House of Bathory(125)

Zuzana did not answer.

“Hold her!” Bathory said, her jaw set in anger. “Take off her coat, bring the torch.”

The guards pulled the cloak from the girl.

“I’ve always wondered if there remained anything beautiful beyond your eyes. In your eyes, I see your brother. On your skin, I see death. But what lies hidden beneath your bodice?”

Countess Bathory’s hand flashed out, ripping Zuzana’s bodice, exposing her white, perfect breasts.

Bathory raked her nails deep into the girl’s flesh.

Zuzana howled in pain. She fell back into the guard’s arms, blood streaming down her breasts.

The Countess sneered at the girl writhing in the guard’s arms.

“Your dear brother. You shall join him in death.”





Entering the dungeons, Thurzo’s men came across Doricza’s body first. The Croatian girl had been stabbed, the Palatine could see that. But she also been cudgeled savagely, her flesh a bloody pulp. Her body had been dragged into the shadows of the tunnel.

Gyorgy Thurzo bent down over the girl’s corpse, removing his glove. His hand touched her face.

“By God, she is still warm,” he whispered to the pastor. The pastor began praying, his lips moving silently.

Thurzo strode along the rocky corridor, the others behind him, to the entrance of the upper dungeon. There he saw a young girl—not more than sixteen—also dead on the floor. Their footsteps clattered, descending into the bowels of the earth.

He heard the muffled screams of girls somewhere close. He raced down the rock steps nearly impaling himself on a door fitted with spikes. He swung the door open and saw the Countess herself.

She was seated on a stool, a dead girl’s body at her feet. She screwed up her bloody face, her eyes squinting to see.

“Who goes there? You shall pay for your intrusion!”

“Not so,” Count Thurzo roared. “This is not one of your servants but the Palatine Prince of Hungary who stands before you and has come in the name of the King to bring justice to these accursed walls!”

Countess Bathory stared back. Her blood-drenched hand touched her face, and she looked down at her victim.

The rest of Thurzo’s party pressed into the fetid room. Beads of water clung to the rocky walls, the dampness accentuating the stench of death.

“Countess Bathory, you are arrested for the crime of murder, by order of King Matthias.”

Two guards seized the Countess by the arms.

Fizko, Dorka, and Ilona Joo stumbled up the stairs, their hands tied. Guards prodded them ahead at the point of a pike.

Thurzo looked around the chamber. There were three girls, all tied and gagged. As the pastor cut their bonds, they wept uncontrollably in his arms, like small children.

“Where is Zuzana?” the clergyman asked.

“She was not tortured long, Father,” said a black-haired girl, still clinging desperately to him. “She broke loose from the guard and ran. She did not suffer long, I swear it.”

She pointed to a great dark hole in the ground. The pastor could hear the echo of rushing water, deep below.





Janos ran down the stone steps. He stood panting at the scene. The blood-smeared Countess. The dead girl at her feet. The sobbing girls standing to one side. Thurzo’s men staring wide-eyed, their faces white with disgust and horror.

The Countess looked at Janos in disdain, raising an eyebrow on her flawless, pale brow.

“Are you looking for your little friend, Horsemaster?” said the Countess, her voice icy. “Because if you are, it is too late.”

“What have you—”

“Look for her in my carp ponds, I believe that’s where the water flows. Her body will feed my fish well.”

“You—”

“We shall have fat carp come springtime. I must invite you to dine again.”

Her skirts made a swishing sound as the guard dragged her up the stairs.





Chapter 115

BATHORY CASTLE

HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS, SLOVAKIA

DECEMBER 29, 2010





John clutched the broken crucifix in his hand.

“This belongs to Daisy Hart,” he said. “She disappeared today, just beyond the gates of this castle.”

The butler looked at the cross. John could smell the sweat emanating from the servant’s wool jacket.

John watched the man look away.

“Where is she?” he shouted. “Tell us!”

The police officer picked up his cell phone. He dialed a number, spoke briefly, waited. Moments elapsed. Finally, the policeman nodded his head. He locked eyes with the Hungarian butler.

“We have permission to continue the search,” said the officer. “From the highest authority. I suggest you cooperate from now on, Mr.—”

“Gellert. Heinrich Gellert.”