House of Bathory

by Linda Lafferty

  “Six years old? Allowed to ride such spirited horses, meant for—”

  “Noblemen?”

  Thurzo narrowed his eyes. “I was going to say ‘battle.’ Your grandfather obviously had great faith in your riding skills.”

  “He did.”

  “Hmm…well.” The Count motioned for Janos to take a seat. “You may know that there have been reports of cruelty—ne, torture and murder within the walls of the castle.”

  Janos nodded. “Yes.”

  “Yes, you say. You have heard such stories? And do you have reason to believe them?”

  Janos looked directly into the Count’s eyes, rather than speak to the floor as an inferior should.

  “The maidens whisper of cruelty, of disappearances. I have witnessed the wounds and suffering of a poor girl, her hands scorched with hot coins for having reached for food in the Countess’s pantry.”

  “Ah, but that’s punishment for stealing. Hardly the murder and mayhem that I describe.”

  “The girl was starving. The Countess purposely starved her to see her suffer.”

  “Yes. I know of the girl. But no court of law would consider her punishment unjust. She is a peasant, she is a thief.”

  “She was starving!”

  “This is not my concern.” The Count waved his hand in dismissal. “My interest is a certain noblewoman who was invited recently to Čachtice Castle. She is the first of several girls from noble families who have been extended invitations to winter at the castle.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Countess Zichy of Ecsed,” said Thurzo, watching Janos’s face. “Do you know her?”

  “I dined two nights ago with the lady, Palatine.”

  “You?” snorted Thurzo. “The countess invited her horsemaster to dine at her table?” He inclined his head. “But of course! Your father is to be knighted by the King next week. News travels quickly even in the wilds of the Carpathians.”

  Janos heard a horse whinny. He eyes flicked toward the window.

  “I hope your stable boys can handle my stallion.”

  Thurzo grunted. Janos could tell by the pinched look on the Palatine’s face that he did not like the interruption.

  “How did the Countess Zichy look?”

  “Rich and spoiled,” said Janos. “She said ugly things about the Countess’s handmaiden.”

  Thurzo nodded. He stroked his black beard playfully. “Ah, yes. Erzsebet’s beast, my wife and I call her—what’s her name?”

  “She is not a beast!” shouted Janos, rising to his feet.

  “Steady, boy. Do not forget to whom you speak,” murmured Thurzo, not bothering to rise. He motioned the young man to sit once again, flicking his finger. “You do not want me as an enemy.”

  Janos sat slowly, but met the Count’s eyes, refusing to look down.

  “Let’s get to business, shall we?” said Thurzo. “The two of us have a common foe, I believe—the Countess.”

  Janos said nothing, his shoulders still trembling in anger.

  “If something untoward should befall the young Countess Zichy, King Matthias would be able to bring Erzsebet Bathory to trial. But only if she injures a noble.”

  “But what of the others? I have heard—”

  “Yes, the pastor is compiling a list. It is said to contain almost a hundred peasant girls’ names already. Surely he exaggerates. But whatever happened to them, it was no crime. Those girls were her personal property.”

  “They were human beings!” said Janos, his voice edged in anger.

  Thurzo made a sound of disgust, wet and thick in his mouth.

  “Do not be a fool, Szilvasi. Those women are expendable in the eyes of the law. But a countess, a lady of noble bloodlines, is not.”

  Janos looked away.

  “If you truly want justice, you can stop the bloodshed. You can be my ally, Szilvasi.”

  “Ally?” said Janos, a bitter taste in his mouth.

  “Yes,” said Thurzo, leaning forward in his chair, making the wood creak.

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “I need you to report to me immediately if the Countess Zichy is injured or…”

  “Or what?”

  “Disappears.”

  “I can do that,” said Janos.

  “Good. Good,” said Thurzo, stroking his bearded chin. “Now that you know the way, I will expect you to bring news here directly. Do not trust a messenger or try to write to me in Vienna. Countess Bathory has spies everywhere.”

  “I understand,” said Janos, rising from his chair.

