Wolves Among Us(3)

As the cloud peeled back from the sun, the shadow passed, and Stefan sighed.

A woman bumped into Stefan just then. He steadied himself and reached out to her, but she collapsed. His knees buckled under her sudden weight in his arms, and he struggled to get her to her feet. He lifted her and realized the woman was Catarina, a quiet, gentle wife from his parish. He looked up and saw Mia step from the butcher’s shop, carrying a roast, stopping when she saw the accident, as did a few others.

Catarina’s eyes were open, but she didn’t seem to recognize anyone. She pointed at the darkened alley that ran between two lopsided rows of houses.

“What is wrong, Catarina?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to gasp for a breath she could not catch.

“Did something scare you? Is it the wolf?”

She managed a deep breath that shook her body. “I love the Lord, as you are my witness. This crime is not my doing.”

Stefan saw in his peripheral vision Dame Alice, who jumped up and moved toward them.

“Do you believe me?” Catarina asked, her voice straining. “Father Stefan,” she said, grasping his arms. “I’m trying to tell you he’s dead.”

“Who is dead?”

Dame Alice came from behind Father Stefan, pushing him aside, taking Catarina by the shoulder. “Who is dead, child? What are you talking about?”

“My husband.”

Catarina kept pointing down the lane, but there was no sign of mischief. “Nonsense, dear,” Dame Alice said. “Why would you say he is dead?”

“His horse is in the lane. My husband is not on it.”

“You saw his horse wandering alone?” Dame Alice asked, stroking her arm. “Is that all? My dear …”

“From this one fact you have imagined your husband’s death and have frightened us all?” Stefan tried to control his indignation. “He’s probably drunk again, is all. Sleeping it off somewhere to get out of the rain.”

Catarina should have been happy. Cronwall was not known for being a gentle husband.

Dame Alice reached for Catarina’s hand. “You’re so cold, child.” She took off her outer cloak and wrapped it around Catarina, who did not notice.

Stefan pressed his lips together and cleared his throat. “Now, Catarina …”

“You’re going to say this is my fault.” Catarina looked up at him. She dug her fingers into his arm. “The village is in danger.”

Father Stefan tried to pry away her fingers. “Stop this. Cronwall is just sleeping his liquor off somewhere. He will be home soon.”

She gripped his arm tighter, making her knuckles go white, then she buried her face in his robe. “You don’t understand.”

“Elizabeth,” Stefan called out, hoping the young girl would still be about. When he saw her peering through the crowd, he nodded to her. “Bring Catarina a dried apple. She has no color in her face.” The girl obediently ran off to the market.

He sighed. “And someone wake Bjorn,” he called out.

Catarina shoved him away. “No.”

“My request for Bjorn should please you. If what you say is true, we’ll need the sheriff. He can make an arrest.”

She laughed or coughed—he couldn’t be sure which—and flecks of spit landed across his cheek.

When he unlatched her hand from his arm, Catarina ran off, leaving Stefan to wipe off the spit. His wet fingers were tinged with what looked like blood, but Catarina had said nothing about being hurt. The crowd that had gathered was whispering, watching him. Stefan walked between them to peer down the lane Catarina had pointed to.

Church bells rang, calling everyone to Mass. Stefan frowned at the reminder. He belonged in church, not in the street, and not down a dirty, empty lane looking for a lone horse and a dead man on the word of a confused woman. Women were prone to hysteria. He found it most discouraging. His fine morning was ruined.

He turned for the church, which was only a few doors down, but no one followed.

“Time for Mass!” he shouted. A few people glanced at each other. “Bjorn will not be here for a good hour; we all know that.” At this, people followed.

Stefan glanced back at the lane just once more. Sin was his responsibility. Crime belonged to Bjorn. As for women—well, only God knew what to do with them.





Chapter Two


Stefan refused to rush the benediction. He heard the constant sounds the congregation made, the restless tapping of feet, all those fingers drumming against jiggling knees. As soon as he finished the service, the people would rush for the doors, curious to see what Bjorn had done about the morning’s drama.

Wind rattled the doors, destroying the last perfect moment of peace—Stefan’s favorite moment in the service. He dismissed the congregation, remaining behind as they rushed out, watching dead brown leaves blow in from the streets in their wake. The storm was edging ever closer. Stefan left the church, struggling to close the doors behind him against the winds.

Bjorn had not yet arrived. Stefan saw the crowd eyeing him again, waiting to see what he would do next. He wanted nothing more than to be done with the morning.

“Can you see him? Is he on his way?” Stefan asked them. He liked submissive church crowds that sat politely on benches, not restless, gawking throngs milling about. “We should wait.”