by Nancy Holder
Ildikó sucked in a breath, then hastened forward.
She didn’t quite make it.
“Stop right there, wench.”
She would have dashed forward rather than obey had not another figure stepped into view and blocked the hallway at its farthest end. Chewing her lip, she turned back and found one of the countess’s soldiers, a private guard by the looks of his dress, striding toward her; when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw that the other figure wore the same garments—she was trapped.
“Identify yourself,” said the first guard. His voice was completely devoid of warmth, his eyes dark and unreadable. “I’ve not seen you in these rooms before.”
Ildikó’s brain worked to concoct a suitable story, something plausible but that would still conceal her true identity. “My name is . . . Marika,” she said. “I’ve been summoned to assist the countess with her wardrobe in her chambers.”
The other guard was close to her now, too close, and Ildikó stepped back a little, wanting to feel the comforting presence of the stone wall behind her. The second man was taller than the first and thin, with deep-set eyes and hair that hadn’t seen wash water in at least a season. There was a smell about both of them that Ildikó didn’t like, different from the one that permeated the castle’s rooms, but it was hard to place it beneath the stench of their unwashed clothes and skin.
“Marika?” the first soldier repeated. He met the gaze of his fellow guard over Ildikó’s head. “What do you think the chances are that this”—he gave Ildikó an unpleasant-looking leer—“this skinny half-girl would have the same name as the busty young thing who services the countess as we speak?”
Ildikó flinched inwardly as the dual impact of the man’s words sank in. Yes, they’d already guessed she wasn’t who she claimed; worse, the real Marika was suffering under the countess’s less-than-desirable ministrations right now. I have to get in there and see if I can save that girl.
“So,” said the smaller of the two men, “the wench is lying.”
“True,” agreed the other. His gaze raked her. “Besides, I really don’t think she’s the countess’s type, do you?”
“Let’s see.” His oversized hand snagged one of her arms, fingers digging tightly into the skin. Ildikó tried to pull away from the uncomfortably cold and painful grip, but he only held on more tightly, then he shook his head and gave a nasty laugh. “With that short, dark hair and flat chest? Not likely.”
His companion nodded. “You know, if we take her to the captain of the guard, he’ll likely throw her in chains in the dungeon, leave her there until she starves and dies.”
“It would be a terrible waste,” the other agreed. “Of a good meal.”
The empty eyes, that too-cool touch . . . Ildikó jerked out of the guard’s grasp just as his gaze flickered yellow and his facial features melted into a portrait of evil. She didn’t have to look to know the other soldier was a vampire, too—were there others just like them where the hallway turned right at the far end? Here, God help her, was a prime example of the consequences of her inability to sense a vampire’s presence—this creature had actually placed its filthy hand upon her and she still hadn’t realized it was a bloodsucker.
She felt the larger vampire’s spittle on her neck as he hissed in anticipation; it was cold and smelled of things pulled from a wet grave. Ildikó twisted away and brought her elbow up hard into the creature’s nose as her right hand dug into her skirt and found the bag Rendor had given her, felt the comforting grip of the wood through the fabric. With his nose smashed, the guard’s cry of pain was thankfully muffled, and she let instinct guide her—in less than a second, the stake, still encased within the fabric satchel, found its mark in the center of the first soldier’s chest. Vampire dust exploded in front of her, and had she possessed the time, Ildikó would have been thankful for the absence of battle armor; as it was, she could only gasp as the other guard lunged at her and got a choke hold around her neck.
Her head immediately began to pound and black and gold sparkles flitted across her vision as her air was cut off. Growling, the beast crowded against her, forcing her back against the wall and giving her no room to get the stake up and into position. It took everything she had to snake one arm up on each side of his and clasp her hands, then angle them sideways until his grasp on her neck broke. She had one blessed moment of full air, but instead of backing away, he pushed her even harder, throwing his full weight against her slighter frame. Her precious breath went out of her lungs as she was slammed against the stonework and her arms flailed outward.
Fast as a snake, the vampire tried to bite her; just as quickly, Ildikó squirmed in one direction, then another. “No,” she said through ground teeth. “I will not be your evening meal, you vile thing!” The beast pressed against her again and this time she let it; for a second, he hesitated, then she felt his entire body stiffen. The last thing he saw before he erupted into dust from the stake she’d driven into him from the back was her bright, victorious smile.
But Ildikó was anything but clear of danger. Caught up in the battle, she’d overlooked the noise they’d made—her furious statement, the grunts and growls of her two attackers. New excited voices drifted toward her, coming from just around that turn in the hallway—at least a half dozen men, probably more of the countess’s guards come to check on their brethren. Her battle here was lost, and she had no choice this night but to retreat.
God would have to help Marika. Ildikó had lost her chance.
