House of Bathory(19)

“What do you consider ill conduct, Madame? I come from the Sarvar Castle—your own property. At your request, Madame.”

“You needn’t remind me, as if I am too aged and addled to remember!” she snapped.

Janos decided to take another approach, muting his anger.

“I am devoted to the horses and will see that they thrive and are trained to the utmost of my ability. Your stable shall be worthy of the Bathory name.”

Janos could see the black veil tremble. He wondered what lay behind the curtain of black mesh.

“I understand my stable boys have disappointed you.”

“The horses are in bad condition, Countess,” said Janos. “I will work hard the next few weeks to bring them back to health.”

“My stable master died and his nephew is an idiot,” said the countess, lifting the veil from her face, and folding it over her dark auburn hair.

“I—”

Janos stopped speaking. He stared at the white face, skin as smooth as fine marble, the color of Venetian porcelain. Burning amber eyes, unlike any he had ever seen, stared at him under delicately arched brows.

The woman looked inhuman, a perfect statue created by the most skillful sculptor. Except the eyes. The eyes were feral, catlike. She was stunningly beautiful. He could not look away. His eyes ran over her features, again and again, hunting for imperfection.

He found none, despite her age.

She nodded to the footman, who handed her the braided leather horsewhip.

“You returned this to me,” she said. “I sent it to you with a purpose.”

Janos made himself look at the horsewhip and not the woman’s face.

“It was not necessary. The horses do not need whipping and the stable boys are simply ignorant.”

“The sting of the whip can quickly correct ignorance.”

“I find other methods more effective, Countess.”

There was a little gasp among the throng of handmaidens.

The Countess gave them a sharp look. A sudden silence settled into even the most remote corners of the room.

“They say you inherited your father’s—nay, your grandfather’s—uncanny dominion over horses. I remember him from my childhood at Sarvar Castle. I was fifteen when I was brought as a bride there.”

“I understand horses. It is not dominion.”

“Do you believe you can ride my white stallion?”

“I know I can.”

The marble face broke into a smile that was somehow hideous, as if the sculptor who had created her had never meant for such an emotional betrayal to cross that visage. The sculpted features, haughty and perfect, looked as if they would shatter, casting jagged white shards on the floor.

Then the face regained its marble composure, no expression marring the milky smoothness.

“Is there something lacking in my performance, Countess?”

“Yes,” answered the perfect face. “Bozek, show Horsemaster Szilvasi back to his quarters.”

The manservant appeared out of the shadows, at Janos’s elbow.

“There is one thing you lack, young horsemaster,” said the Countess, lowering her veil once more.

“And what might that be?”

“Humility,” she said. “But you shall learn it here at Čachtice Castle.”

She snapped her fingers, the sound echoing through the great hall.

Two guards seized Janos, their strong fingers biting into his arm. He was whisked back into the hall. The torch flames leapt, fed by the gust of wind as the massive door slammed shut behind him.





Chapter 9

CARBONDALE, COLORADO

NOVEMBER 29, 2010





Betsy heard footsteps outside on the porch. She opened the door.

“Dr. Path?”

Framed by the blue trim of the door was the most striking young woman Betsy had ever seen.

She had long dark red hair—a natural auburn. Strands whipped about her face in the wind. Her skin was startlingly white, like a porcelain figurine. It was an outdated look, especially in contrast with the outdoorsy Colorado style to which Betsy was accustomed. Then she realized she was staring at the girl’s green, amber-flecked eyes.

“You are Dr. Path, aren’t you?”

“Yes—I’m sorry,” Betsy said, forcing herself to stop examining the girl’s eyes. “Do we know each other?”

She looked so familiar. Betsy was sure she had seen those features before.

“I am Daisy Hart’s sister, Morgan. May I come in?”

“Of course, I’m sorry. I guess I should have seen the family resemblance.”

Betsy knew she was staring at the young woman, but she couldn’t help it.

“Underneath all that Goth makeup she wears, how could you?” said Morgan.

She frowned, lowering her chin. Her long hair swung down in her face. Then she tossed her glorious mane back behind her ears. Her eyes glittered. Her lips formed a word, but no syllable was uttered.