by Tara Moss
‘Oh boy,’ I mumbled to myself.
Though the paralysis had long since worn off, it took me a while to move. I kept staring into the boiling vat of blood beneath me, wondering if Báthory would come screaming out of it.
She didn’t.
I found Elizabeth Báthory’s long black limousine at the back of the factory, where it had been parked.
I approached with caution, but my stealth was thwarted by the sound of the gravel crunching under my flat shoes. Augustine was in there, waiting. I could see his bald head through the lightly tinted driver-side window. This vehicle was my only way home. I hunkered down behind the car, heart thumping in my chest, and grabbed a fistful of gravel. I said a little prayer to myself and threw the handful of small rocks at the side of the fence to make a noise. Augustine’s head didn’t move.
Is he or isn’t he . . .?
When he didn’t stir I dared to get closer.
Augustine was leaning against the steering wheel. I pulled the door open and he fell unceremoniously onto the gravel, his legs still caught inside the foot well. I’d at first assumed that Báthory’s minions had all been vampires, but I’d been wrong. Augustine had been a zombie slave, like the rest of them. And now that their mistress was finally, truly dead, I wanted to believe that their souls had at last been released.
Alice.
I turned towards the factory doors, and she was there, next to the prone bodies of two lifeless zombie guards. I could see her under the security light, a watery figure, hauntingly pretty, clothed in a blouse and jeans, her blonde hair in a plait. She looked no older than sixteen. I felt my heart break at the sight of her. Somewhere in this country a family missed her. Many tears had been shed for her. Her family could never know, could never imagine how she had met her terrible end.
‘She’s gone now. You are free,’ I told the girl, through a throat that felt restricted with emotion. I felt a tear slip from my eye.
Alice said nothing, but I thought I felt a certain peace emanating from her before she vanished.
‘Goodbye,’ I said to the empty space.
I had to get out of there.
Augustine blocked my way. ‘Sorry,’ I murmured to the man who had earlier held me still while his mistress poisoned me. It was rather icky pushing the rest of him out of the car and stepping over his body to find the mechanism to unlock the limousine’s trunk.
Ewww.
Augustine was decomposing at a rapid rate. Bits of him were flaking off.
I raced around to the back of the limo and opened the trunk to find two sets of bloodshot, terrified eyes staring up at me. Skye and Pepper were both still very much alive and awake, and waiting for whatever gruesome plans Báthory had for them once she’d had her fun and made black magic beauty cream out of me. I was relieved to see the two of them, and that was possibly a first. From their expressions I could see that they were positively beyond dread, but unable to do anything about their predicament, despite the fact that they were unbound. ‘Where . . . are . . . we . . . ?’ Skye asked in a drugged, uneven voice. The same paralysing poison still had them in its grip. No wonder Báthory had expected I would be more affected than I was. Why had my body responded so differently?
Though I suspected that I was possibly resistant to the full effects of the late undead Elizabeth Báthory’s poisons and tricks, I was soon reminded that I was not superwoman. Lifting my colleagues out of the trunk one at a time and stretching them out in the back of the limo was quite a task, and I can’t say I did it with much elegance. They were dead weights, paralysed as they were. I am woman enough to admit I am not that strong, and though they are both slim, it was a struggle. I even hit Pepper’s head on the lip of the trunk, and she cried out. I am sorry to say I kind of enjoyed it.
They both had gaping puncture marks on their throats and I wondered if they would rise as Sanguine before our night journey was through.
Exhausted, I looked at the ghostly white building and closed my eyes. There were no other signs of life. The zombie guards were deteriorating with bizarre speed.
It was time to go.
I stepped over Augustine’s flaky corpse with another mumbled apology, and climbed into the driver’s seat. I looked into the foot well, stared at the pedals for one flustered moment. I’d never driven anything more exciting than Aunt Georgia’s little Subaru. And this was a limousine, for goodness’ sake. But the key was in the ignition and I started it up easy as pie, popped it into drive, found the headlights and pushed the pedals gingerly until it drifted forward.
I can do this.
I drove up to the gate slowly.
To my relief, all that was left of the zombie security guard were his clothes and a few flakes of dust. It made finding the key chain much easier.
Hours later I knocked on the door of Celia’s penthouse. I had driven for some time along long, dark roads, and just when I thought I was lost I found highway signs for New York. After that it was only a matter of heading for the Empire State Building and then up through the park – and holding my breath every time I cornered the long vehicle. (It had a few fresh dents, but I figured the owner wouldn’t care.)
‘I’m home, Great-Aunt Celia,’ I said as I stepped inside. I could see that she was at her usual spot, reading. Her nocturnal habits fascinated me.
