Of Witches and Werewolves Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  “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

  Sybil quickly grew fond of the newest members of Strangers Shire—her guests, Mary, Wilhelm, and Salvatore.

  Mary and Wilhem were a very close mother and son. Wilhelm’s kindness and support for his mother reminded Sybil of a younger Dieter. It seemed everything reminded her of Dieter these days, now that he’d been missing for so very long and was likely dead. Wilhelm was also physically similar to Dieter, both lean and tall, with handsome faces and brown, short-cropped beards.

  And Salvatore, the tattooed druid who spoke in unintelligible riddles, was unlike anyone Sybil had ever met. Though his words held more flare than substance, he seemed a kind man. And when he explained that he was a benandanti—a “spirit wanderer”—Sybil couldn’t help wondering if maybe he might be more suited as the village’s soothsayer than she was.

  Mary spent most of her time either preoccupied with Claire and her child, Rose, or working with her fabrics. Since she was already well versed in threading wool, she was a fast study in textile-making, staying indoors most days, head bowed, hardly uttering a word, working her distaff.

  Sybil found Wilhelm sitting on the grass behind Claire’s house, working with his dyes. His new responsibilities included extracting the natural reds, oranges, and browns from unused tree bark and other plant parts, and he seemed to relish his work. Sybil watched over his shoulder as he mixed a bucket of color. Next to it was another bucket filled with clear liquid.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” Sybil asked, startling him.

  He stopped stirring and, without turning, submerged his hand into the bucket of clear liquid. “I was apprentice to a man in my hometown,” he said, dabbling a few drops of the colored dye onto the knuckles of the hand he’d just dipped into the clear liquid. Sybil was mesmerized. He then reached down to a flint stone laying beside him and sparked it against some wood
pieces, creating a small flame. Quickly, he touched the hand he’d dabbled the dye onto across the tiny fire, and it exploded over his hand into a bright blue flame.

  Sybil gasped, but Wilhelm seemed unperturbed, closely studying his flaming hand. The fire seemed to curl around the red dots on his knuckles. Then he shook his wrist in a quick, practiced motion, and the fire was instantly gone, leaving his hand apparently unburned.

  “By God!” Sybil exclaimed, covering her mouth. “What did you just do?”

  Wilhelm chuckled. “Seeing how flammable the dyestuff is. This solution”—he nudged his chin toward the colored dye bucket—“must be more flame retardant before I apply it to the textiles. That way, the resulting fabric will be, too.”

  Sybil cocked her head to the side. “How does your hand not burn?”

  With another light laugh Wilhelm explained. “The clear liquid is alcohol and water. The water is drawn to my skin, conducting the heat away from my hand, while the alcohol keeps the flame lit.”

  Sybil was amazed. “And you can recreate that?”

  Wilhelm nodded. “I can’t keep it going for long, or else the water will evaporate and my skin will be the only surface underneath the fire . . . but yes, I can recreate it. Why do you ask?”

  Sybil just shook her head. “When Daxton called your family the ‘stonemasons,’ what did he mean? Stonemasonry has nothing to do with what you’re doing here.”

  Wilhelm sighed, slumping his shoulders. “My father was a master stonemason, but I was never passionate about that, so I became a dyemaker. At first he disapproved, thought it a foolish endeavor, until he realized I was earning almost as much as he was. Then he became supportive.”

  Sybil smiled. “Is that why your mother is so downcast? Because your father is not here?” she asked, as diplomatically as possible. From the bits and pieces she’d heard about Wilhelm’s father, she surmised he was either dead or missing. She walked around and sat beside the young man on the grass.