by Nancy Holder
The Slayer tensed again as one of the soldiers moved into the room, but he only set a serving tray on one of the heavy wooden tables, then returned to the shadows; on the tray was a waterskin, bowls of cold goulash, and a few hunks of bread. Even unheated, the smell of the food was enough to rouse the poor girls chained against the wall—no doubt it had been days since they’d had a meal. Still, their senses were too clouded by pain and hunger for them to recognize Ildikó.
“You will tend to these girls,” the countess said. “And yourself, also—the cook tends to forget to bring meals to those in the dungeon. I fear this part of the castle makes her uncomfortable.” The countess paused, and Ildikó again had that eerie sense of hearing the woman’s happiness. “I rather enjoy its accommodations. Besides, my Maiden graces this room, and that, of course, makes it my first choice for . . . guests.”
Ildikó strained at the darkness, but her heightened eyesight still couldn’t make out the number of soldiers on guard with the countess. Nonetheless, she would have to chance it—her opportunities to be in the countess’s presence were few and far between. With no idea whether she faced beast or human, her right hand slipped into the folds of her skirt and folded around the stake, then Ildikó risked a small step forward.
There was a flurry of motion in the darkness, of bodies suddenly moving and shifting. When Countess Bathory spoke again, her voice was farther away and muffled by the knot of people between her and Ildikó. “Don’t worry, my pet. A serving girl as different as you should be treated as such, and we’ll return to visit later. You shan’t be down here alone too long.”
A rush of footsteps and murmuring, and before Ildikó could cross the distance of the room, the countess and her passel of servants and soldiers had hastened through the doorway and barred it behind them.
Ildikó balled her fists in frustration, but there was nothing to be done about it—she was still trapped. Knowing it was useless to dwell on it, instead the Slayer retrieved the tray of food and carried it over to the four pathetic prisoners. At first eager, she was ultimately disappointed in the amount of food she could coax each to eat; beaten, sickly, and exhausted, one by one they drank a bit of water and fell asleep after only a few bites of the goulash. Her own stomach was rumbling with emptiness, so Ildikó ate a few bites of the bread and the rest of one bowl of goulash herself, finding it nearly tasteless and greasy, with a bitter edge to each swallow.
Setting the tray aside, she tried to think about what to do next, devise some sort of battle plan for when the Countess returned. But she was tired and it was hard to concentrate—the castle drafts made the torchlight flicker and wave almost hypnotically and she felt sleepy, pleasantly numb—
Suddenly alarmed, Ildikó stood.
And promptly fell face forward onto the filthy floor.
Gasping, with her cheek pressed against the stones, she realized that something had been added to the goulash—no wonder the prisoners, in their weakened states, had fallen asleep so quickly. This was far worse than anything she might have imagined, and suddenly her own mortality and inexperience sank in, her true powerlessness and frailty against this woman, the huge royal family, and seemingly endless army of soldiers and servants. She could not succumb to whatever potion or herb had been mixed into the goulash by the countess’s sorceress, she had to stay awake—
Blackness.
* * *
Ildikó felt like she was swimming. In her childhood, her father and the tribe had once camped in a valley along the eastern border of Romania, where there had been a small lake. The water had been cold and not particularly pleasant even in late summer; it had washed over her skin and left chill bumps in its wake, making her want only to get out of its wet grasp in much the same way as she felt now. Oddly enough, she thought suddenly of Rendor, and the way he had rescued her from certain death three years ago, the warmth that had come when as a stranger he had thrown a heavy woven blanket around her shoulders and offered her shelter. If such a thing were possible, she believed to her soul that he would do the same for her now, that he had been trying; doubtless his efforts to provide assistance to her over the past week had come to naught. Had not her Watcher warned her countless times that her stubbornness might someday cost her dearly?