  “One other thing,” said Thurzo, escorting Janos to the door. “There are tales of a stranger dressed in black who visits Čachtice Castle. It could just be Carpathian folklore, these simple-minded peasants love to exaggerate. Some say it is the spirit of Count Vlad Tepes, Dracula himself, who visits the castle.”

  “The Impaler?”

  “The great slayer of the Ottomans—and of peasant servants who offended him. I fear my cousin Countess Bathory takes him to be her mentor.”

  Thurzo noticed that Janos clenched his fists at his sides.

  “He lived and died two centuries ago,” Thurzo said, smiling. “I want to know who this visitor is. I do not believe in ghosts. Do you, Horsemaster?”

  “With such a monstrosity in the living, there is no need for haunting spirits.”

  Thurzo opened the door. “It might interest you to know that Count Vlad Tepes is a distant cousin of Erzsebet.… Good journey, Szilvasi.”

  PART

  -2-

  Chapter 61

  BRATISLAVA, SLOVAKIA

  DECEMBER 25, 2010

  The taxi stopped at the Michalska Brana, the oldest gate in the walled city.

  “I cannot go. Must walk. Too small, this street.” The taxi driver shrugged.

  Daisy gazed bleary-eyed at the tiny street, gleaming gray from the cold morning rain. A small sign read MICHALSKA BRANA BED AND BREAKFAST.

  “OK. I can carry my bag. How much do I owe you?” She had sorted out the brightly colored euro bills she had withdrawn from an ATM in Frankfurt. It looked like Monopoly money to her. She let the eager driver draw out a few bills from her hand.

  “Take something extra for Christmas,” she said. He smiled, plucking another colored bill.

  She rolled her suitcase over the bumpy cobblestones, staring up at the pastel colored buildings, decked with evergreen garlands. Twinkle lights glistened around the shop windows, and she heard carolers in the next street.

  It’s like a freakin’ fairy tale, she thought. A cold, wet wind sliced against her back. She wrapped her scarf tight around her face and neck, glad for once she wasn’t wearing her white Goth makeup, which she had taken off to prevent hassles with TSA at the airports.

  “You will be staying for how many days?” asked the woman with bright purple hair.

  Wow, Daisy thought. Even the middle-aged women dye their hair freaky colors here.

  “Uh. I don’t know. Can I just pay by the day? I don’t know what my plans are yet.”

  “Yes, of course. It is low season and we have no reservations for your room. Stay as long as you like.”

  Daisy felt the jet lag sucking her into the floor. She looked around the Michalska Brana hotel. It had been recommended on Lonely Planet. And it was cheap enough.

  It smelled of coffee and toast, mixed with the faint odor of cigarette smoke.

  A glass elevator slipped down a glass shaft.

  “Do you need help with your bags?” asked the clerk.

  “No, no. I can handle it. Thanks. Oh, do you have Wi-Fi?”

  The grape-haired woman’s face brightened. “Of course. No password needed.”

  Daisy threw herself face first onto the stark whiteness of a down comforter. She drank in the clean, fresh aroma of the bed linen.

  She propped herself up on her elbows, turning on her cell phone.

  There were a series of frantic messages from her mother.

  “Daisy?
Where are you? Call me immediately! You didn’t go to, to…wherever that was. Don’t dare tell me you went there!”

  Next new message.

  “Daisy, this is your father calling. Your mother says you have run away to…Bratislava? I don’t even know where Bratislava is—”

  In the background, Morgan’s voice: “It’s the capital of Slovakia, Roger.”

  “Wherever. Damn it. Call me. Call me now!”

  Next new message.

  “Hey, it’s Kyle. You weren’t home when I came by. Your mother is totally flipped out. Give me a call or send me an e-mail so I know you are OK.”

  Next new message.

  “Daisy, it’s Morgan. Where are you? Mom has never been so worried in her life. What’s in Slovakia that you would drop everything and go there? Call me. I can keep a secret—well, you know that already. Hey, and don’t forget. I know exactly where you are. You’ve got Dad’s GPS cell phone with you. Do you really think he isn’t going to cut your allowance because you took that phone to fucking Slovakia?”

