Of Witches and Werewolves Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  Karstan glanced back at Hugo, proudly nudging his chin toward the cell he was in front of. “Yes. Brought ‘em in just the other day,” Karstan said. “And we just got some welcome news, too, which I’d like to relay.”

  Hugo squinted to see who was in the cell. When recognition hit, his eyes widened in disbelief. Like staring at the past. He glanced around at the other cells.

  Could this even be the same cell?

  Off in the shadows of the cell stood Ava Hahn, shivering, her dark eyes darting from Karstan to Hugo.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  SYBIL

  In the two weeks since Georg left for his position as the Hanseatic League’s representative in King’s Lynn, there’d been lots of activity in Strangers Shire. Their sleepy little village—once hidden within the huge countryside of Norfolk county, one of the largest counties in all of England—was definitely coming to life.

  Daxton and Rowaine had gone with Georg, to make sure the first shipment of goods to Amsterdam and Germany arrived without any delays or mishaps. They knew the shire’s growth depended on Reeve Bailey’s textiles making it to their destination safely.

  And with them gone, Sybil was alone and friendless, though she did manage to keep herself quite busy. Besides her daily mornings on Claire’s porch playing the shire’s miracle-worker—doling out prayers and medicines to soothe the local townfolk’s woes, she also participated in many of the other activities going on in and around the now-bustling shire.

  Under Leon Durand’s command, the church was nearly complete, so Leon had begun working on Georg’s tavern. As an added bonus, Leon had been given a fifty-percent stake in the pub in appreciation for all he and his wife had done for Sybil, Georg, Rowaine, and Daxton, so his motivation was high to complete it.

  Elsewhere in town, farmers had begun felling trees for both lumber and to create more arable land around the shire’s peripheries. Other farmers had quickly changed careers, at least temporarily, and were now builders, setting up foundations for structures that would surround the church and tavern.

  They were even building Sybil her very own home—she wasn’t sure whether that was out of generosity, or just because Leon and Claire were sick of her staying with them. But either way, it was exciting.

  And close to the river, a pressing-and-fulling factory was under construction, to complete the entire textile process so there’d be no need to travel to Norwich—the capital of Norfolk county—nearly twenty miles away. Next to that factory a granary was being built, along with sheds and barns for the growing population of livestock and cattle.

  In short, the little village of Strangers Shire was turning into a proper town.

  With Reeve Clarence Bailey becoming the biggest proponent of the building efforts. He’d borrowed huge sums of money from the Jews in Norwich to get his projects completed, and everyone knew that the success and future of everything—the new homes, the factories, the farming projects, the shops, and the welfare of all the shire’s residents—hinged on the success of Georg, Daxton, and Rowaine’s shipping excursions.

  Sybil, of course, had become an important person in town. She was a leading figure in the shire’s expansion efforts, many attributing the town’s exponential growth to her mere presence. And among the many hats she wore was that of Town Meeting Organizer. So on a cold, sunny day—when the wind blew hard enough to hurt Sybil’s face—she organized a town meeting to discuss the creation of a local fleece fair, so the people wouldn’t have to travel to Norwich’s marketplace to trade.

  As usual, Reeve Bailey was skeptical of the proposal, nervous that the powers-that-be in Norwich would smite their efforts.

  And he was partly right.

  A barrister from a prestigious guild in Norwich visited the shire to explain that the law required town fairs to be at least twenty miles apart from one another, and that Strangers Shire was not that far away from Norwich.

  “A town fair this close to Norwich,” the little, white-haired man said in front of the large audience congregated in the town hall, “would be detrimental to Norwich, stealing business from it. Do you really want to anger the citizens of the capital city of this entire region? Powerful neighbors with the power to crush you?”

  From the back of the room, Sybil stroked her chin, listening intently to the little man trying to do everything he could to ensure that the shire’s town fair never saw the light of day.

