The dark chill returned, only partially anesthetized by the brandy. She thought again of the Book and the picture at the very end, concluding that inhumane tale of degradation and domination.
“The Eternal Bride,” the caption had read. The dress was suitably medieval, flowing silk trimmed with lace and ruffles, but the face was anything but lost and forgotten. In fact, had there been a mirror in its place, the page could not have been more revealing.
For all intents and purposes, the girl sketched into Belok’s dark book was her. So that’s why Belok was after her. Simon had been right. She was Vistya’s double. Born again.
***
Merritt lost track of the number of cocks. Petrok took her to the University District, where it was nothing to peddle flesh even in broad daylight. All Merritt had to do was lean against the scooter, looking as sexy as possible. Petrok handled the negotiations, collecting five zuravs apiece for the right to use the American girl’s mouth, an extra two for the privilege of feeling up her tits. They were parked beside a covered walkway near a large pillar. More than enough space to hide a woman on her knees, head bobbing up and down on a customer.
Most were students at the University of Vistya, young and unshaven, their lean bodies thick with the scent of perspiration, cigarette smoke and coffee. A couple of them were teachers, and there were even a few business types. Merritt’s jaws ached painfully and she felt oddly full, the collected emissions of two-dozen males having settled into the bottom of her stomach.
The only thing she was thankful for was that there’d been no opportunity to prostitute her arse out here.
“Where did you get the idea to come here instead of the Pristiene?” Merritt wondered.
Again, the young man grinned. “Simon’s suggestion. He said this is a much safer place to play with you.”
“Whore,” spat a middle-aged woman, leaving a large gob of saliva on her cheek as she walked by.
“Lick it off,” said Petrok, shaming both women at once.
Merritt complied without question. She was too tired to care and too sexually frustrated. She wanted them all to fuck her by now, even the ugliest. How easy it would be from her standpoint to lie on the concrete and open her legs, having first shed the skin of pants and underwear.
“Should I cut you in for a portion of the profits?” he thumbed through the crumpled fistful of bills.
Merritt looked at them and felt a tiny rush. Each one represented a submission of herself to a demeaning, disgusting act. And yet, if he told her to, she would do it again. “Petrok, can we go somewhere now…just the two of us?”
He removed her hands from his neck. “You are tempting me, Annie, but I am an agent now for a super secret agency. I can’t just do as I please.”
The statement struck her as absurd, inducing her to laugh out loud.
He scowled a little, insulted perhaps, and took her back to the hotel.
She smiled the whole way. For the first time on this entire blasted trip, she’d actually gotten the better of a man.
Chapter Ten
The flowers were waiting for her in her room. White and purple and red Zuravian roses mixed with various other types whose names she didn’t even know. The aroma was as sweet as honey mixed with lilac. Closing her eyes put her right back in the fields behind her grandparent’s farm the few times her father had actually allowed her to visit his religiously conservative parents.
The card was beside the vase on the desk, the royal blue envelope embossed with her name elegantly handwritten in silver. Far and away, this was the most touching gift she’d ever received. With a trembling hand, she opened the finely milled paper and pulled out the card.
To one whose beauty shames native Zuravia. With admiration and devotion, your faithful servant, Andre, Count Rochescu.
Merritt sat heavily upon her bed, nearly squashing the silver garment bag. Where had that come from? Tentatively, she tugged down the zipper. There was a gown inside, emerald green and sequined. She didn’t bother to remove it quite yet but moved to the large silver box next to it, topped with a blue bow.
Eagerly like a small child, she opened it to see what was inside.
Shoes. Emerald green with wispy straps and high, elegant heels, and a handbag to match. All with sequins, the perfect compliment to the dress. Another item at the bottom under tissue paper was black and familiar: her purse, with an envelope taped to the outside. Inside she found the following invitation:
You are cordially invited to dinner this evening by invitation of His Excellency, Andre, Count Rochescu, Knight of the Fellowship of the Cup of Hrabon.
So, the great Rochescu was revealing himself at last. But what was this Fellowship associated with Belok’s supposedly unholy chalice, the one that had chilled her to the bone at its very touch? She skimmed to a handwritten note at the bottom, penned presumably by the cagey noble himself.
My dear Doctor Fisher: I would be honored by your presence at Castle Vistalaya tonight. I shall send a car for you promptly at seven.
Vistalaya. Named by the Prince for his wife, their royal seat as well as the scene of his final days under siege. The very center of the man’s power, a place haunted by dread spirits, screaming their anguish into the night skies.
Merritt knew she should run straight to the airport. Forget changing her ticket, she should take the next flight anywhere. And where the hell was Simon Rutledge? Why was he never around when she needed him? You could be sure he’d be back to beat her or fuck her again if she made another wrong move tonight.
Maybe Petrok could help her when he was done spending the money earned from her giving blowjobs all day. There was another man to count on in a pinch. Okay, he’d rescued her, and so had Simon, but why did she feel like a little white mouse in a house full of cats?
Speaking of which, wasn’t she a tiny bit curious herself? She’d seen Rochescu’s picture. He was a rugged playboy, dark haired, insolent, and the castle he’d invited her to was Belok’s own. Closed to the public, never to her knowledge seen by a historian from the West.
