Wolves Among Us by Ginger Garrett
Acknowledgments
First, to the entire team at David C Cook: I owe you a debt of gratitude. The economy is rocky, the market is changing, and even when I get discouraged, you continue to believe in my books. Thank you more than I can say.
To Nicci Hubert, an editor who gave me plenty of work (or is it the other way around?): I owe you a debt of gratitude too. I had such peace about working on this book knowing you were my editor.
To Chip MacGregor, literary agent extraordinaire: Thank you for being willing to walk with Mitch and me on this road.
To my novelist friends whom I treasure: India Edghill, Siri Mitchell, Kimberly Stuart, Sandra Byrd, the girls on the bean loop, and the writers of the Silver Arrow critique group: Thank you for keeping me sane and always laughing.
To my readers: I love your emails more than I can say! Please keep them coming. I love to know what is on your minds and hearts.
And lastly, to my family—I love you all.
Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves.
—Jesus
Chapter One
Germany, 1538
Dinfoil Village at the southeastern edge of the Black Forest
Weeks had gone by since winter had lost her blinding white beauty. Cold gray mud at Father Stefan’s feet and dull clouds above him were all that remained of her icy pageant. He waved his hand at the low clouds, willing them to be gone. The hopeful golden sun of spring was overdue. He longed for its warmth to awaken new life in his little village.
The good Lord had other plans for the morning, however. The sun remained shrouded, and the air kept its chill after a midnight rain. Father Stefan could see his breath when he exhaled, a small wonder that still fascinated him even in these, the middle years of his life.
Each wet stone on the cobblestone streets of Dinfoil was packed so close to the next that the market lane looked like the side of an enormous, glistening brown fish. The lane was as slippery as a fish too, and Father Stefan was careful as he walked. If he slipped and broke a leg, he would be of no use to anyone—not as a spiritual father or as the town physician.
The sky may have refused any promise of warmth, but the new day still brought its own comforts. Bread baking in ovens and the crisp hints of spring’s first greens teased his nose as life burst out into the lanes everywhere he looked. Last night the great lashes of lightning had driven everyone inside early. Now no one wasted a moment starting the new day: Shutters were being opened as he walked, children ran through the leaves torn from trees by the winds, and merchants dashed with their carts along the bumpy stone lanes, anxious to reclaim yesterday’s lost business. When winter’s ice melted away, travelers appeared from many villages, eager to spend their money at the market and meet new people. Fresh tales were as coveted as fresh supplies in those first weeks of spring.
Father Stefan walked through the town square, where children played prancing ponies, skipping in wide circles. One boy slipped, catching himself on his palms. He winced and muttered a curse under his breath. When he caught Father Stefan watching him, he blushed and looked away.
Stefan suppressed a frown and looked around. The boy’s mother had done penance for her coarse language not a week ago, and here her boy was, repeating her sin.
“Mothers, mind your children,” he called out, hoping the village’s women could hear him through their open windows. “The stones are treacherous this morning.” He shook a finger at a boy. “No more of that,” he said.
Father Stefan walked along, greeting his parishioners, nodding at the shopkeepers and housemaids who were still opening shutters. The wealthier the family, the closer they lived inside the square, and the more housemaids he saw at work.
As was usual for this hour, no one appeared in the windows of those expensive homes except maids and dogs. After maids opened the shutters, several dogs popped their heads into the windows, looking down with great interest at the people in the square. Father Stefan particularly liked seeing the yellow mastiff that often sat, solemn as a magistrate, in a window, his jowls set in judgment. Another dog across the lane watched with bulging eyes and a little black mouth. That dog, outraged at the activity below him, barked and yapped at each passerby.
Marie, the young daughter of a parishioner in Father Stefan’s church, pranced past, chasing after her little brother. She ran into Father Stefan, knocking him onto his rear. She looked horrified.
“Father Stefan. Forgive me,” she said.
He held his side with one hand and used the other to push himself back up.
“No need for forgiveness, Marie. It was an accident, after all.”
Her face looked ashen. Her chin began to tremble. She was one good breath away from a loud wail. Stefan reached out and tapped her on the nose, startling her.
“How is your mother’s new baby girl?” he asked, looking down to wiggle his eyebrows at the young boy who now stood at the girl’s side. The boy giggled, and Marie glanced at him before she smiled too.
She had swallowed back her tears, but her eyes were still wide and watering. “The baby is well, thank you. She is at home with Mother. She doesn’t smell very good, though.”
Father Stefan pressed his lips together to catch a chuckle. “Yes, Marie, babies do smell. Tell your mother I will be glad to have her back with us for Mass.”