  Next new message.

  “Daisy, this is Betsy. Your mother used my emergency line at the answering service to call. She said you were talking about going to Bratislava. Is that possible? Call me immediately. You have my cell phone number.”

  Daisy collapsed onto the bed, the soft duvet enveloping her shoulders.

  I could sleep for days, she thought.

  She pressed speed dial and waited to hear Betsy’s voice.

  Chapter 62

  ČACHTICE, SLOVAKIA

  DECEMBER 25, 2010

  As John drove up the snowy hill to the foot of Čachtice Castle, he glanced at Betsy. She stared out the window, watching the bare branches of the trees.

  “You OK?” he said, reaching for her hand, his eyes on the rutted road.

  She twisted her fingers in his.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”

  “We’ll find her,” John said, squeezing her hand.

  “But what about this nutcase killing women and draining their blood?”

  “The inspector said it was only young women. Your mom definitely does not qualify. She’d give anyone who approached her one of her professor looks over her glasses and scare the shit out of them.”

  “Who’d want to kidnap a sixty-five-year-old historian?” Betsy smacked the dashboard with an open hand.

  John didn’t answer. He parked the car alongside the road. The snow was too deep to continue driving.

  They got out of the car and walked up the long hill to the snowy ruins of the castle. The wind whistled through the trees and over the tumbled stones, perched on a rocky cliff.

  “What the fuck did we expect?” said Betsy, pulling her scarf tight around her neck. “This is only a ruined castle.”

  She shivered, staring at the tumbled walls. “It gives me the creeps.”

  Betsy’s phone rang. She scanned the screen for the name.

  “Great,” she said, pushing her hair away from her ear. “That’s all I need.… It’s Daisy.” She moved next to the one stone tower that remained of the old castle so she could hear.

  Flipping the phone open, she asked, “Daisy! Where are you?”

  “I’m in Bratislava. I came to warn you—”

  “Warn me? Daisy! You are in Bratislava? What?”

  Betsy rolled her eyes, looking at John for strength.

  “You can handle it, Doc,” he whispered.

  Betsy nodded.

  “Look, Daisy, we’re traveling right now. But we’ll be back in Bratislava in a few days. Just—just stay right there. Unless you want to fly back to Aspen and—”

  “I didn’t come all this way to just turn around again. Tell me where you are.”

  “No. No! This is my own affair. I appreciate your thinking I need protection. You know that’s called transference, that you have transferred your feeling to me, and while it is normally a natural, good sign of thera—”

  “Damn it! Don’t talk to me like I’m on a couch. Someone is trying to hurt you. Someone dug up your dad’s grave. They did! And they were searching your house.”

  “That is my business.”

  “I’ve got something that belongs to you, Betsy. I took it from your house. It’s old and freaky, but maybe—”

  “What? What were you doing in my house, Daisy Hart?”

  John shot Betsy a look. Betsy shook her head, her jaw clenched.

  “It was behind your books, on the bookshelf. Hidden way back—”

  “My bookshelf? What were you doing rooting around in my—”

  “It’s complicated. Look, I just found it. OK? It’s…I don’t know, a notebook with a rotting red leather cover. It’s got…maybe a list of names? Girls’ names. I think it might be in Slovak. I Googled some of them. Some are Hungarian, most are Slovak.”

  “Daisy!”

  John glanced over again. He knew that tone of voice. But Daisy kept going.

  “I took the list. I mean…you can have it back and all. It just seemed like I should take it. I don’t know, I—”

  “Damn it! Daisy…”

  “There are six hundred twelve names. I counted them. And it’s freaking old. It’s all yellow, like a bundle of dry leaves.”

  “Oh, God. Try not to damage it. Put it in a safe place—is there a safe in your room?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Put it in there and lock it up. Promise me you will do that.”

  Why was this notebook hidden on the shelf? It must have valuable information—but a list of girls’ names? Six hundred and twelve girls.