  Meanwhile, Reeve Bailey seemed frightened and conflicted. On the one hand, he had invested large sums of money in Strangers Shire and knew a town fair would greatly benefit the area. But he also knew that the last thing the village needed was to start a conflict with the shire’s most prominent neighbor. Norwich already had too much of a presence in their community, with unwanted lawmen and patrollers regularly spying on them.

  Just as the reeve was about to adjourn the meeting and quash the town fair, a man from the back of the room stood up.

  “I have an idea that might benefit us all,” the voice called out, as the audience turned to see who had spoken.

  To Sybil’s surprise, it was Corvin Carradine.

  What is he doing here?

  She hadn’t seen him since he’d whisked Georg off to King’s Lynn weeks earlier.

  Corvin’s eyes swept across the room, stopping at Sybil. Flashing her a warm smile, she involuntarily blushed. A man sitting next to Corvin then stood up. He wore a frilly white wig and the robes of a judge, and was holding a large book. Clearing his throat, he opened the book and said, “This village, Strangers Shire, is exactly eighteen miles from Norwich, correct?”

  The audience collectively nodded, though they had no idea what the precise distance was.

  Tracing his finger on a page of his book, he looked up. “So if we organize our town fair . . . two miles further, would that not suffice?”

  The lawyer standing at the podium sputtered. “Well . . . while it’s possible to do such a thing . . . I suppose . . . it would surely be in poor taste.” He looked around at the crowd. “Using such an obvious loophole”—saying the word as if he’d just smelled something rotten—“would guarantee the ire from the lords and ladies of Norwich. They would not hesitate to crush—”

  “But what if a tax were offered to those lords and ladies?” Corvin proposed. “To appease them, in exchange for our not seeking out their customers and traders, and for allowing our town fair to stand?” He smiled. “We could offer them a small percentage of each sale. That way, we get our fair, and Norwich gets paid. Everyone wins.”

  A few people grumbled, but most nodded in assent.

  “It would be a start,” one man agreed, addressing the ones still grumbling about giving any of their hard-earned money to Norwich’s greedy nobles.

  “Besides,” Corvin added, looking over at Reeve Bailey, “I’m sure you will be paying back your moneylenders, correct? Likely the very nobles in Norwich who would be benefiting from these new taxes!”

  All eyes turned to the small reeve, who reluctantly nodded. “Eventually, yes . . . though I was hoping for more time, so we could grow our fair first.”

  “If our fair is to be small and non-inclusive,” one farmer called out, “where would we get the buyers and traders? How could we hope to find success if we can’t draw from the people of Norwich?”

  Corvin smiled. “Luckily, Strangers Shire has a built-in attraction—one that’s removed from fleeces or goods or accessories of any kind.”

  The crowd was puzzled, shaking their heads, looking to one another. Corvin glanced at Sybil with a knowing smile and suddenly she realized his point.

  “What do you speak of?” Bailey asked with a dubious frown.

  Corvin opened his arms toward Sybil. “Our very own sorceress.” As everyone turned to follow his direction, a loud chorus of chatter broke out among the group.

  “Nearly everyone this side of England has heard of the Pale Diviner by now,” Corvin explained. “I’ve made sure of that,” he said, winking at Sybil who turned away, wishing sh
e could be anywhere but there right then.

  A man called out from the crowd. “People will come from all over if promised an audience with the Pale Diviner!”

  “Yes,” agreed Corvin’s barrister friend standing next to him with the big book. He gave the crowd a wolfish smile. “And, Reeve Bailey, you could charge for each meeting with the soothsayer!”

  The reeve stared at Sybil. Everyone stared at Sybil. Slowly she began shaking her head. This whole Pale Diviner nonsense had gone too far. She’d told Rowaine, Daxton, and Georg as much already—how she thought she was doing more harm than good and had grown tired of offering these poor people false prophesies and proclamations. It was never supposed to be a long-term affair. Now here Corvin was stoking the flames, promoting her fame throughout the countryside. She had never considered charging for her services, just the opposite. She had merely wished to offer the needy and desperate a sense of hope.

