House of Bathory (26 page)

Chapter 75

B
RATISLAVA,
S
LOVAKIA
D
ECEMBER 26, 2010

T
he cell phone connection was not good in the little café, one of the few still open in the early morning hours before dawn. Daisy was distracted by the echo of her own voice as she told Jo
hn
about the kidnapping of Lubena.

“Bathory? Daisy, are you sure it was Bathory?”

“Absolutely. A guy got shot by this weird fucker.”

Jo
hn
exhaled.

“Betsy never wanted to put you into danger. You chose to follow her.”

“Our destinies are intertwined.”

“Oh, horseshit, Daisy,” said Jo
hn
. “Stop saying that! That’s putting Betsy in a compromising position.”

“What is she saying, Jo
hn
?”

Jo
hn
shook his head at Betsy, scowling.

“We want you to stay in the pension. We want you safe.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen. I’ve got a tracer on that limo.”

“What?”

“I stuck my other cell phone—the one my dad gave me, with the GPS—behind the license plate. I’m going to track that fucker wherever he goes. And I am going to turn it over to the police. He put a man in the hospital a few hours ago.”

“No. No, you can’t do that, Daisy.”

“Why the hell not? He kidnapped a girl—”

“Because—” Jo
hn
looked at Betsy. “Because it will put Betsy’s mother in danger.”

“Jo
hn
!”

“I have to tell her.”

“Hey, tell Betsy not to worry,” said Daisy. “Tell her I already know that her mom’s been reported missing at the American Embassy. And I know she is publishing a book on Countess Bathory—”

“How did—”

“If you want the GPS information, I’ll give it to you,” said Daisy. “They’re headed north.”

“Where?” said Jo
hn
.

“How do I know? They’re still traveling. But if you want to know where they finally stop, and you don’t want the police involved, let me help you. I can meet up with you or I’m going by myself. I know they’re probably headed for Poprad Presov. That’s up on the border of Poland. I can fly there. Poprad Tatry airport. But there’s not another flight until the day after tomorrow. I’d get in at 2:00 in the afternoon.”

There was silence on the phone line. Then Jo
hn
finally spoke.

“We’ll pick you up at the airport,” he said. “We’ll make our way up north.”

Daisy smiled, her cheekbones touching the iPhone’s screen.

“See you there. Tell Betsy we’re all in this together.”

Jo
hn
sighed. “I don’t think that’s what she needs to hear right now.”

Chapter 76

P
OPRAD,
S
LOVAKIA
D
ECEMBER 26, 2010

T
he highway was icy and snow-blown. Huge snowplows burrowed through, plowing a path that Jo
hn
could follow. The storm had let up and a majestic range of mountains rose high on the horizon.

“Gorgeous,” murmured Jo
hn
. “Not the Rockies, but certainly beautiful. Saw-toothed.”

Betsy pressed her lips together tight, leaving them bloodless.

“Never realized they had mountains like this in Eastern Europe,” said Jo
hn
. “I hear the skiing is pretty good—
”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about the skiing!” shouted Betsy, ex ploding.

“OK, OK! Calm down.”

They passed a red-roofed hotel, built in the spa fashion of a century ago. Steam rose from its thermal pools.

Jo
hn
sighed. “You know, we could—”

“You can drive a little faster now,” said Betsy, her back tensing. “It isn’t snowing that hard.”

“Daisy won’t be here until the day after tomorrow,” said Jo
hn
. “What’s the hurry?”

“My mother! That’s the hurry. Daisy could text coordinates to us, couldn’t she?”

Jo
hn
shot her a look.

“It wouldn’t make any difference, Bets. We really need to take a day to rest up. You are going to eat something, relax, and take a sleeping pill. You haven’t slept in days.”

“The hell I am! I can’t sleep. My mother is probably being held captive by that lunatic—”

“She may be, but you are so damned tired you’re about to crash. What kind of clear thinking can you muster up when you can’t see straight? You aren’t thinking logically. Let’s take a day—”

“NO!” she shouted. Then, “Watch out!”

The red brake lights of the snowplow flashed.

Jo
hn
braked as gently as he could, trying not to skid. Ahead were red flares and a roadblock. Several people in dark jackets milled around. One figure approached their car.

Jo
hn
lowered the window and a police officer with an ice-crusted scarf wrapped around his neck bent his head to speak to them.

“We speak English,” said Jo
hn
.

“Ah, Americans? OK,” said the police officer. “You no go here. Avalanche. Road closed.”

“How long?” asked Betsy, her face pinched with anxiety.

“Long?” he said, shaking his head.

Jo
hn
tried.

“Road open tonight? Tomorrow?”

“One day. Two day maybe. Big avalanche.”

“Thank you,” said Jo
hn
.