  “Now listen to me, Daisy. John is with me, and watching out for me. OK? So I am protected. Now I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be. I’ll go lock up the names. Call me later, OK? I can’t get my cell phone to work here.”

  Betsy drew an audible breath.

  “Are you calling from a land line, Daisy?”

  “Yeah. I tried to dial 01 and 011 but neither one works—”

  “You need to hang up. Now! Do not call me except on your cell phone—”

  “Like, is this phone tapped or something?”

  “Just hang up. Stay there in the hotel until we get back. A few days. And Daisy—watch out. Be really cautious. Super alert. Promise?”

  “You, too, Betsy. Hey, and Merry Christmas! Look, I didn’t mean to cause trouble—”

  Silence—a dropped call.

  Betsy stared straight ahead, her eyes blurring with tears.

  “Don’t think about her right now, Bets. You need to focus on what we can do to find your mother.”

  “John—did you realize it’s Christmas?”

  He gave a short laugh and shook his head. “Merry Christmas,” he said, reaching out to rub her neck. “We’ll get through this, Bets. We’ll find her.”

  Chapter 63

  BRATISLAVA, SLOVAKIA

  DECEMBER 25, 2010

  Daisy woke late in the afternoon. She looked around the simple room, eyes sticky with fatigue. Sleet streaked the windowpanes, blurring the view across the tiny street.

  “What the fuck am I doing here?” she whispered. “Some Christmas!”

  She struggled to the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water. Her naked face looked back at her, vulnerable and childlike. It had been a couple of years since she had gone without her daily white makeup.

  She fumbled through her bag and brought out the white foundation. With savage sweeps of her fingertips, she covered the naked skin.

  When she came downstairs, the receptionist looked startled. Then she smiled.

  “You are Goth,” she said, nodding her head. “Many Goths in Bratislava.”

  “Really?”

  “Many, many. You see them. I can tell you names of bars that have Goth scene. You like?”

  “Sure. I can’t speak Slovak, though.”

  “Young people learn English in Bratislava. English to survive,” she said, opening a map of the city. “OK. So. Are you
lesbian?”

  “What?”

  The purple-haired woman shrugged. “I want to send you to the right bar. Straight or lesbian?”

  “Straight,” said Daisy in a loud voice, looking over her shoulder. “Like really straight.”

  “OK, OK,” said the receptionist. “This is the one.” Then a cloud of doubt crossed her face. “You must be very careful, though. Bars are safe, but do not leave with strangers.”

  Daisy sensed the woman’s sudden anxiety.

  “Why?”

  “There was murder. Goth girl, like you. Last week.”

  Her cell phone rang, the ring tone “Riders on the Storm” by the Doors.

  Daisy frowned at the number on the screen.

  She pressed ANSWER. “What do you want, Morgan?”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “Bratislava,” she said, looking up at the pastel plastered ceiling of her hotel room. “Pretty cool. They like Goths here.”

  “Do you know Mom has called the FBI, Missing Persons, and Oprah?”

  “Oprah?”

  “She thought she might do a feature on runaway Goths. Maybe get some international attention. You know Mom.”

  “That’s fucking freaky. I’m fine. And I told her where I was going.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “Following a hunch.”

  “You followed your shrink, right? Mom says she’s there, too.”

  “So what?”

  “So that’s fucking weird. Patients don’t follow their shrinks to strange foreign countries.”

  “Yeah, and you are really an authority on normal behavior. Daughters don’t usually—”

  “Don’t say it!”

  “Whatever. You are weirder than I could ever try to be, even as a Goth.”

  Daisy pressed the END CALL button hard, as if she were killing an insect under her fingertip.

  Nightfall came earlier than Daisy expected. By 4:30 it was dark, and it was an ominous reminder that she had traveled to a distant land without a clear understanding of what she hoped to do.

  Why had she come?

  To protect Betsy. To battle some unseen force.

  That seemed pretty lame now, as she lay staring at the ceiling of her hotel room.

  No, it was the recurrent dream, the sense of foreboding. The castle and the woman in blood. In her dreams it made her heart jump in her chest, so she woke screaming.