House of Bathory(93)
“It is nourishment. It is the essence of life.”
The color drained from Draska’s face. “It is blood. Blood and wine,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“Drink it! You will starve if you do not drink it. You will die!”
“I cannot drink blood! You are all insane!”
“Shut up! You fool! You do not know what I risk by initiating you—”
The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted her. Ona stood up from her crouch, looking over her shoulder.
“See what you have done!” she hissed.
Two phantom-pale men approached.
“You are not to talk to her,” said one of them.
“I was—”
“Shut up. She is not of the Bathory line.”
“She has lived all her life in the castle. But she refuses to drink.”
One of the men, with a crewcut and nose ring, sneered at Draska. “Good. Let the traitor die.”
The other man, his eye twitching, nodded. “Starve her.”
“Better yet—she can be harvested.”
The men turned away, laughing. Ona shook her head, giving Draska a look of pity and disgust. Then she snatched the goblet away and followed the men into the darkness.
The Count stared at the portrait of Countess Bathory, mesmerized. Her flawless skin shone polished as a white marble statue. Dark brows arched haughtily over amber eyes. Her dark red hair was swept up, revealing her shell-like ears. Ears that were dainty, belying her power and cruelty.
“Why do you forsake me, Countess?” he asked the painting.
His henchmen had stolen the portrait from the Čachtice village museum decades ago. It now hung in the mahogany-paneled study where he often spent his evenings. His servants had grown accustomed to the Count’s murmurings directed to the likeness of his ancestor.
The Count sighed, staring into the depths of his glass of red wine. It was a rich ruby Margaux, a heady vintage. He swirled his glass, making the wine lick the higher reaches of the goblet.
“I have created a world in your image,” he said. “I have killed the one man who threatened to reveal my secrets in order that I might serve you unobstructed. There is no one to stand in our way now.”
Then he pinched up his face as he thought about the missing ledger.
“Why do you not appear, my lady? This is your celebration.”
He took a long draught of his wine.
“I beg of you, return to your rightful place among those who worship you. I have dedicated my life to your memory.”
His lips curled in a cruel smile.
“I think you will be pleased when you see what we have planned.”
Chapter 79
VILLAGE OF ČACHTICE
DECEMBER 27, 1610
Vida heard that Ponikenusz had left for Vienna. The chatter in the tavern was that he left trailing the night coach in order to address the King.
“They say that Janos Szilvasi is near death with a fever,” said the barkeeper.
“Who nurses him?” said a bearded patron, taking a deep draught of his beer.
“They say it is the poxed one who sits by his bedside. The Countess has taken him into the castle.”
“She will kill him!” said another patron, a dog curled at his feet.
The barkeeper shook his head and wiped a dirty rag across a table.
“Her tastes are for women’s blood, not men’s.”
Not if she thinks he is an informant to the King, thought Vida, throwing her woolen shawl over her shoulders.
She pulled the iron ring on the heavy wooden door. A cold wind lacerated her ankles as she hurried out.
Aloyz brought Vida to the scullery, knocking at the splintered door. He had thrown a dark blanket over the girl’s head and shoulders so she wouldn’t be recognized until she was safe among the women she trusted.
Hedvika, as always, had accompanied the Countess to the dungeon to play the nightly games.
“Vida!” exclaimed the other maidens. “How we have missed you!”
“But do you dare return?” asked one. “The mistress will punish you—”
“She will take you to the dungeon,” whispered another. “Countess Zichy has—”
“What’s all this?” growled a voice.
The women stopped breathing.
In the doorway stood Brona the cook, wooden ladle in her hand.
The girls stood in front of Vida, trying to hide her from view.
“Get away,” Brona said, swatting them with her ladle. “You think I don’t know a dear daughter has returned? Come here, child.”
She embraced Vida, then stepped back. “Let me see your hands, girl.”
Vida opened her palms. The young girl’s face flinched with pain.
The wounds had scarred to thick pink and white flaps of skin, edged in black char. Only a little pus oozed from them. The cunning woman’s remedies had saved her hands.