Somehow this dream was connected with Betsy, Daisy just knew it. She couldn’t shake that premonition, no matter how hard she tried. It haunted her, urging her on.
“I’ve got to get out,” Daisy said, her voice strange in the empty room. She yanked her black coat from the armoire. The hangers jangled against each other.
Daisy walked to the corner where the taxi had let her off that morning. She didn’t really feel like sightseeing—that wasn’t a Goth thing, right? But the Michalska Brana Tower, rising above the ancient town gate, was spooky enough to make her want to explore whatever might lie inside.
But the door to the tower was locked. A sign said 9:00-17:00. Daisy looked up and began walking backward, her head tilted up to see the top floor and the green patina of the cupola.
A fat raindrop splashed in her left eye. Then another down her neck.
It had started to rain again and she didn’t have an umbrella. Umbrellas weren’t something that Aspenites carried. She tightened her scarf around her neck.
Her boots splashed through the puddles and rivulets along the cobblestone street as she hurried back to her hotel. She gave the receptionist a wave as she waited for the glass elevator up to her room.
“Wet weather,” said the woman. “But it may pass soon.”
Staring out the window at the night sky, the idea that she had run away to Bratislava seemed absurd. She didn’t even really know where Betsy was.
Daisy rubbed her misaligned tooth with her thumbnail. She stepped into the glass elevator.
“You are a total idiot,” she whispered to herself.
She stepped out of the elevator and walked to her room. With a twist of the brass key, she let herself in. She flipped open her computer and opened her blog.
“OK, Goths. I’m going to check out some local bars here and nail down the Goth scene. Next entry will be a porthole into Eastern Europe’s Freak World.”
She shut down her computer and walked to the safe. She entered the code, looked inside, and when she was satisfied the cracking pages were still secure, she locked them up again.
The receptionist had told her that the bar opened at nine, but there wasn’t much action until midnight. Daisy decided to take another look at the old town of Bratislava until the scene picked up. She had slept most of the day and felt not the slightest urge to go to bed.
The cold air slapped her face as she set foot on the cobblestone street. The rain had stopped and the wet wind carried the smells of wood fires, roasting chestnuts, and dampness. She drew another deep breath. The smell of grilled onions and sausages from the outdoor vendors made her mouth water.
First stop, sausage, she thought. I’m starved.
Floodlights made the buildings glow against the night sky and she marveled at the medley of colors. The pastel buildings were edged with filigreed trim, the shuttered windows a contrasting color. In the fairyland of whimsical houses, she wandered the winding streets, imagining past centuries.
From the enormous pink Archbishop’s Palace to the original crumbling walls of the city, Daisy felt a pulse of history. The buildings were as real yet ethereal as the abandoned shell of a cicada, clinging to a tree branch, molded by the life it once held. She heard the ring of horseshoes against the cobblestones, smelled the malodorous gutters, saw the bright colors of the bishop’s robes. She imagined the glint of the jewel-encrusted crown of the many Kings of Hungary and the Holy Roman Empire as one by one they were crowned at St. Martin’s Cathedral.
Daisy clutched her guidebook, staring up to the illuminated buildings. A gloved hand touched her back.
“Have you seen the view from Michalska Brana, the main gate?”
Daisy whirled around, her black coat swinging against the legs of a silver-haired man dressed quite formally. He had a dark gray overcoat and immaculately shined shoes. He gestured with his cane.
“You should see it. A magnificent sight, especially at night.”
“Is the tower open? I think it closed at five. I missed it.”
“Ah, yes, for tourists that is the case,” said the distinguished man. She noticed, as he smiled, that his teeth were long and white. “But there are those who have special privileges. You should not miss the opportunity to see the whole of Stare Mesto—the Old Town—from the height of the tower. It is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
Daisy sensed danger in this elderly man—a shiver of apprehension rocketed up her spine.
And she liked it.
Like Little Red Riding Hood, she thought. Man, look at those teeth. Maybe they’re dentures, she thought. People that old don’t have such white teeth, unless they’re movie stars.
Yet she liked the jolting tingle she felt, to discover what mystery lay ahead. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. It was better than staring at the ceiling in her hotel room.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Pavol Kovac.”
“I’m…Violet Jones. Nice to meet you.”
“How charming. You were named for a flower,” said the stranger.
Daisy lips met in a thin line.
“You know, Violet, I could accompany you to the tower. I have the key, thanks to contributions I have made to the city of Bratislava over the years.”
“You do? I mean, you really have a key?”
“Of course, I am a benefactor of the reconstruction of Stare Mesto.”
“You must have made some awesome donation.”
“Yes,” he said. “Come this way. I will show you.”
The lights bathed the tower rising over the arched gate. The round copper copula, green with age, stabbed the night sky.
“Come this way,” said Daisy’s companion. “We must enter the side door.”
The corridor was pitch black. Daisy heard the scuttle of mice.
“Let me lead the way,” said the stranger, pulling a small flashlight from his overcoat pocket.
