“Show us the lower floors of the castle, Pan Gellert. Now!”
Chapter 116
BATHORY CASTLE DUNGEON
HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS, SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 29, 2010
A guard pounded on the thick oak door. Andras slid the bolts and opened the door. He and the guard spoke briefly in hushed voices.
The Count ignored the men.
Andras looked one last time at the Count and slipped out the door, following the guard into the darkness beyond. Ona put down the candlestick and hurried after them.
The Count roared—an inhuman sound. The candlelight guttered in a draft from somewhere deep in the castle. It caught the Count’s eye, distracted him for a moment from his rage.
He closed the iron door and slid the bolt shut. Grace glanced toward Morgan and back to the Count again.
He walked toward the candle, hypnotized. He bent down, picking it up from the floor. He lifted the crystal decanter from the table and swirled the blood again. He turned to Morgan. “Watch, my Mistress! I shall bring back joyous light to your eyes!”
Now! Betsy thought. She surged out of the trapdoor and threw herself at the Count. His bad knee crumpled and he screamed with pain as he fell heavily to the floor, his head hitting the stones. He lay suddenly still and silent.
Betsy screamed, “Mom! I’m coming!
At least she is safe for the time being.
Breathing heavily, Betsy took her pocketknife from her jacket and cut through the ropes holding Morgan to the chair.
Morgan didn’t react. She didn’t look at Betsy. Her eyes were riveted on the Count and his victim, her sister.
Morgan’s fingers dug into her bodice and pulled out an object.
The thin, sharp blade of a switchblade sliced the air.
Betsy didn’t see the Count struggle back to his feet, blood running down his face from a cut above his eye, where his head had hit the stone floor. He stared at Betsy, his eyes transfixed on her face.
Then he turned toward Daisy.
“Whore!” the Count shouted, lunging for Daisy’s throat. “This is all your fault! You shall be punished in the name of Countess Bathory.”
“Get off of her!” screamed Morgan, charging toward him.
The Count twisted in time to fend off her attack. He held up one hand, protecting his face. The other grabbed for Morgan’s arm.
He pulled her down on top of him. They both wrestled for the knife. Bathory managed to get a tenuous grasp on the hilt.
Morgan grabbed his wrist, the blade twisting in his hand.
Bathory wrenched the knife from Morgan’s grasp, but she rolled on her side and swung her knees up, striking the Count hard in the crotch.
He screamed, losing his grasp of the knife. She snatched it from him with the deft move of a street fighter.
Morgan plunged the switchblade between his ribs. She pulled out the knife. She stood above her victim, panting.
The Count lay very still. Morgan hovered over him.
He suddenly lashed out, knocking the knife from her hand. It clattered across the floor.
He spoke as he raised himself to his knees. His eyes blinked wide in astonishment.
“You betray me, Mistress,” the Count said, staring at Morgan. “Have I not dedicated my life to you, Countess?”
He caught sight of Betsy, just behind her.
“And you, my cousin? I knew I would see you again, but not like this. Not here—”
“I am not your cousin,” said Betsy. She stood warily, wondering if Morgan had inflicted a mortal injury.
He crumpled again to the floor, his hand pressed against his ribs. He curled up in a fetal position.
Keeping an eye on the Count, Betsy cut the ropes that held Daisy to the chair.
“Hurry,” Betsy said. “Get help!” Daisy stood up, unsteady for a moment, then she stumbled out the door into the corridor and up the winding stairs.
Betsy turned back to Morgan, who stared blankly. A bloody wound blossomed on her sleeve, soaking the silk.
“Morgan! You’re hurt.”
Betsy untied the red bandana around her neck.
The blood was pumping fast, too fast for the small bandana. She dropped it on the floor, her fingers flying to undo the bow on Morgan’s apron. She wound the material tightly around the wound, securing the ties. She kept one eye on the Count as she worked.
“I tried to protect her. I always protected her, my little sister,” Morgan mumbled. “I would never let him touch her.”
“I know,” said Betsy. “Morgan, I know. Be still now.”
“It wasn’t right,” said Morgan, shaking her head. “I told him so. They are related by blood. I told him to take me instead. We’re not related, not really, you know.” Her voice was empty. “And I loved him. Once.”
“It’s all right now, Morgan,” said Betsy, pulling off the girl’s red-stained lace collar.