UC - scanned by Jaks - proofed and formatted version coming in the next 2-3 weeks



Prologue
Rittersberg, Bavaria
1750
The jailer's name was Aug. It had once been Au-
gustus, but the boy had none of his mother's preten-
sions, and no one still living knew the longer
appellation that made sense of the shorter—not even
the jailer's wife.
Right now Aug wished he'd taken the higher road
his mother'd urged and had ended up an officer in the
army perhaps, or a local magistrate or solicitor. For
that matter, he would gratefully trade places with the
merchants or farmers, the ones sent to destroy the
Beast's family. Even being the executioner would be
better, for his duty would be carried out tomorrow in
the sane light of day and amidst the fear-salving crowd
at the scaffold. He'd rather be anyone and anywhere
other than the village jailer sitting where he was sitting
at this moment—alone, at night.
Which was at the wooden table outside the dungeon
door. Aug rooted himself to the spot by sheer force
of will, not because he was brave (although he'd seen
battle with the French and was brave enough) but
because it was his job, and to refuse would mean not
only the loss of it but loss of face in the village as
well. He told himself that the door was made of mas-
sive oak planks chosen expressly for the purpose of
confinement, and that the iron bar that lay across it
was the finest chastity belt ever given that seductress,
Escape. But both the bar and the door had been in-
vented for the worst that a man could do. Who knew
what the Beast was capable of?
Helllllpppppppppppppppppppppmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-
eeeeeeeeeeeeeepleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeseinGooooooo-
oooooooooooodsnaaaaaaaaaaaaame!
The pleas went far beyond shrieks of pain. He knew
a man's scream well enough. This was not a human
body in pain; it was a soul's anguish. It was the sound
of the act of damnation.
Aug clutched the rough table in front of him as
desperately as he would grip an assailant's neck. His
tanned and weathered face was the shade of palest
coffee, like the cast of fresh cream in a brown wooden
bucket. His eyes were fixed on the dungeon door. His
brain stopped reassuring itself about locks and hinges
and began reciting the rosary.
And still the cries went on. The screams became
deeper and gruffer; the words were taken over by
snarls. . . .
Hall Mary, full of grace, have mercy on us poor
sinners now and in our hour of need . . .
And then stopped abruptly.
For what seemed like an eternity, there was only
the sound of Aug's own terrified heartbeat.
Then there was a snuffling sound, very close by, a
low, huffing grunt, like a pig in the dirt but darker,
larger.
And something began to scratch at the door.
Chapter 1
Spring, 1995
Schloss Ritter, Rittersberg, Germany
TJNTITLED Blake Backlash adventure
by Gabriel Knight
chapter 1, page 1
More than a year since his last tag case, Blake Backlash
found himself stuck in a dilapidated castle. He's supposed
to be some kind of hero, having inherited late Uncle Dae-
mon's role of "Guardian of Truth and Light" along with this
wreck of a family fortress. What Uncle D. didn't explain
was what the hell that meant. The most exciting develop-
ments of the past year involved building plaster and a lot
of hammering. It was enough to drive a scion to seek out
the highest ramparts and throw himself over. Still, he rea-
soned, things could be worse. If it wasn't for all the money
he'd stolen from the voodoo hounfour before it went up into
flames, he'd still be reading by candlelight and freezing his
balls off in this Bavarian refrigerator.
Fortunately, Blake was about to be rescued from the or-
deal of self-reflection. Brunhilde brings in the mail one
chilly spring morning and he finds a mysterious package—
postmark: India. Curious, he rips open the thick brown
wrapper and out falls
"Out falls . . ." Gabriel Knight muttered, staring at
the page in the typewriter with knotted brow. His fin-
gers thrummed on the desk.
There followed a long and ultimately unproductive
pause.
"Damn ill"
He struck his hand on the table in frustration and
ripped the page from the typewriter's grasp. The
opening wasn't bad—it was what came next that
sucked. He'd had a brief glimmer about a haunted
ashram last night, but in the glare of the waiting page,
Blake Backlash in a sari revealed itself as worse than
unbelievable; it was self-parody. He wadded up the
sheet of paper and sent it sailing to the floor, where
it was happily reunited with a few dozen of its clos-
est relatives.
For the tenth time since dinner he got up and paced
over to the window. Down below, the town of Ritters-
berg should have been asleep, disappearing as its lights
were put out, one by one. But the lights in many of
the homes still shone, the village floating on the dark-
ness. For this reason Gabriel mistakenly deduced that
it was earlier than it actually was, and his self-recrimi-
nation eased just a bit.
Still time to come up with something before bed-
time, or at least assuage the recalcitrant muses with a
show of faith.
Were those flashlights down below?
He'd just put a fresh sheet in the typewriter when
a knock came at the library door. Not surprisingly, it
was Gerde Hull, the only other human being living at
Schloss Ritter. Gerde had served great-uncle Wolf-
gang as housekeeper too—for years, it seemed. Still,
she was a quite attractive blonde, despite her air of
having walked these halls for eons.
Not that he'd noticed.
"Herr Knight? Some people are downstairs to see
you."
"What, now?" The natives had not exactly beaten
a path to his door, even in the light of day.
But Gerde had that serious look on her face. "Yes,
Herr Knight. Will you please come down?"
He leaned back in his chair and studied her.
"What's up? You've been actin' weird all day."
She had, in fact, been gone most of the day, and
when she'd finally served him dinner, her surreptitious
glances had been heavier than the hackbraten.
"Just come downstairs, please. And don't forget
your talisman." She observed its position on the desk
critically. "You should wear it. Always."
"Damn thing's heavy," Gabriel muttered defen-
sively as he slipped the chain over his head. But Gerde
was already gone, pointedly leaving the door open be-
hind her.
Gerde was waiting for him at the castle's front
doors. He joined her at one of the massive handles,
and together they pulled.
He was blinded by the glare of flashlights—a lot of
flashlights. He stole a glance at Gerde as the beams
were being politely redirected. The Determined One
did not look back.
Ah! It overcame him with a wave of deja vu. The
image he was recalling was not an experience of his
own; it was the imprint left by watching too many
1950s Hammer films.
He smiled satirically. "Shouldn't those be torches?"
Werner Huber stepped forward. The tall old man
was Gerde's uncle and the owner of the local gasthof,
a man so traditional he made The Sound of Music
look like counterculture. He was clearly spokesman of
this group, as one of the few English speakers in the
village. And he was not amused.
"Herr Knight, we have come for the Schattenjager."
He used the formal title—Schattenjager, Shadow
Hunter. It was as dramatic a gesture as the midnight
visit, but for some reason, perhaps it was the old man's
expression, Gabriel suddenly found the situation not
at all funny. "Really? What seems to be the trouble?"
Werner put his hand on the shoulder of a small,
plain-looking man. "This is my cousin, the Huber
Sepp. He has a farm up north, just outside of
Munich."
Huber gazed up at Gabriel with red, swollen eyes.
"Two nights ago his daughter Toni was outside
playing in the grass. There is a forest along his prop-
erty, yes? And the child liked to play close to the
trees."
Gabriel's stomach began to tighten. No, this was
definitely not amusing.
"It was getting dark, and the mother goes to the
door to call in the child. She sees Toni at the edge of
the woods. Then she sees something else—a wolf, she
thinks. It is huge, and it is moving toward the child!"
Sepp Huber was looking at the ground.
"She screams to Toni a warning and begins to run
toward her. Sepp is in the barn. He hears his wife
screaming and knows that something is terribly wrong.
He grabs his gun and conies out, but by now it is
already too late."
Werner glanced at Sepp, past Sepp, and Gabriel re-
alized that the woman was here, the mother. She was
a tiny, round thing. She stepped out from her hus-
band's side so that Gabriel could see her better or,
perhaps, so that she could see him. Her eyes were gray
and long-lashed. There was something dire in them.
"They say she died quickly," Werner concluded.
"She did," the mother said in a thick but firm voice.
Gabriel felt a terrible weight press on him. It
seemed to come through her eyes.
"It was dragging her away," she said. "I didn't know
if she was dead, but I was not about to let that . . .
that thing ... I grabbed for her foot, but her boot..."
The night fell silent except for the sound of crickets.
Her mouth remained open for a moment, as though
she would go on, but it slowly closed.
Gabriel glanced at Werner. The old man shook his
head solemnly. "They buried the remains of Toni yes-
terday." He took out a handkerchief and wiped his
brow. "It was a very small box, Herr Knight."
"I'm . . . sorry," Gabriel said. He felt a sick dread
at the story's images.
"You can help them," Gerde replied.
Gabriel shot her a glance. What did she expect him
to do?
"Haven't you notified the police?" he asked gently.
"Ja, naturlich\" Werner replied disdainfully. "The
police believe it is wolves escaped from a zoo! This is
not the first such killing, Herr Knight. There have
been others, all near Munich. And the police, they
find nothing!"
Gabriel blinked at the old man, startled. "There
have been other wolf attacks?"
"Other attacks, yes. All in the past few weeks. But
the killer is not a wolf, Herr Knight." Werner was
looking at him as though he were stupid.
"But you just said . . ."
"I saw it." The quiet words came from the mother,
and it silenced all others effortlessly.
"What did you see, Frau Huber?"
She stared at Gabriel unswervingly. "It was not a
wolf, Herr Knight. It was a beast—something bad,
something terrible. And its eyes ... its eyes were
human."
Her own beautiful and dreadful eyes sent a chill
through him as she said this. His mind conjured up a
wolf's howl to chase the goose bumps on his spine. It
would almost be funny if it wasn't so goddamn awful,
if these people weren't serious, and if he wasn't sud-
denly so creeped out.
"Are you saying it was a ... a ..."
"Werewolf," Werner said.
"Christ!"
"I have told them that you are the new Schatten-
jager," Gerde interjected helpfully. "Wolfgang said it
was meant to be before he died."
"I know, I—"
But Gerde and Werner had obviously worked out
a tag-team approach in advance, for Werner did not
let him speak. "Are you the Schattenjager, Herr
Knight? Or are you not?"
You had to hand it to the old guy, he was blunt.
Werner's bushy eyebrows furrowed at him in the
battery-operated brightness, and Gabriel understood
that his choice in this matter would mean a lot more
than whether or not he'd be hanging out in Munich for
a few weeks. After all, he'd come to this tiny German
village a family heir, bearer of the blood that had named
the town, the Ritters. He'd been chosen successor to a
strange priestly tradition these people took as seriously
as they took their lederhosen. This might be a forgotten
part of the world, but the villagers themselves knew
damn well who they were and what they believed in.
But it was his heritage, after all, not theirs.
Gabriel crossed his arms stubbornly. "Of course I
am."
Werner grunted. "Then you will do it? You will find
the werewolf and kill it?"
"Well, I'd be happy to look into it for you. See
what I can find out, but ..."
"Yes! Good!" Werner clapped his hands together.
"Sepp and Christa go to Regensburg to be with her
mother. Their farm will be empty for a while—you
can stay there. Meet us at the gasthof in one hour."
Before Gabriel could even speak, Werner and the
others were walking away.
"I'll go pack your things," Gerde said. She actually
smiled at him for a change.
"Great. Thanks," Gabriel deadpanned. He opened
his mouth to have it out with her, but she was already
slipping inside.
He was not at all surprised to find a bag packed
and waiting for him when he reached his room sixty
seconds later. He supposed she'd figured he'd need it
either way—whether he took the case or not.
It was a stiff neck that woke him well before noon.
He was up from the couch where he'd slept in an
instant, excited about being on a new case, though he
told himself it might well lead nowhere. He'd noticed
little about the Huber farmhouse when he'd arrived
last night; he was too tired and it was too dark. In the
light of day the traditional plaster-and-frame home
was clean and uncluttered. One room done in oak
furniture and country prints served as kitchen, dining,
and living rooms. A doorway led to a hall, the bed-
rooms, and a bath. It was a bit too cutesy for his taste,
and the sense of Toni Huber rested on everything like
invisible sheets.
He opened his suitcase, anxious to be on his way.
Right on top was yesterday's unopened mail—a letter
from Grace—stuck in there by a certain meddling
hausfrau. He frowned as he pulled out a clear pair of
jeans and a white T-shirt. A new case. He should call
Grace. He ripped open the letter with a sigh.
St. George's Books, New Orleans
Gabriel:
I have an amazing new preternatural phenomenon
to tell you about—sales have actually been picking up
around the shop. I know it's too bizarre to be true,
but I swear I've seen it with my own eyes. In other
fortean shockers, that Blake Backlash epic, The Voo-
doo Murders, is up to #20 on the New York Times
paperback best-seller list. Avonly has deposited a cou-
ple more checks, and your U.S. bank account is blos-
soming—not unlike the desert after a fluke storm.
So have you made your decision yet? I know I'm
bugging you about it, but—look, I can still register for
classes next fall if I hurry. If you decide to sell the
shop and move to Germany, that's fine, but I really
need to know. Okay?
Anyway, I've been reading up on a little German
as well as anything occult I can find. I've also been
getting three major newspapers. Haven't seen any-
thing that looks like a case so far. Have you?
Write soon. Grace
"GaaaaaaaadF Gabriel tossed the letter down and
rubbed his eyes.
Grace Nakimura had been preying on his mind for
a while now. This was not the first letter of its kind,
and it made him feel . . . well, guilty. After the Voo-
doo Murders case she'd asked to stay on at the shop,
excited by some Chandler-esque vision, wanting to
help out with this whole Schattenjager business. It had
seemed like a fine idea at first. She'd practically taken
over the grunt work of the shop that summer, and
she'd done a lot of research for the case as well. Be-
sides, he liked her. She had a funny, sarcastic kind of
charm that suited him, a New York bluntness that
made him laugh. She wasn't hard on the eyes either.
Sweet kid, really, though she had a crust on her that
could bruise a lesser man, and her brain was more
trouble than it was worth.
Rather like Gerde, now that he thought about it.
But on the strength of his unthought-out agreement
she'd dropped her plans for her Ph.D. and taken up
shopkeeping for him full-time, something that had to
be dead boring to a girl like her. And there hadn't
been any more cases for over a year. It was precisely
this sort of dependency and responsibility that he
dreaded, the reason he avoided like the plague any
meaningful relationship with a woman. And the stup-
idest part was—he wasn't even sleeping with her!
He'd been planning for months to write to her and
urge her to go back to school, but he hadn't yet. He
didn't know why he hadn't, except . . .
He read the letter again and sighed. What a nut.
He did kinda miss her.
"All right," Gabriel muttered. "Okay."
He sat down and began to write, but his writer's
block had seemingly transferred itself to simple corre-
spondence. He made several attempts, then realized,
with some surprise, what his hand already knew; he
didn't want Gracie here.
He leaned back, thought about it. It probably wasn't
a real case anyway, he told himself. Nothing supernat-
ural, that was; it would turn out to be some kind of
normal animal or other—had to be. And by the time
she got over here from the States it would all be
over, anyway.
That's what he told himself.
He looked at his watch and did some quick, halting
math. If he called now, there was no way she'd be at
the shop—he could just leave a message. He made the
call, grabbed his black leather jacket, and walked
outside.
The morning was crisp, cold, and cloudless. The for-
est was just as Werner described it: a dense bank of
trees edging a long, sloping lawn, and then the fields
that marched away over the rolling landscape. To the
right were a stone barn and the driveway that led to
the road. Gabriel began at the house and walked
slowly toward the woods on a path his mind conjured
for Frau Huber. He studied the grass beneath his feet,
soggy from spring rain.
He reached the woods and saw nothing at the spot
he had chosen. But twenty feet away there were foot-
steps and trampled grass, even the marks of narrow
wheels. The police had been here and the coroner
probably. This was the site. He stood still and looked
around.
The birds were warbling unconcernedly, the grass
was sending up new green shoots, and the farm had
a crisp, earthy texture, like biting into an apple, that
painted an idyllic moment straight out of State Fair.
How could anything ever go bad in a place like this?
But something had gone bad, very bad indeed. The
knowledge of what had happened was made even
more tragic in this setting.
He studied the footprints, the invasive and eradicat-
ing marks of the investigators, and tried to look beyond
them. He found the edge of the prints corresponded
with a matted section of grass. He trod carefully,
leaned in, and found a trace of blood, flattened grass—
a paw print in the soft earth.
He took a step back, feeling queasy. He'd not recog-
nized the print at first. His eyes had insisted it was yet
another footprint a bit beyond the others. The thing
was enormous, easily the size of a small man's shoe,
and as large as Gabriel's own outstretched hand. The
pad was narrow and arrow-shaped, and topped by four
oval indentations.
Did wolf paws really get that big?
He walked back to the barn and pulled open the
sliding wooden door. It was neat inside, with bags of
fertilizer, grain, and power equipment arranged
against the walls and in bins. He found what he was
looking for—a half-used bag of cement. He mixed a
small dose of the stuff in a metal pitcher and walked
back to the site of the attack, poured the cement into
the print indentation.
It would take a while to set.
He left the pitcher at the site and moved back
around through the trees. The woods brought the
abrupt chill of shade and dampness, and his jacket got
wet as he pushed past piney limbs. He glanced back
toward the pitcher on the ground, threading his way
along until he could barely see it.
From which direction had the wolf come?
If he were a woodsman, he could read the snapping
of twigs and disturbance of leaves, but to a French
Quarter boy everything out here looked the same—
wet, cold, and green. So he tried to use his writer's
instinct instead. He circled through the trees, eyeing
the pitcher, trying to see a little girl where it stood. It
was not a pleasant visualization, for he knew what
came next. He kept glancing at the ground, hoping for
another print, but the floor of the woods was coated
with pine needles, dead leaves, and berry vines, mak-
ing it a less impressionable surface than the wet sod.
When he was as far south of the house as he could
go and still keep the pitcher in his line of sight, he
felt he'd found the vantage point. He didn't know how
he felt it, but he did. He stood, breathing hard in the
chilly silence, staring through the woods at the grass.
He succeeded so well in placing the wolf here in his
mind that he began to feel eyes on his back. He turned
nervously—and saw nothing but the trees.
He began moving toward the pitcher on a sharp
diagonal. He crouched, slunk.
And broke into a small clearing. It was not a clear-
ing exactly, just a break in the trees only six feet or
so across, but the ground was even here, a natural
high point, and the vines cleared way for moss. He
stopped and looked down, certain that the wolf had
stood here. Wasn't it a perfect spot for reconnais-
sance? He didn't see any prints; the moss was spongy
and hard.
He bent down and peered at the forest floor from
mere inches away, scanning the moss with his hands
as well as his eyes. Something stuck to his fingers.
He was certain it was only a leaf or moss fuzz, but
he was wrong. It was hair, several strands of coarse
hair, each an inch or so long. He bent down again,
and this time his eyes knew what to look for. He found
another clump of strands and a few singles near the
edge. He gathered them carefully with his wet fingers
and placed them in his palm. They were reddish-
brown in color, the color of a light cherry stain, and
the tips of them, the last quarter inch or so, were
white.
They're its hairs. The beast's. It sat right here and
watched Toni Huber, maybe even waited for her; which
meant that it had been here before, was stalking her.
He knew he was jumping to conclusions, but damn
if it didn't feel like the truth, especially squatting here
like this with those hairs against the skin of his hand.
There had to be some way to find out if he was
right.
He found nothing else in the woods. He was stand-
ing in the yard, considering his next move, when he
noticed the newspaper and mailboxes out on the main
road. He walked down the driveway and found that
he was in luck. There was a feature article on the
wolf killings on the front page of the Freistaat Bayern
Zeitung. Unfortunately, he'd spent more time in the
castle this past year than out of it, and he'd further
discovered that his natural ear for language was appar-
ently deaf. Still, he could make out a few things. The
headline on the article, "Zwei Killerwolfe aus dem
Zoo immer noch auf freiemfufi," was legible enough
to his American eyes to pick up the fact that the Mu-
nich papers considered the case to be about two killer
wolves from the zoo. It had a photo of wolves at the
zoo, though probably not the ones that had escaped,
and it had another picture of a bald, heavyset man at
a press conference. The man was identified as "Krimi-
nalkommisar Leber aus dem Polizeirevier am Prinzreg-
entenplatz." And the name of the zoo was given—
"Tierpark Hellabrunn."
Christa Huber had advised against driving in the
city. There was an U-Bahn stop just up the road in
Lockham, she'd said; park the car and take the subway
from there. Gabriel took her advice, grabbing his
German-English pocket dictionary and his hand-held
tape recorder from the car before locking it. He'd re-
corded most of his conversations on the last case—
even before he'd known it was a case. The idea had
originally been to make the construction of a novel
easier, but the tapes proved critical to unraveling the
heart of the Voodoo Murders. It was one of the few
things he'd done right.
The subway map showed a stop for Prinzregenten-
platz up the U4 line from downtown. The zoo was
listed too, at the Thalkirchen stop on the U3. Gabriel
headed downtown.
He'd been to Munich three times in the past year—
twice on his own when bored to tears and once last
December when Gerde dragged him up here for the
Christkindlmarkt. He'd come to Germany a few
months after the death of Malia and the destruction
of the voodoo hounfour. Part of it had been to settle
Wolfgang's estate, but mostly he'd wanted to get away
from New Orleans, from the memory of the dark-
skinned woman who had been the first true love of
his life, the woman he'd pretty much murdered. He
never dreamed he'd stay this long. He found he
needed to be in Schloss Ritter, to be surrounded by
the very real evidence of the Schattenjager past in
order for him to retain any belief in it at all. So he'd
stayed at the castle and worked (or tried to)—yet an-
other form of catharsis.
He hadn't gotten out much.
The stop at Prinzregentenplatz was a bust. Gabriel
found the polizei sign without too much trouble, but
getting past the bloodhound at the desk was another
matter. The officer cum receptionist set his stare to
stun even before the words "Kriminalkommisar
Leber" came out of Gabriel's mouth. Once they had,
well, a rotweiler with hemorrhoids would have been
more gracious. Leber, Gabriel managed to gather
from the officer's indecipherable German, was either
off bounds, inaccessible, or just plain not there.
He was not invited to return.
The zoo was considerably more congenial. "The
Tierpark is a natural habitat zoo," the English bro-
chure informed him. That further translated into a lot
of walking.
He located the wolves twenty minutes from the
gate. A sign showed a picture of a wolf and read CANIS
LUPUS LUPUS, EUROPEAN WOLF in several languages.
Beyond it was a ditch, then a wood and wire fence,
then a broad, park-like setting. The wolves themselves
were inactive. A half dozen were visible from the main
path, all lying around under the trees, where they were
sheltered a bit from prying eyes. They were slight and
gray. They did not look particularly ferocious.
Gabriel heard the squeak of wheels and turned to
see a slight, dark-haired young man coming down the
path. He was pushing a cart, and he wore brown cov-
eralls with the park's logo. The young man took a
hitherto unnoticed path back into a chain-link kennel
structure that was mostly hidden by brush. He poured
the contents of a sack into a steel trough. A few of
the wolves glanced up, but none of them moved.
Whatever the pellets were, they weren't exactly high
on the wolves' priority list.
The young man returned to the cart and said some-
thing briefly into a walkie-talkie. Gabriel strolled over.
"Hey! Do you speak English?"
"Yes. Do you have a question?"
"Yeah, actually." Gabriel gave the boy his most
winning smile. "My name's Gabriel Knight."
The boy nodded with little interest.
"Hey, I saw you walk into that kennel . . . um . . ."
"Thomas."
"Thomas. Nice to meet ya. Weren't you scared at
all, Thomas?"
Thomas slouched in a display of bored machismo.
"No! I go in there all the time."
"Really? That takes some balls—especially with the
recent killin's. The two wolves got out of here, right?"
The boy looked uneasy. "Yes."
"When was that exactly?"
"About a month ago. Are you a reporter?"
Gabriel gave him an innocent smile. "No, novelist.
I'm just curious about wolves. Do you know what hap-
pened? Did they get over the fence or what?"
Thomas nodded toward the kennel door. "Doktor
Klingmann thinks the night attendant left the door
open." Thomas rolled his eyes to indicate how very
large an error this was—akin, perhaps, to wearing
one's pajamas to school or knocking one's wedding
ring down the kitchen drain.
Gabriel whistled. "That sucks. You weren't on duty
that night, were ya?"
Thomas shook his head. "I work days only. The guy
who was working, he was . . . you know." Thomas
made a throat-slitting gesture.
"Fired?"
Thomas nodded grimly.
"Hmmm. What about the wolves—there were two
that got out, right?"
"Hilda and Parsival."
Gabriel arched a sardonic brow. "Oh, yeah? What
did Hilda and Parsival look like?"
Thomas pointed toward the habitat. "Like that."
Gabriel bit back a sarcastic remark. "I know, but
were they the same color? These guys look kinda gray
from here."
"/a, gray. Hilda was young still—only about a year
old. She was light gray with white at her chest. Parsival
was a male, older, maybe five years. He was darker
gray. They get darker when they get older."
"Not . . . reddish at all?"
Thomas looked perplexed and shook his head. He
brushed his coveralls self-consciously, as if wondering
why Gabriel kept staring at them.
Gabriel switched his gaze to the wolves. "What
about temperament? Did you ever think those two
could do something like this?"
For the first time Thomas seemed to have a real
opinion. "No. Not possible." He wagged his head
angrily.
"Not possible? They are carnivores, right?"
But Thomas just repeated his opinionated gesture.
"I know the wolves. They can be dangerous. Maybe
even bite if you move too fast. But kill and eat people!
Nein. Not these wolves. Hilda was still a puppy, and
Parsival, he was okay, a little slow maybe. He was not
so mean, like some of the other males."
Gabriel thought about this for a moment.
Thomas grew restless. "Well, I must . . ."
"Thomas, is there any way at all ..." He gave the
boy a sheepish grin. "I'd really love to get a good
look at one of the wolves. For a book I'm workin' on.
Just for a second."
Thomas chuckled low and ironic. "Not possible!"
Gabriel sighed. "Yeah. All right. Who's this Dr.
Klingmann you mentioned?"
"Herr Doktor Klingmann is in charge of the mam-
mal division."
"So he'd be the man to talk to about seeing one of
the wolves up close?"
Thomas smirked. "Sure. Yes. Why don't you go
ask him?"
Dr. Klingmann's office was in the administration
building at the other end of the park. Gabriel sat on
a bench outside, contemplating his next move. Of
course, Thomas was having him on. Besides the smirk
there was the fact that anyone who would require the
park employees to call him "Herr Doktor" had to
have a stick up his butt the size of Wyoming. No mat-
ter what cover story Gabriel thought up, the scene
played out the same way. Klingmann would never
grant him access to see one of the wolves. He couldn't
pretend to be a veterinarian; the park would have
their own. An animal-rights activist would be thrown
out on his ear, and "health inspector" wouldn't wash
either—he was too obviously a non-native. He
couldn't even fake a good accent.
This case was going to be a lot tougher than his last
one, when such deceptions had not only been possible,
they'd worked and had paid big dividends.
Could he get around the wolf thing? Gabriel shook
his head in answer. There was only one way to deter-
mine if the beast that had been at the Huber farm
was one of the escaped zoo wolves, and that was
pretty much what this entire case hinged on, wasn't
it? Unfortunately, he hadn't seen any of what he
needed on Thomas's coveralls.
What about the police? Wouldn't they have the an-
swer right there in their files?
Gabriel sighed. Presumably. They might not have
found what he found in the woods at the Huber farm,
but chances were good that they'd found it at one
of the crime scenes. Unfortunately, the police weren't
talking to Gabriel Knight.
And that was when he got an idea.
Gabriel's knock was answered by a reedy male
voice.
"Kommen Sie!"
He entered a sterile-looking office. The room was
of decent size, but the plain cream walls, blue carpet-
ing, and bonded wood desk made it look like a rental.
The only human touches in the room were, oddly,
non-human. A large print of wolves was the only art,
and below it was a cheap display case that contained
an animal skull, what looked like pelts, and various
anatomical models of wolves, foxes, and other
carnivores.
The man behind the desk was looking up at him
blankly. "Kann ich Ihnen helfen?"
"Dr. Klingmann? My name is Gabriel Knight." Ga-
briel walked forward and stretched out his hand. The
man accepted it coolly.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Knight?"
Klingmann was a thin, loose-skinned man. His light
brown hair was on its way south, and wire-rimmed
glasses gave a scholarly pensiveness to a thin, intense
face that might otherwise have looked peevish.
"I was hopin' I could do a quick interview with ya,
Doctor," Gabriel said, laying on the twang. (For some
reason, people seemed to associate the Southern ac-
cent with honesty and harmlessness, if not actual stu-
pidity.) "Ya see, I'm workin' on a novel about wolves?
I have a few books on the market in the U.S."
"Yes?"
"Well, I read about this situation here in Munich,
with the zoo wolves escapin' and all? And I thought
to myself, well, innit that unusual? You don't get a
chance to see what captivity-raised wolves'll do in an
urban setting very often."
Klingmann dropped his pen and leaned back. "No.
That's true. I do not have much time, unfortunately ..."
"Just a few real quick questions. 'Course, I'll give
you credit in the acknowledgments. Send ya a copy. I
do appreciate the help of experts like yourself."
Klingmann drummed his fingers on his chair arm
for a moment, then waved reluctantly at a visitor's
chair. "Sit down. Mr. Knight."
"Thanks." Gabriel sat down and pulled out his tape
recorder. "Ya don't mind, do ya? My memory leaves
somethin' to be desired."
Klingmann made an uninterested acquiescence.
"I was out lookin' at the wolves just now, and I ran
into one of your feeders, a young boy, Uh . . . Frank
was it?"
Klingmann looked at him blankly.
"Or, uh, Todd?"
"Thomas?" Klingmann asked, as if he could hardly
see the relevance.
Gabriel taped his forehead in a duh gesture.
"Thomas! Right! Aren't ya worried about sendin' peo-
ple into the kennels now that it's been proven that
the wolves are man eaters?"
Klingmann smiled indulgently. "The park employ-
ees are in no danger as long as they follow the safety
guidelines that I myself have laid out."
"Uh-huh. But you do think these killin's are the
work of the two escaped wolves?"
Klingmann's smile faded. "I don't know what else
it could be." The tenseness in his voice was painful.
"Wild wolves?"
"There haven't been wild wolves in Germany for
centuries. There might be a few small packs left in the
Alps, but otherwise . . ." Klingmann glared at him
dully. "Surely you know something about wolves if
you're to write about them?"
It took an effort, but Gabriel tried to appear grate-
ful. "Yeah, Doc, I sure do, thanks for askin'. But I'm
less familiar with Germany's situation specifically."
Klingmann made a dismissive gesture. "What hap-
pened to wolves happened here first, in Europe. The
farmers wanted to protect their livestock so they put
a price on the wolves' heads. Money hunters killed
entire species. It happened the same way in America
in the eighteen hundreds."
"That's true, but I was thinkin' that with all the new
animal-protection laws, a few of those packs maybe
moved back in? It has to be somethin' the police have
considered. Right, Doc?"
Klingmann heaved an impatient sigh. "People refer
to me as Herr Doktor Klingmann here."
"Of course, Herr Doktor. I do apologize."
"And the police have considered it. I told them
what I tell you—there are no wild wolves anywhere
near here."
"Right. Thanks. I suppose, knowin' wolves as you
do, you have some idea of why these two wolves
would behave like this?"
Klingmann frowned. As before, Gabriel sensed it
was a reaction to the question itself, not the deliverer.
It was hardly surprising. This man was in charge of
the wolves, and two of them had escaped and were
now mutilating little girls. He was obviously a priggish
ass, but he still had to feel the public pressure, if not
actual personal liability.
"As much as we might like to compare wolves to
dogs, they are not domesticated creatures, Mr. Knight.
Even those that are raised as pets from birth are un-
predictable. They're wild animals."
"Yes, Herr Doktor," Gabriel said meekly. He felt
like he should have a pencil in his hand.
"Morality—that is our invention. It has nothing to
do with the wild, with nature."
Gabriel blinked in surprise—both at the idea and
the enthusiasm of the delivery—but he nodded
agreeably.
"A wolf would have no moral compunction about
killing a human versus, say, a deer. It makes no distinc-
tion between the two."
"Even though these wolves are raised among hu-
mans?" Gabriel asked.
"Their comfort with humans only makes things
worse." Klingmann smiled tightly. "Wild wolves might
avoid our homes, our cities, because of their strange-
ness. Zoo wolves would do the opposite. They're used
to relating food with humans."
Gabriel nodded his head humbly. "Well, that sure
makes sense to me. So, assumin' they would eat a
human being, how would the wolves go about choosin'
a victim? Would they be capable of, say, returnin' to
a spot where they'd seen a potential victim? Of
staUangT
"Oh, yes!" Klingmann said, eyes shining. "As for
choosing a victim . . . Have you heard about the Lan-
guage of Death?"
"No."
"Ever since Darwin it has been accepted that preda-
tors like wolves participate in natural selection; that
they choose the old, the sick, or the very young and
thus 'cull the herd.' " Klingmann leaned forward in-
tently. "At first glance that appears to be the case, but
for the past few decades researchers have been camp-
ing out with wolf packs, and they've been finding
anomalies."
"Such as?"
"For example, a pack of wolves surround a sick
moose cow. She can barely stand, but she does stand,
and she glares back at the wolves that surround her.
The wolves break up, back away."
The cow must have been related to Grace, he
thought. He muttered an articulate "Huh."
"Recently one of the researchers proposed a new
theory—the Language of Death. It says that predator
and prey have a kind of agreement whose rules have
been handed down genetically. The wolf's chase says,
'I am Death. Are you ready to go?' And the individual
members of the herd, by their action or inaction say,
'No, I am not ready,' or 'Yes, take me.' "
Gabriel arched a light brown eyebrow quizzically.
"Doesn't the herd pretty much just . . . ran?"
Klingmann chuckled. "It may look that way to the
untrained eye, but there are patterns. Maybe one
doesn't run, or maybe one runs in a direction apart
from the herd, making themselves an easy target."
Gabriel rubbed his chin. "That's very interestin',
Herr Docktor, but how does it explain the recent
killin's?"
"The Language of Death explains many things!
First, the extinction of the wolves. Why did the farmer
hunt the wolf? Not because the wolf took a cow or
goat now and then, but because a wolf in a domestic
herd went on a killing frenzy. And why? Because the
stupid cattle do not know the language!"
"So ... as far as this case goes, maybe humans
don't know the Language? Is that what you're
sayin'?"
Klingmann looked at Gabriel in surprise. And there
was something else on his face, something fearful.
"Yes," he said simply. He neatened the book on his
desk. "This is not the first time wolves have eaten
human beings, Mr. Knight. Lions do it, tigers do it.
When wolves and humans coexisted, they did it too.
The Language of Death simply explains why they
might do it in a particularly brutal and senseless
fashion."
Klingmann glanced at his watch. "Now I'm afraid I
really must get back to work."
Gabriel rose reluctantly and gave Klingmann a lop-
sided grin. "Well, I really appreciate your time. One
more thing, though. I was wonderin' if it might be
possible for you to show me one of the wolves up
close? For my work?"
Klingmann gave him a frozen, put-upon smile. "We
don't 'show' our wolves to anyone, Mr. Knight. You
may look as long as you'd like—from the path."
Gabriel headed back to the Huber farm. He picked
up the paw print, which had dried. He cleaned it off
in the barn's sink. The impression was a good one.
Then he went inside and rummaged through the
Hubers' kitchen drawers. He found what he was look-
ing for—another tape recorder. The Hubers' model
was an older, clunky one. On it was a recording of
Toni Huber singing "Silent Night" in German. He
played it twice, just because it ripped his heart out.
The flip side was blank.
He sat down at the kitchen table and reviewed his
taped conversation with Klingmann, taking notes.
Then he made the new tape.
It took him an hour of skulking around the zoo for
the right opportunity to arise. It came at the kangaroo
habitat. A perky teenage fraulein was giving a tour to
a group of schoolchildren. She wore a brown T-shirt
with the park logo, and next to her was a small push-
cart. On the cart was a walkie-talkie.
Gabriel sat and watched the group for about ten
minutes, until his break came. One little girl wandered
down the fence. She began yelling and pointing excit-
edly at a mother whose baby was sticking its head out
of her pouch. The girl in the park shirt ushered the
children down the fence to see the wonders of marsu-
pial motherhood.
She left the cart behind.
Gabriel walked over as quickly as he could without
being obvious. He grabbed the walkie-talkie, held
down the Send button, and played the first few sec-
onds of the tape in his tape recorder. Klingmann's
voice said, "Thomas?"
He waited, holding his breath. The walkie-talkie
beeped and came on in his hand. "Thomas here."
Gabriel suppressed a giggle and played the rest of
the message.
"Herr Doktor Klingmann here. Show our wolves to
Mr. Knight."
Thomas's voice came back genuinely amazed. "Ja,
Herr Doktor. I go to the wolf habitat right away."
Thomas was waiting for him. "Hello Mr. Knight. I
was asked to show you one of the wolves. Please stay
close to me and remain calm. Don't make any quick
moves."
"Sure," Gabriel said, his smile fading. Maybe this
wasn't such a hot idea after all.
The two went down the path to the kennel, and
Thomas unlocked the door.
The kennel enclosure was roughly ten by twenty
feet with the door on one end and the other end open
to the habitat. Thomas paused inside the door.
"Stay here," he said nervously. He walked over to
the habitat opening and took what looked like a dog
biscuit out of his pocket. "Margarite? Schau mal was
ich hier hub! Na komm' mal her!"
He squatted down and called out softly, as though
hoping to avoid summoning all of the wolves. He
seemed to be addressing a smallish wolf that was
under a tree not far from the kennel. Several of the
larger wolves glanced in their direction, including, Ga-
briel noticed, one large, dark wolf that was obviously
a male. He cocked his head as though to see past
Thomas, and when his eyes found Gabriel, they locked
on. The animal's ear stood to attention, but he
didn't rise.
Yes, this had made a lot more sense from outside
the kennel.
"Margarite! Komm' her! Komm' mal her Ma'dchen!"
Thomas cajoled.
The slight female rose with a yawn, as if barely
interested. She padded over to the kennel. Gabriel
was amazed at the length and delicacy of her legs. The
large paws only accentuated this thinness and gave the
wolf a puppyish air. Gabriel thought Margarite must
look like Hilda as Thomas described her.
Thomas gave Margarite the biscuit, which she dain-
tily ate. He moved to one side so that Gabriel could
get a better look.
"Margarite's about fourteen months old," Thomas
explained in a low voice. He seemed calmer now that
things were going smoothly. "She came to us from a
zoo in Amsterdam when she was very little still."
While Thomas was busy watching Margarite, Ga-
briel was taking careful steps forward. He held his
breath, desperate not to startle Margarite away before
he'd gotten what he came for.
"Get back!" Thomas hissed as Gabriel approached
his left side.
But Margarite was not alarmed. She looked up at
Gabriel with clear, curious eyes. She made a low whin-
ing noise and dipped her head at him, sat on her
haunches, and walked her front paws forward a bit.
She dipped her head again.
"That's strange," Thomas said, dumbfounded. "She
likes you."
"I have a way with women," Gabriel quipped. He
squatted down next to Thomas.
"I don't think it's a good idea . . ."
But Gabriel was already reaching out a hand. He
stroked Margarite's head. She panted, looking at him
with large brown eyes.
"Mr. Knight, please don't touch her!" Thomas
hissed angrily.
"She's fine," Gabriel replied, which was perfectly
true. He dug his fingers into her fur and tugged gently,
pulled his hand back, and stuck it in his coat pocket.
"That's enough!" Thomas put a hand on Gabriel's
arm.
It was just about then that something explosive
1
struck the chain-link wall to their left. They felt and
heard the impact a split second before the cacophony
that followed told them what it was.
It was a large gray wolf, the male that had spotted
Gabriel earlier. He was standing on his hind legs, his
front paws up against the fence. He was snarling and
snapping his teeth, growling in rage, his eyes a frenzy
of attack lust.
Gabriel uttered a cry of surprise and lost his bal-
ance. He fell back onto the ground, reached out to
scramble to his feet, lost his footing, and went down
again on one knee. Thomas grabbed his arm and
yanked him upright, pulled him to the kennel door.
It took six seconds to get out of the wolf kennel,
and they were the longest six seconds of Gabriel's life.
The two men ran down the path to the cart.
"I told you not to touch her!" Thomas panted an-
grily when he'd regained his breath enough to speak.
"I'm sorry. She was just so cute, and she did that
head thing. I thought she wanted me to pet her." It
wasn't the truth. No matter how cute she was, he'd
never have dared it, not unless he'd had to.
Thomas glared at him, his breathing slowing down.
He walked toward the habitat fence and looked inside.
A few of the wolves were pacing nervously, and the one
who'd attacked was trotting back and forth in the kennel
in an agitated manner. But the worst of the crisis
seemed to have passed.
"It will take days to get them back to normal,"
Thomas complained.
Yeah? Tell that to the ulcer I just sprouted. "I'm
really sorry. Does that kind of thing happen a lot?"
Thomas wiped his brow on his sleeve. "I've never
seen a wolf do that before, not even when we intro-
duced new handlers. But then, we don't go around
petting the wolves, not unless we know them very well.
That one, he was just being territorial. Maybe he likes
Margarite. Or maybe he does not like you."
Thomas glared at Gabriel, plainly on the wolf's side.
"Huh. Well, thanks for your help. I'll, uh, I'll put
in a good word for you with Klingmann."
The mention of Klingmann's name only evoked new
horrors. Thomas paled, "Don't tell Herr Doktor what
happened. Please."
"Son, I won't mention it if you won't," Gabriel said,
giving Thomas an avuncular pat on the shoulder.
Back on the U-Bahn, Gabriel carefully collected the
gray hairs from his pocket and studied them in the
train's fluorescent light. He brought out the red ones
from the farm and laid them next to the grays in his
palm. The red hairs were coarser than Margarite's,
perhaps twice as large in diameter but shorter in
length. Both had white tips.
Gabriel put them away. He needed a better analysis
than his own untrained eye. For one thing, it was pos-
sible that the red hair from the farm didn't even be-
long to the animal that killed Toni Huber. It could be
anything—dog hair, fox, even raccoon.
Were there such things as red German raccoons?
Anyway, if the hair he'd found at the farm was
something other than wolf hair, then all the trouble
he'd gone to with Thomas would count for diddly
squat.
Gabriel thought about it, then realized that he knew
someone who just might be able to help.
The law offices of Ubergrau, HOffen and Schnell
were housed at a prestigious address on the Marien-
platz and had been for the past hundred years. The
firm itself had represented the Ritter family for even
longer. The tradition between the two was so old, in
fact, that for the past decade of Great-Uncle Wolf-
gang's life the firm tended what family business there
was free of charge. That business consisted mainly of
trying to keep the German government from confis-
cating Schloss Ritter for unpaid property taxes.
Fortunately, the money Gabriel had stolen from the
hounfour on his last case had enabled him to clear up
all that and to put the firm back on retainer. Their
genuine pleasure at the family's resurgence had been
apparent in their letters, even if the heir was an Amer-
ican who chose to keep his Anglicized name. They'd
even gone to the effort of obtaining Gabriel's birth
certificate and his grandfather's, Heinz Ritter's, immi-
gration forms and legalizing Gabriel's status as official
descendant of the Ritter line. (They insisted it wasn't
because the firm itself had any doubts about his story.)
Being officially registered as heir didn't seem rele-
vant to Gabriel, since the family had no official titles
or duties, at least not these days. But it mattered to
Ubergrau, Hoffen and Schnell, and it helped ease the
deed transfer for the castle.
They had offered their every assistance after that.
It was about time to call that pony home.
There was a bit of confusion in the lobby, mostly
because the receptionist didn't think Gabriel looked
like the firm's typical clientele. But eventually Gabriel
was ushered in, with great apology, to the office of
Herr Harold Ubergrau.
Harold Ubergrau was not what Gabriel expected.
He'd pictured a gray-haired, elderly gentleman, officious
and obsessively proper. Ubergrau was barely thirty,
blond, and fair, with a kind of boyish self-consciousness.
He struck Gabriel as someone who'd just been pro-
moted from mail boy and was still getting used to
wearing suits.
"Mr. Knight! Very glad to meet you! So glad!
Please, please! Come in! Sit down!"
Gabriel took a seat. "Nice to meet you too, Herr
Ubergrau. Are you the one who's been writin' to
me?"
Ubergrau blushed. "Yes, actually. I mean, my secre-
tary types the letter, but I, um, yes, I compose them.
My uncle assigned me to your account because I have
the best English. I took my law degree at Harvard."
"Really? Well, nice job. On the grammar and all."
Ubergrau looked at Gabriel as if trying to gauge if
he was kidding. "Er . . . thank you. Well! I'd be happy
to be of service to you, Mr. Knight. Of course, if you'd
prefer to speak with my uncle or Herr Schnell . . ."
"Heck, no!" Gabriel made a pshah sound. "I'm
okay if you're okay."
Ubergrau's official smile faltered again. "Er . . .
okay."
"Look, Harry," Gabriel said, leaning forward, "you
don't mind if I call you Harry, do you?"
Ubergrau reddened. "No. That is, if you . . ."
"I actually came by because I could use some help."
"Anything, Mr. Knight."
"Gabriel."
"Okay."
"I need an introduction to an animal biologist. I
was thinkin' maybe someone at the university."
Ubergrau looked perplexed. "I'm sorry?"
"You know, someone who'd be able to look at a
couple of hair samples for me, give me an analysis on
species, that sort of thing."
For a moment Ubergrau stared at him blankly; then
his eyes widened. ''Mem Gott! This is about those wolf
killings, isn't it? Are you working on a new book?"
Gabriel clenched his jaw in mild irritation. He
hadn't anticipated the lawyer doing his homework
quite so thoroughly. "Not really," he hedged, deter-
mined to avoid a long explanation of the samples and
the case.
But Ubergrau paid no attention. "I read your last
book, Mr. Knight! The Voodoo Murders! I really en-
joyed it! Especially because it was based on true life.
That makes it so much more frightening, doesn't it?
Do people tell you that a lot? It was based on a real
case in New Orleans, wasn't it? That is what the back
of the book said."
"Yeah, but I'm not really here on—"
"Have we been worried about these wolf killings!
Some of the secretaries are afraid to go down in the
U-Bahn alone at night. They haven't attacked anyone
in the city, of course. The wolves, that is, not the sec-
retaries." Ubergrau tittered. "How would they even
get into the city with all the traffic? No, it's all been
out in the countryside, but even so—"
"Harry!" Gabriel waved his arms to get the man's
attention.
"What?"
"Can you just get me that name?"
"Oh! Oh. Yes. Let's see." He thought for a mo-
ment, tapping his foot nervously. "I have a client at
the university, but he is in mathematics."
"Maybe he knows someone in biology."
"Let me try."
Obergrau opened his desk and brought out a Rolo-
dex. These Germans kept absolutely nothing on their
desktops, Gabriel thought irritably (neatness not being
a trait he himself possessed). Ubergrau found the
number and picked up the phone. The conversation
was unintelligible, but Harry looked brightly optimistic
by the time he rung off.
"Ja! Gut! He says you can go right over. He will
meet you in the Lichthof. That is just off Ludwig-
strafe. He will take you to the lab himself."
"That's terrific. Thanks, Harry."
Ubergrau looked very pleased with himself. "If you
have anything else for the case, you will let me know,
yes, Mr. Knight?"
Gabriel sighed. "You bet."
For a lone wolf, he sure had a knack for picking up
overly enthusiastic sidekicks.
Ubergrau's client not only took Gabriel to the biol-
ogy lab, but he'd arranged for a graduate student, Mi-
chael Hessel, to meet them there and do any work
Gabriel required. Hessel took Gabriel over to a set of
microscopes and laid out his samples one by one on
white blotting paper. He made neat little labels for
each, questioning Gabriel carefully about their origin.
Naturally, Gabriel lied. He hastily concocted an un-
inspired story involving dead chickens, neighbor's
dogs, and civil suits.
This seemed to give Hessel the direction he needed,
for he began to hum happily. He rolled his seat
around, collecting materials to make slide samples.
When the two types of hair were enclosed in glass to
Hessel's satisfaction, he rolled over to the microscopes
and put them into side-by-side machines.
"Let's just see . . ." he muttered between refrains.
He studied the slides for some time, adjusting knobs
here and there. Then he looked at Gabriel with a
mystified expression. He stopped humming and went
over and got a thick reference volume off a bookshelf.
He brought it back and began leafing through pages.
Gabriel anxiously twirled a long lock of his dirty
blond hair.
"Mr. Knight," Hessel said, his eyes still attached
to the microscope, "neither one of these samples is
dog hair."
"Oh?" Gabriel said innocently. His heart began to
beat a little faster.
"No. You said you found them both near a chicken
coop?"
"Yeah."
"On a farm?"
"Uh-huh."
Michael looked up. His face was concerned. "Where
exactly is this farm?"
Gabriel realized, blankly, that he knew none of the
local names. "Um . . . about half an hour south? What
is it? Can you tell what the red hair is?"
But Hessel didn't answer right away. He was chew-
ing on his lip worriedly. He turned back to the micro-
scope and looked again, now turning pages in the
book, now looking in the viewer, and so on back and
forth. Gabriel noticed that the right-hand scope, the
one with the gray hair, went untouched this time
around.
Surely if the red hair was raccoon or fox hair, Hessel
would have known it right away. Wouldn't he?
Hessel leaned back once more. "Mr. Knight, I think
you should notify the police."
"What?" Gabriel said, blushing.
"First, the gray hair. It's wolf hair—European wolf,
canis lupus lupus. According to the newspapers, that's
the same species that escaped from the zoo." Hessel
said this in a grim, this-is-some-trouble voice.
"Wow," said Gabriel, acting surprised.
"So it looks like the missing wolves have been past
this farm of yours. You say they took some chickens?"
"Yup."
Michael nodded, one eyebrow arched. "The police
would want to know about this. Also, you should
warn—is it your farm?"
"No, a friend of mine's."
"Then you should warn your friend. These wolves
are very dangerous."
Gabriel didn't have to feign a look of concern.
"Yeah, I know. I mean, I've been following the story
about the killin's. Wow. I'll have to tell my friend."
"And call the police," Hessel added.
"Right. We'll get them out there right away. So ...
um . . . what about the red hair?" Why was his heart
racing? Surely, Hessel's concern was for the Marga-
rite sample.
But now Hessel's frown deepened. He spun back
around and looked in the viewer again. He looked for
several long minutes, then said: "Mr. Knight, I have
no idea what this hair is."
Gabriel felt a thrill of fear stab him right in the
solar plexus. "You don't? I mean, it's not dog hair or
raccoon or ... or even human"?" Gabriel walked over
the microscope, though he'd be clueless as to what he
was looking at even if Hessel offered.
Hessel shook his head. He pulled his book over so
Gabriel could take a look.
"No. It's not dog hair—they don't have the same
kind of undercoat as a wolf—you see this flat white
tip? It's closer to wolf, but it has some odd characteris-
tics. It's too short and it's thicker than wolf hair-
much thicker. Wolf hair tends to be fine. This is ...
this is almost, what is the word, rubber-like, coarse,
like maybe sea mammal hair or something."
"Sea mammal?"
"No, it's not sea mammal hair. I'm just trying to
explain."
Gabriel had a brief vision of a seal bounding out of
the woods to chase Toni Huber and almost laughed
out loud, though it really wasn't funny at all. He was
losing it.
"So it's not dog hair and it's not wolf hair. You're
sureT
Hessel nodded. "Yes. It's closer to wolf than any-
thing else as far as I can tell. But it's not matching
any species in the book, and some of the
characterizations . . . Well, if it's a wolf, it's a very
strange wolf."
Hessel suddenly remembered that there was further
evidence to examine. "Let me look at that paw print."
He grabbed a tape measure and rolled over to the
cement cast. He measured it, jotted the results on a
piece of paper, rolled back to the book, and flipped
more pages.
"Ah! I thought it looked too large when you put it
down. It is too large."
This time Hessel's expression when he looked up at
Gabriel was on the seen-a-ghost side. "This print was
taken closer to which hair sample, the red or the
gray?"
"Urn ... the red."
Hessel did a hurried calculation on the paper. "The
print is definitely a wolf print. It looks normal to me,
except for the size. This print was made by a wolf
around sixty-eight, seventy kilograms."
Gabriel had to do a quick conversion in his head.
That was something like a hundred thirty-five pounds.
"That's large for a wolf?" he asked.
Hessel stared at him. "Mr. Knight, that is huge.
Canis lupus lupus, for example, the one that matches
the gray hair sample? Biggest they get is about forty
kilograms."
"No shit."
"The biggest wolf species is the Alaskan timber
wolf. Even for that species, seventy kilograms would
be huge—a huge male, maybe one in a thousand.
Huge."
"Yeah, I'm gettin' your drift on that one."
"We should call the police right now." Hessel put
both hands on his knees as if preparing to rise and
waited for Gabriel's permission. He looked awfully
pale, just about the shade of his white coat, and a
jittering index finger, like a white worm, further be-
trayed his perturbation.
"Look, I'd rather tell my friend and let him do it.
It's his farm after all," Gabriel backpedaled. "He's the
one who found the stuff. He just asked me to have
it analyzed."
Hessel looked unconvinced. "I can understand that,
Mr. Knight, but this is very serious. If one or both of
the zoo wolves is traveling with something like this—
some huge wolf hybrid-—it may explain these attacks."
Gabriel shook his head as if to clear his ears. "A
hybrid1? You think the red hair belongs to a wolf
hybrid?"
Hessel made a fifty-fifty gesture with his hand. "I
can't say for certain, naturally. But the print is too
large for the gray-haired wolf. It had to have been
made by something else, and I would guess it was
whatever left that red hair. It may be a wolf-dog hy-
brid, or a wolf and something else? They couldn't
breed with anything outside the canine family, but per-
haps a coyote or ... No, these are not existing in
Germany. A fox would explain the color but not the
size." He shrugged. "It is probably a wolf-dog hybrid.
But it is large and may be vicious. It may be the
true killer."
Okay. You walked right into this one. Now get your-
self out.
"Wow! All right, I'll tell you what. If you just write
up somethin' for me explainin' your analysis, and sign
it, then I'll take it over to my friend right now and
we'll call the police. I'm sure they'll want to interview
you, so write down your phone number and address."
Hessell looked undecided.
"I really think my friend should be the one to report
it," Gabriel pressed. "If you don't hear from the po-
lice in a few days, you can give them a call. All right?"
And wait for them to son you out from all the cranks
they're no doubt getting.
Hessel agreed. He organized a new stack of forms
and a few pencils under a table lamp and set out to
document his findings in neat, legible handwriting.
And Gabriel waited through it all, staring out the win-
dow at the rain that had begun to fall and thinking,
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
It was the only lead he had, and it was pretty damn
sorry. His instinct told him Klingmann was lying, or
at least not telling the whole truth. What a scoop—
break out the search warrant, Dano.
So he went back to the zoo and scouted out the
closest exit to the administration building. He found
it—a gated exit requiring card access that was only a
few yards away. On the other side of the wrought iron
fence was a parking lot. Gabriel studied the configu-
ration of cars, then went outside the zoo and walked
its tree-lined perimeter. He found the lot. It was em-
ployee parking.
And there he sat, discreetly shielded behind a bush.
Darkness was falling by the time he settled in, and he
was glad to have his coat. The sun had warmed the
day, despite the brief March shower, but the air forgot
Sol's kiss the instant it said good night, like some
heartless and petulant teenage girl, and took on a
frigid bite before the last of the sunset had faded on
the horizon.
He waited several hours in that cold air, and his
discomfort made him crotchety. Probably the man had
left before Gabriel even got here. And even if he did
come out, how could Gabriel follow him if he got in
a car?
But Klingmann did come out, at 7:32 P.M., and he
didn't get into a car. He walked down the footpath to
the road and took a left. He walked right past Gabriel
and his bush, and he didn't even glance in their
direction.
Klingmann descended down into the U-Bahn at the
Thalkirchen station, and Gabriel followed him, trying
to keep behind a group of punkish adolescents. The
zoo official went directly to the platform for the train
heading north. Gabriel stepped into the car just be-
hind the one Klingmann chose when the train arrived.
The man certainly was making this easy. Gabriel
could have been wearing purple sequins and a feather
boa, and the scientist would've been none the wiser.
From the brief glances Gabriel got of his face, he
looked extremely preoccupied.
They both got off at the Marienplatz exit.
The tail was even easier in the crowded downtown
station. Indeed, the challenge was keeping Klingmann
in sight at all with the milling masses moving up and
down the steep escalators. Klingmann headed for the
Dienerstrasse exit and up into the night air. Diener-
strasse ran in a straight shot between the Marien-
platz—ground zero of Munich—and the Residenz, the
palace where the kings and queens of Bavaria once
lived. Gabriel followed him past the closed shops and
the brightly lit kellars on either side of the cobblestone
street. Just before Max Joseph Platz, his target entered
an old stone building with a plain facade. He did not
come back out.
After a bit, Gabriel wandered over to the building
and read the small brass plaque next to the door. It
said DIE KONIGLICH-BAYRISCHE HOFJAGDLOGE. There
were no windows.
Gabriel entered a small coffee shop a few doors
down. He took a seat near the window and decided
to order—he hadn't eaten all day. The bratwurst
came, along with a coffee that was consumed lovingly,
with rhapsodic delight.
He kept an eye on the door.
His dictionary got him as far as Die Koniglich Bay-
erische—it meant "the Royal Bavarian," which he
more or less already knew. It was the kind of descrip-
tive precursor one could see on lots of titles in Mu-
nich. "Royal Bavarian Opera House" and "Royal
Bavarian Museum," for example, not to mention the
infamous "Royal Bavarian House of Schnitzel." But
Hofjagdloge was one of those run-on conglomerates
Germans were wont to invent that made the diction-
ary next to useless.
"It means Royal Bavarian Hunting Lodge," his
waitress informed him after he showed her the words
written on his notepad. He hadn't bothered trying to
pronounce it.
"Really! A huntin' lodge? Are you sure?"
The girl, a pretty thing that was just a little too
gawky and potato-fed and was (in any event) way too
young, smiled at him giddily, a hormonal glint in her
eye.
"Yes. Hunting lodge. It's across the street, yes?"
"That's right." Gabriel gave her an encouraging
smile. "You wouldn't know anythin' about it, would
you?"
The girl looked as though she wished to God that
she did. "No. But sometimes you see someone go in
or come out. Not many people. They never come over
here. It's one of those . . . you know, places with
much money."
"Like a private club?"
The girl nodded, bobbing her head energetically.
"Yes. In Germany there used to be many such clubs—
we call them logen."
"Logenl Like lodges?"
"I think so. Not all for hunting. The logen are for
men, mostly."
"Huh."
The girl's hands trembled a little as she poured him
more coffee, her eyes taking the opportunity to steal
another glance at his chiseled face.
But he'd forgotten her already. He had eyes for
only one thing, and that was the door across the street.
What would a zoo official, not to mention an animal
behaviorist like Klingmann, be doing at a hunting
lodge?
He sighed. There was only one way to find out.
The club's concierge stared at Gabriel with un-
masked horror. "I beg your pardon?"
"Yeah, I saw your sign! Out front!" the American
twanged. "Me 'n' the boys back home were always
out huntin' up some bucks. Boy, I've missed it! I was
hopin' you could maybe squeeze me in on your next
trip. I'd love to take a crack at some of the local
wildlife." Gabriel pointed his index finger and checked
the sight down his arm. Bing, his arm recoiled.
"Sir," came the shuddering response, "this is a pri-
vate establishment."
Gabriel began patting his coat pockets. "What, 're
you talkin' about membership? Hell, I don't mind.
What is it, a couple thou a year? D-marks, that is to
say? You name it, I can write you a check right now."
The concierge's panic deepened. "No, we—"
"Ah-ah\ Munich bank!" Gabriel grinned, wagging
his finger.
The concierge's jowls quivered. "I don't care if it's
underwritten by God Himself, membership here is by
invitation only!"
"So invite me. I don't bite."
"That's not how it works! Now, if you please . . ."
The concierge pointed fiercely toward the front
door, but Gabriel was more interested in the other
side of the room, where dark wood paneling sur-
rounded an archway that led to an equally dark-pan-
eled hall. There was a glimpse of a larger room
beyond, and he heard the low rumble of male voices.
He stalled for time.
"How does it work, then?"
The concierge hrumphed. "This club is for men
from the very best German families." He gave Gabriel
a look that was meant to be withering.
"Is that all? Heck, I'm from a great German
family."
"I seriously doubt it."
"I am! The Ritters, ever heard of 'em? We have
this castle down south? Nice place—Schloss Ritter in
Rittersberg?" Gabriel leaned forward conspiratorially.
"Bet not many of your members have a whole town
named after 'em or a family castle. Am I right?"
Now the man's eyes narrowed, and he stared at Ga-
briel blankly as his ears pinkened. He had a consti-
pated look as though he was certain Gabriel was
putting him on and yet . . . what if he wasn't?
"Xavier?"
Gabriel had been so intrigued by the mental battle
raging on the concierge's face that he hadn't noticed
that they were no longer alone. The voice was deep
and exotically accented. Gabriel found its owner in
the shadow of the archway.
He was a tall man, at least six-two. He was extrava-
gantly handsome with dark hair that curled on the
shoulders of his immaculate gray suit and a strong,
rugged yet boyish face. As he stepped forward, the
breadth of his shoulders and the long, angular lines
they narrowed to struck a chord of envy in the shorter
American. The man's face was curious and not
unfriendly.
Xavier fell over himself trying to apologize; that in-
tent was clear even if the words were indecipherable.
But the man stepped past the concierge, his eyes never
leaving Gabriel's. "Did I hear you mention the
Ritters?"
"Yes."
"Of Rittersberg, Bavaria?"
Gabriel was surprised. Not many people had heard
of the tiny village—it was barely on the map. "Yeah!
Well, it used to be Bavaria. It's Germany now."
The man smiled slightly as though he found this
distinction naive. "You don't sound German, Herr
Ritter."
"I'm not. My grandfather immigrated to the States.
As a matter of fact, he even changed his name. I go
by Knight. Gabriel Knight."
Gabriel reached out a hand, hoping the man was as
friendly as he looked. The man took it.
"Gabriel. Like the angel," the man said, looking
with bemused curiosity into Gabriel's eyes. "My own
name is Baron Friedrich von Glower. Friedrich will
do."
"Thanks," Gabriel said, feeling a rush of victory.
He was definitely in.
"Rittersberg is a beautiful spot." Von Glower put
a hand on Gabriel's back and began to escort him
toward the archway.
"Oh, it's great, what with the Alps right there."
"Yes, magnificent. You do ... hunt, don't you,
Mr. Knight?"
Von Glower paused, as though he wanted no dis-
tractions from the answer. He waited politely, his dark
brown eyes gazing earnestly into Gabriel's.
Gabriel's neck burned. The concierge had been a
lark, a shot in the dark, but there was something about
this man's open stare that made the subterfuge much
more serious. Fortunately, he found he didn't have
to lie.
"Sure, I hunt. You might say it's a family tradition."
He returned von Glower's gaze calmly and without
blinking.
"Very well," said von Glower, breaking into a slow
smile. "Let me introduce you to the others."
Down the hall was a large, high-ceilinged great
room. The carpeting was expensive and old, and the
walls were decked out with enough antlers and glazed
eyes to have made some taxidermist a very rich man.
Gabriel's nervousness resurfaced when he saw
Klingmann. The doctor was engaged in what looked
like an intense and very private conversation with a
blond, arrogant-looking young man. The blonde's
cashmere jacket and Italian loafers bespoke a silver
spoon crammed well and truly down his throat. The
only other occupants of the room were three older
men who were drinking at a long, polished wooden
bar.
"Gentlemen!" von Glower said as they entered. All
eyes turned their way. "I'd like to introduce Herr
Knight, a hunting enthusiast from America. I've in-
vited him to join us for a while. How long are you in
Munich, Herr Knight?"
