House of Bathory

by Linda Lafferty

  The Count opened the ancient leather case. He picked up a blade.

  “Do not move,” he said. “It will go easier…for now. Andras!”

  Andras hurried with a white porcelain tray. He placed it under Daisy’s wrist.

  Count Bathory looked once more at Morgan.

  “For you, my lady,” he said, bowing stiffly

  He sliced the white skin of Daisy’s wrist with a deft cock of his wrist. Blood splattered into the tray.

  “You sick fuck!” shouted Morgan. She twisted, struggling against her ropes. “You monster, leave her alone!”

  As Betsy watched, her breath felt trapped deep in her lungs. She forced herself to breathe.

  She remembered her father warning her.

  Swear to me you will never treat delusional patients. Never!

  But why, Papa?

  A patient in his past had haunted him, was all he said. This patient was the reason he had fled Europe for good. He refused to tell her any more.

  There is ugliness in the world I will never relive, was all he would say. It is best left buried.

  What kind of Jungian are you, Papa?

  The Count laughed as the blood collected, pooling in the ceramic tray.

  “Does this not amuse you? Oh, I see. Not yet.”

  Betsy gathered herself to leap into the room, then she stopped.

  Her instinct was to run to help her patient, to free her mother and Morgan. But she could feel John’s presence by her shoulder whispering, Wait! Think, first.

  She stayed behind the tapestry in the darkness, trying to collect her thoughts. Anguish burned her throat. But to show herself now was certain suicide. What could she accomplish?

  Betsy caught a whiff of blood, the odor of copper coins. This madman had kidnapped these two girls, her own mother. He was torturing Daisy—an innocent girl who had tried to protect her.

  Betsy had spent her life working on the side of sanity, trying to preserve human dignity in the face of madness. But this was more than madness. This was evil. This could not be cured. It could only be killed.

  Extinguished.

  Her mouth twisted with hatred, with rage. The tendons of her neck stood out as she clenched her teeth. She felt a fire deep within her, an instinct to strike, to kill this man who threatened those she loved.

  You are the other, her father had said. The unspeakable thoughts, the basest desires, the unfathomable horror. All of this is part of you as much as you deny it. It is your shadow.

  When you realize that, you will indeed be a Jungian. What decisions you make, given the ugly face of your shadow, is who you are.

  Remember: Nothing human is alien to me.

  The sour taste in the back of her mouth gave her the urge to spit. She choked back the bile and watched, her left cheek twitching.

  She remembered the ledger, zipped in the back pocket of her jacket. The names of all those girls.

  The Count motioned and Ona applied a tourniquet to Daisy’s arm. Then she bandaged the wound, using butterfly adhesives. Her practiced hands indicated that the sinister chore was a familiar one.

  Using the golden funnel, the Count carefully poured the blood from the tray into the crystal decanter.

  He swirled the blood around, watching the red liquid in delight.

  He walked toward Morgan.

  “Get away from me,” she snarled. “Get away! Leave me alone!”

  Daisy’s voice cried, small and distant.

  “Get away!” Daisy said. “Run! Don’t let him touch you!”

  Standing before Morgan, the Count recited from The Red Book.

  “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—”

  He swirled the blood again in the decanter. A dark sheen clung to the glass.

  “Everything that comes up in a constant movement from below to the heights was already there. There is no part of the wheel that does not come around again.”

  Blasphemy. The Red Book interpreted as evil, thought Betsy.

  Daisy gave a small cry and fainted, her head lolling as she slumped in the chair.

  Betsy swallowed, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. She had to act—but again John’s voice told her she had to wait.

  Ona knelt beside Daisy.

  “Little witch,” she ordered. “Wake!”

  She slapped the girl’s pale cheeks, trying to bring her back to consciousness.

  Daisy’s eyes flickered open.

  She’s still alive, thought Betsy. But she could die of shock.

  The door of the dungeon swung open. A dark-haired servant stood at the opening, speaking quickly in Hungarian.

  The Count’s face turned stony. He issued an order. Akos left, casting a pointed look over his shoulder at Andras, who stayed behind.