Climbing the stairs, they passed exhibits of armor and weapons throughout the ages. Every floor was dedicated to warfare, weapons, and instruments of torture from the Dark Ages to the nineteenth century.
Daisy pulled out her own headlamp, focusing the beam on a huge metal structure in the form of a woman.
She stopped in her tracks.
“What is that?”
“Ah, you have found her!” her companion said, directing the flashlight beam at the monstrosity. “That, my dear, is an iron maiden, one of the most vicious tools of torture of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.”
He flashed the beam on the wrought copper face of the maiden. Then he hooked his bony fingers around the edges of cover, pulling it open.
Daisy’s headlight beam illuminated the dozens of sharp spikes within. She approached the maiden and ran her finger across one of the spikes. It tore at her glove.
“If a prisoner is to be—dispatched,” he said, “he or she would be thrust inside, against the spikes, and then the front of the maiden slammed shut.”
“Oh my God,” whispered Daisy. In the silence she heard the muffled sound of footsteps far below.
The stranger stared at her.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
“Why do you wear black clothes and paint your skin white?”
“What? Because I like it,” said Daisy. “Why do you wear a black cape and look like Dracula?”
The stranger laughed. The throaty sound made her jump as it ricocheted around the tower. Pigeons roosting in the windowsills launched themselves into the darkness, their wings scraping the windows. The stranger led the way up the last flight of stairs.
“Here we are,” he said, opening the door to the balcony that encircled the base of the cupola. “For you, my charming night companion.”
He gestured grandly at the sight of Stare Mesto, its buildings and fountains illuminated in pools of light.
Daisy drank in the sight, the ancient buildings clustered in twisting cobblestone streets. The gray stone cathedral of St. Martin’s, a massive presence. From this vantage poi
nt, she could see almost all of the old city.
She listened intently. The only sound was the dripping of the rain gutters. It was late and there were few passersby at this end of town. Most of the action now was in the nightclubs and bars outside the walls of the Stare Mesto. Then she heard a burst of laughter and conversation from the street far below.
Daisy gazed down at a small cluster of young people who were approaching the gate. She noticed they stopped talking as soon as they entered the tunnel through the Michalska Gate. She craned her neck, looking down to watch them emerge from the other side. Her view was partially blocked by the stone supporting the balcony.
“Why did they stop talking?” she asked.
“It is a superstition,” the stranger said. “They must be students. It is said if a student speaks when passing through the Michalska Gate, he will fail his exams. The Slovakians are very superstitious.”
“Are you?” asked Daisy.
“I am Hungarian,” he answered. Daisy noticed the skin puckered around his mouth when he spoke. His lips pulled back, exposing his teeth.
She stared at them in the darkness. What a set of choppers.
“There is a great difference between Hungarians and Slovaks, the Conquerors and the Conquered.”
Daisy was about to ask him about the difference, when his knees buckled.
“Oh, oh!” said the stranger, leaning against the wall. He breathed heavily.
“Are you all right?” asked Daisy.
“Forgive me, my dear. I have to admit I am feeling a bit woozy from the climb.”
“Let me help you—”
“No, no. I will descend and wait for you at the bottom of the stairs.”
“I’ll go with you—” said Daisy.
“No, that’s not necessary. You must have a few moments to admire the beauty of the city. I will be at the door when you come down. Please do not worry about me.”
He disappeared through the door, closing it behind him before she could protest.
Then she heard the turn of the lock.
“What the fuck?” she said. She turned her headlight beam on the door handle, and pushed down hard. The door was locked.
“You crazy bastard!” she said. “Hey, let me out of here!”
Daisy pulled at the door, then kicked it furiously. She heard the slap of footsteps on the wet street below her. The white-haired man had emerged. He was speaking to a large blond man. They both strode back to the entrance of the tower.
She knew she had only minutes to act.
Chapter 64
ČACHTICE VILLAGE
DECEMBER 25, 1610
Janos’s eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. The air in the church was laced with mildew. There was no art adorning the stone walls. The only focus of the splintered pews was the simple altar and its pair of flickering candles.
A man in black clerical robes knelt in the front pew. He rose to his feet.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Ah, I suppose it is past midnight. Merry Christmas to you, Father.”
“May I help you, my son?” he said. “I am Pastor Ponikenusz.”
“I am Janos Szilvasi, horsemaster to Countess Bathory.”
A shadow crossed the pastor’s face.
“I see,” said Ponikenusz, extending his hand. Janos noticed the stiff formality in the handshake.
“I have come to speak with you.” Janos leaned close to the pastor’s ear. “But our conversation must be private. I am a friend of Vida’s.”
Ponikenusz’s eyes brightened in the darkness. He studied Janos’s face carefully.
“I remember now,” he said, nodding. “You are the one who delivered her to the cunning woman.”
“The girl was mad with pain.”
“I am pleased you have come to the house of the Lord. There is no more private place to speak. We have no knaves hiding in chapels or spies in dark corners. Our humble church has nothing but this one room for the faithful. Sit, my son. Please.”
“I have spoken to Count Thurzo,” said Szilvasi. “He has told me that you have buried the bodies of scores of girls.”
