On the floor was a tub made of granite, with a long plastic hose running from the drain. Ugly brown stains had discolored the gray stone.
She looked quickly away, climbed the dais to look at the tome on the lectern. It was not an old book, its creamy pages were new and modern.
Betsy blinked, focusing her eyes.
It can’t be, she told herself. She looked again.
It was The Red Book.
She scanned the pages. A passage was highlighted in red.
The task is to give birth to the old in a new time. The soul of humanity is like the great wheel of the zodiac that rolls along the way…There is no part of the wheel that does not come around again.
The Red Book as sinister? she thought.
She heard her father’s voice.
A knife in the hands of a good man can cut bread to feed his family. A knife in the hands of malevolent man is a weapon. Anything can be good or evil, Betsy. Everything is neutral, assigned a value only in the hands of the holder.
Betsy stared at the book as her father’s words continued in her head:
Even the best analysis can fail. You must understand this, Betsy. Along the tortured journey through a man’s or woman’s mind, there are those who are lost forever. You must learn to protect yourself from tumbling into their abyss.
For ultimately we are connected.
The sound of footsteps sent Betsy scrambling back behind the tapestry.
Betsy peered out beyond the edge of the weaving. Her position was steeped in shadows, for the torches were in the far corner of the room. Only when a flame leapt was her wall illuminated for brief seconds.
A young woman in an antique silk gown entered slowly, escorted by an elegant white-haired man with a walking stick. Something in his exaggerated paleness, the grace of his posture, reminded Betsy of someone she once knew.
Betsy saw the glint of the silver-tipped walking stick. And she remembered.
She had been a very young girl, bored with adults talking about Austro-Hungarian history, dates, papers and books they had published. He had called her to him, away from the crowd. He sat in the shadows of a room filled with paintings of Ottoman-Hungarian battles.
He showed her his carved walking stick, with a silver dragon with ruby eyes. She sat on his knee. He shifted her weight.
That left knee hurts me, he had said. That is why I walk with a stick.
He whispered he was a distant cousin and glad to make her acquaintance. He let her play with the dragon.
The bright rubies glared at her.
Betsy remembered the shocked look on her mother’s face when she came rushing to sweep her child off the man’s lap. The scent of fear on her skin. Betsy had never forgotten the stranger, but her mother and father refused to speak about him.
Don’t talk to strangers, was all her father had said. And never, ever talk to that man again.
Betsy looked again at the woman in the silk gown, a huge white lace collar extending under her chin, a stiff square panel.
The woman’s skin was pallid, her eyes made up in an elaborate fashion. She walked in a wooden gait. Perhaps she was drugged.
Her hair was a shining auburn.
The woman stopped, gazing at a portrait of Erzsebet Bathory, one Betsy had seen over and over on the internet.
The young woman’s hand drifted up to her cheek. The Count watched her intently. He smiled, reaching for her hand.
Betsy stared. She recognized the red-haired woman.
Chapter 111
ČACHTICE CASTLE
DECEMBER 29, 1610
Janos buried the ledger deep in the straw, in the corner where the white stallion was stabled. He knew that no one would dare enter. The horse was tamed to his hands alone; even Aloyz stayed away from this corner of the stable.
“What did she give you?” demanded a voice in the shadows.
Janos recognized the voice immediately. “Who?”
Guard Kovach stepped toward him. He had a dagger in his hand.
“We stopped her at the gate,” he said. “I saw you.”
“She is innocent, Kovach. Let her go.”
“It is out of my hands, Horsemaster. The Countess will determine her fate. Or perhaps she will leave it to the Dark One in Transylvania.”
Janos swallowed hard.
Kovach smiled. “Now give it to me.”
Janos stared at him through the darkness. The captain’s silhouette appeared enormous against the lime-washed wall, a giant exaggerated by the torchlight beyond Janos. Dagger in hand.
“Give it to me!”
Janos thought of the girls’ murders. He thought of Vida, risking her life. Then he remembered Zuzana, who should, even now, be bringing Thurzo to Čachtice.
“No.”
“You Hungarian fool!”
Kovach lunged. Janos leapt aside, looking around desperately for a weapon. There was nothing.
“You betray the Countess!” growled Kovach.
“And you betray God!”
Kovach slashed at Janos, catching his upper arm. Blood soaked the linen tunic, but he dodged the second thrust. There was no escape—Kovach positioned himself at the stable door.
He closed on Janos, walking quietly, slowly.
The dagger glinted in the torchlight.
Janos ran to the far side of the horse. He touched the stallion’s neck, his lips moving silently. The skin on the horse’s flank quivered, his ears flattened.
Kovach crept closer, his fist tightening around the knife. He had worked Janos into a corner of the box stall. There was no escape.
“In the name of the Countess—” said Kovach.
A shrill whinny rang through the night air. The horse whirled his head around. He seized the guard’s arm with his long teeth, his powerful jaws crushing the bone.
Kovach screamed.
The white stallion reared, snapping his rope. His iron-shod feet flashed out at the captain, knocking him to the ground.
Janos turned away, clutching his wounded arm. He heard Kovach’s scream cut short as the stallion’s hooves shattered his skull.