Freyja raced towards me, mewing, and Celia turned to face me. ‘Darling, you are back. I’m so pleased you vanquished the Countess. Well done.’
Such a knack for understatement, my great-aunt.
Great-Aunt Celia rose gracefully, slipped on her shoes and made her way towards me, impeccably dressed in a shimmering black dress and hose. She wore a diamanté brooch and drop earrings. Her veil was in place, as was a slick of crimson lipstick. I wondered if she was going out, or if she had come home from somewhere.
‘I have my boss and the deputy editor in a stolen limousine downstairs,’ I commented, feeling a little insane as I said it, though it was absolutely true. Strangely, on top of everything, I was sorry about Celia’s tuxedo jacket. ‘And I lost your beautiful jacket in a boiling vat of virgin blood. I’m sorry about that . . . Oh, and I desperately need a glass of water,’ I added as an afterthought.
I slipped off my ballet flats and raced to the kitchen to get myself a glass of water. I gulped down three full glasses before I gasped for air. I realised I was freezing cold. I couldn’t wait to get in a bath, but there were so many things to figure out first. ‘I’m worried that . . . that my date Jay was killed. And that my bosses have been made, uh, Sanguine,’ I told my great-aunt. ‘They have puncture marks on their throats.’
Celia listened to my concerns with her usual air of calm. ‘Don’t worry about the jacket, darling,’ she assured me. ‘Though that’s a shame about your date.’ She paused. ‘And with regard to your colleagues, if they were made food, it doesn’t mean they are now Sanguine. Necessarily. We’ll see,’ she said, leaning casually in the doorway. ‘Vlad will take care of them, and the car.’
I raised an eyebrow.
‘He will take them to the hospital,’ she clarified.
With a name like Vlad, I wasn’t exactly sure what ‘take care of them’ might mean. He had nothing to do with Vlad the Impaler, did he?
‘If they are to be undead, at least we’ll have room for them,’ Celia told me. ‘The important thing is that you really did so very well, darling, and you are safe. Countess Báthory was quite a foe. I am so pleased the talisman worked.’
I frowned. ‘The talisman?’
‘The one I gave you. You used it to conquer her,’ she explained. She stepped up to the entryway, pulled on her coat and checked her lipstick in the oval mirror by the door.
The compact. The makeup compact she gave me was a talisman?
‘Yes, Great-Aunt Celia.’ I pulled the compact from my back pocket and marvelled at it. ‘It worked a treat,’ I said.
‘It won’t work on the next one, mind you.’
‘The next one?’ I said, rushing forward to
grab Celia’s arm. ‘What do you mean, the next one?’ I repeated, horrified.
My great-aunt gave me a firm hug, opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. ‘Oh, darling, yes. You are the seventh, remember. Your time has only just begun. Look, I’m terribly sorry to run off like this, but I am late for Deus and we have important things to discuss, as you can imagine! I had to be sure you got home safe. But now I must run . . .’
I gaped. Freyja mewed from my feet.
‘You’ve done well,’ my wise and beautiful great-aunt assured me. ‘Rest up now. You’ll need it.’
The Blood Countess was locked away in some delightfully dark corner of my psyche for years, and I’d like to thank everyone at Pan, especially Rod, Cate, Claire, Joel and the team for understanding my vision of Pandora’s world and giving me the opportunity to bring it to light. (And for dressing up as Dracula with a lisp, Rod. It won’t soon be forgotten.)
I am grateful to have the support of Selwa Anthony, the best writing agent/fairy godmother/friend I could wish for. We all hope for a Selwa or a Celia in our lives. I also have the most amazing girlfriends, including Alison, Amelia, Desi, Tracey, Melinda, Misty, Jacinta, Sarah, Caroline, Lisa, Liz, Helen, Lizzy, Lauren, Tessa, and Linda (forever Miss J). Thank you for being there. And thanks also to the super cool Literary Salon Crew. I’d also like to thank Bogart, Leroy, Camus, Thing and Dorian for making life more interesting – and hairy. Thank you Dad, Lou, Jacquelyn and Dave, Dorothy, Nik, Annelies and Maureen, and all the family here and in Canada for your love and support. Thanks Mum, for all you were and continue to be, 20 years after you passed on. Most of all, I want to thank my beautiful husband Berndt, without whom I would undoubtedly have scurvy by now, among other afflictions. Thanks for the spontaneous zombie street theatre through Town Hall at Halloween, and for letting me waffle on about the undead constantly. I love you.
Finally I’d like to thank Bela Lugosi, my first crush on the dark side, age six, Bram Stoker, who has a lot to answer for, the Countess herself, Elizabeth Báthory, and all those who have over the centuries contributed to the rich vein of folklore and mythology on which so much of this novel is based.
www.taramoss.com