by Cory Barclay
Tomas stopped his story. Hugo’s mouth was agape, eager to hear more. When it became apparent Tomas wanted an answer, Hugo uttered, “No.”
“No,” Tomas echoed. “You see, Hugo, sometimes you have to grab life by the reins when it tries to buck you off. Sometimes you have to take what you want.”
“What did he do?” Hugo asked. “How did he recover from all that pain?”
“Well . . . he became Bedburg’s torturer and executioner. He became Ulrich.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
GUSTAV
Gustav paced fore to aft on the deck of the Willow Wisp, his boots creaking on the rickety floorboards with each step. His mind wouldn’t focus and he felt flustered. It was partly from overindulging his laudanum, but also from the indignity of losing his prisoners to the pirates. A warm sensation pulsed behind his eyes. He tried blinking it away, but that just made him look even more like a crazed and confused drunkard.
“So . . . damn . . . close,” he muttered to himself.
Hedda took off her spectacles and massaged the bridge of her nose. “You should get some rest, Gustav. You’re in no state to—”
“I won’t hear it!” Gustav yelled, gawking at the grooves and holes in the wooden floor. He tried to avoid stepping on the uneven parts, and ended up hopping about, which only added to his crazed appearance.
Kevan and Paul sat at the end of the boat, looking everywhere but at Gustav, trying hard to avoid invoking his glare. Kevan fiddled with his boots; Paul stared off the gunwale at the black water. Hedda kept glancing at the two, trying to get them to lend a hand in dealing with Gustav, but it was a hopeless endeavor.
“I won’t let them slip away—can’t let them slip away. They will face the end of noose, even if it’s the last thing I witness.” Gustav trembled violently. He stopped in place, putting his hands on his hips.
“You’re focusing too much on the small things,” Hedda said, nodding and agreeing with herself. “Remember that Sybil and Dieter Nicolaus are a means to an end. If the last thing you see is their swinging corpses, you’ve let them beat you.”
“My father . . .” Gustav said suddenly. “You may be right, woman, but the only way I see myself on that seat is if I bring those swine to my father’s feet. It’s the only way.”
“I’m sure there are other ways to win Ludwig’s approval, Gustav.”
“It’s the only way,” Gustav repeated a third time.
Captain Jergen poked his head up from the stairwell, his eyes nearly shut, his appearance even grimier than usual. “Could ya shut it for a coupl’a hours there, lordling?” he said, eye-level with Gustav’s boots. “After today’s adventures, me men and meself need us some real quiet time.”
Gustav felt like kicking the man in the face, or at least kicking something, hard. But having enough trouble just staying upright, he instead yelled, “Quiet your tongue, you rogue!”
Jergen jerked back. “Hey, I ain’t the one who robbed us, sir. So don’t go spoutin’ off on me. Listen to your lady love and give it a rest for the night.”
The captain’s head disappeared, his loud footsteps fading as he stomped back down the stairs.
“Wait!” Gustav said. The footsteps stopped. “Where will we be going tomorrow? When will we reach Amsterdam?”
A loud chuckle echoed from the bottom of the steps, bouncing off the walls. “Amsterdam?” Jergen called out. “We ain’t headin’ there, lordling. I got nothin’ to sell—you seen the bastards that fleeced us. They took all my goods! What am I gon’ trade, the rottin’ floorboards?”
Anger swelled in Gustav’s chest. “Then where will we go?”
“Back to the island, I s’pose.”
“You can’t do that!” Gustav whined, stepping toward the stairs. He gazed down at the captain.
“Course I can. It’s my ship.”
“I paid you to bring me to Amsterdam!”
Jergen shrugged. “I didn’t see us gettin’ robbed. Wasn’t in the itiner’y. We’ll go back, restock, be back to ‘Dam in a week’s time.” He smiled crookedly. “I won’t even charge ya again. How’s that?”
Gustav growled. “I don’t feel you’re taking this seriously, Captain Jergen.”
