The fetid smells of rancid urine and feces assaulted the Count’s nose. He drew his wrist over his nostrils.
“Clean up these girls at once! Bathe and dress them properly, scent them with lemon verbena. They must be fed, their eyes bright.”
Two prisoners—girls whom the others had assessed as insane—shrank back in the dark shadows of their cells, like beaten dogs. They recognized the voice, and it made them tremble.
The newer girls—ones who did not know better—called out to him.
“Yes, a bath! A meal. Oh God, feed me!”
“Help me, sir! Help me—”
“Silence, you whores!” he shouted. He swung his cane hard against the bars, smacking imploring hands.
He stopped in front of Draska’s cell. Something caught his eye on the floor, just within the bars.
“What is this?” he said, stooping to pick it up. Then he found another and another.
“Apple pips? You have been eating apples?”
Draska hung her head, looking at him through her dirty blue hair.
“Answer me! You stole an apple!”
“How could I steal anything, Count Bathory? You locked me—”
“YOU STOLE AN APPLE!”
Draska shrank back in the corner of her cell.
“He’s completely mad—” whispered the English girl.
“You will pay for your dirty sin tonight, girl!” shouted the Count. “You shall all pay for your filthy habits!”
He turned and swept out the door, his black cape flowing behind him.
PART
-3-
Chapter 107
BATHORY CASTLE
HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS, SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 29, 2010
Grace sat up, knocking her head hard against the sofa’s wooden armrest, the sound of the double lock, a key turning in the door, waking her from a fitful sleep. With one hand she fumbled for her glasses, the other hand wrapping around the brass lamp at her bedside.
She considered its weight in her hand. If the Count attacked her, she would not die without a fight.
She thought of her husband. A fight to the death, she swore to herself.
The Count had been acting more and more erratically. Something had deeply agitated him. If he were to have a full-blown psychotic episode, she would not survive his violence. She remembered Ceslav’s words: Nothing is more frightening than an insane mind. Nothing.
The brass handle moved down and the door pushed open. A flashlight appeared, its beam dodging around the room, searching for her.
She snapped on the lamp, its hefty weight still gripped tight in her hand.
“Who is it? What do you want?”
A tall, white-haired man nodded to her. He was young, the hair belying his age.
“Pani. Please to turn light off.”
“No. Who are you? What do you want?”
“I am Bartos, Count’s chauffeur. I come to help you.”
“Help me?” said Grace. She adjusted her glasses on her nose. “I don’t believe you. Why would you help me?”
“Because I want—‘clemency’?” he whispered, approaching her.
She backed up, raising the lamp higher. “What are you talking about?”
“Clemency,” he repeated. “I look word up in dictionary. I want to talk to Slovak authorities, tell Count’s crimes.”
“So go ahead and tell them. What do you need me for?”
“You witness. I help you escape, you tell judge I good man, not like Count. We talk to American ambassador. Clemency.”
Grace said nothing. She wondered how anyone could be considered innocent who was in Count Bathory’s employ.
“Let me help you,” he said. “Put down lamp. Someone can see it. Count kill many girls tonight.”
Grace heard the sound of glass shattering and angry words shouted, echoing through the corridors of the castle. She thought of Draska.
She snapped off the light, plunging the room into darkness.
Grace followed behind the chauffeur through the castle halls. He stooped low, looking over the curving marble banister.
She heard a woman’s voice. She raised her head enough to see a swirl of dark red hair, and a woman slapping and clawing at her captors.
“Get your fucking hands off me!”
Not Draska, she thought. An American.
What was an American doing here?
As the men pulled the girl away down the hall, the chauffeur waved her to follow him down the stairs.
He did not see the figure in the shadows, watching.
Betsy lay in wait, hidden deep in the darkness of the tunnel. Long minutes elapsed.
She was crouched below a wooden door. The tunnel had leveled off to a space perhaps three feet deep. Enough room for her to relax and try to imagine what would happen next, what she could do.
She wedged her face tight against the wood, slimy in the damp. Through a crack between the boards, she could see there was no one in the room.