to the congregation. But today, a young man—no more than twenty years old—took his place.