  “Some unfortunate business threatens to interrupt our pleasure,” said the Count. He turned to Morgan. “But the night games will continue as planned. Precisely as you practiced them four hundred years ago, my Countess.”

  Chapter 114

  ČACHTICE CASTLE

  DECEMBER 29, 1610

  Zuzana hurried through the dark underground corridor, her fingers trailing against the rocky wall. She carried no candle but ran blindly, her skirt flying behind her.

  A cold draft of air curled around her ears, neck, and shoulders as she reached the juncture of tunnels. She saw torchlight at the end of the tunnel, heard the murmur of voices. She dropped back, behind fallen rubble.

  Suddenly from the dungeon, the corridors, and the castle above came the scream of a baby. Then another, and another.

  Zuzana froze. Could the Countess be torturing infants?

  Then she recognized the sound. Every cat in the castle howled, the weird cacophony unbearable.

  What could it mean?

  Zuzana searched for amber eyes in the darkness. She was barely able to breathe; the cats’ screeching flooded her ears.

  “The servant girl Vida was found, running for the gate,” said a man’s voice. “She has been captured. She was seen giving something to the horsemaster.”

  “The horsemaster?” It was Hedvika’s voice.

  “Captain Kovach has gone to retrieve whatever she gave him. He should be here momentarily. Also, Slecna Zuzana cannot be found.”

  “She and Vida—”

  “Captain told me to notify the Countess at once.”

  “Consider her notified,” said a voice behind Zuzana. A cold hand clutched her forearm in the darkness, the grip tightening hard against the bone.

  “Guard!” shouted the Countess, yanking at Zuzana’s arm, pushing her forward. “Here is our traitor!”

  Zuzana jerked away and began to run. The riding boots she wore were too large for her. She stumbled, fell, and scrambled back up.

  The first guard seized her. Two more followed with torches.

  “Fool,” said the Countess, out of breath. She slapped Zuzana hard across the face. “Did you think I do not know these corridors better than you? You and your clumsy, clattering boots. Why are you dressed this way?” The Countess pulled her close. “You smell of horse sweat. Where would you be riding at this time of night?”

  Zuzana did not answer.

  “Hold her!” Bathory said, her jaw set in anger. “Take off her coat, bring the torch.”

  The guards pulled the cloak from the girl.

  “I’ve always wondered if there remained anything beautiful beyond your eyes. In your eyes, I see your brother. On your skin, I see death. But what lies hidden beneath your bodice?”

  Countess Bathory’s hand flashed out, ripping Zuzana’s bodice, exposing her white, perfect breasts.

  Bathory raked her nails deep into the girl’s flesh.

  Zuzana howled in pain. She fell back into the guard’s arms, blood streaming down her breasts.

  The Countess sneered at the girl writhing in the guard’s arms.

  “Your dear brother. You shall join him in d
eath.”

  Entering the dungeons, Thurzo’s men came across Doricza’s body first. The Croatian girl had been stabbed, the Palatine could see that. But she also been cudgeled savagely, her flesh a bloody pulp. Her body had been dragged into the shadows of the tunnel.

  Gyorgy Thurzo bent down over the girl’s corpse, removing his glove. His hand touched her face.

  “By God, she is still warm,” he whispered to the pastor. The pastor began praying, his lips moving silently.

  Thurzo strode along the rocky corridor, the others behind him, to the entrance of the upper dungeon. There he saw a young girl—not more than sixteen—also dead on the floor. Their footsteps clattered, descending into the bowels of the earth.

  He heard the muffled screams of girls somewhere close. He raced down the rock steps nearly impaling himself on a door fitted with spikes. He swung the door open and saw the Countess herself.

  She was seated on a stool, a dead girl’s body at her feet. She screwed up her bloody face, her eyes squinting to see.

  “Who goes there? You shall pay for your intrusion!”

  “Not so,” Count Thurzo roared. “This is not one of your servants but the Palatine Prince of Hungary who stands before you and has come in the name of the King to bring justice to these accursed walls!”