Chapter 112
BATHORY CASTLE
DECEMBER 29, 2010
John saw headlights illuminating the iron grillwork of the gate.
Three police cars raced up the road, red-and-blue lights flashing. Two police officers bounded out of the car, guns drawn.
The castle guard took out his cell phone. He spoke rapidly and then set the phone down, as the police approached with guns pointed.
One police officer began questioning the guard.
Another car drove up. John recognized one of the passengers who jumped out of the car.
“Detective Whitehall!” he shouted.
John stared at the butler’s preternaturally blue eyes.
“No, I am sorry,” the butler repeated. With his blond pomaded hair slicked back, he managed to look surly even as he confronted the Bratislava authorities.
John looked around the room. The fire was lit, the hearth deep with glowing embers. On a small table near the fireplace stood a decanter of red wine. He saw a splash of liquid on what must be a treasure—a very old tapestry of a slain dragon.
He touched the stain. It was still wet. He brought his fingers to his nose—wine. On the floor a shard of glass twinkled.
“The Count is not in residence. I believe he is in Bratislava,” said the blue-eyed man, unblinking.
“You liar!” said John.
“We have reason to believe that he is indeed in residence,” said Detective Whitehall, glancing at John. “We will wait to see him.”
“Wait?” said John. “We can’t wait. He has kidnapped at least three women. He has a friend of mine hidden somewhere in the castle.”
“I will assume that you will produce proof of this ‘kidnapping,’ ” said the butler, his voice cool and controlled. “Otherwise you wouldn’t dare enter this house.”
“We have the license plate seen at the scene of a kidnapping,”
said Detective Whitehall. “We have been tracking this car for two days now.”
“I am sorry, I don’t think I am aware of your…jurisdiction?” said the butler.
“Detective Whitehall, from Scotland Yard.”
“Scotland Yard? That certainly does not give you the right to slander my employer, a Hungarian citizen of nobility. I shall call the embassy at once.”
“I am in charge of this investigation,” said a burly police officer. “I am a captain in the Bratislava division of the Slovakian National Police. I require your complete cooperation.”
“This will not be good for delicate Hungarian-Slovak relations,” said the butler, a thinly veiled threat. “Please convey this to your president. He knows Count Bathory, of course.”
The police captain grunted.
“So,” said the butler, raising his chin. “You have a license plate number. Witnesses often misread license plates, as I am sure you are aware. You have no subpoena. And I tell you the Count is not at home.”
“We can search—can’t we?” asked John.
The police officer approached him, saying in a quiet voice, “These castles have many secret doors and passageways. We need him to be more cooperative.”
“You have no real evidence, no subpoena,” said the butler. “I shall have to ask you to please leave at once.”
John pushed past the police officer. Raw anger propelled him forward.
He heard a crunch under his boot.
John looked down. It was Daisy’s crucifix, broken on the floor.
Chapter 113
BATHORY CASTLE DUNGEON
HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS, SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 29, 2010
The Count escorted Morgan to a high-backed chair on the dais. Two skeletal men stood on either side of her, dark pools under their eyes like bruises against the white of their skin.
Peering around the border of the tapestry, Betsy watched the tableau from the corner of the room.
“Call off the ghouls,” Morgan said, slurring her words.
She’s drugged, Betsy thought.
“No, I think it would be best if they were at your side,” said the Count. “Be a good girl now and don’t interfere, or we will have to tie you to the chair. Most undignified. Especially unfitting for the role you will play tonight.”
He called to the woman attendant, beyond Betsy’s field of sight.
“Bring in Dr. Path now,” he said.
Betsy held her breath as her mother was led in, shackled. A fuchsia-haired woman set her down in a heavy wooden chair with leather straps on the armrest. Betsy heard the rip of Velcro as the attendant opened the straps and closed them again around her mother’s forearms.
“Good evening, Dr. Path,” said the Count. “Welcome to the four-hundredth anniversary of the Countess’s arrest. We will proceed with the night festivities.”
He turned away from her and walked to the lace-covered table. Betsy watched him touch the objects there, one by one, in deep reverence. The decanter, the golden funnel. He unwound the cord and opened the leather satchel. He held up a gleaming blade. Then another. He smiled.
He touched the silver spoon. Finally he stroked The Red Book with an open palm. His fingertips lingered on Jung’s words.
“That’s The Red Book,” said Morgan, blinking hard to clear her head.
“Ah! You know Jung’s masterpiece?”
“Why? Why do you have it?”
“It is the journey of the soul. The diary of a madman, not afraid of darkness. I am not afraid either, I embrace it. I shall paint my own masterpiece in blood.”
Then he frowned. He touched the spoon again.
“Akos, Andras—” He said something in Hungarian to the two men guarding Morgan.
They both glanced at the red-haired young woman, then left her. They closed the door quietly behind them.
“Why did you send them away?” mumbled Morgan.
“Do not worry, my beauty,” said the Count. “Relax. Tonight you must simply enjoy.”
Grace struggled against her leather fetters, saying nothing.
The Count walked to the opposite wall from Betsy’s hiding place, which was also covered in ancient tapestries. He lifted the corner of the hanging next to the portrait of Countess Bathory, uncovering a safe set into the stone.