"Just a couple of weeks."
Von Glower turned back to the others. "Then, for
a few weeks Herr Knight will be my guest, so let me
introduce you. By the fireplace is Baron von Zell."
Von Zell, the blonde that had been speaking to
Klingmann, was scowling irritably at von Glower as
if wondering why the hell he would bring in such a
ragamuffin. He gave Gabriel a begrudging nod.
"And Doktor Klingmann . . ."
Klingmann had an expression of befuddlement that
was about to become suspicion. Gabriel rushed into
the void.
"Wow, this is amazin'!" he gushed. "I'm doin' some
research for a novel while I'm in town, and I met Dr.
Klingmann at the zoo. I guess we have more in com-
mon than we thought, hey, Doktor?"
The words fell like lead on the room, and Gabriel
could feel his fair skin reddening, an obvious betrayal
of the smile plastered on his face.
"Yes, quite a coincidence," Klingmann said, frown-
ing. He appeared to be about to say more, but he cast
a surreptitious glance at von Zell and closed his
mouth.
Gabriel had hoped the missing wolves screw-up at
the zoo wasn't something Klingmann would want to
bring up in front of this crowd. It looked like he
was right.
"A novelist too? How interesting," von Glower
said, breaking the awkward pause. "Over by the bar,
the large one is Herr von Aigner ..."
Von Glower was being polite; Von Aigner was both
tall and enormously fat. He raised a glass cheerfully
in Gabriel's direction.
"Prost!"
"... Herr Hennemann ..."
A smaller gray-haired man waved his hand. "Guten
Abend, Herr Knight."
"English, please, Hennemann!" von Glower cajoled.
He turned to Gabriel, "Or am I underestimating
you?"
" 'Fraid not," Gabriel said sheepishly.
"What about me?" said the third and final man at
the bar. He'd been staring at Gabriel since he and von
Glower walked in. There was a predatory look in his
eye that Gabriel didn't quite know what to make of.
The man sauntered over.
"This is our own Herr Preiss," von Glower said.
Preiss crossed the room and stopped uncomfortably
close to Gabriel He was an odd mix of brutishness
and style, like a boxer in a tuxedo. He had a patterned
velvet evening coat on, and there was nothing at all
on his head except for a healthy glow. His face was
fleshy with broad, enlarged features that looked al-
most swollen. Preiss reached for and took Gabriel's
hand, pressing it warmly between his own.
"A pleasure, Herr Knight," Preiss rumbled in a low,
liquid rush.
For an insane moment Gabriel was sure Preiss was
going to kiss his hand. He snuck a glance at von
Glower, more to escape Preiss's gaze than anything
else. Von Glower looked amused. He dropped a
graceful hand on Preiss's shoulders.
"Thank you for being so friendly, Preiss," von
Glower said in a low, laughing voice.
Preiss reluctantly let go and strolled back to the bar.
"I'm, uh, real happy to meet all of you," Gabriel
managed.
"Then have a drink!" von Aigner bellowed. Henne-
mann nodded lollingly. Gabriel realized they were
both drunk off their asses.
"Good idea!" Von Glower placed his hand once
again at Gabriel's back, urging him toward the bar.
"We have beer on tap, or wine if you prefer."
"Anythin's fine, Baron."
"Friedrich."
"Friedrich. Anythin's fine."
Yes, anything, anything, anything at all. Gabriel had
the feeling it was going to be a very long night.
What the hell had he gotten himself into this time?
Chapter 2
St. George's Books
New Orleans
"Mom, I'm not a salesclerk." As usual when talking
to her mother, the New York edge on Grace Naki-
mura's voice was exaggerated into a nasal whine.
A man walked up to the counter with a Dorothy
Parker paperback. Grace punched in the numbers on
the register.
"That'll be $6.20," she whispered, covering up the
phone. He fished in his pockets.
"Mom, I have looked into it—registration closes at
the end of next month. Okay, the fifteenth, how did
you ... ?"
She gave the man his change and managed a smile
before he walked away. With her mother squawking
in her ear, smiling posed the same technical challenge
as rubbing your stomach and patting your head at the
same time.
"Mom, I'm not ruining my life, and I don't care
if Mark Kobayashi's gotten engaged—you liked him,
not me."
A middle-aged woman came to the counter. That
she was a middle-aged woman was evident from her
hands and her swinging purse; her face was hidden
behind a stack of The Voodoo Murders hardbacks.
"I gotta go, I'll call you later," Grace insisted. "I
gotta go.
"Sorry," she said to the woman as she hung up. The
stack of books had been delicately balanced on the
counter, and now the woman's enthusiastic round face
was visible.
"I'm a huge Blake Backlash fan," the woman admit-
ted with a giggle.
"I never would have guessed."
"Oh, these are for my friends. I've already read it
three times!"
"Won't your friends be thrilled!" Grace managed
to keep the sarcasm from her tone.
"I hope so. Mr. Knight has quite a way with words,
and I just love the character—Blake? He's so mascu-
line, so take-charge!" The woman's face glowed.
"That's the miracle of fiction."
"I'm sorry?"
"I mean, they don't make men like that anymore."
Grace tried not to sound relieved.
"Don't I know it!" the woman agreed with a de-
meanor of sisterly bonding. "That scene in chapter
twenty with his sidekick, Fujitsu? The way he swept
her off her feet and carried her to his bedroom? I
thought I would just die! Just lay down and die!"
"I had exactly the same reaction," said Grace, red-
dening. "That'll be $123.21."
"But then, Mr. Knight himself is pretty cute, isn't
he? At least his picture." The woman ripped off her
check and handed it to Grace. "I read in the Picayune
review that he, um, owns this bookstore?"
The hope in the woman's voice was painful.
"He does, but he hasn't been here in months. I'm
sorry." Grace dug up a sympathetic smile.
"That's all right. I didn't really expect to ... you
know." The woman got very flustered. She took her
purchases and left.
Something about the encounter made Grace
upset, or perhaps it was a residue from the phone
call with her mother. She looked at the clock, but it
was still hours from lunchtime. She decided to go
back into the studio and check the answering ma-
chine. It used to be the first thing she did every
morning, but there were never any messages on it
and she'd gradually stopped expecting there to be.
But checking it was still a distraction she allowed
herself several times a day, and at the moment she
needed one.
It turned out to be more of a distraction than she'd
bargained for. The little box blinked its indication of
a message, an event so rare as to deserve an entry on
the astronomical calendar. Grace hit the button, glad
for once that the shop was empty. Gabriel's voice
came on.
"Hey, Gracie. Um, somethin's come up. It might be
a new case, but I'm not sure yet. I'm on location so,
um, don't bother tryin' to reach me at the castle. I'll
call you if this thing looks like it's goin' anywhere.
Okay? Until we know for sure, Gerde can handle any
research I need. We'll talk about the shop just as soon
as I get back to Rittersberg. I promise. Give my love
to Gran."
Click.
Grace replayed the message. Then she replayed it
again.
For a long, suspended moment there was nothing
but incredulity. When that faded, what remained was
not what she would have expected of herself—anger
and indignation at being left out of a potential case,
at being replaced as research assistant by Gerde, the
alleged housekeeper of Schloss Ritter. Those emotions
would come, but they would be aftershocks, not her
immediate, gut reaction. Her gut reaction was a wave
of certainty and direction as unquestionable as her
own name.
It was time to go to Germany.
Schloss Ritter
Rittersberg, Bavaria
By the time Grace landed in Munich, she'd had time
to digest the voice message fully—the message and,
along with it, every remotely feasible implication and
subtext a human mind could possibly come up with in
response to the words left on the recorder. The words,
and her own fairly ripe experience of Mr. Knight, hair
gel and all.
The pretty twenty-seven-year-old had inherited this
unique capacity, this paranoia-tilted well of imagina-
tion, from her Japanese mother. It went with her cur-
rent, long-suffering situation with Knight the way that
nitroglycerine went with gunpowder.
So that by the time the door of Schloss Ritter
opened in response to her knock, and the tall, blond,
and attractive (if somewhat severe) figure of Gerde
came into view, the sight was received as the final
confirmation of what was already a foregone conclu-
sion—that Gerde was stoking more than the castle's
furnace. There was no way a womanizer like Gabriel
could spend a winter alone with such a woman and
not try something, and to Gerde, surely the handsome
young family heir was a dream come true?
"Is Gabriel here?" Grace asked tersely, not even
trusting his message on that regard.
"No, he's away on business. You must be Grace."
Gerde held out her hand, a surprised but welcoming
smile on her face.
Grace accepted neither the hand nor the smile, pick-
ing up her luggage to avoid the former. "May I come
in? I can get a room in the village if that's not
acceptable."
Gerde cocked her head to one side and studied
Grace with confusion.
"Of course you can stay here," she said slowly. She
reached over and took one of Grace's bags, leading
the way inside.
"It's one of the few comfortable bedrooms," Gerde
explained as she switched on the light in Gabriel's
room. "We're still making repairs. There's a fireplace
in here, and it gets very cold at night."
Grace looked around the room. She'd had a hard
time imagining Schloss Ritter. To suddenly be here
was very surreal.
"Don't worry," Gerde said with a smile when
Grace's eyes fixed on the bed. "I just changed the
sheets."
Grace tried not to scream. She took her suitcase
over to the bed and opened it.
"You must be tired. Did you—did you have a bad
flight?" Gerde asked, pausing at the door.
"No," Grace said stiffly. "Where is Gabriel, by
the way?"
"He's on a case."
Grace felt her face burn. A case. The louse. She
stole a glance at Gerde and thought the blonde looked
pleased with herself. Probably she was feeling trium-
phant about having booted Grace so easily out of
the way.
She closed her suitcase and sat on the bed.
"Where?"
Gerde hesitated. "North of here."
"Really? Do you have an address and phone
number?"
Gerde looked extremely uncomfortable. "I'm sorry,
but I don't think it's my place to talk about Gabriel's
case with you. When he calls, he can tell you himself."
Grace nodded, her temper rising. "His message
mentioned research for the case."
"He gave you instructions, then?" Gerde sounded
relieved.
Grace could just kill her. "Actually, he mentioned
that you would be doing some research."
"Oh. Yes, I suppose he did ask me to check the
library."
"For what?"
Gerde sighed and gripped the handle of the door.
"Grace, this is between Gabriel and the people who
needed his help. I'm very sorry."
Grace sucked in her cheeks and glared at the
blonde.
"Would you maybe like some dinner before you go
to sleep? Or some coffee?" Gerde offered.
Grace declined. She went to bed with a repast of
hot, frustrated tears instead.
The morning brought relief. Grace awoke to the sun
shining in the window. When she sat up in bed, the
full panorama of the snow-peaked Alps came into
view. The window had been left slightly ajar in the
night, and the air was brisk and as rich as newly
milked cream. She was in Germany at last, and it was
a beautiful day! How bad could things be?
She dressed and went downstairs, a renewed sense
of purpose cheering her. She gave a curt good morning
to Gerde, who was seated in the front hall surrounded
by what looked like remodeling plans, and grabbed
her coat. Without further conversation, she slipped out
to explore Rittersberg.
The town dated from the 1200s. An old stone wall
surrounded the heart of it, forming curious and beguil-
ing archways and secret passages. On the main square
the Rathaus and its glockenspiel were bursting with
the kind of charm Disney spent a fortune replicating.
And across from the square was a perfect little church
with a stone pathway and a bell tower. She walked
the village byways several times, past houses with Ba-
varian murals painted on the white stucco walls, a tiny
grocery shop, and an equally small school. She greeted
everyone she saw, delighting in practicing the German
greetings she'd been studying. Then, when her hunger
became insistent, she headed for the gasthof on the
main square.
The interior of the Goldener Lowe was all lac-
quered pine and ceiling beams. One old gentleman
was the only person in attendance, and he brought
fruhstiick—breakfast—consisting of coffee, a hard-
boiled egg, and a plate of rolls and meats. It was not
exactly what Grace was used to eating this early, but
it tasted great after the fresh air.
"Are you on your way to Austria?" Werner asked
as he refilled her cup.
"No. I'm staying at the castle."
Werner raised a fuzzy gray eyebrow. "You are?"
"Yes," Grace said around her toast. "I'm a friend
of Gabriel Knight's. Do you know him?"
Werner nodded grimly. "I know him. My niece,
Gerde, she works at the castle. You have met Gerde?"
"Oh, yes," Grace said neutrally. It occurred to her
that Werner might know something. She looked
around, but there was no one else in the pub. She
spoke confidentially. "I'm Grace Nakimura, Gabriel's
research assistant. I came to help out on his new
case."
The spark of interest in Werner's eyes grew. "Ah,
so! Good for you."
"I didn't catch your name."
"Werner Huber."
"What do you think about this case, Herr Huber?"
Grace asked, giving him a concerned smile.
Werner put the coffeepot on the table and sat down
on the bench across from her. He leaned his large,
weathered arms on the planks and spoke in a low
voice.
"It was I who brought him the case. For our cousin.
Poor Sepp!"
Grace's pulse quickened. "Really?"
"Ja."
"And . . . do, um, do you think the case will be a
difficult one?"
Werner glowered ominously. "Oh, yes! Very bad, I
think. There have already been many deaths."
Grace's stomach did a slow roll. She had a very
visceral, very vivid recollection of the moments of
sheer terror she'd had over the Voodoo murders in
New Orleans. The idea that Gabriel actually was on
a new case, a real case, struck home for the first
time.
"What's he up against?" she asked, edging forward
in her chair.
Werner shrugged enigmatically. "It may be one. It
may be more than one. It's very smart, I can tell you
that." He tapped his temple.
Grace shook her head, confused. "More than
one . . . what?"
Werner sat back, a look of vague suspicion dawning.
"Um, Gabriel called me and told me to get here,
pronto," Grace explained quickly. "I just flew in
last night, and I haven't had a chance to speak to
him yet."
Werner considered this and seemed to find it rea-
sonable—or maybe the old man just couldn't resist the
temptation to talk about it. In any case, he hunched
forward, his light gray eyes filled with conspiratorial
grimness.
"Werewolf," he whispered.
Grace's jaw ended up somewhere around her
breastbone. She didn't have the first idea what to
make of it—whether to laugh or scream. She didn't
know what she'd expected, but this was not it. Her
expression was fuel to Werner's fire. He filled Grace
in on the story of Toni Huber, embellishing it
considerably.
"Oh, my God," Grace said when he was done. "Oh,
my God."
"Yes, you see? Very dangerous. We had a werewolf
right here in Rittersberg many years ago. People still
talk about it. It was a devil—pure evil."
Werner's long face was pulled into a grimace, and
he nodded knowingly as if he were keeper of some
dark secret.
"You had a werewolf! Here? When was that?"
"Long ago. I heard stories about it when I was a
child."
Grace sat silent for a moment, her mind racing. "If
he ... if Gabriel took the case for your cousin, you
probably know where he is."
Werner nodded solemnly. Grace felt a sense of re-
lief flush her. "Well . . . where?"
Werner looked at her oddly, as if considering, then
shook his great, gray-bearded head. "Ate. If he wants
you to know, he must tell you himself. When it comes
to matters of good and evil, one must be careful, you
see? I have maybe said too much as it is."
Werner got up and went back to his duties. It was
the first time Grace noticed the family resemblance
between the old man and his niece. She took another
bite of toast and chewed determinedly.
Grace looked from room to room back at the cas-
tle—those not boarded over or nailed shut—and fi-
nally located the Schattenjager library near Gabriel's
bedroom. Gerde was in it, scanning the shelves. She
flushed a bit when Grace entered.
"You reminded me that I had some things to do
for Gabriel," Gerde said, trying to sound pleasant.
Grace tossed down her purse and headed to the
shelves. Just one glance at the old volumes got her
excitement flowing, even if Gerde's presence damp-
ened the moment.
"Stuff on werewolves, I know," Grace said with
a hint of satisfaction. "What did you find?" She
spied a small stack of books accumulating on the
table. She went over and picked up the top one. It
looked ancient. The cover said Werewolfs: An In-
quisitor's Gyde.
"Grace . . ." Gerde began firmly, "I know you will
get angry again, but I'm afraid the Schattenjager li-
brary is off limits to anyone but—"
Grace lost it. Her candle of restraint had burned to
the quick with all of this nonsense. She slammed the
book down on the desk and turned, fury in her eyes.
"No way. You can't be serious."
Gerde recoiled a little but held firm. "I know it
must be difficult for you to understand traditions
like—"
"No, you don't understand," Grace interrupted,
her voice rising. "I've got a master's degree, and
I've been tending a stupid bookshop for Gabriel for
over a year, waiting for a case to come up. So I
don't care what your personal issues are, Ms. Hull!
I don't care if you're sleeping with him, I don't care
if you want to play Queen of the Castle, I don't
care if you think women shouldn't mess with the
manly business of being a Schattenjager, I just don't
care! I'm working on this case, because I'm due.
And I'm not going to sit around and watch someone
else take what I've earned just because he ... just
because . . ."
She stopped. Something inside her could not bear
to voice the words, as if reluctant to subject her own
ears to them. And then there was the look on Gerde's
face. The blonde, the much larger of the two, stood
there as though she'd been slapped. Tears defied grav-
ity on the edge of her lashes.
"Fine. Do whatever you wish," she said in a quiet
voice. She turned and marched from the room, shut-
ting the library door softly behind her.
Grace took a long, quavering breath. "Shit." She
had the bitter aftertaste of a nasty blow-up, an inward
wincing at her own actions. She'd meant what she'd
said, at least the part about the work, but the delivery
had been brutally raw.
Well, it was done now, and she couldn't take it back.
And if she'd made her point and could now work in
peace, perhaps it was for the best.
Werewolfs: An Inquisitor's Gyde
There are two kindes of werewolfs the Inquisitor
may confronte in his doutes: the firste is the "false"
werewolf, and the seconde is the "true" werewolf. The
false werewolf is a man or womman who cannot
chaunge his or her forme, but whose bedeveled minde
beleves otherwise. The false werewolf may run
nayked in the night, and may een kille and ayt hu-
mankinde, alle the while convynced that he or she is
a wolf. In these cases, the Inquisitor wil finde no evy-
dence of an animal in fact or in witnesses, and the
bodyes may also be shewn to baar the markes of
human attack only, howere wilde.
The cause of the false werewolf is possessyn by an
evyl spirit. Contact with the devel may also had ben
made, for the devel can cause swich delusyns and can
so use a sinner for his owne mordrous purpose. In
swich cases, the Inquisitor is fortunayt, for the toun-
folke may alredy know who is the werewolf. Swich
behavyr is impossyble to hyde.
It is muche haarder with true werewolfs. A true
werewolf shyfts forme from human to wolf and back
agayn. Swich creatyres can hunte their victyms with
human kunning and animal ferocyte. They can be
haarde to finde, for unlike the false werewolfs ther
minde is sane and ther behavyr is otherwyse normal.
In severyl cases, swich a creatyre has killed for many
yeers without captyre. Indeed, swich crimes as these
creatyres commit might een be blamed on a reel wolf
and nere be solved, more so if the werewolf moves
from toun to toun.
These thyngs nan ben set doun by Inquisitors who
han faced swich beasties:
The true werewolf may shyft forme at wil, but the
Chaunge may be forced upon them by certeyn sounds
swich as the howling of a wolf or the presence of a
ful moon.
A true werewolf ne dooth grow old. Aske the toun-
folk about kinsmen and neigheboures who staye
yonge.
A true werewolf heels swiftly when wounded. One
werewolf in Lyons loost a paw in a trape lyd for
him. The paw chaunged to a foote, but when the
Inquisitor wente to the werewolf's hoose, though
there was freshe blood on the floor and a pyle of
bloody linens under the hoose, the man himself was
ne wounded. Where the paw han ben rypped away
was a foote, pure and whyte and softe like newe
skin, and ne matchyng the age and waar of the
older foote.
A true werewolf can be killed only be destroying
his or her brayn or herte. Also, death by elementales:
Fire, Earth, Water, Ayr, is sayd to be effectyf. Alle
executyns sholde ende with removing the brayn and
herte from the body or burning the body as precautyns
agaynst the werewolf s returne.
A true werewolf is one of the moste mysteryes and
cursed creatyres of darkness. The curse is a curse of
the blood, and in swich creatyres the blood is tainted.
The true werewolf is fashyned in these maneres:
If a man or womman be borne to a true werewolf,
they han the tainted blood.
If a man or womman be byten by a true werewolf
and lyve, they han the tainted blood.
If a man or womman be cursed by one with the
power to lay swich evyl, their blood becomes tainted.
If a witche or a sorcerer makes swich concoctyns as
can force the Chaunge, or gaynes a magikal wolfskin,
salve, or belte from the devel, they can effeck the
Chaunge without the tainted blood at firste. But with
muche use the Chaunge wil infecte the blood til the
witche or sorcerer becomes controlled by the Curse
and the Curse becomes irreversyble.
Werewolf packes
A true werewolf han it in his wolf nature to desyre
a packe. In this manere mighte a clever Inquisitor
spote his werewolf. Looke for those who lyv in unnat-
ural groupes. When swich a packe is formed, the firste
werewolf, he or she with the blood tainted through
byrth, curse, or sorcery, is the Alpha werewolf. The
others who are converted by the Alpha werewolf's
byte are called Beta werewolfs after the Greek fashyn.
There is usually only one Alpha werewolf, but there
may be many Beta werewolfs in a packe. A Beta were-
wolf is easyr to detect than an Alpha, for many Betas
go madd from the blood. Looke for increysed aggres-
syn, unprovoked rage, sleeplessness, and chaunges in
physikal appeyrance.
A victym who is byten by a true werewolf for this
purpoose—for the purpoose of making a Beta were-
wolf—is doomed to the werewolf curse unless they,
by some actyn of their own hande or minde, cause the
destructyn of the Alpha werewolf. They are by swich
a meyns cured and the tainte lifted. In contraryness,
if a Beta is haarmed the Alpha shal suffer pangs by
the power of blood sympathee, but if the Alpha com-
mit the haarm the suffering shal be one for one. For
swich raysons an Alpha wil ne haarm a Beta of its
owne making with its owne hande.
Alle creatyres who dye with the tainted blood are
doomed to Helle with the rest of the devel's minyns.
But for swich a victym that becomes a true werewolf
through no act of his or her owne, their soule may
remayn in Purgatory if they han committed no grie-
vyse sin—that is, if they han ne taken human lyf or
ayten of human flessh or blood. Even for swich a one
as this, they can in no way enter Heven with the curse
on their soule.
Grace was putting the book down when something
slipped inside the cover and a trace of cream peeked
out. She carefully opened the back of the book and
saw an envelope with a red seal.
The envelope looked old, but not as old as the book
itself. It was addressed to Konig Ludwig II vom Ba-
varia and was dated March 4, 1864.
She had to break the seal to open it. The letter was
written in German, but between her own studies and
her dictionary she was able to get a rough translation
together quickly, for it was a short and pointed
missive.
To the benevolent and beloved King of Bavaria:
I have had the honor of meeting your highness only
twice, but you may depend upon me as your most
loyal subject and one who holds your life more dearly
than his own. It is my profession to seek out certain
kinds of criminal behavior, and I am currently on an
investigation which I fear comes too close to Your
Highness. I am investigating the one who calls himself
"the Black Wolf," and I have learned that he is ex-
tremely dangerous for reasons which I cannot fully
express to you by such means as this letter. Please, 1
beg you, do not see this man alone and guard your
person at all times with the highest diligence. I hope
to finish my proofs soon, and then I will be happy to
explain everything to you. In the meantime, take this
as a most serious warning from one who loves you.
Your servant, Baron Christian von Ritter of Ritters-
berg, Bavaria
"The Black Wolf?" Grace mused, her curiosity
pushing all thoughts of Gerde or, indeed, of anything
else from her head. "It must have been a werewolf
case, or why would the letter be in this book?"
She'd seen a chapel on the first floor, and now
she returned to it, drawn by a large Bible she'd
glimpsed on the altar. The Bible, old and heavy,
did indeed contain a family history scribbled among
the branches of an illuminated tree. Christian von
Ritter was born in 1820, ordained as Schattenjager
in 1838 and died . . . March 4, 1864—-the exact date
on the letter! According to the log, he broke his
neck in a fall from his horse. He was succeeded by
his son, Stephan, who was not ordained for two
years, being only been sixteen at the time of his
father's death.
So it was likely that Christian's investigation had
died with him. Had Christian been riding off to deliver
the letter when he had his fatal fall? To track the
Black Wolf? In any case, the letter to the king had
obviously never been sent, for its seal was intact and,
well, it was still here.
Grace returned to the library and located the jour-
nals of the Schattenjdgers in a glass-enclosed bookcase.
Some of the older journals were fragile, falling apart.
She had a deep urge to begin cataloguing this treasure
trove, to get a computer in here and begin typing be-
fore all of this history was lost to disintegration. But
that would have to wait.
Christian von Ritter's journal was easily found by
the dates written on the spine: 1838-1864. Curiously,
as with the journal of Gunter Ritter that Werner had
sent to New Orleans, the handwritten entries were in
English. Could the family have originated in the
Green Isles? Their patron saint, St. George, was En-
gland's own. Such a history was undoubtedly in these
journals somewhere, but she'd have to take one mys-
tery at a time.
3 January, 1883. I am now in Prussia. The beast that
brought me here has so far bested me. He is secretive
and skillful. He has much self-control, unlike what I'd
been led to expect. He seems to know almost before
I do where and when I will be stalking him. He turns
up his nose at my lures. Three more disappearances
have occurred, and I'm no closer to learning his iden-
tity or finding his lair. I can't even prove he took them.
Not a single corpse has been found.
And the last entry.
3 March, 1864. I have had a break at last. The key
was in front of me all the time. The Black Wolf, he
so daringly calls himself, for all to hear and none to
truly see. It is worse than I could ever have suspected.
He is not just a beast, but a monster! His jaws are
already around some of the best throats in Europe. I
am so very fearful. I return to Rittersberg tonight. I
must warn those in danger and get someone to assist
me. I dare not attempt to take him alone.
Grace checked the journal of Stefan von Ritter,
Christian's son, but there was only a brief mention
that he had not been able to follow his father's trail,
and that he thought that the suspect in question had
long since left the area.
So what had happened to King Ludwig II? Al-
though a history major, Grace's specialty had never
been European monarchy. Still, she knew vaguely
who the man was. He was a Wittelsbach and, as the
date on the letter reminded her, he was probably
one of the last Wittelsbach monarchs. The Prussian
kaisers took over when the common German coun-
try was formed.
Did the Black Wolf have anything to do with the
downfall of the Wittelsbachs? Did this story have any
bearing on Gabriel's case at all? Grace sighed. Proba-
bly not.
She began to go through the other journals care-
fully, pulling each out gingerly and leafing through
them. It was time-consuming and tedious, and she had
to keep stopping herself from getting interested in en-
tries that obviously were not about werewolves.
She was about to take a break when she found
something. It was in a journal dated 1720-1753.
20 April, 1750
Numerous deaths at the hands of a marauding wolf
being recorded in a neighboring county, I set out to
see if I could determine the cause. There had been
rumors of a werewolf, and the dark signs did indeed
seem to be present.
The deaths had all occurred within a forty-kilometer
range of woods, and at the heart was the village of
Alfing. My assistant and I set a trap a short distance
from the village. Though the beast had shewn a pro-
pensity for human flesh, livestock has also been taken.
and it was a newling lamb we loosed in the thicket as
a lure.
We awaited downwind. For two nights the lamb
bleated to no purpose, and once we had to fend off a
hungry fox. On the third night the beast himself took
the bait. I might have missed him, for the night was
so dark and the wolf itself was black, but my son saw
the light of its eyes and I heard the lamb's cries turn
fearful.
It had the poor dumb lamb by the throat when we
sprang. It was swift and might have escaped, but its
fatal mistake was to attack rather than run. My dagger
struck through its chest and into its right lung.
As I had agreed, we bound the wolf and tied shut
his jaws. We brought it home to Rittersberg, still
breathing. It was turned over to the magistrate.
I pray for the man's unfortunate soul. May the law
be swift and merciful. God be praised for aiding his
servant. From his hand came the strength and the wis-
dom to end the killing.
Victor von Ritter, Schattenjager.
The Rittersberg Rathaus had a quaint old interior
with a weathered counter and lots of wooden chairs
lined up as though they were expecting a crowd. This
seemed a tad optimistic, particularly since an older
gentleman and a woman at a decrepit typewriter were
the only signs of life. The man came over immediately
and introduced himself as the town mayor, Herr Ha-
bermas. Grace gave him the same story she'd given
Herr Huber at the gasthof, and as soon as he realized
she was an American, he superceded her faltering
German with heavily accented English.
"Herr Huber mentioned a werewolf in Rittersberg
many years ago," she told him, "and I found a men-
tion of it in the Schattenjager archives. I was
hoping ... do you keep old town records here?"
Habermas was a pleasant-faced, plump man with
magnificently groomed white hair in a pompadoured
style. He smiled proudly, revealing stained teeth.
"Miss Nakimura, our archives are some of the best in
Germany. We were too small to be bombed in the
war, and Rittersberg has been very careful about mak-
ing records. Some records date back to 1223, when
the town was founded."
Grace's eyes shone with anticipation. "Would you
check the archives for me, then? The Schattenjager
journal mentioned a trial for the werewolf with a date
of April 1750."
Habermas wrote it down and disappeared through
an archway in the rear. The woman at the typewriter
turned and gave Grace a rosy smile from a plain, large
face. Grace couldn't help but smile back.
When Habermas returned, he was carrying a file.
"What do you think I did?" he asked.
"You found it?"
"I found it!" he beamed.
"What's it say?" Grace leaned over the counter ea-
gerly, but the scrawled German was indecipherable.
"20 April, siebzehn hundert funfzig. A werewolf was
brought to town by the Schattenjager. It was put in
the dungeon . . . There was a trial three days later.
The werewolf, by the name of Baron Claus von Ralick
of Alfing, was executed here, in the town square."
"Baron Claus von Ralick? How'd they know? I
mean, it was a wolf when the Schattenjager brought it
in, right?"
Habermas turned back a few pages. "Ja, Fraulein.
It says a large black wolf was brought to town and
put in the dungeon . . . Oh! Here. The morning after
the wolf was brought to town, they found a man in
the cell. How interesting!"
"Wow. But how'd they figure out his name?"
Habermas looked through the notes and shook his
head. "It is not written. Maybe someone knew the
man or maybe he told them his name. He would have
been . . . questioned most strongly."
Habermas gave Grace a knowing look, but she
didn't notice. She was thinking it through. "How'd
they execute him?"
"It says his head was cut off; then he was, uh, cut
into four pieces; then they burned him at the stake."
"All three?" Grace's face scrunched in disgust.
Habermas smiled sympathetically. "In that time
people believed in evil. Not like now. Such a thing as
this beast . . . they would take no chances."
"He couldn't have escaped, then," Grace muttered
to herself.
"Oh, no! Not his family either."
Grace looked up sharply. "What about his family?"
"Did I not say? It was written down. ..." He turned
pages. "Here it is. The day the werewolf changed back
into a man, a group of villagers was sent to Airing,
his hometown."
"To do what?"
Habermas blinked his large watery blue eyes as if
befuddled at her question. "Miss, his wife and children
would have been burned alive also. People believed
that such a thing ran in the blood."
"Oh." Grace tried to dismiss the ghastly images that
came into her head. "Uh, thanks very much for your
help, Herr Habermas."
Habermas closed the file. "Kein problem, Fraulein.
Do you want to see the dungeon also?"
"The dungeon? The one von Ralick was in?"
"Ja. It is just beneath our feet. Downstairs."
The door that accessed the staircase was on the cen-
tral courtyard, separated from the public spaces of the
Rathaus. They descended down into a dank stone cor-
ridor. There was only one cell, and its door was made
of massive old wood.
Herr Habermas brought out a set of keys. He had
to unlock a padlock, then lift a heavy iron bar. They
went inside.
The room was made of stone, and it had a chill that
nipped at Grace's bones. The only window was small
and high up on the wall. It was open to the air but
closed to escape by means of vertical bars. The morn-
ing air was cool, but the room itself was colder still.
It was completely empty.
Grace stood quietly, taking in the place. She knew
it was her imagination, but she sensed something tan-
gible in the room, something wild, something enraged,
something panicky.
"Von Ralick wouldn't have wanted to change
back," she said, surprised at the clarity of this thought.
"Wie bitte?" Habermas asked, confused.
She walked around the room slowly. She could pic-
ture the beast here, that odd feeling she often got at
historical sites. It was pure fantasy, yet sometimes it
offered interesting insights. "They put the creature in
here. They were waiting for it to change back. If it
hadn't, they probably would have decided it was just
a wolf. Maybe shot it."
Habermas was watching her curiously.
"If he changed back, it was probably because he
didn't have a choice." Grace turned to look at her
companion. "I wouldn't have wanted to change.
Would you?"
"I don't know."
"Especially if he knew . . . He would have known,
wouldn't he? That they'd go after his family once he
was recognized?"
"If he was a baron, he would know the law well
enough."
"Hmmm . . ." Grace went over to the window and
looked out. Across the square a bit of the church
was visible.
"What would his last few days have been like?
Would he have seen a priest?"
"Probably. There would be a last meal also."
"And the execution took place where?"
The mayor came to the window and pointed. "In
the center of the square, there. You see?"
Grace's dark eyes stared out, narrowing. "He would
have seen them preparing for it."
"Ja, Fraulein."
Whoosh. Thwack! She could almost see the practice
swings of the axman. She lowered herself from her
tiptoes and suddenly felt claustrophobic.
"Can we go now?"
Habermas must have seen something on her face,
for he helped her out with an urgency he had not yet
displayed. By the time they reached the courtyard,
Grace was on the verge of either vomiting or passing
out. She sat down on the steps until the fresh air and
sunlight banished the heebie-jeebies.
The church was called St. Georg's. Of course, Grace
thought, after the patron saint of the Schattenjagers.
But if St. George was the patron saint of the Schat-
tenjagers, it was clear that the Schattenjagers were pa-
tron saints of the town. On the front of the church
was a plaque noting that Martin Ritter had erected
the church in 1231. And just inside the doorway a
staircase led downward. A small sign said gruft—crypt.
Although she was hardly anxious to visit another
underground hole, she couldn't resist the temptation
to descend the stairway. Fortunately, the area beneath
the church was not a small, dank space. Quite the
opposite. Below the main nave was a secondary,
smaller chapel with pews and stones in the floors
marking the burial places of the townsfolk. There were
Ritters here along with other town names. But those
buried beneath the chapel floor were all women or
Ritters who had died young. The dates were amazing:
Johann Ritter, beloved son, 1633-1636, Halla Ritters-
berg, wife and mother, 1582-1617. Some were not legi-
ble at all, worn smooth with centuries of footsteps.
Beyond the chapel she found the Schattenjagers
themselves. They were in a long, broad hall made of
stone, but well lit, with casement windows lining the
upper spaces of the walls and modern lights aiding
the balance against the shadows. And here were stone
sarcophagi, row upon row, some ancient, some newer,
all with coffin-shaped boxes four feet high, and on top
of them were knights in full armor carved in stone,
each holding a sword.
The names were carved below the knights: Claus
Ritter, Michael Ritter, Johann Ritter, Hans Ritter, Wolf-
gang Ritter . . .
Grace paused at the last, a pure white sarcophagus.
Yes, it did look new, and there was a bouquet of
wildflowers on the casket that was only a few days
old. Her eyes searched for a date. . . . Died 1993. It
was Gabriel's great-uncle.
She reached out a hand slowly and touched the
hand of the stone knight.
"Guten Morgan, Fraulein."
Grace turned to see a priest approaching her with
a warm smile. "Are you interested in our history?"
he asked in German.
"Yes," she answered in kind. "Very much."
"What can I help you with?"
It took Grace a few minutes to communicate the
request—her vocabulary was limited and her pronun-
ciation was not always on track. It took her even
longer to persuade the priest that he would not be
violating some divine guideline by complying. The rec-
ords were very old, Grace argued, and the interested
parties long dead. Father Getz agreed to go look to
see if there even was such a record, probably because,
Grace thought, it was a bit silly to argue over some-
thing that might not exist.
He led Grace upstairs to his office. He planted her
in the chair at his desk and disappeared again. When
he returned, he had a file in his hands. He did not
resume their argument about the sanctity of confes-
sion, to Grace's surprise. He only put the file on the
desk, gave her an unreadable look, and left.
Grace opened the file eagerly. It contained the notes
of a Father Beidermann outlining the last confession
of "Baron Claus von Ralick, a convicted werewolf."
Using her pocket dictionary, she worked out a
translation.
The von Ralick family crest has long (featured?) the
image of a black wolf, for the family prided itself on
its skill in the hunt and on physical strength and speed.
Claus von Ralick admits that he was reckless in his
youth—a "devil"—and that he lived up to the crest
so well that he gained the (nickname?) "the Black
Wolf" from his friends. He had a terrible temper,
loved violence and fighting, and was particularly vio-
lent with women. As caretaker of his family's lands,
he felt that the women on it were his property, and
he took many against their will. His (demeanor/atti-
tude?) as he spoke of these things showed great
remorse.
One day a party of gypsies camped on his land. He
rode out with his men to (oust?) them, and he saw a
young girl who was very beautiful. He kidnapped her
against the pleas of her family and took her back to
his estate. The girl committed suicide that very night
by jumping from his bedroom window down to the
yard, where the dogs were out.
The next day, an old gypsy woman came to the
house and demanded to see him. She cursed him, say-
ing that his heart was so foul and (bestial?) that he
had earned the form of a beast as well. At the time
he laughed with his men and had the woman thrown
out. But less than a month later, the curse came true—
he began changing into a wolf in the night. He has
lived with the curse ever since, often killing humans,
particularly children, and eating their flesh.
He begs God's mercy for his wife and son, that they
be spared both the stake and the curse.
I record this for the education of those who come
after me. May they be saved by God's mercy from
such hellish creatures. Father Beidermann.
"The Black Wolf?" Grace said aloud. Could it be
possible? Was this werewolf case of 1750 somehow
linked to Christian von Ritter's werewolf pursuit in
1864?
"That's not possible," Grace spoke again. Von Ral-
ick, the Black Wolf, had been executed right there
in Rittersberg. According to the werewolf lore book,
beheading, drawing and quartering, and then burning
at the stake would have been overkill—even for a
werewolf.
But there was something else in the file. A letter.
Grace pulled it out.
It was dated 1764, and it was from a lawyer in Bue-
nos Aires. He was requesting information about the
trial and death of Baron Claus von Ralick "for the
family." What family? Surely von Ralick's own off-
spring had perished in Airing. Distant relatives per-
haps? Grace looked at the broken wax seal on the
back of the envelope. It was black, and the image
pressed into the wax was of a wolf.
She shuddered with a sudden chill. She dropped the
envelope and rose from the desk. The priest must have
heard her chair leg squeal, for he came in
immediately.
"Haben Sie etwas gefunden?" he asked her anx-
iously. Find anything?
Grace pulled herself out of her thoughts and gave
him a smile. "Ja. Sehr gut. Schonen Dank."
"Gerde?" Grace said as she took off her coat. "I
have some information for Gabriel. Where can I
send it?"
Gerde, who was still messing with all the remodeling
paperwork, refused even to look Grace's way. "I told
him I would send any mail to his lawyer's office in
Munich."
"Can I get the address?"
Without a word Gerde picked up a notepad and
jotted the address down. She ripped off the page and
held it out. She did not look up.
Grace typed out the letter on an old typewriter in
the library. It was Gabriel's-—she'd sent it over from
New Orleans herself. He had this superstitious writer's
thing about the ancient hacker. Give her a Pentium
anytime.
She put the werewolf manual and the two journals
in a package and ran down to the post office to mail
it. She paid for overnight delivery.
It had been a long day and the sun was fading. She
grabbed a yogurt and some crackers from the grocery
store and took them up to Gabriel's room. Gerde did
not offer her dinner, which was just fine. Grace started
a fire and settled onto the bed with her groceries and
a few Schattenjager journals to spend a quiet evening.
From downstairs came a loud, booming knock.
She knew immediately that it was the iron knocker
on the front door. She'd heard the noise herself when
she arrived, though it had sounded less hollow and
reverberating from the other side of the door. She was
up in a flash.
"Gabriel!" she muttered as she ran downstairs.
She reached the door just as Gerde was opening it.
It was not Gabriel. It wasn't even close. Out on the
stoop was a middle-aged couple—the man in a bad
polyester maroon suit and slicked, dyed black hair; the
woman in a similar jumpsuit (only in hot pink) and a
light brown beehive straight out of The Simpsons.
"Can I help you?" Gerde asked, bewildered.
"Someone's home. How thrillingl" The woman
sounded ecstatic.
"We're the Smiths, from Merrimac, Pennsylvania,"
the man explained.
"Of course you are," Grace said blankly.
"I'm Meryl and this big lug is my husband, Emil!"
"Nice to meet you," Gerde said, still looking
confused.
"Is the Schattenjager home?" Mrs. Smith asked the
question as though she couldn't keep it buttoned up
behind her lips another moment. Only she pronounced
the word "Shootin' Jogger" as though the role in-
volved Winchesters and Nikes.
Grace and Gerde exchanged a look.
"No," said Gerde, "I'm afraid he's out of town."
Mrs. Smith's chubby face fell. "Oh, darnl And I was
so hoping to talk shop!" She leaned forward conspira-
torially. "We fighters of darkness are so rare these
days."
"Tell me about it," Grace said dryly.
"How did you hear of the SchattenjagerT'' Gerde
asked. She stepped back, fighting a smile. The Smiths
were more than ready to take the plunge through the
doorway. Grace could have kicked her.
"Meryl is a psychic and occultist scholar," Mr.
Smith said proudly. "She knows all sorts of things.
Don't you, Mother?"
Mrs. Smith flushed with pleasure. "Well, I suppose. I
was reading about an old witch trial last spring, and I
came across the Schattenjagers. I was on a scent then, I
can tell you! You all have an amazing family tree!"
She looked from Gerde to Grace and back again,
and obviously decided Gerde looked more like the
family tree she'd expected. She beamed at Gerde and
patted her hand.
"I told you we should have called first, Mother,"
Mr. Smith muttered. To Gerde and Grace he said,
"You don't just cross the Atlantic and expect to find
people at home. Not these days—it's just go, go, go."
"Private phone numbers are the dickens to get from
overseas, and you know it, Em!"
"Well!" Grace looked at her watch. "Nice to meet
you, but since the Schattenjager isn't here right
now . . . Maybe you could leave your name and
address?"
"Oh, we're staying right in town at that cute little
gasthof," Mrs. Smith giggled. "We just got in! 'Course,
I had to get up here right away. That's how I am!"
"The gasthof is a very nice place," said Gerde,
amusement still evident in her arched brow. Appar-
ently, this particular breed of American was one she
didn't run into very often.
"Yes, um, well, if he comes back anytime soon, we'll
let him know you're down there." Grace took a step
forward, holding the door open plaintively. She was
dying to get back to those journals.
Mrs. Smith looked confused. "But, my dear, you
two must know something about the Schattenjager
business, don't you? Will you come by? Tomorrow
perhaps? You can tell us more about the family."
Grace shot Gerde a look. Don't you dare.
Gerde smiled sweetly. "I must be very busy tomor-
row, but Grace knows more than I do anyway. She's
the Schattenjager's assistant!"
"Really?" Mrs. Smith looked terribly impressed.
"Then we must talk!"
She reached out her hand to pat Grace, but Grace
shied away.
"Actually, I'll be very busy tomorrow myself, but,
um, we'll see," Grace fumbled, not wanting to be com-
pletely rude.
Mr. Smith got the message. He frowned and tugged
Mrs. Smith's arm. "Come on, now, Mother. These la-
dies look real tired. We'd best be getting back down
to our room."
"But, Em," Mrs. Smith whined. She shot an envious
glance up the staircase.
"Come on, now. Tomorrow's another day."
These words of wisdom managed to get her out on
the stoop. Grace was just about to close the doors
when a pale and pudgy hand snaked back inside and
grabbed her wrist. It startled her, for there was some-
thing off about it, something altogether too quick and
too cagey. The grip of the fingers on her wrist bone
was aching and cold.
Mrs. Smith pushed the door slowly open.
"Please . . ." Grace said nervously.
"Mother?" Mr. Smith said.
But as Mrs. Smith took a step back into the light
of the room, there was something on her face that
made them all fall silent. Her head was tilted back,
and her eyes were looking straight upward and yet
somehow didn't seem to be seeing anything at all. Her
mouth was stretched in an unnatural O, and her skin
had a greenish glow under her rouge.
"Tell him ..." she whispered in a soft voice. "Tell
him . . . beware the Black Wolf!"
Chapter 3
Munich
He was sitting on the banks of a lake. He knew he
was dreaming, but the sensation was so pleasant he
hung on to it willfully. It was an alpine lake, he
thought, for the grass that he lay upon ran down to
the water's edge and the lake itself was sweetly blue
and clear. Snow-capped peaks marched away on the
horizon.
He wondered half-incoherently if there was such a
place near Rittersberg, and wouldn't he love to find
it? Someone would know, maybe Werner or ...
A large white swan was flying in over the lake, and
now it flew straight at him over the water's surface,
feet down, wings ballooned, poised to land. What a
large creature—how magnificent, and how close it
was getting.
It landed only twenty feet from the bank. Gabriel
stayed absolutely still so as not to startle the bird. Its
blue eyes were looking right at him, right through him.
How odd. He was mesmerized.
In a heartbeat the bucolic scene around him dis-
solved. It was nighttime and it was raining. He was
in some German village square, and an old-fashioned
carriage was at a standstill directly in front of him. A
woman in a black knit shawl approached the carriage.
The window pushed open and a man leaned forward.
The man had an amazing face—pale with a thick black
mustache. It was a proud and terrible face, full of such
sorrow and anguish, so haunted. The woman offered
the man a glass of water with a deep curtsy and a
trembling of her hand and . . .
He was back at the lake. It was so sudden, the sun-
light hurt his eyes. The swan was still swimming at
him, its eyes so intent it was a bit disconcerting and
the ...
The carriage. He was at the carriage and he was
closer now. The woman handed the black-mustachioed
man a glass of water, and he glanced around, then
motioned her forward. He reached into his coat breast
and passed her a roll of paper. His mouth opened and
he said something to her, something whispery Gabriel
couldn't make out.
Like falling down a tunnel, he was slammed back
to the lake. The swan was almost at the bank now.
Did swans really have such blue, blue eyes?
And then he felt a change—a malignant presence
in the bushes to his right. He felt it, then he saw it. It
crept forward from the brush, hunched low on all
fours in a feral crouch, its teeth bared. It was a wolf;
a wolf so black it was almost a hole in reality.
The beast rushed into the water. The swan screamed
and flapped its wings. The water was spraying . . .
Gabriel uttered a cry and sat up on the couch. He
remained still for a moment, chest heaving.
He wandered back to the mailbox on bare feet, en-
joying the icy bite of the gravel. By the time he got
back inside, his toes were as wet and cold as ice cubes.
He drew on a pair of white cotton socks and sat down
to read the paper.
The moment of relaxation was not to last. The cover
story screamed up at him spitefully. There had been
another wolf killing, and this one had taken place in-
side Munich—right downtown.
It wasn't difficult to find the crime scene. The paper
had said Filserbergstrasse, and that street, though un-
pronounceable, was short and not hard to find on his
city map. It was exactly three blocks away from the
hunt club on Dienerstrasse.
Doing anything useful once he got there, however,
was a harder nut to crack. Filserbergstrasse was a
dead-end alley, and the police had cordoned off the
entrance. Official vehicles crowded the street, and a
TV news crew took up what space might have been
left with a van and lights. Even the gathered pedestri-
ans—wide-eyed and grim—were holding their ground
with good old-fashioned German stubbornness.
Gabriel couldn't see a damn thing.
But he heard something. He heard the female news
reporter call out a name in a bid for attention that
obviously failed. The name was Kommissar Leber—
the man from the paper.
He pushed his way through the crowd like an infant
making its way down the birth canal. His target was no
longer the cordon's edge but the reporter. He caught a
glimpse of Leber as he went. The kommissar was
down the alley along with a half dozen other men. He
was a large man in a worn brown suit—tall and heavy
with a bald head and a fat neck. He was easily recog-
nizable from his photograph.
Gabriel didn't bother trying to get the man's atten-
tion. Leber hadn't even acknowledged the reporter.
But that was all right. There was more than one way
to skin a cat.
He reached the van, and one of the news crew tried
to push him back. Gabriel yelled out to the woman
with the microphone.
"Excuse me? Miss? I have some information you
might find . . . interestiri'."
The reporter glanced his way. She looked highly
doubtful that he had anything at all she'd find interest-
ing. She was attractive (weren't they all), but she had
that I-can't-be-bothered look coating her like the skin
on a sausage.
"I really think you'll want to hear this," he pressed.
He gave her his best it's-your-loss-not-mine look and
wished he had a cigarette to light just to look like he
didn't give a crap.
"Nun gut, was soil's." The reporter nodded to the
man who had a hold of Gabriel's arm, and let him go.
Gabriel pushed his way forward.
"You're an American?" the reporter asked.
"That's right."
"What makes you think you have new information
about these killings?"
"Well, funny thing," Gabriel began, speaking
loudly. He was close to the yellow tape now, and
Leber was some twenty feet away with his back
turned. "I've been doin' some investigatin' of my own.
I tried to see Kommissar Leber over there, but he was
busy. It's too bad, actually, because I have some real
important questions that the police have never
answered."
The woman looked mildly curious, especial since
Gabriel was addressing this more at Leber than at her.
She motioned to the cameraman. "Dreh schon,
Dieter."
The tape began to roll. The lights switched on,
nearly blinding Gabriel in the process. The woman
spoke into the microphone and gave a brief introduc-
tion to the camera. Gabriel didn't understand a word
of it, but Leber did, for he turned slightly and looked
suspiciously at Gabriel. It was an insect-appraisal kind
of stare.
"Can you tell us what you think you know?" The
reporter tilted the microphone in Gabriel's direction.
"Sure." He smiled rakishly at the camera. "I was
gonna ask Kommissar Leber how come animal hair
found at the crime scene is reddish in color when the
escaped zoo wolves were gray1?"
The woman looked impressed and repeated his
question in German for the camera.
"... And why paw prints found at the scene indi-
cate an animal much larger than the zoo wolves spe-
cies, canis lupus lupus," Gabriel continued, speaking
as loud as he could without actually shouting. He was
gratified to see Leber's face turn a quivering purple.
"Und er fragt wieso die Pfotenabdrucke am Tatort
viel grafter sind als die der Zoowolfe."
The reporter turned back to him, looking pleased
with herself. "Can you tell us how you got this infor-
mation, S—?"
Hands gripped Gabriel's shoulders and lifted him
up. The yellow tape of the cordon flew by beneath his
feet, and then a brick wall slammed into his back.
When the dark dots cleared, Leber was in his face, all
two hundred sixty pounds of him. His little pig-like
eyes, swollen from lack of sleep, were inches from
Gabriel's own.
"Who the hell are you, and what do you think you
are doing?"
"Nice to meet you, Kommissar Leber," Gabriel
gasped.
"Answer my question!"
"You asked two questions, actually, which I'd be
happy to answer if I had some air."
Leber took a begrudging step back and let go of
Gabriel's jacket. Gabriel slumped a good foot down
the wall before his heels touched the ground.
"That's better." He smiled gamely. "The name's
Gabriel Knight. I've stopped by the station to see you
for two days runnin', but the man at the desk was
kinda rude."
"Good! Now, how did you know about the—"
"Do you really want to discuss this here, Kommis-
sar?" Gabriel nodded toward the news crew, which
had lights and cameras aimed their direction.
Leber scowled. "I could have you arrested!" he
hissed.
"For what? Wouldn't it be nicer if you and I got
together and had a little chat?"
Leber considered it. "I can't have you talking to
reporters."
"If you'll meet me at your office later, I won't say
another word. Scout's honor."
Leber's eyes got even smaller as he did a squint-
eyed examination of this unexpected interloper. He
must have bought something on Gabriel's face, for he
said, "All right. I'll be back at the station in an hour.
Don't be late."
It had been fun, but more important, it was prog-
ress. After yesterday's fruitlessness, it made Gabriel
feel immeasurably better. Not only had he not gotten
in to see Leber yesterday, but he'd learned nothing
new at the zoo, and the club had been deserted last
night. Xavier, the concierge, informed him that
Wednesdays were slow nights, while managing to con-
vey the impression that Gabriel himself was the reason
that none of the others had shown up. Gabriel had
had a drink and left. He honestly wasn't sure if he
was disappointed or relieved to have been spared the
company of the night before.
But the evening had not been a total waste. Xavier
had reluctantly handed over von Glower's personal
card before he left, saying the baron had called to
apologize for his absence and had invited Gabriel to
call on him at home.
Yet an hour wasn't long enough to hit von Glower's,
and Leber would not appreciate it if he was late. He
headed for the Marienplatz. Perhaps Ubergrau had
some news from Gerde.
At the offices of Ubergrau, Hoffen & Schnell, Ga-
briel had to ring the bell for the receptionist several
times. He could hear an animated conversation going
on somewhere beyond the etched-glass screen, but he
couldn't make out a single word of it.
It was clear, however, that Ubergrau had been par-
ticipating, for he appeared in the lobby the minute
Gabriel said his name. The young lawyer looked ex-
cited and nervous.
"Good morning, Herr Knight! Come back to my
office, please!"
"Gabriel."
"What? Oh, yes, Gabriel."
Gabriel followed him past ergonomic cubicles and
curious stares. The office was definitely not running
efficiently today.
"This is so amazing!" Ubergrau said as soon as he
shut the door. "Did you hear about this new killing?"
"Yeah. I was just over there, actually."
"Verlichl What did you see?"
"A lot of police cars."
"Yes. Of course. This is most horrible!" Ubergrau
was all a-flutter.
"Have you heard who the victim was?"
Ubergrau picked up a newspaper from a nearby
cabinet. "They have not announced this yet. They only
say it was a male in his fifties. They must notify first
the family and so forth."
"Right."
"But how could this happen here?" Ubergrau
asked, still amazed. "How could the wolves get so far
into town? With all the traffic and streets and lights?
It is not as though they could take the Untergrundl"
"Not on all fours, anyway," Gabriel muttered. He
had a mental flash of an odd furry figure dressed in a
trench coat and a low-riding hat. It was a kind of
anthropomorphic character, like something from
Aesop, but there was nothing cute about it.
Fortunately, Ubergrau didn't hear him. He was still
expressing dismay over the invasion of the murders
into the city's inner sanctum. Gabriel interrupted him.
"Harry, did you get any mail for me?"
The lawyer looked abashed. "Oh! Yes! I'm so
sorry!"
He buzzed his secretary, and she brought in a
brown-paper-wrapped parcel. "Here I am talking on
and on, and you have business to do."
"It's okay, Bud."
Gabriel opened the package, hoping for something
illuminating. Inside were two journals and a book
about werewolves. He tried to shield the title from
Ubergrau with the wrapping. The kid was already too
riled up. Reminded him of Grace.
There was also a letter. He had to read the first
paragraph twice because he could simply not compre-
hend what he was seeing at first.
Gabriel:
Guess where I am? It begins with an R, ends with
'erg' and rhymes with YOU PIG. Actually, it doesn't
rhyme with YOU PIG, but I had to get that in there
somewhere. I feel much better now.
So what's the deal? You finally get a new case and
I'm supposed to sit in New Orleans and rot? Sorry,
but methinks not. I'll be happy to go back to New
York once this case is over if you want to let Gerde
handle things, but this one I earned. Yes? So I'll give
you the benefit of the doubt and assume you really
weren't sure it was a real case.
Here's what I've found out. 1. There was a werewolf
trial here in Rittersberg in 1750. The werewolf was a
Baron Claus von Ralick, a.k.a. the Black Wolf. Exe-
cuted in a big way right here in town. Read all about
it in Victor Ritter's journal. 2. I found another case in
1864. See journal of Christian Ritter. He was also
tracking a werewolf and had a suspect whose nick-
name was the Black Wolf. He never caught him—
Christian died in a fall from his horse while on the
case. (Suspicious? Of course.)
I don't see how these two cases could involve the
same werewolf, since von Ralick was definitely re-
duced to ashes in 1750. Could "The Black Wolf" be
common? The lycanthropic equivalent of "Bubba"?
Here's my only other lead. Christian Ritter had
written a letter to King Ludwig II of Bavaria, warning
him about the 1864 Black Wolf. Perhaps there's more
to be learned in Ludwig's story?
So let me know if you want me to join you there
or stay here and look into it. Hope you're safe.
Grace
Gabriel let the letter fall into his lap.
"Bad news, Herr—Gabriel?"
The American's brow was pursed in a frown. "Not
sure."
Was it? Why had his pulse suddenly jack-hammered
when he'd read those opening lines? She'd seen right
through his stupid phone message, obviously, and had
come at once. Now she was here, in Rittersberg. Ev-
erything else in the letter fell away in the face of that
one fact. She was here. Of course, he'd never intended
to keep her off a case should one appear, never would
have dreamed of such a thing, but that was then and
this was now. Now he was sitting in this office in Mu-
nich, and he was staring at the newspaper headline on
the desk, and he knew that, come what may, he did
not want Grace in Munich, not anywhere near that
thing.
"What do you know about King Ludwig II?" Ga-
briel asked abruptly.
Ubergrau looked surprised. "Ludwig II? The mad
king? He built several castles and now they're huge
tourist attractions. He was crazy, eccentric . . . He's
the Bavarian enigma—like your JFK or Elvis. Do you
know, I went to Graceland once. It was—"
"Where are these castles?"
Ubergrau cleared his throat. "They're marked on
all of the German maps. Herrenchiemsee is an hour
and a half southeast. Neuschwanstein and Linderhof
are southwest—two, three hours, depending on traffic
and sight-seeing stops. Do you want me to have my
secretary make you a map?"
Gabriel shook his head, pondering. "I wasn't
thinkin' of goin' myself."
"They're really quite nice if you haven't been," Ub-
ergrau put in helpfully.
"Hmmm. Would your secretary post something if I
write it up now? I need to overnight it to Rittersberg."
There was no putting it off. The wily creature had
crossed the ocean, done research, and written to him
all in the forty-eight hours or so since he'd called her.
If he let this go, she'd be at the Huber farm by
noon tomorrow.
"Of course! Anything at all, H—Gabriel."
"Ah! See? You are gettin' good."
Obergrau blushed with pleasure.
The reception at the police station was more cordial
this time, if not the actual receptionist. Gabriel was
buzzed in and taken back through the corridor. The
desk officer knocked on Leber's door and didn't aban-
don his charge until the kommissar had bid them
enter.
"Hey!" Gabriel grinned broadly as the door closed
behind him. He almost expected to hear the sound of
a key in the lock.
Leber looked at his watch. "You're ten minutes
late."
"I'll just go, then," Gabriel said, reaching for the
knob.
"Sit down!" Leber jabbed one knobby finger at the
visitor's chair in front of his desk.
Gabriel sat, trying not to smirk. "So what's up?"
He put his right boot up on his left knee with great
deliberation and let out a contented sigh.
" 'What's up?' Let me tell you: I have a stupid
American in my office who's about to tell me what
the hell he's up to or face thirty days in the klink."
"I'm sure you'll sweet-talk it out of him," Gabriel
said dryly.
Leber drummed his fingers on his desk. "Open your
mouth, Mr. Knight, and speak.'"
This guy was wound tighter then the local glocken-
spiel. He had more bugs up his ass than a decaying
bear in the woods. He was stuffed tighter than brat-
wurst on a summer's . . .
"Speak!"
" 'Kay. I'll tell you where I got my info, but I have
just a few teensy-weensy questions first."
"They'd better be 'Where do you want me to start?'
and 'How much do you want to know?' "
Gabriel smiled appreciatively. "You're focused, I'll
give you that. No, what I want is just a few small facts
about the case."
Leber snorted. "Never."
"Wait a minute! Here's the deal—Ich nicht spreche
Deutsch. Which means I can't even read the goddamn
newspapers. All I want is the basics. Press-release
stuff."
Leber's tongue was searching out some edible in the
hidden folds of his cheek. Either that or it was trying
to get loose and attack. "All right," he said slowly.
"Great! You're a pal." Gabriel pulled out his note-
pad and pen. "So how many deaths have been pinned
on the wolves so far?"
"Five, if you count the one downtown."
Gabriel jotted this down. "Could there be bodies
you haven't found yet?"
Leber didn't look happy with the thought. "Maybe.
But the victims were killed in broad daylight. Body
parts left lying like a trail of Brotkriimel. If there are
other bodies out there, someone would have seen
them, I think."
"And when did this start exactly?"
Leber glanced at the wall near the door. There was
a bulletin board there with pictures and a large map
of the area. Gabriel cast an envious glance at it, realiz-
ing what it was: a case board. There were things up
there he wanted to know.
"Thirty-two days ago was the first," Leber said.
"The zoo wolves escaped right around then, didn't
they?"
"They escaped thirty-four days ago."
Gabriel scribbled this down. Of course, he'd turned
on his pocket tape recorder as always before entering
the room, but Leber didn't need to know that.
"So what was the first attack like?"
Leber took a deep breath. His skin was slowly losing
its redness, and he seemed to be calming down a bit.
Perhaps it was just that the questions gave him bigger
things to worry about than the American seated across
from him.
"A young husband and wife were taking a picnic.
North near Eching. He walks away to get some wood
in the forest. When he comes back he finds her body—
some of it."
Gabriel swallowed. "Did you link it to the zoo
wolves right away?"
The policeman rubbed his forehead with a middle
finger. "We knew it was an animal attack. No one
thought about the zoo wolves for a day or two."
"And the second attack?"
Leber leaned back, sighing. "Two teenage boys.
They were climbing rocks to the east at Feldkirchen."
"Two at once?" Gabriel asked, surprised.
"Yes." Leber nodded grimly. "And they were
strong boys. They had come down from the climb and
were walking to the car. A park employee heard
screams. When he got there, the boys were dead. He
didn't see the animal."
Gabriel stroked his lip with the pen thoughtfully.
"That's three."
"Fourth was a young girl. She was killed on her
parents' farm to the southwest at Lochham. The
mother saw the attack."
"What about this latest one?"
"Male. Fifty-two. He was a furrier." Leber gave a
huff. "Ironic, isn't it?"
"A furrier? That is odd. What was his name?"
Leber pursed his lips and studied Gabriel suspi-
ciously. "We have not released that information, Mr.
Knight."
Gabriel tried to look innocent. "Oh. Okay. What's
the exact cause of death, by the way?"
Leber gestured with an open hand to his neck.
"Throats crushed."
"Asphyxiation?"
"Ja."
"Is that the way wolves kill in the wild?"
Leber shrugged. "So the experts tell me."
"Hmmm." Gabriel considered that for a moment.
"What else does forensics say about the killer?"
"I have told you enough, Mr. Knight. All I can say
is that it is an animal."
"An animal? As in one?"
Leber flushed. He said nothing.
"Forensics have found signs of only one animal?
Not twol" Gabriel insisted.
Leber sucked in his cheeks and did not reply. He
thrummed his pudgy fingertips on the desk. It sounded
like a military drum roll.
"Jesus," Gabriel said softly. But was he really all
that surprised? Yes. For some reason he was. "What
about the animal's bite mark? Saliva? Are they
normal?"
Leber stopped thrumming and looked at Gabriel,
his brow knit. "Normal for what?" he thundered.
"They're not normal, are they? Lemme guess. Fo-
rensics says the bite marks and/or saliva are canine
and closer to wolf than dog, but beyond that they
can't pin it down—nothing like it on the records. Prob-
ably some weird hybrid."
Leber just glared at him, the spidery veins on his
cheeks flushing purple.