“Your skin is such an odd golden color,” she heard someone murmur. “It’s as if you’ve somehow soaked up a measure of the sun—so different from the others.” Something touched her cheek, and Ildikó tried to pull away, then found she couldn’t. Her head wouldn’t move, her arms and legs were bound and completely immobile. “It makes you quite beautiful, you know. Very appealing . . . desirable despite your leanness.”
The Slayer dragged her eyes open, then wished she hadn’t. The headachy remnants of the sleep potion were nothing compared to the realization of where she was and her upcoming fate.
The countess stood on a raised platform in front of her, excruciatingly beautiful in a fine gown of green silk, her ivory skin and dark eyes accented by the burning torches around the room. Ildikó waited, expecting to see those fine features melt into the twisted visage of a vampire, but the noblewoman only stared at her.
“It is such a struggle to stay young,” the countess said dreamily. She held out one hand, and immediately a soldier rushed to help her off the platform. “The very efforts of doing so are in themselves taxing, requiring a never-ending search. I have always known that the best blood comes from pure young girls, but you. . . .” Standing below the Slayer now, she reached up and ran a jewelry-covered hand down Ildikó’s leg, and the Slayer started as she realized they had completely stripped away her garments. “I’m told you are not as other normal girls, that you possess special abilities. What benefits might I reap from one such as you, so strong and healthy, so different? What longevity?”
Ildikó tried to reply and found she couldn’t—something cold and painfully hard had been pushed into her mouth and was being held in place by a strap. More bindings were around her head, neck, chest and arms, all the way down her body. She could feel a smooth surface against her spine, rear end, and the backs of her legs—metal?—but she couldn’t turn her head to see what was holding her. Such a subtle mistake, the smallest of missed details, but devastating nonetheless . . . while she had thought her uniqueness would help her save the other girls and stop the evil, she had never realized it had served only as her undoing. Those same differences that had served her so well in the fight against the dark side—her strength and stamina, her lean and unfeminine skills—had pulled the countess’s attention like a hungry wolf to fresh meat.
“Normally I have serving girls readied for me in numerous ways,” the countess said matter-of-factly. Ildikó’s eyes widened at her next words. “Heated pinchers or branding generally gets the blood flowing quite richly. But you . . .” Her voice trailed away thoughtfully. “I think it would be best not to blister such lovely skin, don’t you?” The woman paced back and forth in front of her, going in and out of Ildikó’s line of sight like a puppet in a street show.
“You showed such interest in my precious Iron Maiden earlier that I decided you should experience it firsthand, without all the bothersome distractions that preparation would entail.”
The Iron Maiden? Ildikó tried to say something around the metal in her mouth, but it only came out as an unintelligible gargle. Now she wished she hadn’t examined the torture device so closely, hadn’t seen the hideous metal face on its front and the blood-encrusted spikes that sprouted from the insides of the two doors on the thing’s front.
Spikes that would penetrate her body when those very same doors were pushed closed.
Ildikó tried to struggle then, staring down at the countess’s dark smile as unseen servants on either side of the Iron Maiden began to slowly close it up. It was a useless effort—she was held fast within the unbreakable iron-spiked grip of the Bloody Countess’s beloved torture device. There was no flash retelling in her mind of her own life as the first spikes pierced her skin and sank deep, no sudd
en divine inspiration about the things she could or should have done to make the world a better place or to banish evil.
There was only the building and excruciating pain, the silent screams of her own agony, and the fading sight of Countess Bathory raising a goblet of collected blood—Ildikó’s blood—and toasting her before lifting it to dark red lips.
And even as death enveloped her in its mercifully permanent embrace, Ildikó still wasn’t sure if the beautiful, Bloody Countess was truly a vampire . . .
Or if, as a Slayer, she had died for naught.
Unholy Madness
Nancy Holder
FRANCE, 1789
Despite the fact that it was only autumn, the night was cold enough to freeze blood. Moonlight gilded the vast grounds of the Palace of Versailles, silver shafts that appeared sharp enough to pierce the hide of the fiercest werewolf. Garden statues that, by day, frolicked and gamboled—nymphs and fat cherubs and majestic sea gods—took on visages of demons and hell spawns. Their shadowed fingers contorted into monstrous claws. The water from the fountains in which they lurked curdled bloodred.
