Ferenc had been dead for five years, killed by a wound received in battle—though in the taverns of Nadasdy, it was whispered that the mortal injury was inflicted by a disgruntled harlot whom he neglected to pay.
The air was rich with kitchen odors, wild boar roasting in the open hearth. Janos knew the savory smell, soured by the stink of singed hair where stray bristles had remained in the flesh. The bitter smell of burning hair was chased by the sweet aroma of autumn apples.
Outside an oaken door on the first floor flocked a half dozen young maidens in court finery. Their long silk skirts, laced velvet bodices, and finely beaded headpieces must have been fetched from Vienna, thought Janos, for there was certainly nothing as refined to be found in the wilds of Upper Hungary.
The ladies-in-waiting curtsied and lowered their heads as the horsemaster approached, though he could see them sneaking looks. He heard one stifle a gasp, and a muffled giggle.
“There is no need to bow, maidens,” said Janos in German. “I am a servant, just as you serve the Countess.”
The Slovak women giggled at his fine manners and Hungarian accent. A couple of bolder girls made eyes at him.
The manservant rapped gently on the door, and it opened a crack to expose the mouth and nose of a pretty—though painfully thin—servant girl. They exchanged murmured words and then the door was quietly opened. Janos was ushered into a vast chamber, illuminated by chandeliers with hundreds of flickering candles.
The room was square and sparse. At the far end sat a black-veiled woman.
“Approach, Master Szilvasi,” called the woman. Her starched lace collar stood straight out from her neck like a square banner, quivering slightly as she spoke.
Janos’s face twitched with impatience, but he wisely chose to compose himself before he reached her shrouded presence.
He stood a few feet from what appeared to be a throne—and bowed deeply. He stared at the Countess’s red-slippered feet, peeking out of the stiff folds of silver and gold brocade.
Janos wrinkled his nose. A strong smell of copper coins wafted through the air, metallic and acrid. His eye surreptitiously hunted for its source.
“Countess Bathory, it is an honor,” he said.
“Is it?” she said. “I have heard that you were impatient for your bed.”
Janos swallowed, marveling at how quickly gossip traveled in this castle. Then he collected his thoughts, thinking of the conditions in which he had found the horses.
“You heard correctly. Your—what would you call them, spies?—have served you well. Yes, Countess. I am tired after two days of hard travel and a grueling day in the stables.”
“Spies? You are impertinent, Pan Szilvasi! They are loyal servants who report the truth and warn me of ill conduct.”
“What do you consider ill conduct, Madame? I come from the Sarvar Castle—your own property. At your request, Madame.”
“You needn’t remind me, as if I am too aged and addled to remember!” she snapped.
Janos decided to take another approach, muting his anger.
“I am devoted to the horses and will see that they thrive and are trained to the utmost of my ability. Your stable shall be worthy of the Bathory name.”
Janos could see the black veil tremble. He wondered what lay behind the curtain of black mesh.
“I understand my stable boys have disappointed you.”
“The horses are in bad condition, Countess,” said Janos. “I will work hard the next few weeks to bring them back to health.”
“My stable master died and his nephew is an idiot,” said the countess, lifting the veil from her face, and folding it over her dark auburn hair.
“I—”
Janos stopped speaking. He stared at the white face, skin as smooth as fine marble, the color of Venetian porcelain. Burning amber eyes, unlike any he had ever seen, stared at him under delicately arched brows.
The woman looked inhuman, a perfect statue created by the most skillful sculptor. Except the eyes. The eyes were feral, catlike. She was stunningly beautiful. He could not look away. His eyes ran over her features, again and again, hunting for imperfection.
He found none, despite her age.
She nodded to the footman, who handed her the braided leather horsewhip.
“You returned this to me,” she said. “I sent it to you with a purpose.”
Janos made himself look at the horsewhip and not the woman’s face.
“It was not necessary. The horses do not need whipping and the stable boys are simply ignorant.”
