His eyes flickered in anger—a change that made Grace shiver. She remembered what her husband had told her about the symptoms of psychosis: the swift, radical change in mood, the focused intensity in the eye of a madman.
“I intend to bring back the magic of my ancestors’ reign, returning the once glorious power—and fear.”
The Count looked off through the window at the mountains beyond the walls of the castle. He grimaced.
“Your husband was well aware of that. And the time has come.”
Chapter 36
ČACHTICE CASTLE
DECEMBER 21, 1610
Darvulia breathed in the burning sulfur bitterness of the potion. A yellow cat jumped from its perch next to her, hissing and spitting at the smoking powder.
The witch wanted the Countess to sleep tonight, dead to the world. The black-clad stranger had ruined their night games, calling them little girls toying with mice. He had smothered all joy between Darvulia and her mistress, admonishing their “crude, imperfect” pursuits of pleasure.
It was he who had convinced Countess Bathory that the blood would rejuvenate her beauty.
It happened when Zuzana was away collecting special herbs for the Countess’s skin. Another handmaiden was assigned to the Countess’s vanity. The girl—nervous to be so intimate with her mistress—brushed through a tangle in the Countess’s hair, provoking her to scream in rage. She seized the silver brush and struck the girl’s face, opening a wound in her lip.
Drops of blood speckled the Countess’s hand and face. She wiped away the red droplets and stared at her skin.
“You see,” he said, suddenly appearing behind her. She closed her eyes at his voice, her body trembling at his touch. “Do you see the youth restored to your skin?”
His long pale fingers stroked her neck, and she trembled, swooning at his cold touch.
Then he walked out the servants’ door, disappearing into the turret. The click of his heels echoed in the descending tunnel of stone steps.
The Countess felt the warmth of the blood on her face. Her eyes shimmered with astonishment.
The handmaiden trembled in the corner, covering the gash at the corner of her mouth.
“Look, Darvulia! I am transformed!” the Countess cried. She turned her face this way and that, examining her complexion in the looking glass. “My skin is as youthful as a young maiden’s!”
Darvulia bit her tongue. She approached Erzsebet, studying her skin so closely that the Countess felt the brush of the witch’s eyelashes.
The witch stepped back, shaking her head. “No, Countess. I see no difference in your skin.”
Darvulia could see no change in her mistress, except the willingness to believe a new lover’s lie. Jealousy bit deep in Darvulia’s breast, seeing her lover drift away, a fool for the stranger’s twisted hatred.
“You are blind,” spat the Countess. “Look, look!”
Darvulia bowed her head, saying nothing more.
In the hours past midnight, the stranger’s coach arrived in the pouring rain. His footman and driver struggled in the deluge, untying a wrapped package with the vague contours of a human body, but larger by two, even three times. They carried the burden down the stairs into the bowels of the castle, to the dungeon.
“What is that?” asked Darvulia, turning cold at the sight.
The stranger scowled at the witch from beneath the folds of his hood. “Begone, sorceress! You are no longer in the Countess’s favor. It is a man’s seed she hungers for, not the breast of a virgin witch.”
“The Countess loves me. She loves women.”
“Not now, witch. She does not love you or any other woman. She has learnt the ecstasy of a man’s love, of domination.”
The witch murmured a curse, more a growl than a human voice.
The stranger laughed. “You think your curses could affect me? You cannot guess of my power.”
Darvulia retreated, silenced. Since the appearance of the man in the black cape, she had been chased from the Countess’s bed.
“No better than a chambermaid,” she thought. “I sleep in a pallet instead of my head resting on a goose down pillow, sharing Erzsebet’s sweet breath as she dreams. Now her breath smells of blood.”
The stranger had taken her place. When the witch approached the bed to perform the morning incantations, she could smell his sweat and semen—the fetid stink of a man—on the linen sheets. Linens that had only known the scent of women since the death of Ferenc Nadasdy. Lavender and rosemary, and the aroma of the Slovakian winds.
