House of Bathory(26)

“Who are you?”

“You may address me as Count.”

Grace blinked her eyes, trying to focus. The man was a blur of white skin and sensuous lips.

“Would you like your spectacles?” he asked.

Spectacles, she thought, not glasses. His accent is possibly Hungarian. He must have been schooled in England, or had an English tutor as a child.

“Yes. Please,” she forced herself to say.

One of the stick-thin women clicked open Grace’s leather briefcase. She took a pair of glasses from a case, handing them to the historian.

The woman lingered there, breathing deeply. Grace could hear an audible sniff, as if the woman was smelling her.

“Not those,” snapped Grace. “In my purse,” she said. “The ones you have there are just for reading.”

The woman looked at the Count. He gave a curt nod. From the shadows, a fuchsia-haired woman pulled out Grace’s purse.

“Yes, the ones in the beaded case.”

Grace held still while the skeletal hands adjusted them on her face. As the woman drew away, Grace looked at her arms. Purple and yellow bruises, withered skin.

“Where am I?” she asked. She glanced about, taking in her surroundings. The fireplace was fifteenth-century granite with a marble mantel, smooth from centuries of wear. A muted fresco of Roman emperors and Habsburg rulers was recessed in the coffered ceiling above her head. A Venetian artist, she decided. Fifteen, sixteenth century at the latest.

“You are in my home. In Slovakia. Welcome, Dr. Path.”

“Welcome? How dare you! You kidnapped me!”

“Kidnap? That seems such a hostile term. I have invited you to sojourn in my castle.”

“Why? What do you want with me? I am a historian, what could I—?”

“Again, I ask only what we can do to persuade your daughter to come and pay me a visit.”

Grace pretended she didn’t hear. “Why are you holding me prisoner?”

The Count arched his brow.

“Because you might be useful to me. Your husband was not, I am afraid.”

Useful. The word rang in Grace’s ears. A throbbing sound—her heart?—pounded, deafening her.

“My husband died in a car accident ten years ago!”

“Yes. We thought that might bring your daughter here again. Unfortunate death, but necessary.”

Grace’s mouth went dry. She made a clicking sound when she tried to talk. She swallowed hard.

“What do you mean, again?”

“Ah, you have forgotten. Years ago, when she was a child of—what, five or six?—you brought her in tow to a research congress in Bratislava. It was a congress on the reign of Matthias II.”

Grace’s memory raced. There had been so many researchers and experts there. Hundreds of people. There had been a moment of panic when she couldn’t find Betsy—the little girl had disappeared.

Then she remembered, the moment from decades ago suddenly perfectly clear in her mind. The tall, elegant man with a silver-topped cane who held her daughter on his knee, gazing into her eyes. Who is that man? she had thought. As she rushed forward to reclaim her daughter, a tinkling voice drifted through the air. “Ah, Count Bathory. Is it not enough you have captured all the women’s hearts in Czechoslovakia and Hungary? Must you cast your spell on American hearts so young and tender?”

“Count Bathory,” Grace whispered now as she looked at the man who held her prisoner. “I remember—you had my daughter—”

“Ah, good. So you do remember me. I was quite offended when your husband pretended he could not. Especially after all our—time—together.”

A stab of pain struck her chest and she closed her eyes.

“I have heard you are researching my illustrious ancestor, Countess Bathory. You realize that we are approaching a very special anniversary in the next few days?”

Grace stared at her captor.

“Of course you know—”

“What do you want with my daughter?” she interrupted.

“That is my own personal business,” he said. “But let’s just say she might possess something I need.”

A shadow crossed his face. The light in his eyes turned flat.

Then he forced a smile, drawing back the vivid lips, exposing long white teeth.





Chapter 15

ČACHTICE CASTLE

DECEMBER 7, 1610





Zuzana spied on the new horsemaster from the arrow slits of the keep. She had known him as a youth from Sarvar Castle in the flatlands of Lower Hungary, but it had been thirteen long years since she had seen his boyish face.

He had grown—in physique and in confidence. Her first recollection of Janos had been as a silent boy sipping beer in the corner as their fathers exchanged stories, clapping each other on the back.