* * *
The screams of the night before weighed on Ildikó’s mind, more so because she knew the young woman who had suffered so. Death was never good, but had her memory held the cries of a faceless stranger she would not have been as down in the heart, as . . . connected to the atrocities being committed somewhere within this heavily guarded stone fortress. She had saved many people from the village in her short time as a Slayer, but always the darkness had kept their faces from her, and hers from them. She had left her own family behind of choice, and while she respected Rendor and followed his guidance—more so of late—this was the first time Ildikó had seen or heard evil visited upon someone she knew personally, a girl with whom she’d shared conversation. It mattered not that their words had been far from cordial; the impact was far deeper because it had struck down a face she knew, a voice she had heard, a name Ildikó had uttered from her lips.
The morning dragged, with Ildikó’s chores seeming meaningless and her mind spinning in all directions but unable to come up with any plan but to try the same entry tonight. The notion was fraught with potential trouble. The least of these was that the captain of the guard had doubtlessly noticed his missing men and his suspicions would be raised, resulting in an increased guard. Worse, what if the captain is himself a vampire, his men more of the same? If that were true, how convenient that such an army guarded Countess Elizabeth Bathory!
But there seemed to be no other option for Ildikó. If anything, even more servants wandered the area than in the previous days, even more soldiers and merchants. Each able-bodied man and woman who joined the castle’s population this day decreased her chances of getting to the countess’s chambers this eventide, and Ildikó became more frustrated as the hour wore late. If she did not figure out something soon—
“You there, girl. Come forward.”
Ildikó almost missed the command, so absorbed was she in her own speculations. The old crone of a housekeeper, however, had no intention of letting it slip by; she reached out an aged hand and pinched Ildikó hard on the soft flesh on the inside of her upper arm. It stung enough so that the Slayer’s head whipped around, and she nearly dropped into a fighting stance, then at the last second she remembered where she was and her need to keep her identity a secret. The housekeeper gestured angrily at her to heed someone behind Ildikó’s shoulder and hissed something at her, the words too heavy with ale to be intelligible.
Ildikó turned and found herself face-to-face with the lesser of the c
ountess’s ladies-in-waiting, Kateline. The woman’s face was, as always, drawn and tired, her dark eyes rimmed with shadows that testified to many sleepless nights. “You look of sound mind and health,” she said. “We have need of your assistance with matters elsewhere.”
Ildikó curtseyed, snatched up her cape and satchel from their spot by the fireplace, and obediently fell into step behind Kateline. The older woman led her through the main hall and into the courtyard. Outside the shadows were lengthening and the cold was increasing, quickly bleeding away what scant heat the ground had managed to pull from the winter sun. The little village down the mountain always had a pall over it during the harsh winter months, but the houses this close to the castle, literally within its gloomy shadow, bore an atmosphere that was oppressive and unabashedly fearful in the evening. People rushed about as if their very lives depended on it, and if what she had encountered last night was any indication, finding shelter and safety before darkness fully descended really did mark the boundary between life and death . . . or undeath.
Ildikó’s senses sharpened as Kateline guided her to a doorway that led out of the courtyard proper. Their footsteps crunched in the snow, and voices filtered through the sparse trees; not too much farther waited three more people—Jó Ilona and two more serving girls, their faces pale and terrified as they awaited the bidding of their mistresses. On the ground at their feet lay their task: the burial of two elongated shapes bundled in heavy fabric, clearly the bodies of two who had been considerably less fortunate. Ildikó barely hid her anger as she grasped the shovel handed her. Is Marika one of these poor dead souls?
Angry she might be, but common sense still ruled. Yes, she wanted to avenge these two and the others who had fallen victim to the countess. To do so, her objective was to find her way to the cause of their death, the bigger target back inside the castle. Out here she would hold her comments and tongue, and trust in her instincts to guide her actions.
Thanks to Ildikó’s superior strength, the onerous chore went quickly, enough so that Kateline and Jó Ilona took note. Their work completed, the girls were herded inside and sent back to their normal duties, but Jó Ilona gestured for Ildikó to hang back as the others left. Standing before the crone, Ildikó felt . . . soiled beneath her gaze. Odd that Jó Ilona’s eyes now seemed more than old, rheumy but far too knowing, tainted by the darkness of what had passed before them. When the old woman folded cool, dry fingers around her wrist, Ildikó had to search for a new strength within herself to keep from yanking away.
“You are assigned to help with cooking duties, yes?”
“Yes, mistress,” Ildikó answered.
Jó Ilona nodded, the movement more a confirmation to herself than anything the young Slayer needed to interpret. The woman’s eyes shifted left and right, as though she were making sure no one else was within hearing range. “A girl, strong such as you, and with aspirations to a better station in the household, could go far in the castle,” she told Ildikó in a raspy whisper. “If she could hold her tongue about certain matters.”
