“Good evening, Dr. Path,” said the Count. “Welcome to the four-hundredth anniversary of the Countess’s arrest. We will proceed with the night festivities.”
He turned away from her and walked to the lace-covered table. Betsy watched him touch the objects there, one by one, in deep reverence. The decanter, the golden funnel. He unwound the cord and opened the leather satchel. He held up a gleaming blade. Then another. He smiled.
He touched the silver spoon. Finally he stroked The Red Book with an open palm. His fingertips lingered on Jung’s words.
“That’s The Red Book,” said Morgan, blinking hard to clear her head.
“Ah! You know Jung’s masterpiece?”
“Why? Why do you have it?”
“It is the journey of the soul. The diary of a madman, not afraid of darkness. I am not afraid either, I embrace it. I shall paint my own masterpiece in blood.”
Then he frowned. He touched the spoon again.
“Akos, Andras—” He said something in Hungarian to the two men guarding Morgan.
They both glanced at the red-haired young woman, then left her. They closed the door quietly behind them.
“Why did you send them away?” mumbled Morgan.
“Do not worry, my beauty,” said the Count. “Relax. Tonight you must simply enjoy.”
Grace struggled against her leather fetters, saying nothing.
The Count walked to the opposite wall from Betsy’s hiding place, which was also covered in ancient tapestries. He lifted the corner of the hanging next to the portrait of Countess Bathory, uncovering a safe set into the stone.
He punched in a combination, swung the safe open, and withdrew an ornate ebony and ivory box.
Betsy watched as he brought the box to the table. He opened the box, dipped the silver spoon into it and brought it out, filled with white powder. He took a knife and leveled the powder perfectly. He dropped the contents into the large decanter.
“What’s that?” asked Grace. “What are you putting in there?”
“Uncontrollable desire,” he answered and laughed quietly. “No, no, I jest,” he said, regarding her intent stare. He snapped the lid closed on the box. “What we will add tonight is ambrosia. This is merely a dash of spice.”
Morgan started to rise from her chair, unsteadily.
“NO!” he snapped. His hand shot out, covering the box. “Stay there, or you will be punished.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You drug them,” she said. “What is it? Heroin? Their teeth, eyes—”
The Count turned on her. “Don’t say another word, Dr. Path. I warn you—”
“They’re all addicts. That’s why they’re so pale and thin. They’re addicts, not vampires!”
The Count strode over to her, seething. He slapped her face.
Betsy started to lunge from behind the tapestry. Something stopped her.
“Shut up!” shouted the Count. “They live on blood—they cannot live without it!”
“You want a cult of vampires,” Grace said, slowly. “But they’re just a bunch of crazed junkies!”
The creases in his brow deepened. He stared at the imprint of his hand blossoming on her cheek.
“You total shit!” screamed Morgan. “You just hit a helpless old lady!”
“My Countess…” he started, turning to Morgan. “Do not listen to her. I have created a perfect world in the image of you.”
“I’m not her,” said Morgan, shaking her head. “That psychotic Countess. You are psychotic.”
His eyes flew open. “Oh, my darling. Do not say that. I worship you!”
He tried to take her hand. She snatched it away.
“Get away from me.”
A wild light danced in his eyes. His cheek twitched.
“Look, I bring you pleasure.” He barked orders into an intercom. “You will see. I will amuse you thoroughly. I have followed your ways—”
“Go to hell, you creepy bastard!”
Bathory stared at her silently. His scowl returned. The wild light died.
“Of course,” he said. “For an instant I thought you were really her.”
“Think again, asshole.”
The two guards reentered. Count Bathory barked an order in Hungarian. Andros picked up a length of rope hanging on a steel spike, jutting from the wall.
“You will be tied now, my Lady. I will not tolerate any more interference,” said Bathory.
The guards seized her, securing her arms to the heavy chair. Morgan struggled against their grasp.
A girl was marched in, her hands bound, her face preternaturally pale, as if she had never seen the sun.
“Ona, bring the girl here.”
“Daisy!” Morgan screamed, still wrestling against the men and the rope.