Jergen stepped onto the lowest step, peering up at Gustav. He sneered. “Course I is. Ya think I wanted to get pinched? No. But it happens—even to the great Captain Jergen.”
Hedda rolled her eyes.
“Now stop your damn poundin’ and let me sleep,” the captain finished. He spun around and headed down the narrow corridor to his room.
Gustav faced Hedda. “That soggy sea rat is going to cost me even more time!”
“More time? For what, Gustav?”
“To catch up to the priest and the girl!”
Hedda frowned. “You still plan on pursuing them?”
Gustav wagged his head vigorously. “Of course I do—but I can’t waste any more time being stuck in the middle of the sea.”
“Well, you heard the captain, Gustav. We aren’t going to get anything done tonight. Why don’t you put away the brown bottle and sleep?”
For a moment, it seemed that Gustav might finally relent. But that moment passed, replaced by a new wildness in his eyes. He leered at Hedda with that lustful, laudanum-riddled look she so despised. “Fine, woman, I will. But you’re coming with me.”
Hedda squirmed and pushed Gustav’s hairy arms away from her face. She was on her back, her dress hiked to her hips, trying to hold her breath. A sickly sweet stench emanated from Gustav’s naked body, not quite like booze, but not natural, either—the smell of a frenzied soul trapped in a vicious and lewd haze. And Hedda wanted no part of it.
With every thrust of Gustav’s hips, Hedda sought refuge elsewhere, focusing her thoughts on a soothing place far from reality.
She dreamed of one day being strong enough to distance herself from this humiliating existence, to live her own quiet life. But the fact was, Gustav was a handsome man with endless prospects. The more he moved up the ladder of life, the more Hedda did, too. She’d come from a dark place and a poor family. Any vertical movements Gustav took were big steps for her. Even if she had to put up with his disgusting habits and desires.
Gustav groaned. The sweat dripped from his face onto Hedda’s breasts and neck. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he flexed his body, grabbed Hedda tightly by the waist and, with a silent gasp, crumpled into a slick, foul-smelling mass and rolled off her to the side of the bed.
Hedda took quick, short breaths. As her heard pounded, her hands rummaged near her knees, smoothing down her dress. Closing her eyes, she pulled the straps of her top back onto her shoulders, then reached over to the nightstand for her spectacles. Her breathing began to slow, as did her racing heart.
Quietly, she put on her glasses and faced Gustav. He was already snoring, his face mashed into the pillow.
She surveyed his naked body. His strong shoulders, his toned waist, his backside. Then, with a sigh, she gently covered him with the single blanket and closed her eyes.
She silently prayed for a long break before Gustav’s next vile episode of debauchery occurred. Though she knew better. She’d made her choices, at least for now.
She opened her eyes and looked down toward the end of the bed. Gustav’s half-empty bottle sat there on a stool. For a moment she contemplated pushing it over with her foot—the satisfying sound of the bottle crashing into a million pieces.
But she quickly came to her senses. She knew Gustav wasn’t beyond hitting a woman. She also knew his state of mind, how he felt it his right to have his drug at will. Maybe some day, when life was less hectic and he didn’t need to rely on that bottle, he’d become a kinder person.
But that day was not tonight, and Hedda fell asleep before she could dwell on it further, her spectacles still on her face.
Gustav awoke in a cold sweat. He knew he’d been dreaming—a terrible dream, something that made little sense. But before he could put it back together, the memory dissip
ated like the morning fog. So he looked around, trying to gauge his surroundings.
He was on a bed, naked, facedown. He rolled over. And there was Hedda. Curled up, still clothed, breathing lightly.
Did we . . . he arched his brows. We must have. Lucille can never find out. If she does, that will be the end of us both.
Gustav was married. And like most men he knew, he was terrified of his wife. She was wealthier than he, with far more political influence. Which was embarrassing. And all the more reason he needed Sybil and Dieter to hang. The boost to his dignity and image would be immense.