“Who is this man?” she wondered for the hundredth time. “And how does he wield such power over our Countess?”
From the moment of his arrival, the stranger was greeted as a god. The Countess ran to his arms and wept the first night he appeared in the great hall. Darvulia noticed that his dark eyes remained dry, his face smiling in satisfaction at the Countess’s emotional outburst. A cruel pull—a twist—of his crimson lips betrayed triumph more than contentment.
“Who is he?” Darvulia whispered to Ilona Joo.
“I know him not,” she said. “But there is something familiar. I have only seen glimpses of his face. He chastened me when he caught me staring.”
Could he be her lover? Why does he pull his cloak tight, obscuring his countenance?”
“I don’t know. His looks are more Transylvanian than Slovak.”
Darvulia drew in her breath. She could not understand the Hungarian the two spoke. It had no semblance to Polish or Russian or dialects of Bohemia and Moravia. It occurred to Darvulia that the only ones who might understand them were Zuzana and the Hungarian horsemaster.
Ilona Joo whispered to Darvulia. “He wears the crest of the Bathory on his ring. The Countess must have made him a gift.”
Darvulia had not noticed. Her eyes were too weak to see such a detail. Soon they would turn white as milk, rendering her blind.
Who was this stranger who made Erzsebet weep with joy? What power did he possess?
Chapter 37
MEADOW BY THE RIVER VAH
BELOW ČACHTICE CASTLE
DECEMBER 21, 1610
Zuzana ducked her head, her chin tucked against her starched linen collar. The wind was bitter, and the fabric chafed against her skin.
“You know we have to do it,” said Janos, his hand clasped on her shoulder. “You have to help me. We cannot let her continue.”
She felt the weight of his rough hand, a hand that could work miracles with a horse. His skin was chapped and calloused, but warmth and strength emanated from his fingers.
“The Countess once aided women in the village. It was she who opened the home for the sick and injured widows of soldiers, fighting on the Ottoman front. Her good works were known throughout Hungary.”
“Since the death of her husband, she is not that woman anymore,” said Janos. “Wake from your dream! The Countess preys on women. She takes her pleasure in their agony.”
“Will Vida recover?” Zuzana whispered, not daring to look up.
“I took her to a healing woman in the village,” he said. “She gathered Vida into her care, treating her wounds with red oil. It was she who told me about the women’s suffering, about the curse of Countess Bathory. And the pastor of the church came to bless Vida. He told me of the dozens of girls buried in the churchyard. He is prepared to stand in testimony against the Countess.”
Janos spat bitterly on the ground. Zuzana watched his spittle melt into the muddy, pocked snow. She could feel his gaze on her. She knew he was judging her. How could she work for a murderess?
Zuzana had asked herself the same question. How could she have remained at Čachtice Castle, with the suspicions she had? At first she had felt blessed to have been taken in by the Countess, despite her deformity. Countess Bathory had showed her charity. Zuzana was honored to be chosen as handmaiden to Ferenc Nadasdy’s wife.
But now Zuzana realized—she owed nothing more to a murderess.
“The girls who tr
ied to flee,” she whispered. “They—never made it to safety. They are dragged bound and gagged to the dungeon. I never see them again.”
Janos closed his eyes tightly. When he opened them again, a steely glare blazed.
“We need proof. My father, Master of the Horse, has the King’s ear.”
Zuzana shook her head. “Not even the King can bring a Bathory to trial. As a noblewoman, she can punish her servants as she chooses.”
Standing alongside his horse, Janos tightened his fist on the reins. The stallion sensed the tension. He sidestepped, snorting.
Zuzana stopped. The silence drew out and then, in spite of herself, she told him something she didn’t want to say. She knew that there would be no turning back once she said it.
“Janos, I…” She forced herself to go on. “I overheard a conversation between the Countess and the dark stranger, through the door of the alcove.”
“What dark stranger?”