Why shouldn’t she be the first, and have a little fun in the process?
Insolently, she fingered the green material, so sparkly, so sheer. How much did it cost, she wondered.
It stunned Merritt how easily she could change roles now. From shy wallflower to eager victim and willing complicitor in the dark unknown. Carefully she laid out the dress, the most beautiful she’d ever seen. No doubt it would be a perfect fit, as these Zuravian men seemed to know everything about her. But what they did not know was that Americans, particularly women, were not merely capable of naiveté or gross improprieties abroad. They were also cunning, seemingly innocent as doves yet wise as serpents.
Yes, she held the dress up against herself, feeling the liquid heat in her loins. Tonight she would make every man there burn with need. She’d play her part to the hilt, queen of the ball. Soon-to-be Bride of Belok.
“Why not?” she whispered, suppressing a girlish giggle. “It’s all a game. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
The clap of thunder outside her window went ignored, as did the sudden gust of wind. Merritt was a woman on a mission, and she had much work to do before seven.
***
Her driver was Piko, which suited her splendidly. The little man’s eyes bugged out when he saw her.
“Ma'am,” the little fellow sputtered, “you are so pretty.”
The quite ordinary word, coming as it did from the awestruck lips of the most sincere man she’d ever met next to her father was a higher compliment than the little man could have realized.
“You’re a dear,” she squeezed his hand. “And I do hope you’ll allow me the first dance tonight…they do dance at the castle don’t they?”
Piko grew pale. “I—I don’t think—”
“Never mind,” she spared him, hating to see the fear in his eyes.
He smiled thinly, and she followed him from the lobby. Judging by the eyes on her, she was doing Rochescu's
clothes justice. She’d chosen to put her hair up, wrapping it high on her head. She went light on the makeup, relying on her natural color to complement the gown. The color choice, though not one she would have made on her own, seemed a good one. This Rochescu had taste.
She giggled thinking what they would say back home. Merritt never dared to dress sexy at faculty parties or department events. On one occasion, she’d worn a tight sweater and skirt and had received glowering looks from the women all night and leers from the men. Finally, the dean had taken her aside and told her she needed to show more propriety in the future.
He hadn’t succeeded in hiding his hard on, the presence of which, Merritt felt, diminished the potency of his statement. It was a fact that nearly every man who saw her thought of her as a warm body to be used. It was a reality she’d lived with since puberty. Her father had sat her down when she was fifteen and explained about Sonia, her mother, and how she’d been the same way, turning heads, driving men wild.
“A man sees a woman like that and he wants her for his own,” he clutched the photo of the vivacious, smiling blonde who was Merritt’s mother.
Merritt did not yet understand the dark storms in his eyes as he’d spoken, but now she did. Her father wanted women as slaves, as did most if not all men. Perhaps her mother had been that for him, but now he was alone, and though other women gave or sold their bodies short term, he never again found what he had with her: loving submission.
A part of her wanted that, too, which is why she hated Simon. He was the one man who could command her heart and not just her body. But he had no interest and apparently no honor, either. She’d as soon trust Belok’s ghost or Colonel Ladislak as the slippery Rutledge—her protector one minute and a tormentor the next.
The gown was much sexier than anything Merritt would have picked out on her own. Seating herself in the back of the car, she was still astounded by it. With slits up both legs clear to her thighs as well as spaghetti straps, it left little to the imagination. Then there was the plunging neckline and the back, both of which bared much of her healthy, California skin.
Thank God she’d stayed on her diet.
And the shoes. When she’d put them on, little shivers ran up her legs. The tiny straps round her ankles felt like bindings. The sort of thing a girl might have to wear if she was a prisoner or slave. Mariana would look good in a dress like this, or Becca. Would she see Becca tonight? If she did, it would be very hard not to kiss her.
Merritt trailed her fingertips over her sequined thighs as they drove off. She was imagining Becca's lips on hers, and the way their bodies had fit together. Becca’s body would show her wounds now, welts and slashes from the whipping Ileana had given her. Leaning back against the leather seat, she touched her nipples.
They sprang back, raw and electric. Three times she’d made herself come in the shower before getting dressed and still she needed more. Her hand couldn’t do it. Not like a cock. Would she ever get fucked in this country or walk around a sacred virgin the rest of her life?
The castle was outside the city on the eastern side of the river. There were few cars, and the overhead lights all but disappeared. It was so much easier out here to imagine the land as it used to be. When horses galloped on winding roads of stone and dirt. When knights clashed with swords and trumpets blared, signaling the heavy tromp of iron feet, the coming of armies and banners and siege engines ready to lay waste to the enemy’s castles, the prize of every battle with their splendid ramparts, flags snapping in the breeze. And lovely maidens, their fair bodies booty every bit as much as the golden candelabras or chests full of diamonds and rubies hoarded away by their kings and lords.
Vistya had been such a prize for Belok. The only daughter of the King of Rulania, she had been ceded in exchange for the survival of that kingdom. The king himself had ridden with her as far as the front lines where Belok waited with his cavalry. There she dismounted and symbolically removed her shoes. She would walk barefoot to Belok’s horse to be tethered to his saddle, making the journey back to his castle at his side in submission.
