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  Wolves Among Us

  “Ginger Garrett’s new novel, Wolves Among Us, transported me to sixteenth-century Europe from the very first page with its stunningly beautiful language and masterful use of sensory material. The novel uncovers an important, thought-provoking topic. Quite a few times I wanted to stop and ponder a point made in the book, relating it to life today; I could not stop, however, as the novel itself compelled me to read on.”

  Sandra Byrd, author of To Die For, a novel of Anne Boleyn

  “A palpable suspense keeps the pages turning in this tragic chapter of history where innocent women were condemned, false prophets reigned with fear and superstition, and those who fought to get the Word to the masses risked their very lives. More disturbing is that such wolves still lurk among us, but thanks to the sacrifices of saints before us, we readily have the Word to expose them.”

  Linda Windsor, author of Healer, Book One in the Brides of Alba series

  “With heartrending characters caught in a battle between good and evil and a plot interwoven with false religion, deception, and a hunger for the truth, Wolves Among Us is a gripping novel with eternal implications that had me thinking about the current state of Christianity and my own heart long after the final page.”

  MaryLu Tyndall, Christy Award finalist and best-selling author of the Legacy of the King’s Pirates series

  “A spellbinding journey into the heart of a village and the heart of a woman seeking truth. Garrett’s lovely storytelling binds us to our fellow women of the turbulent sixteenth century and reminds us that, even today, only the Ultimate Truth can set us free.”

  T. L. Higley, author of Pompeii: City On Fire

  “Wolves Among Us is a story that lingers in the heart, a story about the mysteries of the spiritual realm and the power of God to shine light on the darkness around us. Ginger Garrett is an excellent novelist.”

  Hannah Alexander, author of the Hideaway series and A Killing Frost

  “In Wolves Among Us, Ginger Garrett has created intriguing, true-to-life characters who face struggles that challenge their faith.”

  Margaret Daley, award-winning author of seventy-five books

  WOLVES AMONG US

  Published by David C Cook

  4050 Lee Vance View

  Colorado Springs, CO 80918 U.S.A.

  David C Cook Distribution Canada

  55 Woodslee Avenue, Paris, Ontario, Canada N3L 3E5

  David C Cook U.K., Kingsway Communications

  Eastbourne, East Sussex BN23 6NT, England

  David C Cook and the graphic circle C logo

  are registered trademarks of Cook Communications Ministries.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes,

  no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form

  without written permission from the publisher.

  The website addresses recommended throughout this book are offered as a resource to you. These websites are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement on the part of David C Cook, nor do we vouch for their content.

  This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Unless otherwise noted, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc™. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. Scripture quotations marked msg are taken from THE MESSAGE. Copyright © by Eugene H. Peterson 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group. John 10:10–13 in chapter 23 is adapted from William Tyndale’s gospel of John.

  LCCN 2011920857

  ISBN 978-0-7814-4885-7

  eISBN 978-1-4347-0374-3

  © 2011 Ginger Garrett

  The author is represented by MacGregor Literary.

  The Team: Terry Behimer, Nicci Hubert, Amy Kiechlin, Sarah Schultz, Caitlyn York, Karen Athen

  Cover Design: Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design

  Cover Photos: shutterstock_26035945; iStock_000000313735; iStock_000007332085

  First Edition 2011

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  AfterWords

  Bonus Chapter

  Author’s Note

  Discussion Questions

  Supernatural Housekeeping

  Acknowledgments

  First, to the entire team at David C Cook: I owe you a debt of gratitude. The economy is rocky, the market is changing, and even when I get discouraged, you continue to believe in my books. Thank you more than I can say.

  To Nicci Hubert, an editor who gave me plenty of work (or is it the other way around?): I owe you a debt of gratitude too. I had such peace about working on this book knowing you were my editor.

  To Chip MacGregor, literary agent extraordinaire: Thank you for being willing to walk with Mitch and me on this road.

  To my novelist friends whom I treasure: India Edghill, Siri Mitchell, Kimberly Stuart, Sandra Byrd, the girls on the bean loop, and the writers of the Silver Arrow critique group: Thank you for keeping me sane and always laughing.

  To my readers: I love your emails more than I can say! Please keep them coming. I love to know what is on your minds and hearts.

  And lastly, to my family—I love you all.

  Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves.

