House of Bathory (25 page)

Chapter 72

Č
ACHTICE
C
ASTLE
D
ECEMBER 26, 1610

J
anos was racked by a high fever. Convulsions shook his body. He lay delirious as the fever consumed his body, seized his mind.

“Oh, Janos,” murmured Zuzana into his ear. Erno Kovach had sent for her in the dead of night, thinking a woman’s touch might heal. After all, it had been Zuzana who had run for help, begging Guard Kovach to send a wagon to bring the delirious horsemaster back to the castle.

Zuzana sat beside Janos’s barrack cot all night. She rinsed her linen rag in a bucket of icy water, mopping his sweating forehead. Her hands were red with the cold.

“I told you that the river mists would freeze your blood and make you sick,” she whispered. “But you had to listen to the voices.”

She got the stable boys to help her and together they carried Janos to the barrack’s kitchen. Despite the burning heat of his fever, she knew he needed the warmth of the fire to fight the river chill that had attacked him.

Janos groaned, writhing on the straw pallet by the fire. His fists clenched and unclenched. Then he roared, throwing his head back against the rag-stuffed pillow, as if wrestling an invisible demon.

“Stand back,
Slecna
! He has the river devils within him,” said the cook, pulling her away. “The spirits come out at night in the mists, preying on the soul of a good man. Sure as do the witches.”

“I will not stand back,” Zuzana said, shaking the cook’s hand off her arm. She wet her towel and mopped again at Janos’s sweating brow, as he heaved ragged breaths. “He is my childhood friend!”

The cook grumbled and cursed but went back to his iron cauldron. He watched from the corner of his eye as the young woman with the poxed face soothed the delirious man.

Maybe the demons will leave her be, frightened by her pitted face
, he thought.
Anyone as ugly as that has no fear of witches.

An hour later, he handed her an earthen bowl filled with meat broth to spoon-feed her patient. Zuzana nodded her head at his kindness.

“You are indeed a good friend of the horsemaster,” said the cook.

She did not seem as homely as before. The light of the fire played a strange trick, coloring her face rosy and glowing.

It is her soul that shines through,
thought the cook. He chastised himself for his earlier judgment.

“The horsemaster is blessed to have you at his side,” said the cook. “And I am an old fool.”

When the Countess learned of the horsemaster’s illness that morning, she insisted he be moved out of the barracks and inside the castle to a proper bedchamber.

“His father is a nobleman. I shall not have it rumored at court in Vienna that he has died of negligence at
Č
achtice Castle. Make up a bedroom for him, one that has a window that opens to sunlight.”

Zuzana curtsied and said she would make the arrangements.

“He should not be moved away from the smell of horses,” said the cook, when he heard of the plan. “He has a connection with them that is deep and unearthly.”

Zuzana stared at him, but this time she did not berate the wiry man for his superstitions.

“Cut a lock of hair from the mane of his white stallion, Cook. I will tuck it under his pillow.”

The cook smiled, exposing his crooked teeth. He picked up a sharp knife and headed next door into the stables.

Countess Bathory instructed Brona to make rich broths of bone marrow and root vegetables to give him strength, tea of birch bark to relieve the fever. Zuzana put stones, warm from the fire, into his bed, to warm his body when he shook with cold.

Janos screamed in his nightmares, sweating heavily, rolling violently, as he fought the demons of his fever.

Zuzana gnawed at her fingernails until they bled. She thought of her own fever as a child, the fever and illness that had left its pox scars over her body. What terrors did he wrestle?

That night the fever returned with a vengeance. She was terrified that he would be lost before sunrise. She plucked the strands of the white horse’s mane from under his pillow and forced them into his clenched hands.

“Take strength from the moon horse,” she whispered. “Take it!”

But instead of quieting her patient, the coarse touch of the horsehair made him rabid with anger.

“You shall be defeated!” he croaked, his voice hoarse with phlegm. “Your evil soul shall be imprisoned in the stone of your wickedness! You shall be haunted by those you have murdered!”