“A tall man who visits her, always at night. All the servants fear him and he never shows his face. She was saying that the blood of Slovak peasants has not the purity to perfect her complexion. Three noblewomen from impoverished families are to arrive in the next few months, one is already on her way. They have been invited to learn the manners of high nobility from the Countess herself.”
Janos stared at Zuzana, his jaw slack. “Would she dare to kill nobility?”
“She is mad, Janos!” she shouted, now able to say it at last. The wind snatched her voice. “Do you not understand?”
Janos pulled her close, looking over his shoulder. His warm breath whispered in her ear. “If she harms a member of a titled family, the King could proceed against her.”
Zuzana drew back, her spine rigid.
“The first young countess will arrive any day. The Countess Zichy of Ecsed. She is of ancient noble blood from the Countess’s homeland, but her family is impoverished. The Countess chose Vida to be her handmaiden.”
Janos nodded grimly. A gust coming off the river lifted his sandy hair.
“Vida will be avenged. They will all be avenged, I swear before God.”
Chapter 38
ASPEN, COLORADO
THE SOLSTICE
DECEMBER 21, 2010
It snowed hard on the solstice. The wind roared up the valley, ripping the remaining leaves from the aspen trees, leaving groves of white skeletons behind.
Main Street was a blur of swirling white. Peering through the windshield of his car, Kyle crept along, looking out for drunken tourists. He slalomed around a staggering man with his skis over his shoulder, clearly a casualty of too much après ski activity, screaming at his pretty, much younger woman companion mincing behind him in furry snowboots.
At the stoplight on Cemetery Lane there was an accident involving three cars. Nothing more than damaged sheet metal—and maybe a couple of DUIs in the offing. Kyle maneuvered slowly around the mess.
“Park here,” said Daisy, a block before the cemetery. “Pull way off the road.”
“Why here?”
“The cops will get suspicious if we park too close.”
“It looks like they have their hands full with traffic accidents. I doubt they can spare anyone to go looking for kids in the dark.”
“Come on. Just do it.”
They parked and Daisy showed him a break in the wrought-iron fence.
“Wow!” he said shining his flashlight on the tall cottonwoods.
Daisy smiled at him in the darkness.
“Normally there would be dozens of Goths here for the solstice. I guess the snowstorm is keeping everyone home.”
They wandered through the quiet of the falling snow. It was snowing more gently under the tangle of branches.
Daisy knelt by a gravestone, brushing off the snow so that Kyle could read the inscription.
“ ‘Dena May Moyers, born 1882, died 1884.’ God, how sad,” Kyle whispered.
Daisy withdrew a carnation from under her coat. The plastic floral sleeve crackled, breaking the stillness.
“May you rest in peace,” she said quietly.
Kyle shone the flashlight at her for a second. Tears streaked her cheeks. “Hey. Are you OK?”
“So many children. So many died. Defenseless.”
“What do you mean, defenseless?”
The sound of scraping startled them. They heard voices.
“Shh!” said Daisy.
Kyle knelt behind the tombstone.
“Shut off your flashlight.”
In the snowfall, it was difficult to see. But they could hear picks and shovels clang against the frozen ground.
“Someone’s digging,” said Kyle.
“A grave robber!” whispered Daisy.
They crept closer, shuffling along the snowy path in a crouch.
They hid behind an enormous cottonwood just close enough to see three men. Two digging and one standing in a black coat and black hat, watching.
He uttered an order in a foreign language.
Daisy saw exactly the spot they were digging. She had knelt at the tombstone only days before, reading the inscription.
The men grunted. One of them cursed as he tried to dig the frozen ground. The pick handle ricocheted out of his hand.
“I know that grave!” whispered Daisy. “That’s Betsy’s father.”
Chapter 39
SOMEWHERE IN SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 21, 2010
Grace stared out the window as the rain blew hard against the warped panes. She adjusted her glasses on her nose, focusing on the black wrought-iron gate and stone guard station in the distance.
A shiny black Mercedes pulled up to the gate. After a quick discussion, the gate swung open and the car moved onto the gravel driveway. Instead of approaching the front entrance of the castle, the car stopped just below her window.