"Or is the saliva canine at alii" Gabriel said, sud-
denly feeling cold.
Leber slammed his hand down on his desk with a
loud crack. "Enough! You know something, Mr.
Knight. Do you want to tell me now, or do you want
us to extract it the hard way?"
The Kommissar rolled the r in extract threateningly.
He had his hands poised on the desktop as though
preparing to spring.
"All right! Don't get excited! I'm a private investi-
gator. I'm lookin' into the death of Toni Huber."
Leber didn't exactly relax, but he looked less pre-
pared to leap and conquer. He stared at Gabriel with
those beady eyes. "Who hired you?"
"I'm a friend of the Hubers' cousins. They asked
me to look into it."
Leber stood up. He jingled some loose change in
his pocket. "They don't believe it was the zoo wolves,
then," he muttered. Before Gabriel could even begin
to answer, Leber did it for him. "No. Of course not.
The mother saw it."
Leber turned to Gabriel. "So you know the animal
was red—the mother told you that. How did you know
about the size? She couldn't judge such a thing."
"I found some evidence at the Huber farm—a paw
print and some hair. I took it over to the university
for analysis."
Leber nodded. "Very well. I want that evidence. I
want you to bring it here." He pointed at the floor
beneath his feet.
"Sure. So why are you lettin' everyone believe it's
the zoo wolves when you know it's not?"
Leber sat back down. He straightened his tie. "First,
it's none of your business. Second, we don't know for
certain that it was not one of the escaped wolves—"
"But the killer is nothing like the zoo wolves!"
Leber made a moronic you-never-know expression.
"Two wolves escaped from the zoo. We don't know
that they were like the ones that did not escape."
Gabriel blew a pshah sound. "I think the zoo would
have known if it had a huge, reddish-brown wolf hy-
brid in the kennel."
Leber made the face again. "I only said it is possi-
ble. Third, if we tell the newspapers we do not know
what it is, this is much worse for the public than being
afraid of the zoo wolves. You see?"
Gabriel thought about it. "In other words, people
might panic if you admit you haven't the first freakin'
clue what's goin' on."
Leber sucked in his cheeks. The man was stiffer
than a new pair of lederhosen on a washline in Jan—
"That is the decision of men who outrank myself.
As for you, Mr. Knight, it is none of your damn
business."
"Plus, I bet it also helps to keep the public outrage
focused on the zoo. Right now it's their fault as much
as yours. Am I right?"
"So you will say nothing to the newspapers," Leber
continued. "When we have caught something—even
one of the zoo wolves, then . . ."
"Why haven't you caught the zoo wolves?" Gabriel
asked abruptly. He leaned forward, curious. "I mean,
they're just two wolves, right?"
Leber ignored him. ". . . and if you do say anything
to the papers or television, you will be arrested. Is
that clear?"
Gabriel sighed. Clearly, the interview was over.
"Yeah. Whatever." He rose and stretched, turning ca-
sually toward the case board. He held the yawn for a
moment, his eyes searching feverishly until he found
the information he sought. He made a mental note of
the name, suppressed a grin, and turned. "I do have
one more thing before I go. I mean, it's probably
nothing."
"What?"
"Is there any connection to this case and a black
wolf?"
Leber grunted. "No! You said yourself, the zoo
wolves are gray and the killer is rot."
"All right. Never mind." Gabriel went over to the
door. "Thanks for the chat, Kommissar."
But Leber had an odd look on his face. "Wait." He
got up and went over to a filing cabinet. He sorted
through it for a moment, then brought a file back to
his desk.
"What is it?"
"A missing-persons case. It happened in a town
called Kirchl in the Naturpark Schwabisch-Frankischer
Wald ten years ago." Leber flipped through the file.
"It was sad—a teenage girl, very pretty. We thought
she had run from home, but we never found her."
"And this has somethin' to do with a black wolf?"
"Ja. I just remembered. There was an old woman
who lived in the forest. She told the police that 'the
wolf killed the girl. She was always complaining about
a huge black wolf in the forest. The townspeople
looked into it, but they found nothing. They decided
she was verruckt—crazy."
Gabriel frowned. "And there was no blood in the
woods? Nothin'?"
Leber shook his head. "Nothing. There were no
wolves in the Schwabisch-Frankischer Wald—then or
now. Never heard of such a thing as wolf attacks—
not until this case."
"Well . . . it's probably not related," Gabriel said
slowly.
"Probably not."
It was noon by the time Gabriel left the police sta-
tion. He was close to the Marienplatz and he had
something new to run by the Kid, so he went back to
Ubergrau's office. Unfortunately, Harry was at lunch.
Gabriel didn't have any better luck with the baron.
When he called the phone number on von Glower's
card, a polite male informed him that von Glower had
been out of town last night and had not yet returned
home. Would the gentleman call back in another hour
or so?
He was glad he hadn't wasted all the U-Bahn con-
nections getting over there. He'd looked up the ad-
dress last night. The baron lived south at the edge of
Munich near a park called Perlacher Wald and the
U.S. base. It was not a short trip. Gabriel headed back
to the club instead, hoping to sniff out something
useful.
The truth was, he hadn't bothered to look around
the club last night for several reasons. For one thing,
nobody else was there, and that had been both disap-
pointing and boring (yes, they were weird, but then,
he'd been alone in a castle with Gerde for the past
year). For another, he'd more or less reached the
opinion that the club had very little to do with the
killings. The lodge was a stuck-up, self-important, and
eccentric group, that much was obvious. But what use
were they on the case other than providing an oppor-
tunity to watch Klingmann, maybe learn some back-
ground data on him that would prove incriminating?
Even at that, what kind of incriminating evidence was
there to find? Klingmann's relationship to the real
killer was getting more tenuous by the moment. If the
real killer was not one of the zoo wolves, then Kling-
mann probably had nothing to do with the case at all.
Or so he'd thought last night. Today things looked
a little different. What did Klingmann and the latest
killing have in common besides the zoo wolves? The
club. The latest attack was only three blocks from
the club.
Yes, it was definitely time to get a bit nosier at the
ol' huntin' lodge.
Xavier looked as pleased to see him as ever. "Don't
you have anything else to do in Munich, Herr
Knight?"
"I could go stand in the middle of the road or jump
off the Rathaus tower," Gabriel said sweetly. "But I
dunno. I'd rather talk to you. Call me a masochist."
Xavier expelled a short breath from his nostrils in
what would have been a sniff, had it been going the
other way. "The gentleman is hilarious."
"Really? I'll tell him when I see him."
"What do you want, Herr Knight? If you've come
for a free drink, the bar is in the back, I'm sure."
"I'd hope you'd be sure. How long've you been
here anyway?"
It was the opening he'd been hoping for, though the
segue was weak. Gabriel strolled over and leaned on
Xavier's desk. It was the sort of pulpit-style work-
center at which one stood, not sat, so leaning was
\&ry tempting. Besides, it would no doubt irritate the
concierge intensely.
"Since 1970," Xavier said. He was proud of the fact,
poor sod.
"Is that when the club started?"
"Die Koniglich-Bayrische Hofjagdloge is practically
ancient. However, it was revitalized in the seventies."
"How's that?"
"Baron von Glower joined. He brought a new vi-
sion." Xavier had that adoring/toadying expression
again.
"Huh," Gabriel said. He tried to look bored.
Xavier grew irritated. "He did. The lodge had
nearly died out before he came. Hunting is not as
popular as it used to be."
"No kiddin'? Can't imagine why. So what did von
Glower do exactly?"
"He brought . . . enthusiasm." He pronounced it
'in-twosie-azim.' "You wouldn't understand."
"Maybe. This place still isn't exactly burstin' at the
seams, though. Is it?"
Xavier flushed. "Quantity of members is not our
priority. The baron chooses quality." He looked at
Gabriel pointedly. "With the rare exception, of
course."
Gabriel smiled and batted his eyes. "Is that so?
How many members are there anyway?"
Xavier had to think about it for a moment. "Five
now. Not including you."
"Have you lost someone recently?"
"Of course not."
"You had to add it up just now."
Xavier sighed. "Besides yourself, we've had another
recent addition."
"Klingmann," Gabriel guessed.
"Yes, Herr Doktor joined us a few weeks ago."
"Uh-huh. Did von Glower pick him out too?"
Xavier snorted. "Really, I don't gossip about club
members! How Klingmann was chosen for member-
ship is his own affair. Now please move along."
But Gabriel only leaned in further and smiled lazily.
"In a sec. I have one more question. Have you ever
heard of 'the black wolf?"
"What kind of a black wolf?" Xavier said, annoyed.
"Oh, any kind."
"No." Xavier made a shooing gesture. "Now run
along. Go get yourself a drink or leave or ...
something."
Gabriel went to go get a damned drink.
He wandered around, a short mug of beer in one
hand. Over here was a fireplace, a moose head, and
lots of deer antlers. Over there, the bar, a couple of
leather chairs, sofa, coat rack, wood paneling run
amok.
At the back of the great room was a hallway. It
lead to a back-street exit, this one (as Gabriel saw
when he poked his head out) leading to an alley be-
hind the building. It locked heavily when he pulled
it shut.
Besides this door at the back of the hall, there were
two other doors here, both on the left-hand wall. The
first led to bathroom facilities done in a manly style.
No women broached this domain, that was evident.
The second door was locked.
Gabriel poked his head back into the great room to
make sure no one was about, then gave up a silent
prayer for the health of Xavier's bladder and went
back to the locked door. It was an old door, not origi-
nally fitted with a lock. A modern dead bolt had been
installed some years ago above the knob. This would
certainly not be the first time Gabriel had picked a
dead bolt. He used to lock himself out of St. George's
at least once a month. Fortunately, the thieves on
Bourbon Street were no more interested in his wares
than the tourists, so he was the only one ever to bust
the useless thing.
He took his Louisiana driver's license from his wal-
let and slid it into the crack in the door jamb. He
wiggled it, worked it up. The door popped open.
Inside was a flight of stairs that led down to a base-
ment. Gabriel flicked on the light and closed the door
softly behind him.
How now, little logen cow? he thought as he de-
scended the stairs. The ceiling was cut off low, and he
had to stoop as he went. Despite the overhead bulb
somewhere down below, there was a strong feeling of
darkness to the place that made him nervous. He
clutched the railing. He told himself it was because
the stairs were steep.
When he cleared the overhang and got his first shot
of the basement, he expelled a short gasp of alarm.
The first thing that caught his eye were the heads,
huge heads; lions and tigers, alligators and cheetahs,
a black panther.
"Christ," he muttered.
They were stuffed, of course, but there was never-
theless an immediate fleeing response, ingrained in the
species from more vulnerable days. He took a deep
breath and tried to slow his hammering pulse. The
sense of something lurking remained long after his
brain told the fear impulse it was being idiotic. Per-
haps it was the faint scent of decay that filled the
room like cotton in a chloroform bottle, a determined
insistence upon death that nothing in the taxidermist's
bag of tricks could completely camouflage. But there
was something else in the air too. Gabriel's brain
sought to sort and identify it—incense. Odd.
He descended the rest of the way down the stairs.
The trophy heads each bore a plaque with a name
and a date. Von Zell, 27/6/91; Von Glower, 3/4/87;
Preiss, 17/8/83. He frowned. Where were they hunting
these things, anyway? And why keep these trophies
down here while the less impressive ones—the deer
and the elk—were displayed in the great room?
Because it's probably juckin' illegal that's why.
Yes. Good point. It ought to be, at any rate. He
moved from trophy to trophy, reading the names of
the hunters. He found no names he didn't recognize,
and Klingmann was not on any of them. Xavier had
told the truth, then; Klingmann had just joined. What
Xavier hadn't mentioned was how von Glower and
von Zell dominated the club. Hennemann, Preiss, and
von Aigner had only a few trophies apiece while Von
Zell and von Glower each had a dozen or more.
The feeling of being someplace very unpleasant did
not dissipate as he moved around the room. A glass-
enclosed rack of polished teak and gleaming metal
firearms didn't help. There was even a lethal bow and
arrow set in the case. The smell of incense continued
to grow until he found the source. Against the wall
opposite the stairs was a table covered with a red
cloth. On the table were two candelabra and an in-
cense bowl. Several necklaces made from what looked
like claws were laid out, and a wolf's skull took center
place like an idol.
Gabriel stared at the tableau, baffled. What the hell
were these guys playing at? Tarzan, Lord of the Apes
meets Masonic Lodge 357?
I've got a better one for you: if they don't draw the
line at hunting down and slaughtering an endangered
species now and then, where do they draw it . . .
hmmm?
He shook his head. He was getting paranoid. What
use would a werewolf have for rifles and taxidermists?
Whatever these men's sins were, they were entirely
human ones so far. Then his eyes fell on something
else on the table—a black book. It was a slim appoint-
ment book, the kind that businessmen carry. He
picked it up and opened it to a tabbed page at the
back.
Preiss—100,000
Aigner— 4-H* 700,000
Hennemann—30,000
Gabriel whistled. "Holy alimony. Either the club
dues is way outta hand, or—"
The door at the top of the stairs opened. Gabriel
froze. Xavier, no doubt, looking for the missing
wanderer.
He put the book down hurriedly and took a few
steps from the table. Someone was coming down the
stairs. He looked around, panicked. There was abso-
lutely no place to hide. He gave up and tried to look
natural—and stupid.
When the stair descender's upper torso appeared,
Gabriel saw that it was not Xavier at all but Baron
von Zell. Gabriel cringed—it could hardly be any
worse. He tried to dumb down his dumb look. Von
Zell glanced up and saw Gabriel. He stopped in-
stantly, completely thrown off guard. His eyes were
huge.
"What are you doing down here, Mr. Knight?" It
was a reasonable enough question, but the tone in
which it was spoken was hubris personified.
"Hey, Baron von Zell!" Gabriel tried, waving an
awkward hand. "I was just lookin' around the club.
Nice room, huh?"
"The basement is for members only!" Von Zell
said scathingly.
"Oh? Really?" Gabriel thought the blush, at least,
had to be convincing. "I am sorry. My word! I'll go
right up."
Gabriel crossed to the bottom of the stairs and
waited for von Zell to move. He didn't. He was glaring
at Gabriel suspiciously. "The door was not locked?"
"Huh? Oh, huh-uh." Gabriel tried to look virtuous.
"It just opened."
Von Zell uttered a low growl of irritation. "All
right. Go upstairs. Now."
Von Zell pushed past Gabriel—with a bit more
shove than was necessary—and finished his descent.
Gabriel started up the stairs slowly, watching what von
Zell was up to. The man went directly to the table
and picked up the black book. He walked back to the
stairs and practically pushed Gabriel up the rest of
the way.
When they reached the upstairs hall, von Zell shut
the door firmly and tried the handle. It was locked.
He gave Gabriel another doubtful look, then walked
away. Gabriel heard him cross the great room and
then scream at Xavier in German in the lobby.
Gabriel felt a tad guilty, but not much.
He wandered into the great room and poured him-
self another drink. Von Zell came back carrying a
newspaper. He seated himself near the fire.
"Can I get you a drink, Baron von Zell?"
"No," von Zell said sharply. "I only have a few
minutes between appointments." He opened the
paper.
"Kay." Gabriel brought his drink over to the fire-
place and sat down in a chair. Von Zell lifted his
newspaper higher.
"So you work downtown, huh? What is it that you
do, Baron?"
Von Zell did not lower the paper. "My family is in
banking. If you were German, you would know that."
"Ah!" Gabriel gave a deep, bored sigh.
Von Zell turned a page and said nothing.
"I, uh, I noticed you're a darn good hunter," the
American drawled. "I saw your name on lots of those
trophies downstairs? Very impressive."
Von Zell lowered the paper and peered at Gabriel
with narrowed eyes. He seemed to be considering the
hidden agenda in this remark.
"Yes," he said briefly. "Von Glower and I are the
best." He went back to his paper.
" 'Course, huntin's like anythin' else, I guess. Ya
need lots of practice. I don't get to hit the woods as
often as I'd like."
Von Zell lowered the newspaper with a crash into
his lap. "Hunting," he said with great enunciation, "is
a matter of the will, of the soul. It is not about tar-
get practice."
Gabriel shrugged. "Oh, I dunno. It always helps my
game to spend some time in the arcades. Maybe it
doesn't seem that way to you because you do it so
often—I mean, it doesn't seem like practicin' cause
you're actually just doin' it." He laughed in a forced
way. "How often do ya'll go huntin', anyway?"
Von Zell scowled, obviously not at all sure how to
deal with Gabriel and not interested, truth be told, in
dealing with him at all. "Once a month the lodge
hunts together." He paused. "It is true that von
Glower and I go more often than the others, I
suppose."
He smirked a bit and lifted the paper.
"You and von Glower go every weekend?"
"We used to," came the muffled response.
"Ya see? No wonder you two are so damned good!"
Von Zell said nothing.
"Hey, ya'll musta been tight goin' out every week-
end together. How come ya don't go out that often
anymore?"
Von Zell glared at him over the page. He appeared
unsure of a response. "I suppose I have simply . . .
outgrown his methods. As, I'm sure, he will outgrow
you. Imminently."
Gabriel's smile curled up a bit. He forced his lip
down. "Speakin' of huntin', ya ever heard of the
Black Wolf?"
"No." Von Zell sounded bored and annoyed. He
stood up and tossed the paper down. He had clearly
decided to go spend his lunchtime elsewhere—any-
where more quiet.
"Huh. Bet ya'll go on a lot of huntin' trips abroad,
though, right? What, like to the Orient or somethin'?"
"No."
"But ... far as I know, they don't have panthers
in Germany. Or tigers." Gabriel grinned lopsidedly.
Von Zell exploded. There was no other way to de-
scribe it. One moment he was patronizing. The next
he was livid. He crossed the distance between them
and had Gabriel pinned up against the back of his
chair before Gabriel even knew what hit him.
"Listen, you ignorant little pig! You don't know
anything about this club, and what you don't know is
none of your business! The trophies in the basement
are none of your business! Where we hunt and how
we hunt and what we hunt are none of your business!
And you'd better keep your nose out of our business
and keep your damn mouth shut. Because if you don't,
I will hunt you down myself. Is that clear?"
The man's once handsome face was twisted with
rage. His eyes were positively insane.
"Sure. I'm sorry. No problem," Gabriel said in a
small voice.
Von Zell backed off. He tore himself away (Gabriel
swore later that he had not mistaken this) like an alco-
holic passing a liquor store window. Without another
word he turned and left the room. Gabriel saw Xavi-
er's scared face peeking in from the front hall for just
a second before it dodged away. He reached down
and checked. He had not peed his pants.
He left the club and walked back down Diener-
strasse to the Marienplatz and Harry's office. This
time Harry was in.
"Ja, here it is," Obergrau said, returning from the
hall and his most recent errand. "Herr Heffel
Grossberg, furrier. Business office, 172 Silber-
hornstra(3e."
He handed Gabriel a piece of paper with the ad-
dress on it.
"Thanks."
"It was very considerate of Kriminalkommissar
Leber to give you this name. It hasn't been in the
newspapers yet."
"We bonded, what can I say?" Gabriel tucked the
paper in the pocket of his jeans. Harry didn't need to
know that he'd stolen the name of the most recent
victim from Leber's case board.
Ubergrau sat back down and studied Gabriel with
bright eyes. "Have I told you how much I like P. D.
James? I just finished the one about the nuclear
power plant."
"Um, no. When I'm in the mood for that British
stuff, I go right for the jugular: A.C."
"A.C.?"
"Agatha Christie."
"Ah!" Obergrau's face lit. "There was this one set
on a train, you know? And this man—"
"Harry," Gabriel interrupted gently, "there was one
more thing."
"I'm sorry. Yes?"
"I need a newspaper search done."
"No problem! What are you looking for?"
"Missing-persons cases. I'm only interested in ones
that occurred near medium to large-sized forests."
Ubergrau took a pad of paper and a pen from his
upper drawer and wrote it down. His ears—so promi-
nent with his short-clipped haircut—tinged pink with
excitement.
"Medium to large-sized forests. Yes. How far back
do you want to look?"
Gabriel drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.
"Well ... I could really use it back twenty years, I
guess, but I hate to put you out."
"No problem! My secretary can start this afternoon.
The main library, it has the newspapers archived on
microfiche, and there exists an index for the major
stories. With the index such a search would not be
unreasonable. I can have it for you by tomorrow."
"Harry, you are a wonder."
He took the U6 train south and then Ul east to
Silberhornstrafle. Fortunately, it was on the way to
von Glower's, so he wouldn't waste much time
Number 172 was five blocks from the U-Bahn sta-
tion. The area went from congested and commercial
to seedy as he walked. The building itself was an old
high-rise. Grossberg's name was all that was listed
near the buzzer out front.
The interior of the office was even seedier than the
exterior. The rug was threadbare and the furniture
was cheap. A chunky blonde sat at the lone desk in
the outer office. She wore a sweater as threadbare as
the rug and a short brown wool skirt that was natty
and clumped with wear. She'd been crying. She looked
up as Gabriel entered.
"Hi, I'm an American associate of Grossberg's?"
Gabriel tried to look serious and businesslike.
The secretary threw her tissue in the trash can and
grabbed another.
"Herr Grossberg is dead," she said bluntly. "I was
going to close the office."
This provoked a fresh round of tears. Gabriel
waited awkwardly.
"That's terrible news about Grossberg. Won't some-
one be comin' in to take over?"
"I don't know. I don't know even if Herr Grossberg
has family."
"He didn't have any business partners, then?"
"No."
"What exactly did Herr Grossberg do?"
The secretary looked up at him with baffled, red-
rimmed eyes.
"I mean ... I know what he did for me, but, um,
what else did you do here in the office?"
"Imports and exports. I never saw the furs myself.
Herr Grossberg, he has a warehouse on the other side
of town."
"Ah!" Gabriel said lamely. He wondered what the
hell he was doing here. "Did Herr Grossberg belong
to a club, by any chance? A men's huntin' club?"
The secretary took a deep sniff and frowned. "I
never heard him say so." She considered it. "No, I
don't think he would go to something like that."
No, Gabriel thought, glancing around the office.
Herr Grossberg wasn't quite in the same league as the
boys from the Hofjagdloge, was he?
The secretary opened a Rolodex. "Would you give
me your name, please? I was going to make a letter
to everyone in the file telling them about Herr
Grossberg's death. I can take you from the list."
She looked up tiredly. Her hair was black at the
roots and unwashed. He realized that beneath her
makeup she was quite young—perhaps no more than
nineteen. And newly unemployed. Gabriel felt sorry
for her.
"Urn, Knight. Herr Knight."
She flipped through the cards. Most of them, Ga-
briel noted, were blank.
"No, I'm not finding you. There is nothing under
K."
"Try under 'von,' 'von Knight,' " Gabriel said, bar-
gaining for time. He was trying to think of what else
he could ask her, with little success.
The secretary looked impressed. She spun the Rolo-
dex in a remarkable imitation of Vanna White. Her
fingers caught the roller at the V's with great deftness
and began walking through the cards.
"Von Aigner, von Dussen, von Stein . . . No, I'm
not finding you."
Gabriel stared at her wordlessly, so flummoxed he
was unable to get his tongue to work. "Excuse me,
did you say von AignerT'
"Yes."
"Is he a really big guy? Laughs a lot?"
The secretary sighed. "I never met him. I have met
only a few of Herr Grossberg's associates. Mostly they
ring on the phone."
"Oh. Well, thanks anyway."
The secretary pushed the Rolodex away. "If this is
about money, you will be disappointed."
"How's that?"
"I know that Herr Grossberg owed many people
money. They ring here all the time. Sometimes they
come to the office. But Herr Grossberg, he was much
behind on his debts, and I don't think there was any-
thing in the accounts when he died."
She stood up and fished a large handbag from be-
neath the desk. She opened it and put the Rolodex
inside.
"As a matter of fact, he did owe me somethin',"
Gabriel said quickly. "Is there any way I could look
at his books? At least see if his accounts agree with
my own? That way, if there's any estate, it will be
easier for a lawyer to claim my share."
He smiled engagingly at the secretary, hoping his
charm would win her over, but she only gave a bitter
chuckle. "There is no estate, Herr von Knight. He
liked the horses, you understand? Also, the police
took all of Herr Grossberg's papers. They took every-
thing this morning."
"Oh," Gabriel said, cursing his luck.
"I think I will go home now to write those letters.
Let me walk you out."
Gabriel went over it in his mind during the bus
ride from the U-Bahn station to von Glower's house.
Grossberg was a furrier, a gambler with a seedy busi-
ness that was barely hanging on. Imports and exports.
Of what? Furs, the girl had said. Was that it?
Grossberg certainly didn't appear to actually manufac-
ture furs.
A middle man, then. A man who claimed to be a
furrier, perhaps even had some training, but he was a
salesman now, nothing more. And he knew von
Aigner.
There was something there, Gabriel could feel it,
but he couldn't quite tap what it was. Hell, he didn't
even know what von Aigner did for a living or any-
thing at all about him other than his presence as a
member of the club.
It was time to try to remedy that.
*         *         *
Von Glower's house was a large residence painted
the palest of yellows with a garden in front. It was
across the street from a public park that looked more
like a groomed forest, with walking paths that stretched
away into the distance. A group of young school-
children with backpacks were unloading from a van
and preparing to embark on a hike.
Gabriel walked to the front door and rang the bell.
The door was answered by an older gentleman in a
formal gray suit. Yes, the baron was home now. He
took Gabriel's coat and showed him into a lush, mas-
culine living room. Leather couches in soft tan and
vibrant oriental throws created a warm interior. As
Gabriel waited, he noticed a Frankfurt paper and car
keys lying on an end table. The baron had been out
of town, then.
"Gabriel!" Von Glower greeted him warmly as he
entered. He grasped his guest's hand in one of his
own and half embraced him with the other. His wel-
come was so open-handed that Gabriel felt guilty.
"It was nice of you to invite me, Baron von
Glower."
"Call me Friedrich, please! Gunter, bringen Sie uns
bitte ein zweites Glas Wien."
"Ja, Baron."
"Please, sit down." Von Glower motioned to the
sofa. They both sat, one on each end.
"I suppose I should have waited a few days before
stoppin' by, but I really am curious about the club."
"Not at all! My invitations are most earnest."
Gunter returned with two crystal glasses of red wine
on a tray.
"Do you like wine?" Von Glower asked. "I got
hooked on the grape myself when I lived in France."
"You lived in France?"
"Oh, yes. I've lived all over."
"Are you from Germany originally?"
Von Glower smiled and picked up his glass. "No,
but my parents were. Prost\"
"Prost." Gabriel sipped the wine. "Good stuff."
"I like the best." Von Glower studied Gabriel ap-
praisingly. "And you? Were you born and raised in
America?"
"New Orleans."
Von Glower settled back into the sofa, his dark eyes
never leaving Gabriel's face. "And what is it that
you write?"
Gabriel cleared his throat. His books weren't ex-
actly highbrow. Besides, he was supposed to ask the
questions. "I'm sure there're more interestin' sub-
jects," he said.
"I hope you will forgive my inquisitiveness. You
see, I like few people, and when I do find someone I
like, it's a pleasure getting to know them—new
thoughts and impressions uncovered and examined
one by one, like rare birds."
Gabriel wondered if the baron was quoting some-
one. Perhaps he was, but it was not done lightly—
his eyes were personal and ingenuous. Gabriel leaned
forward and put down his glass to have something to
do. "That's inquisitive, all right."
He was losing his footing, and quickly too. He
glanced up from under his lashes; sought for and
found nothing predatory in his host, nothing manipu-
lative or sarcastic—only sincere male camaraderie. It
was so generously proffered that it truly bewildered
Gabriel. Given his real purpose at the club . . . here,
he was at a loss as to how to deal with it. Rudeness
was an easier hurdle somehow.
Von Glower rumbled a low laugh. "On the other
hand, perhaps it's mere boredom. When people get to
know each other, well, there's nothing new to say. I
dearly love my friends at the club, but we reached this
stage long ago."
"How long have you known the men at the club?"
Gabriel asked, breathing a sigh of relief.
"Hmmm. Most of the men have been with me at
least ten or fifteen years. Is it not amazing how time
flies?"
"You said it. What about Doktor Klingmann?"
"Oh! Yes, forgive me. Herr Doktor is very new,
like yourself."
"Then you can't be as bored as you claim."
Von Glower made a dismissive gesture. "To tell you
the truth, I don't know the man very well, nor have I
made an effort to. There, you see? You caught me. I
told you, I am very selective. Klingmann seems per-
fectly fine, but not in the least interesting. Am I a
terrible ass?"
"You're entitled to your opinion," Gabriel said, but
he was puzzled. If von Glower hadn't brought in
Klingmann, who did?
"So how'd you end up in Munich, Friedrich?"
"I was just going to ask you the same question."
Gabriel smiled. "You first."
"All right. My circumstances are probably not much
different than your own. I wanted to return to the
land of my ancestors and so I did. And you? Or had
I better ask how your family ended up in America in
the first place?"
"My grandfather left the family and moved to
New Orleans."
Von Glower gazed at him curiously. "But you chose
to return. Why?"
Gabriel opened his mouth to speak some meaning-
less lie but found that he didn't have the heart for it.
He sighed. "To tell you the truth, I didn't have a hell
of a lot of choice."
He tried to add a lighthearted grin, but it fizzled
out in a drenching bitterness that welled up from out
of nowhere. He pushed it aside. What was that about?
Van Glower was nodding thoughtfully. "I under-
stand. Are there other Ritters besides yourself?"
"Nope," Gabriel answered. He picked up a glass
and held it to the light self-consciously.
"Well, it was your duty, then. Sometimes there's no
escaping it. Have you produced your heir?"
Gabriel laughed. "God, no!"
Von Glower smiled. "No, you don't strike me as a
family man. Ah, well. I suppose all trees eventually
stop bearing fruit."
Von Glower refilled his glass, and Gabriel felt that
confusion imbue him again. He was relating far too
well to this magnetic man. He was more vulnerable
than he'd realized, after his year alone and all the
unanswered questions, all the changes. And why the
bitterness? Was it from finding out he had a real fam-
ily after all, but that the other members of it were
dead by the time he'd arrived, leaving him with naught
but some musty journals? Wolfgang had not lived long
enough to answer the thousands of questions Gabriel
had, to fill the hole that the death of his father and
grandfather had left in an infant boy's life.
He got up as if to distance himself physically as well
as mentally and wandered over to the fireplace to look
at the objects d'art on the mantel. He resolved to
be ruthless.
"I wanted to talk to you about the club, Friedrich.
I was over there earlier, and I found this room down-
stairs when I was lookin' for the bathroom? I didn't
mean to pry or anythin', but I noticed there was this
kinda altar-and-candle business. You all are into
somethin' a little heavier than marksmanship. Am I
right?"
He turned and gave von Glower an innocent smile
and braced himself for the explosion. None came. The
baron was simply sitting on the couch. He crossed one
long leg easily and looked back at Gabriel with a hint
of amusement. "You're determined to know our se-
crets as well, aren't you?"
"No. I mean, the door was open and . . ."
"It doesn't matter. Yes, the men and I have a kind
of philosophy. I don't mind sharing it with you at all.
But are you sure you want to know? I can get quite
verbose on the subject."
"I want to know." Feeling more sure of himself
now, Gabriel wandered back to the couch and sat
down.
"All right. The basis of our philosophy is a desire
to reconnect with our true physical nature."
Von Glower took a drink of wine and put his glass
down carefully. He watched Gabriel as though waiting
for a reaction.
"Go on."
"Think of it this way: what makes man different
from every other species on this planet?"
Gabriel shook his head.
"Civilization! Don't get me wrong—I don't resent
progress. I enjoy the finer things in life as much as
any man. But I recognize that without supreme effort
of will, luxury leads to laziness. Over the centuries
since our ancestors stalked their daily food in the
woods, we have gained much, but we have lost as
well. We have lost certain skills, perhaps even certain
physical traits. Modern man is like a dulled, rusty
blade!"
"What kinds of traits?" Gabriel asked, his pulse
quickening.
"Our sensory power, our instinct! Think of a beast
in the woods. It sees, it smells, it feels everything
around it. It knows from the scents on the wind
whether another animal has passed days before and
in which direction lies food and water. It can sense
the most silent danger."
Gabriel had a brief flash of the beast stalking Toni
Huber. He swallowed. "And man doesn't?"
"No! You put civilized man in the woods, and he
might as well be deaf, dumb, and blind!"
Von Glower had warned Gabriel about his enthusi-
asm, and here it was. His words were pointed and
sharp; his delivery impassioned.
"But we don't need the skills that, say, a wolf has,"
Gabriel said slowly, but von Glower didn't flinch.
"And . . . maybe we never had them at all," he contin-
ued. "Weren't we given brain power instead?"
"Who says we never had them? Can a blind man
not improve his sense of smell and hearing? Can Na-
tive Americans and other shamen not read the forest
the way the white man cannot? We had those senses,
that power! But as generations of city dwellers failed
to use their more acute senses, genetically they began
to fall away, the way limbs wither when not
exercised!"
"And you hope to ... to—"
"To reclaim them!" Von Glower's voice was zeal-
ous. "Not just to halt the degeneration but to re-
awaken that which was lost!"
Gabriel took a deliberately drawn-out drink of wine,
his mind stunned by the implications of this speech on
his case. Perhaps von Glower read this as doubt, for
he leaned forward and spoke urgently. "Come, Ga-
briel! Think about the phenomenon of extrasensory
perception. Now and then an individual is born who
has true powers—to read minds or perhaps move
small objects by thought alone. Have you ever won-
dered where this power comes from? There are those
who say these so-called freaks are harbingers of the
future. Not I! With our fax machines and modem
lines, what need have we for ESP? Why would evolu-
tion award it to us? No! I say these powers are throw-
backs to the past—mental equivalents of vestigial
tails!"
Gabriel found that his mouth was hanging open. He
abruptly shut it. "It's . . . um . . . it's an interestin'
theory, Friedrich. Do you have any proof that such
powers are recoverable?"
Von Glower's intensity faded into a frustrated pen-
siveness. "I have felt some things myself—sharper
hearing, keener smell. But documentable proof? That
is harder. To what extent we can recover our primal
senses—or even what those senses might prove to
be—that is what we still struggle to find out."
"I take it that huntin' is part of this recovery
process?"
"Of course," von Glower said, brightening again.
"Just reconnecting with nature is important, but hunt-
ing is even better. Hunting is the closest we can get
to our ancestry."
"You could try gettin' eaten by a lion," Gabriel
quipped.
Von Glower smiled. "True, but the benefits are
short-lived."
They were both quiet for a moment, then Gabriel
said, "There's somethin' I still don't understand.
Where are you goin' with this? I can understand how
these rejuvenated senses could be useful for huntin'
itself, or even if you wanted to live in the woods or
expected the apocalypse or somethin'. But ... I don't
get the feeling that's your angle."
Von Glower looked at him appreciatively. "You
have a way of finding the heart of things, don't you?"
Gabriel shrugged, embarrassed. He had an odd sen-
sation of being a pupil at the foot of his teacher.
"The application, yes, that is the question. No, we're
not going to live in the woods. Look at us. You have
seen something of our group. What is our angle?"
Von Glower studied him, waiting. Gabriel consid-
ered. "Money?"
"Yes," the baron said slowly.
"Prestige?"
"Power is a better word, but yes. So how does the
philosophy apply?"
Gabriel thought about it. At last he shook his head.
"I'm not sure."
Von Glower leaned forward. "The Germans have a
word—Ubermann, the super human. If we can regain
these powers, why be anything less?"
"And if you can be the Ubermann, you'll have an
advantage over those who are not," Gabriel said, fi-
nally getting it.
"Of course!"
"So you can use these sharpened instincts in the
boardroom and against your competition, is that it?"
Von Glower smiled and leaned back contentedly.
"Something like that. First, all of the men I chose for
the club are excellent specimens—bright, strong, from
excellent families, in good positions. The philosophy
makes them more fully realized, yes? The men may
each view their use of the philosophy in different
ways, but to create a superior man, a man who brings
the full physical and psychic skills of the wild to the
modern world and dominates his setting, yes. That's
about right."
It was an intriguing idea, and no doubt a seductive
one to those chosen to participate. But it didn't exactly
jive with what Gabriel had seen of the club members
so far.
"How has it affected the men? It's been fifteen
years for most of them, you said."
Von Glower flushed with pride. "They are all at the
top of their fields. Von Aigner, for example, owns one
of Germany's largest meat-butchering plants, and he
runs an exclusive private brewery. It's true that he
inherited the butchery from his father, but he's ex-
panded it a great deal."
"A butchery?" Gabriel asked, thinking about
Grossberg and the murder.
"Yes. This is much more prestigious in Germany
than in America, believe me. Germany is known for
her sausages and meats."
"Oh, I'm not ... no, that's terrific. What about
Preiss?"
"Preiss is one of Germany's top trial lawyers. He's
charming and affectionate in person, but he can be
absolutely vicious in the courtroom, I assure you."
Gabriel's green eyes stared, bemused, into von
Glower's dark ones. "Go on."
"Herr Hennemann is a politician. He has a promi-
nent position in the current government and is an ac-
knowledged contender for higher office."
"How high?"
Von Glower smiled conspiratorially. "Just between
you and I, I wouldn't be surprised if we had a prime
minister in the club in the near future."
Gabriel whistled. "That would be convenient for his
friends, wouldn't it?"
"All of the men are assets to each other."
"What about Baron von Zell?"
Von Glower's parental look faded. A slight frown
creased his brow. "Von ZelPs family owns the major-
ity of stock in one of Munich's oldest banks."
"What about his own accomplishments?"
"Garr was—is—a promising young man. He was al-
ways top of his class—the best at everything he did."
"I keep pickin' up a past tense here," Gabriel joked
lightly, but his eyes were watching von Glower
intently.
"You haven't seen Garr at his best. He's been going
through a dark period lately, I'm afraid."
"It happens to the best of us," Gabriel said, but it
was only a polite response. Personally, he thought von
Zell was a grade-A asshole.
Von Glower poured himself another glass of wine
and held the glass up to the light. He sighed deeply.
"Ah, Gabriel! How I hope you will join us. Speaking
of the other men like this—it reminds me of what high
hopes I have had for them and how they are , . ."
"Yes?"
"I don't know. They are all doing well, but we are
none of us as close as we once were. I miss that."
Von Glower shook off an air of sadness. He smiled.
"Are you hungry? I'll have Gunter prepare us a
meal."
"No. No, thank you. I should be goin', actually."
"All right. I'll be at the club this evening. Are you
planning to come by?"
"I thought I would, yeah."
They were rising when Gabriel remembered Grace's
letter. There was no way to slip it in cleverly now.
Besides, he didn't really think it had anything to do
with the case. He said, "Oh. By the way, have you
ever heard of the Black Wolf?"
There was a tinkling crash, and Gabriel turned to
see that von Glower, who was now standing, had bro-
ken his wineglass. Shards of crystal and the spill of
red wine splashed the coffee table and the cream of
the oriental carpet just below.
"How stupid of me," von Glower said blankly. "I
was just putting it down so I could see you out, and
I caught the edge. Gunter!"
Gunter appeared instantly. "Ja, Baron?"
"Wilrden Sie das bitte reinigen?" Gunter exited at
once.
"Did you get any on you?" von Glower asked. He
put a hand on Gabriel's arm and looked at his clothes
with concern.
"No. I'm fine." Gabriel said, pulling away. Gunter
returned with a tray and towel and began to clean up
the spill. Gabriel watched the baron oddly throughout
this procedure. Neither one of them spoke until Gun-
ter left.
"There we are. It's only wine," von Glower said
breathlessly. His face was still flushed. He seemed ter-
ribly embarrassed by his own clumsiness.
"Have you?" Gabriel asked. "Ever heard of the
Black Wolf?"
"Oh!" von Glower said, as though he had forgotten
all about it. "I'm sorry. You asked me that, didn't
you? Perhaps that's why I missed the table. It must
have reminded me of these killings in the papers.
Have you read about them?"
"Yes."
"They've been very upsetting."
"Any particular reason?" Gabriel asked, trying to
keep his voice neutral.
Von Glower looked surprised. "Any reason? People
being slaughtered . . . children ... in broad daylight.
Do you think I am heartless because of my philoso-
phy? Nature can be cruel, Gabriel, but it is orderly, it
is purposeful. It does not waste or torture—not like
this."
He spoke with punctuated ardor and gave Gabriel
with an oddly pleading look. He was anxious for Ga-
briel to believe him, but why? Why did he care what
Gabriel thought?
"I'm sure that's true," Gabriel said calmly.
Von Glower took a deep breath. The tenseness in
his shoulders eased. "I'm sorry. I must sound like I'm
badgering you. It's just that I'm afraid the club is not
put in the best of light under these circumstances. Be-
lieve me, this is nothing like the nature we espouse.
When a healthy beast kills, it takes only what it needs
to survive and it does so respectfully. It's only man
who is capable of such—such pointless slaughter!"
Gabriel stared at him. "But . . ." he said carefully.
"The killer isn't a man."
Von Glower colored and looked away. "Of course
not. But if it is a beast, it is a very sick beast. It
happens sometimes. Even in the wild."
Gabriel barely registered the walk back to the bus
stop or the ride back to the subway line. Even the
U-Bahn station, with its warm, sulfurous blasts of air,
did not dislodge his mind from its mooring. If he'd
been confused before, he was positively bewildered
now, wrapped in cords of thought as entangled as a
Gordian knot.
Nothing about his interview with von Glower had
gone as expected, and he was damned if he had the
slightest idea what to make of it.
Was von Glower really as innocent as he seemed?
Did he even seem innocent? The business about the
philosophy, for instance. To regain primal instincts and
powers. Might something like that not be taken too
far? How far into the mind of predatory man did the
club members go? And what would happen if they
couldn't find their way back out? Then there was that
bit with the glass. Von Glower wasn't exactly the
clumsy type. But he seemed thoroughly genuine in his
adamancy against the killings. Besides, the "black
wolf" was some historical thing; it wasn't involved
with this case anyway—so forensics told them; the
killer was red. Besides, would someone who could
transform into a wolf hybrid be bragging about achiev-
ing a "slightly keener" sense of hearing? No. In the
wake of red fur and animal bite marks, von Glower
looked like an underachiever.
Gabriel found that he was inclined to believe
Friedrich, even that he wanted to believe him. The
club's philosophy wasn't inherently bad, after all. Ga-
briel believed in following his instincts, and that stuff
about ESP—he could use that in this line of work.
You couldn't blame the man if someone or something
had taken his ideas a wee bit too far.
Of if something with a healthy carnal appetite had
been attracted to them. Gabriel narrowed his eyes and
looked out over the buildings passing by. Been at-
tracted to them, perhaps even very recently.
He arrived at the club at seven p.m. He was relieved
to see that he was not the first—Preiss had just arrived
and was pouring himself some beer. Gabriel joined
him at the bar.
"Good evening, Herr Preiss."
"And to you, Herr Knight." Preiss was blotting the
back of his neck with a handkerchief. His graying
sandy hair was wet.
"Did you run into some rain?"
Preiss smiled. "No, I was visiting a friend nearby.
Our play got a bit ... aromatic, shall I say? So I took
a quick shower."
The word aromatic was accompanied by a lazy,
knowing wink.
"Oh." Gabriel's smile faded. "Huh."
Preiss took his glass of beer and walked over to the
fireplace. Xavier had a pleasantly crackling fire going,
and Preiss settled down in the chair with obvious con-
tentment. But even contented, the man had the air of
a stray dog keeping an eye out for its next meal.
Gabriel poured himself a beer and, with some effort
of will, followed him. The man creeped him out.
"Baron von Glower mentioned that you're a law-
yer," he said as he sat down.
"When I choose to be." Preiss's honeyed tone was
the vocal equivalent of a rose's scent—a siren's call to
the bees.
"I'm sorry?"
"I have enough money to work only when I choose,
Herr Knight, which means I only take cases of special
interest." The look on Preiss's face made it clear what
he would consider interesting.
"How fortunate. Whaddya do with all your spare
time?"
Preiss took a sip of beer. "I entertain."
It was obviously an invitation to a territory that Ga-
briel did not want to explore, but to find the swal-
lowed diamond you sometimes had to poke through
a lot of manure.
"Really? And what sort of entertainin' is that?"
One corner of Preiss's mouth tipped upwards sar-
donically. "Do you like women, Herr Knight?"
"I've been known to," Gabriel said dryly.
"I adore them," Preiss rumbled. He leaned his head
back on the chair, and his light blue eyes gazed in
half-lidded rapture into Gabriel's own. "All kinds of
women, all races-—all beautiful, of course. I enjoy the
hunt—the stalk, the approach, the seduction. It's a
game I never tire of. It's a game I always win."
Gabriel had to make an effort to keep his surge of
disgust hidden. Looking at Preiss was like looking into
one of those fun-house mirrors that makes you larger;
Gabriel had had more than his share of such "hunts,"
but surely he'd never been as obvious or as ruthless
as this.
"Sounds . . . interestin'," he said.
"And sometimes"—Preiss's eyes widened mock-
ingly—"I vary the game even further. A true gour-
mand appreciates all kinds of food, all sorts of
textures."
Gabriel felt his face burning. "I'm more a meat and
potatoes man myself."
Preiss laughed out loud. The sound was as lazy and
suggestive as everything else about him. "You're not
nearly as stupid as you like to appear, Herr Knight."
Gabriel sucked in his cheeks and willed his embar-
rassment away.
"But I'm not sure I believe you," Preiss continued,
eyeing him frankly. "Unless I'm mistaken, you're
quite the hedonist."
"You must be gettin' a whiff of the past," Gabriel
said bitterly.
As Preiss continued to eye him (Gabriel had the
feeling he knew very well that he was causing discom-
fort), Gabriel struggled to turn the tide. He forced a
cold smile. "But your ideas intrigue me. Friedrich was
telling me about the club philosophy earlier today."
Preiss's amusement faded at once. He looked away
toward the fire. "Was he, now? Here?"
"No. At his home in Perlach."
"Ah! How fortunate for you."
"He's a very persuasive speaker."
"He is magnificent."
Gabriel studied Preiss. He was rolling his head on
his neck in an athletic stretching gesture that was the
kind of thing people did to show how relaxed they
were when they were just the opposite. Gabriel won-
dered what exactly was bugging Preiss, that he'd been
told about the club philosophy? Or that he'd been to
the baron's house?
"So I was wondering what the other members of
the club thought of the philosophy. You, for example,
Herr Preiss."
"I?" Preiss shrugged and took a drink. "It works,
doesn't it?"
"How so?"
Preiss's blue eyes returned to Gabriel's. "We're all
animals. Why fight it?"
Gabriel hesitated for a moment, wondering if Preiss
was serious. He appeared to be. "Perhaps you and I
heard different lectures on the subject," Gabriel said
with a smile.
"No, Herr Knight. The baron doesn't put it quite
that way, but that's the point, isn't it? 'Return to na-
ture,' 'recall our primal instinct.' In other words, shake
off the shackles of repressed human society and re-
spond only to your gut desires."
Gabriel just watched him, saying nothing.
Preiss leaned forward lasciviously. "Our gut instinct
is that of the unfettered beast, a purely physical, sen-
sory creature."
"In other words . . . don't suppress your urges."
Preiss leaned back and grunted. "That's right. If
your body wants something, it must be natural." A
meaningful stare followed.
"Hmmm. What if you get a 'natural urge' to rip
someone's throat out?"
Preiss's face clouded with confusion. It was clearly
not the direction he'd anticipated. He responded deli-
cately. "Fortunately, my own tastes run to pleasures
of the equally sticky but less fatal variety." He smiled
once again, pleased with having restated his point.
"But what if someone's natural instincts are that
violent?" Gabriel pressed. "Shouldn't they suppress
those urges?"
"Nature is about sex, Herr Knight. Every living
creature has one primary urge—to reproduce. Not,
fortunately, to murder."
"And yet sometimes they do," Gabriel said darkly.
"Sometimes they do murder—even their own kind."
For a moment Preiss said nothing, his slick amuse-
ment gone. He stared out into the room as if thinking
of something else. When he answered it was in a disin-
terested tone. "I believe nature knows how to handle
that kind of aberration. In the wild, when a member
of the pack turns cannibalistic, it is hunted down and
executed. End of mutant instinct—and its genetic
bloodline."
He blinked and smiled, turning back to Gabriel.
"But why dwell on such distasteful things? Surely, that
is not your opinion of our philosophy? Have you no
respect for the ways of nature? Believe me, civilized
man is far more violent to his own kind than the
beasts of the woods. And what does man fight about?
Religion? Politics? Ownership? Morality? If we all
lived like animals, there'd be no more war and we'd
all be far happier, I assure you."
"Do the other club members share your views?"
"Of course."
"Really? Baron von Zell doesn't seem very happy
to me."
Preiss gave a breathy dismissal. "Von Zell is an ass-
hole these days. Ignore him."
"What's his problem?"
"Who knows? He used to be the baron's favorite.
Oh, he was always arrogant, competitive on the
hunts . . . We all are. But he was pleasant enough,
even charming. I know it's hard to believe now."
"So what happened?"
Preiss shook his head, his face betraying his apathy.
"I don't know. Maybe he has personal problems,
who cares?"
"You've written him off, then."
"He's an asshole, as I've said."
"And I thought he was just that way to me," Ga-
briel said with a wry smile.
Preiss shook his head again; then he seemed to re-
live something, for he flushed with anger. "He offends
everyone—even the baron himself! One day I heard
them talking. Von Glower was telling von Zell that
he'd acted stupidly about something—which, knowing
von Zell, is not difficult to imagine. Von Zell was
furious."
Preiss stopped, fuming but cautious. It was clear he
was not planning to eludicate.
"So ... von Zell insulted him?"
"He called the baron weak, a coward!" Preiss
spewed this angrily, as though it was the ultimate in-
sult. "Bastard! I can't believe the baron let him get
away with it. He should have made him leave the club
that moment! I would have done something myself,
but ..." He paused and swirled his beer. "Well, it
was a private conversation."
Yeah, and you're scared shitless of von Zell. Gabriel
couldn't say that he blamed Preiss much.
"Did this just happen? Maybe the baron hasn't got-
ten around to dumpin' von Zell yet."
"It was a month ago at least."
"Oh."
The two men drank their beers in silence for a
while. The conversation had at least curbed Preiss's
leering, which was some relief. Gabriel tried to sort
through the facts in his head.
"It's too bad about von Zell," he mused. "Havin' a
friend in bankin' would have been convenient."
Preiss chuckled bitterly. "If you're talking about
borrowing money, take my advice: keep your head out
of that lion's mouth."
"Some of you have already pumped that well, huh?
But why would any of you need money? The baron
says you're all models of success."
Preiss rubbed his overly large lips, his eyes sour. "/
took less than some."
"Really? I suppose I can see how Herr Hennemann
might have needed a friend like von Zell. Elections
are awfully expensive."
"So are scandals," Preiss said darkly. He looked
immediately regretful.
"Scandals?"
Preiss stood up. "Excuse me," he said coldly, and
walked away. He wandered into the front hall, where
Gabriel could hear a door open and voices raised in
German greetings.
Gabriel put down his mug and wiped his hands on
his jeans. He could feel a cool sweat coat him as if
he'd just gone on a long run, and his pulse was beating
just as rapidly.
God, he'd missed this. It was like walking on the
blade of a razor, or riding his motorcycle on the rim
of the Grand Canyon.
He wondered how close he was to the edge.
Von Aigner strolled in. He was ruddy and shining
in his massive black overcoat, as bearded and towering
as the ghost of Christmas past.
"Good evening and good cheer to you, Herr
Knight!" He beamed. "Where's the beer?"
His words echoed through the building, and Hen-
nemann, as if being called by the Pied Piper, hurried
in from the front hall, still extracting himself awk-
wardly from his raincoat.
"Guten Abend," he nodded to Gabriel as he headed
for the bar.
Gabriel went over to join them.
Von Aigner was still pulling beers when Klingmann
entered. He was carrying a briefcase, and he looked
terribly nerdy as he paused in the doorway. He sat his
case down carefully to remove his coat and nodded to
the others. "Good evening, gentlemen."
Von Zell entered, bumping into Klingmann and
then glaring at him as though it were his fault. Kling-
mann hastily moved aside.
"Guten Abend, Baron von Zell," von Aigner called
out cheerfully.
"Abend." Von Zell marched to the bar and took the
beer von Aigner offered. He did not look at Gabriel.
"Meine kleine Familiel How are you all this eve-
ning?" Von Glower stood in the doorway in a gray wool
cape, his frame impossibly tall and broad-shouldered in
the garment's graceful lines. He swung it off like
Errol Flynn.
"So glad you could join us, Gabriel." Von Glower
smiled across the room as he hung up his cape. His
double-breasted black suit and high-necked white shirt
were impeccable and elegant. Gabriel wondered,
should he ever abandon blue jeans, if he could look
like that. He decided it would be too much work.
"Me too," he said.
Von Zell glared at him and went over to sit in front
of the fireplace.
Preiss had reentered behind von Glower and now
he hovered, trying to get the baron's attention.
"Konnte ich Sie fur einen Moment sprechen,
Baron?"
"Natiirlich, Preiss. Was ist los?" Von Glower put
a hand on Preiss's shoulder, and the two stepped to
one side.
Gabriel observed this worriedly. He'd been perhaps
a bit heavy-handed with Preiss.
"So what have you been up to in Munich, Herr
Knight?" von Aigner asked.
"Oh, just hangin' out."
Von Aigner shot Hennemann an amused glance.
"I'd be happy to recommend a nightclub or a few
good restaurants. Do you like good German food?"
"Sure."
"I know the best in town, don't I, Hennemann?"
"Ja." Hennemann nodded affably. "He knows
about food, our von Aigner."
"There's a kellar near the Hauptbahnhof that has
the most delectable Rindfleish."
"Actually, it's kinda difficult to get interested in
food with these killin's in the papers," Gabriel said
with a shiver. He took a sip of beer.
"Ach! Terrible. Just terrible," Hennemann com-
plained.
"Of course it's terrible," von Aigner said, offended.
"But what has that got to do with food? A man has
to eat, am I wrong?"
"And just last night there was a fatal attack only a
few blocks from here," Gabriel added. Across the
room, he noticed that Klingmann was still hovering
undecidedly near the coat rack. He seemed to want
to approach von Zell but was having a hard time get-
ting up the nerve to do so.
". . . Herr Knight?"
"What?"
"I was just saying," Hennemann repeated with care-
fully elucidation, as though slurring had been the
cause of the communication backfire, "that I spoke to
the governor myself about the situation, and I told
him that we must clear things up, and right away. The
police! What do we pay them for? And I said, 'That's
all one can do.' Isn't that right, Herr Knight?"
"All one can do. Hmmm. Let's see. Well, you guys
could offer to hunt the thing down yourselves. Ya'll
are supposed to be good at that, right?"
Von Aigner and Hennemann both looked at him as
though he'd gone mad.
"But that's not the sort of thing we do at all!" Hen-
nemann exclaimed.
"Isn't it? Why not?"
Von Aigner was glowering. "Herr Knight, the city
is the business of the police. We hunt in the woods."
"Are you sure?" Gabriel hinted broadly. Von Aig-
ner looked blank.
"Well, it is the duty of the police." Hennemann
pouted. "What do we pay them for?"
"Did you know the latest victim was a local busi-
nessman—a furrier?" Gabriel finished his beer and
put the mug down on the bar with a hardy bang. He
pushed it toward von Aigner for a refill, but von Aig-
ner was just looking at him, his brow pressed into a
frown of uncertainty.
"I hadn't heard that," said Hennemann. "Very
strange."
"Yep. Grossberg was the name."
Gabriel was watching von Aigner from the corner
of his eye as he addressed Hennemann. He saw the
color drain from the large man's face.
"I didn't even bother going into the office today!"
Hennemann bitched. "I took one look at the newspa-
per and knew it would be a nightmare, and I was right.
My secretary called this afternoon in tears, just in
tears! People calling all day long—'what are we doing
about it,' they want to know. I've done everything I
could be expected to do and—"
"More beer, please, von Aigner?" Gabriel asked.
"Was! Oh. Yes."
Von Aigner took the glass and filled it from the tap
behind the bar.
Hennemann's narrative trailed off at the sight. "Ich
auch, bitte shoen." He gulped what was in his glass
and pushed it forward.
"Did you know Herr Grossberg?" Gabriel asked
von Aigner as he pushed back the full glass and their
eyes met.
Von Aigner looked flustered. "Me? No. No. Why
do you ask?"
"You look a little upset."
Von Aigner shook his head, as adamant as Peter
before the cock crowed. "I never heard of him."
"Huh. I thought . . . since you're both in the busi-
ness of processin' animals."
"I don't know him, Herr Knight!"
"Well, of course you don't. Why should you?" Hen-
nemann said, deeply confused.
Gabriel and von Aigner looked into each other's
eyes for a moment. Gabriel smiled apologetically.
"Didn't mean anythin' by it."
Von Aigner muttered something about it being all
right and finished off his beer. He poured himself an-
other and glanced in the direction of von Zell anx-
iously. Gabriel followed his gaze and watched
Klingmann make his approach and sit down across
from von Zell at the fireplace.
Gabriel eyed the situation covetously for a moment,
then spotted the periodicals on the end table near
von Zell.
"Excuse me," he said, getting up from the stool. "I
have to go drain the snake."
The expressions of bewilderment on his compan-
ion's faces were priceless. He went into the bathroom
in the back hall, where he took his tape recorder out
of his coat pocket and put in a new tape. He pressed
the Record button and slipped the compact device up
his right sleeve.
When he came out, he headed for the fireplace.
Klingmann was speaking in hushed German as Ga-
briel walked up.
"Yes, Herr Knight?" Von Zell signaled Klingmann
to pause with an upraised hand.
"Just wanted to grab a magazine."
Von Zell glared at him, waiting for him to complete
said task and get the hell away.
Gabriel leafed through the stack of magazines as
though looking for an appealing cover. He waited until
the two men got bored enough to stop watching him.
Then he let the tape recorder slip from his sleeve and
onto the table behind the stack of magazines, a side
that conveniently faced the wall.
"Got one. Thanks."
Gabriel took the magazine back over to the bar. He
noted that von Glower and Preiss were still talking
quietly. Von Glower spied him over Preiss's head and
smiled at him. Gabriel nodded back.
"Ja, ich habe meine Nachmittagstermine abgesagt.
Wir treffen uns hier urn vier Uhr?" Von Aigner was
saying to Hennemann.
"Soviet ich weifi."
"Hey." Gabriel put the magazine down on the bar.
"Whatcha talkin' about?"
"Our monthly hunting trip," von Aigner said.
"We're going to our lodge in Eppenberg tomorrow.
It's in the Bavarian National Forest. Will you be join-
ing us?"
"Urn, I don't know." The idea was both unexpected
and unpleasant, especially since he'd never actually
gone game hunting in his life. "I don't think so. I need
to have my gun cleaned."
"There are plenty of guns at the lodge," von Aigner
offered expansively.
"Herr von Aigner," Hennemann urged circum-
spectly, "perhaps the baron didn't mean for Herr
Knight to join us quite so soon."
Von Aigner shrugged. "Oh, hell. Let's ask him.
Baron von Glower?" He called across the room, and
the dark head swiveled towards them.
"Yes, von Aigner?"
"The trip tomorrow. Will our new American friend
be joining us?"
Von Glower opened his mouth to speak, but some-
one got there first. Von Zell interjected bitterly from
across the room.
"Of course not! He's not a club member!" Von Zell
rose and took several steps toward von Glower. He
paused there, in mid room, fists knotted at his side.
Von Glower turned toward him calmly. "He's my
guest."
"I doubt he has even a hunting license!" Von Zell
turned to Gabriel. "Do you? Do you have a permit
from the landratsamtl"
Gabriel looked back at him and blinked slowly. He
was really starting to hate this guy. "Darn. I knew I'd
forgotten somethin'," he said dryly.
"See? He cannot go!"
"Nonsense, Garr," von Glower said smoothly. "The
sooner we get to see his technique the better. He can
register when we get back."
"But that's not legal!" von Zell sputtered.
Von Aigner guffawed. "Since when do you care
about what is legal? It's only a hunting license, for
God's sake."
"Von Aigner's right," von Glower said in a firm but
even tone. "No one will disturb us in Eppenberg, and
I would enjoy Gabriel's presence very much."
"Well, we certainly wouldn't want to deny the baron
anything he would enjoy!" von Zell spat out sarcasti-
cally. The room was silent as von Glower blinked la-
zily at the younger man, then looked back at Preiss
as if dismissing him. Von Zell's eyes were large and
glittering like two blue jewels. He glared at Gabriel
as if it were all his fault. And then he must have seen
something revealing on the American's face, for he
suddenly smiled—a mocking, tight smile.
"Yes. I suppose it might be an interesting exercise
at that."
The threat in the words was evident. He was to be
outdone if not undone on the hunt. Gabriel's discom-
fort deepened, his skin telling the tale. This appeared
to satisfy von Zell immensely, for his smirk broadened
and he went back to his seat.
"Our lodge in Eppenberg is privately owned," von
Aigner explained. "We have forty acres. We're rarely
disturbed." He made an effort to sound pleasant.
"Does Klingmann have a license yet?" Gabriel
asked. "He's new too, isn't he?"
"He asked me about it weeks ago," Hennemann
said. "I am certain he filed for one. Whether or not
it has come back, I couldn't say."
Someone brushed Gabriel's elbow. It was Kling-
mann himself. He mumbled an apology and asked von
Aigner for a beer.
"Have you got your hunting license, Herr Doktor?"
Hennemann asked.
"Ja. Last week it came in the mail."
As soon as von Aigner delivered Klingmann's beer,
he excused himself. He had a pensive look on his face
as he went over and bowed curtly to von Zell. Von
Zell waved him into the chair Klingmann had just
occupied.
"Does von Zell always hold court like this?" Ga-
briel asked, nodding his head toward the banker.
Klingmann followed his gaze and frowned. He
said nothing.
Hennemann shrugged. "I can't imagine."
Preiss and von Glower broke off and headed over.
"I'm sorry to have abandoned you, Gabriel," von
Glower said. "Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Oh. Hey. Sure."
Von Glower smiled at the implicit sarcasm. "I'm
glad you are coming with us on the trip. I was going
to invite you myself."
"That's kind of you. I have to tell you, though, it's
been a couple of years . . ."
Hennemann served the baron a beer.
"You'll be excellent, my friend. If you like we can
go over the general layout of the weekend later to-
night. We usually disperse here by ten on weeknights,
and I'm quite the night owl. Would you join me for
a late supper?"
"Where?"
"At my home. I have an excellent French cook."
The others at the bar were listening, though pre-
tending not to. They all looked down at the bar or
their drinks with great intent.
Gabriel hesitated. He ought to say no. He was on
a case, after all, and he should review his tapes to-
night, burn some little gray cells. Besides which, he
really couldn't afford to get too personal with any of
these men, not until the case was over. But the idea
of going back to the cold, tragic heart of the Huber
farm could not hold a candle to the warmth and luxury
of von Glower's living room, a home-cooked meal,
even the effortless charm of the man himself.
"I'd love to, thanks," he found himself saying.
Von Glower smiled broadly and tilted his head in
a courtly bow.
The pleasant moment was not to last.
"Was?" Von Zell's voice boomed through the room.
Gabriel felt his stomach clench up again. He turned
to see von Zell rise from his conversation with von
Aigner and storm toward him. Von Aigner peered
around the large arm of his chair—he looked fright-
ened behind his great dark beard.
Von Zell marched directly to Gabriel and pointed
a shaking finger at him. "I demand to know what you
are doing at this club!"
"Garr!" von Glower said, shocked.
Von Zell was shouting. "Did you know this 'guest'
of yours has been sniffing around the club? I found
him in the basement myself earlier today. And he is
asking everyone questions! He must be a reporter, or
the police!"
