House of Bathory(123)
Daisy stared at her sister without a flicker of recognition.
“You’ve drugged her, too. Daisy!”
Count Bathory’s face twisted in a smile.
“Yes, but the drug she has is ever so much stronger than yours. Yours is meant to relax, nothing more. Hers is—well, she has been in a different dimension, I would say.”
“Daisy! It’s Morgan. Daisy!”
Again, a blank stare.
But slowly, a flicker of recognition grew. In the recesses of her mind, a dim memory.
It was the voice that pulled Daisy from her dreams. A voice that had called to her before, when evil had stalked her years ago. Morgan had intervened.
This is true evil, thought Daisy, not like the things I thought I experienced in the cemetery or a Ouiji session or a haunted house.
As a Goth she had played at daring the dark side. Her black clothes and the corpse paint on her face paid tribute to what was beyond mortality, to the spirit world. Her Goth ways were a nod to a dimension far beyond the petty cares of life in the twenty-first century. Daisy was intrigued by the shadows, pulled by the tide of mysticism.
That world had called to her, ever since her parents divorced.
No. Ever since her father’s visits to the girls’ bedrooms.
Daisy’s throat tightened. She began to gag.
“She’s choking!” screamed Morgan.
The Count looked at Daisy, his mouth puckered.
“The drug has never had that effect before,” he said. He studied the gasping victim with a clinical eye.
“Daisy!” whispered Morgan, her voice soothing despite her fear. “It’s all right. I’m here, baby sister. No one will hurt you.”
Daisy closed her eyes, her chest heaving.
The darkness enveloped her again, soothing.
Goth. She had welcomed that thrill. She had sought dark tales and magical rites. It was a game. She plunged deep into the pool of shadows, forgetting everything else. The taste of darkness, so rich—she savored its opium.
To forget, the most perfect gift.
But now she knew that unfathomable evil lurked this side of the netherworld. Here in her realm, in this world, a psychotic stranger raged with a madness that summoned the bloodiest nightmares.
This was no tale from a dusty book. This insanity was real, lethal.
And somehow her sister had penetrated this world, just as she did the other nightmare.
“Do not worry. This drug will not last much longer. Potent but a short duration,” said Bathory, observing Daisy’s eyes.
The Count studied Daisy, tapping his walking stick on the rock floor. After a moment, he gestured with the cane and the guards pushed her down into an iron chair, bolted into the rock. They bound her arms and legs to the metal.
The Count opened the ancient leather case. He picked up a blade.
“Do not move,” he said. “It will go easier…for now. Andras!”
Andras hurried with a white porcelain tray. He placed it under Daisy’s wrist.
Count Bathory looked once more at Morgan.
“For you, my lady,” he said, bowing stiffly
He sliced the white skin of Daisy’s wrist with a deft cock of his wrist. Blood splattered into the tray.
“You sick fuck!” shouted Morgan. She twisted, struggling against her ropes. “You monster, leave her alone!”
As Betsy watched, her breath felt trapped deep in her lungs. She forced herself to breathe.
She remembered her father warning her.
Swear to me you will never treat delusional patients. Never!
But why, Papa?
A patient in his past had haunted him, was all he said. This patient was the reason he had fled Europe for good. He refused to tell her any more.
There is ugliness in the world I will never relive, was all he would say. It is best left buried.
What kind of Jungian are you, Papa?
The Count laughed as the blood collected, pooling in the ceramic tray.
“Does this not amuse you? Oh, I see. Not yet.”
Betsy gathered herself to leap into the room, then she stopped.
Her instinct was to run to help her patient, to free her mother and Morgan. But she could feel John’s presence by her shoulder whispering, Wait! Think, first.
She stayed behind the tapestry in the darkness, trying to collect her thoughts. Anguish burned her throat. But to show herself now was certain suicide. What could she accomplish?
Betsy caught a whiff of blood, the odor of copper coins. This madman had kidnapped these two girls, her own mother. He was torturing Daisy—an innocent girl who had tried to protect her.
Betsy had spent her life working on the side of sanity, trying to preserve human dignity in the face of madness. But this was more than madness. This was evil. This could not be cured. It could only be killed.
Extinguished.
Her mouth twisted with hatred, with rage. The tendons of her neck stood out as she clenched her teeth. She felt a fire deep within her, an instinct to strike, to kill this man who threatened those she loved.