Simon shook his head in disbelief. “I always knew I’d married into a strange family,” he mumbled, beating the dust from his badly rumpled petticoat breeches. “Anyway, it’s time for us Kuisls to go back home. My youngster, I believe, has caught us some fish for supper, and if we wait any longer, he’ll be angry. That’s worse, by God, than any fight in the streets.”
A few hours later, after night had fallen like a black shroud over Bamberg, two stooped figures snuck over the City Hall Bridge toward the new section of town.
One of them was as tall and broad as a bear and wore swords, hunting knives, and a loaded wheel-lock pistol on his belt. Cautiously, the huge man stopped at every crossing and looked around before waving to the other man to follow. The hesitant man bringing up the rear was short and crippled, stooped with age, and visibly in pain as he moved forward, clutching his cane. Nevertheless, the elderly city councilman Thadäus Vasold insisted on paying a visit to his old friend at this unnatural hour.
The old man trembled all over, but that had little to do with the cool autumn night. Shivering, he closed the top button of his expensive woolen coat and followed his husky guide warily through the labyrinth of alleys that spread out below the cathedral. The friendly giant was Hans, Vasold’s most loyal servant, who had also served as a coachman to Vasold’s father, scion of an old patrician family. It had become clear, early on, that Hans, though blessed with enormous size and strength, had the intelligence of a doorstop. Still, Vasold had often taken him along on his trips as a bodyguard; the giant might not have been the brightest, but he was discreet-and robbers, thieves, and highwaymen always ran off when they saw him coming.
Vasold hoped his servant would have the same effect on werewolves.
Naturally, the patrician could have paid this visit officially during the day, but Thadäus Vasold wanted to prevent others from hearing about their conversation. Even after so many years, some people might have drawn the right conclusion, and Vasold wanted to attract as little attention as possible. Thus he had decided to make a far more dangerous trip in the dead of night.
In his calloused hands, big Hans carried a tiny lantern to help them find their way through the night. The lantern was just bright enough to form a flickering circle of light for the two men, beyond which lay nothing but the fog and darkness.
Vasold cursed softly to himself. How often had he urged the council to put up lanterns in at least the larger squares in town, as various big German cities had already done? But the council had repeatedly put him off because of the cost, and possibly for fear of starting a fire, and thus he, Thadäus Vasold, one of the most esteemed and oldest patricians in Bamberg, had to find his way like a thief in the night, stumbling over garbage, rotten barrels, and pieces of wood lying around, and nearly shitting in his pants with fear.
When Klaus Schwarzkontz, his old friend and colleague on the city council, had not returned from a trip to Nuremberg a few weeks ago, at first Vasold had not been at all worried. On the contrary: Schwarzkontz had been one of his major competitors in the wool trade, so that just meant more business for Vasold. But since then, more and more people had disappeared, and gradually Thadäus Vasold was beginning to suspect something horrible. Perhaps he was mistaken, but if the various pieces of the puzzle fell together, there was something there-something reaching far back into the past and touching upon an especially dark part of his life.
Was it possible? After all these years?
After the apothecary’s wife, Adelheid Rinswieser, had disappeared without a trace, Vasold had struggled for a long time before deciding to pay this nocturnal visit. Secretly, the patrician hoped his friend would try to calm him down, laugh at his fears, and together they would raise a toast to old times. Vasold feared nothing more than the idea that his friend might have come to the same conclusion.
But he suspected he had.
And what will we do then? Lock the doors and hope that the shadow passes? Pray? Go on a pilgrimage? Plead with God for forgiveness?
“What’s the matter, Hans?”
Vasold’s loyal servant had suddenly stopped in his tracks so that the patrician, lost in his thoughts, almost bumped into him. The huge man was standing there like a monument of stone, his hand on the loaded pistol still hanging from his belt.
“I don’t know, master. I thought I heard something,” he murmured.
“And what did you hear?”
“A. . well, a growling and scraping sound. It came from the entrance to the house here.”
Trembling, Hans pointed to a shadowy niche on their left, and Vasold felt as if a fist were slowly squeezing his heart.
The house was one of the many dilapidated buildings that had been standing vacant for decades. Ivy had wound its way up the unplastered walls, the windows were boarded up, and rotten beams of wood and clumps of rock lay in front of the wide door. Only now did the old patrician notice that the once-splendid portal, with its inlaid wood and carvings, was open a crack. Inside, a form, even darker than the darkness, was undulating back and forth. Somewhere a stone fell, crashing to the ground, and now Vasold heard it, too-a long, sustained growl, deep and evil.
“There it is again, master,” Hans whispered.
Thadäus Vasold had never before seen the big man scared, not even when he’d confronted two marauding mercenaries in the Bamberg Forest-but now he was shaking all over.
“This werewolf. .,” he groaned. “People say they love fresh blood, and they slowly tear their victims apart, first the arms, then the legs, then-”
“Damn it, Hans, I didn’t bring you along to tell me all these foolish horror stories,” Vasold replied hesitantly. “Go take a look and see who or what it is.”
“As you say, master.” The large man pulled himself together, drew the loaded wheel-lock pistol, and carefully approached the doorway. He spoke a silent prayer.
At that moment, the door opened with a loud grating sound and a figure appeared, so horrible that Hans uttered a cry, dropped his weapon, and fell to his knees.
The creature looked like a wolf as it slunk toward them on its hind legs. In the darkness of night, it appeared taller than a man, and it had black fur and long fangs that flashed in the light of the lantern that Hans had dropped on the ground.
“God in heaven, help us!”
The voice of the huge man was suddenly high-pitched and whining, like that of a girl. With a final horrified scream, he scrambled to his feet and raced away down the street, disappearing into the darkness.
Thadäus Vasold wanted to call after his servant, but his voice failed him. Terrified, he stared at the creature that was approaching him with its long claws. The lantern on the ground flickered slightly, casting dancing shadows on the wall, making the creature look larger and larger the closer it came.
“Please. .,” Vasold croaked, paralyzed with fear, clutching his walking stick and watching wide-eyed as death incarnate approached. “Please, spare me. By God, I’ll give you anything you want. I’ll. .”
Only then did the old patrician realize what he’d completely overlooked in his anxiety.
He knew this house, and he knew also who had once lived there.
I was right. But why-
Vasold’s thoughts scattered like snowflakes in a storm as the creature pounced on him with a contented snarl.
In the distance, the servant’s shrill cries for help rang out, but the councilor couldn’t hear them anymore.
6
THE BAMBERG CITY COUNCIL CHAMBER, MORNING, OCTOBER 28, 1668 AD
Gentlemen! Silence, please! Silence!”
Simon sat on a hard wooden chair at one corner of the huge council table, listening and watching attentively as some of the most venerable citizens of the city fought with one another like street urchins. The meeting had started just a little over half an hour ago, but tempers were already at the boiling point. Men in lavish patrician garb shouted at one another, some were about to come to blows, and yet others were just sitting quietly at the table shaking their heads, as if they couldn’t understand the atrocious spectacle. Even Suffragan Bishop Sebastian Harsee, the chairman of the hastily convoked council, could think of nothing better to do than pound his little gavel on the table again and again while casting furious glances around at the group.