It was a common practice in that day. One said to arouse the captive females greatly. Chests heaving, covered in sweat and dust, they must have made quite a fetching sight. More than a few failed to make it as far as their captor’s bed but were taken in the dirt on their backs. If they were lucky, it was their new sovereign alone who used them. Otherwise, it might be his entire guard or household cavalry tasting the fruits of her initial conquest.
Merritt was moist as they climbed the last hill to the darkened stone structure—a perpetual state on her part of late. The castle was enormous, one of the largest in Central Europe. Above the jutting, jagged ramparts she could make out the silhouette of the moon. Just a day or two shy of full. Back home she seldom noticed such things. Here, everything caught her eye.
Piko spoke up as they approached the drawbridge. “The car isn’t allowed across. You’ll have to go on alone, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry, Piko. I’ll be fine.” She had no idea if she would, but the idea of worrying the little man anymore than necessary bothered her tremendously.
The wooden drawbridge creaked under her feet. Was it as flimsy as it felt? A wind was picking up at her back. Over the castle walls, black fingers of ancient trees reached up to the star specked sky. Clouds were just beginning to collect, nibbling at the edge of the moon. The first nip of fall was in the air and with it the smell of wood stoves.
I should have brought a jacket, she thought.
With each step, the castle loomed larger. She’d read once how it had been restored using authentic stone and wood by Rochescu at the cost of millions of zuravs.
Men were waiting for her on the other side of the bridge. Huddled like shadows, bearing torches. For a split second, she imagined they were Belok’s men, hooded assassins and soldiers with orders to seize and strip her, dragging her before the Prince for enslavement.
Looking back, she saw that Piko was long gone. Somewhere in the distance, an owl screeched.
“Doctor Fisher, we are honored.” The voice was a deep bass. The large man clicked his heels and bowed stiffly. She looked about her. The party with the torches wore tuxedos, not mailed armor or hooded capes. As ancient as this castle was, it was inhabited by modern men.
The man lifted her damp hand to his lips. “I am Rochescu. On behalf of the Society of the Chalice, we bid you welcome.”
The men bowed, clicking their heels. If the gesture was designed to put her at ease, it was having quite the opposite effect.
“Have you no electric lights?” She blurted irritably. “It’s black as Hades.”
Rochescu, his square jaw, neat mustache, jet-black hair and ruddy cheeks framed in dancing orange-red light, bowed once again. “Forgive us, Doctor Fisher. We are given to authenticity here. To one such as you, we must appear hopelessly primitive.”
She thought she picked up a hint of something in his voice. Something that suggested his humility was less than sincere. “I do thank you for the dress, count, and the shoes. They are lovely,” she said, trying to recover something of her forgotten manners.
“The pleasure is all mine. Won’t you come with me?”
Merritt let him take her arm, leading her through the main archway into the central courtyard. It was as still as the grave, though she thought she could feel eyes on her from up on the ramparts. Once or twice she looked up, but there was nothing there. Rochescu’s men, tall and muscular, fell in behind them with the lock step of soldiers. Light poured from the doorway ahead, warm and glowing. Merritt stepped warily across the threshold, hoping for the best.
The interior of the main hall was enormous, rising several stories high with massive support beams. Torches lined the walls, and there were candles set in brass holders five or six feet tall. Rochescu continued to lead her forward until they were at the far wall staring at a set of steel doors.
“We beg your further indulgence,” he offered, punching the
button on the panel.
An elevator, perhaps, like in the Institute?
“I’d no idea you could put something like this inside a castle,” she noted as the doors hummed cleanly open revealing not the interior of an elevator car, but a brightly lit tunnel tiled from floor to ceiling in marble and lined with stately columns.
“One can do anything, Doctor Fisher, when the will is strong.”
The others did not accompany them any further. Rochescu smiled deferentially along the way making comments on the particularities of construction.
All of this seemed very familiar to Merritt. It wasn’t until they reached the end, however, that she recognized the throne room from her dream.
“This is a reproduction of Belok’s inner sanctum,” Rochescu explained. “The original, of course, was sacked.”
Merritt marveled at the sight. The dimensions, decoration and architecture were exactly what she remembered. Even down to the ornately armed throne except there was no evidence of the Prince or his medieval terrors. Only a line of serving girls in simple floor-length velvet dresses flanked the back end of a long dining table.
“Funny,” she remarked, a bit more boldly than warranted by propriety, “that you have reproduced something for which there is no record.”
He steered he sharply, the touch of his hand searing her naked back. “We have sources. Unknown to the rest of the world.”
The whip-like tone of his voice was a sharp reminder. She was a woman; he was a man and though he might allow her insolence, he might also deny it. Or punish it.
There were a dozen men at the table, all dressed in old-fashioned long-tailed coats. Without exception, they stood at her approach in a show of chivalry. There were also three women who did not stand but remained in their seats, faces expressionless. The females were in their late teens or early twenties, all quite lovely as were the serving girls whom Merritt noted now were wearing thick gold chokers around their necks and anklets decorated with bells above their bare feet.
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