House of Bathory(79)

She shut down her computer and walked to the safe. She entered the code, looked inside, and when she was satisfied the cracking pages were still secure, she locked them up again.

The receptionist had told her that the bar opened at nine, but there wasn’t much action until midnight. Daisy decided to take another look at the old town of Bratislava until the scene picked up. She had slept most of the day and felt not the slightest urge to go to bed.

The cold air slapped her face as she set foot on the cobblestone street. The rain had stopped and the wet wind carried the smells of wood fires, roasting chestnuts, and dampness. She drew another deep breath. The smell of grilled onions and sausages from the outdoor vendors made her mouth water.

First stop, sausage, she thought. I’m starved.

Floodlights made the buildings glow against the night sky and she marveled at the medley of colors. The pastel buildings were edged with filigreed trim, the shuttered windows a contrasting color. In the fairyland of whimsical houses, she wandered the winding streets, imagining past centuries.

From the enormous pink Archbishop’s Palace to the original crumbling walls of the city, Daisy felt a pulse of history. The buildings were as real yet ethereal as the abandoned shell of a cicada, clinging to a tree branch, molded by the life it once held. She heard the ring of horseshoes against the cobblestones, smelled the malodorous gutters, saw the bright colors of the bishop’s robes. She imagined the glint of the jewel-encrusted crown of the many Kings of Hungary and the Holy Roman Empire as one by one they were crowned at St. Martin’s Cathedral.

Daisy clutched her guidebook, staring up to the illuminated buildings. A gloved hand touched her back.

“Have you seen the view from Michalska Brana, the main gate?”

Daisy whirled around, her black coat swinging against the legs of a silver-haired man dressed quite formally. He had a dark gray overcoat and immaculately shined shoes. He gestured with his cane.

“You should see it. A magnificent sight, especially at night.”

“Is the tower open? I think it closed at five. I missed it.”

“Ah, yes, for tourists that is the case,” said the distinguished man. She noticed, as he smiled, that his teeth were long and white. “But there are those who have special privileges. You should not miss the opportunity to see the whole of Stare Mesto—the Old Town—from the height of the tower. It is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

Daisy sensed danger in this elderly man—a shiver of apprehension rocketed up her spine.

And she liked it.

Like Little Red Riding Hood, she thought. Man, look at those teeth. Maybe they’re dentures, she thought. People that old don’t have such white teeth, unless they’re movie stars.

Yet she liked the jolting tingle she felt, to discover what mystery lay ahead. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. It was better than staring at the ceiling in her hotel room.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Pavol Kovac.”

“I’m…Violet Jones. Nice to meet you.”

“How charming. You were named for a flower,” said the stranger.

Daisy lips met in a thin line.

“You know, Violet, I could accompany you to the tower. I have the key, thanks to contributions I have made to the city of Bratislava over the years.”

“You do? I mean, you really have a key?”

“Of course, I am a benefactor of the reconstruction of Stare Mesto.”

“You must have made some awesome donation.”

“Yes,” he said. “Come this way. I will show you.”





The lights bathed the tower rising over the arched gate. The round copper copula, green with age, stabbed the night sky.

“Come this way,” said Daisy’s companion. “We must enter the side door.”

The corridor was pitch black. Daisy heard the scuttle of mice.

“Let me lead the way,” said the stranger, pulling a small flashlight from his overcoat pocket.

Climbing the stairs, they passed exhibits of armor and weapons throughout the ages. Every floor was dedicated to warfare, weapons, and instruments of torture from the Dark Ages to the nineteenth century.

Daisy pulled out her own headlamp, focusing the beam on a huge metal structure in the form of a woman.

She stopped in her tracks.

“What is that?”

“Ah, you have found her!” her companion said, directing the flashlight beam at the monstrosity. “That, my dear, is an iron maiden, one of the most vicious tools of torture of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.”

He flashed the beam on the wrought copper face of the maiden. Then he hooked his bony fingers around the edges of cover, pulling it open.

Daisy’s headlight beam illuminated the dozens of sharp spikes within. She approached the maiden and ran her finger across one of the spikes. It tore at her glove.