“The sting of the whip can quickly correct ignorance.”
“I find other methods more effective, Countess.”
There was a little gasp among the throng of handmaidens.
The Countess gave them a sharp look. A sudden silence settled into even the most remote corners of the room.
“They say you inherited your father’s—nay, your grandfather’s—uncanny dominion over horses. I remember him from my childhood at Sarvar Castle. I was fifteen when I was brought as a bride there.”
“I understand horses. It is not dominion.”
“Do you believe you can ride my white stallion?”
“I know I can.”
The marble face broke into a smile that was somehow hideous, as if the sculptor who had created her had never meant for such an emotional betrayal to cross that visage. The sculpted features, haughty and perfect, looked as if they would shatter, casting jagged white shards on the floor.
Then the face regained its marble composure, no expression marring the milky smoothness.
“Is there something lacking in my performance, Countess?”
“Yes,” answered the perfect face. “Bozek, show Horsemaster Szilvasi back to his quarters.”
The manservant appeared out of the shadows, at Janos’s elbow.
“There is one thing you lack, young horsemaster,” said the Countess, lowering her veil once more.
“And what might that be?”
“Humility,” she said. “But you shall learn it here at Čachtice Castle.”
She snapped her fingers, the sound echoing through the great hall.
Two guards seized Janos, their strong fingers biting into his arm. He was whisked back into the hall. The torch flames leapt, fed by the gust of wind as the massive door slammed shut behind him.
Chapter 9
CARBONDALE, COLORADO
NOVEMBER 29, 2010
Betsy heard footsteps outside on the porch. She opened the door.
“Dr. Path?”
Framed by the blue trim of the door was the most striking young woman Betsy had ever seen.
She had long dark red hair—a natural auburn. Strands whipped about her face in the wind. Her skin was startlingly white, like a porcelain figurine. It was an outdated look, especially in contrast with the outdoorsy Colorado style to which Betsy was accustomed. Then she realized she was staring at the girl’s green, amber-flecked eyes.
“You are Dr. Path, aren’t you?”
“Yes—I’m sorry,” Betsy said, forcing herself to stop examining the girl’s eyes. “Do we know each other?”
She looked so familiar. Betsy was sure she had seen those features before.
“I am Daisy Hart’s sister, Morgan. May I come in?”
“Of course, I’m sorry. I guess I should have seen the family resemblance.”
Betsy knew she was staring at the young woman, but she couldn’t help it.
“Underneath all that Goth makeup she wears, how could you?” said Morgan.
She frowned, lowering her chin. Her long hair swung down in her face. Then she tossed her glorious mane back behind her ears. Her eyes glittered. Her lips formed a word, but no syllable was uttered.
Betsy stepped aside and let the tall elegant creature enter her office.
“Please sit down, Morgan. So. Daisy’s sister?”
“I am sorry to drop in on you like this, but I’ve come to check up on Daisy. My…dad gave me your contac
t information.”
“You are from New York, right?”
“Yes, though we live most of the time in Florida now.”
“We?”
The young woman hesitated.
“Dad and I. After the divorce, I chose to stay with my father and Daisy went with my mother.”
“I see.”
Morgan looked around the room. Betsy noticed she focused on the leather-bound books.
“And…?” Betsy let the unspoken question hang. Morgan had come to see her, uninvited; Morgan was going to have to carry this conversation.
“Yes,” she said, reluctant to stop inspecting the house and bookshelves. “Dad and I are really worried about Daisy. I heard she had another choking episode and went to the ER.”
“That was a while ago.”
“Did she say why it happened?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, in therapy, did she say anything that might have triggered the choking? What did she say exactly?”
Betsy sat back in the chair and her fingers sought the end of the armrest. She grasped hard as if she were on a carnival ride.
“You know, I really can’t talk about your sister’s therapy with you. It is confidential.”