  —Jesus

  Chapter One

  Germany, 1538

  Dinfoil Village at the southeastern edge of the Black Forest

  Weeks had gone by since winter had lost her blinding white beauty. Cold gray mud at Father Stefan’s feet and dull clouds above him were all that remained of her icy pageant. He waved his hand at the low clouds, willing them to be gone. The hopeful golden sun of spring was overdue. He longed for its warmth to awaken new life in his little village.

  The good Lord had other plans for the morning, however. The sun remained shrouded, and the air kept its chill after a midnight rain. Father Stefan could see his breath when he exhaled, a small wonder that still fascinated him even in these, the middle years of his life.

  Each wet stone on the cobblestone streets of Dinfoil was packed so close to the next that the market lane looked like the side of an enormous, glistening brown fish. The lane was as slippery as a fish too, and Father Stefan was careful as he walked. If
he slipped and broke a leg, he would be of no use to anyone—not as a spiritual father or as the town physician.

  The sky may have refused any promise of warmth, but the new day still brought its own comforts. Bread baking in ovens and the crisp hints of spring’s first greens teased his nose as life burst out into the lanes everywhere he looked. Last night the great lashes of lightning had driven everyone inside early. Now no one wasted a moment starting the new day: Shutters were being opened as he walked, children ran through the leaves torn from trees by the winds, and merchants dashed with their carts along the bumpy stone lanes, anxious to reclaim yesterday’s lost business. When winter’s ice melted away, travelers appeared from many villages, eager to spend their money at the market and meet new people. Fresh tales were as coveted as fresh supplies in those first weeks of spring.

  Father Stefan walked through the town square, where children played prancing ponies, skipping in wide circles. One boy slipped, catching himself on his palms. He winced and muttered a curse under his breath. When he caught Father Stefan watching him, he blushed and looked away.

  Stefan suppressed a frown and looked around. The boy’s mother had done penance for her coarse language not a week ago, and here her boy was, repeating her sin.

  “Mothers, mind your children,” he called out, hoping the village’s women could hear him through their open windows. “The stones are treacherous this morning.” He shook a finger at a boy. “No more of that,” he said.

  Father Stefan walked along, greeting his parishioners, nodding at the shopkeepers and housemaids who were still opening shutters. The wealthier the family, the closer they lived inside the square, and the more housemaids he saw at work.

  As was usual for this hour, no one appeared in the windows of those expensive homes except maids and dogs. After maids opened the shutters, several dogs popped their heads into the windows, looking down with great interest at the people in the square. Father Stefan particularly liked seeing the yellow mastiff that often sat, solemn as a magistrate, in a window, his jowls set in judgment. Another dog across the lane watched with bulging eyes and a little black mouth. That dog, outraged at the activity below him, barked and yapped at each passerby.

  Marie, the young daughter of a parishioner in Father Stefan’s church, pranced past, chasing after her little brother. She ran into Father Stefan, knocking him onto his rear. She looked horrified.

  “Father Stefan. Forgive me,” she said.

  He held his side with one hand and used the other to push himself back up.

  “No need for forgiveness, Marie. It was an accident, after all.”

  Her face looked ashen. Her chin began to tremble. She was one good breath away from a loud wail. Stefan reached out and tapped her on the nose, startling her.

  “How is your mother’s new baby girl?” he asked, looking down to wiggle his eyebrows at the young boy who now stood at the girl’s side. The boy giggled, and Marie glanced at him before she smiled too.

  She had swallowed back her tears, but her eyes were still wide and watering. “The baby is well, thank you. She is at home with Mother. She doesn’t smell very good, though.”

  Father Stefan pressed his lips together to catch a chuckle. “Yes, Marie, babies do smell. Tell your mother I will be glad to have her back with us for Mass.”

  “But Mother is not well, Father Stefan. She cries a lot now that she has given birth. And she is pale. I try to get my brother to play with me outside, to let her rest, but I don’t think she notices.”

  “I see.” He smiled and nodded, a signal that he was ready to be on his way.

  Marie grabbed him by the hand. “Perhaps you could come see her?”

  Stefan disentangled himself and stepped back. “My place is in the church. As is hers. Remind her of that. When she gets back to church, she will feel better at once.” He leaned down and flicked his hands at Marie, sending her away.

  Marie hesitated, then rushed at him and planted a kiss on his cheek. She turned and ran off with her brother before he could say anything else. Stefan pressed a hand against the spot she had touched, mystified.

  The sun broke free for a moment, warming Stefan’s arms. He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, catching more of this sudden pleasure, the second unmerited grace of the day.