Gabriel felt the ground dip away beneath him. He
darted a glance toward the front hall, but he was a
good long dash from that exit, and von Zell was in
the way. He'd have an easier time, he decided quickly,
to make a run for the back exit and the alley.
At the bar, Preiss was leaning against the service
counter with his arms folded. He watched the scene
with half-lidded eyes. Klingmann stared into his beer,
and von Aigner had disappeared into the chair. Only
Hennemann looked confused.
Von Glower put his beer down and turned to face
von Zell squarely. His hands were relaxed at his sides,
but his eyes were livid.
"And what, exactly, do we have to fear from a re-
porter or the police?" Von Glower's words were spo-
ken low, soft velvet-covered iron.
Von Zell's expression of triumphant rage faltered a
bit. He looked from Gabriel to von Glower and back
again. "You . . . you don't care that he's prying into
our private business? Sniffing around the club? Our
practices? What possible motive could he have?"
"Garr!" von Glower interrupted sharply. "Gabriel
is my guest. Of course he's curious about the club.
You're the one who's turning this into an inquisition!"
Von Zell's face registered pure incredulity and in-
comprehension. He stared at von Glower as though
he couldn't be serious. "You don't care," he said, al-
most to himself.
"Why should I? He's welcome to know anything he
wishes to know about this club. I have nothing to
hide." Von Glower turned his shoulder ever so slightly
away from von Zell. It was a small gesture, but it said
quite clearly that the conversation was over.
Von Zell blinked rapidly, his jaw working.
"Then . . . then it is on your head!" he spat, almost
in tears of rage and frustration. He turned on his heel
and stormed from the room. The bang of the front
hall door echoed loudly with his passing.
Gabriel turned to find Preiss's eyes upon him. Preiss
stared, as expressionless as a shark. Gabriel turned
away uneasily. His hands were shaking. He put down
his glass.
"I'm sorry you had to put up with that," von
Glower said, his voice still angry. "It's unforgivable."
"No, um, I should have ... I do ask too many
questions."
"Nonsense. What else is a good mind for?"
"But it's been upsetting people. I'm not exactly
helpin' the harmony around here."
Von Glower uttered a bitter laugh. "The harmony
was shattered a long time ago. Garr gets .. . territorial.
I'm tired of it, frankly."
But Gabriel's heart was still hammering. His ears
were hot and he knew they were bright red. God! His
fair complexion really sucked in this line of work.
"I should get goin' anyway. I'd like to clean up
before tonight. That is, if . . ."
"Of course!" Von Glower smiled reassuringly.
"Don't fret about Garr. He won't be with us for long."
Gabriel gave von Glower a bewildered look but
said nothing.
"I'll be home in about an hour. I'll see you then?"
"All right, Friedrich," Gabriel said numbly. He
backed away and waved a hand toward the bar.
"Good night, everyone."
The men at the bar responded to Gabriel's valedic-
tory pleasantly enough, but it was clear they were all
unnerved. That von Zell had lost favor, they'd known
for some time. But how far from grace he'd fallen and
who might replace him, those were different matters
entirely.
They watched Gabriel leave with grim, invidious
eyes.
The machine pulled into the driveway of the Huber
farm. It was a dull, strange-smelling, cold gray blob.
It did not appeal to the thing in the woods, but the
thing knew that what would get out of the cold blob
would—would appeal very, very much.
It licked its snout anxiously and permitted itself an
impatient whine because the human had not yet
emerged and wouldn't hear, couldn't hear, not from
this distance. Humans were such pitiful, hapless, stu-
pid creatures.
The human emerged from the machine. Its footsteps
crunched loudly on the gravel, and it was making a
strange sound, one that the thing in the woods could
have identified as whistling if it had concentrated, but
it chose not to. The sound was not important; it was
just something that humans did. What was important
was that the human was crossing the driveway and
heading for the door.
The thing's hind legs danced in anxious delirium,
then tensed down, prepared to bolt from its cover at
the edge of the woods. It watched.
The human found its present. The man stumbled
upon it in the dark, exactly as the thing had known it
would. Its breath quickened into a pant of need as it
watched the human stop and look down, bend over
to see.
It began to creep forward on stealthy paws.
Yes, the human was examining its prize now, a gift
from Death, the neighbor's cat with its entrails strewn
across the lawn. The thing could see the human's
bright yellow glow shift into a darker tone with disgust
and a little fear too. Soon, oh soon, that same light
would be awash in the primal red of terror—like ethe-
real blood staining the aura.
The human looked around, but didn't see the thing
approaching in the dark, dark, dark. Oh, the man was
so close now and he didn't see what stalked him in
the dark! He couldn't even smell Death coming! The
cat had been smarter! The thing pulled its lips back
from its teeth, baring them for the delicious moment
to come. Pleasure and excitement made it quiver.
The human bent over farther, picked at something
in the grass. At that moment—the moment the thing
was about to leap—something blinding swung free of
the human's covering, something that seared the
thing's brain with a light like fire.
The thing from the woods whimpered a cry of pain
and began to back up.
The object—the blinding light—swung freely in the
air, back and forth, hanging from the human's neck.
It sent its torturous rays out to seek and pierce. The
human looked up and tensed. Its aura blushed darker
with fear.
But the thing was beyond enjoying or even caring
about such things. The pain was excruciating. It was
unbearable. It turned and fled back into the safety of
the woods. When it had gotten far enough from the
light for the pain to stop, it turned and peered back
at the human through the trees.
The man stood up, looking at the woods now. It
began backing toward the house, its aura and its body
language a hideous enticement of fear, an invitation
that could not be acted upon. The human spent some
time fumbling at the door, then disappeared inside.
The thing in the woods lifted its head and howled
its frustration and rage at the moon.
Chapter 4
Rittersberg
The cold, companionless silence of the castle had
wrapped around Grace like a bitter blanket all eve-
ning, seeping into her heart and numbing her spirits.
So it was no surprise that when sleep finally came it
was a bitter sleep, with dreams as icy and sterile as
the walls of the castle itself.
She dreamed of snow.
She was in a fir- and oak-strewn forest, and it was
laden with arctic glitter in icy white crystals and rolling
pearly beds. The forest was absolutely still; not even
her footsteps made any sound. She seemed to be
floating, or perhaps just walking, like a North Pole
messiah, across the top of the downy drifts.
She wandered in this alien landscape for some time.
The silence and the snow became oppressive, as if the
frosty hand of Death itself was gathering around her
for a good hard squeeze. She was cold, but despite
the fact that she was wearing only a nightdress in her
dream, the cold seemed to be coming from inside her,
as if the scene was injecting the chill directly into
her bones.
She moved about that silent, piney citadel looking
for a way out—a cabin, perhaps, or a road. And after
a while she realized she was being followed.
By wolves.
She didn't hear them—nothing broke the stillness
of the woods. She happened upon her own footprints,
a record of her confusion, and later she happened
upon them again. The third time this happened, her
mind (perhaps simply bored with the repetition) sup-
plied something new—a set of footprints curving out
of the trees to join her own. The tracks looked a little
like dog tracks to her inexpert eyes, but they were
large. Huge even. When she realized what they were,
terror raced through her blood in an icy rush. She
choked back a scream, afraid they would hear it and
beset her. She began to run.
Now the dream changed entirely. Now it was a
nightmare pure and unadulterated. She was running,
running through the snow and the woods, and behind
her were wolves, a pack of wolves, and yes, she could
see them now, in flashes, when she looked behind.
Three wolves, four, five, maybe more. They wove in
and out of trees, fanning out and circling her—tireless
hunters functioning with eager efficiency. She ran and
they closed in. They grew so close she could feel the
wet spittle of the snow kicked up by their churning
paws.
She broke through the trees and found herself at
the top of a snowy embankment. Below, an open field
stretched into the horizon. She half tumbled, half ran
down the bank, spilling into the valley, and now when
she looked behind, her hunters were clearly visible,
no longer glimpses of fur and fang from behind the
trees. They sped toward her. She realized, fully, that
she had only made their job easier.
Then something intruded upon the silence and the
white like a trumpeted reprieve. It was the sound of
bells, of something heavy moving across the snow. She
turned from her pursuers and saw, miraculously, that
a sleigh was up ahead and was speeding toward her
down the valley. A sleigh!
And what a sleigh. It was like the drawings of Cind-
erella's coach she'd seen in picture books as a child.
A team of four horses drew it, and their trappings and
the sleigh itself were gilded and carved and bedecked
with cherubs like some baroque gravy bowl enlarged
and set on runners. The driver whipped the horses,
swung toward her.
She cried out to the sleigh driver, an entreaty.
And then the sleigh was there. It didn't slow, she
was simply able to grab the hand that reached down
from the passenger seat and was swept upward with
one strong pull. She landed on a velvet seat and stared
up into the face of the man who had rescued her. He
was a brilliant figure, more alarming and surreal than
the sleigh itself. He was tall, with glittering black hair
and mustache, crystal blue eyes and the palest skin.
A heavy fur blanket covered him from the waist down
and a thick black wool coat with ribbons emphasized
the broadness of his shoulders, gave him an imperial
air.
Grace recognized him from the picture she'd seen
in the gasthof. It was King Ludwig II. She studied his
face with amazement and wonder, struck and quick-
ened by his beauty, by his iridescent blue eyes. Then
he turned to look out the back of the sleigh, and she
reluctantly tore her eyes from his face and followed
his gaze. The wolves raced on, but they were already
far away and falling back steadily, like snowflakes
drifting across the surface of the icy field.
She was suffused with relief and gratitude and
something else—a sense of anticipation and girlish
awe about the man who sat next to her.
She turned to face him once more, her skin warm
and blushing.
But the man who'd sat next to her had disappeared.
In the seat beside her now was a huge silvery wolf. It
bared its teeth.
Grace woke up screaming in the blackness of the
Ritter bedroom.
No one came.
She had just come downstairs when the phone rang.
Gerde was nowhere to be seen, so Grace answered it.
It was Frau Holstedder at the post office. There was
a letter waiting from Herr Knight. Frau Holstedder
sounded almost as excited as Grace.
She reached the town square in five minutes and
(to the disappointment of Frau Holstedder) took the
letter over to a bench in the town square to read.
Grade:
You decided to come over. Great. Guten tag and
all that. I'm sure you and Gerde are hitting it off.
Thanks for finding the werewolf book and journals.
They might come in handy. About Ludwig II—you
know, I think you might have something there. Harry
says there are two places you should check out. Lud-
wig had a castle called "New Swan" something or
other, and there's a museum about him at... Herren-
chiemsee (Harry helped me spell that). I really think
you should look into it.
As for me, never fear. Things are going smoothly.
The case is being handled by a Kommissar Leber, and
I've finally gotten the okay to go see him. My main
suspect, a Doktor Klingmann (from the zoo), belongs
to a hunt club run by a man named von Glower, and
I think I've managed to get myself in there too.
Whether it leads to actually learning anything is an-
other matter.
Gabriel
Grace lowered the letter and checked the envelope.
There was nothing on it except the address of the
lawyer—Ubergrau. No phone number or hotel. She
frowned.
And nothing about the Black Wolf either, not even
a response to her warning. There was just this suspi-
ciously eager encouragement about Ludwig II. Did
Gabriel really think it was relevant to the case?
She thought about it, her cheeks hollowing vexedly.
Probably not, not really.
The things was, she was pretty sure he was wrong.
* * *
The Smiths were just being served their breakfast
when Grace entered the gasthof. She approached their
table leerily.
"Mr. and Mrs. Smith? I'm Grace Nakimura from
the castle."
"Yes, I know. How are you, dear?" Mrs. Smith was
pleasant enough, but there was a restrained air about
her.
"Miss Nakimura," Mr. Smith said. He stood up.
"Sit down, please. I just wanted to apologize for the
other night, and for not coming by earlier. I suppose
I was a bit thrown by what you said."
Mrs. Smith's round face spread into a generous
smile. "You're forgiven, dear! Why don't you join
us?"
"All right."
Werner brought her fruhstuck, and it was as good
as she remembered it. Although the table manners of
her companions left something to be desired, they
were a welcome change from the silent reproach of
Gerde. While they ate they chatted about the kinds
of things Americans in Germany chat about—the
weather, the quaintness of the villages, the sturdy me-
ticulousness of the natives. Mrs. Smith was much sav-
vier this time around. She did not breathe a word of
the occult. Grace finally brought it up herself when
Werner at last disappeared with their empty plates.
"At the castle you said something about the Black
Wolf?"
"So Emil tells me."
"Where did you get that name? What did you
mean?"
Mrs. Smith smiled regretfully. "I don't know, sugar
pie. When these things come, I'm just like a telephone.
I don't know who the message was from or what it
meant. I've never heard of the Black Wolf myself.
Have you?"
"Yes,"  Grace  said  after  a  moment's  hesitation.
There was a heavy pause, but Grace said nothing
more.
"Well!" Mrs. Smith sniffed. "The important thing
is to answer exactly the questions you raised. Who was
the sender and what did they mean for us to do?"
"But how can we answer those questions if you
don't know?"
"I don't know now, but if we put our energies to-
gether and ask for the answers we may learn
something."
Grace studied Mrs. Smith, confused. "You're not...
you don't mean a seance, do you?"
"Of course not!" Mr. Smith interjected with a
chuckle.
"Good, because I—"
"I'm much better at tarot cards," Mrs. Smith said
cheerfully. She reached down to retrieve her enor-
mous vinyl purse and rooted around in it until she
pulled out a deck of cards.
"Tarot cards?"
"Just think of it as a language, dear. The spirits
can't speak to us directly—not usually anyway—but
through symbols they can get their point across."
Mrs. Smith merged the cards with an expert hand,
rapped them on the table, separated and rejoined
them. Satisfied, she clasped them between both hands,
nearly hiding them from sight, and brought her hands
to her bosom. She closed her eyes and prayed over
them silently.
"There! Now, who shall we do the reading for: you
or your SchattenjagerT'
"Um, I thought the idea was to learn about the
Black Wolf?"
"Of course, but he's relevant to one of you—maybe
both. I can't very well do a reading on the Black
Wolf—I don't even know who or what he or it is."
There was a hurt tone carefully applied to that
last remark.
"Hmmm . . ." Grace frowned skeptically. "Mine, I
guess. I'm the one that got the message."
"Good!" Mrs. Smith held the deck out to Grace.
"Now, I want you to take these cards and push your
energies into them with all of your might."
Grace, feeling more than a little silly, did as asked.
Fortunately, Werner was still back in the kitchen and
was not on hand to watch this bizarre ritual. Grace
handed the cards back. She was real close to deciding
that she'd been right about the Smiths after all—they
were kooks. Mrs. Smith might have an open channel
somewhere, but the rest of her wiring was a mess. She
glanced at her watch.
"We begin," said Mrs. Smith, "praise Jesus."
She very deliberately laid out four cards in a row,
turning each over slowly and studying the faces with
interest.
"Well? What's it say?" Grace asked, curious de-
spite herself.
Mrs. Smith pointed at the first card on the left.
"This is your soul card. It applies to all of your life-
times. You've drawn the Empress, dear!"
"The Empress?"
"It means your soul's path is one of leadership—a
kind of maternal or Amazonian leadership, if you pre-
fer. It also means that your soul is essentially feminine.
We incarnate in the opposite sex sometimes, you
know, just to round out our natures. But you're defi-
nitely a woman at heart."
"That's a relief," Grace said dryly.
"This second card represents you in this lifetime.
It's the Chariot. It represents self-discipline and con-
trol—victory over instincts and desires. You put on a
mask of detachment to hide your emotional nature.
The Chariot is very masculine—ambition, dominance.
You will seek out great achievement, but you will pay
a price."
"This doesn't sound anything like me," Grace
pointed out.
"Yes, dear," Mrs. Smith soothed, patting her hand.
"The third card represents the Other. You've drawn
the Magician."
Mrs. Smith looked up at Grace slyly. "Who is he,
dear?"
"I'm sorry?"
"The Magician, your Other! Oh, this is a very pow-
erful card—major Arcana!"
Grace glanced at Mr. Smith but didn't see anything
there to illuminate her. "You're whizzing right by me
with this Other business," she said.
Mrs. Smith shook her head, making her extra chins
jiggle. "Everyone has an Other! It's the soul who is
most interwoven with your own at this moment. Some-
times it's someone you've been linked to in other life-
times as well. It's the Schattenjager, isn't it? What's
his name, dear?"
Grace put on a "this is stupid" face, but her heart
thudded painfully in her chest. "The Schattenjager^
Gabriel Knight."
"Gabriel Knight! A name of power! And he is pow-
erful, this one!"
Mrs. Smith's face glowed and she pinned down the
Magician card with one chubby finger. The card itself
showed a robed man standing before an altar-shaped
rock, one hand thrusting forward a wand. Grace
looked at it distrustfully.
"The Magician is dexterous and cunning, mischie-
vous and manipulating," Mrs. Smith said.
"That's Gabriel, all right," Grace quipped.
"And very strong with magical and occult powers.
How interesting! Your chariot is all logic and reason-
ing while his Magician is spiritual and intuitive. Those
are feminine qualities really."
Grace snorted. "Gabriel's about as feminine as a
jock strap."
Mrs. Smith smiled patronizingly. "Yes, dear."
She unpinned the Magician and moved to the fourth
card. "This last card shows us what you're trying to
achieve at this moment. It's the Strength or Trial
card."
Grace gave Mrs. Smith a confused look.
"A trial—a test, dear. The card represents finding
the strength to continue some difficult task. It also
represents the integration of conflicting energies to
create some kind of explosive force—I wonder if that's
your Chariot and his Magician energies."
Grace looked highly doubtful.
"What is the trial, do you know?" Mrs. Smith asked.
Grace shifted uncomfortably. "Urn, we are on a case
right now."
Mrs. Smith clasped her hands to her chest dramati-
cally. "A Schattenjnger case? I knew it! What's it
about?"
Grace began to speak, then thought better of it.
"I'd ... I'd rather not say."
Mrs. Smith smiled pityingly. "As you wish. But the
case will be difficult. You must let your love give you
power—use the positive energy of your union or you
may not succeed."
"Look, Gabriel and I are just friends," Grace said
impatiently. "There is no ... like . . . union."
Mrs. Smith exchanged a knowing glance with Mr.
Smith, then said gently, "If I might suggest . . . This
isn't the best of times for defenses, punkin'. When you
face evil, positive emanations like love are powerful
weapons."
"I'll try to remember that if I run across any,"
Grace said with a scowl.
"I hope so, dear." Mrs. Smith gathered up the cards.
"Now, shall we do one for your Schattenjager as
well?"
Grace glanced at her watch again. "I don't think so.
My reading didn't tell us anything about the Black
Wolf, and I don't have much time."
She hadn't meant it as a reproach; it just came out
that way.
"The spirit world works at its own pace and in its
own ways," Mr. Smith said with a hint of censure.
Mrs. Smith patted his hand reassuringly. "Emil is
right. I can't guarantee that Gabriel's reading will give
us the answers we're looking for, but the message
was a warning for him, wasn't it?" She looked at
her husband. "Didn't I say, 'Tell him, beware the
Black Wolf?"
"That's right, Mother," Mr. Smith said. Grace sank
back with a sigh into her chair.
After shuffling the cards again and having Grace
think about Gabriel over them (this was even stupider
than last time), Mrs. Smith laid out another line of
four.
"Yes! His soul card is the Magician!" Mrs. Smith
said as she turned it over. "You see, dear? It matches
your Other exactly!"
Grace wondered how quick of hand Mrs. Smith was
with those cards, but she smiled politely.
"And his lifetime card ... Oh. The Lovers."
Grace snorted. "If that means what I think it means,
you're starting to convince me. His bio does read like
a porno version of Lewis and Clark."
"It's not a sexual card," Mrs. Smith said worriedly.
"It's a duality card. The Lovers represent opposites—
male versus female, but also good versus evil, altruism
versus selfishness, hedonism versus saintliness. It tells
me that Gabriel is someone with two very distinct
faces and two conflicting sets of impulses."
Grace brought her thumbnail to her mouth worriedly.
"Gabriel's challenge in this lifetime is to integrate
the conflicting sides of himself. Until he does, he will
be a very troubled soul." Mrs. Smith shook her head
sympathetically.
Grace said nothing.
"And you will find peace," Mrs. Smith said, reach-
ing out to rescue Grace's hand from being munched,
"when you learn to love the worst of him as well as
you already love the best. When you can admit that
the things that draw you about him and the things
that repel you are all a part of the same man."
Grace pulled back her hand. "I told you, we're
just friends!"
"Mother," Mr. Smith warned.
Mrs. Smith made an I-call-'em-as-I-see-'em face.
She moved to the second card. "His Other is the
High Priestess."
"I suppose that's me," Grace said cynically.
"No, dear, it's not. The priestess represents psychic
mysteries, deep wisdom, spiritual powers. No, this is
a very different energy than that of your own earthy
Empress."
Grace felt an unwelcome flash of jealousy and pic-
tured the elegant Gerde, but Mrs. Smith was lost in
her own ideas and didn't notice her discomfort. "The
Other card can change from time to time, depending
on the situation. I wonder if this is our connection to
the voice? Perhaps the High Priestess represents the
force that's trying to contact Gabriel right now."
"That's not much help," Grace said impatiently.
"What about the Black Wolf?"
"But it is a help. The High Priestess is a spirit guide
card if ever there was one! At least it tells us the voice
is benevolent. Someone or some force—the High
Priestess—is trying to warn Gabriel."
Grace huffed. "But ... if Gabriel's this Magician
and if he's so very psychic or whatever, why did this
spirit guide talk to me?"
Mrs. Smith shrugged helplessly. "I don't know,
sweetie. Perhaps Gabriel's blocked right now. And
there is this duality business—perhaps Gabriel's
blocking himself. Let me go on and see if things
clear up."
Mrs. Smith laid down a new card, the fifth. Grace
took one look at it and gave a bitter laugh. "Ha!
Death! No worries, then."
"Now, you leave the card reading to me!" Mrs.
Smith admonished. "The Death card is a trans forma-
tion card. It doesn't usually mean physical death; it
implies some kind of shift from one thing to another.
The transition may be painful, but the new state isn't
necessarily bad. I'm going on."
She laid out a sixth card. Grace sat forward to peer
at it.
"Two of wands," said Mrs. Smith in a flat voice.
"Yeah? So?"
Mrs. Smith chewed her salmon pink lips. "Hmmm.
Wands is Mars in Aries; that's a war card. And the
two ... I would say, in conjunction with the Death
card, that there are two possible transformations."
Mr. Smith put his arm around the back of the bench
and placed a firm hand on Mrs. Smith's shoulder.
Grace did not mistake the gesture or its meaning. Mrs.
Smith was turning a little peaked.
"What kind of transformations?"
Mrs. Smith began shaking her head to and fro in a
jittery gesture. "It's a ... I think it's a spiritual battle.
He's confronting a very real challenge about his dual-
ity, perhaps one of many he will face, or perhaps the
battle of his lifetime. As for a result—he could go ...
either way."
"Either way what!" Grace asked, caught between
feeling exasperated and frightened.
"Mother . . ." Mr. Smith said softly.
"We're talking about a transformation." Mrs.
Smith's voice was trembling audibly now. "Either he'll
come out of this pushed more toward his good side
or more toward his bad. It will not be a little push,
either, it'll—it'll be a big push. The spirit guide has
been sent, after all, to help him . . . help him choose."
Grace said nothing, watching Mrs. Smith with grow-
ing concern.
"Gabriel has inherent gifts, p—p—-powers." Mrs.
Smith was no longer even looking at Grace now but
staring past her. "There is something he must d—d—
do. If he goes wrong, it will be not a small hole. Not
small."
Something in Mrs. Smith's face made all of this very
real and very frightening, despite the bizarreness of
the words themselves. So much New Age fluff and
stuffing, so Grace would have thought, but Mrs.
Smith's hands were shaking in a palsied manner and
she seemed unable to put down the cards. She fell
silent, her eyes fixed on the wall behind Grace's head.
A fine sheen had appeared on her upper lip and
cheeks.
Mr. Smith took the cards gently from his wife's
hands and pushed them as far away from her as he
could. He put both of his arms around her and held
her tightly, his face grim.
"You'd better go now, miss. Come back later."
Grace nodded and stood reluctantly. She paused.
"She'll be all right," Mr. Smith said a bit sharply.
"Just go."
The episode in the gasthof made Grace feel a bit
guilty about leaving town. What exactly had hap-
pened? Had something been trying to prevent Mrs.
Smith from speaking? Was it some kind of epileptic
condition? Or was she putting on an act? Whatever it
was, Mr. Smith would look after his wife, and Grace
herself had still learned nothing about the Black Wolf.
If Ludwig II knew the Black Wolf, as Christian Ritter
implied, there might be a mention of him somewhere
in some official archive or another. It was worth a
look, despite Gabriel's obvious skepticism.
Besides, the truth was that she was more than a
little interested in seeing the castles herself, particu-
larly after her dream. She bought a southern Bavaria
map at the grocery store and set out in her rental car.
And as she drove the hour and a half to Neusch-
wanstein, Grace thought about what she'd learned the
day before.
Ludwig II of Bavaria. That she had dreamed of the
king and of wolves was no mystery—she'd gone to
bed with her brain full of the stuff. Still, now that the
terror of it was safely behind her, she recalled the
dream with some interest. What emotional intensity it
had evoked! She could still remember how compelled
she was by the look in his eyes, the awe and desire
she had felt in his presence.
The man in her dreams did not look like the king—
or, rather, he looked like the pictures she'd seen of
him in his early thirties. Werner was quite a fan, and
yesterday he'd taken her on a tour of his Ludwig
memorabilia—several pictures in the gasthof proper
and more back in his living quarters. He'd given her
a brief and obviously slanted summary of the king's
life, but it was heartfelt for all that
Ludwig had been eighteen when crowned. His fa-
ther had died unexpectedly, leaving the young heir
little choice. The pictures from this time were of a
very tall, still gawky boy. His black, naturally curly
hair formed baby-doll ringlets around his thin, pale
face. Enormous, black-lashed blue eyes stared out at
the viewer, and the colorful, tight-fitting militia-style
costumes he preferred finished off the romanticism
with a flourish.
No wonder the entire country had fallen in love
with him—called him the fairy tale king. No wonder
Bavarians had not forgotten him even to this day.
Werner had made that abundantly clear.
And there were other official portraits, portraits of
a handsome man coming into his prime. In his late
twenties Ludwig began sporting a mustache and goa-
tee. In his late thirties, his hair was still thick and
wavy and his bearing regal. His figure had gradually
thickened to a staunch, solid paternalism.
But he had never been a father, or even married,
or so Werner admitted briefly when she'd probed. He
had built castles instead, and had died at the age of
forty-one. Howl, Grace had asked. They drowned him
in a lake, Werner'd confided. When probed who
"they" were, he gave her one of his knowing looks.
Naturally, the historian in her was aroused. She'd
even phoned her old Yale professor, Barclay, to see
if he knew the name of a local Ludwig scholar. He'd
promised to get back to her.
And today there were the castles. The road to
Neuschwanstein roamed through countryside and
farmland that was green and rolling. White Bavarian
farmhouses with window boxes full of early spring daf-
fodils dotted the landscape. The day was cold and
rainy, but it was thrilling nonetheless to be in such a
beautiful and foreign place, to wander the back roads
of southern Germany for the first time in her life.
Then she rounded a bend and saw the castle. It took
her breath away, floating above the green valley below
like a vision of the Second Coming—a magnificent
palace in white stone resplendent with towers and tur-
rets, shining against the backdrop of the purple-blue
mountains beyond.
Neuschwanstein.
She bought her ticket and rented an English audio
tour headset. The gift shop was crammed with mugs
and T-shirts and posters and steins, all with the image
of the castle or Ludwig on them. There were books
too, in several languages. She promised herself she'd
be back and forged ahead into the castle itself.
She walked through the rooms slowly, marveling at
the evident expense. Every wall was covered with
hand-carved wood in a shining light cherry. Painted
murals filled the upper six feet of the walls before
coffered and carved ceilings capped the expanse. The
furnishings were just as elaborate. The bed was a ba-
roque carved masterpiece, like some altarpiece for a
grand cathedral, covered with blue and gold hand-
embroidered coverlets. The tour tape explained.
Ludwig was obsessed with building castles through-
out his adult life. Neuschwanstein, his third and greatest,
was built between 1869 and 1886. Another obsession was
mythology, a taste he shared with the composer Richard
Wagner. Ludwig adored Wagner's operas, and Neu-
schwanstein is filled with images from them. The en-
tryway panels are from the Siegfried saga. The
bedroom murals depict scenes from the tragic love
story, Tristan and Isolde.
There were few visitors on this rainy March week-
day, and Grace paused at her leisure, taking in every-
thing with wide eyes and filing it away as best she
could. It was odd, but she could feel a sense of Ludwig
here, a feeling not unlike the one he'd evoked in her
dream, but colder and more aloof. Something about
the excessiveness of the bedroom bespoke a soul who
loved beauty but who was also out of control. The
tape concurred.
/( took fourteen woodcarvers four and a half years
to create the bedroom. It was precisely this kind of
extravagance that bankrupted the king. In the years be-
fore his death, he found it increasingly difficult to find
money from any source. That is why this castle was
never fully completed and plans for a beloved fourth
castle, Falkenstein, were never begun.
There was a doorway at the far end of the room
with red rope draped across it. From the entrance one
could look into a small chapel, no larger than a walk-
in closet. A stained-glass window let in colored light
through images of a black-haired monarch in angelic
garb. On the altar was a shining gold cross and an
image of the Madonna and child, both with black skin.
The king was a devout Catholic, as were all of the
Wittelsbach rulers. They kept Bavaria true to the Holy
Roman Church even during the worse rampages of the
Protestant wars. The Madonna figure here is a repre-
sentation of the Black Madonna of AltOtting, a favorite
pilgrimage site of the Bavarian monarchy.
The figure on the window is St. Louis, Louis IX of
France. Ludwig was fascinated by the French monar-
chy, which he admired for its absolute authority and
aristocratic rule. Besides Louis IX, whom he admired
for his saintly qualities, Ludwig also adored Louis
XIV, the Sun King, who is featured at his castle in
Herrenchiemsee. The king's fickle obsession with these
figures was legendary. For a period of about a year the
king had all Louis images covered up with black cloth.
No historian has ever satisfactorily explained why.
Grace sighed, her mind troubled by the picture that
was forming. She moved on.
This is the king's living room. The tapestries and
murals in this room depict scenes from the Lohengrin
story. Note the swan images on the ceiling and on the
fabrics throughout the room. Lohengrin was the first
Wagner opera the king ever saw. He was only sixteen
when he attended a performance in the Residence The-
ater in Munich, and it so affected him that he consid-
ered it a form of enlightenment.
Perhaps because of his early connection to Lohen-
grin, the swan became a favorite motif of the king's.
To him the swan represented majesty and purity—the
qualities of the Knights of the Grail with whom Lud-
wig identified.
Of course, the tragedy of Lohengrin was his essential
loneliness. This, too, was the fate of the king.
Grace walked the large room carefully. It was in-
deed filled with swan images—in the woodwork, in
the decorative embellishments on the walls, even in
the embroidered cushions on the chairs. Here was an
elaborate cabinet, carved from wood to look like a
miniature castle; a broad, dark desk where the king
conducted his affairs; the long sofa and chairs and
table where he sat. Alone.
Why had he remained so solitary? Surely, he'd been
the most handsome and eligible bachelor in Germany,
perhaps in the world, for most of his adult life. Obvi-
ously, he had a heart. No soulless person could create
this kind of art.
Beyond the living room the ceiling dropped, and
Grace found herself stepping incongruously into a
cave-like room carved from rock.
The grotto is a reproduction of a scene from the
Tannhauser opera. The king loved to create fantasy
worlds and immerse himself in them. As the years went
on, Ludwig became more and more reluctant to leave
his fantasy playlands, and more removed from the du-
ties of the state.
She reached a flight of stairs and took them up,
winding hi a circle around a massive stone pillar in
what was clearly one of the towers. At the top was a
huge, gilded hall.
This is the Singer's Hall. It was built for concerts
and performances, though Ludwig himself never gave
a public concert here. It is said that during the last few
years of his life, Wagner would visit the king and the
two men would shut themselves up in this room. The
mystery is further compounded by the murals on the
wall. Initially, they were from the Parsival saga, but
in 1882 Ludwig had them all repainted, supplying the
descriptions of the scenes himself. Unlike the other
rooms in the castle, the scenes in the Singer's Hall are
not from any identifiable opera or myth. It has fueled
rumors of a "lost opera," particularly since the king
wrote to the conductor of the Munich opera in 1883
telling him to "prepare for a new Wagner." Of course,
no such piece ever appeared and the composer died the
same year.
It is yet another of the many enigmas left by the life
of the fairy-tale king.
Grace, by now familiar with the fantasy paintings of
the castle, walked over to the first mural. The style
was the same as those in the compartments below, a
kind of Arthurian fantasy blended with realism that
was really quite beautiful and appealing, rather like
illustrations from a children's book.
On the first panel was a Valkyrie-type maiden with
long, wavy gold hair. She stands in a modest dwelling
with an older couple, surely her parents. They're all
dressed in expensive but threadbare clothes. The par-
ents hold out a picture to the young maiden beseech-
ingly, a picture of an older man. The girl weeps.
The second panel. The rich older man, in a public
ceremony, gives the golden-haired girl a bracelet. The
girl looks terribly sad, but her parents stand firmly
behind her. A betrothal?
The third panel. The girl, alone in her room, casts
the bracelet into the fire in a tearful rage.
The fourth panel. The girl, now draped in conceal-
ing robes, is at the blacksmith's. She speaks with a
dirty, ragged apprentice, showing him the bent and
ruined bracelet. Her face reflects her fear, and that of
the youthful and handsome apprentice reflects loyalty
and love.
The fifth panel. The maid sits in a garden glen. On
the ground next to her is a newly opened burlap parcel
with a mended bracelet inside, but the maid isn't pay-
ing it the slightest heed, for the apprentice is leaning
over, kissing her. Her posture indicates that she is star-
tled but not necessarily displeased.
Grace grinned.
The sixth panel. The maid and the apprentice flee-
ing in the dark woods. Dogs and men on horseback
are almost upon them.
Grace crossed the room and began making her way
up the opposite side of the hall.
The seventh panel. A legal proceeding. The maid
and the apprentice stand bound while the rich fiance
pleads his case. He is pointing a finger at the apprentice,
his face dark with thunder. Accusing? Condemning?
The eighth panel. Grace stopped in her tracks and
stared. In the foreground is a white, shining wolf. It
stands in front of a pair of terrified children, barring
the way. A few feet down the painted path is a black
wolf, growling carnivorously.
A black wolf. And a white wolf. A black wolf and
a white wolf. Geez Louise.
The intent of the painting was clear—the white wolf
was protecting the children from the black wolf. But
what, if anything, did it have to do with the Black
Wolf that Christian Ritter had warned Ludwig about?
For that matter, what did it have to do with the first
seven panels?
The ninth panel. The golden-haired maid is confined
in a sparsely furnished stone tower. She sits at the
window, looking down. At the edge of the woods in
the distance stands the white wolf. She is staring at
the wolf, and the wolf at her.
The tenth panel. The wedding feast. The villagers
are gathered in their finest clothes, and at the bridal
table is the cruel-looking rich man, the maid dressed
in white, and her parents. Everyone in the picture is
in a state of alarm, for in the middle of the room
stands the white wolf. Its snout is raised in a howl. At
the head table the rich man is in the act of trying to
rise. One hand clutches his throat.
Grace stared at the picture for a long time. What,
exactly, was going on in the scene? She moved slowly
to the eleventh panel, hoping for elucidation. It was
the final, requisite tragic scene, reminiscent of so many
of the Wagner operas or of the Shakespearean trag-
edies, for which the catchphrase was formulated
"everyone dies."
Here lay the white wolf on its side, bloody from
battle and clearly dying. Draped over the wolf in
mourning is the maid with the golden hair. The wed-
ding guests, now carrying torches and rough weapons,
light the wooded scene. And the black wolf, its tongue
hanging out, lies dead and conquered to one side. The
look on the maid's face is tragedy personified.
Grace wondered how many times the artist had had
to redo that look before Ludwig was satisfied. What
had the solitary king meant by these paintings? Had
he written the story himself? Perhaps even a libretto?
And whatever happened to the apprentice? Was he
linked somehow to the white wolf? Was it a were-
wolf story?
With these questions chilling her, Grace wandered
downstairs to the gift shop, barely conscious of the
journey. She approached the girl behind the counter.
"Gruss Gott. Sprechen Sie English?"
"A little."
"Is there any more information about the paintings
in the Singer's Hall?"
The girl smiled regretfully. "No. The tape has all
the information."
Grace frowned. "But someone must have worked
on the paintings. The artist perhaps? Didn't he leave
a record of Ludwig's instructions?"
The girl looked at Grace blankly. "I don't know.
We have slides and postcards."
Grace sighed and gave up. She bought a full series
of the Singer's Hall paintings on postcards and an En-
glish biography of the king written by a Sir Richmond
Chaphill, then took her package out into the
courtyard.
The rain had stopped, and though the sky was still
thick with gray clouds, the sun peeked through stub-
bornly. Grace found a wooden bench that was almost
dry and tucked her raincoat carefully underneath her.
She began to skim through the book.
Other than his long-standing friendships with his
mother and the Empress Elizabeth of Austria, rela-
tionships were nearly always a disappointment for
Ludwig and a bewilderment for his partners. He would
become obsessed with someone—a singer, an artist, a
nobleman, or peasant—and would bombard them with
gifts and praise. When they would fail to return the
depths of rapturous passion he required, he would get
hurt and would cut himself off from them abruptly.
The objects of his interests were occasionally women,
usually ones he fell in love with after seeing them in
idealized roles on the stage. But they were most often
young men who fit his fantasies of the heroic sagas
like Lohengrin and Parsival.
Grace's brows creased in a thoughtful frown. Was
the author trying to say what she thought he was try-
ing to say? She flipped through the pages and found
a letter dated 1864 from Ludwig's manservant to a
friend.
The king has been in a high mood these days. The
reason, of course, is a new interest. Thursday last the
king attended a performance of Lohengrin in the Res-
idenztheater. He returned in a fever and demanded
that a man be found. The man, it was gathered, had
been sitting in a box opposite the king's own, and had
drawn the king's attention by his "beauty" and his
"deep emotional response" to the performance. The
king declared, "Here at last is a sensitive soul!"
The man was tracked down and brought in for an
audience. Upon my word, never have I seen any mind
so in line with His Majesty's own! They discussed
Wagner and France and Byron and all manner of
things until well past dawn. The young man, beautiful
indeed to look upon, met the king's enthusiasm and
knowledge bit for bit! Well, His Majesty has been in
the thick of it ever since and, while 1 welcome his
good temper, I grow tired of fetching letters back and
forth to "Louis" (so called by His Majesty—that should
tell you who the young man looks like) at all hours
of the night!
Grace read the letter twice, trying to absorb it. 1864!
That was the same year Christian Ritter warned Lud-
wig about the Black Wolf. Could one thing be related
to the other? Grace thought about it. Probably not.
After all, many things happened in a single year—a
fact easy to forget when that year was so long ago.
And Christian Ritter's letter had only implied that the
Black Wolf knew Ludwig—not that they were particu-
larly close.
Grace found nothing else about "Louis," and once
again the author had sidestepped the critical issue the
letter raised—was Louis a lover? A friend? She
checked the copyright page. The book had been writ-
ten in 1958. No wonder.
Then, when she'd about given up on the writer, she
found it, in the very last chapter. It was discreet, but
it was clear.
The king, particularly later in his life, experienced
a great deal of guilt about his sexual nature. His dia-
ries are full of entries begging God for forgiveness and
swearing to remain pure henceforth. The sheer num-
ber of these "oath entries" indicates that Ludwig was
not very successful at resisting temptation. Yet those
who would condemn him out of hand should note that
Ludwig was clearly a God-fearing man and that,
though his flesh might occasionally fall, he never sur-
rendered his heart and his mind to sin.
Indeed, it might well be this conflict between his
Christian heart and his unnatural desires that led him
down the path to reclusiveness, insanity, and, ulti-
mately, destruction.
Grace put the book down slowly, feeling tempted
to throw the author at the wall. Ludwig didn't deserve
such prying eyes, such boorish, bigoted prying eyes.
But her anger was only the tip of the emotional swell;
the rest had no name. She'd connected with something
about him in the dream—connected mentally and
physically. Now the picture that she'd begun to form
at this place, so inexplicably sad, so ignominiously per-
sonal, struck her to the quick.
She sat there in the courtyard for a very long time,
staring at nothing.
The idea of the diary was uppermost in Grace's
mind when she arrived at Herrenchiemsee. Like
Neuschwanstein, Ludwig had picked the location for
this castle based on pure scenic beauty and isolation.
Practicality, it seemed, was not an important con-
sideration for Ludwig. Where the workers on
Neuschwanstein had lugged heavy rock and marble
up the steep mountainside in horse-drawn carts, the
workers of Herrenchiemsee had had to ferry it over a
lake, then tote it another mile to the actual construe-
tion site. Grace took the same journey, her spirits buf-
feted by the rigorous March wind and the sloshing of
the gray, restless lake.
The castle was based on Versailles—an elongated
governmental palace, not a vertical phantasm like
Neuschwanstein. Yellow stone and matching columns
marched along the facade with a nod to the Greek,
and a fountain and formal gardens bespoke of more
logical minds than the king's. Did Ludwig really find
such orderliness soothing? Or was this palace merely
another set piece, a prop built to play French mon-
arch, then abandoned soon after like a longed-for toy
that does not deliver the joy it had plighted.
The impression of a set was deepened inside. Be-
yond the doors to the royal suite was the grand en-
trance hall. An enormous staircase bombarded the eye
with brightly hued marbles in reds, golds, and blues.
And here, as if welcoming the king home, or perhaps,
more pertinently, as if heralding Act I, was a golden
statue of the Sun King himself, Louis XIV, with his
long, curling wig, hose, and pointy shoes, and no doubt
idealized regal countenance.
"Louis", that should tell you who the young man
looks like.
Grace studied the statue, as if the face would tell
her something, but if it held any secrets it did not
reveal them to her. She moved through the rooms
quickly, feeling no compulsion to pause. The king had
abandoned this place, as he had his third castle, Linder-
hof, an even smaller depiction of Versailles. He'd
fallen out of love with them well before he died. His
soul was not here.
His mature dreams had been of Neuschwanstein
and the illusive Falkenstein, and it was easy to see
why. Herrenchiemsee was all white walls with heavy,
garish gilt cherubs and swirls in every nook and
cranny. Its design was that of a baroque palace but,
like a prop piece, it had been constructed with materi-
als that could offer only the immediate illusion. The
plaster was wearing on many walls, and the gilt that
covered the swirls and cherubs was darkened with the
dirt of time and, in some cases, worn away entirely,
revealing cheap resin underneath. At its peak the pal-
ace would have been sterile and garish. Now it was a
shabby curiosity piece and had the sort of appeal an
old, elaborate dollhouse had; the power to evoke
amazement that someone had once gone to so much
trouble and expense for something so nonfunctional.
The last room on the tour was the hall of mirrors.
At last Grace felt a sense of Ludwig. There was some-
thing in the endless procession of glass that had, per-
haps, captured a piece of the elusive monarch's soul.
At night, the tour guide said, hundreds of candles
would be lit in this room, and Ludwig would walk
here alone, watching his reflection in the glass.
Grace walked up to one of the mirrors and stared
into it. She could picture Ludwig standing where she
stood, doing the same thing.
The face in the glass was not a smiling one.
After the tour she hurried downstairs. There was
something more important here than the palace itself.
One wing had been converted to a Ludwig museum.
It did not disappoint. Clothing, furniture, and per-
sonal effects were housed here, letters and official doc-
uments bearing his signature and seal. His life story
was told progressively on modern, opaque white signs
that hung from wires amidst the displays.
Childhood portraits. A Victorian royal household;
cruelly strict discipline and diet, structured, endless
lessons in Greek and Latin, mathematics and science
and all the other graces thought necessary for a crown
prince. And a boy who loved art and poetry and day-
dreaming had to steal his pleasures the way another
steals cookies from a shrewish maiden aunt. His
younger brother, Otto, was his only companion.
At sixteen, the young man who had convinced his
tutors to let him study the German legends finally gets
permission to see Lohengrin. The opera is based on
the saga of a Knight of the Holy Grail, a story painted
on the walls of Ludwig's childhood castle Hohen-
schwangau. For hours as a child he would stand and
stare at the romantic paintings of knights and swans
and maidens. Now he stares, enthralled, as Wagner
presents his virtuoso adaptation. Ludwig falls to
Wagner like a teenage girl succumbing to Lennon
and McCartney.
At eighteen his father dies and Ludwig is crowned.
The people can scarcely believe the ephemeral beauty
and romantic chivalry of their new king. The middle-
aged parliament ministers cannot believe their luck at
having such a naive charge. Now the real regimenta-
tion begins: meetings, paperwork, hours and days in
parliament. Sign this, sign that—no, don't bother to
read it. Put on the robes and pose.
When she came to a large portrait of a beautiful
woman, she stopped, curious. EMPRESS ELIZABETH OF
AUSTRIA, a placard said, LIFELONG FRIEND OF LUDWIG
H. Elizabeth, a cousin, had grown up in a royal house
on Starnberger See, and she and her sister had played
with Ludwig as children. But Elizabeth was eight years
older than Ludwig, and she was married to the heir
of the Austrian throne before Ludwig came of age.
The two shared a lifelong bond, however, exchanging
letters frequently. True to his tendency to playact,
Ludwig called her "the Dove" and he was "the
Eagle." Ludwig had been smitten with her ever since
her romantic, storybook engagement and wedding,
perhaps because he could not have her.
In a glass case was correspondence between the two
cousins and their translations.
3 July, 1863
My Dove, You can have no idea, dear cousin, how
happy you made me. The hours recently passed with
you in the railway carriage I consider among the hap-
piest in my life; never will their memory fade. You
gave me permission to visit you at Ischl; if the time
comes for this ardent hope to be fulfilled, I shall be
of all men upon the earth the most blessed.
The feelings of sincere love and reverence and faith-
ful attachment to you which I cherished in my heart
even as a boy make me imagine heaven upon earth,
and will be extinguished by death alone. I beg you
with all my heart to forgive the contents of this let-
ter—but I could not help myself. . . . Your Eagle
1 March, 1868
My dearest Eagle. You have not written me in a
few months—I have missed you. I often try to imagine
what you are doing. I hear tales that you have been
on retreat and have not been seen in Munich for some
time. I suspect it is this friend you write of so mysteri-
ously that takes you away from home!
I hope you are enjoying yourself, my beloved, but
I beg you to caution. The people need to see you on
the throne. I also hesitate to suggest that what your
officials do in your absence may not always be in your
best interest. You have always been a true king, but
you must let the people see you to ensure that they
don't forget that.
E., your dove
14 June, 1878
My beloved Eagle. In your last letter you spoke so
bitterly of your torment that I was moved to tears.
What is this torment? Why won't you confess to me
what is truly troubling you? You must know that I
would never despise you, no matter how horrible you
believe your sins to be. Please do not write such barbs
to my heart by even suggesting such things. If you do
not wish to confess to me, at least tell me how I can
help. I am always your true one, your Dove.
Next to this letter was a placard which read, "It
was obvious to his few close friends that Ludwig was
struggling with his mental state near the end."
Grace frowned at this interpretation of the letter.
Perhaps his torments were real enough. But whatever
they were, not even Elizabeth had been allowed to
share them.
In his twenties, it appeared that Ludwig had taken
his role as king seriously. There were signed decrees
and pictures and drawings of Ludwig in public proces-
sions, even a portrait of Ludwig in heavy blue velvet
robes with the classic ermine, knighting a member of
the gentry. Around him men in blue velvet watched.
Ludwig as Grand Master of the Knights of St.
George. This was a hereditary role for the Bavarian
monarchy and one Ludwig relished before his natural
reclusiveness and dislike for public display caused him
to give up such activities.
Knights of St. George? Could this be Ludwig's con-
nection to Gabriel? To Christian Ritter? At the very
least it was an odd coincidence. And yet something
about the description did not ring true. The portrait,
with the romantic pomp and circumstance and the cos-
tumes, seemed to reflect the kind of thing Ludwig
would have loved. He was no doubt an introverted
soul, but was it really that urge that had driven him
away from this kind of ceremony or was it the restric-
tive hand of his ministers? Was it their vision of a
figurehead he had rejected? Or was it something
else altogether?
The turning point came in 1873, when Ludwig was
twenty-eight. One of the displays depicted Ludwig
being knocked from his horse in the woods.
Ludwig, while young, was in fine physical condition
and loved to hike in the Alps and to ride horses. He
had a hunting lodge, Schachen, built for this purpose.
Unfortunately, in 1873 a rather traumatic accident be-
fell the king at Schachen, and his leg was cruelly dam-
aged. His physical health deteriorated from that time
on, leading to stoutness in later years.
Grace paused nervously. The words hunting accident
reminded her of Gabriel's letter and the "hunt club,"
but surely that was simple word association?
Beyond this display even the lighting grew dimmer,
and the images themselves grew more disturbing. Dis-
plays of Neuschwanstein drawings and models were
combined with tales of the king's obsessive demands.
A workman falls from scaffolding due to exhaustion.
The king has no idea how long things take or how
much they cost and doesn't care. Warnings from par-
liament. Newspaper headings from underground print-
ers blaming Ludwig and his extravagance for the
country's financial woes.
1878. Ludwig's brother Otto, his childhood compan-
ion and only sibling, is declared insane after years of
disfunction. The flaw is one inherited through his
mother; his great-great-great uncle Friedrich the Great
of Prussia and two sons of Wilhelm II had also been
mentally afflicted. Ludwig is inconsolable. Was he per-
haps afraid for his own sanity as well?
1881. Ludwig now rarely leaves his castle and does
not receive visitors. He's abandoned all duties of state.
His servants must wear elaborate costumes and are
not allowed to look at his face; they are trained to
enter bowed over in a painful posture. He communi-
cates with them through notes passed under doors.
Some of the notes are smuggled out of the castle and
passed on to those who seek to discredit the king. A
few of these instruments of betrayal have survived to
be displayed here.
Dec. 14lh-15th, 1881. Linderhof. Every day get up
earlier, for certain. See to that VERY PARTICU-
LARLY. WRITE IT DOWN. Remember that when
the Great Friend arrives at Neuschwanstein and we
retire to the hall we are not to be disturbed! I will
not tolerate stupidity or insubordination!
Dec. 19th-20lh, 1881. Linderhof. Order another work
by Jennings on the occult. Write urgently to Klug say-
ing that I insist that the stoppages by the banks cease.
We must get a hundred glass cutters working on my
special project this very week. I WANT it and there-
fore it MUST be done. Write very urgently; he must
succeed AT ONCE and then must report to me
urgently.
If I give orders to clear my room, doing so must
not be postponed as has happened. Pencils must be
pointed without special orders. The day after tomor-
row a thousand Marks. How is Louis now? I want to
know whether or not he looks unhappy. How often
have I said that the coffee must not come up boiling
hot so that it can be drunk only after standing an
hour. If any more correspondence from Louis come,
they are to be burned at once, but I am to be informed
of their arrival.
Grace had gotten so involved in the displays, she'd
almost forgotten her purpose in coming. She read the
note again, excited.
Louis. According to the Chaphill biography, Ludwig
met a Louis in 1864. Now, in 1881, Louis was definitely
out of favor and yet still clearly an obsession. Was
this a temporary feud? Was it even the same Louis,
or did Ludwig call all his paramours that? Had "the
Black Wolf" been a paramour too? She moved on,
her scholar's mind desperate to find answers instead
of more questions.
The mounting picture of irrationality so eloquently
exemplified in the king's notes was not ameliorated
by the rest of the displays. Ludwig is ordered by par-
liament to Munich—he refuses. His ministers arrive at
Linderhof to see him—he denies them entry. He
builds grottos and swan boats and plans a new castle
when the one currently under construction cannot be
finished for lack of funds.
And then, in what seemed to be presented as the
pinnacle of damning evidence, Grace found a refer-
ence to the diary.
Ludwig's Diary
Ludwig kept a diary from the time he was twenty-
four years old until his death in 1886. The actual dia-
ries themselves are kept in the Koniglich Bayerische
Archiven. The diaries reflect Ludwig's growing inner
torment Below are some sample entries.
26 July, 1870. By the power of the lily we shall have
the strength to resist temptation throughout the whole
year. L & R
21 August, 1878. Solemn oath before the picture of
the Great King. "Refrain for three months from all
excitement." This oath has its binding power, as well
as its potency by De Par Le Roy. L & R, D P L R.
The actual photocopies of the entries showed grand
flourishes and seals and what looked like magical sym-
bols by the initials. Had the magic served him? Had
it helped him keep his promises? Don't we all wish
for such talismen at times—when the desires our logi-
cal mind abhors sneak in like serpents under the door?
// thine eye offend thee, pluck it out.
But surely there were other things in the diary—
notes about friends, events, other feelings. Why had
the museum chosen these entries? To show how Lud-
wig's mind was failing? Or was this the museum's nod
toward the theories of men like Chaphill? Certainly,
they hadn't touched upon Ludwig's sexuality at all in
this sad record of a life.
Grace approached a female guard standing not far
away. The woman had a severe countenance. Grace
tried her German, figuring the woman didn't look like
she had much patience for tourists.
"Excuse me. Ludwig's diary . . . the diary is in the
Koniglich Bayrische Archiven? Do you know where
that is?"
It seemed like a perfectly reasonable question, but
the woman—who had blond hair pulled so tightly back
from her face it slanted her eyes—scowled.
"Kdniglich Bayrische Archiven," she repronounced
with greatly cut vowels. "This is not for tourists."
"Oh. But I'm doing some work—"
"No! No one sees the diary. No one."
Grace left the conversation not overly encouraged.
She'd have to simply hope the woman was wrong and
that the records could be accessed, perhaps with the
aid of Professor Barclay.
Why would the diary be refused to historians?
They're already saying he was insane. Chapbill claims
he was gay. What could be more sensitive than that?
And now she had looped nearly to the front again.
Here was the end, 1886. An account was told, in
pictures and text, of the last few days of Ludwig's
life. A case displayed the suit he'd been wearing
when he'd drowned. In another was the pale plaster
death mask of the sort popular with Victorians.
Grace found the bloated, lifeless impression too poi-
gnant to look at.
June 7,1886. A group of men arrive at Neuschwan-
stein castle demanding to take the king into custody.
With them is Dr. Gudden, the doctor in charge of
Otto, the king's mentally ill brother. The men are re-
fused admittance by a brave group of farmers and
local soldiers who have come to Ludwig's aid. They
are forced to retreat to nearby Hohenschwangau. This
is the first Ludwig hears of the conspiracy to take him
into custody.
June 12, 1886. Ludwig knows the conspirators will
return. He despairs. He asks his servant for the keys
to the tower. The servant, fearing the king intends
suicide, says the key is lost. The conspirators return
to the castle. This time there is no one to stop them.
Ludwig is lured from his bedroom to the entry hall of
Neuschwanstein. There he is taken into custody.
Ludwig is driven by carriage from Neuschwanstein
to Berg, place of his brother's imprisonment. On the
way the group stops at Seeshaupt. Ludwig asks to see
the postmistress, Frau Vogl. She brings him a glass of
water, and he says something to her. She never reveals
these last words to anyone.
June 14, 1886. At Berg, Ludwig seems cooperative
and coherent. Dr. Gudden writes to the government
that he has Ludwig well under control. The two men
go out for a walk, and Dr. Gudden is so confident
that he dismisses the guards. When Ludwig and the
doctor do not return after several hours, a search is
undertaken. The bodies of the two men are found in
the lake, drowned. Circumstances unknown.
June 16, 1886. Ludwig's funeral procession marches
through the streets of Munich, followed by enormous
crowds of mourners. The service is held at a packed
St. Michael's church. Lightning strikes the church dur-
ing the service, but no one is harmed. Ludwig's body
is entombed in the Wittelsbach crypt at St. Michael's.
His heart is placed in an urn in the pilgrimage chapel
at Allotting in the Wittelsbach tradition.
A picture showed Ludwig lying in state amongst a
sea of candles and flowers. And there was an artist's
rendering of Ludwig wading into the water fully
dressed, the floating body of Dr. Gudden behind him.
The painting suggested . . . murder/suicide? Had he
been trying to escape? To end it all? Or was Werner
right? Had "they" done him in? According to the dis-
played newspaper headings, rumors of murder, even
of escape and a fake corpse, were rampant in Munich
for years.
Grace rounded the corner and came face to face
with a large painting—the museum's finale. For a mo-
ment she just stared at it, unable to comprehend.
It was an illustration all in blues of a night scene in
the snow. The scene was dominated by a baroque
gilded sleigh pulled by a team of horses and a masked
driver. Ludwig sat in the sleigh underneath a lap robe.
The image was straight out of her dream.
She sought the explanatory note with a growing
panic and found it. She traced it with her fingertips,
not trusting her eyes alone.
The Midnight Sleigh Rides
In his later years Ludwig suffered from insomnia,
restlessness, headaches, and toothaches. He often de-
manded to have his sleigh brought out in the middle
of the night and would go on long drives through the
countryside at breakneck speed. This romantic but bi-
zarre vision frightened more than one peasant, and
superstitious rumors abounded about the king and his
midnight excursions.
Grace reluctantly raised her eyes to confront the
painting again and was alarmed to recognize the red
buttons depicted on the upholstery of the sleigh's
backseat. She turned and ran from the museum, her
heart thudding painfully in her chest.
Outside, the wind had accelerated into heavy gusts.
It snatched at her thick black hair and the hem of
her yellow raincoat so that she imagined, as she half
stumbled, half ran the mile to the ferry, that some-
thing had exited Herrenchiemsee with her and was
nipping at her soul—trying to snatch pieces of life,
perhaps, or trying to pull her away, to whisk her off
to some unknown place where the damned and the
lonely have long been abandoned.
By the time Grace returned to Rittersberg, it was
early evening and darkness had fallen. She was almost
looking forward to seeing Gerde, she realized, as she
drove up the hill to the castle. Seeing anyone at all
would be a comfort.
But then she remembered—she couldn't talk to
Gerde. Thoughts of why that was only increased her
agitation and confusion. The knowledge of what it
might be like later, when Gabriel got back, and he
and Gerde ... It made her stomach ache and her
chest palpitate. She grew irritated at these feelings and
scolded herself mercilessly. After all, the Gabriel
Knight she'd known in New Orleans was not the sort
of man any woman could count on. How many phone
calls from one-night stands had she turned away at his
insistence? It was true that he was a beautiful man,
there was no denying it. And he had a cockiness and
a sense of humor that was exasperatingly endearing.
But she could acknowledge that stuff without allowing
herself to fall for it, couldn't she? She was not some
hormone-driven machine. She was determined not to
be the kind of woman who fell for hopeless causes,
not a "when good women fall for bad boys" basket
case. He was funny, a good friend, a partner. Leave
it at that.
But how could she even be those things to him with
Gerde in the way?
The castle was dark and silent—no lights at the cas-
tle door, no lights in any of the windows. And when
she entered the front door, no light or warmth greeted
her. Silence. Dark.
Grace began to fret. How long had it been since
she'd seen Gerde? Hadn't she screamed aloud in the
night and no one had come? Had Gerde really been
that cold-hearted? Or had she not been in the castle
at all?
There was a message on the machine. Grace played
it back, hoping it was Gerde or even Gabriel himself.
It was Professor Barclay. He'd gotten a name and
phone number for a Ludwig expert living in Salz-
burg—a Josef Dallmeier. Grace jotted the info down.
Then she went to the gasthof to see Werner.
Gerde's uncle was polishing glasses behind the bar.
The Smiths were nowhere hi sight, but their car was
still in the lot outside. Werner gave her his grim, secre-
tive nod.
"Have you seen Gerde?" Grace asked. "She hasn't
been at the castle all day."
Werner looked at the calendar and grunted. "It's
her anniversary. I forgot. I should make her something
to eat. Probably she was there all day. Some Spatzle
maybe."
Grace's dark brows knit in confusion. "Anniversary
of what?"
Werner looked at her oddly. "The anniversary of
Gerde and Wolfgang. I think it was the day they met."
Grace's jaw slipped open in a non-vocal O. A series
of realizations played across her face. "Well . . . well,
where is she?"
"At the gruft," Werner answered, as though this
should be obvious.
It was eight o'clock when the front hall doors
creaked open and Gerde entered. She wore a long
woollen coat and sturdy galoshes. In the shadows of
the entryway she removed these things, slowly and
heavily, as if each limb were weighed down by the
same stone. She paused in her actions once or twice,
her head lifting and sniffing the air.
"You've been cooking?" she asked, trying to sound
disinterested. Her growling stomach betrayed her.
Grace put down her magazine and smiled. "Yup.
You've had such an unpleasant visitor; I wanted to
make it up to you."
She walked over and took Gerde's hand—it was
an awkward gesture and one that was hedged by an
expectation of rejection. But Gerde was too non-
plussed to protest.
"Werner gave me the idea of making you dinner,"
Grace said as she pulled Gerde toward the kitchen.
"I tried to do Japanese, but I have to warn you, the
supply of ingredients in town is pretty damn grim."
Gerde stopped, pulling her hand away. Her eyes
filled with tears. For a moment she just looked at
Grace as though trying to judge this change of heart.
Then she said, "Grace, Gabriel and I ... we
never ..."
Grace blushed from her asymmetrical part to her
toenails. "I know. I'm an idiot, okay? Gabriel, he's
just the sort that would. . . . God, you must know that
by now, even in this small a town!"
But Gerde just looked at Grace and shook her
head, confused.
"Never mind," Grace said, her blush deepening fur-
ther still. "Anyway, I'm sorry about before."
Gerde took a quavering breath and smiled tenta-
tively. "Okay."
"Really?" Grace looked at Gerde hopefully. " 'Cause
I was hoping you wouldn't mind talking over dinner—
about the case, that is. Will you help me figure
things out?"
Gerde pushed away her tears, her smile lighting up.
"Yes. I would like that very much."
At nine o'clock Grace was sitting at the desk in the
library, trying to decide whether it was too late to call
Josef Dallmeier. She gave in to temptation and dialed.
Dallmeier didn't seem at all bothered. He had a light,
pleasant voice, and he cajoled Grace into telling him
her impressions of the castles. For the second time
that night Grace went over it—this time leaving out
the sensitive parts like the sleigh.
"You've certainly picked up the feel of it," Dall-
meier said, impressed. "But what they won't tell you
at those places—because it doesn't make for happy
tourists—is the political side."
"What political side?"
"Ludwig is the Bavarian monarch who gave away
the Bavarian monarchy. He signed away our indepen-
dence, our country. ... It should be what history re-
members him for, but that act has gotten lost in all
the fluff about castles and sleigh bells."
"I knew the unification happened around then!"
Grace said, remembering her initial impression of the
Christian Ritter letter. "So Ludwig himself signed
the treaty?"
"It was Ludwig, all right. We were just getting over
the Hundred Years War. France was threatening to
rise again. Prussia proposed that they and Bavaria
unite into a common German state for strength. Lud-
wig resisted for a while, but he signed in 1870. He
became a figurehead under the Prussian kaiser. Shortly
after his death the Bavarian monarchy dissolved
completely."
Grace frowned into the receiver. "That doesn't
make sense. Everything I've seen implies that Ludwig
wanted an absolute monarchy—just the opposite."
Dallmeier grunted. "I agree. Maybe he thought he
wasn't a real king anyway. The parliament did have a
great deal of power. And Prussia's push to unite the
German peoples against France was logical. Still, he
could have negotiated better terms for Bavaria. I'm
convinced that Bismarck had a hand in there some-
where. He usually did."