“Be still, Janos. Be still,” crooned Zuzana, holding his forehead to calm its thrashing. She watched the cords of his neck, the clenched jaw. His cries pierced the night.

“What does he say?” said a voice in the shadows.

Zuzana froze. It was the Countess. Her gown rustled as she approached the bed.

“He is feverish, his words make no sense,” Zuzana said, standing at attention
. Please do not speak again, Janos. Be still, I beg of you!

“Sometimes the fevers bring the truth bubbling forth as a mountain spring,” the Countess said, her amber eyes cold as jewels. “I asked, what does he say?”

“I cannot make out exactly,” said Zuzana, avoiding her mistress’s stare.

“Answer me!” Erzsebet raised her hand high to strike the obstinate maiden.

“You shall be encased in stone, the stones that have witnessed your wickedness!” shouted Janos.

“Stones?” the Countess said, lowering her hand. Her black eyebrows arched high over her white face. “How strange.”

“He battles demons, Countess.”

A flash of fear crossed Bathory’s face, as she looked down at the feverish horsemaster. “Stone? Encased in stone?”

“I fear he feels the weight of death upon his chest,” said Zuzana, wiping his brow with a wet rag. “Pray, pay no attention—”

“Sharp bones and stony residue! A mortal hell! The eternal prison!” Janos shouted, his lips flecked with foam.

The Countess’s face blanched and she pressed a linen handkerchief to her mouth. She flicked her eyes to her handmaiden.

Zuzana saw fear in her eyes like blazing flames.

“Say nothing of this, ever. I command you! He is indeed insane with fever,” the Countess said, gathering her skirts. Her quick movements stirred the air, guttering the candle at Janos’s bedside.

Chapter 73

B
RATISLAVA,
S
LOVAKIA
D
ECEMBER 25–26, 2010

A
fter a long interview with the police—supplemented with sandwiches and hot soup the clerk brought up from the restaurant next door—Daisy had fallen into a deep sleep. When she awoke it was past eleven o’clock. She looked restlessly around the four walls of the hotel room.

I can’t stay here. I’ve got to get out of this place.

The incident with the old guy had freaked her out and the last thing she wanted to do was be alone. She had to find some kindred spirits.

Finally, an hour after midnight, Daisy slipped out of the pension, locking the door behind her. She pulled her hood up against the falling snow. She brought along both phones—her own and the one her father had given her—and clicked on the GPS, marking her destination. With a Google Map printout in hand, she navigated through the edge of Stare Mesto toward the modern urban center of Bratislava.

She crossed through the short, dark tunnel of the Michalska Brana Bridge to Zamocnicka Street, where the tires of hurrying cars turned the snow to dirty slush. Nightclub Raucous Scandal was a twenty-minute walk from Michalska Brana, and passing headlights illuminated a different universe. Gone was the fairytale world of Stare Mesto: the pastel buildings, cobblestone streets, pretty shuttered windows, and old streetlamps of wrought iron.

The streets were asphalt, neon lights screamed. Graffiti in bold colors were scrawled over gray buildings. Young people in hip clothes with boots and trench coats filled the sidewalks. Prostitutes lined the streets, their stiletto heels spiking the dirty ice. A few homeless people slept huddled in the entrances to apartment buildings, their dirty rags and old sleeping bags wrapped tight around their bodies. Police cars prowled, slowing down to monitor groups of pedestrians on the snow-dusted sidewalks.

Punk hair colors—garish blues, purples, and reds—were more common here than her own jet-black Goth hair. Men and women wore a lot of leather, spiked dog collars, or crucifixes that swung on their necks as they stomped down the stairs to the basement club. Several men and women sported Mohawk cuts.

A man with bleached yellow hair, dressed in biker leathers, sat on an orange stool, taking money in his tattooed fist.

“How much?” Daisy asked.