He had no regrets about his adultery. He did not love his wife. And he presumed she didn’t love him, either. Their marriage was one of necessity. There was no love lost.
On the other hand, Gustav truly did love Hedda. Or at least loved the idea of being in love with her. And he hoped she felt likewise. She followed me across the North Sea. That must say something. Or does it? Did she follow me because she felt forced?
He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten downstairs. He hoped Hedda had something to do with it and not his two soldiers, Kevan or Paul. That would be another blow to his pride, one he’d have to reconcile with them first thing in the morning.
Is it morning yet?
His eyes moved to the tiny window at the far end of the bed. Still dark outside. Good.
He sighed. Then an epiphany struck his brain like lightning. He remembered his dream. He remembered what must be done.
Amsterdam . . .
He got up from the bed, as slowly as possible to avoid waking Hedda. He searched for his clothes, his mind fuzzy and aching. As he put on his clothes, they stuck to his clammy body.
In bare feet he padded to the door, then tiptoed down the hallway.
The vessel was silent. Eerily so.
He moved deliberately, with practiced quiet. There was a job to be done. When he came to the door, he stopped for a moment, breathing in and out three times. Then he quietly pushed it open, leaning in slowly until his eyes adapted.
A large form lay in the bed in the corner of the small room. Silently, Gustav inched across the room, stubbing his toe on something, then cursing under his breath before stopping near the side of the bed.
The snoring form on the bed rolled over, onto its back, eyes still closed.
Gustav gazed down upon Captain Jergen, his face and beard glimmering dark blue from the first remnants of light through the window.
Gustav leaned in close, close enough to smell the rot from Jergen’s foul breath. Then he reached down to his hip with one hand while placing his other firmly over Jergen’s mouth.
Jergen’s eyes blinked open a few times. His brow creased, confused, as he started to wake.
Slowly but with firm pressure, Gustav slid the knife across Jergen’s neck, making sure to cut cleanly below the beard, through the veins, tendons, and cartilage.
As Jergen realized his fate, his eyes blinked furiously. He let out a wet groan, then his body writhed for a moment as his warm blood sprayed outward, then spilled through Gustav’s hand, down his fingers, and began puddling around the captain’s chest.
“Shh,” Gustav whispered, staring straight into Jergen’s fading eyes. He watched them turn from dark blue to stone cold gray as the captain’s life ended.
When Gustav was sure the man was gone, he leaned back and wiped off the blade on Jergen’s undershirt, then returned it to his waist sheath. He gazed at the lifeless eyes of the captain for a moment as the blood continued pooling onto the sheets, turning them black.
Before Gustav turned away, a modicum of decency prevailed. He reached over and closed the man’s eyes.
The six men working for Captain Jergen all slept in a large, single room below deck. As the morning took hold, they were awakened by the clicking sounds of matchlocks and the sulfuric smell of gunpowder.
Kevan and Paul paralleled the doorway, their arquebuses aimed at two of the men.
Gustav stood between his soldiers, arms folded across his broad chest. He waited for the men—dressed only in their undergarments—to gather enough wakefulness and fear, before speaking. Then he said, cheerfully, “Good morning, gentlemen.”
No one answered. One man gulped loudly. Another, the lone sentry from the night before, sat near the door, neatly bound with rope.
“Where’s the captain?” one man asked, feigning bravery.
Since Gustav had discarded his blood-drenched shirt, the answer was not yet obvious.
“Captain Jergen is currently sleeping where he’s always loved best—his natural habitat.”
Gustav waited for the men to say something—to complain, to yell, to cry—but to his dismay they stayed quiet.
He frowned. “Unfortunately, Jergen did not want to bring me to Amsterdam, after I paid him to do so. Since he could not uphold his end of the bargain, he had to go.”
“You killed him?”