The catlike eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “You are trying to help her, right? I mean, she must tell you everything, right? Has she told you the nightmare about the vampire?”
Betsy opened her mouth to answer, but the reply was stillborn in her mouth. It was none of this girl’s business what Daisy said to her in a therapy session.
“We are working together toward discovering the causes of her distress.”
“Distress?” Morgan scoffed. “Is that what she calls it?”
Betsy’s fingernails dug deeper into the fabric. “No, that is what I call it.”
“Well, she’s a spoiled brat,” said Morgan, spitting out the words. Her green eyes narrowed, glinting. “She has been spoiled rotten since the day she was born. I’m sure that the only reason that she is doing this choking thing is to draw more attention to herself.”
Betsy didn’t respond directly. Instead, she asked, “Morgan, are you staying with Jane and Daisy?”
The visitor sniffed and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“Do they even know you’re here?”
“No. I’m just passing through. I leave this afternoon. My father wanted me to check up on Daisy’s…progress. And to meet you.”
Morgan fiddled with her starched white collar. Then she dug in the pocket of her suede jacket, producing a white business card from a tooled leather wallet. “Here. This is her dad’s number.”
“Her dad?” Betsy asked.
Morgan glared at her. “He’s her biological father. I am Jane’s daughter from her first marriage. Anyway, he says that if there are any questions or breakthroughs, call him first. Not Jane.”
“Your mother? You are asking me not to call Jane?”
“Yes. Call him first.”
“I’ve never met your father. I have met Jane. She signed the papers and writes the checks. Daisy lives with her, not with her father.”
“Roger pays you. He’s the one with the money. He can pull her from therapy any time he wants.”
Betsy turned the card over in her hand. “Tell him to call me. I feel uncomfortable with the situation and I feel I should adhere to protocol.”
Morgan’s eyes widened. “Protocol? Wait! You can’t tell Jane I’ve been here.”
“Why?”
“Just don’t. It will—upset her, and really confuse Daisy. I swear it will.”
Betsy’s mouth tasted sour. She realized she had taken an instant disliking to this attractive young woman. What was it about Morgan that set her on edge?
“You understand that I am under no obligation to do anything you say. My only concern is Daisy.”
Morgan hesitated. The green eyes stared at Betsy, cold and glittering.
“You don’t like me,” she said slowly. “I can sense that. But I have an important question for you. And it might be helpful for Daisy. I wish you would give me an honest answer—”
“What is it? If it’s about your sister, the answer is no. I will not discuss her.”
“No, Dr. Path. You’ve already made that abundantly clear,” said Morgan waving away Betsy’s response. “Just a simple question, nothing to do with Daisy.”
“Go ahead.”
“Is it possible to—I don’t know—inherit or borrow a dream from someone?”
“What are you referring to? I don’t understand the question.”
“Let’s say someone dreams about—say, vampires. Like my sister does. Is it possible for me, say, to pick up that dream?”
Betsy said, “What, catch it like a flu?”
“That’s not what I mean. What if the dream world she has at night is the same as mine. Exactly the same.”
Betsy studied Morgan’s amber-flecked green eyes and recognized an emotion.
Fear.
Betsy hesitated, then nodded.
“People who are close, or who are connected somehow to similar emotional feelings, can have similar dreams as a manifestation of a burden they share, especially if they are exposed to the very same experience.”
Morgan shook her head adamantly. “You don’t understand, Dr. Path. What if the nightmare is the same, exactly the same—a castle—identical characters—ghouls with white faces—”
“You may have heard Daisy describe her dreams and unconsciously picked up the detail and emotion—contaminating, if you will, your own dreams.” Betsy felt as if she had gone too far. She shouldn’t be talking about Daisy even this much.
“If you will excuse me,” said Betsy, rising from her chair, “I am expecting a patient.”
Morgan rose from her chair, following Betsy to the door. Betsy swung it open. A few dead leaves blew in circles on the porch, refugees from the earlier snowstorm.