Grace thought back, trying to remember her Euro-
pean history. "Bismarck was a Prussian chancellor,
right?"
"The Prussian chancellor," Dallmeier said sourly.
"He was in power before Ludwig came to the throne,
and he outlived him, too. What a cagey son of a bitch
he was."
"Did he know Ludwig?"
"Officially, yes, but they had no personal relations.
No, Bismarck was subtler than that. He had a reputa-
tion for learning people's weaknesses and exploiting
them from behind the scenes. It was a matter of record
that Bismarck had spies on Ludwig's staff. And you
can bet that he had a hand in the insanity conspiracy."
"Wow," Grace said, her mind racing with the possi-
bilities. "What about Ludwig's diary? Have you seen
it?"
"No. It's locked up like diamond-encrusted dirty
laundry. There was an English biographer who got
permission—he was some blue-blooded cousin of the
family. That's about it."
Grace bit back a profanity at the disappointing
news. "Was the biographer named Chaphill?"
Dallmeier sounded surprised. "Yes, actually! Have
you read his book? I thought it was moronic myself.
Imagine having access to that kind of material and
wasting it. I suppose he was a product of his genera-
tion. Even so, that's no excuse."
Grace sighed. "God, I really need to see that diary."
"Why?"
Dallmeier sounded genuinely curious. Grace consid-
ered how much to tell him. She certainly had no desire
to scare him off with talk of werewolves, but she
wasn't going to learn anything without putting out
some bait.
"Have you ever heard of anyone called the Black
Wolf in association with Ludwig?"
There was a pause while Dallmeier went through
his mental file. "No."
"I found a letter that was written to Ludwig warning
him about 'the Black Wolf.' I'm desperate to find out
more about it."
"This letter was written when?" Dallmeier's voice
held the restrained excitement of a scholar smelling a
new discovery.
"1864."
"I would like to see it."
"You're welcome to see it. So you've never heard
of the Black Wolf? There was nothing at the castles
except for a few paintings in the Singer's Hall."
"No . . . but I can do some research if you'd like.
We have an impressive collection of German docu-
ments here at the university."
Grace sat up, sparked by hope. "Would you? That
would be great."
"And there's so much more to tell you about Lud-
wig. Would you meet me in the morning? About an
hour north of you is Starnberger See. We could ren-
dezvous there at the chapel. Say about nine o'clock?"
Grace nodded eagerly at the receiver. "That sounds
perfect. I'd really appreciate it."
"No problem. Maybe I can bring you some good
news about the Black Wolf. I'll look into it tonight."
"Great. Thank you very much, Herr Dallmeier.
Good night."
Grace hung up the phone and wrapped her robe
tighter around her. Good news about the Black Wolf.
Somehow that didn't seem likely. She padded back to
the warmth of the bedroom and the fire she and
Gerde had laid earlier.
She climbed onto the enormous antique bed and
tucked her freezing toes underneath her. She pulled
and prodded the blankets until they surrounded her
like a shroud. Then she stared into the fire, the crack-
ling fire, and shivered.
And she wondered what Gabriel was doing right
now.
Chapter 5
Munich
When Gabriel awoke it took him several seconds to
remember where the hell he was. He was lying on
red satin sheets and the room around his bed was
wallpapered in a deep burgundy fleur-de-lis print. This
was definitely not the Huber farm.
Ah! Last night.
He'd decided to go to von Glower's. Though he was
a little nervous after what had happened at the club,
he was even less interested in staying at the farm
alone—particularly after that nasty feeling he'd had in
the yard.
But von Glower was neither angry nor suspicious
of him. They'd sat on the couch telling stories and
drinking wine for several hours. Friedrich really had
traveled all over the world, and he had some great
stories to tell.
And then the girl had shown up.
Gabriel couldn't even remember her name. He'd
been about two and a half sheets gone when she'd
arrived, and all he could remember was a tight red
gown over an incredible body and shining gold hair.
She was on her way home from the opera, she'd
said, or at least he thought he'd recognized the word
opera in her German, though it was pronounced a
little more like "Oprah." And then she was in
Friedrich's lap and her lips locked with his and . . .
* * *
Gabriel stood up from the couch, feeling awkward.
"I'd better get goin'."
Friedrich pushed the girl back gently. "You don't
have to go."
"Nah, I should go."
"Wait."
His host whispered something in the girl's ear. She
looked at Gabriel—a playful, appraising gleam in her
eye—and nodded. She climbed off Friedrich's lap,
grabbed Gabriel's hand, and pulled him back down
into the sofa. Soft limbs and hands pushing him
back—soft lips, warm tongue.
Gabriel felt his body move from zero to fifty in
about two seconds flat. It had been a long stay in
Rittersberg.
"I can't," he said when she finally released his lips.
His voice held little conviction. The girl ignored him,
nuzzling his neck.
"Why not? I didn't expect her tonight, and for some
reason I don't find myself in that mood."
At Gabriel's expression, Friedrich smiled. "Don't
worry, she doesn't speak English. Besides, she and I
understand each other well enough."
"But . . . she's . . . she's yours."
Friedrich picked up his glass and laughed. "It's not
an exclusive arrangement, I assure you. From what
you've told me, you've been living like a monk down
at that castle. Your body deserves some attention."
The baron smiled slowly as he leaned back. He
seemed to find satisfaction in the spectacle before him
and displayed not a trace of discomfort, but Gabriel
felt awkward. He grabbed Detta's left hand, which was
slowly unbuttoning his shirt.
"Detta, Zeige ihm sein Schlafzimmer," Friedrich said.
It was amazing how commanding his voice could be,
even when it was agreeably soft.
Detta stood and tugged on Gabriel's hand. He
looked at Friedrich, questioning one last time. "Are
you sure?"
"Enjoy your evening," Friedrich said. His eyes were
warm and encouraging.
And Gabriel, who had protested as much as he
could muster, went with Detta up the stairs and into
oblivion.
Afterward, Detta dressed and left him. Between the
wine and the physical release he felt heavier and more
relaxed than he had in ages. He closed his eyes and
seemed to be sinking deeper into the bed with every
breath.
Then something on his chest moved, soft, like the
brush of an insect's wings. He opened his eyes to see
Friedrich sitting beside him. The dark-haired man was
backlit in the glow from the hall as he looked down
at the talisman in his hand. He raised his eyes from
it slowly.
"It's beautiful," he said. "A lion and a dragon
locked in combat. Potent imagery." He laid the medal-
lion back down on Gabriel's bare chest. "I take it
you're the lion?" He smiled. "Good night, my feline
friend."
He reached out a hand and brushed back a lock of
Gabriel's hair, then stood up and walked out. He
closed the door behind him.
Gabriel watched him go, surprised at the intimacy,
and even more surprised that it felt all right, even
comforting, like being tucked into bed.
And then the mattress reached out to swallow him
and he was fast asleep.
He allowed himself a quick shower in the guest
bathroom before dressing. He went downstairs and
called Friedrich's name. Gunter showed up instead.
He greeted Gabriel in German and motioned toward
the dining room, where breakfast was waiting. There
was a note on the plate.
Gabriel—I have some business to attend to. I'll see
you later today at the club. Regards, V.G.
Gunter was pouring a cup of coffee that Gabriel
couldn't resist. He pulled out the chair, suddenly starv-
ing. Gunter was apparently used to serving hearty eat-
ers, for he kept bringing the food and Gabriel ate and
ate and ate.
He was half afraid it would be gone, that Xavier
had cleaned up and that the tape recorder had been
discovered and confiscated. And how in God's name
could he ever explain that?
But it was there, right behind the magazines as he'd
left it. It had shut itself off when it ran out of tape.
Gabriel pocketed the device and left the club, headed
for a certain youthful mystery enthusiast.
"Can I bother you for another favor, Harry?"
"Anything. What is it?"
"I need something translated." Gabriel pulled he
tape recorder from a pocket.
Ubergrau's eyes shone eagerly. "Yes? Okay! How
do you say? Roll 'em."
Gabriel sighed patiently and started the tape.
"Wir mussen miteinander reden," came Klingmann's
nervous voice.
" 'We should talk,' " Ubergrau said.
"Nein," said von Zell flatly.
" 'Nooooo,' " said Ubergrau, with a surprised lifting
of one brow.
"Est ist meine Karriere, verdammt nochmal! Viel-
leicht sogar mehr wenn die Polizei . . ."
"Ich habe Ihnen dock gesagt, nicht dumber zu
sprechen!"
Ubergrau was listening intently. "The first one says
his career is in danger, maybe more if the police . . .
and the other says 'I told you not to speak of it!' "
"Aber . . . Ich denke mir daft die Polizei bereits weift
daft unsere Wolfe nichts damit zutunhaben. Die konnen
einen Test machen . . . an den Korpern," Klingmann
said in a low tone.
"He says, 'The police must know that our wolves
are not responsible—there are tests they can run on
the bodies.' " Ubergrau looked alarmed.
"Gut. Ihre gefluchteten Wolfe sind kelne Killer. Was
soil's? Halten Sie nur Ihren Mund. Sie sind damit bes-
ser dram," came von Zell's curt reply.
" 'So? Your escaped wolves aren't killers. What's
the problem?' "
"Aber . . . Herr Knight. Er kam gestern morgen zu
meinen Euro. Er hat viele Fragen gestellt."
"Woruber?"
Ubergrau looked at Gabriel, his eyes wide. "He says
you came to his office asking a lot of questions."
"Uber die Wolfe."
". . . about the wolves."
Gabriel stopped the tape. Ubergrau's golden eye-
brows knit into a fuzzy line of misgiving. "Herr
Knight, who are these men?"
"Just some friends," Gabriel said, his mind elsewhere.
"Why does that sound like such a very bad idea?"
"Wait, there's more." Gabriel fast-forwarded the
tape a bit and started it again.
"Was ist los von Aigner? Ich mufi mil jemand ande-
rem reden," von Zell said in a tight voice.
" 'What is it, von Aigner? I have someone else to
speak with,' " Ubergrau translated.
"Ich habe mir gadacht . . . Wissen Sie etwas fiber
Grossbergs Tod?" said von Aigner.
" 'Do you know anything about . . . about
Grossberg's deathT "
"Wieso sollte ich?" Von Zell sounded pissed now.
" 'Why should I?' "
"Nun . . . ganz eifach . . . Ich gab Ihnen Seinen
Namen."
Ubergrau's eyes were wide blue pools. " 'It's just
that / gave you his name.' "
"Und?"
" 'And?' "
"Herr Knight fragte mich, ob ich Grossberg kenne."
"Was!" von Zell exploded.
There was the sound of a chair scraping, and von
Aigner muttered, "Oh, mist."
Gabriel stopped the tape.
"He said you asked him if he knew Grossberg."
"Yeah, I, um, I kinda got that part." Gabriel smiled
rakishly, but his heart wasn't in it.
Ubergrau regarded him grimly. "You know, it
would be a great tragedy if the Ritter line were to
die out. A great tragedy. Not just for our firm, you
understand ..."
"Harry, I know what I'm doin'."
Ubergrau looked unconvinced. "These men are in-
volved with the murders in some way, aren't they?
Perhaps we should call the police."
Gabriel nodded, his eyes still hazy with remote pos-
sibilities. "Sure. I will. In a bit." He blinked and looked
at the young lawyer. "By the way, any luck with that
missing-persons search?"
Ubergrau muttered worriedly under his breath and
picked up a folder. "Frau Hogel left the results with
me this morning."
"What'd she find out?"
"There are two forests where missing-persons inci-
dents are unusually heavy. The Nationalpark Bayer-
ischer Wald, or the Bavarian National Forest, and the
Naturpark Schwabisch-Frankischer Wald—the Swiss
Franconia Forest."
"What do you mean, 'unnaturally heavy'?"
"Between 1970 and 1990 there were ten to twelve
cases each year in these areas. In 1991 it went up to
seventeen, then back down to twelve in '92 and '93.
Both sets of figures are very similar."
"That sounds high. Is it . . ."
"Before 1970 the figures had been more like one to
two cases a year. And Frau Hogel checked these fig-
ures against the same years in Munich. In the sixties,
it was one to two cases annually. In the seventies three
to five, then four to eight in the eighties, four to ten
in the nineties. Not the same kind of jump in percent-
age at all."
"Hmmm . . ."
"Does something ring a bell?" Ubergrau asked, his
boyish face frightfully dire.
"If it does, I'll be able to hear it loud and clear,"
Gabriel mused worriedly. "I'm leavin' this afternoon
for the Bavarian National Forest."
He had a hard time extricating himself from the
office after that.
Von Aigner had given Grossberg's name to von
Zell. Why? What possible interest could von Zell have
in someone like Grossberg? What interest did von
Aigner have in him, for that matter?
There was no point in going back to Grossberg's
office. There was nothing more to be learned there.
The police have taken all of Hen Grossberg's papers.
He sat on a bench in the Marienplatz to watch the
tourists snap photographs and to consider his strategy.
The golden statue of Mary gazed down benevolently
at the square that bore her name and at the pensive
American who sat there. Gabriel stared at the statue,
really noticing it for the first time. Marienplatz. Mary.
So that was where the name came from. It was odd
the way she seemed to be gazing right at him—surely
an illusion.
And while staring at her, trying to decipher it, he
realized what he had to do.
Leber looked up with surprise as Gabriel entered
his office.
"The American P.I.," he said dryly. "Come in."
"Hey, Kriminalkommisar Leber. Phew! That's a
mouthful. Sure I can't call you K.K.L. for short? No,
too hard to remember. How 'bout K.K.K. to make
it—"
"Sit down!" Leber scowled.
Gabriel sat obediently. "Anythin' new on the case?"
"Nothing for your ears. If that's all you came in
for—"
"Not quite." Gabriel slouched down in his chair in
a most irritating display of relaxation. "I was speakin'
with Grossberg's secretary the other day? Nice girl."
Leber's scowl became almost comic.
"She mentioned somethin' about you guys takin'
his papers?"
"So?"
"So why'd you take his stuff if Grossberg was a
random victim?"
"Standard procedure. As long as this case is open,
I'm going by the book." Leber accented this point by
jabbing his finger at the desktop.
"Find anything'?"
"No one's looked yet. One of the younger men will
do it. As you say, Grossberg was a random victim."
"Did I say that?"
Gabriel looked pointedly at the kommissar and
drummed his fingers on his leg.
Leber's beady eyes grew suspicious. "What do you
mean?"
"Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. You could let
me take a look at those papers. I could tell you for
sure then."
"Tchhhh!" Leber expelled from between clenched
teeth. "Never."
"Why not? If he's a random victim like you say,
there's no reason why I shouldn't look at his papers.
And if he's not a random victim, you might get an
important clue."
"This is the personal property of a German citizen,
Mr. Knight! As long as his things are in my hands, I
am responsible for his privacy!"
Gabriel raised a sardonic brow. "Um, he's dead.
Remember?"
"He still is protected by the law! Why don't you
tell me what you want to know?"
Gabriel pursed his lips and shook his head. "Can't.
I'm not sure what I'm lookin' for, but I'll know when
I see it."
Leber grunted derisively. "I don't have time to
talk nonsense."
"If I can prove to you that I know somethin'," Ga-
briel said slyly, "that Grossberg wasn't just a random
victim, will you let me look at his papers?"
Leber's eyes narrowed into slits. He studied the
American, a sneer pulling his fleshy lips. "I'm listening."
"Good. Keep it up."
Gabriel pulled the tape recorder from his pocket
and pressed Play.
"But . . . the police must know that our wolves are
not responsible. There are tests they can run . . . on
the bodies."
"So? Your escaped wolves aren't killers. What's the
problem?"
Gabriel stopped the tape. Leber sat up, his mouth
quivering around a word like a twelve-year-old purs-
ing for a kiss. "Was . . . was that Doktor Klingmann
from the zoo?"
Gabriel shrugged. "Could be."
"Yes? And who was the other one?"
"Just a minute. There's more."
Gabriel fast-forwarded the tape. He'd marked the
spot carefully earlier.
"/ was wondering . . . Do you know anything about
Grossberg's death?"
"Why should I?" came the voice that had earlier
spoken to Klingmann.
"It's just. . . I gave you his name ..."
Gabriel stopped the tape. He slipped the recorder
back into his pocket.
Leber's skin was doing its imitation of a plum.
"Who . . . who was that!"
Gabriel smiled helpfully. "The papers first, please."
He knew that Leber could simply confiscate the
tape, even lock him up. And Leber certainly seemed
to be considering it. But in the end he did what Ga-
briel thought he would. He picked up his phone.
"Stiitter. Bringen Sie Grossbergs Papiere herein."
While they waited, Leber glared at Gabriel in what
was presumably an intimidating manner. A heavyset
plainclothesman brought in a box and left it on Leb-
er's desk.
"I'm going out for some coffee. It usually takes me
about five minutes. You'd better have something when
I get back, Knight, or I'll—"
"Right," Gabriel preempted.
"I'll teach you more about German law enforce-
ment than you ever cared to know!" Leber seemed to
feel better for having gotten it out. He left the room,
closing the door behind him.
Gabriel was up and digging through the papers be-
fore the sound faded.
"Please, please, please, please, please..." he muttered.
He wasn't sure what he was looking for. Anything
on von Aigner, he guessed, particularly anything that
explained what it was Grossberg did for the man. It
had cost him a great deal, these five minutes, and it
was a bad risk. He had to hope that Klingmann took
off for the hunting trip before Leber and his men de-
scended at the zoo, or it was all over.
He uncovered a large black spiral ledger. Gabriel
flipped through it. Under V, he found von Aigner's
name and a list of figures.
2-3-93       1 exotische 4,000
3-1-93       erhalten (4000)
7-10-94     1 exotische 4,000
8-1-94      erhalten (4000)
1-6-95       1 exotische 4,000
2-25-95     erhalten (4000)
The dates, about every six months, marched back
to 1985. What did erhalten and exotische mean? Was
exotische "exotic"? It surely couldn't be furs. Who
would buy furs so regularly? Exotic dancers, maybe?
But there was one clue. Right next to the first entry,
back in 1985, was the word, in parentheses, "Dorn."
Gabriel, on instinct, turned back to the D section of
the ledger. Yes! There was an entry for Dorn. He
flipped back and forth—the dates corresponded
closely with the dates listed under von Aigner—they
were a day at most apart. And the amounts given
under Dorn were much lower and in parentheses.
2-2-93       1 exotische (2,000)
10-30-94    bezahlt 2000
7-9-94       1 exotische (2,000)
1-5-95       1 exotische (2,000)
Gabriel suddenly realized what he was looking at—
debits and credits. Dorn had sold something to
Grossberg—exotische—and von Aigner bought it for
double the cost. And it wasn't cheap—Grossberg had
paid 2,000 DM for whatever it was and sold it to von
Aigner again for 4,000.
What was Dorn selling?
There was a sound at the door. Leber called loudly,
"I'm going back into my office now. In a minute I'm
going back in there."
Gabriel ripped the Dorn page from the ledger and
stuffed it in a pocket. The door opened.
"Hey," Gabriel said breathlessly. He returned to his
chair and sat down.
Leber put the box on the floor. His chair, which
was on wheels, groaned as he planted his bulk.
"Tell me," Leber commanded.
"Sure. Herr Doktor Klingmann from the zoo?"
"Yes?"
"He belongs to this club, right? And the guy who
was askin' about Grossberg? He's in that club too.
Ditto the third guy, the one with the personality of a
pit bull?"
"Go on," Leber said, his face softening with interest.
"And the club itself is only a few blocks from where
Grossberg was killed. Coincidence? I don't think so."
"So maybe Grossberg wasn't a random victim,"
Leber said, stroking his chin craftily.
"Uh, right," Gabriel said.
Leber's eyes narrowed as some major parade
marched across his cerebral cortex. "I don't under-
stand this. But I intend to. You don't suppose . . ."
"What?"
Leber leaned forward awkwardly over his stomach,
studying Gabriel with an anticipatory expression remi-
niscent of a kid presenting his report card. "See, I
have a little theory. Maybe the killer is some kind of
pet someone made. Maybe someone like Klingmann,
I'm thinking, now that you tell me this. He had access
to the wolves."
"You mean . . . someone bred an animal? From a
wolf and a ... a dog, maybe?"
"It's possible," Leber said, working hard to suppress
his delight.
"And if it is a pet, that would explain why you
haven't caught it yet. Maybe someone's hiding it in-
doors. Someone like Klingmann."
Leber nodded and beamed proudly.
"Well, it's a theory," Gabriel said in a bored voice.
He stood up.
Leber's face clouded. "Ah-a/i! I want names, Mr.
Knight. The names of the men. The name of the club.
And I want that tape."
Gabriel withdrew a blank mini tape from his pocket
and tossed it on the desk. "The guy who knew
Grossberg is named, uh, Franz"
"Franz what?"
"That's the last name. And the other guy, the pit
bull?, is Uberlay. And the club is called the Friendly
Wanderer.'"
Leber wrote the information down with great care.
"Gut. As of now, I want you to disappear. We'll take
care of everything. You understand?"
Gabriel tried to look humble. "Yes, Kriminal-
komissar."
Sucker.
He used a pay phone to call the number from the
ledger page. A gruff male voice answered. "Hallo?"
"May I speak with Herr Dorn, please?"
"Speaking."
"Hi. My name is Smith. I'm an American associate
of Grossberg's? Are you aware that Herr Grossberg
has . . . passed on?"
"Dead? Ja, someone called yesterday. Bastard. He
fucking owed me money. Now who's going to pay
me, huh?"
The man had obviously learned his English from a
colorful personality.
"As it happens, I'll be taking over Grossberg's busi-
ness personally."
"Ha! That's funny. Who would want Grossberg's
business? Being dead's the best thing that ever hap-
pened for him."
"I have my reasons."
Dorn considered this for a bit. "So you gonna pay
me, then?" He sounded gruff, like he didn't dare get
his hopes up.
"From Grossberg's ledger, I see he owed you
14,000 marks."
"That's right."
"If we decide to do business together, I'd be happy
to pay you. Could I come by and see your operation?"
There was a suspicious silence. "You're not the po-
lice, are you?"
"No, not the police," Gabriel said with a laugh. He
hoped he sounded believable.
"All right, then. But you'd better not be fucking
lying."
Dorn gave directions. He operated out of a farm-
house with a large barn near Giesing.
Gabriel hung up and checked the map. It was about
a thirty-minute drive to the south. If he hurried, he
could make it there and back before the trip that
afternoon.
The barn was vast. More unusually for this area, it
was in need of a paint job; its gray paint was folding
back to reveal only slightly less gray wood beneath.
The farmhouse was in no better shape—it looked like
the residence of what was called poor white trash
where Gabriel came from. But the place was private.
Gabriel had driven down a dirt road for five minutes
before he'd reached the buildings. There wasn't a
neighbor in sight.
Dorn answered the knock on the barn door. "Come
in, Mr. Smith."
Gabriel had worked on his "business guy" routine
on his way over, but one look at Dorn told him he
needn't have bothered. Whatever kind of businessman
Dorn was, he wasn't the sort that did power lunches.
He was short and swarthy and pungent with cigarettes
and a rank smell that Gabriel initially took for body
odor. He wore a dirty suede coat and work boots, and
he refused to meet Gabriel's eyes.
Dorn led Gabriel into the barn, latching and barring
the door firmly behind them. The interior was a real
shocker. The entire place had been gutted and remod-
eled into a kennel. White partitions formed aisles, and
there were rows of stainless steel cages stacked two
and three high. Bright fluorescent lights hung on wires
from the old rafters, and the floor had been covered
in concrete, each aisle tilting down to a large central
drain.
The smell he'd sensed on Dorn became ever more
pungent as Gabriel progressed inside. Jungle sounds
assaulted his ears. It was a kind of Wild Kingdom
Sense-O-Rama. The inhabitants of the cages came into
view: monkeys, a cheetah, orangutan, and glimpses of
cats and other exotic creatures down farther aisles.
It hit him like a sucker punch from his left brain.
The heads in the basement of the hunt club, von Zell
saying they didn't hunt abroad, the notations in the
ledger . . .
Von Aigner wasn't buying furs, he was buying the
whole enchilada. "Exotics," as in exotic animals. A
little variety for the true sportsman, yes indeedy do.
"You have to ignore the smell," Dorn said. "It's
these stinking animals. No matter how much I spray
them down, they smell!"
"Some creatures are like that," Gabriel said, barely
holding his disgust for the man and his business in
check.
Dorn smiled in what was meant to be an engaging
way, but his stained teeth and his evasive eyes ruined
the effect. "You know, I wouldn't have agreed to meet
you. You can never be too fucking careful. But
Grossberg, he mentioned you to me."
"He did?"
"/a. I called him just a couple of weeks ago, about
the fucking money. I said to him, 'Where's my fucking
money?', and he said that he was getting a new busi-
ness partner and would soon be able to pay me every-
thing. I guess I should have believed him, huh?"
Gabriel stared at Dorn, unable to comprehend what
any of that meant. "Uh, yeah."
"So, I'd be interested in hearing your business plan,
Mr. Smith."
Gabriel tried to look financially viable. "Oh, I'll
probably be needin' the same kind of services as
Grossberg."
Dorn twisted his mouth in a confident smirk. "Furs?
I have fucking good prices for the coats. If you want
me to clean it, it's two hundred fifty marks extra. Or
I have a room in back if you want to do it yourself.
If you want the meat, the price depends on the spe-
cies. Tiger, for example, you pay a lot more for the
body. I can get fucking good prices for tiger penis."
"I bet."
"I can get anything you want. Cats, Grossberg
mostly got. What kind of goods are you interested
in?"
This wasn't going exactly the way Gabriel had ex-
pected. Could he be wrong about von Aigner? "Actu-
ally, I'm more interested in the other services you did
for Grossberg," he hedged.
Dorn frowned. "You mean the export? Ne, what a
fucking hassle. I told Grossberg it was my first and
last, and I fucking meant it."
"Export?"
"/a. It took me forever to find someone to take
those two. All my channels run the other way, you
know? Would maybe be cheaper just to kill them, I
thought, but I got a good price in the end."
Gabriel's mouth was suddenly dry. "Those two
what?"
"Wolves." Dorn tossed it away like it was nothing.
He took a few steps forward and spat into a drain. A
greenish slime oozed over the iron grating.
Gabriel looked away for a moment to hide his reac-
tion. When he looked back, his face was blank. "Huh.
Um . . . where'd the wolves end up?"
"Taiwan. A zoo, the buyer said, but I don't believe
it. A restaurant is more like it. Those people, they
eat anything."
Gabriel ignored this show of liberal-mindedness, his
mind still stuck on simple comprehension. "There
were two wolves, right? Gray? A male and female?"
"/a! I already said, I'm not doing any more fuck-
ing exports."
"Right," Gabriel said, trying to calm his hammering
heart. "I was actually more interested in the possibility
of gettin' animals live—whole. You did that for
Grossberg too, didn't you?"
Dorn shrugged and prodded a booted toe at the
gunk still hanging on the drain. "It's all the same to
me. Live. Dead. Skinned. Meat. You have to bring
your own cage. I don't deliver."
Something seemed to cross Dorn's mind, for he
looked over at Gabriel slyly. "Is that what you're into,
Mr. Smith? Hunting? Breeding maybe?" He leered.
"Huntin'. That's it." Gabriel restrained himself
from throttling the guy.
"Hunting, huh? I can pick out some mean ones for
ya. Or weak ones. Whatever you want. Panthers are
good. I got a black panther right now."
"Really? That's sounds promisin'." Gabriel smiled.
"Say, where'd you keep those two wolves anyway?"
"Why are you so fucking interested in those
wolves?"
Good question. Gabriel's writer's brain searched for
the appropriate line of dialogue while he pretended
to be fighting a sneeze.
"Ah!"—sniff—"Well, the guy who sold the wolves
to Grossberg? He's been claimin' Grossberg damaged
'em when he picked them up. He's threatenin' to sue."
"They looked all right to me."
"Is that so? No wounds or anythin'?"
Dorn looked insulted. "Not a fucking mark on
'em."
"Good! That's good news. Would you mind if I, uh,
checked the cage they were in? See if I can spot any
bloodstains or ... anything?"
Dorn's eyes shifted from Gabriel to the wall as he
considered it. Then he began to slouch down the aisle.
"You're fucking lucky I didn't clean the cage. Nor-
mally I clean 'em right out, but I didn't need it. I have
a lot of capacity here, you know. Sometimes I get in
a couple hundred monkeys at a time. This time of
year is always slow."
"Yeah. It's a great setup you've got here."
Dorn stopped at a cage. He unlocked it and stepped
back.
"Thanks," Gabriel said, smiling at him. "This might
take a minute."
Dorn grunted. He still looked leery, but after all,
there was nothing in the cage but straw and wolf scat.
"I'll be over there," he said. He walked down the aisle
and disappeared.
The cage was only four foot tall by five foot wide.
Gabriel had to stoop to get in it. Fortunately, the
droppings in the cage had dried up long ago. The
straw and the scat crunched under his boot.
What the hell was he looking for anyway?
He toed around in the straw, his face contorted in
a pained expression. This was hardly fun, but if he
could find a bit of wolf hair it would be worth it. He
could compare it to what he'd gotten at the zoo—
confirm what he already knew. He found some strands
over by the food dish. They were gray with white tips,
just like the ones from Margarite. He felt a flush of
excitement. This was turning out to be a far more
productive line of inquiry than he'd ever imagined.
The zoo wolves had come through here! How or why
was another matter.
He picked up the hairs carefully and put them in
his pocket.
He was about to climb out when a glint caught his
eyes. There was something silvery peeking out from
under the straw near the bars. It was probably just a
metal drain, but Gabriel's curiosity got the better of
him. He pushed the straw back with his foot.
And stared. Lying on the floor under the straw was
an ID tag. He glanced in the direction of the aisle,
but Dorn was nowhere in sight. He grabbed the tag,
held it into the light.
Parsival   Tierpark Hellabrunn
Gabriel let out a low moan of exhilaration. He
stuffed the tag into his jean pocket, thinking that he
needn't bother with the hair after all. There was no
doubt now. He shifted through the straw some more,
searching for the other tag. It wasn't there.
"Mr. Smith?" Dorn was standing outside the cage,
shifting from foot to foot and staring at the cage door.
Gabriel climbed out.
"Nope. No blood. Great. I can blow this guy off,
then."
Dorn didn't look at him. "Did you want to see that
panther? It's a nice fucking panther."
"Sure," Gabriel said, figuring the priority at this
point was to get out alive. Humoring Dorn seemed
wise.
As Gabriel left, he shook the man's hand and prom-
ised to send him a check for fourteen thousand marks.
He hoped Dorn ran to the mailbox every day for a
month.
They took von Glower's Land Rover to the lodge.
Hennemann was Gabriel's closest companion in the
backseat. The politician—who was as sober as Gabriel
had ever seen him—rambled monotonously the entire
way. He told Gabriel that the lodge itself had fifty
acres, and it abutted national parkland on three sides.
The property had belonged to the Royal Bavarian
Hunting Lodge for two hundred years. This lodge, and
the club's other lodge in Alfdorf.
And where is Alfdorf? Gabriel asked politely.
In the Swabisch-Frankischer Wold, Hennemann
answered.
The Swiss Franconia Forest. Gabriel looked out the
window at the passing trees and said nothing.
They drove through forest for ten minutes before
reaching the property. The private road was gravel but
in pristine condition. They passed the gate and made
their way through dense wilderness on either side until
finally, topping a rise, the lodge itself came into view.
It was undeniably beautiful in an epic sort of way—
enormous and primitive, like a log cabin with a Mt.
Olympus address. Despite its rustic charm it had an
ominous air that was almost certainly lent by the dark-
ness. The day was overcast, and the lodge and its out-
buildings were completely enshadowed by trees. Its
facade was dark anyway; logs still coated with bark
formed the walls, the roof was black as pitch, and the
porch was pine stained some dark color.
"Voild gentlemen," von Glower announced as he
pulled the car to a stop.
"Yee-haw," Preiss said, giving Gabriel a sly look.
Von Aigner snorted derisively. Gabriel pretended he
didn't get it.
He felt amazingly stupid unloading his beat-up duf-
fel bag. Who'd have guessed he'd be going on a camp-
ing trip with guys who shopped Ralph Lauren?
"Come on, I'll show you up to your room," von
Glower offered.
"Hope I'm not puttin' anybody out."
"No! There are more rooms than we've used for
years. I called ahead and had the maid prepare an
extra."
Inside the foyer, Gabriel stared up at an enormous
chandelier made entirely of antlers. A fireplace the
size of a small bedroom—roasting spit included—dom-
inated the great room. Indian blankets adorned the
pine walls. A large staircase split the room in two.
Gabriel slowly followed the others as they ascended.
Von Zell had driven his own convertible, and as the
group entered the upstairs hallway, Gabriel caught a
glimpse of him swinging shut his bedroom door most
unwelcomingly. Gabriel made a mental note of what
room he was in. It would be a good place to avoid.
Von Glower opened a door just down from von
Zell's. "I hope you'll be comfortable. It's not the Ritz,
but it's got character."
"It certainly does."
"There're extra blankets in the shrank if you need
them. And there's plenty of hot water, so take as long
a shower as you like."
"It's great. When, uh, when ..."
Von Glower looked amused. "We go hunting to-
morrow morning. This time of year it's mostly deer."
"Yee-haw," Gabriel said dryly.
Von Glower laughed. "I've got some things to catch
up on, but feel free to look around. If you take a
walk in the woods, it might help you get your bearings
for tomorrow."
"I will. Thanks."
Somehow it felt like he should change. But since he
had nothing with him but more jeans and T-shirts,
there weren't a lot of options. He wandered down-
stairs instead and saw that Hennemann and the bar
had already found each other.
"Herr Hennemann."
"Guten Abend."
"Oh, it's not that time yet."
"Close enough." Hennemann raised his beer glass
in a toast.
Gabriel walked over and sat down nonchalantly. He
wanted to look around, but he'd yet to have a shot at
Hennemann alone (the cramped car hardly qualified),
and there were things he still needed to know.
"I've heard that you're quite the man to know," he
began with a smile.
"Uh?"
"Politics. You're the man."
"Ah! Well, I'm not the man I used to be," Henne-
mann joked. There was a bitter undertone to his quip.
Gabriel flattered him. "That's not what I hear!"
Hennemann looked pleased, but he didn't answer.
"So! A politician, a lawyer, a banker . . . It's about
all the friends a guy could want, am I right?" Gabriel
nudged the older man with a knowing elbow. Hen-
nemann shot him a glance that said he was being in-
credibly naive.
"Have you ever worked with Preiss, for example?"
Gabriel continued. "I hear he's quite a hot shot in
court."
Hennemann grimaced. "If you need a lawyer, Herr
Knight, Preiss is the last person I'd recommend." Hen-
nemann had lowered his voice, and he glanced ner-
vously toward the stairs.
"How so?"
"You met the man. Would you want to be alone in
a room with him for an hour?"
Gabriel considered it. "Not especially."
Hennemann's red-shot eyes glanced at Gabriel bale-
fully. "He's a goat. No respect for normal human de-
cency. I tell you, society has no interest in a man like
that. It's a good thing he doesn't need the money be-
cause no one will hire him." He looked at Gabriel's
empty hands. "Want a beer?"
"Not just now, thanks. But . . . isn't that what the
club philosophy is all about—gettin' in touch with
one's primal instincts? Bein' natural?"
Hennemann made a face. "Sure. But do you think
animals are like this? Rutting every ten seconds? Even
apes have mating seasons, Herr Knight."
Yeah? They also don't lap up alcohol by the gallon
at the ol' watering hole.
"Well, what about von Aigner? You guys hang,
right?"
"/a. Von Aigner's a good man. Klingmann too I
like. He comes by the Donisl and drinks with me."
"Really? You two are so different. What do ya find
to talk about?"
"Oh, the club philosophy, mostly. Herr Doktor is
very taken with it."
"Did, uh, did you sponsor Klingmann, then?" Ga-
briel asked with forced casualness.
"Me? No! It was von Zell." Hennemann took a
chug of beer and smacked his lips noisily.
"Von Zell sponsored Klingmann?" Gabriel re-
peated blankly.
Hennemann nodded and burped quietly.
"See, I never would have thought that. They don't
seem to get along too well."
Hennemann tilted his head to consider it. "No, I
suppose not too well lately. It was better at first,
though never . . . You know, I always found it strange
myself. Von Zell is not the friendliest person. Ach!
Who knows? Maybe he only wanted to shake things
up."
"Could be," Gabriel said thoughtfully.
Hennemann finished his beer and immediately
poured himself another. "Are you ready now, Herr
Knight?" He had a painfully hopeful expression.
Gabriel got up. "Actually, I was gonna take a
walk."
Hennemann's face betrayed his opinion of such an
activity. But he raised his glass and toasted a bon
voyage.
The woods were chilly. There was still plenty of
daylight left, but the shadows of the trees made it feel
like twilight and thus gave the illusion that darkness
was hanging just above, like a blanket about to de-
scend on a bed. It seeded an anxiety that night would
sneak up and catch the happy wanderer far from
home. In the dark.
Or perhaps it was just that Gabriel was no Daniel
Boone. Nature to him was the sprawling bougainvillea
that leapt from Southern balconies in May or the cle-
matis that draped his grandmother's porch with intol-
erable perfume. It meant going barefoot on the
asphalt on Bourbon Street in the sweet reprieve be-
tween chill and molten tar. Pine needles—that was an-
other story altogether.
But there were paths through the woods, clear, soft
paths of dirt so fine it looked like flour dusted from
a sieve. Even a city boy could follow a path like that
(though they might not be prepared for what they
encountered upon it).
The path that began across the lawn from the front
porch went directly south. Fifteen minutes out, it in-
tersected with a path going east-west, and Gabriel
turned left, hoping that he would find a circular route
back to the lodge.
The walk was quite bizarre. Perhaps it was the in-
creased supply of sharp, thick oxygen working like a
drug on his smog-thickened brain, but there was a
strange quality to the woods unlike anything he could
recall having experienced before. It was the trees,
marching away forever as one's eye cut through the
woods. It was like some Escher illusion, trunk upon,
trunk upon trunk until your depth perception admit-
ted defeat.
But it was precisely this quality—this ability to peer
straight through into an endless horizon of trees that,
he realized, was odd. Not being a forest person, it
took time to realize this and more time to realize the
cause. The forest floor was amazingly clean—not thick
with dead brush and twigs and brambles as one might
expect—and the trees, most of them, had no limbs
whatsoever until twenty feet or more up, allowing the
eye to continue on and on, unhalted by walls of green
boughs and bushes. And with the late afternoon sun-
light filtering through the trees in visible beams ... It
was like something from a storybook, these woods,
like something from Little Red Riding Hood.
He walked on, speeding up into a trot, looking out
for another north-south path that would take him back
to the lodge. How far had he come? Forty minutes at
least—surely there was a quicker way back to the
lodge than turning around.
He began to get an uneasy sensation of being
watched, a sensation that reminded him of the one
and only time he'd gone snorkeling. There, in the si-
lent water, with the sense of sound completely re-
moved, he'd felt peculiarly vulnerable, like a deaf
person standing on a road. His insubordinate imagina-
tion had called up scenes from Jaws, and he'd spun
around to look, certain that something unbearable and
deadly was headed his way, the ocean's equivalent of
a Mack truck.
His writer's imagination was like an overbuilt mus-
cle, and as any serious bodybuilder who's ever tried
to buy a pair of pants could tell you—it could be a
damned nuisance.
It was being one right now.
He was jogging, something his out-of-shape lungs
could not keep up for long. He slipped a cold hand
inside his shirt and pulled out the talisman, hanging it
outside his jacket, where it bounced with each step.
The woods were thickening on his right, and the
ground was beginning to undulate. He ran down into
a ditch and nearly slipped on some orange-colored
mud. His thighs ached as his feet pushed him up the
rise on the other side.
And then, when he was beginning to think about
turning around, he ran into a north-south path. Ten
minutes later, he was on the front porch.
"Did you have a nice walk?" Hennemann asked as
Gabriel came in the door. His speech was already tak-
ing on that overcompensated elucidation.
"Wunderbar," Gabriel choked. He turned his back
to Hennemann to remove his coat, tucking his talis-
man into his shirt as he did so. His breath was coming
in embarrassingly ragged gasps.
"Von Aigner was just down. He said if you came
in, I was to invite you to join him in his room."
Gabriel tried not to show his surprise. "What room
would that be?"
"Across the hall from your room, Herr Knight. You
want a beer now?"
"I guess I do."
Gabriel took his stein and climbed the stairs, still
trying to slow his breathing and warm the ice water
running in his veins. There had been nothing in the
woods, only his own febrile juvenility, just as there
had been nothing at the Huber farm the other night.
He rapped lightly on von Aigner's door.
"Kommen Sie!"
Gabriel was perplexed to see that the bedroom was
empty, but then he heard the sounds of splashing.
"Von Aigner?"
"In here," came a voice from the bathroom.
"Sorry. I'll come back."
"No need. Make the door more open."
Gabriel pushed on the bathroom door. Von Aigner
was sitting in a tub full of hot water. On a chair next
to him were a glass of beer, a plate of cold cuts and
cheeses, and a basket of rolls. He was chewing busily,
one meat-wrapped roll in his hand.
"You want?" he asked Gabriel, motioning to the
plate.
"No, thanks." Gabriel raised his stein as though in
explanation.
"Sit on the bed." Von Aigner pointed toward said
object, which was visible through the doorway. Ga-
briel complied.
"Von Zell doesn't like you," von Aigner said, chas-
ing this revelation with a loud and liquid belch.
"He doesn't? I'm hurt."
Von Aigner grunted. "You joke. I would be careful
if I were you. Tomorrow. On the hunt."
Von Aigner put down his roll and clenched his
meaty hands into fists, then made the unmistakable
mimicry—one arm stretched—of a rifle being pointed.
Ka-blam.
"You're not suggestin' . . ."
Von Aigner picked up his roll and took a large bite,
as though he'd missed it. He shook his head, crumbs
making an escape from his beard to the water below.
"A friendly warning," he said with his mouth full.
"Look out for your back."
"You think von Zell is capable of murder?"
"He is capable of anything."
Gabriel took a drink of his beer, annoyed by the
stupid lid that bumped his nose. Von Aigner pieced
together a second sandwich.
"Are you? Police?" von Aigner asked carefully.
"No."
The huge man—his stomach mounding out of the
bath water like Nessy on Loch Ness—grunted. "That's
good."
"But I was wonderin' . . ."
"What?"
"I ... well, this is embarrassin', but I kinda over-
heard you and von Zell at the club. You mentioned
that you'd given von Zell Grossberg's name?"
Von Aigner wiped greasy fingers on his chest and
stared at Gabriel, his sandwich held in one hand like
an unfinished thought. "What big ears you have."
Gabriel smiled self-deprecatingly. "I don't blame
you for not admittin' it to me earlier. That you knew
Grossberg, I mean. I've run into him before, usually
in connection with certain exotics."
Von Aigner's eyes narrowed. "You are police, then."
There was an anger behind his voice that was quite
eerie. Gabriel had a brief vision of the bulk that was
von Aigner launching itself from the tub and laying
into him. Hell, just laying on him would be fatal.
"Not at all," Gabriel said calmly. "Just a hunter.
Like I said."
Von Aigner considered this as he took another bite
and chewed. "Grossberg got exotics for you also?"
"Not for me directly, no."
Von Aigner said nothing, his brow knit in thought.
"Why did von Zell want the name of your exotics
contact? Do you know?"
Von Aigner licked his fingers and ate the last bite
of roll with focused precision. "I thought he would
maybe leave to make his own club, or maybe hunt
alone. I would cry no tears to see him go." He picked
up a loose piece of cheese. "You are more the interna-
tional hunter than you look like, Herr Knight. If you
hunt exotics."
"Oh, I've hunted exotics, all right. Speaking of
which, have you ever heard of the Black Wolf?"
Von Aigner belched in a sustained note. "Ne. We've
never hunted wolves."
"Oh."
"Though we could if we wanted to, and we would
not need Grossberg to do it."
Gabriel studied von Aigner leerily. "What do you
mean?"
"They're all around here," von Aigner said, waving
a hand toward the window.
"What?"
"Wolves," von Aigner said loudly and with much
tongue, as though Gabriel were hard of hearing.
Gabriel felt his heart trip in his chest. "You must
be mistaken. Wolves are extinct in Germany."
Von Aigner laughed. "Not here. I hear them at
night myself all the time. Arrrooooool" He stuffed a
piece of Liebercase in his mouth and chewed openly,
grayish matter visible on his tongue. "Like to make
your blood go cold. Take my advice—don't go out
there at night. I never do."
Von Aigner went to wash down his mouthful and
found the stein empty. He looked extremely put out.
Gabriel headed straight for the room he'd seen
Klingmann occupy. He'd learned a lot in one day and,
in a word, he was tired of mucking about. He thought
he now held the cards he needed to pin the lying sack
of scheifie to the wall, and he was more than worked
up enough to do it.
Gabriel found the good doctor lying on his bed,
reading a scholarly journal. Klingmann did not look
pleased to see him. "What is it, Mr. Knight?"
"Oh, just hangin' out. Nice lodge, huh?"
"Very nice. As I would expect."
"Have you been here before?"
"No. I'm sorry, but I would like to read."
"Oh, I don't mind."
Gabriel went over to the window. Outside, shadows
were stretching across the lawn as if in a race to see
who could reach the woods first. Gabriel stuck a hand
in a pocket and brought something out. He juggled it
from hand to hand, leaning against the glass.
"Kinda surprised me that you were even in this
club. Seems like huntin' is an odd pastime for a
zoologist."
"Animal behaviorist," Klingmann said stiffly. He
looked a little guilty nonetheless.
"Wouldn't you say?" Gabriel probed, turning brood-
ing eyes toward the bed.
Klingmann put down his journal in exasperation.
"There are reasons, Mr. Knight. The point is not to
provide a carcass for the family table, after all!"
"You're tryin' to get back to your primitive na-
ture, then?"
"Yes," Klingmann said, surprised. His brow fur-
rowed in irritation. "What is that you're playing
with?"
"What, this?" Gabriel tossed the object to Kling-
mann, who looked all the more irritated as it went
flying through the air. He caught it with an annoyed
sigh and looked at it.
In an instant his demeanor metamorphosed. His
face lost its arrogance in a horizontal swoop, like
someone erasing a blackboard. He seemed to have
trouble catching his breath.
"Doc?" Gabriel said.
"Where did you get this?" Klingmann managed. He
looked damn scared.
Gabriel strolled over and sat on the edge of the
bed. "In the kennel of a black-market animal dealer."
"I don't understand."
"The wolves were shipped out. Adios, amigos.
Deported."
Klingmann met his eyes reluctantly. "Where to?"
"Taiwan."
"Oh."
For a moment Klingmann said nothing; he just fin-
gered the tag.
"I don't understand," he said again.
"Let me explain it," Gabriel said malignantly. "You
wanted to get into the club. Von Zell offered to spon-
sor you for a small favor. He wanted two wolves. You
helped him get them out of the zoo. Have I got all
that right?"
Klingmann's face was suffused with humiliation. Ga-
briel felt a twinge of satisfaction at the sight. "If this
information gets out, my career will be finished."
Gabriel leaned in, his eyes relentless. "Then you'd
better start talkin'."
"I don't know anything about the killings!" Kling-
mann burst out. "I swear! I was shocked when I read
about the first one in the paper! I went to von Zell.
He said it was a fluke, a coincidence! The wolves were
fine, the wolves were under control, it couldn't be
my wolves."
Gabriel looked at the worm disdainfully. "It wasn't
your wolves."
Klingmann studied him searchingly, as though trying
to gauge the truth of this. Relief flooded his face. "Are
you certain? Thank God! I didn't think so, but . . .
Thank God!"
"It wasn't them." Gabriel plucked the tag from
Klingmann's fingers. "How'd you get them out of the
zoo anyway?"
"Von Zell and some other man came late one night
with a truck. I let them in the service entrance. I ...
I had drugged two of the wolves earlier. It was simple
enough to pick them up and put them on the truck.
The night boy, he was lazy. It took him forever to do
the rounds."
"Did von Zell tell you why he wanted the wolves?"
Klingmann lowered his eyes, the burn creeping
across his forehead. "He said he wanted to study
them, that he had a kennel prepared. He said he ad-
mired them, as I do."
He looked up, his eyes desperate. "I would never
do such a thing, but von Zell, he came to one of my
lectures months ago. He—he courted me, telling me
about the club, the philosophy, the prestige. So many
of the ideas fit my own feelings. I had to get in. Don't
you see?"
Gabriel rose, not about to assuage Klingmann's
guilt. "Thanks for the talk."
"Herr Knight, can I... can I please keep the tag?"
Gabriel pretended to consider it. "Nope. Be seein'
ya, Doc."
And he left Klingmann sitting there, journal forgotten.
He was shutting Klingmann's door when he heard
a soft noise behind him. He turned to see von Zell
locking the door to his room. Gabriel quickly stepped
into the middle of the hall and pretended he'd been
passing through. Being caught coming out of Kling-
mann's room was probably not a good idea. He didn't
feel like taking any of von Zell's abuse at the moment.
Von Zell turned slowly, his head cocked to one side.
"Hey, Baron von Zell."
Incomprehensibly, von Zell began to make oinking
noises. He walked slowly toward Gabriel, raking air
in through his nostrils like fingernails on a chalkboard:
snort, snort, snort, snort, snort.
Gabriel backed away.
"This little piggy went to London," von Zell said,
a rapt look on his face.
"That's nice. I—"
"This little piggy went to Rome. Snort, snort."
Gabriel's back hit the wall. He stared at von Zell
and thought, Okay. I get it. He's absolutely mad. You
can end the demonstration now.
"And this little piggy . . ." Von Zell stepped into
Gabriel's face and jabbed a finger at his chest, "went
wee! wee! wee! all the way home to America!"
Von Zell began to laugh uproariously. Gabriel stood
there, at a loss as to how to proceed. It occurred to
him that escape was a good idea. He tried to push his
way along the wall. He took one step, and von Zell
stopped laughing abruptly and grabbed his shirt with
two hands, yanking him back.
"No, I've changed my mind. You're not like a pig
at all, are you, Hen Knight?"
"No?"
"No. You're more like a cat. That's what you re-
mind me of: a sneaking, slinking, sly little cat."
Von ZelFs face was only inches away from Gabri-
el's, and his eyes were so intense, Gabriel swore he
could feel the heat of their gaze.
"I'm not really—"
"And I hate cats," von Zell interrupted. "I loathe
them."
"Yeah. I get the point. Excuse me." Gabriel tried
to sound both bored and firm.
"No, we're not done here. I have one more thing to
share with you, Herr Knight, and that's a note about
curiosity. You know what they say about the cat and
curiosity, don't you?"
"Urn . . . Something about winning the race?"
It was not the smartest move he'd made all day, but
his tongue had a way of spitting things out without
notifying his brain. Von Zell flushed and shoved Ga-
briel back against the wall with incredible force. Ga-
briel wheezed as the breath was forced from his lungs.
"No! Think again!" Von Zell's anger was barely in
check, looming behind his eyes like thunderclouds.
"I'm sure you'll remember it if you try."
He gave Gabriel one more push, then retreated and
walked quickly down the stairs.
When Gabriel was certain von Zell was gone, he
tried the door to his room. Locked. He looked around
the hall to make sure he was alone, then squatted
down to take a closer look—the door was thick; the
handle and lock looked formidable. Of course, he
could try picking it, but this wasn't exactly a place one
could settle down for some serious tinkering.
Anyway, he had a better idea. He knew he was
behaving irrationally even as he went into his own
room, went to the window, moved aside a chair, and
propped back the curtain. He recalled this feeling be-
fore, when it had been about Voodoo in New Or-
leans—that feeling of plummeting ahead no matter the
cost, irregardless of personal danger, defiant. He was
a teenage motorcycle rider going 100 M.P.H. down a
country road, or a child whose mother says, "Don't
climb on those rocks," and the child turns right around
and begins to climb. But was it defiance really? Brav-
ery? Or was it more of a single-mindedness so focused
that all obstacles are brushed off the consciousness
like a fly off a picnic table?
Back in New Orleans, when he'd felt himself plum-
meting this way (out of control, really—yes, he was
out of control), he could tell himself that it was be-
cause it was personal; it was about his nightmares, his
love, his family, his destiny.
What the hell was his excuse this time?
He leaned out his window and saw what he'd seen
from the outside of the lodge—that the walls were
made of rough-hewn logs: rounded, grooved, tractable
with bark. Why, it was practically a staircase out there,
at least compared to his grandmother's siding, which
he'd routinely scaled every Saturday night when he
snuck from his room.
Von Zell's window was only fifteen feet away. It
was open to let in the air.
The side of the lodge was deep in shadow, lending
stealth to his endeavor. But the actual job of getting
to von Zell's window was much harder in fact than it
had been in his head. The bark fell away beneath his
feet, and the crevasses between the logs had a cement-
like filling, allowing his desperate fingers only so far
inside. When he finally reached the window, he was
cursing his bright idea and quivering from the strain.
But he was about to have his revenge.
He crawled over the bottom of the sill and took a
moment to catch his breath, looking around. For the
bedroom of a psychopath, the room was stupefyingly
uneventful. Von Zell's large leather carpetbag was
placed in a particular manner to one side of the
room's shrank, or armoire. The bed was tidy. Gabriel
opened the shrank. Yes, von Zell had unpacked, and
his things were neatly stacked or hung, including a
killer pair of black leather riding boots.
Gabriel searched the bed, checking under the pil-
lows and dipping a hand between the mattress and
box springs. Nothing. He checked the carpetbag.
Empty. He checked the drawers in the nightstands
next to the bed. On the left-hand side were a watch,
a small alarm cock, and von Zell's black appointment
book—the one he'd left in the basement at the club.
Gabriel had already looked at the book once, but
he picked it up again. He knew a lot more now than
he'd known then, including whose book it was and
how suspicious the son of a bitch had turned out to
be. He checked the calendar for the past months, but
didn't see any mention of picking up wolves, no men-
tion of wolves at all. But then von Zell would hardly
jot that down next to his luncheon and dental
appointments.
He came to that page again, the one with the names
and figures listed.
Preiss—100,000
Aigner   1 m. 700,000
Henneraann—30,000
Loan amounts, no doubt. And the von Aigner fig-
ure—300,000 marks, could it be? Had von Aigner
really paid back such a large amount recently? Or had
von Zell given him an incentive to reveal Grossberg's
name?
He was about to put the book down when he saw
a tip of a white envelope sticking out of the back
pages. He pulled it out. It was addressed to von Zell—
no return address. Inside was a single sheet of paper.
The short text was written in German, but Gabriel
recognized the words newspaper, wolves, zoo, and po-
lice. There was also a figure: 500,000 DM. It was
signed Grossberg.
"Son of a bitch," Gabriel said out loud. It was a
blackmail letter. Grossberg had known about the de-
liberate kidnapping of the wolves; he had probably
driven the truck. And when he'd seen the killings in
the papers, and the blame go to the wolves, he'd de-
cided he needed to be paid for his continued silence
about their true whereabouts.
So von Zell was the new "business partner"
Grossberg had bragged about to Dorn. It looked like
von Zell thought otherwise. Do we have a motive for
Grossberg's murder, ladies and germs? Yes, I believe
we do.
Gabriel put the letter and the book back the way
he'd found it. He was about to leave when he decided
to check the bathroom. The tub and sink were both
spotless. There was nothing in the medicine cabinet.
A small travel kit was on the back of the toilet—there
was nothing but the usual sundries in it.
As an afterthought, Gabriel pulled up the rug that
lay in front of the tub. The white tile floor was clean.
He gave the rug a quick scan, and something caught
his eye. It was a small Oriental rug, expensive by the
look of it. Perhaps von Zell had brought it from
home—a little luxury to make the rustic life all the
sweeter. The pattern was a mix of colors, mostly reds
and blues.
But there was something out of place. A spot of
brownish-orange. Gabriel took it closer to the light
and held the section up. Yes. It wasn't yarn, it was a
stain of ... He brushed one nail against it, and a few
dust motes puffed up. Dried mud. Dried orangey mud.
Gabriel studied it. It was a spot about three inches
by two, and it was darker in ridges. There was a pat-
tern there. He frowned, trying to discern it. It was
hard to picture someone as neat as von Zell wearing
muddy boots into the bathroom. Besides, that wasn't
a boot print was it?
His imagination supplied an answer; he had a men-
tal flash of von Zell, naked and sweating, crawling in
his bedroom window and walking with bare, muddy
feet into the bathroom, stepping into the bath.
Yes, he recognized the pattern now—it wasn't a
boot print, the ridges were toes. It was a footprint—
a bare footprint in orange mud.
Von Zell was sitting in a corner of the great room
absorbed—or at least pretending to be—in a hunting
magazine. Gabriel thought he went unnoticed as he
slipped outside. He was relieved to know von Zell was
inside and not, therefore, in the woods, particularly
since he had to go back out there.
Now it truly was getting dark. The sunset was hap-
pening somewhere in the west, as indicated by the
golden glow hanging over the trees. The rest of the
sky was turning a nice, solid indigo. He grabbed a
lantern and some matches from the barn and a pair
of thick gardening gloves while he was at it.
He took the short path still visible in the gathering
twilight, back to that dip in the woods, the place where
he'd seen the orange mud. When he reached the cul-
vert, he lit the lantern, the better to examine the
ground. There was a trickle of water in the bottom of
the ditch, perhaps from some underground stream. He
followed it back into the woods, his legs spread to
either side of the stream, his head bent low. About
ten yards back he saw what looked like a shadow near
a leaf. He brushed the leaf aside and lowered the
lantern.
In the mud was a huge paw print—identical to the
one he'd found at the Huber farm.
It was exactly what he'd been looking for, but he'd
unconsciously hoped not to find it. Indeed, he found
himself quite unprepared. He heard something rattling
and actually swung around before realizing that it was
his teeth. He was shaking like a can of paint in a
mixer. What was it he'd just been thinking about being
recklessly brave and defiant?
He had to talk himself into continuing. It was true,
he was in the woods without a weapon and it was
nearly dark. Yes, the Beast was here. Somewhere. He
even had an idea that it didn't like him very much.
But he did have the talisman. That would do some-
thing to protect him. Wouldn't it?
He turned and continued down the culvert, his eyes
still searching. He found another print—a partial—
near a rock farther down. And then a third. This one
was on the bank to the left, as though entering the
culvert. He looked up the side, raising the lantern.
There was a hill on that side, a good-sized hill, and it
was covered with brush. This part of the woods was
quite wild and had been allowed to stay that way.
He walked up the bank slowly. He put on the gloves
to better push aside the stickers and the brambles that
clutched at him. He was looking for some kind of a
path here, a path not made by human hands, and there
did seem to be an opening, lower down, where the
bushes were not as thick.
He pushed his way through and came, after a few
minutes, to the side of the hill. There, in what was a
small clearing in the brambles, he saw an entrance to
a cave.
And he knew he'd found the lair.
The cave entrance was only about four feet tall, so
he had to stoop low. It continued at this height for a
while, perhaps ten feet. It seemed a lot longer. Then
the rock began to slope upward, and the narrow pas-
sage opened into a small room.
He was still straightening up when the smell as-
saulted him—a horrible smell, rank, musty, and unmis-
takable. It was the smell of carrion—the sickly sweet
smell of death.
He clasped his free hand to his nostrils, desperate
to get away from the tangible net of it. But he had
to breathe. He inhaled through his mouth reluctantly,
feeling the odor like Teflon coating his tongue, his
throat.
"God!" he gasped, wanting desperately to retch, to
turn around.
Instead, he raised the lantern and scanned the room,
wanting to finish so that he needn't come back. There
was nothing in this room but rocky outcroppings from
floor, wall, and ceiling. But there was another low pas-
sageway beyond. He would have to go on.
He fished in a pocket for a handkerchief and didn't
find one (not surprising since he never carried the
things). He pulled out his T-shirt instead and used the
bottom hem of it to cover his nose and mouth. He
went into the second passageway.
This time the low channel continued on even longer,
twenty feet perhaps. And before it ended he began to
hear the sound of a watery drip up ahead.
When the ceiling sloped up again, he stepped into
a large cavern. It gave the illusion of vastness, anyway.
It was absolutely pitch black hi there, and the lantern
itself seemed intimidated by the smell, for the flame
cowered down. He could see little but the wide out-
ward slant of the walls on either side of him, indicating
that they were broadening out to encircle a very large
space. And there was that sound, that dripping, which
sounded loud and echoed in the stillness.
What else was out there in the uncompromising
dark? His sense of repulsion over the smell faded as
fear began to make such concerns seem trivial. He
scanned the darkness for the glow of eyes, but nothing
in the beyond separated itself from the dark. He
fought to slow his breathing, telling himself that what-
ever lived here was currently back at the lodge. He
took a few cautious steps forward.
The dirt beneath his feet gave way.
He was slipping, falling. He dropped the lantern and
grabbed at the ground under his hand. His right foot
disappeared into nothingness, but he managed to catch
himself and scoot back on the dirt. The lantern, thank-
fully, had not gone out. He picked it up and held it
out in front of him.
The light shone on the dirt, then black swallowed
it up. He was on the edge of some large rift. He
crawled on hands and knees closer to the edge, the
smell coming in nearly visible waves now. He held the
lantern out with one unsteady hand, the other desper-
ately masking his nose. He looked down.
Below him was a deep pit, a hole, at least fifteen
feet deep, perhaps much deeper, and easily as wide.
At first his mind rebelled against identifying what his
lantern danced off down inside this hole, and he only
saw jutting, broken edges; rotting, darkened lumps;
and scraps of stuff incongruously placed, like the red-
checked calico that wavered just inside the reach of
his flickering light. Then his eyes settled on a pattern
of yellow daisies on white just below him. The fabric
was stretched over a rounded mound of black straw,
and below the straw were dark holes—gaping and
sunken in a ... Like an image snapping into focus,
he saw quite suddenly that he was looking at a face.
The gay daisy handkerchief was still atop the dun-
colored hair, and the face was decayed and shriveled.
And then every form below defined itself in the
gloom—every lump and jutting limb, a shoe-clad foot,
torn, half-eaten haunches.
The pit was filled with rotting corpses.
"AAAAG!"
It wasn't exactly a scream; it was more a cry of
denial. The lantern fell from his hand and landed with
a dull wet thud on the daisy-clad child below, then
the flame went out. Moaning, he scrambled backward
on hands and knees in the absolute darkness. He
banged into unyielding rock and turned, felt with his
hands, found the opening.
He crawled, blind, through the long passageway and
then into the first room, where the entrance to the
cave was illuminated softy by the dying sunlight out-
side. He'd almost made it to the opening, still crawling
mindlessly, when his stomach caught up with his brain
and vomit filled his mouth. He turned to an out-
cropping near the door and spewed.
In the dull light from the entrance, so seemingly
bright after the blackness of the inner cave, part of
his mind saw in detail his hand placed on the rock,
fingers splayed, dustings of hair disturbed by the
movement wavering up for a moment, caressing his
skin. It saw this in an odd, surreal kind of clarity,
almost like a deja vu, while the rest of his mind and
body were busy elsewhere, expelling everything in his
gut in an act of pure terror and revulsion.
It was several minutes before he managed to propel
himself, on exhausted legs, through the mouth of the
cave and stumble back through the trees.
Lair. Lair. Lair.
His mind repeated the word over and over while he
stumbled down the path.
He'd found its lair.
He had flashes as he ran of the Beast—IT—coming
down the same path but from the opposite direction—
from civilization to the lair, its strong forelegs pushing
steadily on, despite the fact that it was dragging a
human corpse in its jaws.