Gustav bobbed his head from shoulder to shoulder. “Killed is such a strong word, isn’t it?” He felt in an oddly chipper mood, considering the headache that pounded behind his temples. His frown morphed into a scowl. “Since I could not open his mind, I opened his throat instead.”
Another silence followed, Gustav eyeing each man one by one.
“What happens now?” one of them finally asked.
“What happens now is entirely up to you, sir. Do you want to join your captain?”
The man shook his head.
“Then I guess we’re all in agreement. We’ll be sailing to Amsterdam.” Before leaving the room, he added, “My secretary made breakfast. You should thank her.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ROWAINE
Rowaine’s eyes were wide. “You’re telling me that the man who killed my mother . . . was a friend of my father?”
“More like acquaintances, captain.” Dieter shook his hands, trying to ease Rowaine’s anger. “I doubt Georg had any inkling as to the evil Heinrich had done.”
Rowaine had grown increasingly agitated since learning the name behind the face she’d carried with her all this time. For ten years she’d tried to match a name to that face. And now, suddenly knowing, it was almost too much to bear.
She thought of how fate had led her to this life-changing discovery.
Here is a group of strangers, floating in the middle of the North Sea, and they just happen to know my father . . . and my mother’s killer.
Rowaine had spent the entire night locked in her room, peppering Sybil and Dieter with questions, forcing them to relive their uncomfortable time in Heinrich Franz’s presence. She had wanted to know everything about her late father. But, first, about her mother’s killer.
“He was a rotten man, obsessed with finding the supposed werewolf that haunted our town,” Sybil said, frowning. “I never trusted him, but never imagined that he could be . . .” Her eyes grew big and she fell silent. A moment later, the tears started rolling down her cheeks. She wiped them away as quickly as they fell. “I promised myself to never weep again over things like this, but I guess I can’t even keep a promise to myself.”
Dieter ran a hand up and down Sybil’s slumped back. “There’s no shame in your tears, my love.”
“My father . . .” Sybil said through short breaths, “Dorothea, Josephine, Margreth, all those people killed. For what?” She looked at Dieter, as if he might know the answers.
Dieter frowned. “We may never know, Beele.”
“Could it really have all been a charade? Why did my father have to be the whipping boy? I don’t understand Heinrich’s motivations, if what you say about him is true, Row.”
“Neither do I,” Dieter added.
Rowaine scowled. Even though she’d been through a similar tragedy as Sybil—losing her parents—she couldn’t help but pity the poor girl. But watching Sybil weep only hardened her resolve.
She can cry her tears, but I am a fighter. I will get to the bottom of this. Even if these two can’t help me.
But she knew that,
as much as Sybil and Dieter might weigh her down, they could also be invaluable tools. To a point. She would need them to show her Bedburg—to get the lay of the land, to learn the ways of its people.
But they’re fugitives. They said as much. Can they really help me?
“There was another man whom your father was friends with for a time,” Sybil said, scrunching her nose. “He was a large, stout man with a red beard and Irish accent. He wore an eye-patch, which set him apart from most others.”
Rowaine arched one brow.
“One day, he disappeared. If you could find him, maybe you could find more about your father.”
“What was this man’s name?” Rowaine asked.
Sybil snapped her fingers, thinking.
Dieter spoke for her. “Konrad,” he said with a nod. “I saw him at Mass with Georg every so often. They did seem close.”
Rowaine threw her head back and laughed. It was a dark laugh. “Konrad Donnelly was my mother’s brother. My uncle. And he never helped my mother from my father, even when she was beaten. I’ll never forgive him for that. We had nothing to do with him. I don’t have a clue why he would associate himself with Georg, unless he was trying to spy on the man.”
Rowaine moved from the edge of her bed to the window, staring out as both Sybil and Dieter watched her. The moon waned, turning the sky pale and gray. “Perhaps he felt guilty for letting my mother suffer all those years,” Rowaine said.
“Maybe he was trying to atone for his actions,” Dieter added.
Rowaine scratched her head. “He’ll be of no use to me, even if we find him.”