  The thought prodded Stefan to turn and get on with his morning business. He couldn’t just stand here smiling in the sun like a fool. Pleasure is a fool’s reward, he thought, a distraction that keeps good people from doing God’s work. He must buy his dried hops and be back at the church before the next Mass. As he walked the square, he greeted the sweet young parishioner Elizabeth, who shopped at the herb market. She gave a shy nod and gestured back to the church, which stood at the far end of the square. Stefan smiled and nodded his head in agreement. Yes, it was almost time for Mass. They had both reason to hurry.

  He then spotted Dame Alice with her wide, soft face. She sat on an upturned barrel at the front door of her home. Though wealthy, she rarely busied herself with women’s work, much to Stefan’s dismay. Instead she sat at her entranceway with her white hair neatly plaited above her ears, acknowledging those who passed.

  Stefan watched as Mia, the sheriff’s wife, bustled past him, darting between the town’s children, clutching her coin bag to her stomach as she approached the butcher’s shop.

  “Mia!” Dame Alice called out.

  Mia stopped, clearly startled.

  Dame Alice gestured widely with her arms. “Come and eat, child. I put a leg of lamb on the fire. Come and tell me of your morning.”

  Mia glanced in every direction, her face turning red as others watched the interaction. She pulled her scarf lower over her eyes and hurried away.

  “Mia!” Dame Alice shouted. “You need to eat. It’s how God made us.”

  Mia pretended not to hear, though Stefan knew better. Her jaw muscles were flexing as if she was sorely tempted by Dame Alice’s invitation. But Mia was a good wife who she knew had no time for the gossip of idle women. Stefan would have to chastise Dame Alice once more at her next confession, though it would do no good. She had lost both her daughters and one grandson in a plague years before. Since then she had cared for the young women of the village like a mother might. He worried that too much gossip was exchanged at her kitchen table.

  Stefan nodded in satisfaction as Mia ducked inside the shop. Perhaps she was too thin, but it was merely a testament to her tireless devotion to her husband and child. A model citizen, that Mia, he thought. Never a moment spent in mischief with other women.

  Stefan looked up to see an unfamiliar woman with a hard, lined face staring at him from across the square. From the distance her eyes were blue flames. Her dull gray hair was long and free, hanging down to her waist. The strange woman looked up into storm clouds that were now rolling toward the village. Her eyes narrowed as her gaze returned to Stefan, accusing and cold, as if the night’s storm had been his doing.

  A rooster crowed from the roof of a shop, distracting him. Thunder growled as it approached from behind the clouds. He turned back and strained for a glimpse of the woman again, but with no reward. Sometimes the market brought strange customers. She was, no doubt, just another oddity in his day.

  Storm winds stirred his thin robes. He pulled his sleeves further down on his arms and put his mind back to his errand.

  Mia’s husband, Sheriff Bjorn, had arrived on his doorstep last night. He had drunk a considerable amount of Stefan’s beer before he left for home. Stefan’s beer had no equal, though all the priests of his order learned the art of brewery. Wine tasted bitter and ruined many stomachs. But Stefan’s beer, made with grains he selected by hand and scent, ministered to anyone who drank it. His beer, the color of an emperor’s robe, was rich in nourishment and always bubbling. Even the pasty, flecked loam, leftover from the brewing yeast, proved good for ailing infants and li
vestock.

  Bjorn, thirsty and agitated, had arrived at his doorstep, hoping for a draught. He had said he spent all night looking for the wolf that had stolen two of the sheep from the parish stock. Erick, Stefan’s servant, had wanted to join the hunt, but Bjorn refused him. Bjorn was not given to companionship. Erick would learn that in time.

  The wolf—a tiresome, clever enemy who had yet to be caught—taunted then all. Taking two sheep was a crime that could not be overlooked. Stefan’s flock of sheep was small, only ten animals. His flock of parishioners was small too, perhaps one hundred people in total, not including those too weak or old to come to Mass. Stefan knew the wolf would be caught in time. But wolves and sinners had one thing in common: When they stole what was not theirs, their appetite for more only grew stronger. Appetite was always the doom of the unjust.

  Another cloud rolled over the sun, and its shadow swept over the townspeople. A slinking darkness stole their last hope for a fine spring morning. Everyone paused, looking up and around. Shadows so early in the day meant a storm was growing in power, hiding itself at the edges of town, preparing for its first strike.

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

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

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

  “What is wrong, Catarina?” he asked.

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

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

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