Why take the bodies there? Oh, why do you have
such big teeth, Grandmama? To eat, eat, eat.
Perhaps too to hide the evidence. But it's not hid-
ing anymore.
He broke into the clearing at the lodge and went
quickly inside.
"Are you ready for another beer yet, Herr Knight?"
Hennemann called out, his voice thick with drink. Von
Aigner was downstairs too, sitting at the bar, hogging
the pretzel dish.
Gabriel wanted to scream or laugh. He swallowed
it. "No. I h—have to see Friedrich."
Von Aigner raised a curious eyebrow. "He's in his
room. Upstairs."
Later, Gabriel was to wonder at his decision. Even
at the time he knew that it wasn't particularly wise.
But he'd reached a point—even if it wa& just for a
brief reactionary moment—when the burden was too
great to shoulder alone. And there was von Glower,
with his shoulders broad enough to take on the world.
Shoulders like perhaps Wolfgang's might have been,
had he lived, or even his grandad's. Somehow, Gabriel
knew that von Glower would loathe what von Zell
was doing as much as he did himself.
He was not wrong about that.
One look at Gabriel's face and von Glower jumped
up from his desk. "My God, what's happened?"
"In the woods . . ."
"Show me."
Von Glower put on a thick coat and insisted they
stop at the barn for lanterns and a rifle. He questioned
Gabriel several times about what he had seen, but
Gabriel only shook his head. Although the woods
were dark now, he raced down the path unerringly.
His panic had ingrained its contours on him like a
melody on vinyl.
When they reached the culvert, von Glower stopped
him by tugging on one arm.
"Gabriel, what is it? Did you see an animal? A
bear?"
Gabriel shook his head. "There's a cave," he said,
trying to catch his breath.
"A cave?" Von Glower sounded doubtful.
"This way."
Gabriel walked back along the culvert and pushed
through the brambles. Soon, they were both at the
cave entrance. Von Glower looked baffled.
"Go in," Gabriel said, having no intention of going
in himself. "It's in the second room. Be careful—
there's a ... a drop."
Von Glower's dark eyes looked worriedly at Ga-
briel, and he nodded. He stood for a long moment,
staring at the entrance, as though he really did not
want to go inside. Gabriel recognized the fear, but
was surprised to see it in von Glower. It was a momen-
tary lapse; he soon stooped low to crawl in through
the opening, his lantern held in front of him. Gabriel
waited, pacing outside.
Von Glower emerged from the cave ten long min-
utes later. When he came out, he looked paler, more
stricken and ill than Gabriel himself had been.
"My God," he said, his chin trembling with shock.
"It's von Zell," Gabriel said bitterly.
Von Glower looked at him sharply. "Von Zell?"
"He's . . . he's a—"
Von Glower grabbed his arm. "He's a what,
Gabriel?"
Gabriel swallowed. "He's a werewolf."
He waited, expecting von Glower to laugh, but he
just stood there, studying Gabriel with those worried,
dark eyes, his brow furrowed in thought.
"I think you'd better explain," he said gently.
And so Gabriel did. He explained about looking
into the wolf killings for the Hubers, about being sus-
picious of Klingmann and following him to the club.
Von Glower seemed to take this in without much
anger or surprise.
"Here's what I think happened," Gabriel said.
"Von Zell got caught up in this philosophy of yours.
Maybe at first he only thought he was a wolf. But he
must have had some kind of ... I don't know . . .
genetic code—maybe a werewolf way back in the fam-
ily tree somewhere—that allowed to him to actually
physically change once his mind got worked up enough
by the philosophy and the hunting to trigger it. Any-
way, he changes now, that's certain. The killer isn't a
wolf or a dog and certainly not human; it's some huge
wolf hybrid."
"What about the zoo wolves? The newspapers
say—"
"It was a setup by von Zell. He must have been
killin' around here for a long time, and at your other
lodge in Alfdorf. He'd grab people when they were
alone and drag them back to the cave. But for some
reason—maybe he's just gettin' more and more in-
sane—he got tired of being subtle. He decided he
wanted to kill closer to home, not have to dispose of
the bodies, maybe even spread some terror. But he
didn't want to be caught, so he cooked up a scheme
to let two wolves out of the Munich zoo—wolves the
killin's could be blamed on. He seduced Klingmann
into wantin' to join the club to get his help in kid-
nappin' them."
Von Glower said nothing, but his handsome face
was etched with concern.
"But then he had to get rid of the wolves," Gabriel
continued. "So he offered to reduce von Aigner's debt
for the name of your black-market animal dealer. It
was a guy named Grossberg. He helped von Zell get
rid of the wolves. But Grossberg tried to blackmail
von Zell. Von Zell killed him just blocks from the
club. He must have arranged a meeting and then . . .
changed before keeping it."
"This is incredible."
"I know."
Von Glower paced anxiously. "It's difficult to be-
lieve there's an actual transformation, but as for the
rest of it ... I've seen his savagery in hunting. With
the way he's been acting, I'm not surprised that he's
turned that rage on other human beings."
"There's an actual transformation, all right. I have
samples of hair and a paw print."
Hair. Wasn't there more hair in the lair? Yes. He'd
seen some. He could go back in now and get it to
show to von Glower, but the thought of entering the
lair was hideous. He decided not to mention it.
"How curious," von Glower said, soft and low.
"We have to ... to kill him," Gabriel said, suddenly
worried that von Glower would want to study the pro-
cess rather than end it.
Von Glower nodded solemnly. "Yes. I agree."
Gabriel bit his lip. "I don't think the police would
believe me."
Von Glower let out a breathy laugh. 'Wo. No, they
would not." He drew himself taller. He seemed to
have reached some kind of decision, and now the von
Glower that Gabriel had so admired was back. He
had assimilated the situation, and he was more than
ready to act.
"It's not their concern anyway," he said. "This thing
belongs to you and I."
Gabriel nodded slowly.
"You, you have a stake in this for the Hubers. As
for myself, I feel responsible. I obviously chose even
my chosen few very badly."
He smiled a sad, ironic smile and placed a hand on
Gabriel's shoulder. "We'll hunt him tonight."
They'd agreed to meet at the stables at midnight.
The rest of the men would be asleep by then, von
Glower explained, and their interference was one
thing they didn't need.
How do you know he'll be out? Gabriel had asked.
It's our first night here. If he's what you say, don't
you think he'll want to be out?
Yeah. Gabriel thought he would. The question was,
did Gabriel himself really want to be out? Answer: no.
Now that it had come down to this, now that the
chase was over and the knife was put in his hand, he
found himself much less enthusiastic about his role.
Had his ancestors enjoyed it? The killing part? He
could still remember Malia, hanging over that fiery
chasm. Whatever his commitment, whatever was right
and wrong, he'd die before putting himself through
that again.
But this wasn't Malia. This was grade-A asshole von
Zell, and he was eating people. Somebody had to
stop it.
The stables were aglow with lantern light when Ga-
briel arrived. Von Glower was saddling a horse.
"What rough beast slouches toward the hunt, its
prey to be undone?" he said darkly as Gabriel walked
up.
"What's that 'sposed to mean?"
"Just a little hunting joie de vivre to get you in
the mood."
"It didn't work," Gabriel said, eyeing the horses
with apprehension. "We're not ridin', are we?"
"Yes. We'll be safer on horseback. The horses will
let us know when he's close. Plus, we can move much
faster if we have to chase him."
"Right. This is, um ... we don't ride much in
New Orleans."
Von Glower looked up at him, surprised. "Oh. I
didn't realize . . ." He tightened the saddle's buckle
on the horse's underbelly. "Well, just hang on. Let
the horse know who's boss. You'll be fine."
Von Glower offered him a hand up. Gabriel reluc-
tantly put one booted toe in the saddle and pulled
himself upward. He found himself sitting on the horse.
In truth, he'd never been on a horse in his life. It was
a lot higher up than he'd imagined, and his legs didn't
particularly care for the spread forced by the horse's
broad back. His inner thighs began to itch. The horse
whinnied uneasily, obviously not any more happy
about the pairing than he was.
Von Glower grabbed a rifle from a table nearby
and held it out. Gabriel looked at it. He wanted to
take it, but there was no fucking way he was going to
go on his first ever horseback ride—through the
woods, in the dark—while holding a loaded rifle.
"Think I'll pass," he said dryly.
Von Glower frowned, and Gabriel felt his stomach
twist in embarrassment. No doubt his obvious lack of
skill would be grating on a man like von Glower, a
man who could probably gallop bareback while shoot-
ing at a target a hundred yards away.
"Then you'd better stay close to me, Gabriel." Von
Glower laid a hand on his leg to press home the point.
"And close to the gun."
They rode out across the lawn and into the woods,
their way lit by powerful torch flashlights that von
Glower had attached to the saddles. Gabriel was
alarmed at the bounce involved in this riding business
and how it threatened to unbalance him with every
step. He watched Von Glower's back—starkly lit by
Gabriel's torch—and tried to mimic his posture. He
saw von Glower reach up to mess with his hair on the
right side, then on the left, putting it behind his ears,
it looked like. He was completely at ease in the saddle.
The plan was simple. Farther down the right-hand
path from the lodge, just past the point where Gabriel
had turned left earlier that day, there was a ravine.
They were to push von Zell toward the ravine, using
the horses. There, with his back to the chasm, he
would be cornered and could be shot.
Gabriel felt less comfortable with this path than he
did with the one he'd taken to and from the cave
several times. It was odd how things grew on you so
quickly, and how disconcerting it could be when they
were unfamiliar. The way his higher position seemed
to place him within grasp of the trees didn't help.
Somewhere in the distance he heard a howl.
It was a sound so eerily human yet so utterly Other
that it made the hackles on his neck rise. Every in-
stinct bade him to turn around and go back the way
he had come, perhaps bar himself into the stable.
He hissed loudly, "Friedrich!" just to hear some
human sound, to say "did you hear that?," but von
Glower was getting farther ahead, and he didn't turn
around.
Gabriel's horse, on the other hand, was more than
prepared to acknowledge the howl. It had slowed and
now it stopped nervously, taking reluctant steps for-
ward, as if unsure what was less horrifying—to lose
sight of its mate or to continue on toward that sound.
"Come on!" Gabriel pushed his knees into the
horse's sides. "Go! Giddy-up!"
At this, the horse came to a complete standstill.
"Friedrich!" Gabriel called out, raising his voice full
tilt now, but the baron was melding unheedingly into
the shadows up ahead, unhearing, and now he was
gone.
"Shit!" Gabriel slapped the reins down on the
horse's neck. At that moment the howl came again,
and the horse came to its own conclusions about the
safety of the stable. It reared a bit and then quickly
turned around on the path and began to gallop back
the way it had come.
Gabriel managed to stay on through the turn, but
he was canted to the left, and when the horse lurched
forward to run, Gabriel went sprawling to the side and
smacked straight into a tree.
He was not knocked out or even stunned. No, he
was fully conscious as he heard the sound of the
horse's hooves fading into the distance. He stood up
painfully. "Shit!"
He was left in utter darkness. The horse was gone,
as was the flashlight. Von Glower too was gone, along
with the gun. Yes, this was going rather well.
But as his eyes forgot the brightness of the flash-
light, they began to acknowledge the lesser glow of a
three-quarter moon hanging over the woods. If he
looked straight up he could see it, off to the left. He
looked in one direction and then the other on the
path, trying to decide what to do. He thought it likely
that von Glower would soon realize he was gone and
come back. The stable, on the other hand, seemed
way too far away.
He began walking toward the ravine.
He heard the howl again, and this time it sounded
close, perhaps two hundred yards away. He had put
the talisman on over his shirt, but this no longer
seemed enough. He pulled the chain over his head
and wrapped it around his hand. He held the medal-
lion out ahead of him like some kind of cross on a
Dracula hunt, his teeth chattering.
Now there was silence in the woods. Now there was
no howling. And yet something inside him, imagina-
tion perhaps, told him the Beast was close, perhaps
hidden just behind the trees to one side of the path
or the other. He began to feel that strange underwater
feeling again, that desire to swing around, certain the
thing was sneaking up behind him. Would the talisman
have any power at all if the thing jumped him from
behind? Would it have power anyway?
And then, when he thought he couldn't get any
more afraid, the Beast stepped out onto the path. It
stepped out, stood there, and growled at him, growled
low in its throat, its fangs bared and dripping saliva.
"Ohmigod," Gabriel said. Pure terror washed over
him, like a wave inundating a small boat. It threatened
to incapacitate him, this absolute fear, fear of what he
saw standing there in the moonlight.
Frau Huber had been right—the Beast wasn't a
wolf. It didn't look like the wolves at the zoo at all.
They had long, graceful legs, and this thing was short-
ened—its legs squat and meaty. And its hair was thick
and wiry, springing up and out in a disconnected chaos
that seemed to glow an earthy red in the moonlight.
But the head was the worst—large and oddly square,
with a short, brutish snout and teeth that were long
and pointed and overstuffed along the gums. These
teeth had only one purpose—to rip, to render, to
annihilate.
The growl was low, rumbling, black as pitch, de-
monic. It grew in intensity as the thing crouched.
Gabriel thrust the talisman forward, certain that he
was experiencing his last few seconds of life—his last
sight, this hideous Beast's crouching spring. The
thing's growl softened to a whimper as the medallion
was thrust forward. It backed away!
At first Gabriel merely watched this with over-
whelming relief. Then he saw the Beast's eyes dart
sideways into the woods. It was going to turn off the
path.
No.
He stepped forward, thrusting the talisman again. It
wasn't because he felt like pursuing the creature; it
was because he couldn't stand the thought of that
thing gaining cover in the woods, becoming invisible.
The move worked. The Best, von Zell, whimpered
again and backed up on the path.
And Gabriel walked the creature down the path,
step by step—thrust, step, with it backing up in front
of him. He wondered, Where the hell is von Glower?
And then, Where the fuck is that ravine?
They passed the east-west path on their left. But
where was von Glower? Why didn't he come riding
in and shoot the damn thing?
When he was certain they must be at the ravine at
any moment, the Beast, perhaps, felt it too. Yes, it
would know these woods. It seemed to gather itself
together, and when Gabriel thrust the talisman, it
made a kind of yelping cry, but it didn't back up.
Instead, it leapt off the path to the right and ran away.
"Shit!" Gabriel said. "Shit!"
He was covered with perspiration. His legs threat-
ened to give way—the muscles jiggling like a Jell-O
mold in an earthquake. He hadn't realized how tense
he'd been, how terrified. He'd had the Beast in check
for a good five minutes. Where the hell was von
Glower with the gun?
At the ravine.
He moved forward down the path, exhausted.
Within a few moments the path opened up and ended
in a small clearing surrounded by rock. Up ahead in
the moonlight he could see the end of the woods
there, the cliff edge that fell away. Somewhere down
below he could hear a running stream. There was no
sign of von Glower.
He lowered the talisman wearily. "Damn it!"
It was then that he was struck from above. Some-
thing that felt like a wrecking ball swung into him.
Its momentum sent him sprawling to the ground. The
talisman flew from his hand like a shot put just about
the time he realized that what had struck him was the
Beast. It had leaped on him from the rocks above,
and it had succeeded in its gambit.
He no longer had the talisman.
He screamed in pain and revulsion as the Beast bit,
hard, into his left thigh. He thought for a moment that
the bone would snap in two, such was the torque on
the creature's jaws. The pain burst upon him hot and
wild. He screamed again.
Then he heard the sound of a horse at full gallop.
Von Glower pounded into the clearing and reared his
mount to a stop. The Beast let go of Gabriel's leg and
backed up, confused and startled. Gabriel sat on the
ground and looked at the creature a few feet away,
its muzzle thick with his blood. Then he looked up at
the man on the horse.
Von Glower took in Gabriel's wound. He too
looked at the wolf, his large, dark eyes meeting the
red feral ones below.
"Shoot it!" Gabriel screamed, the words pouring
forth of their own accord. "Kill it, goddamn it!"
But von Glower just sat there, reins in one hand,
rifle in the other. The Beast crouched low, backed up
a step. It swung its head from Gabriel to von Glower,
its throat issuing a never ending growl.
Its eyes. Its eyes were human.
"Kill it!" Gabriel screamed again, unable to com-
prehend von Glower's inaction.
"You must do it!" von Glower said, snapping out
of his daze. He tossed the rifle through the air.
Gabriel was so shocked that for a moment he didn't
move. Then, powered by some survivor's instinct, he
reached up one hand and caught the rifle. It was not a
move he could have done with any number of practice
rounds. He simply did it now. He looked at von
Glower disbelievingly.
"Shoot it!" von Glower cried.
Now the Beast, the wolf-thing, snarled in absolute
rage. Gabriel never even had time to stand. The thing
tensed its legs and leaped into the air, directly at
Gabriel.
He saw its underbelly, white and thick in the moon-
light. The gun was already pointed awkwardly upward.
He tilted it slightly and pulled the trigger.
The creature fell to the ground, a dull, dead weight.
Jt landed at Gabriel's feet, and he scrambled backward
on his hands and butt, expecting the thing to bite him
again, but it didn't.
Von Glower dismounted and turned his back to Ga-
briel, messed with something at the saddle. Gabriel
looked back and forth between him and the wolf. He
tried to stand up, but his left leg screamed in pain.
"Let me help you," von Glower said. And then he
was there, warm and strong. He grasped Gabriel
around the chest and pulled him upright onto his good
right leg. Gabriel dropped the rifle, feeling weak and
nauseated now from the pain, from the aftermath.
They both stood and watched, mesmerized, as the
Beast's hair retreated into its body, as the thick legs
and torso turned pink, as the head reshaped itself.
Finally, von Zell lay there, naked, a gaping wound in
his chest.
"Poor von Zell, You got him right in the heart,"
von Glower said with a mix of regret and amazement.
"Dumb luck," Gabriel replied, his tongue numb
from shock.
"Fate," von Glower said.
Gabriel looked up at him vacantly. "Fate? Fuck
that. I should be dead. Why didn't you shoot?"
Von Glower didn't answer. Instead, he bent down
to look at Gabriel's leg. He gently pulled the ripped
pant material aside. "It's a nasty wound."
"Ouchl Yeah. It bit me."
The words came out of his mouth without thought,
but the second they hit the air, he heard them, really
heard them, and realized what they meant.
"God! Oh, my God! It bit me! Fuck! Fuck!"
He tried to step back, panicked, but von Glower
held him steady. "It's all right, Gabriel!"
"No! It bit me! I ..." And then he realized that it
was all right. He expelled a huge breath. "Christ! You
made me shoot him! Thank God you made me shoot
him! I killed him and broke the curse. I'm all right."
"You'll be fine."
"But how'd you know? How'd you know that / had
to shoot him?" Gabriel looked at his rescuer, his face
as blank and wondering as a child's.
Von Glower smiled shakily. "I don't know. Instinct,
I guess. I saw the wound and . . . It's part of the lore,
isn't it? I must have seen it in a film."
"Jesus! Do you think we should . . . should we burn
it, or ... ?"
"I'll take care of it." Von Glower stood and draped
Gabriel's arm over his shoulder. "But first, let's get
you back to the lodge before you pass out. You've
done enough for one night."
Gabriel allowed himself to be put on the horse. Von
Glower was gentle, and Gabriel perhaps should have
been more grateful or at least aware, but he was too
distracted by the body of von Zell. He allowed himself
to be fussed over, unconsciously, as though he'd been
born to it.
He was busy thinking about how, now that von Zell
was dead, naked and dead, he didn't look quite so
much like a grade-A asshole. He looked rather pitiful
really, wretched and sad and brutalized.
It was only the Schattenjager's second kill, after all.
Gabriel continued to stare at the corpse as von
Glower led him away. He stared until the white of the
flesh had been completely swallowed by the darkness.
Chapter 6
Starnberger See
The morning was cold and overcast with an insistent
light drizzle that came and went as frequently and as
suddenly as a five-year-old running in and out of the
house. Grace had planned to arrive early because she
wanted a few moments alone. Even so, she had under-
estimated the impact of the place.
From the parking lot a path headed north along a
fence and through a wooded area. It ended at a
chapel, a memorial chapel for Ludwig, that was locked
with no signs of life. She walked around the building
and found that it overlooked a cross, farther down,
and then the lake itself. She walked down the grassy
hill slowly, the water already mesmerizing her. The
only sounds were that of birds and of the water gen-
tly lapping.
There was a sign at the cross, but she didn't read
it; she knew what it would say. It was the water itself
that drew her on. She did not hesitate, but climbed
easily through an iron rail fence that protected the
small beach from the tourist rabble. She walked to the
water's edge and stared down into the greenish-gray
water, watching it lick the rocky sand.
He died right here.
She shivered and drew her coat more tightly around
her. She'd seen a postcard from the 1890s in the mu-
seum; it showed the king lying among the reeds at the
bottom of the lake, an angel hovering overhead, look-
ing at the viewer and placing a silencing finger to her
lips. Don't speak of this, the label had said. And this
was what she pictured now, Ludwig lying just under
the water, eyes open, hair waving in the current . . .
"Hello."
She jumped, startled, and turned to see an elegant-
looking blond man in a long woollen coat.
"Sorry. Josef Dallmeier here. Are you Grace?"
"Yes. Hello."
She reached out and they shook hands through the
fence. "It's this place," he said. "I really feel him
here."
"I know what you mean."
"There's a bench over there if you like." Dallmeier
inclined his head down the fence. Grace blushed at
her trespassing and climbed carefully back under the
rail.
"It was very nice of you to meet me."
"No problem. I love talking about Ludwig. My part-
ner gets sick of it."
"Well, you've found a very open ear, Herr
Dallmeier."
"Josef, please."
They sat down on the wooden bench. Dallmeier put
his hands in his coat pockets and propped out his long
legs. He was very thin, with a delicate long nose and
a small, freckled mouth.
"I found your Black Wolf," he said pleasantly.
Grace nearly fell off the seat. "Really? Where?"
"He was an associate of Bismarck's. Did you bring
that letter, by any chance?"
She gave it to him. He devoured it like a missive
from his dearest love. He looked the envelope over
carefully. "This looks authentic."
"Oh, it is."
"You found it where?"
"I'm staying at the Ritter family castle in Ritters-
berg. It was in ... uh, inside a book in the library."
"It looks like it was never sent."
"That's what I thought."
Dallmeier read the letter again. "I don't understand.
Was this Christian Ritter in law enforcement or . . ."
Grace smiled tentatively. "Sort of. What did you
learn about the Black Wolf?"
"Of course. Sorry. Actually, I'd read about him be-
fore, but I didn't realize that was who you meant. His
name was Paul Gowden. I found a reference to his
having the nickname 'the Black Wolf after you
telephoned."
Grace's brow knit in disappointment. She'd been
expecting . . . what, exactly? "Paul Gowden? Who
was he?"
"Gowden lived on the fringes of the Prussian
court," Dallmeier said, sitting up attentively. "He
wasn't titled, but he liked to put on airs. By all ac-
counts he was handsome, charming, even dangerous.
Since you brought him up, I dug a little deeper. I
think I've found some things that are probably true.
It's said he came from abroad in the mid 1800s but
claimed high German blood. Supposedly, his family's
title and lands were lost in some catastrophe or
another."
"Do you know where he came from exactly?"
"No. He was also said to be ruthlessly ambitious.
Gowden probably found out who held the power in
the Prussian court—Bismarck—and offered his ser-
vices. Bismarck no doubt used him. He knew talent
when he saw it—of that sort, anyway. And if this letter
is accurate, and Gowden really was close to Ludwig . .."
Dallmeier looked at the letter again. He had the
distracted anticipation of a scholar smelling a major
paper, maybe even a book. As for Grace, she wasn't
sure what to make of it.
"What about 'Louis'?" she asked. "Didn't Ludwig
have a paramour called Louis?"
Dallmeier looked at her sharply. "Yes. Maybe even
several. Anyway, there are a few different references
to a Louis, but none have ever been identified for
certain. Ludwig's penchant for renaming people con-
founds most searches. Maybe he even meant for it to."
Grace bit a nail worriedly. "Hmmm. Is there any-
thing else about Gowden?"
But Dallmeier seemed agitated, as though she'd sent
his mind down a path he'd not hitherto seen.
"Hmmm? Oh. Well, there's this: whatever Gowden
did for Bismarck, it must have been something re-
markable. Bismarck was not a generous man. He liked
to string people along with promises but rarely came
through. He did for Gowden, though. He gave him a
royal title and lands in 1871."
Grace was watching Dallmeier, her thumb still
poised at her mouth. "Then what?"
Dallmeier shook his head, irked. "I don't know.
That's the last reference I found."
"But he couldn't have just disappeared!"
Dallmeier smiled tightly. "Maybe he did just that.
In those days, if you suddenly were granted title or
lands, you might move away and change your name.
That way you could act like you were born to it, and
no one would know better. Gowden was arrogant
enough to want that kind of freedom."
Grace thought about it. "If Gowden did change his
name or move away, isn't there a way to track that
down?"
Dallmeier was nudged from his own brooding inter-
est by the insistence in her voice. He raised a brow at
her, bemused. "You're very determined."
Grace glowered menacingly. "Deadly determined."
Dallmeier smiled. "Well, let's see ... A copy of the
entitlement deed would tell you his new official name
and title. Assuming the document wasn't lost or de-
stroyed in a war, that is."
"How would I go about getting that?" Grace pulled
a notepad and pencil out of her purse and waited
expectantly.
Dallmeier sighed. "If it is that important to you,
why don't I look? I know the bureaucracy—and the
language."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. You wouldn't believe the red tape in German
government. Just remember, the records could be
long gone."
"I understand." Grace smiled gratefully, but her
stomach was tied in knots. There was something in all
this that was extremely troubling. Could Gowden,
a.k.a. the Black Wolf, really have been a werewolf?
Or had Christian Ritter been mistaken?
"Was there anything else you wanted to know?"
Dallrneier asked.
"As a matter of fact . . . Have you ever thought
about contacting Chaphill about the diary?"
Dallrneier looked doubtful. "No. His book was writ-
ten, what, thirty years ago? He's British, I think."
"Sounds like it."
"To tell you the truth, that book made me so angry,
I never even finished it."
Grace studied Dallrneier. "Because it said Ludwig
was gay?"
"No!" Dallrneier scoffed.
"Was he?"
Dallrneier took a long sigh and slouched down on
the bench again, planted both feet carefully. "Yes.
That's the simple answer. Oh, some of our stodgiest
historians still deny it, but it's pretty much common
knowledge."
"But there were women."
"There were women, especially when he was
younger. But as he grew older, he became more true
to his stripe, as they say."
Grace was disappointed for some reason, as though
she'd lost him herself. It was ridiculous. The man lived
in another time.
"So what makes you angry about Chaphill?" she
asked.
Dallrneier grunted. "He implies—no, more than im-
plies, he states—that it was Ludwig's homosexuality
that drove him insane, made him a recluse. He might
as well have said he grew hair on his palms!"
Grace looked away toward the lake, blushing. She
knew, of course, to what he referred, but it struck an
altogether different chord for her.
"The diary entries," she said, "All the oath taking."
"Exactly! Since Chaphill that seems to be pretty
much the standard interpretation, and it really ... it
really . . . Bah! I don't like it."
"You don't think the diaries were about Ludwig
being gay?"
"No." He paused, then exploded passionately. "Lud-
wig was no prude! He loved Byron and the French
court! He understood his feelings, and I don't think
he was ashamed of them."
Grace was watching him silently. It was occurring
to her that this was a personal crusade.
"You have to understand the man!" Dallmeier went
on. "He didn't care what anybody thought—about
anything! If he didn't care that they complained about
his spending a fortune on those castles, why should
their narrow-mindedness about sexuality make him
feel guilty? No, all evidence is that he pursued exactly
whom and whatever he wanted to pursue. If he was
tormented, that's not what did it."
Grace thought about this for a while as they watched
the lake in silence.
"What about the hunting accident?" she asked.
Dallmeier exhaled a calming breath. "It was a major
turning point. I know this great old man—Stephan
Horning. His grandfather was Richard Horning, Lud-
wig's equestrian. He told me that Ludwig started to
go mad after the accident."
Grace bit her lip anxiously. "Do you know what
happened, exactly?"
Dallmeier shrugged. "Ludwig fell off his horse and
seriously injured his leg. He never really got over it.
Maybe Horning would know more."
"Do you think I could speak with him?"
Dallmeier grunted as though no longer surprised at
her tenaciousness. "Perhaps, Grace. He's a friendly
old man. I will call him for you if you like."
They sat there for a moment longer. The lake beck-
oned, encouraged contemplation, but Grace knew she
didn't have the luxury.
"Say, do you think I might see Horning today?" she
asked brightly.
Dallmeier looked at her, one eyebrow cocked in
surprise. "And I suppose you want me to get right to
that entitlement deed as well?"
Grace cracked what she hoped was an encouraging
smile. "I'm Japanese. We have this thing about per-
petual motion."
"What a slave driver!" Dalmeier growled. "All
right, Miss Nakimura. Let us say good-bye to the spirit
of Ludwig and depart."
While Grace waited at Schloss Ritter for Dall-
meier's call, she decided to follow up on another idea.
She telephoned the publishers of Chaphill's book.
They informed her that Sir Richmond Chaphill was
deceased, but they gave her a phone number for his
son in England.
Thomas Chaphill was pleased enough to hear from
a fan of his father's work. At first.
"I understand your father was allowed to see Lud-
wig's diary," Grace said after she'd buttered him up
a bit.
"Yes. Of course, I was quite young then, but I re-
member him being very excited. You see, the London
Chaphills are related to the Wittelsbach family by
marriage."
"I see."
"So my father pulled some familial strings, you
might say." Chaphill laughed nasally.
"Did he make a copy of it by any chance?"
"Heavens! I shouldn't think so."
"What about notes? Did he takes notes perhaps?"
Chaphill was silent for a moment. "Ah! Yes, I re-
member now. I believe he did translate it. Into En-
glish, just for himself. I remember he had pages and
pages of these notes. I take it Ludwig's handwriting
made the German quite impossible to work with."
"He transcribed it?" Grace said, astonished. "Do
you know what happened to his version?"
"My goodness!" Chaphill said, dismayed by her pas-
sion. "No, I don't, really. When he passed on, we put
his papers away. They're probably still up in the attic,
but whether or not they included that ..."
Grace squeezed her eyes shut. Chaphill sounded not
only uninterested, but he was starting to sound a little
offended as well.
"I know this must sound very odd, but this is so
critical, Sir Chaphill."
"Well, I do apologize," Chaphill said coolly. "But
even if I did search for the document, and even if I
could find it, I really don't think it would be proper
to let it out of my possession. My father was entrusted
with that diary under strict guidelines. If he'd been
permitted to publish it or pass it around, he would
have, Miss Nakimura."
"I have no interest in publishing it, believe me. This
is a strictly personal matter. I give you my word."
"I'm afraid I can't help you. You'll have to apply
to the proper authorities in Germany."
Grace went downstairs, feeling pouty, and com-
plained to Gerde for a while. Gerde was sympathetic,
but in the end she only smiled enigmatically and said,
"If you really need the diary, you'll find a way."
In other words, she wasn't a lot of help. Fortunately,
Dallmeier called with better news. He'd arranged an
interview with Homing.
Homing's farm was near Halblech, forty-five min-
utes north of Neuschwanstein. Grace didn't mind the
drive. If she'd had all the time in the world, in fact,
she would be enjoying this immensely—driving around
the most intimate places of Bavaria, looking into a
historical mystery ... It was as close to an ideal job
description as she could imagine.
If only she didn't feel the clock ticking so loudly.
She thought at first that she was being driven by her
own ambition, by her need to get something meaty
and tangible to lay down in front of Gabriel—to show
her worth. But when the feeling only grew, she began
to suspect that there was more to it than that, that
there was something major at stake, as Mrs. Smith had
implied—and not just on Gabriel's end of the equation.
The farm was old but immaculately kept, the fields
covered with the finest green dusting of some early
crop. The house was large and freshly made up with
dark pine window shutters and boxes filled with or-
ange and purple crocuses. Horning himself sat out in
the yard, puffing on a pipe. He was old, in his seven-
ties at least, but he looked fit with his ruddy face and
thick white hair. He sported worn lederhosen, a white
shirt, and a thick wool coat and feathered hat. Grace
wondered if he'd done the traditional thing for her,
then decided that he looked too comfortable in it.
She pulled into the driveway and waved. The old
man raised his pipe to her. As she climbed from the
car, he called toward the house in German. A beautiful
young blond girl came out in jeans and a sweatshirt.
"Mr. Homing? Hi. I'm Grace Nakimura." She
walked over and extended a hand.
"Ja. Sehr gut. Stephan Horning hier." The old man
had a broad smile. He looked over at the blond girl.
"Hallo, I'm Stephanie. My grandfather asked me to
meet with you. He doesn't speak English."
"That's great. Thank you, Stephanie."
The three of them settled into the comfortable
wooden chairs Horning had set up on the lawn.
"I was hoping your grandfather could tell me about
Ludwig's hunting accident," Grace began.
The girl spoke with her grandfather in a German
that sounded heavily dialectic. Stephan Morning's en-
thusiasm was evident, but the actual words were
mostly unintelligible.
"In 1873 he had the accident. Grandfather says he
went bad after that."
"Does he know exactly how the accident occurred?"
"It was on a trip to Schachen. The king was riding
with a friend when it happened."
"Who was the friend?"
Grace could tell the answer before the girl trans-
lated, for it was prefaced by one of those "Ne's" that
grew longer and more guttural the farther south one
went.
"Papo—that's what Grandfather calls my great-
great granddad—he never said a name, only that Lud-
wig was with a friend. Papo didn't like the king's
friends much."
Damn.
"And Ludwig fell from his horse? Was there any
chance that he was maybe pushed or ... or
something?"
The girl repeated this question for her grandfather.
The old man's smile eased away, and he sat for a
moment and looked at Grace, considering. It was an
odd sort of look, a curious weighing of some matter,
and Grace hoped it meant that she was on the right
track.
Stephan Horning finally spoke again in that throaty,
gulping language.
"He says he did fall from the horse, but that's not
what hurt his leg," the girl translated. She looked sur-
prised herself. She spoke to her grandfather on her
own accord, trying to get the story straight.
"He says Ludwig insisted that the servants tell no
one, but the real cause of the accident was a wolf.
Ludwig ran into a wolf in the forest. The horse reared
and threw him, then the wolf attacked. Ludwig was
bitten in the leg."
Grace felt a strange numbness spread through her.
The birds were suddenly loud and the smell of the old
man's pipe, suddenly pungent and pervasive. It was
a moment she knew she'd remember for the rest of
her life.
The old man was speaking again to his grand-
daughter.
"Grandfather says that he hardly ever tells anyone
this. But then, no one ever asks."
"Ludwig was bitten by a wolf," Grace repeated
slowly.
"Yes. And then the wolf ran away. The servants
searched in the woods for days but never found
anything."
"Schachen is in the Alps, right?"
Stephanie nodded. "Near the border. Grandfather
took me there once. It's beautiful."
"What about Ludwig's friend, did he see the wolf
too?"
"Papo never said, but it was the friend who carried
Ludwig to the lodge."
Grace thought about it, her heart beating dully in
her chest. "What happened after Ludwig was bitten?"
"He was sick for a long time. They thought the bite
had gone . . . um, infected maybe? Very high fever.
He was out of his mind. He didn't want any doctors.
There was only his friend and a few servants to tend
him."
Grace had a clear picture of Ludwig, tall and dark
with pale, pale skin, lying in a palatial bed some-
where—maybe Herrenchiemsee or Linderhof or even
the Residenz in Munich—delirious, raging, out of his
mind with pain, and beside him, tending him . . .
"This friend who nursed him—was it the same one
who was on the trip?"
Stephen Horning considered this for a bit, then
spoke to his granddaughter.
"Yes. Probably. You see, Ludwig didn't have many
friends, but he often had someone ... a very . . . close
friend, a man usually. Papo really didn't like these
men, so he always just called them 'Ludwig's friend'
or 'Ludwig's companion.' "
The girl looked away uncomfortably, and Grace got
the point. Richard Horning had known, as no doubt
all of the servants had, that these men did more than
share the king's leisure time.
"And then Ludwig recovered?" Grace said. "After
a few months?"
The girl and the old man discussed this point.
"No. His wound got better, but the fever did some-
thing to his brain. He was never the same again,
Granddad says. Never."
Frau Horning—a very pretty old woman—came out
and served them iced tea. It was sweet and dark, and
although Grace normally avoided caffeine (unlike the
bean slave Gabriel), she welcomed its kick now. Horn-
ing knocked his pipe out against the chair, stubbed a
toe at the ash until it had disappeared, then filled his
pipe again in a methodical rite.
Grace spoke. "Can your grandfather tell me how
Ludwig changed after the accident?"
Horning described the king's growing reclusiveness,
obsessiveness, and fits of rage. These were things the
museum too had touched upon, but Homing's insis-
tence on the accident as the origin point was quite
determined.
"The servants must have been terrified," Grace said
sympathetically.
"Oh, yes!" Stephanie said on her own. She dis-
cussed it with her grandfather.
"They were terrified, but not just because of the
king's temper. After he got angry, he felt very badly
and gave them gifts. But they were afraid more
like . . . more for the king and for themselves."
"What does he mean?" Grace asked, leaning
forward.
"There were all kinds of rumors. Papo made fun of
them, of the servants for being so superstitious, but
he was scared too. Like the sleigh rides. Ludwig had
many bad nights, and when it was very bad he would
call for the sleigh. He made the servants go faster and
faster—really dangerous. And sometimes they couldn't
go fast enough and he would make them stop and he
would go running by himself. They were terrified he
would hurt himself or get lost out there, but he always
came back."
Grace looked down at the grass for a moment, try-
ing to keep her composure. The green was iridescent,
too rich to be real. "Was there anything else—any
other incidents that made the servants superstitious?"
Horning considered this. Finally he spoke again.
"Yes," Stephanie translated. "Near the end Wagner
came to Neuschwanstein, and he and Ludwig would
lock themselves upstairs in the hall. Then there would
be music and very strange noises. One time one of
the servants called Papo in to hear them because the
other servants were so afraid. Papo said it sounded
like the devil himself was screaming."
They were quiet for a moment. The images the girl's
words conjured were so clear and detailed after having
visited the castle, and having seen the paintings and
the portraits of Ludwig, after knowing his eyes in the
dream. . . . Horning was speaking again.
"Papo said once that Ludwig knew he was going
mad. When Wagner played, it was the king screaming,
screaming for his own lost soul."
The old man had tears in his eyes now. Big, swelling
pools on the edges of his lashes. His chin trembled.
He fought it, as men do. He cleared his throat and
wiped his nose roughly. He looked away.
Stephanie reached out and slipped her delicate hand
into her grandfather's rough, tan paw.
"My grandfather loves Ludwig very much. All of
the common people did. Ludwig went home with Papo
many times. He liked to play with the children and
eat meals there. He was really happy in Papo's house,
where he could just be a person."
Horning had reclaimed himself. Now he wrestled
with the one old, gnarled finger where a large ring sat.
After a moment he worked it free and held it out
to Grace.
She looked at it closely. It was an ornate gold ring,
heavy as a rock. Its widening bands held engraved
images of Ludwig—young on one side and older on
another, both surrounded by the Bavarian crest and
flag. In the center was a large oval ruby. Grace could
see something dark underneath the red.
"Ludwig gave Papo that ring. It has a lock of his
hair in it." Stephanie had a touch of pride in her soft
voice. "Granddad was given it on his eighteenth birth-
day, and when he dies, it will go to my father."
"It's beautiful," Grace said to the girl. "Sehr shon,"
she said to Horning with a warm smile.
"/«," Horning said, smiling back. "Mein Ring von
Ludwig. Sehr shon. Sehr geliebten." Beloved.
Grace didn't even bother going back to the castle
when she drove into Rittersberg. Instead, she parked
outside the gasthof and went inside. Yes, the Smiths
were upstairs, Werner informed her, and he went to
fetch them.
Mrs. Smith looked considerably better than she had
the last time Grace had seen her. In fact, she hurried
over to the table with thigh-rubbing eagerness and
large liquid eyes.
"Oh, Grace dear, I'm so glad you came! We walked
up to the castle this morning, but you were out. I've
been so worried!"
"Would you like something to drink, Miss Naki-
mura?" Mr. Smith offered.
"Yes, please. In fact—have you eaten lunch? I know
it's late, but—"
"Sweetie, my stomach doesn't wait past noon, but
you go right on ahead."
So Grace ordered the quickest thing she could see
on the menu—a large mixed salad. She filled in Mrs.
Smith while she ate.
She'd made a decision on the way over to tell the
Smiths everything, and she did. She didn't know why
she trusted them exactly, except that she couldn't
imagine them being anything more than they ap-
peared. And they were the only ones who might actu-
ally believe her. If she called Dallmeier and told him
what she was thinking . . .
Even she couldn't believe what she was now thinking.
"You think Bismarck sent this man—this Paul Gow-
den—to befriend Ludwig . . ." Mrs. Smith said, trying
to make sense of Grace's rattled story.
"Seduce him."
"Seduce him, and that Gowden was a—a werewolf."
Grace nodded. "Christian Ritter thought so."
"Oh, my!" Mrs. Smith's lower lip cowered as her
teeth pulled it nervously. "Yes, that explains it. I've
been dreaming of wolves. Horrible, hideous dreams!"
"Me too!" Grace told Mrs. Smith about her dream
of the sleigh and the painting in the museum.
"My dear," Mrs. Smith said with serious, wide eyes.
"Ludwig was trying to contact you!"
"Do you think?"
"Yes, I do. Was there a black wolf in your dream?"
"No," Grace said slowly, trying hard to recall.
Oddly, she could recall. Most of her dreams evapo-
rated like ether once she was awake, but she did re-
member quite clearly the wolves that were chasing
her. They weren't black. In fact, she couldn't remem-
ber feeling that they were all that important—not as
personalities, not like the silver wolf in the . . .
A slight gasp of realization escaped her. "It's true.
Ludwig was a werewolf; that's what he was trying to
tell me in the dream."
Mrs. Smith looked at Grace, her head cocked to
one side. "Yes, I see," she said, not at all surprised.
"Gowden changed him—at Schachen. He bit him."
"Do you know why, dear?"
Grace twisted her fork between anxious fingers. "I
don't know. If he was working for Bismarck, maybe
he wanted Ludwig insane. Or ..."
Something else had occurred to Grace, and she
wasn't at all sure where it had come from.
"Or what, dear?"
"Or ... Maybe Gowden was supposed to kill Lud-
wig, but he changed his mind. If he was the one Lud-
wig called Louis, they'd been together for ... '64 ...
'73 ... nine years! Maybe he did care for Ludwig, at
least enough not to be able to go through with it."
"Yes!" Mrs. Smith nodded. "That's exactly what
crossed my mind as you were talking!"
"So he just bit him. Made him into a werewolf.
Maybe he even wanted to make him into one. This
book I found on werewolves talked about their desire
for a pack."
Mrs. Smith rushed in excitedly. "Perhaps Gowden
really was in love with Ludwig. By changing him into
a werewolf, he could satisfy Bismarck and himself at
the same time. Ludwig would hardly be fit to rule
after that."
"And he wasn't," Grace said unhappily. "He wasn't
fit to rule. It explains everything. Can you imagine?
He must have been terrified that it would show, that
he couldn't control it. He must have thought others
could see his terrible secret just by looking at his face!
And that's what the diary entries were about—he was
promising not to give in to it—not to change. But he
couldn't help himself."
Mrs. Smith was tapping the table pensively. "We
went to visit one of his castles on our way over here.
I'd never felt such a sad place. Now I know why."
"And it explains the paintings in the Singer's Hall.
At least, I think it does." Grace looked up at Mrs.
Smith. "Is Ludwig the spirit guide you saw in the
tarot?"
Mrs. Smith shook her head slowly. "No. The spirit
is definitely female and much stronger than a human
spirit. Someone or something is acting on Ludwig's
behalf, trying to get the message through. Perhaps
there's something we're supposed to do for poor Lud-
wig, or perhaps Gabriel—"
Mrs. Smith stopped abruptly. Her lips tightened to
a determined line.
"Perhaps Gabriel what?" Grace demanded.
"Nothing, dear," Mrs. Smith said firmly. She
reached over and patted Grace's hand. "Only that we
must warn your Schattenjager at once. Have you al-
ready told him about the Black Wolf?"
"Yes," Grace said, nearly sick with worry, "but not
enough. Not nearly enough."
"Then we'll call him right away."
"Can't you contact Ludwig yourself? You're a me-
dium, aren't you?" Grace blushed at her own ques-
tion, not sure what was more embarrassing—that she'd
been so reticent about Mrs. Smith's "skills" earlier or
that she was so gullible now.
Mrs. Smith shook her head. "I've been trying to
contact whatever is out there all yesterday and all
today. I feel it, but I'm not getting a clear signal. To
tell you the truth, communicating with the dead is not
really my specialty."
Grace frowned.
"But I was thinking . . . With Gabriel's gifts—even
if they're latent, mind you ... I could probably help
to focus and strengthen his powers. You know, boost
his radar. Gabriel and I together might establish a
channel."
Mrs. Smith smiled at Grace hopefully. "Why don't
you give him a ring, dear?"
Grace's face burned. She looked down at her hands.
"I don't have a phone number," she mumbled. "No
one will tell me exactly where he is."
Mrs. Smith exchanged a knowing glance with Mr.
Smith. Then she picked up her spoon and carefully
stirred her coffee.
When Grace got back to the castle, Gerde was wait-
ing for her anxiously. "Grace! You had a call while
you were out."
"Josef Dallmeier?" Grace asked, hoping it was that
entitlement deed.
"No, a British man named Chaphill. He said some-
thing about having a change of heart."
Grace stared at Gerde, unable to believe her ears.
"You're kidding me. Oh, my God, I have to call him
right away!"
"Wait! You may not need to do that. He asked me
for a fax number, and I gave him the one at the post
office in town. Then Frau Hogel rang and said she'd
gotten the fax. It's a long one. Fifty pages."
"Oh, my god!" Grace turned herself around several
times before successfully aiming for the front door.
"What is it, Grace? Is it important?"
"You wouldn't believe. I'll be right back with it,
okay?"
Miss Nakimura:
I can hardly believe this myself, but the strangest
thing happened after you called. I kept hearing noises
up in the attic. This is a huge old place, you see, and
it's difficult to hear anything, so these noises were
quite loud. When I went up to investigate, I saw that
a stack of boxes had fallen. One had opened and pa-
pers were strewn across the floor. I picked them up
and saw that they were my father's translation of the
diary. I packed those boxes myself, Miss Nakimura,
and I don't recall ever seeing those pages. In any case,
I had the strongest feeling about what I must do. Per-
haps I'm a fool, but I've decided to trust you. Please
do not share these with anyone and destroy them
when you are through.
Good luck. Sir Edmond Chaphill.
Grace felt chilled as she read this, and for the first
time she really knew that something much larger than
herself was calling the shots. She felt tears sting her
eyes. She was not a religious person by any means,
but she closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer
of thanks.
Then she walked back to the castle to read Lud-
wig's diary.
llth June, 1873. Louis has convinced me to think mat-
ters through more thoroughly before I act. A trip it
shall be, then. To Schachen. It shall not alter my pur-
pose, I feel, nor shall his compelling. The treaty is the
ruin of my beloved Bavaria and must be disposed of,
whatever the cost! I regret now ever having made the
decision. Of course, Louis makes the same arguments
now as he and so many others did then, but I have
grown deaf to that point of view. War or not, Bavaria
must wear her own crown.
3rd July, 1873. Pain, pain, pain. The pain is so bad, I
cannot hold a pen to write. Oh, what has happened!
But the pain is not the worst of it. The horror is far
more unbearable. He says that we can be truly one
now, that it is a great adventure. When he is next to
me and I can look into his eyes, I believe him. But
the moment he turns away, I feel the horror of it! I
can feel the flames of hell upon my heels! Oh, most
unnatural state! Surely God cannot look upon such a
creature. I pray to the blessed Virgin every day for
intercession for my soul!
5th January, 1874. By the power of Mary, Mother of
God, I swear to refrain from the ultimate sin and to
remain steadfast in my flesh. Sworn by the power of
the lily. L & R.
16th May, 1875. I will not falter, but will remain true!!!
No matter the torment or longing, I will not yield. I
will control the process, God grant me strength and
will. By the grace and power of the monarchy and its
allegiance. De Par Le Roy. L & R.
10th September, 1880. It is all finished. My life, my
world, everything. Elizabeth warned me and I discov-
ered the truth at last. He was set upon me by that
Prussian jackal! It was all a lie, the Great Lie!
Oh, most venomous viper at my very bosom!! Oh,
lowest of the least worthy who ever breathed! My
Judas! My devil! He dares still swear he loves me. I
spit on his words! If I could tear my heart out and
fling it after him in the dirt, I would, I would!!
21st December, 1880. He continues to come and beg
at my door, the devil. I will never look upon his hid-
eous face again. He is afraid I will tell, and I might, I
might! To destroy him, I might! When 1 think on the
Change, now that things are clear, I wonder—what
was his true intent? Was it an accident, as he swore
to me then, or had he plotted with that jackal to de-
stroy me? If so, why did he not simply kill me then
instead of putting me in this torment? Could he have
hated me that much!
No. I know that part of him at least. He truly revels
in this life. He could not have guessed how much I
would hate it. I wish to God he had simply ended it
there in blood and death!
10th June, 1881. Terror! Rapture! During W.'s perfor-
mance tonight I felt a strong pulling, and the horror
nearly came upon me right there! Then the music
turned and the feeling was gone. What can it mean?!!!
Can music truly have such power? I must confide in
the Great Friend. If anyone on this earth understands
the passion and potency of opera, it is he!
2nd August, 1882. The experiments go better and bet-
ter. It has given me something to hold on to, and the
terror of the nights has somewhat eased. Now that I
have hope, I am better able to fight the sickness. The
devil still comes and waits outside in the night and
calls for me, but I have learned to stop up my ears
and resist him. He comes less and less frequently as a
result, thank the blessed Mother of God. I still must
fight my own internal urges but She and W. give me
courage to do so—-most of the time.
W. has proved as loyal and determined as ever I
believed he would be in a matter of my salvation. He
says he has the formula now; it remains only to put
the finishing touches on the completed opera and to
draw up the diagram for the crystals. Can this living
death truly end? I scarce dare to hope!
April, 1883. The Great Friend is dead! How unjust
that he should be taken from me now! Where is my
chance at salvation? Why has God condemned me
twice?
10th October, 1885. There MUST be made clear funds
for the crystals. Lies, everyone lies! My own servants!
What must I do? Must I sell one of my beloved cas-
tles? The crystals MUST BE MADE! I grow daily less
able to control my own will (how long will I be able
to resist the ultimate sin?), and the music is worthless
without the device. Time is running out for me. There
are rumors and plots and conspiracies. Please, God,
the crystals MUST BE MADE!
Bayreuth, Germany
It was sunny and clear when Grace reached Bay-
reuth. Wahnfried, the residence where Wagner spent
the last years of his life, had been made into a mu-
seum. Grace found a side street on which to park
and hurried back to the villa. She felt her search was
narrowing; the picture was coming into focus as if a
lens was turning somewhere. The diary had given her
the last piece of the puzzle—Ludwig's hope. And his
hope had lain with Wagner.
As if an omen of good faith, she was greeted at the
door of the villa by a large bronze head of Ludwig—
the young Ludwig, face tender and vulnerable. She
smiled at him reassuringly and pulled open the
heavy door.
"Guten Tag," the attendant said.
"Griiss Gott," Grace answered.
The entryway was small, with a built-in display case
that served as a desk for the museum attendant. He
was a young man, mid-twenties, blond and studious-
looking with wire-rimmed glasses. He had a sheaf of
papers in front of him, and as Grace paid for her
ticket, she noticed that it was musical staff paper with
hand-marked notes.
"Danke," she said as he gave her change.
"You're American?"
"Yes," Grace answered with a sigh. It was amazing
how few people here would give a foreigner a chance
to speak the language.
"You'll have the place all to yourself today. We had
a tour group this morning, but it's been quiet since
then. If you have any questions, please ask me. I love
to be interrupted."
He smiled at her, and his soft pink skin flushed a
little at the throat.
"My work is not going so well," he explained hur-
riedly, as though she'd think he was being facetious.
Grace promised to interrupt frequently and length-
ily, and went into the museum.
She passed through the displays like a crow circling
a wheat field—eyes darting to see through the hubris
and history for something that was actually relevant.
Had anyone seen her, they would have thought her
quite odd with her peering, dissecting, and dismissing
rush through the displays.
Ludwig hadn't entered Wagner's life until 1864, so
the early years were bypassed quickly. Then Wagner's
fortunes had changed. Fleeing from city to city, deeply
in debt, he'd been quite in trouble until his own per-
sonal savior appeared, a rich patron, a royal patron, a
devoted, adoring, smitten fan—the teenage King Lud-
wig. Here a locket portrait of the king given by Lud-
wig to the "musical genius." And money, of course.
What did Ludwig care for money? Sacks of it to save
Wagner's neck, promises made by Wagner, promises
later broken. But the performances! Ludwig's generos-
ity saved the music. He insisted upon Wagner in Mu-
nich, a city that despised the composer. He opened
doors.
Page after page of original sheet music in the maes-
tro's own hand—Lohengrin, Parsifal, Der Ring des Ni-
belungen. Grace passed them without pause.
And finally, in a small room, a tribute to Wagner's
patron saint. The sunlight filtered in through a stained-
glass image of Ludwig, all royal blues and deep reds,
hair black-painted glass, features etched from a por-
trait. In a cabinet was correspondence between Lud-
wig and Wagner. Grace scanned them. From the king
were mostly flowery praises, almost embarrassing in
the rational world of the 1990s, so vociferously emo-
tional and extravagantly phrased. But then, the king
was no doubt inspired by Wagner's operas, which were
nothing if not overdramatic and ponderously self-
aggrandizing.
The last letter in the case was from Wagner to Lud-
wig. Grace almost dismissed this one too when the
date caught her eye. She read the English translation
on the sign next to it.
July 1882.
Great and beloved King. Monsieur Beaujolais and
I have finished the diagram. We checked the figures
many times, and M. is confident that it will work.
Eight identical fixtures are to be made from the dia-
gram and placed in the theater exactly as specified.
I'm sending the diagram with your courier.
Be full of hope and have courage. Your soul is more
precious to me than mine own—we shall win it peace
or die trying. Your own Wagner.
Grace gripped the display case with cold fingers. It
confirmed what she'd read in the diary. Ludwig and
Wagner had conspired on something, but what?
Where was the diagram the letter mentioned? Grace
looked through all the displays in the room but found
nothing. She hurried into the next room. There was
more here on the building of Wagner's theater in
Bayreuth. Grace hurried past it.
In the last room was an account of Wagner's death
in 1883. He'd been visiting Venice and had suffered a
heart attack in a gondola. A few days later he had
died quietly at his desk. Cosima had been inconsol-
able. Ludwig had been inconsolable. The world had
been inconsolable. Especially, no doubt, Wagner's
debtors.
Then she saw it—a desk against the wall roped off
with red velvet theater ropes. A sign said Wagner's
desk exactly as it was the day he died.
Grace leaned forward over the ropes. There were
papers on the desk. Had they really been untouched?
Wouldn't Wagner have been working on "that proj-
ect" just before his death? Grace glanced around, but
there was no one in the room. She'd seen no once
since she'd entered except for the young man at the
entrance. She ducked under the rope.
In the middle of the desk, on a faded green blotter
pad, was a large piece of paper. It was a diagram of
a theater. The name at the top said Residenztheater,
Munchen. The diagram was a cutaway of the theater,
showing each individual seat, the stage, the doors,
everything. This layout was formally printed, but on
top had been added measurements and lines in pen-
cil—from the stage to the back of the theater, from
box to box, measurements from floors to ceilings and
wall to wall. And large X's were marked along the
ceiling at precise intervals, each also measured with
lines and numbers, distances from each X to the stage,
walls, floor, back center box seats, all enumerated.
It was definitely a diagram, but was it the diagram
Wagner had mentioned in his letter? Grace thought
not, for that letter had referred to it as a diagram for
some kind of "fixture" or "device" of which eight cop-
ies were to be made. But this theater diagram had to
be related to the bit about "placing the devices in the
theater exactly as specified." There were eight X's,
four on each side of the theater. But what were the
devices? And why did their placement require such
mathematical precision?
A stack of correspondence lay to the left of the
blotter. Grace glanced behind her again and then care-
fully riffled through them with the historian's aware-
ness of the fragility of paper. The one on the bottom
had a large drawing of a diamond shape on it. Grace
pulled it out and studied it quickly.
It was from a Monsieur Beaujolais—the man men-
tioned in Wagner's letter to Ludwig. It was in
French, and Grace understood none of it. But what
was clear was that the letter, several pages long, was
a discussion of mathematical formulae. Equations
and drawings of what looked like sound waves were
abundant. And then there was the drawing of what
had to be, not a diamond, but a crystal. The drawing
was meticulously rendered, with every facet to be
cut scribbled with measurements and angles. This,
then, was one of the crystals of which Ludwig's
diary spoke. The crystals must be made! Grace
leaned forward again to study the schematic of the
theater, the positions of the X's.
Chandeliers? Could it be crystal chandeliers? All
this effort for chandeliers?
She put the letter back and ducked under the rope,
her mind cogitating. A diagram of the Residenz-
theater. And crystals, possibly crystal chandeliers.
Sound waves . . . Acoustics? Did it have something to
do with acoustics?
Then she remembered she had brought the diary
with her. She pulled it out of her purse and flipped
through it.
10th June, 1881. Terror! Rapture! During W.'s perfor-
mance tonight I felt a strong pulling, and the horror
nearly came upon me right there! Then the music
turned and the feeling was gone. What can it mean?!!!
Can music truly have such power? I must confide in
the Great Friend. If anyone on this earth understands
the passion and potency of opera, it is he!
Grace stared at it for a moment, her brain rebelling
at comprehension. The diary, the strange sessions in
the Singer's Hall . . . Ludwig screaming. Acoustics.
The X's on the theater diagram, the measurements
and calculations, reminding her somehow of a blue-
print for a bank heist. A plot, a plan, a new perfor-
mance, not here in Bayreuth, where all of Wagner's
new work was done at the time, but in Munich once
again.
They had been laying a trap.
The words came into her resistant mind like a
floodgate opening. She saw the werewolf lore book
in front of her as clearly as if she'd been holding
it there.
The true werewolf may shy ft forme at wil, but the
Chaunge may be forced upon them by certeyn sounds
swich as the howling of a wolf or the presence of a
ful moon.
I felt a strong pulling, a pulling, pulling, pulling and
the horror, the nightmare, the living death nearly came
upon me right there . . .
Wagner and Ludwig had been working on a way to
force the Change with music.
A trap to catch a werewolf.
"Excuse me," Grace said. She startled the young
man.
He jumped a bit in his seat and giggled nervously.
"Sorry, I was trying to hear a phrase. Sometimes my
ears forget to hear the outside world when I'm doing
that."
"I am interrupting, then."
"No, please!"
"Grace Nakimura," she said, holding out her hand.
The young man accepted it with a tinge of surprise.
"Georg. Georg Immerding."
"Georg, I was wondering if I could ask you
something."
"Of course." He closed his noteboook and pushed
it to one side.
Grace hesitated and took a deep breath. "Georg,
have you ever heard about a lost Wagner opera?"
Georg recoiled backward and nearly lost control of
the stool. He caught himself from falling by gripping the
top of the display case with one hand and waving the
other erratically in the air.
"Georg?" Grace asked, alarmed.
"No. Sorry. I'm okay." He squeaked. He settled his
stool firmly back on the ground. "Did my brother send
you here?"
Grace raised an eyebrow. "Uh, no."
"No. Of course not. It's just that my brother laughs
at my ideas. He thinks lost operas are for fools."
"So you do think there is one?"
"Only in the dreams of unemployed composers."
Georg smiled wistfully. "Of which my brother is not
one. He's the conductor for the Munich opera."
"Really?" Grace was impressed.
"Oh, yes," Georg said with a trace of rancor. "So
you see, he doesn't need to imagine such things."
"But what if there really was one? Have you ever
seen the panels in the Singer's Hall at Neuschwanstein?"
"Many times," Georg said, his eyes shining. "It very
much looks like a Wagner."
"And Ludwig wrote to the Munich conductor about
a new opera too, am I right?"
Georg looked at Grace appraisingly. "Are you a
musician?"
"No. I'm more interested in Ludwig, actually. I
think he was planning something with Wagner. In fact,
I know he was."
"I wish I could help you. The thing is . . ." Georg
stroked his chin dejectedly. "My brother says Wagner
would not have worked on a secret project for Ludwig.
It was not in his nature. If he had a new opera, he
would have told everyone—on and on he would have
told. It was in Ludwig's nature to want a private opera,
but not in Wagner's to give him one."
"But he wasn't writing it for Ludwig alone. The
letter showed that it was to be performed in
Munich."
Georg shrugged, but his face betrayed a desire to
be convinced. "Even so ... If he ever started such a
thing Cosima, his family . . . they would know."
Grace thought about it, biting her lower lip stress-
fully. "Unless he had a good reason for secrecy."
"Like what?"
Grace couldn't bring herself to say it, even if she'd
had time to explain, which she didn't. She sighed. "I'm
not sure. Have you ever seen anything else that
pointed to a lost opera? Anything here maybe?"
Georg looked down at his nails. "Well . . . There is
something in the archives. I was not supposed to look
at it, actually."
"What?" Grace leaned on the display case and bent
forward to get a look at his face. His long blond bangs
hid his eyes. "Georg?"
"Cosima Wagner's journal. It is in a case. One day
I opened it when no one was here."
"What'd it say? Can I see it?"
He glanced up guiltily. "No, please. I should not
have looked myself. It is nothing anyway."
Grace made up her mind quickly. She stood up
straight and put her hands on her hips. "All right,
Georg. I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
"What?" he said with an embarrassed giggle.
"Diaries. Have you heard of Ludwig's?"
"Of course! But no one's allowed to see it."
"I have a copy. With me."
Georg shook his head in disbelief. "No."
Grace pulled it from her purse and slapped it on
the counter. "This is a handwritten English translation
made by Sir Richmond Chaphill when he was writing
Ludwig's biography."
Georg looked at the sheaf of papers with wide eyes.
"Not possible," he repeated in a much smaller voice.
"Go get Cosima's journal, Georg," Grace growled.
Georg went.
They locked the front door to the museum and
spread both documents out on the counter, then hud-
dled together like children studying ants. In the silence
of the hall, Grace's clear voice range out.
" 'August, 1882. The experiments go better and bet-
ter. W. has proved as loyal and determined as ever . . .
it remains only to put the finishing touches on the
completed opera and to make up the diagram for
the crystals.' "
"My God!" Georg whispered. "Completed*. An
opera completed in 1882. Is it possible?"
Grace's dark eyes were laden with intent. "What do
you think?"
Georg flushed under her gaze. "Okay, listen to
this." He translated haltingly. "July, 1881. Richard
returned from his meeting with the king. Never have
I seen him so pale. I was worried for his heart! He
would not speak with me, but immediately shut up
himself in his study and started working on a new
project. He will not tell me the first thing about it.
He will only say that it was time he repaid his
king.' "
Grace was leaning over the counter, her face inches
away from Georg's own. "My God! That must have
been the start of it—of the new opera!"
"Yes, but what happened? Why was he so pale?
Why so secretive?" Georg asked, his eyes searching
hers.
"I—I'm sure there was a reason." Grace faltered.
She couldn't hide much at this distance, so she hastily
changed the subject. "The real question is, if the opera
was completed, what happened to it? Where did it
go?"
Georg's eyes went wide. He began flipping through
the journal. "When I saw this before, I thought I was
imagining things, but . . . Listen."