“Hotel Thermia. Good food,” said the police officer, patting his down-padded tummy like a big bear. “You stay one, two day. Open road.”

“Thanks again,” said Jo
hn
. The police officer waved, warding off traffic as Jo
hn
turned the car around.

When he looked at Betsy, she had her head in her hands, sobbing.

Jo
hn
had the restaurant send up two bowls of goulash. He set the tray on the table beside the bed where Betsy lay covered in an eiderdown duvet, her eyes swollen and red.

He sat down beside her.

“It will do you good to eat something,” Jo
hn
said, stroking her wet hair, fresh from the shower. “And a day of rest will make you think more clearly. Neither of us has any idea what we are up against.”

“A monster,” said Betsy. “We are up against a fucking monster.”

Jo
hn
kept stroking her hair.

“You know that, right?” said Betsy. She propped herself up on her elbow to look at him. The sleeve of the white spa robe slid down her arm.

Jo
hn
sighed, glancing out the window at the starlit night. He knew the jagged Tatra Mountains were there in the darkness.

“Yes. We might be. I want to protect you. You need to sleep. You need to make rational decisions.”

Betsy looked into his eyes. She smiled sadly.

“I’ve never been very good at that, have I, Jo
hn
?”

He didn’t answer, but continued caressing her hair.

“I chased you out of my life,” she said.

“We were both awfully young, Betsy.”

“But I did. I slammed the door on our marriage,” she said, putting a hand over his. “I never gave it a chance.”

“Your mother was damned angry when we got married. I don’t think she ever liked me.”

“That’s not true. She told me one Christmas after my dad died that she really thought you kept me level-headed. I hated her for it.”

They both laughed.

“Here,” said Jo
hn
. “Sit up and eat some of the goulash before it gets cold. You need some nourishment.”

Betsy nodded and pulled herself to a sitting position against the carved headboard. Jo
hn
placed the warm bowl in her hand.

“Dad used to make goulash when I was little,” she said, dipping her spoon in the thick stew. “With lots of paprika.”

Jo
hn
dug into his bowl. “I remember. It was wonderful after a ski day.”

Betsy tasted, closing her eyes. “This reminds me of his.”

She ate silently, each spoonful a memory of her family. John set down his own bowl. He rummaged in his suitcase and pulled out an orange plastic medicine bottle. He shook a pill into his hand.

“Take this, Betsy. Lorazapam.”

Betsy stared at the pill.

“You might as well. You need a good night’s sleep, sweetheart. Nothing is going happen tomorrow. The road is closed. Daisy gets in to Poprad in two days. Come on.”

Betsy looked up at his pleading eyes. She held out her hand.

“Good girl. You’ll feel better and think more clearly after a night’s sleep. Maybe a good day’s sleep.”

She set down her empty bowl, nodding her head once. He handed her a plastic water bottle to wash down the pill.

“Will you sleep with me?” asked Betsy, searching his eyes. “I’m scared, Jo
hn
. Like I never have been before.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” he said.

She shook her head. “You know. Just next to me. Hold me.”

He started to unbutton his shirt. There was tenderness in his smile.

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

Chapter 77

H
OFBURG
P
ALACE
V
IENNA
D
ECEMBER 27, 1610

P
astor Ponikenusz hated to travel by horseback, but the message from Zuzana was so dire he had no choice. He had to ride to Vienna. The clergyman of a poor parish could not afford to travel in a coach, wasting the precious thalers of his congregation.

He had borrowed a horse from the livery in Piestany and followed a coach bound for Vienna. The rain and sleet froze on his woolen cape. He shivered, dressed in woolen garments that his congregation had donated over the years, including scratchy leggings that, while warm, bit into his skin as his legs rubbed against the leather of the saddle.

The horse followed the coach, never veering—it was hardly necessary to touch the reins. Ponikenusz’s manhood was shaken and pinched beyond Ottoman torture by the time the sun rose over the city of Vienna.

The pastor nearly fell off his horse at the castle gates.

“Count Thurzo has commanded me to present myself before the King.”

The guards laughed at the bedraggled clergyman. “At least Catholic priests arrive by coach!”

The guards admitted the poor man to the castle. The footman insisted he bathe and don clean clothes before admitting him to court.

Ponikenusz sighed his gratitude as a bath was drawn for him. But he did not linger a second longer than he had to, for time was essential, a matter of life and death.

“I have come to warn Your Majesty that the Countess Bathory continues her cruel murders and torture.”

“Why is it that you come instead of Janos Szilvasi? I was told by Count Thurzo he would make the next report.”

“Szilvasi is taken ill. I do not know that he has survived the night. The Countess’s handmaiden nurses him within the castle.”

The King sat up straight.

“My horsemaster’s son is within her castle walls? Ill and vulnerable?”