  Countess Bathory stared back. Her blood-drenched hand touched her face, and she looked down at her victim.

  The rest of Thurzo’s party pressed into the fetid room. Beads of water clung to the rocky walls, the dampness accentuating the stench of death.

  “Countess Bathory, you are arrested for the crime of murder, by order of King Matthias.”

  Two guards seized the Countess by the arms.

  Fizko, Dorka, and Ilona Joo stumbled up the stairs, their hands tied. Guards prodded them ahead at the point of a pike.

  Thurzo looked around the chamber. There were three girls, all tied and gagged. As the pastor cut their bonds, they wept uncontrollably in his arms, like small children.

  “Where is Zuzana?” the clergyman asked.

  “She was not tortured long, Father,” said a black-haired girl, still clinging desperately to him. “She broke loose from the guard and ran. She did not suffer long, I swear it.”

  She pointed to a great dark hole in the ground. The pastor could hear the echo of rushing water, deep below.

  Janos ran down the stone steps. He stood panting at the scene. The blood-smeared Countess. The dead girl at her feet. The sobbing girls standing to one side. Thurzo’s men staring wide-eyed, their faces white with disgust and horror.

  The Countess looked at Janos in disdain, raising an eyebrow on her flawless, pale brow.

  “Are you looking for your little friend, Horsemaster?” said the Countess, her voice icy. “Because if you are, it is too late.”

  “What have you—”

  “Look for her in my carp ponds, I believe that’s where the water flows. Her body will feed my fish well.”

  “You—”

  “We shall have fat carp come springtime. I must invite you to dine again.”

  Her skirts made a swishing sound as the guard dragged her up the stairs.

  Chapter 115

  BATHORY CASTLE

  HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS, SLOVAKIA

  DECEMBER 29, 2010

  John clutched the broken crucifix in his hand.

  “This belongs to Daisy Hart,” he said. “She disappeared today, just beyond the gates of this castle.”

  The butler looked at the cross. John could smell the sweat emanating from the servant’s wool jacket.

  John watched the man look away.

  “Where is she?” he shouted. “Tell us!”

  The police officer picked up his cell phone. He dialed a number, spoke briefly, waited. Moments elapsed. Finally, the policeman nodded his head. He locked eyes with the Hungarian butler.

  “We have permission to continue the search,” said the officer. “From the highest authority. I suggest you cooperate from now on, Mr.—”

  “Gellert. Heinrich Gellert.”

  “Show us the lower floors of the castle, Pan Gellert. Now!”

  Chapter 116

  BATHORY CASTLE DUNGEON

  HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS, SLOVAKIA

  DECEMBER 29, 2010

  A guard pounded on the thick oak door. Andras slid the bolts and opened the door. He and the guard spoke briefly in hushed voices.

  The Count ignored the men.

  Andras looked one last time at the Count and slipped out the door, following the guard into the darkness beyond. Ona put down the candlestick and hurried after them.

  The Count roared—an inhuman sound. The candlelight guttered in a draft from somewhere deep in the castle. It caught the Count’s eye, distracted him for a moment from his rage.

  He closed the iron door and slid the bolt shut. Grace glanced toward Morgan and back to the Count again.

  He walked toward the candle, hypnotized. He bent down, picking it up from the floor. He lifted the crystal decanter from the table and swirled the blood again. He turned to Morgan. “Watch, my Mistress! I shall bring back joyous light to your eyes!”

  Now! Betsy thought. She surged out of the trapdoor and threw herself at the Count. His bad knee crumpled and he screamed with pain as he fell heavily to the floor, his head hitting the stones. He lay suddenly still and silent.

  Betsy screamed, “Mom! I’m coming!

  At least she is safe for the time being.

  Breathing heavily, Betsy took her pocketknife from her jacket and cut through the ropes holding Morgan to the chair.

  Morgan didn’t react. She didn’t look at Betsy. Her eyes were riveted on the Count and his victim, her sister.

  Morgan’s fingers dug into her bodice and pulled out an object.