“Yes, this is God’s own truth. But I have told the Countess I shall not continue to do so.”
“Were they murdered?”
Ponikenusz moistened his lips. “What interest do you have in their deaths, Horsemaster?”
“I will not knowingly serve a murderess, Father. I will seek justice.”
Pastor Ponikenusz bowed his head. “Yes,” he said at last, “they were murdered.” He looked directly into Szilvasi’s eyes in the half-light. “There is no doubt. Brutally tortured, their bodies mutilated, God bless their innocent souls.”
“Tortured. And then she sent them to be interred in the church yard?”
“With full church rites. She insisted on that. Making up lies about their deaths when all one has to do is examine them to see the truth. Devoid of blood, drained through their open veins. I bless their souls, but now I have refused to allow our cemetery to be the repository of her diabolical cruelty.”
Janos cast his eyes about the simple church, which was cold and gloomy. The wax of the crude candles gave off an acrid smell.
“Diabolical?”
“The Countess Bathory enjoys the suffering of others. Those who escape alive bring stories of naked girls whipped, their private parts burned, their breasts bitten by the Countess herself, as if she were a rabid dog.”
Janos thought of Zuzana.
“You have great courage to challenge the Countess,” said Janos.
“I am a servant of God,” said Ponikenusz. “I cannot condone the deeds of a murderess. I must protect the lives and souls of the faithful. That is why I approached the Palatine Thurzo and have written our King.”
Janos extended his hand to the priest.
“Then we are brothers in this common purpose—to bring her murderous deeds to the light of justice.”
“The Countess shall most certainly be judged before God,” said the pastor, looking past Janos’s shoulder to the cross on the altar. “It is earthly justice I doubt.”
Chapter 65
SOMEWHERE IN SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 25, 2010
Grace sighed, tears leaving a wet trail down her face.
From her calculations, today must be Christmas. Betsy must be worried sick. A flicker of a memory shot through her mind, that disastrous Christmas in Carbondale when she had gotten so drunk on plum brandy. The first Christmas after her husband died.
No. Was murdered. He was murdered. And now would this madman murder her?
Why had she not been suspicious that night in the hotel in Piestany?
She shook her head, remembering the night she was kidnapped.
The Hotel Thermia dining room was opulent, hung with chandeliers that glittered in the mirrors. She had been seated in the front of the room, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows to the lit garden beyond.
She had ordered garlic soup, a Slovak specialty, to take the chill from her bones. She had spent the day walking the ruins of Čachtice Castle, comparing her seventeenth-century sketch to the rocky remains. The wind was bitter, and the stones glinted with frost. The footing was treacherous. She had seen only five other visitors in the course of the day, hidden in mufflers and overcoats. They snapped a few photos and hurried back down the steep path to get out of the wind.
There inside the Hotel Thermia it was warm, even if cavernous. She nodded to the waitress, who took her order.
“I would like the diviak lesny—wild boar?—in sour cherry sauce,” said Grace, suddenly famished.
The Slovak girl smiled at the American woman’s attempt to speak in her native language.
“Dobre,” she said, writing down the order. Then she wound her way through the many tables, which were crowded with overweight Germans, Arabs, Russians, and Hasidic Jews who had come to Piestany to take the waters.
When the waitress returned, she set a flute of champagne on the table.
“I didn’t order this,” said Grace.
“No, the man at table there did,” said the waitress inclining her head to the left discreetly. “In…smoking…?”
“Tuxedo,” Grace corrected.
Grace turned to see the gray-haired man rise from the table. She wanted to find her glasses so she could see him more clearly. He accepted a winter cape from the waiter, buttoned the clasp, and took a silver-tipped cane.
He bowed low to Grace, in an exaggerated, old-fashioned manner.
Grace dipped her head in acknowledgement and mouthed, “Thank you.”
“Tell me who he is,” she whispered to the waitress.
“All I know is that he is a count. From Hungary, I think, but his Slovak is perfect. He dines here a few times a year.”
The man left, turning his caped back on the women watching him.
After feasting on wild boar, buttered potatoes, and caraway-spiked cabbage, Grace refused dessert. The half bottle of Zumberg Cabernet had gone straight to her head, accompanied by the champagne sent by the stranger.
She drank strong black coffee, lingering over the cup. The laws for DUI in Slovakia were stiff and she had to remember the way back to the pension.
When she finally felt clear-headed, she rose, staring at the table where she had seen the stranger. A cold finger touched the base of her spine.
It was raining hard outside when the valet brought her the rented car. Wet leaves plastered the windshield. The valet made a desultory attempt to clear them off.
She took off into the driving rain, across the bridge from the island toward the village of Moravany Nad Vahom.
Then she felt steel against her temple.
“Drive carefully, Dr. Path, or you will kill us both.”
The car swerved, making the gun barrel knock against her head. She regained control, looking straight ahead. Her knuckles clenched white on the steering wheel.
“What do you want?” she said. “You can have my purse.”
“Oh, no, that will not please my master at all, I am afraid. Turn right at the end of the bridge. There is a car waiting for you.”
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