  “What do you say, Sybil Nicolaus?” Reeve Bailey asked from the front of the room. “Are you comfortable wooing the people to our fair?”

  With all eyes on her, she opened her mouth to speak, but her throat was too dry to push out the words. Debating whether to just leave, she didn’t want to disappoint all these friends and neighbors now staring at her with their own need for hope.

  Placing her hands in her lap, in a quiet voice she said, “I’ll do it.”

  The meeting hall erupted in cheers. People leapt from their seats, pumping their fists and throwing hats in the air. Some embraced. This was going to massively increase their livelihoods and give their growing shire a real future.

  The barrister from Norwich walked away from the podium, defeated, and left the shire without uttering another word, his thoughts no doubt on the grim task of announcing his failed mission to his superiors.

  In the midst of all the chaos, Corvin had managed to inch his way beside Sybil. He put his hand on her shoulder and she jumped. “My apologies,” he said, his voice smooth, like melted chocolate on Sybil’s tongue. She tried to turn away to hide her embarrassment, but Corvin’s touch had aroused her. Instead, she turned toward the fleeing barrister and noted, “I doubt that will be the last time we see that man.”

  Corvin ignored her comment. “Let’s celebrate, my dear. This has been a decisive victory for the shire.” He pulled her closer. She could feel his breath on the nape of her neck. Weakly, she tried to change the subject. “Who is your barrister friend?”

  Frowning, Corvin glanced at the man he’d brought to speak on his behalf, the one with the white wig and big book. “Just a man I hired from a guild in the League.” He turned back to Sybil. “But enough about him . . .”

  “I . . . I don’t have my own house,” she stuttered. “I have no private residence—”

  “That’s perfectly fine, my dear,” Corvin purred. “There are empty stables all over the shire . . .”

  He was a full head taller than she, with a most alluring smile. And though Sybil didn’t trust a single hair on his body, that didn’t quell her attraction for him. If anything, it made him even more irresistible.

  She hadn’t made love in many long months. She felt her forehead begin to perspire, her breathing growing rapid and heavy. Corvin held her close, his chest pressed against hers and suddenly everyone around them seemed to melt away. He ran a finger down the side of her neck and Sybil momentarily stopped breathing, goose-pimples shooting across her shoulders and down her arms. As he dipped his head toward her, his eyes closed and his lips parted slightly. Craning her neck up to him, she found his mouth and fused together for a long blinding moment of passion as time seemed to stand still.

  Finally he pulled away and smiled at her, rubbing his nose against hers. “Come on,” he whispered like honey, “let’s find somewhere more . . . secluded.”

  She allowed him to take her hand and lead her away from the crowd and meeting hall. But it was as though she wasn’t there, like her spirit had departed and she was watching herself from above. Hand-in-hand, she felt like a ragdoll, powerless, though not unwilling.

  They quickly found a stable nearby in the midst of construction and, once inside, Corvin slammed the heavy door and, but for a few strands of light seeping through a seam of one wall, darkness overtook them. Corvin gently pushed Sybil against a half-built horse stall and slipped down the top of her dress. As he began caressing her breasts, she let out a soft whimper, feeling as if she were in a trance, her eyes wet and dewy.

  But the moment began to melt away as his groping grew rougher. When his hand slid between her legs, the trance abruptly ended. She stared at Corvin, part confused, part angry. Then she realized why. The vision of Johannes von Bergheim was staring back at her—the young nobleman who had first defiled her not so long ago. Johannes had looked at her the same way Corvin was now. Her eyes narrowed and her face flashed with rage. “Stay away from me,” she commanded, her tone cold and dead, as she covered her breasts with her hands.

  And surprisingly Corvin obeyed, immediately ending his advance. Raising his hands in surrender, he took a step back. And suddenly his face was nothing like Johannes’. The man standing before her looked sincere, contrite, respectful, hurt.

  Perhaps he’s not the monster that Johannes was after all . . . or like most men. Maybe there is a good man here that truly loves me. But I can’t love him back . . .