Morgan frowned, making her way out into the unsettled weather.
“There is one more possibility,” said Betsy, called after her. She wasn’t sure what prompted her to continue this conversation, especially as Morgan was a few steps into the wind. “There is a phenomenon called shared dreaming. A sort of astral traveling, an out-of-body experience. Carl Jung himself believed in synchronous dreaming as part of the collective unconscious.”
Morgan nodded, deep in thought. She jingled the car keys in her hand.
“Roger will be in contact soon,” she said. “Good-bye, Dr. Path.” Then Morgan turned and walked back to her car, patches of snowpacked ice crunching under her boots.
Chapter 10
SOMEWHERE IN SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 6, 2010
Dr. Grace Path wanted to scream, but the hood covered her mouth and she knew screaming would do no good anyway. No one could possibly hear her. She was in a car, hurtling over a road she couldn’t see.
She had struggled, but it was useless. And now, little by little, her mind began to work again, began to think, began to analyze.
The smooth ride made her certain they were on a motorway. It was a luxury car, she could tell by the purring motor, the leather seats. A heater blasted her with warm air, carrying the scent of a new, expensive automobile.
She could see the flash of headlights occasionally as they filtered through the thin material of the cloth that had been thrown over her head.
The two men in the front seat spoke a language she did not understand. It was not Slovak.
The hood smelled of an old-fashioned scent. What was it? Clean smelling, freshly laundered. Had they used this same hood to kidnap other people?
What could they want with her? She wasn’t rich. There was no chance of ransom.
Lavender. The scent on the hood was lavender. And, even now, even here, her mind noted that “lavender” was the root of “laundry”—the flower was used in the Middle Ages to camouflage odors, protecting precious cloth from mildew. Fresh-washed linen left in the sun, strewn with the flower. From
the French. Late fourteenth century.
She felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Damn it! What could they possibly want with her?
As the hours passed, they ignored her, except to ask if she wanted water. They spoke in heavily accented English.
“Yes, water please,” Grace finally said. She hated to give them the satisfaction, but she was thirsty.
She heard the crackle of a plastic water bottle being opened, and the sloshing of water into some sort of glass.
The car’s overhead light snapped on just for a minute and she felt the presence of a man stretching back toward her from the front seat. Pale translucent fingers pulled the hood a little way off her face, shoving a thin tube toward her mouth.
“Is straw,” said a young man’s voice. “Hood stays over eyes, lady. Drink.”
The fingers pushing the straw into her mouth were ghastly pale—white bones against the black cloth of the hood. They smelled metallic, inhuman. She shuddered, trying to pull her head away from the fingers.
“You not like water? It comes from the springs deep under castle. Healthy, mountain mineral cures all sickness—”
The driver cursed angrily in the unintelligible language. The man giving her the water said nothing for a few seconds.
“Here. Drink, lady. Drink.”
Chapter 11
DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN
RUBIN MUSEUM
DECEMBER 6, 2010
Wet snow sluiced under the tires of the taxi pulling up to the curb at 150 West Seventeenth Street.
Betsy paid the Pakistani cabbie, tipping far too much. She chalked it up to her excitement, she was actually about to see Jung’s Red Book—she wanted the entire world to share her excitement, the joy of anticipation.
Forget the analyzing, Path, she told herself. You are on vacation this weekend.
She marched through the sidewalk’s dirty slush, her cheeks burning from the wind gusts rocketing down the city canyons. Betsy was always amazed by how sharp Manhattan’s wind could feel, comparable to the sting of blizzard gusts in the Rockies.
She pushed the glass door open and was embraced by warmth and yellow light. She sighed with delight.
The Rubin Museum exuded the scent of the sacrosanct. Betsy had visited it before, to see the Buddhist mandalas and Tibetan art. When she was at Jungian conferences or visiting friends in New York in the winter, she would often duck into the little private museum for a cup of chai or a curry soup to chase the city chill away.
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