The man smiled, flashing a silver tooth, a glint in his eye. He touched her cheek with his hand, spiraled in a black-and-green snake tattoo.

“For you, Beauty, it’s free.”

Daisy shied away from his snaked hand but nodded her thanks.

“Go on, shy one,” laughed the bouncer.

Daisy made her way to the bar, pressing against leather-clad bodies.

“A beer,” she shouted over the Slovak chatter, clashing cymbals, drum beat, and electric guitars.

Several Goths lifted their heads at her English. One girl with streaked red-and-pink hair motioned to her.

“You are American? American Goth?”

“Yes,” Daisy said, lifting the frothy beer to her lips. She breathed in the tobacco smoke and the smell of beer that permeated the sticky floorboards. “I wanted to see the Goth scene in Bratislava.”

“Ah!” said the girl. “See!” She gestured with a wide sweep of her arm. “We are a happy people.”

The two young men with her laughed at her English. A blonde girl, several years younger, said nothing.

“Welcome, American Goth Girl. What is your name?”

“Daisy. Like the flower.”

“Ah, I am Jarmila. This is Ignac and Jarak. And my little sister, Lubena.”

There was a small stage at the front of the club, where a band banged out “Gothic Girl.”

You can see her

Whenever it rains

A frenzy of pale arms rose in the air, writhing, bracelets jangling, undulating with the music like current-swept coral. A dark-haired singer in leather and spikes strutted the small stage, the microphone pressed to his lips. The guitars on either side of him whined. Daisy noticed the girls’ waving hands had fingers bent in the sign of horns.

“Larson. The singer. They love him,” nodded Jarmila. “He is mobbed after the show.”

Just like a gothic girl

Lost in the darkened world

The screaming of the crowd made it difficult to follow the words of the song. Daisy cupped her ear, trying to hear the final verse. But cheering and howls made it nearly impossible. She could make out the collective voice of the crowd:
My lil’ gothic girl.

Larson whipped off his sunglasses, finishing the song. A screech of feedback made the crowd cover their ears, screaming and cheering. The singer shook his hair from his eyes and looked at the group by the bar. He held up the mike, his black leather gloves cut away at the fingers.

“For luscious Goth girls who like to dress in black!” He pointed at Daisy.

She smiled back at him, canine tooth glinting. The singer feigned a swoon, grasping at his heart.

“I dig that tooth, girl,” he said. “Bury it in my neck tonight.”

Lubena scowled at Daisy.

“He speaks English,” said Daisy.

“They are Scandinavian,” said Jarmila. “We have a lot of nationalities here.”

The blonde little sister said something in Slovak. She frowned at Daisy.

“My little sister wants to know why you are here.”

“I told you already,” said Daisy.

The girl stared at her. Daisy stared back until the girl looked away.

Chapter 74

B
RATISLAVA,
S
LOVAKIA
D
ECEMBER 26, 2010

I
t was near 4
A.M.
when the band finally finished. Daisy took a final sip of beer and bid Jarmila, Ignac, and Jarak good-bye. Lubena was not with them.

“Come back tonight again,” Jarmila called.

“Then we have breakfast together,” yelled Ignac. “I will fry sausages.”

It was sleeting now, slowly changing to snow. Daisy pinched her woolen hood close to her chin.

She jumped as she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you. Larson would like you to join him.” It was the drummer from the band.

Daisy peeked out at him from under her hood. “OK,” she said. “Why not?”

She squinted through the snow and started toward a limo parked just in front of the club. The windshield was streaked with sleet and slush and she could not make out the figures in the car.

With one swipe of the wiper she thought she recognized a figure inside. A silver-haired man was talking to the driver, his pale skin sickly in the muted light of the back street. She stopped in her tracks.

“Not that one!” said the drummer, steering her away by the arm. “We are not ‘limo’ band.” He pointed to a dark van, scrawled with what looked like graffiti. “That’s us.”