" 'May, 1883. I sent Richard's sealed package to the
king as he instructed me the day before he closed his
eyes forever. I could not even bring myself to care
what was in it, though heaven knows there were times
when I wanted more than anything to know what was
going on between those two. That seems so stupid
now, now that life itself had ended. Whatever it is, I
hope it brings the king good memories of Richard. He
did so much for my beloved.' "
Somewhere down the hall, a grandfather clock was
ticking. In the silence of the moment it seemed as
loud and measured as approaching footsteps. Grace,
oddly, was suddenly aware of the ticks, one, two, three;
then she looked up at Georg and he at her, and they
both spoke in breathy unison two simple words.
"The package!"
On the way back to Rittersberg, Grace's elation
made the miles blur together as though even the
clock bent to her will. But by the time she reached
Augsburg, time had reasserted itself and pressed her
spirits back down. She felt she'd solved the mystery
of Ludwig, at least the heart of it. Exactly how he
had died and why his plan went wrong, that was
another matter.
But more important, she realized that she still had
no clue as to how this fit into Gabriel's case. For
that matter, perhaps it didn't. Perhaps it was only
her openness to the idea of werewolves and Chris-
tian Ritter's letter that had brought Ludwig's plight
to her. Perhaps it had nothing to do with Gabriel
at all.
That's not what Mrs. Smith says.
Then Grace realized that she knew almost nothing
about Gabriel's case. Something about killings in
Munich that might be the work of a werewolf.
Something about a hunt club and suspects. Some-
where, Gabriel was off doing what she was doing,
what he'd done in New Orleans (so recklessly, so
dangerously), and she didn't have the first clue
where or what or whom or how. She'd gotten so
caught up in her own research, so eager to make
her own mark, that she'd forgotten that he was off
somewhere making his as well, perhaps even muck-
ing about with a real werewolf, mucking about in
that brash, bungie-jumping way of his.
And she was suddenly very afraid.
Gerde was sitting on the sofa, trying to solve a
crossword puzzle. She had the phone perched next
to her, and the blankness of the page confirmed her
distracted state. She got up as soon as the front
door opened.
"Grace, I've been so worried! Is everything all
right?"
"Yes," Grace said, though she suddenly was sure it
wasn't. "Did Gabriel call?"
Gerde shook her head, her face pensive.
"When was the last time you heard from him?"
Gerde rubbed her hands together anxiously. "Not
since he left. There was that letter to you, and that is
all. I decided to call Herr Ubergrau a few hours ago,
and he sounded worried himself. The last he knew,
Gabriel was leaving for a hunting trip."
"Hunting trip?" No two words could have
sounded more ominous. Grace felt a sickening rush
of dread.
"Yes. I don't understand it. Is he still working on
the case, do you think?"
Grace bit her lip. "His letter said something about
suspects in a hunt club. He must have gone off with
them."
Grace realized she'd never shared the letter with
Gerde and felt terrible.
"Oh, and there was a call from Herr Dallmeier,"
Gerde continued. "He said he has the information you
requested if you want to call him back."
Grace fished in her purse and found Gabriel's letter.
"Here. Read it. I'll go call Josef, and when I'm done
we should talk to Werner. He knows where Gabriel
went, doesn't he?"
"Yes, it ... it was the Hubers' farm near Munich,"
Gerde said, looking down as if feeling guilty about
having withheld the information for so long.
"Well, it will be someplace to start. As soon as I'm
done with my phone call, okay?"
"All right." Gerde nodded. She watched anxiously
as Grace ran up to the library.
"Josef? It's Grace."
"Grace! You're in luck. I found a copy of the enti-
tlement deed. It had been filed in Berlin. Fortunately,
it was among a shipment of city papers that were
taken out and hidden during the war. They were re-
covered only ten years ago."
"That's great. What does it say?" Grace asked
impatiently.
"Gowden did change his name. The new one is on
the deed."
"Read it."
Grace's stomach was suddenly in knots, and the
phone receiver grew slick in her hand. She had the
terrible feeling that she would recognize the name,
that what was about to be said would change
everything.
Dallmeier read it. Her instincts had not been
wrong. As soon as the words were out of his mouth,
Grace screamed and dropped the phone. It was still
rocking on the floor, Dallmeier's worried voice call-
ing hollowly through it, as her feet pounded down
the stairs.
Chapter 7
He was dreaming of Grade. She stood alone in a ball-
room, an immense ballroom, and she was wearing a
dress from another era: low-cut, tight bodice, full,
arching skirt in some kind of creamy silk, all lace and
glimmer. Her hair was piled up in ringlets, and white
pearls wove their way through the black luster that
outshone them. Her face was softened without the
bangs and the blunt A-line cut that usually touched
both cheeks. It was a beautiful face and so familiar.
God, he hadn't realized how much he'd missed her!
He tried to approach her, but he didn't seem to have
a body. He could only watch as she glided silently
across the polished marble floor and stopped in front
of a large painting.
It was a life-size portrait of a young man dressed in
regal blue with epaulets and medals and a bright red
sash. The young man's pale, narrow face was sur-
rounded by a mist of black curls, and his blue eyes
were as deep an indigo as his uniform.
Grace reached out her hand to touch the painting.
She trailed her fingers longingly down one long arm,
and when their slender tips reached the painted ones,
they curled around each other. She pulled, gently, and
the man stepped from the painting into the room.
And now they were dancing and the man held her
in his arms. So tall was he, and handsome. Her pale
skin against his starched royal blue was a song filled
with longing as they moved. It was a picture too per-
feet, too compelling to be denied. He leaned down his
head and
kissed her.
Then they were spinning, spinning, two dark heads
locked in an embrace, locked in a kiss that would
waken the dead, a kiss that could exchange souls, and
Gabriel's dream eye watched the sweep of Grace go
by, the creamy skin of her back above the tight silk,
as they spun around again. He felt a swelling tide of
jealousy and desire, wanted to tear the young man
away and take his place, and then realized that
he had.
In an instant the bodiless spectator he had been
vanished and she was in his arms, as real as anything.
He could feel the cool stiffness of the silk against his
arms where he held her, against his shirt, against his
pants. He drew her in more tightly, pressing her
against him, while his mouth experienced her greedily,
sweetly, like a long drink of cool water to one parched
of thirst. He drew her in with his lips, his tongue,
wanting only to fall into this moment and never
return.
He thought, So this is what it's like.
She pulled back, one hand pushing against his chest.
Her lips left his, and he opened his eyes and saw, over
her shoulder, the young man in blue. He was standing
across the room, watching them, and as Gabriel's eyes
met his, he raised his arm and pointed, like a mute
beacon, toward Gabriel, beyond him.
Gabriel turned his head to look. Where the painting
had been there was now a mirror. Reflected in the
glass was Grace, reversed, and standing next to her,
where he should have been, stood
a wolf.
He turned to look at Grace, his eyes searching for
the contradiction. Her expression was loving and woe-
ful. She caressed his puzzled face with her hand and
opened her mouth to speak.
Beware the Black Wolf.
*           *           *
He was rushing through the darkness. He could hear
Leber's voice saying,
Two wolves missing from the zoo.
Then he was back in the cave, in the lair, and he
could hear the sound of his own retching, and he could
see his hand splayed flat on a rock for balance and by
that hand
von Zell in the moonlight, coarse fur thick and bris-
tly, red fur, red like the hair from the farm.
Von Glower emerging from the cave. He opened
his mouth, but what came out was not what he said
that day, at that moment. What came out was
An Alpha werewolf will not harm a beta of its own
making with its own hand
KA-BOOM
They are at the ravine, and von Glower rides up on
his horse and the wolf. The red wolf is standing there
growling, snarling, and Gabriel screams
Kill it! Shoot it!
and von Glower throws him the gun
You must do it.
Von Glower in the dark woods, ahead of him, mess-
ing with his hair—no, his ears. And the wolfs howl
cutting through the night and Gabriel calling out
Friedrich
and von Glower not turning, not hearing.
Two wolves missing
Leber said.
WHY TWO? WHY DID VON ZELL WANT
TWO WOLVES?
And there he was, von Zell, sitting there, looking
smug in the chair at the club.
We used to hunt together quite a bit. I suppose I've
simply outgrown him
And then Gabriel was in the lair, the choking, cloy-
ing lair, and he was looking down at the bodies in the
pit, illuminated by the lantern: the corpses, some of
them just bones, the tattered remains of faded clothes,
some of them fresh but some of them so old.
Started acting strange about a year ago
So old.
Von Glower was telling von Zell he'd acted stupidly
about something
SO OLD.
When a healthy beast kills, it takes only what it needs
to survive and it does so respectfully
"But the killer is not a man," Gabriel mumbled
out loud.
A healthy beast
SO OLD.'!!!!
The creature he'd imagined, the beast running down
the wooded path at night, dragging a body back to
the lair silently, carefully, hiding the evidence
In broad daylight
Leber was leaning forward at his desk
Body parts left lying like a trail of bread crumbs
Not this pointless slaughter
And the hand was on the rock; he was retching,
retching, retching, and the hand was on the rock and
next to the hand was hair, animal hair, long and thick
like that at the farm but even in the dim light from
the cave opening he can see it isn't red, it has no
luster, no tinge of auburn, no inner light.
Two wolves
It was black.
Acted stupidly
It was black.
Then it is on your head
IT WAS BLACK.
"No!"
He woke up and found himself on the floor of the
Huber farm. He'd fallen off the couch at some point,
and the afghan was tangled around his legs.
And he was in the grip of a terrible, wrenching,
debilitating pain. It was coming from everywhere and
nowhere, from the marrow of the bones in his limbs,
from his head, which was bursting asunder, from his
stomach, which was surfing on waves of nausea, from
his lungs, which felt like they were breathing liquid
fire, from the stinging, burning, crawling wound on
his leg.
"No!" he cried again. The plea was born in his mind
as a scream, but it came out as a guttural whisper.
Even his throat was on fire.
And he knew what was happening but couldn't,
wouldn't, wouldn't believe it until he looked down and
saw his forearm, bare in the moonlight, ripple, the
muscles beneath the skin dancing and cording and
slipping across the bone.
"Nol Oh, God, no! Jesus, no! Please, God! Pleasel"
He'd killed von Zell, but he'd missed something:
von Zell's changer—the alpha wolf, the black alpha
wolf. Von Glower was the alpha. He hadn't thrown
the gun to remove Gabriel's curse. He'd thrown it
because he couldn't kill von Zell himself.
And then the pain in his gut bent him on the floor
like a bowing marionette. He screamed as he felt his
spine shift, tear, bend.
Oh, God, let it end, let me wake up. Make it stop.
Let it end.
And then he heard the sounds of the door opening
and footsteps.
"Gabriel!" It was Grace's sweet, frantic New York
voice.
"Go. Away." He managed to choke out. "Get
out. Now!"
"It's all right, dear," came an incongruously relaxed
and soothing voice. "We know all about it, and we
know just what to do."
Rittersberg
The cold forced him to rise from unconsciousness.
When he opened his eyes, shivering and naked, he
saw that he was lying on a chilly earthen floor. The
smell in his nostrils was dank and musty, like a base-
ment or ... or a cave. And when he managed to raise
his head (which weighed about a hundred pounds) on
his neck (which felt like it had the worst case of whip-
lash ever), he saw that he was in a stone room. A cell.
He immediately panicked. In a pitiless wave of re-
membrance he knew everything. And although he
couldn't recall exactly what had happened last night—
it was as hazy as a bad dream—he knew, from the
broken feel of his body and from his nakedness, that
he must have . . . must have changed.
And now he was in prison.
He scrambled to his feet, his fear overriding his
bruised muscles. He looked around, but there was
nothing in the room but a cot—not a scrap of clothing,
not even a blanket with which to cover himself. He
was to be treated like an animal, then.
And just about the time he was going to open his
mouth and scream, he heard a loud sound. It grated
on his ears like the whetting of a blade on stone, and
he realized it was the lock on the door outside, only
amplified ten times. And then the door creaked open.
A slightly built older man entered. He had a long,
sober face and little hair, and his outfit was pure
Americana circa 1976. He held out a neat stack of
blue jeans and T-shirt and averted his eyes.
"Put these on now," he said, trying hard to sound
ordinary. "Then come on upstairs. We have a hot bath
waiting for you at the castle. Those scratches'll need
tending."
It was the worst fifteen minutes of his life. He would
remember it a long time afterward, with unwelcomed
clarity, and with the memory would come a humilia-
tion so overburdening it made him wish for a loaded
gun and the courage to place it to his temples. For a
long time afterward.
And this was how it began. He watched the man
leave, and then he put on his clothes. Now that he
knew where he was, the worst of the fear had gone
and his aches and pains reasserted themselves petu-
lantly. He felt as though he'd gone ten rounds with a
five-hundred-pound gorilla. Bending his knees to get
into his pants, he had to bite his lips to keep from
screaming out loud. And the nausea, wave after wave,
like the worst flu he'd ever experienced, and the shiv-
ering, wretched shivering. He had a fever. He was
burning up.
And when he'd finally accomplished it, when the
clothes were more or less on his body, he walked
weakly to the door and tried to straighten himself up,
tried to firm up his throbbing spine.
Then there came a walk up a flight of stone stairs,
supported, reluctantly, by the tall man who said some-
thing about being Mr. Smith from blah blah blah. A
walk up the flight of stairs into the light, like emerging
from the tomb. And at the top came the worst of it.
The faces.
Werner's face and the postmistress's face and the
priest's face and the baker's face and the faces of all
the other villagers waited in the Rittersberg town
square. Waiting there, like a crowd gathered at the
scene of an accident. Waiting there, as if hoping to
catch sight of some blood. And right up in front was
Gerde's face. And Grace. Worst of all, Grace's perky,
familiar little face.
All looking at him. Trying to smile. All drenched
in pity. Pity. Pity. Pity.
Welcome home, they said, in English, in German.
And Werner's hand on his shoulder—You got one of
them. You got the one that killed Toni Huber. You
did well.
(a lie)
And Grace chattering nervously. We have a hot bath
and Doktor Strutz here to look at you, and Gerde made
breakfast—aren't you starved? I bet you're starved.
And on and on and he tried to push through them,
and his face must have shown something, for Gerde
was saying, Let's just get him to the castle. He must be
tired. He looks tired. Let's just . . .
And the car and he was getting into it and he could
still see the faces outside. The specious sympathy on
the faces. And then the drive up the hill to the castle
and still Grace was chattering, her hand coming lightly
to rest on his arm now and then (as if to show that
he was not repulsive, which, of course, he was), and
he couldn't bear to look at her, couldn't stand it that
she could see him, not this way, and more chattering
as the car doors opened and the sunlight pierced his
brain and then they were in the cool dimness of the
castle and how strange that it was still the same, that
everything was still the same—everything, everything,
everything except for him.
And finally he was in the bathroom, finally he could
disappear, finally he could close the door and shut
them out, all those faces, all those words. He locked
the door and took off his clothes, and now the pain
in his body was nothing, was welcome, was his due,
and he stepped into the tub and sank into the water
and covered his face with a hot, wet washcloth.
And sobbed. Silently.
"No, we can pull it off," Grace insisted.
"Only if we can find it," Gerde said doubtfully.
"Why don't we just wait and see how the session
goes?" said Mrs. Smith.
"That might be best," Mr. Smith agreed.
They were all at the table in the castle's dining
room. The table was set and the dishes were still clean.
The smell of coffee filled the room.
"Ahem." Mr. Smith cleared his throat, and the oth-
ers realized Gabriel was standing in the doorway, lean-
ing against the doorjamb, arms folded.
"God, I could smell that from upstairs," he said.
He walked stiffly over to the table and picked up the
coffeepot. Hot, dark liquid streamed into a cup.
"Are you feeling better?" Grace asked. "Doktor
Strutz is waiting at the gasthof. I can call him."
"Not just now, Grade." Gabriel pulled back the
empty chair—its feet scraping loudly in the awkward
silence—and sat down gingerly.
"So where's the chow?" he asked, looking around
at them brightly. His fair complexion was mottled with
pink—from the hot bath, Grace wondered, or the
fever?
Gerde got up and went into the kitchen. Mrs. Smith
went in to help. Grace got up too, but she headed for
Gabriel instead. She placed a cool hand on his
forehead.
"You're burning up."
"I'm fine," he growled. He pulled her hand away
and shook it. "Nice to meet ya."
A crease of irritation appeared just between her
brows. He seemed to recognize it, for he smiled
fondly.
"Fine! You're fine. A hundred and three, no big
deal. Sorry I mentioned it." Grace went back to her
chair.
He drank the coffee greedily, as he always had. He
winced at first, then drank some more.
"How'd you get back to the Hubers', anyway?"
Grace asked, still a little put out. "I thought you were
on a hunting trip."
"Didn't feel much like hangin' out after . . . once I
was hurt. Frie—" He paused awkwardly. "They
dropped me off. I was gonna drive back here, but I
was so ... so tired."
He said it lightly. He cleared his throat.
"Good thing. I really didn't think we'd find you."
He said nothing. He glanced at the kitchen door.
"There's so much to tell you," Grace said breath-
lessly. She leaned forward, studying his face. "God, a
million things! You're not going to believe this, but
remember that letter to Ludwig? Guess who the Black
Wolf was that Christian Ritter was tracking?"
Gabriel looked down at his knife. His pinkness
deepened. "Von Glower," he said stiffly.
"Right! Here I was tracking down this whole Black
Wolf thing with Ludwig-—by the way, he changed
Ludwig into a werewolf too. Can you believe it?"
Gabriel looked up at her sharply.
"And the whole time, I couldn't quite figure out
how it might be related to what you were doing.
'Course, it would've helped if you'd told me what you
were doing."
She paused in her spiel to let that sink in. He
looked away.
"Then Dallmeier found the entitlement deed. You
see, the Black Wolf was Ludwig's lover. His real name
back then was Paul Gowden, but Bismarck gave him
a title—probably for his help in closing the Prussian
treaty—and he changed it. Changed it to Baron Ru-
dolf von Glower. He even appears in Ludwig's diary
as the R in 'L & R'.
"In fact, Dallmeier helped me track von Glower
while you were, um, out of it yesterday. Rudolf von
Glower left Germany in 1890. In 1927 his alleged son
returned to claim the family lands and title—an Endro
von Glower. He was around until 1942, then went
abroad again. In 1970 a Friedrich von Glower showed
up. You know what I think? I think it's all the same
guy. The inquisitor's manual said werewolves are es-
sentially immortal. I don't think it's been new genera-
tions at all. He has to go away once in a while so
people don't catch on about his age."
The kitchen door swung open, and Gerde emerged
with a platter of meats and cheese. Gabriel looked
relieved.
"That's good, Grace," he said flatly. He looked at
the platter and patted his stomach. "Man, I'm
ravenous!"
Gerde stopped in mid-stride and stared at him. The
spoon on the platter rattled lightly as her hands shook.
Gabriel turned scarlet and went back to messing with
the cream pitcher.
Grace stood up. "Let me help." She moved to
Gerde's side and took the platter. Gerde's eyes welled
up with sudden tears, and she ran back into the
kitchen.
"Uh . . . Looks good, huh?" Grace said cheerfully,
putting the platter on the table. The cold array of
sliced pressed meats and thick local cheeses stared up
at her. "Uh, doesn't it?" she asked doubtfully.
His chin trembled and he exploded. He pushed the
table away roughly, sending it skidding several inches.
His chair clattered to the stone floor as he strode from
the room in a rage.
She found him outside on the doorstep. He was
pacing angrily, one hand pressed against his mouth.
When she came out, he turned his back to her. His
shoulders were tensed so hard she could see the
corded muscles beneath his shirt.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean what you
thought I meant. It's just that I know you're probably
sick, and those cold cuts ..."
She trailed off. He said nothing.
She took a deep breath. "I know this must be hard,
but we're going to fix it."
"No, Grace! You have no idea how it is, okay? You
have no fucking idea."
He turned to face her, and she saw the violence of
his rage, and the shame.
She looked away, embarrassed. "No, I guess I
don't."
"No fucking idea," he mumbled again, as if to
himself.
She glanced at him sideways, wanting desperately
to comfort him. "I know you're upset, but I really
think we can fix it. You see, Ludwig had a plan. ..."
"You can't fix it, Grace," Gabriel interrupted
darkly. "I fucked up, okay? You won. You were right,
you figured it out, you're the smart one. Me, I was
wrong. I blew it. I screwed up. I flunked out. I bit it.
Okay? Does that make you happy? It's over. You go
on and take over now. I'm sure everyone will love
you."
Grace shook her head impatiently. "Cut the crap
and listen, will you? There's this opera that Wagner
wrote, and it—"
Gabriel snorted bitterly, then he laughed out loud,
a loathing laugh. "Grace! Come on! You should have
just left me there."
Grace's face darkened. "What are you talking
about? Left you where"? At the Huber farm? And
what good would that do? You'd just be roaming the
countryside like .. . like von Zell! At least here we can
put you behind bars when it happens, so you don't—"
But he moved to her side in one quick stride. He
gripped her arm painfully, his face so terrible, the
words died in her throat. She immediately regretted
what she'd said. She finally saw, really saw how it was.
She too had been in a kind of denial.
"Just kill me," he said quietly, his fingers digging
into her arm. His eyes were so filled with darkness,
they were unbearable.
"I can't," she said, her voice thickening. "Gabriel,
I can't. I won't."
Other words, words that had come to her mouth
from out of nowhere died unsaid. But perhaps he felt
them anyway, for when she reached out her arms and
gathered him to her, he didn't resist. He buried his
face on her shoulder and allowed her to hold him like
that for a long, bittersweet time.
"Now, hon, here's the plan," Mrs. Smith said. She
leaned over the couch where he lay. He could see the
light overhead shining right through her beehive in a
kind of dyed filament glow.
"You just hold this ring here that Grace got and
close your eyes. We're gonna try to make contact. You
and me together, all right?"
She sounded exactly like something from a UFO
documentary. He turned his head to one side so he
could shoot Grace a look.
Go on, Grace mouthed. Gabriel sighed.
"Don't forget the opera," Grace added for the
tenth time.
Gabriel grumbled low in his throat.
"Now don't block, dear. You have the gift and
you've already been in contact with him, so there's no
need to play skeptic. You don't need to worry about
saying anything, I'll do the communicating. You just
do your best to get into his mind—that lock of Lud-
wig's hair in that ring should help you do that. If this
works the way I hope it will, you'll help me bridge the
gap to the other side. Now come on. Close your eyes."
Gabriel sighed again and closed them. He'd insisted
on having everyone out of the room, but Grace had
insisted on staying.
At first he fought Mrs. Smith's low, soothing voice
as she talked him down, fought it rebelliously, deri-
sively, silently. But at last fatigue overcame him, and
he fell into the hypnotic tones, as silly as they were.
He stopped thinking about how silly they were and
fell.
Neuschwanstein, 1886
Ludwig opened his eyes to the sound of scratching
on the door. He hadn't been sleeping, only trying to
shut down the panic that threatened to consume him.
At the interruption any progress he'd made evapo-
rated like the illusion that it was.
"What is it?" he called impatiently.
Weber entered, shuffling forward on his knees, his
face studying the carpeting.
"Your Majesty wished to be informed . . . they are
on the move at Hohenschwangau."
Ludwig sat up immediately, ignoring the pain in his
head. "Are they coming this way?"
"They have not yet left, Highness, but the carriages
are in the courtyard."
"What about the guard?"
Weber shifted his weight awkwardly from one hand
to another. "They . . . most of the farmers returned
home last night."
Profanities began pouring from the king's mouth
unbidden. His rage sparked to life like a match being
struck. The worst thing was that he never seemed to
be the one lighting it; nor could he predict its blaze.
"Go get more men!" he screamed when he'd re-
gained control of his words.
"Yes, Highness." Weber scuttled backward from
the room and shut the door softly.
Ludwig ran down to the hall to his study, which had
the best view of the east. He tore it open and peered
out, trying to get a look. But it was night—he hadn't
even realized it was night. Hohenschwangau was small
from here, even in broad daylight. Even so, he could
see movement in the courtyard—torches. And horses,
many horses. Although he could not see them, he felt
their life force, ever so faintly, even across the
distance.
He uttered a curse and stumbled backward. And
there, in that moment in the study, it entered his heart
like Cupid's arrow—an acceptance of the inevitable.
He relinquished, finally, the last thread of hope, of
determination to complete his plan, to somehow save
himself, to have a life beyond this horror.
It would never be.
The rage sloughed away like a discarded skin, and
what was underneath was cold, stark fear.
"Mother of God," he pleaded. His knees wanted to
buckle right there, but he dragged himself back to his
bedroom, pulling open and then shoving shut each
door along the way. It was a habit he'd gotten so used
to he didn't even notice it anymore. Block the doors,
block the line of sight, never let anyone see you.
And in the bedroom he stumbled to the chapel and
closed that door too, then locked himself in.
It was a tiny room, and he loved it that way, for he
wanted the arms of God around him, to feel, with the
Virgin on the altar, that he was in a womb, the blessed
womb. But how he'd felt the loathing of these walls—
those arms—at times. Loathing for his putrid soul!
He collapsed in front of the altar, hugged it.
"Mary, Mother of God, be with us poor sinners now
and in the hour of our death. ..."
And he reached out a hand and clasped the Ma-
donna and child-—both with faces pitch black after the
Virgin of AltOtting—and poured himself into her. He
poured out his rage and frustration and terror, and it
oozed forth in thick globs as though he'd slashed his
psychic veins. He emptied himself, and for that mo-
ment, emptying himself was all that he desired.
And when the torrent became a trickle, then
stopped altogether, the fear was gone and he was in
a place of unnatural peace, like the eye of a hurricane.
Yes, they would come for him. But he didn't have to
remain in custody. He didn't have to allow them to
lock him up, to study him. His secret, his shame, did
not have to go down in the history books.
These were the things that terrified him. And like
a child told that although night would come, the light
did not have to be turned out, he felt enormously
comforted. They could take his body, but they could
not force him to remain in it.
As for the other matter, the reason why he'd be-
lieved he had to live, he suddenly, in a clear, calm
voice, received the answer for that as well. And he
realized that he was free. He'd carried the burden for
a long time, and now he had no choice but to hand it
to another. It was not a matter of opting out; there
was simply no choice. He felt unimaginably lightened
and wept tears of gratitude as he thanked the Virgin
profusely, tenderly, for her guidance.
Then he kissed her black face and went out to do
what had to be done.
On the dresser in the bedroom was a gold and lapis
box with a swan on the lid. With steady hands and
clear eyes Ludwig opened a secret compartment at its
base and removed a gold key.
This he took into the study to a large cabinet of
carved wood with turrets and fake windows—a
model of Neuschwanstein itself. He fitted the key
into the lock on the door, opened the cabinet, and
gently removed three rolls of paper. Each roll was
tied with a scarlet ribbon. He carried them carefully
to his desk.
From the bottom drawer he removed a piece of
vellum so thin it was transparent. A Wittelsbach crest
and a Bavarian flag were placed to either side at the
top of the page. Four small swans etched in blue and
placed at odd intervals were the only other markings.
He carried the vellum over to the sitting area, where
a blueprint of the castle hung. He placed the vellum
carefully on the glass, lining up the flag and the crest
with matching icons on the plan. And then his blue
eyes, still lashed as thickly as a babe's but red-rimmed
and exhausted, sought out the positions of the swans
carefully. One fell in the bedroom, just to the right of
the living room door. One was in the Grotto, at the
bottom of the left-hand wall. One was in the Singer's
Hall under the third painting on the left, and one was
in the room at the top of the tower.
He glanced around suspiciously, but there was no
one there. There never was.
He withdrew the vellum and took it back to his
desk. Then he drew out a piece of his finest writing
paper and a new pen with his own crest on the hilt.
He opened his ink well and began to write.
June 17, 1886
My Sweetest Dove,
By the time you receive this letter, it will have
ended for me. My Uncle Luitpold and the traitors
mean to finish me, to wrap me in their lies and put
me away somewhere. I cannot let that happen.
Oh, my beloved, you and your friendship make up
the happiest memories of my life! You have always
been true to me, and I shall love you forever. Please
remember that, and know that I wish to bequeath you
the world. I must instead ask a terrible favor.
You have known something of my torment these
past years. I have written to you of the plan that I
had for setting myself free of it. Well, dearest one, it
has become too late for me to complete this work.
They will not let me, though it means my soul! I can
only beg you to believe in me, to believe in the impor-
tance of the work, and to do your utmost to carry
it through. Will you, my only friend? Will you save
your Ludwig?
Here is what must be done. I intend to hide, this
very day, four documents in secret compartments in
Neuschwanstein. Enclosed you will find a vellum that
will reveal the locations of these compartments. Use
it on the map in my study. Remove the four docu-
ments you find in the compartments and take them to
the conductor in Munich.
Three of these documents are the three acts of a
new opera. The fourth is a diagram for a chandelier.
Eight of these chandeliers must be built exactly and
placed in the Residenztheater as shown on the dia-
gram. When you have done this and the opera is pre-
pared, you must invite the following person to the
opening performance. His name is Baron Rudolf von
Glower, and he lives in Prussia. Place him in the mit-
telloge and make certain that the sharpest and quickest
armed guards are stationed near the door and are pre-
pared to protect the crowd with their life. This is all.
The rest, I believe, will happen naturally.
I know I sound insane, as insane as they say that I
am, but if you do this you will finally learn what has
been my torment and you will see for yourself my
tormentor! More, if all goes as I believe it must, you
will have saved my immortal soul and admitted me
to heaven.
May God grant you peace and love and an eternal
crown for your never ending loyalty and affection for
me. I shall miss you. Your own and forever Eagle
When he lowered his pen, tears were streaming
down his cheeks. He picked up the letter and blew on
it through quivering cheeks. He folded both it and the
vellum carefully and found an envelope in the drawer
to enshroud his missive. On the front he wrote Em-
press Elizabeth of Austria. Then he stuck the envelope
in a pocket and stood up, gathering the three parch-
ment rolls to his chest like children.
To the Singer's Hall, up the stairs. And now he
swore he could hear the clatter of hooves on the road
below the mountain, the anxious grinding of carriage
wheels.
The stairs were dark, and he cursed the servants.
Every room, every crevice, was to be lit by candles at
all times! He called out, but no one came. He placed
one large hand against the wall and mounted the stairs
in darkness, his night vision providing sight enough,
though he hated to be dependent upon it, to feel the
unnaturalness of his own physiology.
The Singer's Hall itself was still lit, albeit with can-
dles burned nearly to the quick. He located the paint-
ing and knelt down stiffly. How did these things work?
He could remember vaguely, being shown the com-
partments just after they were installed, but . . .
He banged his hand against the wall over and over,
left and right and up and down. Just as his frustration
threatened to rush in, he heard a click and a piece of
the wall popped up.
Yes. Yes, excellent, he thought. He'd never have
seen it. It was impossible to spot, even with his eyes.
He tucked one of the rolls carefully into the small
compartment, then swung the panel shut. All signs of
it vanished at once.
He gave a sigh of satisfaction, then grunted as he
pushed his heavy frame upright. Down, down, down
to the grotto.
The compartment in the grotto he remembered bet-
ter, for it was on the under-slant of a rocky protuber-
ance just at the turn. He banged his hand more softly
this time, afraid that the fake materials that made up
the rock face would not withstand a pounding. The
compartment popped open after just a few tries. He
planted the second act of the opera.
Then the bedroom.
As he entered, he realized that the tower—his next
stop—was locked. They kept it locked, he ordered it
locked, because its entrance was between his rooms
and the servants' and he always had a nasty feeling
about them sneaking up there (for what purpose he
couldn't fathom, but they hardly needed a reason to
be vile). Now he picked up a silver bell from his
nightstand and rang it, hiding the third roll of the
opera behind his back.
Mayr, his valet, entered. He knew it was Mayr be-
cause of the black mask that covered his face. An ugly
face had Mayr. Ludwig could not abide ugliness. In
brutishness he saw an unmerciful reminder of himself.
"Send this letter off with a messenger at once! And
bring me the key to the tower!" He held out his letter
to Elizabeth.
Mayr reached up without looking, and the king
placed it in his hand. Mayr tucked it in his waistband
carefully so that it would not wrinkle, as he'd been
taught to do. Then he hesitated, kneeling there on
all fours.
"What are you, deafT' the king shouted angrily.
"Go get the key!"
"I believe it is lost. I shall go look for it," Mayr said.
"Find it," Ludwig thundered. "Don't look, find it.
At once! And get someone off with that letter!"
"Yes, Your Highness." Mayr crawled backward
from the room.
Lost! Indeed!
He rushed to his bedroom window and pushed aside
the heavy drapes. Outside, the night was black, and
the scent of it was tantalizing. It was so seductive,
night, like a black pool you had only to lean toward
to fall into.
"No," he said out loud. He shook his head and tried
to concentrate, to hear, to see anything that might be
moving on the road below. He heard horses faintly,
but whether from the road just out of sight or his own
stock in the courtyard, he couldn't tell. He let the
curtain fall, feeling his anxiety outstrip his nerve once
again. He hurried over to the bedroom wall.
He glanced around—both doors were shut. He
struck the wall again and again. The panel popped
open, and he hid the third and final act of the opera.
Now the diagram.
He hurried into the chapel, trembling. Where was
his calm, his resolve? To decide to act had been a
relief, but now the horror of the next few hours began
to impose upon him, like Jesus in Gethsemane. He
wanted it to be over, but he did not relish the process.
The thought that they might lay hands on him . . .
He muttered a quick prayer to the Virgin, but there
was no time to stay and seek solace. He picked up
the diagram from the altar. It was rolled tightly, as
the opera had been, but this paper was as thin as
tissue. It had lain here since Wagner's death, a prom-
ise to the Virgin, an oath that Sin would be conquered.
He promised her this once more in a muttered prayer
and tucked the roll inside the breast of his coat.
And then he did hear it, something on the path, a
clatter. He rushed to the bedroom and rang the bell
again, loudly.
No one came. He paced. He rang again and screamed
out Mayr's name, Weber's. At last he heard
scratching.
"Open it!"
Mayr crawled in.
"The key, the key, the keyl" Ludwig ranted, unable
to bear it.
"I'm still looking," Mayr said, and he began to back
out even before he'd been dismissed. But Ludwig was
too beside himself to correct the swine. Let him go,
then, let him go find that damn key! Why were they
all always so incompetent? And now his life, his very
soul hung on the idiocy of his servants, as he'd always
known it would. And they wondered why he raged so!
For ten minutes he waited, nearly unable to contain
himself. He considered hiding the diagram under the
bed or anywhere else, but no. Elizabeth would never
find it there. He'd told her where to find it already. It
must go in the tower.
Surely he was panicking for no good reason. Surely
his men could hold them at the gate for at least a
few hours. Surely what had arrived so far was just a
vanguard, and they would have to wait down there
and then discuss it the way that politicians do. Why,
it could be days!
There came a scratching at the door.
"Enter, Mayr, damn you to hell!"
Mayr slipped inside. "I have the key to the tower,
sire."
He held it up in one pathetic paw. Ludwig strode
across the room on his long legs, his polished black
shoes shining against the rugs. He snatched the key
and a candle from the bedside and, unable to help
himself, shoved Mayr down with one heavy thigh as
he headed for the entry hall door.
Mayr had shut the door, as always. And as Ludwig
jerked it open, he saw that the hall was dark. The
candles were out, and that was particularly odd for
this room, the first room the servants had to pass
through to get to his quarters. Why had Mayr not lit
them? Why were things falling apart?
He paused there, silhouetted in the doorway. Be-
yond, shadows danced away from the light, black and
confusing. If he put out his own candle, his eyes would
adjust quickly to the dark, see through the shadows,
but he didn't want to put it out.
He hesitated. His heart beat loudly in his chest,
sounding an instinctual alarm. He told himself he was
being paranoid. All he had to do was cross the room
and there, there was the door to the tower. He
couldn't weaken now, not now.
He began to cross quickly. And just as he'd reached
the tower door, just as his hand moved to put the key
in the lock, he was grabbed from behind.
He cried out in rage and fear and spun around. The
vicious movement of his body dislodged the deter-
mined hands, but as soon as he'd turned they grabbed
him again. A match was lit and a candle. A man, a
small white-bearded man, came walking slowly toward
him, holding the flame like a ghost.
"Your Majesty, it is the saddest action of my life
that I now perform. Four alienists have provided a
report on Your Majesty, and in the light of their find-
ings Prince Luitpold has taken over the government.
I have orders to accompany Your Majesty to Schloss
Berg this very night."
He could have fought them. Might have wounded
several. They had no idea how strong he was. They
had no idea. But the fight slipped from him in the
shock of the moment, the unreality of that little man's
face speaking those words. It was inconceivable that
this could really be done, that it could dare to be done
to him. And Berg, Schloss Berg, where crazy Otto lay:
Berg of the insane.
Guilt and shame came upon him as thickly as it
had ever done. / deserve this, he thought. This is what
happens to the damned.
"How can you declare me so? You have not yet
examined me."
The small man smiled sadly. "Your Majesty, the
overwhelming documentary evidence is proof enough."
As Ludwig, once king, was led from the room, Mayr
watched. He slowly pulled his loathsome mask from
his face, a triumphant, mocking smile revealed. He
took an envelope from his pocket on which was writ-
ten Empress Elizabeth of Austria and dropped it,
scornfully and with great intent, on the fire.
In Rittersberg, Gabriel moaned on the couch and
twisted his body as if seeking to flee the experience.
Mrs. Smith, sitting upright on the floor next to him,
had fallen into a kind of panting silence; a stillness
that echoed after the long, steady drone of her voice.
She was sweating, her mouth and eyes pinched tight.
She'd removed her polyester suit jacket before they
commenced, and her dimpled upper arms were pale
and clammy. Perspiration on her lip and cheeks turned
her heavy pancake makeup into a moist, clay-like tex-
ture. Grace's face too was wet, though not for the
same reasons.
Mr. Smith had entered after the pair had gone into
their trance. He got up now from his chair.
"I think that's enough," he said, moving toward
his wife.
Grace was lost in the images knit by the words, but
this unexpected decision snapped her to at once.
"Wait! The diagram! We still don't know what hap-
pened to the diagram. Ludwig had it on him when he
was arrested."
Mr. Smith glanced at his wife, apprehension and
reluctance reeking from every pore.
"Please. We might not make contact again!"
Mr. Smith looked up at Grace sharply.
"A few more minutes," he agreed, and Grace knew
that it was only because he'd decided that this would
not be repeated, whatever the cost. He leaned close
to his wife and whispered in her ear, "The diagram,
Mother."
And Mrs. Smith, beginning haltingly in a flat, husky
voice, took back up her narrative.
*       *       *
Horse hooves. Swaying. His eyes were closed, but
he didn't need to see the view to know where they
were. Over the past dozen years his sense of direction
had developed until even conveyances that were as
unnatural as carriages could not throw him off. They
were a hard day's run from home now, and they were
approaching water. They were nearing Starnberger
See.
He squeezed his eyes shut more tightly, unable and
unwilling to connect with what was happening around
him. The carriage slowed. The surface under the
wheels changed to cobblestone. It was what he had
been waiting for.
He opened his eyes and saw that they were in a
small town. Seeshaupt. It was at the southernmost tip
of Starnberger See, and Berg castle was at the north-
ernmost. They were stopping to change the horses.
The beasts were exhausted and quivering from the
long and steady pace they'd set. Ludwig could feel
their racing heartbeats.
He offered up a prayer of thanks to Our Lady. This
was exactly as he'd hoped—that they would stop and
that it would be someplace he knew. The odds were
in his favor, for he'd traveled most of the routes be-
tween royal residences since childhood, and the route
from Hohoenschwangau to Berg was no exception.
And this same area, these same towns, had witnessed
his nocturnal odysseys for many a year. Yes, See-
shaupt was exactly what he needed.
But even as the carriage pulled to a stop, there were
men in uniform running alongside, men from the other
carriages guarding the doors.
He leaned down and forward to bring his eyes to
the height of the window and peered out over the
heads of the men outside. It was a dark night, and a
light rain had begun to fall. Torches were lit. The slick
cobblestones glimmered in the flickering light.
In front of the carriage the men parted abruptly,
and Ludwig felt the approach of a diminutive doctor
before he saw the white hair emerge from between
the guard's woollen coats. The doctor nodded curtly
at his charge and tapped lightly on the window. Lud-
wig pushed it open on its hinges.
"Does His Majesty require any services while we
are here?"
Ludwig's heart lurched, and he fought to keep his
face from betraying him, to coax his voice into a casual
and reasonable tone.
"Across the way is the post office. The postmistress
lives directly above it. Would you be so kind as to
knock on the door and ask her to fetch me a glass
of water?"
Gudden bobbed obsequiously. "Of course, Your
Majesty."
He had a desire for goodwill, this little man. He
coveted a veil of affability over this brutal proceeding.
Ludwig knew his type well and despised it. Gudden
was a politician, or he'd never have been appointed
to such a task, never have had his Uncle Luitpold's
ear. And politicians always kept their options open.
After all, if Ludwig was to somehow regain control, it
would be wise to have displayed mercy.
But Ludwig would never regain control and he
knew it. Black thoughts about Gudden, Luitpold, even
about the men who drove this carriage, threatened to
swamp him. Bloodlust and revenge as black as sewage
drifted through his mind. He pushed them aside with
great effort. His eyes followed the doctor across the
courtyard and to the post office.
In truth, he was amazed that he was able to control
himself now, his rage, his fury, now when he'd had so
little success at it for so long. But this was the last
round of play, the final yards of his mad dash. He had
little choice.
Gudden was knocking on the post office door him-
self, as Ludwig hoped he would, to show the king
that he was the humble servant, whatever the current
circumstances. And now the door was opening and a
pale, worried face looked out, then slipped back inside
at once to do what was bidden.
Ludwig leaned back to wait, his entire body heavy
and tingling with the rushes of dread and adrenaline,
with the struggle to suppress the need to hurt, the
urge to flee that washed through his veins.
It will work. If I'd asked to use the bathroom or
stretch my legs, they would have followed me, guarded
me, but this is one single old woman performing a
servile task. They will let her pass, and they will turn
their backs to us, unthreatened, uninterested. It must be
so. It must work!
And when he opened his eyes, he could see Frau
Vogl in a dark shawl and skirt, hurrying across the
square, a glass held up and out in front of her like a
lantern, her skirt skimming the wet stones.
He sat up, his mouth dry. He reached a hand inside
his coat and felt the parchment of the diagram there.
He pushed the window all the way open.
And she was standing there. The men, as he'd
hoped, parted and stood about, their backs to the car-
riage, their eyes looking out as if watching for a mob
perhaps, or even a lone loyal farmer with a pitchfork.
Frau Vogl held the glass toward him and turned her
head. Her face fell into the light from the lantern
hooked in the driver's seat. It was drawn and anxious.
He'd sat in her rooms and had tea with this woman.
"Are you all right, Your Majesty? Is there anything
I can do?" she whispered.
He took the glass of water from her slowly. "Yes,
there is something you can do, most urgently!"
"Anything!"
His eyes shifted, intently taking in the creatures that
surrounded them—none were looking. He slipped the
rolled parchment from his coat. "Hide this."
Frau Vogl hastily took the parchment and tucked it
into her shawl.
"It must be sent to Elizabeth," Ludwig whispered.
"Empress Elizabeth of Austria. And tell her . . ."
He stopped, swallowing painfully. In his anxiousness
to accomplish this new plan he'd been carried on a
wave of intent. And now that he was about to com-
plete his goal—to smuggle the parts to Elizabeth, to
lay the burden of the task at her delicate feet—as his
last chance at instructions were parting his lips, he
suddenly realized that she might fail.
After all, hadn't he?
"And tell her that if for any reason she is unable
to complete the plan that I outlined for her in my
letter, if the man I spoke of manages to ... to retain
his freedom, then she must ..."
He paused, his heart burdened with fear and self-
pity. He could see the little chapel in Neuschwanstein
where he'd so often poured out his soul.
". . . must take this diagram and place it with my
heart in the urn at AltOtting. It is to be a token to
the blessed Virgin of my faithfulness."
Frau Yogi's eyes were wide and dismayed. It
seemed to strike her at once the exact circumstances
of this odd party in the night. Her face contorted,
aghast, but to her credit she did not protest or argue.
"I will tell her just what you have said, Your
Highness."
"Thank you, Frau Vogl."
"Your people love you, Your Highness."
"I know."
Then Gudden was there and his slick smile bade
Frau Vogl good night. Ludwig settled back into his
seat, not wanting to see the polite nod aimed his way,
the false sheen of congeniality, or anything else the
night had to offer.
It was finished. He had done all he could do. Now
there was left only to prepare himself for what came
next and to find the means and the moment to accom-
plish it.
Gerde brought in cold compresses. Mr. Smith was
trying to guide Mrs. Smith's padded frame onto the
floor, for she looked ready to fall over, her limbs
trembling with fatigue. She had gone silent, her voice
winding down and down and finally stopping com-
pletely. And still her eyes were pressed shut, her face
ghastly. He was calling to her now, over and over.
Mother. Mother. Mother.
And even in the silence it was clear that they were,
both of them, still back there.
Mr. Smith gently lowered his wife to the floor. He
rolled her onto her back and took a cold cloth, bathed
her face with it, repeated her name loudly.
Mother. Mother. Mother.
Grace crawled on her knees over to the couch. Ga-
briel wasn't moving at all. He was utterly still, as if
lost in a deep sleep, and behind his lids his eyeballs
jittered as if riding the dreamland express. His skin,
which was pale anyway, had gone fish-belly white. The
brown dots of his freckles stood out in mute contrast,
exaggerated and startling.
"Gabriel?" She leaned forward and spoke in his
ear, but there was no response. She reached back and
grabbed the second cold towel from the bowl and
began wiping his brow with it. She recalled how intent
his emotions had been earlier and the physical agony
he'd been through in the night. He always seemed so
vital, so rebelliously alive, but now a worry filled her.
If this process could wipe out Mrs. Smith, what might
it be doing to his already taxed heart? Particularly
since he'd just expressed to her his desire to give up,
to admit defeat.
Just kill me.
"Gabriel?" she said again, sharply, and she shook
his shoulder.
Late afternoon. The daylight was still bright enough
to aggravate his headache and sting his sleepless eyes,
but Ludwig forced himself to pull back the curtain of
his room and look out. He'd requested another walk,
and he saw the guards gathering in their long coats.
Beyond, the lake shone as the sun, already beginning
its early winter descent, broke from the dark clouds.
It turned the choppy green surface of the water to a
bruised white that merged with the clouds above.
He dropped the curtain and turned to pace, wring-
ing his hands in agitation. The room they'd locked
him into was one of the guest suites, and the small
dimensions of it were hopelessly unamenable to his
long stride.
If he could just get alone on his walk, or even with
Gudden and, say, one guard, he thought he could ac-
complish it. But not with more than that. With two or
more guards the risk of failure was too great, and once
he tipped his hand they'd never let him alone again;
he'd be watched day and night. He had one advantage
and one advantage only—the conviviality of the good
Doktor Gudden, the sense he'd managed to instill that
he was cooperative, beaten, sane. He'd courted that
feeling this morning on their walk, feigning an interest
in the doctor's career. The guards had gone with them
then, but he'd hoped . . .
It must be soon. He could not hold out much longer
under the mental strain, could not dam up the rage
and hopelessness much longer, and the thought of it
happening here, the Change, in front of that horrible
little man ... It was so utterly profane.
A light tapping on the door.
"Come in," Ludwig called politely.
Gudden's cheerful face appeared. "Are you ready?
The temperature is quite pleasant outside, Your
Highness."
"How kind you are," Ludwig said. It was so out of
character that he felt the awkwardness of it hang visi-
bly in the air, but Gudden, who knew him not at all,
only smiled in a self-congratulatory way.
"Your well-being is my duty and my pleasure, Your
Majesty." The man even bowed before gesturing
toward the open door.
They were walking down the hall when Ludwig said,
"I wanted to speak to you of my uncle."
Gudden tilted his head to one side curiously. "If
you wish."
"There are certain things that must be imparted to
him if he's to rule in my stead."
Gudden turned to look at him with amazement. "I
must say, Your Majesty's good nature makes quite
an impression."
"My people come first," Ludwig said humbly.
They emerged into the late afternoon air, and Lud-
wig gulped it down desperately, his veins singing with
the terrible strain of his claustrophobic confinement.
How insufferable after only one night and one day.
How not to be borne!
Four men stood to attention, their rifles on their
shoulders.
"We'll go alone," Gudden said casually, with a dis-
missive wave of his hand. He did not even pause as he
said it, but continued to walk down the path. Ludwig
followed, his face composed but his heart pounding
frantically.
"I am anxious to hear your advice," Gudden said
magnanimously.
"No more anxious than I am to give it," Ludwig
said, forcing a smile, "when we have achieved a bit
of privacy."
Mrs. Smith had wakened and she was propped up
against Mr. Smith's chest, too weak to rise from the
floor. She was crying softly, sheets of tears running
down her face, but whether it was from what she had
seen or sheer emotional and physical exhaustion was
unclear. She could not even gather reserves enough to
speak. Her brown eyes merely watched as Grace tried
to wake Gabriel. And now Gerde too was calling his
name, tapping his cheeks, shaking first one arm, then
another. The two women glanced at each other, their
eyes frightened.
"Help me," Grace said, moving to push an arm
under his back. They attempted to raise his immobile
form into a sitting position.
Gabriel, wake up. Gabriel. Gabriel.
Gudden was talking, talking, on and on, and Ludwig
was not listening to any of it. He was watching the
banks of the lake, watching for a good place, for the
right spot. The path curved, following the water, and
on either side were trees and grass. And now the path
was dipping out toward the water, out to meet a natu-
ral beach, the trees falling away on their right.
Ludwig checked his watch. They had walked
twenty-five minutes. Soon, Gudden would suggest they
turn back, but there'd be no turning back today.
Twenty-five minutes was far enough, far enough that
they might not hear Gudden when he called and if
they did it would be over by the time they arrived.
He'd read everything about his condition that he
could get his hands on, and he'd questioned Louis
repeatedly. Although he'd not often received a
straight answer, he knew enough. He knew what had
to be done. He'd found sources.
Anything that completely destroys heart or brain so
that regeneration can not be facilitated. Or death by
the elements: burning, drowning, being suffocated by
earth—buried alive.
He had not the courage to inflict such a devastating
wound to his head or chest, or the means in his con-
finement. And even had he the courage and the
means, the chance of fouling such a blow was too
great. As for fire, he could not begin to contemplate
the horror of burning alive. But the lake, surely it
would not be too horrible to swim out, to open one's
mouth. And if one could induce one's mind to still its
instinct long enough to take in that first unnatural
breath, would the rest not follow swiftly? He prayed
it would follow swiftly.
The doctor was still rambling as Ludwig turned and
began walking with long strides directly toward the
lake. As he crossed the beach he unbuttoned his coat
and shrugged it off, as if shrugging off life itself. Gud-
den was saying Ludwig's name or some such nonsense
as Ludwig's boots hit the water and the mud began
sucking at his great weight, pulling at his legs as he
strode purposefully out, deeper and deeper.
And now Gudden's calls became cries of alarm.
Help! Help! And the water was up to the king's thighs.
Its coldness shocked him, and his heavy wool pants
made his steps sluggish. He continued wading out,
slowed a little, and the icy water reached up for his
most intimate parts.
He never even heard the splashing behind him, so
intent was his purpose. Gudden's hand reached out
and grabbed him as the water chilled his belly—
grabbed him insistently, urgently.
"Your Majesty, in God's namel"
Ludwig shook him off, but the doctor was back at
once, more strong and determined than Ludwig had
anticipated. This time Gudden attempted to wrap his
arms around the larger man's body, to pull him back
toward the shore.
And rage, like a black fruit so ripe it burst, filled
Ludwig with its bitter juice, its tang biting cleanly
through his despair. Before he was even conscious of
a decision, he had turned and had Gudden's throat in
his large hands and was pushing him, pushing him
down.
And felt the pleasure-pain sweep through him like
an orgasm, heard the horrible, guttural sound that he
knew was coming from his own throat, felt the dark,
urgent craving.
No. Not now. Not now!
He furiously pushed Gudden, sending the man ca-
reening back into the water, anywhere, just away.
Gudden came up once, briefly, his mouth gasping, his
face white and lost, before sinking back into the water.
But Ludwig had already swung around and was
striding forward, his breath heaving, his face set with
a dreadful determination.
The water pulled at him languorously, resisting his
attempts to march, insulted at his insolence in treating
it like dry land. The currents tugged gently, playfully
at his legs. The water lapped at his shirt, its icy fingers
teasing his chest, turning his heaving breaths into
gasps at the coldness. He felt the rage seep from him
into the water, the beast pull itself back inside like a
tortoise drawing in its head, not liking what it saw.
And still he walked forward, holding his arms
straight up in the air for balance. He could see the
surface just below his head, so darkly green here, so
opaquely bottomless, a foreign kingdom, a new world.
By the time the water reached his chin, he was
thinking of Louis. And for the first time in many years
it was not all bitterness. He remembered how it was
before all that. Louis, his black curls falling on his
broad, muscled shoulders. Louis, his firm jaw and
tender mouth, his eyes that burned with passion and
danced with intelligence and wit. Louis, who loved
luxury, silk frills, and velvet jackets, so complementary
to his romantic beauty. And yet underneath the gilt
there was a body and a will that were hard and unchal-
lengingly male, like something from a fairy tale, like
Lohengrin himself perhaps, or Siegfried.
How addicted he'd been! How helpless in the face
of that perfection! How trapped by that beauty, enam-
ored with every gesture and nuance! What a garden
of earthly delights he'd found in the man's arms.
And how he'd paid for it.
"Curse you to hell," he said softly, tears welling up
in his eyes. "May God damn you, my love."
And then the water covered his mouth, stilling his
words and washing away his tears. And his heart was
so numbed by sorrow, what followed next came with-
out too great an effort of will. He simply opened his
mouth and took the water in like a lover.
* * *
Gabriel sat straight up, gasping and choking. He
pushed away the hands and the voices of concern,
instinctively knowing that he needed to focus only on
clearing his lungs of the conviction that water filled
them, to get oxygen to a brain that was convinced that
it had none, to get his mind untethered from the jour-
ney it had been about to make and back into this
reality, here, while he still could.
When it was clear that he would not choke to death,
he heard Grace quietly ask the others to leave and
was grateful. Only part of his mind was yet in the
present, and that part was still filled with emotions
that were not his own. The room quieted and fell si-
lent as Gabriel lay back and closed his eyes—the mod-
ern, jagged-edged man fighting to reassert itself over
the softer, more tormented one.
Grace sat down in a nearby chair and began to rock,
waiting patiently for him to tell her the end of the
story.
Mrs. Smith had quite recovered herself by the fol-
lowing morning when Grace found her in the gasthof.
But there was a sadness around her eyes that lingered,
like the red light of a reluctant sunset. Grace slipped
into the booth opposite her.
"Where's Emil?"
"Oh, he already went up to call Sissy and tell her
we're staying on a few more days. I'm running slow
this mornin' myself."
Werner brought hot tea, knowing Grace's likes by
now, or at least using that as an excuse to come over.
She declined breakfast, but he lingered, as obvious
and distracting at the edge of their table as only a
very tall old man can be. Grace invited him to sit.
"I wanted to talk to you about Ludwig's plan,"
Grace told Mrs. Smith. "I've been wondering if it
would have worked. I stayed up last night going over
the werewolf lore book again."
"Then you probably know better than I."
"You have to burn them," Werner suggested
balefully.
Grace glared at him. 'Wo, you have to destroy their
heart or their brain. A bullet in either location would
do it, if the lore book is accurate. I suppose we'll have
to hope that it is."
Werner shrugged. "Better to be safe and burn
them."
Mrs. Smith changed the conversation with smooth
diplomacy. "What have you come up with, dear?"
Grace sighed. "I've been thinking about the opera.
Ludwig's letter to Elizabeth implied that he didn't
have to be present to have it lift the curse. He obvi-
ously thought the armed guards would kill the black
wolf when he was forced to change in the middle of
the opera house."
"Yes, that's the way I took the letter too."
"But wouldn't Ludwig have had to pull the trigger
himself?"
"Ja, wouldn't he have to pull the trigger himself?"
Werner echoed, leaning forward on one long forearm
and stroking his white beard.
"No." Mrs. Smith shook her head. "Culpability is a
heavy thing. In the spiritual realm—and in magick—
a man who hires an assassin is just as guilty as the man
who pulls the trigger. Ludwig and Wagner planned the
opera, bought the chandeliers, laid the trap. If the trap
had led to the demise of the black wolf, Ludwig's soul
would have been freed."
Grace bit her lip, pondered. "So if we can get the
opera produced now it might still free Ludwig."
Mrs. Smith nodded. "And Gabriel." She laid a
warm, dry hand on Grace's and squeezed encourag-
ingly. "I do believe so, dear. Otherwise, why all these
dreams? Why have you learned about the opera after
so many years of its being lost? Ludwig has helped
you."
Grace assented with a tilt of her head; she'd ac-
cepted this days ago. "But what about Gabriel? Are
you sure he can have enough . . . culpability in this
thing for it to free him as well?"
"/a," echoed Werner, "can he?"
"He's the one who found the Black Wolf again,
isn't he?" Mrs. Smith replied. She lifted her coffee
cup to her lips and finished off its contents. "Would
you mind, Herr Huber?" she asked, showing him its
empty proportions.
Reluctantly, Werner got up to fetch the coffeepot.
As soon as he'd left, Mrs. Smith leaned forward.
"But we should make sure he's involved in all the
plans, just to be safe. Financially too, if possible."
"That's not a problem. There's still money left over
from our last case."
"And he must be willing, Grace. He must will it."
This last was said with a low and insistent hush.
Grace's brow furrowed. "Of course. How can he
not want it?"
Mrs. Smith looked somber as she picked up an en-
velope from the seat beside her and handed it to
Grace. "This came for him this morning. The postmis-
tress showed it to Werner, and he snagged onto it and
showed it to me. Goodness knows, he shouldn't have
taken the thing, but he meant well. Everyone's a bit
at a loss as to what's right in a situation like this."
But Grace wasn't listening. She was staring at the
return address.
Von Glower.
The envelope stayed with Grace for a number of
days. She didn't want to show it to Gabriel, despite
Mrs. Smith's disapproval of the delay. She was
afraid to.
Inside the envelope were a letter and the talisman,
which von Glower must have found at the ravine.
Grace supposed it was awfully big of him to return it,
then realized, with some trepidation, that it was more
likely a matter of self-confidence than self-sacrifice.
It was the talisman more than anything that forced
her to finally show the letter to its rightful recipient.
She knew how badly Gabriel felt about its loss, and
there was no easy way to explain its return. She gave
it to him one morning just before leaving town. She
and Georg had already retrieved the opera acts at
Neuschwanstein—it had been a simple matter of dis-
tracting the guards. The niches at Neuschwanstein had
never been found; the map of their location had been
burned by Mayr along with the letter to Elizabeth.
The three acts were unmarred.
On this day Grace was headed to AltOtting to get
the diagram. She was taking Mrs. Smith because there
were only so many half-truths she could make up for
Georg. Besides, Georg was busy in Munich, astounding
and blackmailing his brother Claus, and working on
getting the new opera onto the summer festival
schedule.
She handed the letter to Gabriel as he sat in the
dining room after breakfast. She said nothing in expla-
nation, only gave him an unreadable look and left.
At AltOtting, she and Mrs. Smith sat through ser-
vice after service in the tiny chapel, waiting for the
room to clear so they could get Ludwig's urn down
from its place along the top of the wall. Grace could
not stop thinking about the letter. She feared that
when they returned to Rittersberg, Gabriel would be
gone.
Even when Mrs. Smith, in a kind of rapture after
seeing the statue of the Black Madonna and child in
the inner sanctum, whispered to her that she believed
they'd found the spirit guide at last—she that was in
the cards as the High Priestess—Grace felt little more
than momentary interest.
It was not the High Priestess that concerned her,
but that bit about The Lovers and duality.
Gabriel:
I know you are very ill right now. The change is al-
ways painful. I went through it myself when I was only
twelve, and I did not even know what was happening
to me. I'm sorry I am not there to help you, but I
have a pretty clear sense that you would not welcome
my presence. You are safe in Rittersberg. For now
that is enough. Let me speak, then, of the future.
You hate me now. I know this. But I have some
hope that by the pass of the second moon, when the
sickness wanes and the blood has inflamed the greater
part of you, you will see things differently. You will
need me then and, I think, you will want me then.
It is for hope of this that I did not have you de-
stroyed the night you were bitten by von Zell. I could
have done so. You were passed out for hours at the
lodge. It would have been a simple thing to wake the
men, show them von Zell's corpse, and make up a
story that would enrage them enough to kill you. I did
not. Let that be proof of my true desire for friendship
with you.
I have desired companionship for more years than
you have lived. I have even, very rarely, taken the risk
and Changed others. But the Blood was always too
much for the brain, and my Chosen One ended up
dead. Or mad.
This is why I started the hunt club. It was my idea
that if I could first indoctrinate men's minds to the
religion of tooth and claw, they then might be pre-
pared for the Change. As you have seen, it did not
work. Von Zell was the best of the lot. If he had
turned out well, I would have taken the others. But
there's no point in even trying with them now.
You are different. You're a Ritter. Your blood is
already supernatural. Yes, I know of your family. It
was a Ritter that captured my own father, Claus von
Ralick. I never blamed you, even though I myself
would have been killed had not my mother had the
foresight to flee. No, it was not your ancestor but my
father that I hated for years, until I learned to appreci-
ate his legacy.
You see, I have studied much over these centuries.
When you and I met, I felt instinctively that you would
not be destroyed by the Change. You have an enor-
mous streak of the beast in you, and you are innately
strong in the Occult. You will be powerful and beauti-
ful in the Change, I am sure of it. I did not intend for
it to happen so soon and in such a way, but perhaps
fate has its own reason.
But how confused you must be. You may feel I used
you to dispose of von Zell. I did. He had to be taken
care of, and you obligingly showed up. What was I to
do? I am too old not to have learned at least this
much about the light—you cannot shut it out. Better
to let it in and let it simply dim to adjust to the relative
brightness inside. But the warmth between us, this was
genuine, I assure you.
Think well on these things as your body adjusts.
Think about meeting me in Munich in two months'
time. We can leave Germany if you wish and go any-
where you like. I will teach you how to hunt, how to
live safe and well. You can feel the night wind on
your face, exalt in running free, taste the heartbeat of
the kill beneath your jaws. It is glorious—much more
so than the priestly life the Schattenjager offers.
Don't confuse yourself with ideas of good and evil.
Nature shows us that there are no such distinctions.
You and I both inherited something from our fathers.
Is your legacy any less of a curse or blessing than
mine? Join me.
With deepest affection, Friedrich
Gabriel was thinking about duality too as he put
down the letter. There was something else in the enve-
lope—-he'd known as soon as he'd picked it up. Ga-
briel stretched out a finger and sent it tentatively
inside. His finger touched the cool gold of the talis-
man, and a harsh jolt of pain raced up his arm. It felt
as though the meat were being torn off the bone. He
withdrew quickly and uttered a muffled sob.
He'd expected as much, but to have it actually hap-
pen was more of a rejection than he could bear. He
wondered how Friedrich had managed to touch it that
night when he'd picked it up from his chest. But then,
he'd wondered how Friedrich could manage many
things. It seemed that in two hundred-odd years he'd
quite mastered his condition. Or perhaps being a birth
heir, an alpha, made it easier on him somehow. Per-
haps he'd gone through all this as a child or even in
the womb.
More than anything, Gabriel thought about that day
at the lair—Friedrich emerging, face shocked. Gabriel
was beginning to realize that he had not been acting.
After the Change, Gabriel himself remembered little.