  Oh, Dieter, I’m so sorry!

  Then, just as she felt her resistance waning, a loud voice broke the moment.

  “Where’s Sybil Nicolaus?” it called out. “I need to speak with her, right away!”

  It was a familiar voice.

  Sybil’s heart began racing. Quickly, she tied the top of her dress back over her bare shoulders and rushed past Corvin, nearly pushing him out of the way. Peering outside the barn door she saw Daxton Wallace with Rowaine at his side, marching down the road toward the meeting hall, calling out to passersby, asking them if they knew where Sybil was. Surrounding the two were several people she’d never seen before.

  Turning back to Corvin, she whispered, “You stay here and be quiet. Or I’ll tell them you hurt me. Do you understand?”

  Corvin gulped and nodded.

  Once Daxton, Rowaine, and their entourage were a safe distance from the barn, Sybil walked out and called to Daxton, “Here I am, Daxton. I was just tending to a friend’s horse.”

  Daxton spun around and smiled widely, throwing out his arms. Sybil jogged over to him, accepting his embrace and his peck on the cheek. Then Daxton pulled away and examined her. “Are you all right, Beele? You seem flushed.”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine.” Then turning to the people around them, “Who are these people?’

  “Our new friends,” he said with a grin. He pointed at a small man dressed in little more than rags and furs, with strange blue drawings on his face and arms. “This is Salvatore.” Then motioning to a stocky little woman, “And this is Mary and her son, Wilhelm.”

  The tall young man standing next to the woman smiled at Sybil. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Wilhelm said. “We’ve heard so much about you on our travels.”

  Sybil cocked her head. “You have?”

  Mary nodded profusely. “From your friends.”

  Salvatore, the strange-looking one, stepped forward and stared directly into Sybil’s eyes. “You are the sacred Pale Diviner?” When Sybil nodded meekly, he said, “I must pick your brain and learn from your spiritual prowess, my lady.”

  Sybil surveyed the group and beamed. “It’s a good thing I’m having my own house built, because we’d surely never all fit in Claire and Leon’s!”

  She took Mary by the arm and began walking, the rest of the group following behind. “Come, come,” she said to the slightly frightened woman. “It’s been so dull here. Please, tell me all about your adventures, and how you came to find this land of the Strangers . . .”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  HEINRICH

  Following the slaughter at House Charmagne, Heinrich Franz went o
n vacation. He sensed he might be losing his grip on his power and authority and figured some time away might help him get re-grounded. That was his excuse anyway. His real reason for leaving Bedburg was more direct: he needed allies.

  He had planned to kill the two barons, Ludwig and Josef, but when they’d arrived that night, he hadn’t been sure if he would go through with it. He hadn’t killed anyone—directly, by his own hand—in a long while.

  Fortunately, the killings came easily and naturally to him. He thought back to that magnificent, sexually-charged tingle that had rippled through his body at the moment he stabbed the dagger into Baron Ludwig’s shoulder; the coppery-tasting gusher of blood splashing on his face; the thick liquid pulsing across the table in all directions.

  It had truly been a moment to cherish.

  How he had loathed that snide, arrogant fool. As far back as Trier, when Heinrich had pretended to be Lord Inquisitor Adalbert, he’d formed a general dislike for Ludwig. And over time, the baron’s exaggerated self-image of importance and superiority had turned Heinrich’s dislike into outright hatred. Usually, Heinrich reserved such hatred for only a select few, casting off most others with simple indifference. For instance, he had no strong feelings about the witches and warlocks he helped burn in Trier—they were just numbers to him. Nor had he particularly despised Peter Griswold before executing him as the Werewolf of Bedburg—he’d simply needed a scapegoat to carry out Archbishop Ernst’s message.

  But Baron Ludwig was different. Heinrich couldn’t pinpoint why he hated the man so; it was just something that grew and festered with time. And once Ludwig finally sat at the table that night, Heinrich knew it would be his last supper.