He punched in a combination, swung the safe open, and withdrew an ornate ebony and ivory box.
Betsy watched as he brought the box to the table. He opened the box, dipped the silver spoon into it and brought it out, filled with white powder. He took a knife and leveled the powder perfectly. He dropped the contents into the large decanter.
“What’s that?” asked Grace. “What are you putting in there?”
“Uncontrollable desire,” he answered and laughed quietly. “No, no, I jest,” he said, regarding her intent stare. He snapped the lid closed on the box. “What we will add tonight is ambrosia. This is merely a dash of spice.”
Morgan started to rise from her chair, unsteadily.
“NO!” he snapped. His hand shot out, covering the box. “Stay there, or you will be punished.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You drug them,” she said. “What is it? Heroin? Their teeth, eyes—”
The Count turned on her. “Don’t say another word, Dr. Path. I warn you—”
“They’re all addicts. That’s why they’re so pale and thin. They’re addicts, not vampires!”
The Count strode over to her, seething. He slapped her face.
Betsy started to lunge from behind the tapestry. Something stopped her.
“Shut up!” shouted the Count. “They live on blood—they cannot live without it!”
“You want a cult of vampires,” Grace said, slowly. “But they’re just a bunch of crazed junkies!”
The creases in his brow deepened. He stared at the imprint of his hand blossoming on her cheek.
“You total shit!” screamed Morgan. “You just hit a helpless old lady!”
“My Countess…” he started, turning to Morgan. “Do not listen to her. I have created a perfect world in the image of you.”
“I’m not her,” said Morgan, shaking her head. “That psychotic Countess. You are psychotic.”
His eyes flew open. “Oh, my darling. Do not say that. I worship you!”
He tried to take her hand. She snatched it away.
“Get away from me.”
A wild light danced in his eyes. His cheek twitched.
“Look, I bring you pleasure.” He barked orders into an intercom. “You will see. I will amuse you thoroughly. I have followed your ways—”
“Go to hell, you creepy bastard!”
Bathory stared at her silently. His scowl returned. The wild light died.
“Of course,” he said. “For an instant I thought you were really her.”
“Think again, asshole.”
The two guards reentered. Count Bathory barked an order in Hungarian. Andros picked up a length of rope hanging on a steel spike, jutting from the wall.
“You will be tied now, my Lady. I will not tolerate any more interference,” said Bathory.
The guards seized her, securing her arms to the heavy chair. Morgan struggled against their grasp.
A girl was marched in, her hands bound, her face preternaturally pale, as if she had never seen the sun.
“Ona, bring the girl here.”
“Daisy!” Morgan screamed, still wrestling against the men and the rope.
Daisy stared at her sister without a flicker of recognition.
“You’ve drugged her, too. Daisy!”
Count Bathory’s face twisted in a smile.
“Yes, but the drug she has is ever so much stronger than yours. Yours is meant to relax, nothing more. Hers is—well, she has been in a different dimension, I would say.”
“Daisy! It’s Morgan. Daisy!”
Again, a blank stare.
But slowly, a flicker of recognition grew. In the recesses of her mind, a dim mem
ory.
It was the voice that pulled Daisy from her dreams. A voice that had called to her before, when evil had stalked her years ago. Morgan had intervened.
This is true evil, thought Daisy, not like the things I thought I experienced in the cemetery or a Ouiji session or a haunted house.
As a Goth she had played at daring the dark side. Her black clothes and the corpse paint on her face paid tribute to what was beyond mortality, to the spirit world. Her Goth ways were a nod to a dimension far beyond the petty cares of life in the twenty-first century. Daisy was intrigued by the shadows, pulled by the tide of mysticism.
That world had called to her, ever since her parents divorced.
No. Ever since her father’s visits to the girls’ bedrooms.
Daisy’s throat tightened. She began to gag.
“She’s choking!” screamed Morgan.
The Count looked at Daisy, his mouth puckered.
“The drug has never had that effect before,” he said. He studied the gasping victim with a clinical eye.
“Daisy!” whispered Morgan, her voice soothing despite her fear. “It’s all right. I’m here, baby sister. No one will hurt you.”
Daisy closed her eyes, her chest heaving.
The darkness enveloped her again, soothing.
Goth. She had welcomed that thrill. She had sought dark tales and magical rites. It was a game. She plunged deep into the pool of shadows, forgetting everything else. The taste of darkness, so rich—she savored its opium.
To forget, the most perfect gift.
But now she knew that unfathomable evil lurked this side of the netherworld. Here in her realm, in this world, a psychotic stranger raged with a madness that summoned the bloodiest nightmares.
This was no tale from a dusty book. This insanity was real, lethal.
And somehow her sister had penetrated this world, just as she did the other nightmare.
“Do not worry. This drug will not last much longer. Potent but a short duration,” said Bathory, observing Daisy’s eyes.
The Count studied Daisy, tapping his walking stick on the rock floor. After a moment, he gestured with the cane and the guards pushed her down into an iron chair, bolted into the rock. They bound her arms and legs to the metal.
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