He led her to the van and pulled the door open. A cloud of sweet smoke poured out into the night. Daisy swished the sleet from her crepe dress and climbed in.

“Hey, Gothic Girl,” said the lead guitarist, sucking on a pipeful of hash. “You have captured Larson’s heart. But you are a
baby, aren’t
you?” Smoke gushed from his mouth, and the drummer grabbed for the pipe.

In the very back of the van sat Larson, glassy-eyed. He patted the seat next to him. Daisy crawled back and sat next to him.

“Ah, but you are even more delicious close up. What’s your name?”

“Daisy Hart.”

“Heart! Yes, you are my heart, Gothic Girl.”

“Not that kind of—”

“Daisy? Like the flower?” said the bass guitarist from the seat in front of her. “That’s cool.”

“Want a toke, Daisy my Heart?” asked Larson. “We have some coke if you’d rather.”

“I’m good.”

“You’re American, right? What are you doing here?”

“I’m—well, it’s complicated.”

“Of course, of course,” said Larson, his leather jacket squeaking as he slid his arm across the leather upholstery above her. “I expect nothing less.”

“Hey, can you—tell me who is in that limousine?”

“In front of us?”

“Yeah. I thought I glimpsed someone I knew.”

The lead guitarist blew a lungful of smoke out in a coughing fit.

Everyone laughed.

“He’s just an old man,” said Larson. “He hangs out in that limo after gigs when we play here. Sometimes he gets girls to go in. Maybe they think it is us, that they are going to hang out with the band.”

“He never gets out of the car. But his flunkies do,” said the lead guitarist. “They bring him girls. Usually they are really wasted.”

Daisy looked out through the sleet to see Lubena walking with a man in his twenties, dressed in black leather. He gestured to the limo, and the door opened. Daisy could see the withered hand and a gold ring, and a flash of a silver-tipped cane.

Then she focused on the license plate:
PP
—586

“Shit!” she said. “That’s him!”

“What’s the matter, Goth Girl?”

“That guy tried to kidnap me! He’s fucking insane!” She scrambled out of the seat.

“Are you serious? That old man?”

“Let me out!”

The door flew open and Daisy bolted out. She pounded on the limo’s windows.

“Get out of there, Lubena!”

Lubena pressed her hand against the window, her fingers spread out against the glass. She was mouthing something, screaming. Her eyes were wide in terror.

The limo’s engine roared to life.

Daisy started kicking the door with her heavy boots. A second later Larson and the drummer jumped on the trunk, fists pounding the rear window. The bass guitarist threw himself across the windshield.

Daisy ran to the front of the car, pulled out her cell phone, and snapped a picture of the license plate. Then, with a flash of inspiration, she yanked at the metal, forcing the red cell phone between the license and the car’s grill.

“Let the girl out!” screamed Larson.

A hand reached out the driver’s window, holding a pistol. There was a sharp report, a single shot, and the bass player screamed, clutching his arm. He tumbled off the car as it lurched into reverse, knocking Daisy off her feet. Blood streaked the wet pavement.

Larson went sprawling as the limo sped forward, barely swerving to miss the injured bass player and Daisy.

“Are you all right?” she asked the wounded man. “Jesus, he shot you!”

The bass player moaned, clutching his arm.

“Alex is shot!” shouted the drummer. “Get an ambulance.”

Daisy scrambled to her feet, running back to Larson. “Are you OK?”

“Who is that freak?”

“That’s what I want to know. He just kidnapped that girl.”

Larson looked at her, dazed from his hard fall to the asphalt. He put his hand out, grasping her fingers.

“Look, Daisy! You are bleeding, too.”

Daisy looked at her fingers, split open from prying the license plate loose. She searched the wet asphalt as she knelt by Larson. The cell phone wasn’t there, it hadn’t been jarred loose.

“I’m OK,” Daisy said, and she smiled grimly.

It was time to call her sister. She had the GPS tracking in formation.