  The thin, sharp blade of a switchblade sliced the air.

  Betsy didn’t see the Count struggle back to his feet, blood running down his face from a cut above his eye, where his head had hit the stone floor. He stared at Betsy, his eyes transfixed on her face.

  Then he turned toward Daisy.

  “Whore!” the Count shouted, lunging for Daisy’s throat. “This is all your fault! You shall be punished in the name of Countess Bathory.”

  “Get off of her!” screamed Morgan, charging toward him.

  The Count twisted in time to fend off her attack. He held up one hand, protecting his face. The other grabbed for Morgan’s arm.

  He pulled her down on top of him. They both wrestled for the knife. Bathory managed to get a tenuous grasp on the hilt.

  Morgan grabbed his wrist, the blade twisting in his hand.

  Bathory wrenched the knife from Morgan’s grasp, but she rolled on her side and swung her knees up, striking the Count hard in the crotch.

  He screamed, losing his grasp of the knife. She snatched it from him with the deft move of a street fighter.

  Morgan plunged the switchblade between his ribs. She pulled out the knife. She stood above her victim, panting.

  The Count lay very still. Morgan hovered over him.

  He suddenly lashed out, knocking the knife from her hand. It clattered across the floor.

  He spoke as he raised himself to his knees. His eyes blinked wide in astonishment.

  “You betray me, Mistress,” the Count said, staring at Morgan. “Have I not dedicated my life to you, Countess?”

  He caught sight of Betsy, just behind her.

  “And you, my cousin? I knew I would see you again, but not like this. Not here—”

  “I am not your cousin,” said Betsy. She stood warily, wondering if Morgan had inflicted a mortal injury.

  He crumpled again to the floor, his hand pressed against his ribs. He curled up in a fetal position.

  Keeping an eye on the Count, Betsy cut the ropes that held Daisy to the chair.

  “Hurry,” Betsy said. “Get help!” Daisy stood up, unsteady for a moment, then she stumbled out the door into the corridor and up the winding stairs.

  Betsy tur
ned back to Morgan, who stared blankly. A bloody wound blossomed on her sleeve, soaking the silk.

  “Morgan! You’re hurt.”

  Betsy untied the red bandana around her neck.

  The blood was pumping fast, too fast for the small bandana. She dropped it on the floor, her fingers flying to undo the bow on Morgan’s apron. She wound the material tightly around the wound, securing the ties. She kept one eye on the Count as she worked.

  “I tried to protect her. I always protected her, my little sister,” Morgan mumbled. “I would never let him touch her.”

  “I know,” said Betsy. “Morgan, I know. Be still now.”

  “It wasn’t right,” said Morgan, shaking her head. “I told him so. They are related by blood. I told him to take me instead. We’re not related, not really, you know.” Her voice was empty. “And I loved him. Once.”

  “It’s all right now, Morgan,” said Betsy, pulling off the girl’s red-stained lace collar.

  Morgan’s clammy skin and distant stare betrayed symptoms of shock.

  A gurgle rattled in the Count’s throat. Betsy turned.

  “You are the last of the true line, Dr. Elizabeth Path,” said the Count, his voice hollow and rasping. He was on his knees on the stone floor. “The Countess’s daughter, whom Gabor tracked down in Transylvania. She was your ancestor. They planned to raise her together, he and the Countess, to be their legacy. The most deadly of us all.”

  “You are insane,” muttered Betsy.

  The Count watched his blood pool. He appeared not to hear her.

  “After the Countess’s death, after Gabor’s death, destiny turned. The girl was forgotten, except for her Bathory name. Your father knew—”

  The Count’s breath was ragged.

  “Your father betrayed us all,” he said.

  “My…father?” Betsy shot a look at her mother, tied and gagged. She needed to untie her, but she was suddenly too tired to move.

  Instead her fingers fumbled with the zipper of her back pocket. She pulled out the ledger.

  “What did my father have to do with this?” said Betsy, scrambling to her feet.

  “Ah!” gasped the Count. “So he did find it after all.”