Was von Glower's exploration of the lair his first op-
portunity to come face to face with the Black Wolf's
victims? With the true smell and sight and texture of
his alter ego, his grand philosophy? No wonder he had
been so moved.
But not—or so the letter showed—enough to give
it up.
The lair. That was what he kept coming back to.
He sat in his bedroom at the castle, staring at the
wall. He wondered at his attraction to the club, to the
philosophy, to Friedrich himself. He remembered this
attraction well; there was no denying it. And he knew
himself well enough to admit that he'd been custom-
made for such a siren's call. Hadn't he always believed
in living for the moment, doing whatever felt right and
to hell with conventional, straitjacket morality? He
considered anyone who did otherwise robots of soci-
ety, didn't he? Not free men, not open-minded men,
not livers of life.
Yes, he admired the philosophy still.
But there was Preiss's rutting, von Aigner's glut-
tony, Hennemann's drunkenness. And then there was
the lair. Was this the harsh face of moral freedom?
He wondered what his own hidden lair was. It was
the first time he'd realized that he was sure to have
one.
When Grace returned at six o'clock, he was already
in the dungeon, lying under a thin blanket on the cot.
He heard the tentative knock and Grace's voice. "Can
I come in for a minute?"
Reluctantly, he said yes.
"We got the diagram," Grace said after Mr. Smith
left them alone. But on her face was something else,
something more pointed than this piece of news.
"Good."
Her hands twisted nervously. "You read the letter?"
His jaw clenched and his face closed guardedly.
"Yes."
She stood there, looking at the floor. "Oh. Well, I
was just wondering. I mean, do you want us to go
ahead with this? Or ... ?"
For a long moment Gabriel said nothing. Grace
glanced up at him once and, seeing his face, blushed
deeply and looked back at the floor. She started to
say something, then stopped uncertainly.
"Of course we're going ahead with it," Gabriel said
in a tightly controlled voice. "And please, don't ever,
ever ask me that again."
Grace had the intelligence to look guilty. "I'm sorry.
It's just... I thought you should be allowed a choice."
"I made my choice long ago, Grace. Long ago." He
said this coldly and turned to face the wall.
And Grace, realizing the depth of her error, slipped
out silently.
THREE
MONTHS
LATER
Der Fluch des Englehart
(The Curse of Engelhart)
by Richard Wagner
Act I
Many years ago in a small German village, there lived
a young man named Engelhart. Engelhart was a lowly
blacksmith's apprentice. Being orphaned, and having
lived with the blacksmith in virtual slavery since his
parents' death, Engelhart had nothing in the world to
claim as his own. Nothing, that is, but an amazing
talent. For ten years the beautiful wares that had
passed for the blacksmith's own had actually been
wrought by Engelhart. The blacksmith, a greedy and
vain man, forbade Engelhart to ever work the metal
in front of another living soul. But the blacksmith's
ingratitude went further still. He was so plagued with
envy that he treated Engelhart like a lazy and worth-
less dog. The other villagers followed suit.
Now in the same town there lived a rich baron and a
young maiden, Hildegunde, who was lovely and good-
hearted. Hildegunde was the only one who took pity
on Engelhart and was kind to him. Engelhart loved
Hildegunde madly, but was too shy and too penniless
to speak of it. In the first act, we learn that Hilde-
gunde's parents, blinded by prospective fortune, have
betrothed her to the baron. Hildegunde is terrified and
protests that the baron is reputed to be evil, but her
parents demand her obedience. Poor Hildegunde re-
luctantly agrees.
The baron, with great public ceremony, sends Hilde-
gunde a betrothal gift of a silver bracelet. But the
bracelet is accidentally ruined when Hildegunde, over-
come by anger, casts it into the fire. She is immedi-
ately remorseful and pulls it out, but it is too late;
the delicate silver has been badly marred. Hildegunde
approaches Engelhart and begs him to help her. En-
gelhart thinks of his master's warning, but decides to
disregard it for Hildegunde's sake. He melts down the
silver and constructs another bracelet, identical to the
first. When Hildegunde sees Engelhart's great artistry,
she falls in love with him. But the couple's mutual
bliss is momentary—what about the engagement? The
young couple, knowing the baron will never relinquish
his claim, decide to run away.
Act 2
The baron hires hunters to track the lovers down.
In a public trial, Hildegunde pleads their case in a
stirring aria. She tells the townspeople of Engelhart's
great skill and his mistreatment by the blacksmith. The
blacksmith should be turned out for his cruelty and
Engelhart given the shop. Then she and Engelhart can
marry and live in peace with their neighbors. Her par-
ents chose a groom for her, but she begs to be allowed
her own choice.
It is then the baron's turn to speak. He declares
that he has been terribly injured—a victim of a way-
ward girl. His marriage claim was first—there can be
no other! He implies that if the villagers do not help
him, he will remove his aid from the village coffers.
Then the baron turns to Engelhart. By the rights of
the injured, the baron announces, he is empowered to
set a curse. The baron curses Engelhart with a terrible
and ancient malady—that whenever the moon shines
in the night, Engelhart will become a marauding wolf.
The village is terrified of wolves, and has been plagued
for years by a renegade black wolf that has taken the
lives of many children.
The baron further declares that he will still marry
Hildegunde, but not until she renounces Engelhart
with her own words. Until she does, he will keep her
safe from further shame by locking her up in a small
room at the top of his house.
The villagers side with the baron. Hildegunde goes
to her prison, and Engelhart does indeed become a
wolf at night. At first Engelhart is hated and feared
by the villagers, but soon rumors circulate about En-
gelhart the wolf. He is always careful not to harm any
human being or any domestic stock. In fact, he scares
away robbers and keeps the renegade wolf at bay. No
more children are lost to the fangs of the night. The
villagers begin to respect Engelhart. And Hildegunde,
when she hears of his successful mastery of the curse,
commits herself to him forever.
The baron's plan having collapsed before him, hav-
ing given Engelhart dignity rather than removed it, he
flies into a rage. He tells Hildegunde that he will
marry her anyway, and on the morrow at that. She
will become his wife, or he will see to it that her
parents' lives are forfeit!
Act3
The final act begins with the wedding feast for Hil-
degunde and the baron. Hildegunde has cooperated,
but now she is horrified to find herself the baron's
wife. After her poignant opening aria, the baron tries
to draw her back to the party. He orders more food
and calls for the entertainment.
In strides a traveling show of minstrels. They play
and juggle and do acrobatics. One of them, a mime
with a tragic frown painted on his face, seems to want
to hover near and amuse the bride. She ignores him,
depressed and tearful, and he does his best to make
her laugh.
After the amusing antics of the minstrel's first song,
the music grows dark and menacing. The minstrels
mimic serious stage players and run and tremble and
hover around the room. They gather in a circle around
the frowning minstrel. As they whirl around him, he
slowly sinks from sight. Suddenly, the minstrels burst
apart like petals, and standing in the center of the
room is ... a wolf. The villagers scream and the baron
lurches to his feet. But Hildegunde cries out that it is
Engelhart! The wolf does not attack the crowd; it lifts
its head and howls.
The baron screams at the wolf to stop, and he
screams at the villagers to kill the wolf, but they only
stand and stare. The baron begins to pull his hair and
gnash his teeth. He gets up and makes it to the center
of the banquet hall, where he falls down in a heap of
wedding silk and lies still on the floor. What emerges
from the pile of silk is ... another wolf—the renegade
black wolf! The baron-wolf runs through the door and
into the night. Engelhart leaps after him.
The final scene takes place in the woods outside the
village. The villagers follow wolf tracks. They sing of
the ferocity of the battle between the two wolves. Hil-
degunde answers the villagers' excitement with her
fears for Engelhart's life. The crowd emerges into a
clearing. There the two wolves are engaged in a final
deadly embrace. As they watch, Engelhart triumphs
and the baron-wolf sinks to the ground.
The baron dies, but Engelhart is mortally wounded.
His curse has been broken by the baron's death, but
it is too late. Hildegunde sings her love to him while
the villagers pronounce him a great hero. Engelhart
dies, and all mourn in a sorrowful final aria.
Chapter 8
Residence Theater, Munich
Grace paused to straighten the large placard in the
lobby. It had been knocked aslant by some scurrying
worker or another, and it tottered on the edge of the
stand's metal prongs as if threatening to jump.
The Curse of Engelhart by Richard Wagner in its
triumphant debut performance, the placard announced
in German. And at the bottom, Conductors Clans and
Georg Immerding. Munich opera festival.
She frowned at it worriedly. She'd convinced them
to keep the name and composer secret until tonight.
It had not been easy, but then, nothing in the past
three months had been. Georg had convinced his
brother Claus to put the new opera at the top of the
summer festival, replacing a production of Lohengrin.
And although the Lohengrin funds had paid for much
of the event, there had been overruns. Gabriel's funds
were tapped to pay these and, naturally, to buy the
chandeliers, which had been outrageously expensive.
But they had pulled it off, thanks to Claus's ambi-
tious desire to be the first to bring the new Wagner
to the world. Grace had no idea how much von
Glower knew of Ludwig's plans. Hopefully, he knew
nothing of them, or at least not enough to become
suspicious the moment he walked in the door this eve-
ning and picked up a program.
She sighed and headed for the auditorium.
*       *       *
As feared, things were not going to plan. Where
she'd hoped to see a finished product, she saw instead
that the last bit of scaffolding was still in place, and
that two of the workmen were still attempting to affix
the eighth and final chandelier.
On stage, the soprano solo from the beginning of
Act III was being given one last run-through. The aria
still sent chills down her spine, despite the fact that
she'd heard this thing a hundred times or more in
the past few months. The chills had a more ominous
cast today.
"Herr Silbermeier?"
The chandelier foreman glanced at her warily.
"Very close now."
"I know you're working as fast as you can, but we're
opening in one hour."
"In one hour it will be done."
"No! But I ..." Grace took a breath and tried to
sound calm. "I told you, I need to run through some
music once you're done."
Silbermeier grimaced. "You're lucky we even could
make these in so little time, then drive them down
special this morning."
"I know," Grace said, forcing a smile. "And I ap-
preciate it."
Herr Silbermeier's sullen eyes challenged hers. It
was clear that there wasn't anything she could do to
rush him.
"All right," Grace sighed. "But you installed them
exactly according to the theater diagram, right?"
"As good as we could."
Grace gripped a nearby seat as the floor swayed
beneath her. "What do you mean 'as good as you
could'? I gave specific instructions that the diagram
was to be followed exactly."
She sounded shrill even to her own ears. Silbermeier
frowned and pulled out a copy of the theater diagram
from Wahnfried. He tapped the name at the top.
Residenztheater, Miinchen.
"This is the Residenztheater, yes? But not the same
Residenztheater. They rebuilt it. After the war."
Grace looked around, aghast. The theater looked
antique—with cherubs and angels and gods and vari-
ous other baroque adornments, now all faded and
chipping. Even the red seats were threadbare.
"But everything looks so old!" she protested.
"Yes, they take everything out and save it. Then,
when war is over, they make a new building. Put back
in the pieces from the first one. They did this in many
buildings in Munich."
It dawned on Grace that he was telling the truth,
the way a perfectly obvious and perfectly critical an-
swer one had missed on a final exam occurred to one
later, in the hall.
Somewhere out there, Silbermeier was still rattling
on: ". . . this one is a bit smaller. So we put the
chandeliers same distance to each other, but there's
less space to walls. Here and here."
He pointed out the areas, but Grace was too over-
whelmed to do more than glance at the diagram. "I
see. Thank you, Herr Silbermeier."
Yes. Thank you. Thank you for pointing out what
an idiot I ami I'm a goddamn history major, for
Christ's sake! I should have known.
But somehow, in the midst of everything else, it
had simply never occurred to her. Grace moved away,
feeling quite ill. She told herself it would work any-
way—that it had to work. Surely the acoustics couldn't
be that sensitive. And, really, it did not bear thinking
what would happen if they were.
Grace drifted down toward the stage, barely con-
scious of her actions. Claus spied her first. "Grace,
there you are! We really need to let people go. We've
only got . . . God! Less than an hour."
She nodded dumbly. "The chandeliers won't be
ready in time for the test run. They can go."
Claus looked relieved. He clapped his hands and
dismissed the nervous singers, following them back-
stage. Georg remained at the conductor's stand, pag-
ing through the music intently.
"Georg?"
She could have used a kind word, but Georg had
his own troubles.
"God!" he groaned. "I'm not ready."
He stared at some dreaded stanza or other. Grace
took a deep breath and put a hand on his arm. "Relax.
You've done well. You've done all you can do." It
wasn't clear if she was telling him or herself.
"Have I?"
"Of course. It's too late to worry about it now any-
way. So enjoy it—this is your big debut."
But Georg's stricken face and shaking hands re-
vealed a massive case of stage fright. "I know. I'll
probably be fine once the music starts. It's a great
opera, Grace. Wagner's best. You don't know what it
means to me that you—"
"Shhhhl" Grace hissed with a dire expression.
Georg laughed. "All right! I won't reveal your se-
crets. Assuming I even knew them, that is." He looked
at his watch and his anxiety returned. "God, I can't
believe the time! I'd better go get dressed myself."
"Wait! Before you go . . ."
"What is it?"
Grace tried to look innocuous. "Um, I just wanted
to say that . . . Well, given that this is the first perfor-
mance of a new Wagner, the crowd might be kind
of volatile."
"An opera crowd?"
"Well, yes. I mean, it's an emotional thing. So I
wanted to suggest that you ignore any distractions that
might occur. No matter what happens, just keep play-
ing. Particularly in Act III. Okay?"
Georg looked at her as though she'd asked him to
conduct in the nude. "Grace, what are you talking
about? This is the debut of a brand-new Wagner. I'm
not going to ... to stop if the Maestro himself comes
floating out on stage!"
"Great. That's all, then. That's all I wanted to say."
Grace forced herself to smile at him.
Georg shook his head as if to rid it of the confusion
and reached for her hands. "A kiss for luck." He
leaned down and kissed her cheek awkwardly; then
he jogged up the stage steps and was gone.
"Good luck, Georg," Grace called after him.
It was answered only by the increasingly sour weight
of trepidation in her stomach.
She knew she ought to go back to the office and
check on Gabriel. But after what Silbermeier had told
her, she wasn't quite ready to face him. She ran up-
stairs instead, to the old spotlight room she'd found
earlier. As promised, a crew member had delivered
one of the powerful new spots they'd borrowed from
the theater next door. She opened the little door in
the wall and wheeled the spotlight over to it. She
turned it on and saw a bright circle of light hit the
second tier seats opposite. She moved the handle in
back until the beam was focused on the Mittelloge, the
large box at the rear of the theater, just over the en-
trance doors and main aisle on the first floor. The
spotlight lit up the box—it was certainly bright
enough. She turned it off, careful not to shift the posi-
tion, and left the room to go check the box itself.
Everything had been cleaned yesterday, and the
Mittelloge was in perfect order. Three rows of four,
four, and three chairs respectively filled the box, but
not all of them would be occupied tonight. Von
Glower had been sent tickets for two with seats in the
front aisle of the box—a gift, the card said, from an
admirer. Kommissar Leber and one of his men were
to be the only other occupants. The empty seats here
were the only ones in the house.
Back in the hall, Grace pulled the door tight and
latched it. She tested its strength one last time. Once
secured, she thought it would hold. The doors hadn't
had a lock, so she'd had a locksmith come by and
outfit one last week. The key was down in her purse
in the theater office.
And now that there was no other excuse she could
think of for avoiding it, she headed down there
herself.
Gabriel was lying on the couch, a blanket covering
him. His fever and sickness had lessened steadily over
the past month, until he'd seemed almost normal ex-
cept for a persistent aching in his joints and a tendency
to want to sleep in the daytime and be up at night.
But with the stress of the performance, and all that
was riding on it, he'd had a bit of a relapse the past
few days. She could see him shivering under the blan-
ket's meager warmth.
She knelt down by the couch and brushed back his
hair. Yes, he was quite warm.
"Not the hair, Grace," he muttered.
Grace smiled. "You've looked better."
"Looking better is my specialty," he answered with-
out opening his eyes. "Are we ready for the test yet?"
Grace tried to sound nonchalant. "I'm sorry, but
there's not going to be time for the test. The last chan-
delier's still going up. It'll be done in time for the
performance, but we won't get a run-through."
He opened his eyes. They had deepened in color to
a dark, slatey green. The dark circles beneath them
underscored the brooding impression. "Grace, that is
not acceptable."
His temper, she could feel, was close to the surface.
She smiled sympathetically at him, her heartbeat going
up a notch.
"I know it's not," she said. And waited.
No explosion came. Instead, he shivered again, his
teeth chattering. "I'm so cold."
"I'll try to find another blanket."
"What about some heat? Can't we get any goddamn
heat in here?"
"I'll go check."
"What time is it anyway?"
Grace looked at her watch, her eyes unwilling to
believe what it said. "Urn, six-thirty. In a half hour
we're opening the doors."
"Should I go downstairs?" he asked, starting to
get up.
Grace thought about the old prop room in the base-
ment. It too had been outfitted with a new lock. She'd
wanted Gabriel to wait in Rittersberg, but he'd utterly
refused, so they'd compromised on the basement. The
lock was in case the earplugs didn't work.
"I still have to get a few things ready downstairs.
Why don't you rest here? I'll come get you when
it's time."
He laid back reluctantly. "We shoulda tested it,
Gracie. We won't get another chance."
"It'll work out," she replied firmly.
From the lobby there was a flight of steps to the
basement just behind the grand staircase. Privat, the
sign over the exit said, meaning not for public con-
sumption, and the basement certainly wasn't. But
Grace had been down there several times. She hurried
through the archway and descended the stairs.
The basement of the theater was a bizarre, rambling
structure of hallways and unlikely rooms, low ceilings
and strange, banging pipes. It was like a maze, only
with old cement walls where green hedgerows might
stand. And if there was a geometric pattern that made
some kind of sense, it was outside the grasp of the
average human mind to comprehend. There were hall-
ways that formed a rough rectangle along the perime-
ter, but the inner halls seemed to have been planned
by a child with a crayon.
Grace had come down once during rehearsals, and
the reverberating sounds of the orchestra and the
voices above had a surreal majesty here—an echoing
otherworldliness. The effect was enhanced by the mu-
sic's contrast to the setting, this dank, musty, bowels-
of-the-earth space, as if one were Alberich, the earth-
bound Nibelung, hearing the clear, clean sounds of the
Rhine Maidens.
She went into the old prop room and tried, hastily,
to provide a spot of comfort in it. She found a chair
and wrestled to get it clear of the fray. She brushed
it off and placed it in the small clear space she'd made.
She shivered, for the basement was quite cold, despite
the fact that it was June. She'd have to find some way
to remedy that.
She wished Gerde or Mrs. Smith were here—either
one would be better suited to this nest making task
than she. But Gerde swore she couldn't take the sus-
pense of tonight's grand finale. She'd stayed home,
where she would wait for a simple word by phone.
And the Smiths had returned to the States weeks ago.
With the plans for the opera in place and Gabriel
achieving some measure of self-control, Mrs. Smith
said she felt they'd played their role. She hadn't given
Grace any "impressions" about how things would turn
out. Grace wasn't sure she wanted to know.
She left the prop room and hurried through the hall-
ways. She was heading for another room she'd stum-
bled upon down here, the furnace room. She
rediscovered it off the main southeast corridor. Inside
was an enormous old coal-burning stove. It wasn't run-
ning at the moment, but a large bin of coal stood next
to it, a shovel set in it askew.
She opened the bottom drawer of the stove and
filled it with coal, getting her hands smudged in the
process. She located the pilot button and pushed. The
stove made a swooshing sound, then clicked steadily.
The flicker of blue and orange flames tinted the glass
in the window in the furnace door.
She messed with the control panel for a moment,
turning the heat to the auditorium down and that to
the basement up. Satisfied she'd done what she could
to make  Gabriel's interment bearable, she headed
back upstairs.
When she emerged back in the lobby, she saw an
usher heading for the doors.
"Paul!" she said to him, alarmed.
"There you are!" he answered, turning anxiously.
"It's time to open the doors."
Grace looked at her watch, stunned. He was right.
It was seven o'clock.
"Oh, God!" Grace muttered. Her stomach did a
slow and painful twist.
"There's a big crowd in the street. We must let
them get seated or we'll have to start late."
"Can you give me just five minutes? Please, Paul.
Oh, and you're going to see two special invitations
tonight, both for the Mittelloge. One is for a Kommis-
sar Leber. Would you show him to the office, please?"
"Okay." Paul looked at his watch. "I open the
doors in five minutes."
Grace hurried down the hall to the office. She found
Gabriel pacing.
"It's time to go," she said, trying to evince a confi-
dence she didn't feel.
He nodded curtly and brushed past her. When she
caught up with him, he was almost to the lobby.
"It's a bit cold down there, but I started the fur-
nace," she chattered. "It should warm up quickly."
"Thanks."
As they entered the lobby they could see the tuxedo-
clad ushers standing by the front doors. Paul was look-
ing at his watch, counting down. Grace could hear
the murmur of voices from outside, and by the glance
Gabriel shot in that direction, she knew he could hear
them too. After all the planning, it was impossible to
believe this was really the night, that it was about
to begin.
But they said nothing to each other, just crossed the
lobby and descended the basement stairs. Gabriel
went unerringly to the old prop room, though she'd
shown it to him only once. He must, she realized, have
thought about it often.
Considering the way the diagram of the theater so
focused the chandelier X's and the lines of measure-
ment on the Mittelloge, Grace thought it unlikely that
the music would force a change to Gabriel down here.
They had no way of knowing that for certain, though,
particularly since Gabriel was still trying to master
the urge.
He had told her once, in a moment that was exceed-
ingly rare because he rarely discussed it at all after
that first day, that the only thing close to the urge to
Change was the flu. When the flu strikes and the nau-
sea hits bad enough to wake you up in the middle of
the night, you lie there, trying to tell yourself that you
can go back to sleep, that the nausea isn't that bad.
But with each minute that passes it worsens, slowly,
so that you wonder at first if it's all in your mind,
if perhaps your desire for it to go away is actually
emphasizing the sensations that are really there. It
grows like that until you begin to toss and turn, certain
there's a better position to lie in, some way that your
stomach will find soothing. And you find those posi-
tions momentarily, but then the sickness grows in
those positions too, like water seeping in through
cracks. And eventually the pain of it, the nausea, be-
comes unbearable, intolerable, and you get up and you
go in the bathroom and you hang out there for a
while, feeling the waves grow, until you cannot stand
it any longer and the purging comes. And after that
purging there's a brief respite before the build-up be-
gins all over again.
That same progression happened with the urge to
Change, Gabriel said. Only it wasn't just the stomach
that was affected; it was the entire body. Every muscle
and nerve began to grow uneasy and twitchy and
eventually screamed for transformation, for that bru-
tal, wrenching scratch of a hideous itch.
When he'd told her this, it had still been in the early
weeks, and she'd since thought that the urge must
have lessened over time, for there are fewer nights
now when the cries came in the town square. But he'd
never said as much.
"I was planning to get a cot down here and some
food and things," Grace said as she swung open the
door and flicked on the light. "But I just plain ran out
of time."
"It's fine, Grade." He walked past her and took in
the room with a sweeping glance. Then he put his
hands on his hips and tapped his foot, still looking
around.
"It's going to go like clockwork," she said, feeling
a rush of pity for his trepidation.
"It better."
There was more that she wanted to say, but now
was not the time. So she gave him a smile and closed
the door. She took the shiny new key from her pocket
and turned it in the lock. From within she heard
nothing.
She had walked down the hall a few steps when a
sense of guilt overcame her. She hadn't wanted to tell
Gabriel about the rebuilt theater. She'd been afraid
of what he would do. His rage was so easily provoked,
and it was savage. She hadn't been going to tell him
at all, but now that he was safely in the prop room
and she was leaving him for the last time until it was
over, she was invaded by a sense that her silence
wasn't fair. He was the one with his life on the line
tonight. He had a right to know.
She went back to the door and stood there hesi-
tantly. "Urn, Gabriel?"
"Yeah?" His voice was muffled through the door.
"There's something I think you should know. You
know how they just finished installing the chandeliers?
Well, the foreman made me aware of a, uh, a small
problem."
She paused, but from behind the door there was
only silence. Then he said, very softly, "What
problem?"
Grace leaned against the door, hating every second
of this. "Well, it turns out that the original Resi-
denztheater was bombed in the war and they rebuilt
it. This one is similar, though. Real similar. I mean,
very, very close. They reused the seats and the wood-
work and everything. But . . ."
She paused again, and this time there was no sound
at all from behind the door.
"But this one is slightly smaller. The distance be-
tween chandeliers is the same as on the diagram, but
there's just a bit less distance from the chandeliers to
the walls."
She bit her lip and waited for a response. The re-
sponse was not what she had been expecting. Without
warning, something struck the door with incredible
force. The wood shook beneath her hand, and there
was a loud boom that snapped like a gunshot. She
recoiled, gasping, and in the next instant understood
that he'd struck the door with his fist.
"Grade, goddamn you!" he screamed, his voice en-
gorged with rage. "You goddamn bitch! I can't believe
you did this! You did it on purpose, didn't you?"
"Gabriel!"
"You open this goddamn door this minute, do you
hear me? THIS MINUTE!"
"No," Grace said, backing away.
"THIS GODDAMN MINUTE! If you can't manage
a simple fucking diagram, I'll take care of things my-
self, do you hear me? MYSELF!"
The door shook again under the cracking blow of
his fist. The knob shook violently.
"I'm—I'm doing the best I can!" Grace said, tears
making her voice crack. Then she turned and ran
down the hall.
She stumbled up the stairs into the lobby, still sob-
bing, and came face to face with sequins and furs and
tuxedos. The shock was so great that the tears died
instantly in her throat. The buzz in the lobby was elec-
tric; the audience hummed with astonished excitement
over the revelation of the mysterious festival opener.
Grace stared, her dark eyes wide and still moist.
At last she realized that she was drawing attention.
She looked down and blushed—she was not only still
in jeans but she was filthy from coal dust as well. She
pushed her way across the lobby, heading for the
office.
She was slipping her green satin sheath over her
head when a knock came on the office door. For a
moment she was afraid that it was Gabriel, that he'd
gotten out somehow, but she realized it could be any-
one—Paul the usher, or Georg.
She zipped her dress hurriedly. "Come in!"
The door opened to reveal a portly, bald-headed
man with a florid face and a tight tuxedo. He nodded
curtly. "Are you Miss Nakimura?"
"Yes. Kommissar Leber?"
"/a. They said you wanted to talk to me?"
"I do! Come in, please."
Leber shut the door and fingered his collar. "What
is this about, Miss Nakimura? I got in the mail two
invitations with a note to come armed. Did you send
them?"
"Yes, I did. You see, we thought it might be a good
idea to seed the audience with a few officers this eve-
ning. This is the debut of a new Wagner, and we wor-
ried that there might be some . . . excitement."
Leber frowned. "Why did you not hire security?"
"Uniforms make people uncomfortable," Grace
lied. "I thought a few plainclothesmen among the au-
dience wouldn't hurt, and we'd be providing a few fine
public servants with a night at the opera as well." She
smiled graciously.
"You are lucky I like music," Leber scowled. He
parted his coat to reveal a bolstered gun. "I brought
with me also my associate, Statter."
"Great. Thank you so much for putting up with all
this." Grace stepped forward, hoping to move Leber
to the door.
"Is it really a new Wagner?" he asked hopefully.
"It really is, Kommissar. I hope you enjoy your
evening."
He was beaming as he walked out the door.
Grace found her shoes and checked the contents of
her evening purse again to make sure she had every-
thing. By the time she reached the grand staircase, the
crowd in the lobby was thinning. The lights overhead
flickered once, twice, in warning.
She went up the stairs and passed the Mittelloge
doors, her pulse quickening as though she were pass-
ing a rattlesnake. She went straight to the spotlight
room. From the little window she could see the audi-
ence settling in down below. The faces were excited,
and the rumbling of voices was eager.
She dug her new opera glasses out of her purse. She
had to work her way around the spotlight since she
dared not move it. After a moment she locked her
glasses on the Mittelloge.
And as the lights were dimming down, she saw him
in the box. There, in the center of the front row, sat
von Glower. He had with him a beautiful blond
woman, elegantly coiffed, and behind him sat Leber
and Statter, bruisers in tuxes, plump and out of place.
But it was von Glower that mesmerized. It was him,
really him, the Black Wolf. And she could see instantly
why he'd always attracted conquests and not jailers.
He was truly beautiful. There was even a kind of odd
innocence, a boyish charm in his face that Grace had
not expected. Even an air of ... tragedy? Her heart
skipped a beat, and she could imagine what Ludwig
had felt that first night, spying on him, as she was,
from across the theater.
How brilliant Bismark had been.
She almost felt sorry for him. She shook off the
feeling. The important thing was that he was there, in
the box, and by the eager smile on his face and his
hushed whispers to his date, he suspected nothing.
She lowered the glasses, her mouth dry, her palms
moist inside her gloves. Down below, the orchestra
began.
He hoped they heard him upstairs—the crashing
and the banging. He picked up another missile—this
time a side table that weighed half of what it looked
like it ought—and sent it careening into the opposite
wall. It burst apart into fireplace-sized pieces.
Somewhere inside, he knew this sheer destruction
was puerile. He'd regret it later, probably. But that
reasoning was not getting much head room at the mo-
ment. At the moment his rage was a locomotive, a
steam engine stoked to full speed. It took a long time
to stop something like that. It would be a while before
he'd even want to.
His blitzkrieg maneuvers had nearly cleared one
wall. A single item remained, a large painted panel
that showed a tree-lined river. The thing was against
the wall for a reason—it was six feet wide, about as
tall, and very thin. Without pausing in his outburst,
Gabriel plowed into it. He couldn't get his arms
around it, so he lifted it from the bottom and tilted it
up and then over. It slid across Gabriel's bent head
and shoulders and crashed to the floor behind him.
It made a satisfyingly loud bang.
He was about to turn around and go after the hap-
less thing again when his eye was drawn to the wall
where the panel had been. There was a vent on the
wall with a metal grate. There was a grated vent on
the wall.
He blinked at it for a moment, Then he picked up
one of the legs from that damned table and went after
the grating.
The basement hallway was lit by bare, hanging bulbs,
but had the feeling of darkness. Perhaps it was the musk
of the underground or the way corridors branched away
so helter-skelter, as if leading off into dead space.
Had there been anyone in this particular section of
the basement, they would have been quite alarmed at
the violent banging that came from the outward-facing
wall. It would have taken a moment to locate that
sound at the air vent, and by then the thin metal grate
was already bending out, crinkling in the middle like
tissue paper—the old, painted-over screws around the
perimeter buckling under the pressure.
And then the grating flew across the hall and
banged against the far wall, crashing to the floor. Feet
appeared—boots, and a body followed. Gabriel swung
himself to the ground, still breathing hard.
From the gaping vent the breeze of the June eve-
ning blew over him. The air duct he'd found in the
prop room emptied out into the street behind the the-
ater. When he'd reached the street, he'd been gripped
with an almost unbearable urge to slip into the night,
to let the blood run its course, to stalk. He couldn't
resist popping off the thin screen covering and sticking
out his head to breathe deeply. And while taking this
breath, he'd heard the click of high heels approaching
on the cobblestones, and the stab of carnal desire,
desire to not only plunder but to rend so suffused him
that he cried out loud. The heels hesitated, as if hear-
ing the cry, and he used the moment to pull himself
back inside, to take an adjoining air duct back, back
into the safety of the basement.
He stood there now, shivering in the hall, the cooler
air reaching in past his hot rage. Or perhaps the shiv-
ering came from some other place altogether, from
that place where his mind twitched at the reins of
control. He kicked the fallen grating, sending it spin-
ning down the hall. Then he headed for the rear
stairs—the ones that led backstage.
The stairs that connected the basement and the
backstage were located against the far wall in relative
shadow. So that Gabriel, standing there, his hands on
the iron railing that guarded the well of the stairs from
becoming an accident hazard, could observe the
scene unnoticed.
The music was louder here and clearer, less dream-
like. He felt himself becoming more lucid, as if the
sounds in the basement had been some drug that con-
fused him. He listened carefully and heard that they
were doing the trial scenes—they were well into Act
II. He felt a surge of panic, and his heart—so large
and foreign in his chest these days—added a heavy
bass drum beat to the instrumentals.
Is he out there? Is he watching? Listening? Has he
fallen for it, or was he too smart? He's so goddamn
smart. Is he here?
He closed his eyes, shame and fear swamping him,
threatening to take him somewhere he did not want
to go.
He's here. Believe it.
After a while he was able to open his eyes and
creep stealthily from the stairwell.
The backstage area was congested with enormous
backdrops, with large props on wheeled dollies and
ropes and pulleys and mechanical rigging. The crew
was identifiable by their heavy jeans, T-shirts, and si-
lent-soled tennis shoes. The singers themselves usually
congregated on the edges, but there were no costumed
players in evidence, for the trial scene involved
everyone.
On stage, the baron was laying the curse, the music
dark and menacing. His role was bass, and the singer's
deep, bell-clear tones could fire the soul of the most
obdurate cynic. They vibrated through the backdrop,
and even the crew slowed a little, mesmerized.
Gabriel crept toward the dressing room. A youth
spotted him, a grip, and his expression of alarm made
it clear that the look on Gabriel's face—no doubt ac-
companied by the usual deathly paleness and bruised
circles—was not quite up to passing as normal. Gabriel
struggled to smile pleasantly.
The grip must have recognized him from rehearsals,
for he didn't raise the alarm. He only smiled back, as
nervously as a rabbit smiling at a coyote, and went
over to check some bit of rope that didn't need
checking.
Gabriel stepped into the back hall. At the doorway
he saw a large roll of silver duct tape on a table and
confiscated it. It was clutched in his shaking palm as
he worked his way past wardrobe rollers and shoes.
He'd heard the singers griping about the dressing
rooms, and now he could see why. Even the public
parts of the theater were faded and in need of restora-
tion—backstage was worse.
The door he wanted wasn't difficult to spot. Some-
one—no doubt the lead tenor himself—had tacked up
a handwritten and star-bedecked sign that said EN-
GELHART on a thin, white-streaked door. Gabriel
opened the door and stuck his head inside. The room
that greeted him was tiny and empty, and it looked
as though the tenor had managed to claim it all for
himself. Gabriel smiled—a dark, hungry-looking smile—
and slipped inside.
The time raced by. The music was magnificent,
pounding. But Grace's consciousness kept drifting to
a million things, a thousand ending scenarios, and
when she tuned back in she was always amazed at
how quickly the opera was passing. The bracelet love
scene, the flight through the woods, the trial. And
then, amazingly, it was intermission.
The spotlight beside her had remained silent and
dark, a weapon lying in wait. It felt like an old friend
now, so closely pressed to it had she remained since
the music began. She couldn't resist staring at the Mit-
telloge through her glasses, though she could make out
little and the strain hurt her eyes. Von Glower had
not stirred.
She wished there was enough light to see the details
of his face. What did he think of the werewolf plot
line? Did he imagine that Wagner knew? Or did he
assume that Ludwig's part in the libretto had shaped
it in his own image without Wagner really understand-
ing the truth beneath the fiction? Was he amused at
Engelhart's supposed mastery of the curse? Of the
representation of the evil renegade wolf? Did he feel
that Ludwig had been a fool? Or was he capable of
shame, embarrassment, resentment?
Did he have any idea what happened next?
When the lights came up, Grace was ready, her glass
trained on the Mittelloge with painful intensity. Von
Glower was smiling, his face dreamy, his eyes warm
and amused and sparkling with energy.
He loved it.
Grace let out a low moan of relief, and became
aware of how stiffly she'd been holding herself. Her
fingers and her toes had gone cold and numb. She
stretched a little, her glasses still trained on the box.
Von Glower rose to an intimidating height, limbs
unfolding like a dragon's wings. She could not believe
the breadth of his shoulders. His black tuxedo was
expensive and immaculate; his white shirt and tie were
blinding. He offered a hand to the woman beside him,
smiled at her and said something, something excited,
probably something about the opera or the music.
Leber and Statter were already out the door.
Grace sighed again as the tension left her body. It
was one of the last danger points. By his expression,
she didn't imagine von Glower was about to leave.
No, he'd be back in his seat for Act III.
She couldn't resist slipping out of the spotlight room
and following him with her eyes as he went down the
stairs with the crowd. She stood at the upstairs balcony
and watched him purchase wine, sip it, and chatter
excitedly—first to the woman, then to several people
near them as heads and eyes turned, caught by his
fire. She watched him and listed to the breathless buzz
and words of praise and high, bright squeals of excite-
ment all around them. The energy of the audience
was infectious.
Then the lights blinked their warning, and Grace
followed him with her eyes back up the stairs, finger-
ing the key in her purse as if afraid it might disappear.
The music had begun by the time she took her place
at the spotlight. The first piece, performed with the
curtain closed, with an instrumental prelude to the
wedding feast.
The key had turned softly in the lock, as she'd
known it would.
Hildegunde's aria—"Song to the Moon"—swept the
theater into a sorrowful melancholy. Grace spared a
rare glance for the stage and saw everything in place
there—the villagers gathered for the feast, the wed-
ding table laden with food, the baron in his finery and
Hildegunde's parents waiting patiently for the bride at
the table so they could begin. And Hildegunde herself,
framed by a spotlight and off on her own, spilling out
her anguish at the nuptials to the silent moon above.
In the Mittelloge everyone was seated.
Ba-BUM\ The drum beat entry on the minstrel's
first song was unmistakable. The clarinets piped in
with a high, playful stutter. Grace's ears followed this
progression closely, but her eyes were glued to the
opera glasses, and the glasses were trained on the
Mitteloge.
She was therefore not looking at the stage when the
minstrels appeared and began their upbeat introduc-
tion, a scene that involved juggling.
Wagner, impractical as he could often be, had wisely
scripted the minstrels as silent. This not only worked
for the story, but it also made it feasible to cast actual
jugglers and acrobats in the roles, vocal talent not
being a consideration. The exception among the group
of five was Engelhart, of course, and the tenor who
played him had been the bane of the jugglers' exis-
tence for lo these many weeks. Fortunately, the li-
bretto called for Engelhart to repeatedly screw up as
part of the comedy. Unfortunately, "screwing up" on
cue could be as difficult as juggling correctly. Much
time had been spent on getting the choreography
right.
And now, focused as Grace was on watching the
dark and unmoving figures in the box across the way,
she gradually became aware of the laughter of the
audience. For such a staid crowd, they were doing a
great deal of tee-heeing. Grace didn't recall the scene
being quite that funny. Her ears tuned into the villag-
ers' chorus. Was it her imagination or did she detect
a bit of faltering unease in those voices?
Frowning, Grace shifted her glasses to look at the
stage.
The minstrel's costumes were bright and jester-like,
their faces painted in white and red so as to hide En-
gelhart's identity. The four professional jugglers were
scrambling, not quite in the right places. One was
chasing after a ball, and Grace realized, with a sense
of dread, that they'd screwed up for some reason—
really screwed up. The juggler found the ball and came
bounding back. The group tried gamely to reassemble
before realizing that they were already supposed to
be in their next position. They reformed into a line,
and one of them roughly pushed Englehart into
place and . . .
Grace stared, her breath stopping in her throat. She
leaned forward as if that would help, unable to believe
what she was seeing.
Engelhart was not Engelhart. Beneath the makeup
the face was not right.
Gabriel. Gabriel was on stage.
"Oh, my God," she said out loud. "Oh, my God"
She nearly dropped the glasses down on some hap-
less viewer's head. She pulled herself back into the
room, gasping, panic ripping through her.
"Oh, my God!"
For an instant none of it made any sense, and the
conviction that it was all over, that the entire thing
was ruined, loomed over her. It was beyond her what
on earth, what the point, what he could possibly be
thinking . . .
And then she knew. She knew exactly what he
was thinking.
She moaned, low and anguished. She was so agi-
tated that she became dizzy, her body starting to shut
down. She put her head between her satin-covered
knees and took deep breaths.
Outside, out there on stage where no doubt every-
one except the audience was very confused, the final
beats of the drum closed the juggling song and the
audience applauded and called their approval with
great relish. "Englehart" had apparently done an apt
job of looking clueless.
And then the swirling dark strings began, the swirl-
ing dark pull of the strings, tentative now but they
would build soon, build and build. Warner's master-
piece: the transformation aria.
She collected herself because she had to. There was
no time to go downstairs, to get backstage, to try any-
thing at all. The music was moving on, and soon, im-
minently, the time would come; either she would be at
the spotlight to man it or she would not. There was no
time to stop Gabriel now, whatever the consequences.
She sat up carefully and placed a trembling finger
on the spotlight's on switch.
The villagers drew back in mock horror as the jest-
ers stalked about, their arms raised menacingly, their
painted faces pulled into snarls.
The baron rose, indignant. . . .
What is this dark business? It's my wedding day!
But the guests were entranced. The blacksmith
pointed out the new pantomime: the hunter, the hunter,
tracking his prey.
And indeed, the minstrels had drawn imaginary
bows. They stalked the edge of the stage, looking into
the audience for some imaginary foe as the strings
throbbed.
Let them continue, It suits my mood, urged
Hildegunde.
Englehart looked a little ill behind his jester's paint.
He tried to follow the moves of the other minstrels,
but soon he was hunched over, trembling. The other
minstrels "discovered" their quarry, one by one. They
closed in on Engelhart as the tempo escalated. They
circled his shivering form, widely, air bows held taut
and aimed, faces diabolical. The violins shrieked a
warning.
In the Mitteloge, the smile of the dark man faded.
A light sweat broke out on his brow. He shifted uneas-
ily in his seat, his eyes trained on the stage.
The tempo gathered speed and so did the minstrels.
They circled Engelhart, not with measured, stalking
steps, but at a gallop now, spinning around and around
as their prey clutched his stomach and sank slowly to
the floor. The strings began to scream as the minstrel
circle tightened, still spinning, until Englehart was hid-
den entirely from view.
Below the stage, a crewman walked into the pit. He
carefully placed his stool in a predesignated spot and
opened a trapdoor. He shoved a furry mask and gloves
up through the opening. They were flung back in his
face, the trap pulled shut. He stood there on the stool,
eyes wide, too terrified by the momentary glimpse he
had caught to make his hand reach back up and open
the trap again.
In a small dark room in the upper right-hand side
of the theater, a woman in green satin leaned out a
window, opera glasses trained fiercely on the stage.
While the conductor waved madly, trying to chase
the tempo to enormous speeds, and the strings
screeched in protest and fury, light tinkling could be
heard—if anyone was close enough to hear it, that is—
coming from large crystal drops on the brand-new
chandeliers.
The blond woman in the Mitteloge whispered to her
companion, Are you all right?, for his face was a
deathly gray and his eyes had reddened. The arm she
was holding quivered as though subjected to a mild
electrical current. He nodded unconvincingly and rose
from his seat. He stumbled toward the door, one hand
pressed to his stomach.
The two large men seated behind the couple turned to
watch the man pass. The bald one frowned suspiciously.
The dark man reached the door and tried to open
it. The handle would not yield. The door was locked.
He turned and flattened his back against the door.
The crystals were shaking in the chandeliers above,
vibrating, but lightly and intermittently, like a wind
chime on a mildly breezy day. If they were built to
withstand storms, they weren't getting much of a trial
run today.
And the strings, as the minstrels whirled, could not
go any faster or squeal any higher.
The heavyset bald man stood and asked the dark
gentleman if there was a problem with the door.
But the gentleman had recovered himself a bit. His
breathing, though still heavy, sounded more relieved
than embattled, as though he'd just finished a long
run. He removed a black handkerchief from his black
pocket and wiped his face carefully. He offered a po-
lite reassurance to the bald man; then he straightened,
still a bit wobbly, and headed back to his seat. He
seated himself and took a steadying breath, smoothed
back his hair, and smiled. His smile held a kind of
wild and ugly relief, like a killer walking away with a
last-minute pardon from the gallows.
The vibration of the chandeliers was not enough;
the trap had misfired.
The woman in green did not see any of this. Her
eyes were locked on the stage. She was waiting for
the next part, the part where the minstrels burst apart,
so that she could see Englehart once more. She had
forgotten the spotlight entirely.
She remembered it belatedly, cued by something
familiar in the score. But by then the moment was
upon her. Without even turning to check the Mittel-
loge with her glasses, she reached over and flipped
the switch.
The four people in the center box, resettled only
seconds ago, were suddenly blinded by light. The bald
man, who was enjoying the performance very much,
lost his temper at this latest interruption. He cursed
loudly and placed a pudgy hand over his brow, trying
to see what the hell . . .
On stage, the minstrels burst apart. Only it was not
choreographed as it was in rehearsal—with a kind of
triumphant presentation. They disintegrated, uttering
sharp cries that were barely heard over the cacophony
of minor chords being pounded out by the orchestra.
And standing in the middle of the stage, the place
the minstrels had so hastily vacated, was a large ani-
mal—something like a wolf, only squatter and more
brutish, less natural, more hideous. The singers on the
stage reared back, some bumping into the banquet
hall walls, which swayed. A few even fled the stage
altogether though, with the music still going, most
were professional enough—or confused enough—to
remain.
The audience looked at the creature. At first there
was silence and then, after a beat, enormous applause
washed through the room.
The woman in green, astonished, thought: They be-
lieve it's a stunt. Perhaps it was because they couldn't
quite see the teeth (you wouldn't be able to get past
the teeth), for the creature's head was thrown back,
and now something joined the strings, something high
and eerie and unreal.
In the Mittelloge, where the light had prevented any-
one in the box from seeing anything on stage, the bald
man got up and went to the door, irritated at this
intolerable distraction and damned well . . .
He heard a scream and turned.
The dark man. He was rising to his feet slowly, and
his body was being racked violently with convulsions.
He screamed again. It was a scream of outrage, of
protest. His face was swarthy now, a horrible gray,
and he no longer looked elegant or boyish. He was
frightening. Something about him was wrong, was not
right at all.
The woman beside him edged out of her seat. Her
words were sympathetic, but her eyes were terrified
and her movements spoke of instinctual escape. And
the bald man too had instincts and they were thrum-
ming. He unbuttoned his coat and placed a hand on
his gun.
Meanwhile, the sound, that one unearthly sound
that did not resemble any instrument anyone in the
audience had ever heard save two—the dark man and
the woman in green—went on, not as loud as the or-
chestra, surely, but cutting through the music anyway,
cutting right into a person's soul.
That perhaps was why most eyes in the audience
were still riveted on the stage, despite the fact that
some lighting screw-up had caused a portion of the
upper seats to be lit. But the woman in green was
watching the Mittelloge. She was watching intently.
The dark man hunched down, eyes darting around
madly. Beneath his black coat things . . . shifted. The
bald man drew his gun and shouted a warning to the
dark man, a command.
And the dark man, before anyone could anticipate
it, placed a hand on the balustrade and leapt over it.
In one graceful gesture he gathered himself and leapt
right over it, and then he was sailing through the air
before landing, with a grunt, on the red-carpeted aisle
a story below. For a moment he crouched there, pant-
ing and uttering a low, growling sound, his brow, his
face starting to blur, and then he spun around, ignor-
ing the startled faces in the seats around him, and
bounded from the auditorium through the double
doors.
The woman in green muttered a curse and stood,
causing the spotlight to fall with a crash. On the stage,
the creature that had been Engelhart lowered its head,
its eyes searching the crowd. It tensed its haunches
and sprang toward the audience.
A few souls mingled out in the lobby, ushers mainly,
and they screamed as the human-like crouching thing
in a tuxedo careened from the auditorium into their
midst. It headed for the front doors first, but they
were closed tightly for the performance. It continued
around the perimeter, people diving to get out of its
way, then it disappeared down the open archway with
the descending stairs, the one marked PRIVAT.
In the Mittelloge, which was suddenly dark once
more, the bald man held his gun in the air with one
hand and pounded on the door with another, shouting
to be let out.
In the pit, the young conductor, eyes wide, face dev-
astated, was still conducting wildly. The orchestra fol-
lowed, watching him leerily. They could not see the
stage, but they could see that he was losing it.
And the singers, after missing several bars, collected
themselves in time for the final line. The blacksmith
was against the prop wall, which was fortunately still
standing. He reached over and grabbed a torch from
a sconce. Holding it up in a trembling hand, he man-
aged the closing line of the scene.
Let's go follow the wolves.
This all happened in the same instant, and in the
next, a creature, truly a creature this time, bounded
out of the auditorium into the lobby, stopped momen-
tarily as if sniffing the air, and then dove down the
basement stairs.
This seemed to be the moment for which the base-
ment was built. Or perhaps when built, it was not
nearly so dark and dank and eerie. Perhaps it had
become that way progressively, like a backdrop mold-
ing itself to an anticipated play.
Whether any or none of this was true, what was
true was that something was going on in the basement.
Not something, Something rather, the kind of Some-
thing that most human beings would never believe and
would, in their heart of hearts (where they knew ex-
actly how vulnerable the tethers that hold the rational
mind to its mooring really are), choose not to know.
Even Gabriel's rational mind chose not to know.
Even, to some extent, von Glower's. The creature that
shared Gabriel's altered DNA did not know many of
the things that Gabriel knew. There was a gap there—
a kind of segmentation that was necessary, not only
for the mind of the beast, but more important, for the
mind of the human, that kept either experience from
becoming too conscious of the other.
Yet the Gabriel-thing knew this: it knew that it was
stalking the von Glower-thing. And it knew precisely
what it had to do once it found its target. Whether or
not it could do it did not enter its mind.
It paused at the bottom of the stairs and sensed the
air. One of the things it could access from its human
memory was spatials, location memory. It knew the
basement in an odd, schematic way. It could remem-
ber, for example, the prop room, and even had a
vague fear of being confined there.
And now, aided by its sense of smell, it knew other
things as well. It could easily smell the tantalizing drift
of fresh night air, and it knew the direction from
whence it came. It could smell its target, too. . . .
And it knew the target was heading for the fresh air.
It ran quickly down the corridor to the left. As it
rounded the turn and saw the open vent, it saw too
that the black wolf was heading toward it down a
side corridor.
But the brown wolf had gotten there first.
It snarled at the black beast, lowering itself down
on thick muscles and baring its teeth in a clear chal-
lenge. The black stopped. Its eyes darted toward the
vent, then back to the brown. It retreated a step. It
gave a low warning growl but nothing more.
The brown, encouraged by this, began to stalk for-
ward. The black stepped backward for each step the
brown took.
Through the winding, jutting, low-roofed corridors,
long and short, narrow and wide, they continued this
way. It became clear that the black did not want a
fight. It was not afraid exactly, the brown beast sensed,
for it didn't have the smell of fear and its movements
were not submissive. It simply wanted to walk away,
the way a father would leave a cub who was getting
too aggressive.
This made the brown very angry.
It tried several times to dodge around to the left or
right, to get the black against a wall, but the black
was sure-footed, confident, and easily evaded such
maneuvers.
The brown tried to use its spatial memory, its vague
ideas of shape and layout. It was not stupid—indeed,
it was exceedingly bright, if limited. It realized that it
needed a place where the black could no longer back
away, but it couldn't exactly recall . . .
It stopped growling long enough to sniff the air
again. And that's when it smelled the fire and its mem-
ory pulled up a vague outline of that room, the room
with the fire-thing: a box-shaped cave with only one
exit.
It began corralling the black toward the southeast
corner of the basement. The black continued to re-
treat, but now that pleased the brown. If it could have,
it would have grinned.
They reached the southeast corner along the main
east-west hallway. To the right was the opening to the
furnace room. The heat came through the doorway in
rippling waves. Instinctually, whether from the heat or
a sense of the dead end in that direction, the black
wolf turned the corner without pause and began back-
ing down the north-south corridor, away from the fur-
nace room.
The brown wolf tried to dodge around the black, to
head it off—make it turn back, but the black only
mirrored the moves, which made it back away faster.
The brown slowed immediately, panicking. It wasn't
working! Now they were headed the wrong way!
The brown knew that time was against it. If they
continued to back around like this, soon the black
would be close once more to the night air opening. In
the brown's current position, the black could not be
prevented from turning and making an escape.
And then, as they'd almost reached the stairwell
leading up, sounds clattered down on them—not just
the sounds of the people above, but other sounds—
sounds of human feet on the stairs, low and stealthy,
unmistakable.
The black's calm was broken. It turned its head
away from the brown, trying to gauge if it could make
it past the doorway before the human arrived. The
brown thought it could not, but if the black ran fast,
it might be able to startle the human enough to get
past it anyway. It decided to give the black another
option.
The brown whined in mock fear. It sensed the
black's head swing in its direction even though its own
eyes were trained on the stairs. It whimpered again
and began backing away itself, back, back. It turned
the corner back into the east-west hallway.
The brown waited there silently, every nerve hum-
ming in anticipation.
The black came around the corner.
The brown stood its ground, its mock fear gone.
Now it bristled and snapped its teeth, its eyes full of
hatred. The black turned, confused, and began to go
back down the north-south hallway, but it stopped im-
mediately and tensed, seeing something.
The brown heard a harsh human cry through the
buzzing adrenaline in its ears. It was instantly followed
by a loud bang and a metal smell. It knew what made
the noise and the smell—a death maker, human teeth.
The black spun around again and ran into the fur-
nace room. The brown, not even pausing to see what
was down the hallway, followed at once.
Grace had let Leber out. She was moving the mo-
ment von Glower disappeared through the auditorium
door. As she unlocked the Mittelloge, she mumbled
to the detective something about that man—that man
changing, but he only looked at her like she was in-
sane and pushed past her, gun raised.
She followed Leber and Statter as they raced down
the stairs. In the auditorium the music went on, but
those in the lobby were certainly not of the mind that
everything was all right.
"There was a dark-haired man," Leber shouted in
German as he came down the stairs.
An usher pointed shakily toward the basement
stairs.
"And then this huge brown animal went after him!"
This was spoken by a woman in a black gown, her
face so pasty it was like a white sail over a black ship.
Leber looked at the woman, his face knit in confu-
sion, then glanced at Grace suspiciously. She realized
that with the spotlight and the confusion, he hadn't
seen the creature on stage at all. Would he have
known immediately that it matched the description of
his killer?
"Is there another way down?" Leber asked.
Before Grace could decide how to answer, one of
the ushers said yes, and Statter was sent off with the
fellow backstage. They were going to use both stairs—
try to corner whatever was down there.
"Wait a minute," Grace said. It was as if her words
were swallowed up by a vacuum. No one even blinked
in her direction. They were all watching Leber as he
headed down the stairs.
And Grace realized that letting Leber out was
maybe not such a great idea. She hesitated a moment,
frozen with confusion and fear. Things seemed to be
going progressively wrong, like a bad idea rolling
down a hill. Gabriel was down there too, and Leber
had a gun.
She went after him.
When Grace was halfway down the stairs, she heard
a shout and gunfire. She called Leber's name, but
there was no response. She flew to the bottom, her
high-heeled feet keeping to the steps only by sheer
chance. She looked out into the hall, her dark eyes
wide.
There was nothing to the north. To the south she
saw Leber disappear into the furnace room.
Leber's large, black-jacketed back blocked the door.
By the stance of his legs and the angle of his shoul-
ders, Grace knew he was holding the gun straight out.
She prayed that what was in the room was only one
•and that it was not . . .
She pushed past him. He glanced at her sideways
and shouted. "Get back! Get out of here!" But she
was looking with shock at what was in the room.
They stood at the only exit. To her left was the coal
furnace, like a huge squatting fertility figure, its glass
door showing fire red dancing deep inside. Straight
ahead, backed against the cracked cement wall, was
an enormous black beast, almost four foot tall at the
head, with long legs and a wide, muscled torso.
The black was snarling at Leber and now at her. It
knew it was trapped, and it was furious. It ignored
the brown beast. It wanted only the doorway behind
the humans.
Grace tore her eyes away from the black and faced
what she didn't want to face. On the right-hand wall
was a creature very much like the first, though shorter
and squatter with a mottled brown coat. She looked
at it, her eyes gazing right into its eyes.
Partially out of respect for his privacy, and particu-
larly out of respect for her own sanity, Grace had
never seen Gabriel in the Change—no one had seen
him. He'd been left in the dungeon alone. What she
laid eyes on now was both more beautiful and more
horrible than she'd ever imagined. The beast was
beautiful, the way a wolf is beautiful, and more, be-
cause of the intelligence that shone in it. And yet it
was profoundly hideous too. Some sense of the unnat-
ural pervaded its being the way death casts an almost
visible veil of decay across the face of a man in his
deathbed. And there was something heinous deep in
the eyes, something heartless and inhuman and preda-
tory. And that image was answered by the teeth,
which jutted and snapped and spoke of mortal, fleshy
things the way a surgeon's tools spoke of them.
Her emotions were like a grab bag of unassociated
scraps. Part of her was embarrassed that she had to
see him like this; part of her was concerned that he
was here at all and of what might happen next; part
of her was overwhelmed with pity; and part of her
looked at that face and was terrified, terrified in a way
that not even the black could provoke, because she
had no idea what he would or wouldn't do, would or
would not remember from his human side, and the
thought of being killed, of being slaughtered and eaten
by this, by him, was somehow so much worse than the
mere idea of being slaughtered and eaten at all.
The brown had been growling and snarling too. But
when Grace looked into its eyes, its snarl faltered
briefly. Then it turned its head away, its eyes wild and
unknowing, and hunched down, increasing its furious
challenge toward the black.
Leber was swinging his gun from the black to the
brown and back again. By the expression on his face,
Grace knew that he was not only afraid, he was in a
zone of denial and confusion where he might do just
about anything. He now focused the gun on the
brown, responding to its increased aggression even if
it wasn't aimed his direction.
"Don't shoot!" Grace shouted.
"Get out!" Leber screamed back.
There were only seconds, Grace knew. Should she
shove Leber? Let Gabriel escape? But that would only
let the black escape too. Her eyes raced around the
room, trying to see anything at all that would provide
another option. And then, of course, she did. She
began to creep around Leber, staying close to the wall.
"Stay back!" he screamed at her again. Grace ig-
nored him. It was only a few feet to the furnace. The
black glanced at her once, but it remained focused on
the man and the blocked exit. The brown looked at
her and it looked at the furnace too. It stopped growl-
ing abruptly, licked its maw, and watched her with
those red, horrible, hungry eyes.
Grace reached the furnace, her heart pounding. She
stretched her hand around and tugged the glass door's
latch. It unhooked smoothly and swung out. She
pushed it, hoping it would swing all the way to the
other side and stay there. It was a heavy door. It did.
She looked back at the brown, and the brown
looked at her.
Then the black leapt. She sensed the movement and
turned her head in time to see the muscled haunches
unfolding, the body elongating into the air. It was
aimed directly at Leber, and its arc would land it
somewhere on his upper chest, knocking him to the
ground. Leber fired once into the air, wildly. Grace
was never to know what happened to that bullet. If it
hit the black at all, anywhere, she was never to know.
For the brown was also leaping. It had left the ground
the moment it saw the black make its move.
It happened so quickly, so very quickly. An instant
after the gunshot rang out, the brown's arc intersected
the black's arc, and the two collided in midair.
The brown rammed into the black's left side, its
head lowered. The black uttered a muffled grunt of
surprise and sailed away from the collision. It flew,
like a wad of paper shot at a wastepaper basket, right
at the furnace. Its head and limbs bumped against the
edge of the gaping iron mouth, but its momentum was
great; they folded and disappeared into the inferno an
instant after the torso.
Grace raced around the furnace, slammed the door
shut, and latched it. She turned to see the brown beast
dodge between the legs of the flabbergasted Leber.
Ungodly howls of anguish rose up behind her. They
echoed through the metal gullet, through the room,
through the soul, as if the pit of hell itself had opened.
Leber, his face almost comically lost, turned on
heavy, numb feet, as gracefully and swiftly as a preg-
nant cow getting up, and stepped into the hallway.
Grace followed, too late to keep him from getting off
one shot. But it didn't hit its target, anyone could see
that. The brown, still racing full tilt, skidded around
the corner at the end of the north-south hallway, paws
scrambling, and disappeared.
"Don't shoot!" Grace screamed, grabbing Leber's
arm.
Statter came running breathlessly down a side corri-
dor. His gun was drawn and his face was a heart-
hammering red. Leber looked at him, then back at
Grace, his face wiped clean of all expression.
He shook off her restraining hand. "I'll talk to you
later," he managed. Then he motioned to his partner,
and he and Statter went trotting off down the hall.
But they didn't look like they knew what they were
doing, and Grace thought there was little to worry
about. The brown would find someplace to go to
ground in this labyrinth. For that matter, he might
already be changing, the curse slipping away into
smoke.
She walked back into the furnace room. Behind the
glass were flames, engulfing flames. The howling
screams had stopped. There was the crackle of hungry
fire and a dull thud. Something that might have once
been a human foot struck the glass lightly, like a fetus
kicking the walls of its womb. Then it fell away again
into the flames.
Grace turned and went back into the hall, closing
the furnace room door softly behind her.
Epilogue
He slept for forty-eight hours, on and on. Grace woke
him at one point, fearing he'd gone into a coma or
back into some past domain whence he couldn't re-
turn. But he surfaced readily enough when she shook
him, thanked her dryly for the interruption, then
rolled over and went back to sleep.
The cells of his body were changing in imperceptible
ways beneath the sheets.
When he finally got up, Gerde made him breakfast.
Grace sat and had tea while he ate, watched him with
her steady, almond-shaped eyes. He appeared to be
in an almost giddy good humor, humming as he filled
his belly. She supposed he had a right to be.
She finally worked up her nerve and spoke. "Now
that you're feeling better, I, uh, I suppose I should be
getting back to the States."
He sighed and put down his fork, filled his cup from
a pitcher of coffee on the table. "I wouldn't mind
goin' back to New Orleans myself. Visit for a bit." He
took a loud sip. "Maybe we'll find someone there to
run the shop."
Grace's lips pressed into a thin line.
"Don't ya think, Grade?"
"And then you'll come back here?" she asked
casually.
"Yup. There's still a bunch of work to be done in
the library. And, I confess, I haven't been doin' it."
"I'm sure Gerde can help you get it straightened
out," she said, looking down at her cup.
"What about you? You'd be ... hell, you know
that's your thing. If you wanna stay, that is. Or you
can go back with me and then come back later. ..."
He put down his cup and stretched his arms in a
phony yawn. It was a sure sign of embarrassment.
She felt a deep burn color her throat. She didn't
look up. "You didn't want me on this case," she
pointed out in a neutral voice.
He let out a long exhale and said nothing for a
moment. "I didn't want you in Munich, that's all. I
just ... I was worried about ya, I guess."
She studied him, her lower lip quivering. "You're
full of shit."
"I'm serious." He rubbed the growth on his chin,
not meeting her eyes. "I remember what happened in
New Orleans. I didn't want to put either one of us
through that again. I know it was selfish, but that's
honestly why I ... why I didn't have you join me
there. Bad reasoning, but it looks like you did better
here in Rittersberg anyway."
She scooted back the chair and folded her arms, her
face determined. "Look, I appreciate, Gabriel Knight,
that you're the strong, silent, independent type."
He made a brat sound with his mouth. "Silent?"
"And I appreciate your concern for my safety, if
that's what you call it. But . . . either I'm in or I'm
out."
"I realize that."
"I'm in or I'm out," she repeated, giving him her
stubborn chin. "Full partners. Or I'll make other
plans."
" 'Full partners'?" He laughed and laughed, bright
and joyful. She frowned, hurt at first, but there was
no malice in the sound. "God, Gracie, you are
somethin'\"
"Well?"
He rose and came over to her chair, leaned down
until his lips were only centimeters from her tense
little neck.
"You're in," he whispered. Then he strolled, with
the cocky gait of his, from the room.
Grace said nothing, but her hands trembled as she
took another sip of tea.