This is the world of evil, thought Marie-Christine, the Vampire Slayer, as she watched through the windows for the approach of her enemy. By day, life is a parade of beauty. But at night, the truce with Death is lifted, and he sends his servants to collect his debts.
She understood that debt all too well. Her own family was dead; she was the last of the noble line of Du Lac. She remembered nothing of her parents, not one sweet word from her mother, not even the scent of her hair. She had been told she had her father’s quickwittedness, but other than that, her life of wealth and privilege was their only legacy to their sole heir. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents—she had none. All had perished in accidents or from illnesses before she could walk. It was as if the Du Lacs had never existed.
Her Watcher, Edmund de Voison, had also served as her guardian, and she had been raised in a manner befitting her station, in rank as well as in destiny. Once she had been Chosen, she was moved to the luxurious Palace of Versailles, the home of the king of France, Louis XVI, and his wife, the beautiful and regal Marie-Antoinette.
The young countess was now aware that someone was creeping up cautiously behind her. Aware, too, that whoever it was, was harmless. She closed the tapestry draperies and turned around with an air of expectation.
It was one of the army of palace servants. She did not know his name, and had no cause to learn it. There were so many servants, and after all, it was enough that he knew who she was, was it not? Not in the sense of her secret identity, but that she was a young aristocrat of the court, and therefore, someone he must serve and obey.
“Oui?” she asked imperiously.
“Excusez, Mademoiselle la Comptesse. Monsieur le Marquis has arrived,” he said, his head bent low. He was dressed in black velvet knickers and a black velvet and silk jacket. His voice trembled, and she felt a moment’s pity for him. The servants were terrified of the Marquis de Rochembourg, and they had great cause to be. Rochembourg was a sadist and a bully.
He is also a vampire, Marie-Christine thought. However, she sincerely doubted that this man knew that.
Marie-Christine put a hand to her elaborate white wig. Atop it, she wore a tiara of diamonds that sparkled as hard and white as the moonlight. The tiara was a gift from Amelie, a distant but much beloved member of the royal family, as thanks for fending off a vampiric attack on Her Royal Person during an evening stroll. Marie-Christine had killed off several of the vampire’s minions, but the vampire itself had escaped.
The same vampire who lived in the world as the Marquis de Rochembourg, the “man” Marie-Christine was to dine with momentarily.
That time, he escaped. Marie-Christine smiled grimly. Tonight is the night I acquit my honor. I shall turn monsieur le vampire to dust.
She had carefully selected her costume for the occasion. She was dressed to kill—as the English liked to say—in an exquisite ruby-colored silk gown and volumes of white lace. Beneath her billowing skirts, she carried stakes; and her entire corset was made of wood, so that she could use the stays for weapons as well. The wood had been taken from the bell tower of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. It had been blessed by the Holy Father himself, and it was destined for the unbeating heart of the marquis . . . and any of his kindred haughty and foolish enough to accompany him this night.
“Very well,” she said to the servant, smoothing her skirts. “I shall receive him in the Hall of Mirrors, where we are to dine.”
“Oui, mademoiselle.” He bowed again. His hands shook. She wanted to tell him that after tonight, the marquis would terrorize him and his fellows no longer.
But one can never be certain of that, can one? It may be I who die tonight, she thought, trying to temper her lust for the battle with cold common sense. I am the Slayer because the girl who preceded me is dead. And so it has been for centuries.
She lifted the sides of her dress, her skirts swaying gracefully as she walked across the parquet floor. Down the hallway she glided; then, as she approached the Hall, a waiting servant bowed and opened the doors for her. She crossed the threshold.