“He and the Countess Zichy,” said Ponikenusz. “But indeed, all the other common maidens who have disapp—”

“Countess Zichy? How fares she?” said the King, his face creased with concern.

“The handmaiden Zuzana says she has disappeared. She went to Countess Zichy’s chamber to prepare her toilette, and the young noblewoman was missing.”

“Send word to Palatine Thurzo immediately!” roared the King.

“Your Majesty, Palatine Thurzo gathers his witnesses as we speak. I sent word to him, and with your permission, he will arrest her at once.”

“By God’s grace at last!” shouted the King. He stabbed his finger at Ponikenusz.

“You, clergyman—ride back this night to
Č
achtice. You shall be witness to Countess Bathory’s arrest!”

Chapter 78

S
OMEWHERE IN
S
LOVAKIA
D
ECEMBER 27, 2010

D
raska feigned sleep as the fuchsia-haired Ona approached, carrying a silver pitcher and a crystal goblet.

“Draska,” she whispered. “Draska.
Prosim!
Wake up!”

Draska opened her eyes. Ona’s eyes glowed in the dim light.

“Why am I here?”

“You will become one of us.”

“What do you mean?” Draska pulled herself up to her knees, her hands on the bars of her cell. “Let me out of here!”

“You don’t understand—you are shown great mercy. You betrayed the Count. He knows of your treachery, Draska.”

“What—”

Ona set the goblet and pitcher on the stone floor. She reached through the bars and grasped the prisoner’s arm.

Draska trembled at her touch.

“You will become one of us.”

Ona motioned her chin toward the pitcher and goblet. She released Draska’s arm, reached down, and lifted the goblet.

“This is your salvation, Draska,” she said.

Draska reached through the bars and grabbed the glass. Perhaps she could use it as a weapon.

“Does my mother ask where I am?” she asked.

“We told her you went to visit your cousin in London. The traitor with whom you betrayed the master.”

Draska’s heart skipped a beat. She looked at the silver pitcher as Ona lifted it. It was engraved with a filigreed “EB” in raised roses and thorns.

Ona tilted the pitcher side to side, cocking her ear at the slosh of liquid. Her eyes shone, black and luminous.

“What is it?” asked Draska.

“You will see. You will learn to crave it.”

A shiver of apprehension slid up Draska’s spine.

“God curse you! What is it?”

Ona poured the liquid, thick and red, into the goblet in Draska’s outstretched hand. The tang of alcohol stung her nose. A heady, rich red wine.

Draska pulled the glass back through the bars.

She sniffed, detecting another odor.

It smelled metallic.

“Drink,” urged Ona.

“What is this?” She tilted the glass, examining the wine. Darker threads swirled through the liquid. The torchlight flickered in the depths of the cut glass.

“It is nourishment. It is the essence of life.”

The color drained from Draska’s face. “It is blood. Blood and wine,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Drink it! You will starve if you do not drink it. You will die!”

“I cannot drink blood! You are all insane!”

“Shut up! You fool! You do not know what I risk by initiating you—”

The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted her. Ona stood up from her crouch, looking over her shoulder.

“See what you have done!” she hissed.

Two phantom-pale men approached.

“You are not to talk to her,” said one of them.

“I was—”

“Shut up. She is not of the Bathory line.”

“She has lived all her life in the castle. But she refuses to drink.”

One of the men, with a crewcut and nose ring, sneered at Draska. “Good. Let the traitor die.”

The other man, his eye twitching, nodded. “Starve her.”

“Better yet—she can be harvested.”

The men turned away, laughing. Ona shook her head, giving Draska a look of pity and disgust. Then she snatched the goblet away and followed the men into the darkness.

The Count stared at the portrait of Countess Bathory, mesmerized. Her flawless skin shone polished as a white marble statue. Dark brows arched haughtily over amber eyes. Her dark red hair was swept up, revealing her shell-like ears. Ears that were dainty, belying her power and cruelty.

“Why do you forsake me, Countess?” he asked the painting.

His henchmen had stolen the portrait from the
Č
achtice village museum decades ago. It now hung in the mahogany-paneled study where he often spent his evenings. His servants had grown accustomed to the Count’s murmurings directed to the likeness of his ancestor.

The Count sighed, staring into the depths of his glass of red wine. It was a rich ruby Margaux, a heady vintage. He swirled his glass, making the wine lick the higher reaches of the goblet.

“I have created a world in your image,” he said. “I have killed the one man who threatened to reveal my secrets in order that I might serve you unobstructed. There is no one to stand in our way now.”

Then he pinched up his face as he thought about the missing ledger.

“Why do you not appear, my lady? This is your celebration.”

He took a long draught of his wine.

“I beg of you, return to your rightful place among those who worship you. I have dedicated my life to your memory.”

His lips curled in a cruel smile.

“I think you will be pleased when you see what we have planned.”