“If a prisoner is to be—dispatched,” he said, “he or she would be thrust inside, against the spikes, and then the front of the maiden slammed shut.”
“Oh my God,” whispered Daisy. In the silence she heard the muffled sound of footsteps far below.
The stranger stared at her.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
“Why do you wear black clothes and paint your skin white?”
“What? Because I like it,” said Daisy. “Why do you wear a black cape and look like Dracula?”
The stranger laughed. The throaty sound made her jump as it ricocheted around the tower. Pigeons roosting in the windowsills launched themselves into the darkness, their wings scraping the windows. The stranger led the way up the last flight of stairs.
“Here we are,” he said, opening the door to the balcony that encircled the base of the cupola. “For you, my charming night companion.”
He gestured grandly at the sight of Stare Mesto, its buildings and fountains illuminated in pools of light.
Daisy drank in the sight, the ancient buildings clustered in twisting cobblestone streets. The gray stone cathedral of St. Martin’s, a massive presence. From this vantage point, she could see almost all of the old city.
She listened intently. The only sound was the dripping of the rain gutters. It was late and there were few passersby at this end of town. Most of the action now was in the nightclubs and bars outside the walls of the Stare Mesto. Then she heard a burst of laughter and conversation from the street far below.
Daisy gazed down at a small cluster of young people who were approaching the gate. She noticed they stopped talking as soon as they entered the tunnel through the Michalska Gate. She craned her neck, looking down to watch them emerge from the other side. Her view was partially blocked by the stone supporting the balcony.
“Why did they stop talking?” she asked.
“It is a superstition,” the stranger said. “They must be students. It is said if a student speaks when passing through the Michalska Gate, he will fail his exams. The Slovakians are very superstitious.”
“Are you?” asked Daisy.
“I am Hungarian,” he answered. Daisy noticed the skin puckered around his mouth when he spoke. His lips pulled back, exposing his teeth.
She stared at them in the darkness. What a set of choppers.
“There is a great difference between Hungarians and Slovaks, the Conquerors and the Conquered.”
Daisy was about to ask him about the difference, when his knees buckled.
“Oh, oh!” said the stranger, leaning against the wall. He breathed heavily.
“Are you all right?” asked Daisy.
“Forgive me, my dear. I have to admit I am feeling a bit woozy from the climb.”
“Let me help you—”
“No, no. I will descend and wait for you at the bottom of the stairs.”
“I’ll go with you—” said Daisy.
“No, that’s not necessary. You must have a few moments to admire the beauty of the city. I will be at the door when you come down. Please do not worry about me.”
He disappeared through the door, closing it behind him before she could protest.
Then she heard the turn of the lock.
“What the fuck?” she said. She turned her headlight beam on the door handle, and pushed down hard. The door was locked.
“You crazy bastard!” she said. “Hey, let me out of here!”
Daisy pulled at the door, then kicked it furiously. She heard the slap of footsteps on the wet street below her. The white-haired man had emerged. He was speaking to a large blond man. They both strode back to the entrance of the tower.
She knew she had only minutes to act.
Chapter 64
ČACHTICE VILLAGE
DECEMBER 25, 1610
Janos’s eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. The air in the church was laced with mildew. There was no art adorning the stone walls. The only focus of the splintered pews was the simple altar and its pair of flickering candles.
A man in black clerical robes knelt in the front pew. He rose to his feet.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Ah, I suppose it is past midnight. Merry Christmas to you, Father.”
“May I help you, my son?” he said. “I am Pastor Ponikenusz.”
“I am Janos Szilvasi, horsemaster to Countess Bathory.”
A shadow crossed the pastor’s face.
“I see,” said Ponikenusz, extending his hand. Janos noticed the stiff formality in the handshake.
“I have come to speak with you.” Janos leaned close to the pastor’s ear. “But our conversation must be private. I am a friend of Vida’s.”
Ponikenusz’s eyes brightened in the darkness. He studied Janos’s face carefully.