Before her, the glittering table was laid for fourteen—one place for her, and the other thirteen for her guests. The marquis brought with him a Judas—the vampire didn’t realize that one of his minion-courtiers, Jean-Pierre Du Plessis, was a spy in Marie-Christine’s employ. Jean-Pierre had revealed to the Slayer that the marquis knew her identity. Monsieur le Marquis also assumed that Marie-Christine was unaware that he was the vampire she had thwarted on Amelie’s evening stroll.
Marie-Christine did not know what he planned—how he could possibly hope to kill her without alerting the palace household—but Jean-Pierre was certain that tonight he would attempt it.
The Council was very eager for her to make this kill. They had promised the French royal family that the French Slayer’s first loyalty was to them, and then to the rest of the French aristocracy. After that, the royals and nobles of the other houses of Europe were afforded the Slayer’s protection—including their colonies, if she could provide it. It was all very official; signed treaties and proclamations had been exchanged. Marie-Christine herself approved—for if the ruling heads fell, what hope was there for the natural order of things?
On all sides of the rectangular room, the exquisite mirrors for which the Hall of Mirrors had been named sparkled with gold and silver-backed glass. After consulting with Edmund, her Watcher, she had designed a number of elaborate bouquets of crimson roses, which covered nearly two-thirds of the length of the mirrors. Thus, the marquis would feel that his lack of reflection would go undetected. Marie-Christine had made sure to allow his servant, who had come to the palace with his acceptance of her invitation, to take note of her preparations for their dinner. He could then report to his master that, so far as could be learned, it was safe for him to attend.
It was a risk for the vampire, of course; but it would be riskier still to decline an invitation issued by one of the fashionable young aristocrats who lived in the palace. Even in the enlightened year of 1789, flouting the conventions of society meant the equivalent of death to the man or woman foolish enough to do so. Though the nobility reigned supreme over the bourgeoisie and the peasants, they needed the goodwill of one another to survive. Anyone who was cut out of the social order was generally obliged to move to another country, or to commit suicide.
Neither option would be attractive to a noble vampire, Marie-Christine reflected. If he left France, he would be discovered and slain in an instant if he tried to curry favor with another royal family.
She heard the tap-tap-tap of high heels on wood, fixed a dazzling smile on her mouth, and faced the entryway to the Hall of Mirrors.
“Monsieur le Marquis de Rochembourg,” the servant announced, then bowed low as the man himself posed on the threshold.
His face was hard, craggy, and his features were sharp. He had a long, hook nose and very high cheek
bones. His eyes were so deep-set she couldn’t tell what color they were, but she knew that they were blue.
In his purple evening clothes, he was imposing and regal, every inch a high-born gentleman. Heavily wigged in long, silver-gray curls, he cast a quick glance around, noted the dense bouquets of roses with a look of satisfaction, and entered.
Careful not to bump her concealed weaponry, Marie-Christine swept a deep curtsey. It would be so simple, she thought, barely able to restrain herself from staking him right then.
“Monsieur le Marquis,” she said breathily, “I’m honored that you accepted my invitation.”
“But of course, Mademoiselle la Comptesse,” he replied, coming forward. He took her hands in his, urging her to rise. His fingers were as cold as winter. So simple, to bear down the tiniest bit, and crack them all like sticks. . . .
The marquis’s smile revealed perhaps more than he realized—it was more a grotesque imitation than an actual smile, his lips pulled back as if he intended upon ripping out her throat. He bowed again and took a step backward, made a sweeping gesture with his hand, and said, “I brought some members of my house.”
“Of course. How delightful,” she responded.
As the others filed in, she caught sight of Jean-Pierre, strolling in among the marquis’s people, admiring the room as if for the first time with the marquis’s other bewigged and bejeweled courtiers. It was quite a coup in their circle to be invited to dine in the palace. King Louis himself understood the magic of the place and had a standing policy that the peasantry be allowed in to watch him and his family dine in this very room. Marie-Antoinette hated the practice and only pretended to eat. Indeed, she bore such contempt for the peasantry that she never even bothered to remove her gloves, assuming they would not know the difference—they were nothing more than ill-mannered, poorly bred beasts.