Two men dragged out a thin, pale-faced girl with scraggly blond hair. She was limp but conscious, looking over her shoulder at the surroundings but apparently unable to walk on her own.
They disappeared from view, most likely through a door and into the castle.
Grace heard footsteps in the hall and quickly sat down in an armchair near the window. She grabbed a book and opened it to a random page.
A clinking of crockery preceded the sound of the key unlocking the door.
Draska, thought Grace. Maybe she’ll let me know she sent the e-mail. Betsy will know something is wrong and—
But it was a tall male servant who entered, carrying a breakfast tray laden with a variety of breads, a teapot, gold-topped jars of jams and jellies, and a container of yogurt. His skin was sallow. He wore no makeup, unlike the women who had watched her the first day, but he had the same starved expression.
“Where is Draska?” asked Grace.
The servant shrugged. “Not come.”
“What do you mean, she didn’t come? Where is she?”
“Not know. I bring food.”
His eyes studied her with the same gleam and hunger as the women’s.
“So are you a psychopath too? Another inbred Bathory nutcase?”
“Not understand,” he said, his lip pulling up in a sneer.
“Forget it,” Grace said. “Go—you are finished. Go away!”
He bobbed his head sullenly and retreated out the door, locking it behind him.
Grace left her breakfast untouched, tiny beads of moisture glistening on the butter, a thick skin forming on the little pitcher of hot milk. She walked wearily to the window, streaked with rivulets of water. Wind and rain lashed at the tiny clumps of grass growing stubbornly in the high stone wall that encircled the castle.
“Draska,” she whispered. “Please don’t disappear.”
Chapter 40
ČACHTICE CASTLE
DECEMBER 21, 1610
The seventeen-year-old Countess Zichy of Ecsed was not well. Her head drooped out of the curtains of the coach. The carriage rattled into the courtyard, the horses’ hooves clattering on the cobblestone
s.
Pulling aside the edge of the velvet curtain, Countess Bathory, still groggy from the sleeping potion, peered down from the drawing room of the castle. She watched the tired girl as the footman helped her from the coach.
“She is pale,” said the Countess, her perfect complexion creasing in a frown. “Bloodless and thin. This will not do.” She turned from the window. “Fetch Zuzana,” she snapped at Hedvika. The servant returned almost immediately, accompanied by the pox-faced girl.
“The Countess Zichy of Ecsed is of noble blood,” pronounced the Countess, lifting her chin. “The Zichy family has crossed with the Bathory lineage more than once.”
Zuzana nodded.
“She will not tolerate the clumsy attentions of these Slovakian cows.”
Hedvika blanched but said nothing.
“Go, Zuzana. Show her the Hungarian care she deserves as nobility. See that she dines properly and have the servants draw a hot bath for her. Tuck lavender sachets into her sheets and serve her mulled wine. Warm her bed with a pan of hot coals so she does not sicken.”
Zuzana curtsied, but as she bowed her head, her eyes were open in amazement. She studied the brocade of the Countess’s dress, her head lingering low.
Would she sacrifice one of her own relatives?
Hedvika brought Zuzana to the chamber door. The big-hipped Slovak maid beamed in satisfaction when the Countess of Zichy muffled a scream, seeing Zuzana’s pocked face.
“Your face!”
“Do not be frightened of my appearance,” Zuzana said in Hungarian. “You will soon be used to it. I shall care for you as no one else in this castle can. I serve my mistress the Countess faithfully and have for years.”
“Thank God there is a civilized tongue spoken in this savage wilderness!” the young Countess answered with relief. “These savage Slovaks all bark at me in unintelligible German.”
“I was raised in Sarvar Castle. I am here to serve you, madam. I am the Countess’s personal handmaiden.”
Hedvika’s lips pulled down, a bitter taste in her mouth. She could not understand Hungarian but she sensed the visitor’s acceptance of the ugly handmaiden.
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