There was no mistaking that here, finally, was an avenue that might take her within striking distance of the countess herself. But caution was still called for; wary of appearing overeager, Ildikó made a show of giving Jó Ilona’s words careful consideration. “You mean I am not to repeat to others what is seen or heard during the performance of my duties?”
“Exactly.” The countess’s lady peered at her and her fingers dug into the Slayer’s flesh more firmly. “Are you capable of silence, girl? Be wise in your answer, for there will be no chance for turnabout.”
Ildikó nodded solemnly. “I am most trustworthy.”
Jó Ilona released her. “Very well, then. I will show you to your new post at Castle Csejthe.”
And Ildikó followed the old crone down the steps into the farthest recesses of the castle, and into the very pits of hell.
* * *
There had been times in Ildikó’s short span as the Vampire Slayer during which she had been cold and hungry, weary to the bone and injured. Yet even during the worst of those—her battle to destroy the nest of vampyr at Skole—never would she have imagined such a place existed as the dungeons maintained by the monstrous Elizabeth Bathory.
The rooms were unexpectedly well lit, but for once Ildikó would have preferred darkness and shadow—anything to help cushion the impact of her surroundings. After leading her down here yesterday morning, Jó Ilona had given Ildikó the barest idea of her assigned duties, then left. The last that Ildikó had heard of the woman was the sound of the heavy wooden bar being dropped into its iron brackets on the other side of the dungeon’s main door.
She was trapped down here.
But she wasn’t alone.
Ildikó hadn’t found them until the crone had left, but at the farther end of the room, chained in place against cold walls weeping with moisture, were four girls. Shivering and moaning, they were delirious with fear and thirst, and while Ildikó murmured words of empty comfort and brought each fresh water, she could neither free them from the stout iron manacles, nor find anything to cover their nearly naked bodies. Sorely mistreated, each girl’s flesh was a landscape of wounds, from bruises to cuts to bite marks that bore no resemblance at all to the familiar puncture of a vampire’s teeth. A different sort of monster had preyed on these young women, and it was one that sorely needed destroying.
And so Ildikó waited, patiently tending to the girls and biding her time, replenishing the myriad of torches and keeping the single huge fireplace stoked lest the flames go out and they all freeze down here. Her stomach growled with emptiness, and she could only imagine what these pathetic prisoners felt, two of whom had shared the carriage with her only last week. Ildikó hadn’t the tendency to hold a grudge, and it pained her greatly to see them imprisoned and in such pain, but while she checked their manacles dozens of times, her Slayer’s strength was no match for the iron that encased their wrists and ankles.
There were other things down here, too. Alive and otherwise.
In the realm of the living there were the rats, squeezing in through the cracks and small drains in the stone floors and walls, safely using passageways too narrow for even the castle cats. Insects, too—huge waterbugs and other scuttling things for which Ildikó had no name. Those things, she could deal with—a well-placed stomp of her foot marked the finale for many of the pesky creatures—but it was the—other things, items made of wood and leather and iron, that horrified her almost more than anything she had previously encountered.
The rumors had not done this place true justice.
There were tables with stained leather straps, others with thumbscrews, pinchers, rope whips, and chain flails, all dark and nauseatingly heavy with the scent of blood. Had these things been used on the girls chained to the wall? If so, it was little wonder that the imprisoned girls seemed only a hair’s length from death. But even though such implements were horrifying, they were dwarfed by the thing in the center of the room, a huge, metal monstrosity that gave Ildikó chills just to gaze upon it. Yet she couldn’t not study the thing, try to figure out what it did to its victims, what purpose it ultimately served. It seemed to be some kind of . . . cage, and God help those caught in its grasp, because if she was understanding what she saw—
“I see you are fascinated by the Iron Maiden.”
Ildikó spun, but the honey-coated voice belonged to no one in sight. Her gaze darted from the pools of shadow between each torch on the wall, but still she saw no one. What manner of beast could hide so?
Movement then, a blacker silhouette in a valley of darkness by the door—she’d been so focused upon the torture devices that she hadn’t heard the stealthy removal of the locking bar, and someone had taken down several of the torches as she’d turned. Before she could speak, more figures moved into the room from the doorway, the heavier, taller figures of the countess’s soldiers no doubt accompanying her for safety. As Ildikó waited, Kateline and Jó Ilona stepped forward
, the first to cut off her view and access to the figure who could only be Countess Bathory herself. More soldiers hastened to accompany them—how odd that the woman felt the need for such protection from one scrawny serving maid.
But if the countess felt fear, she wasn’t the only one. Her mouth dry, Ildikó swallowed and forced her voice to stay calm. She had miscalculated terribly, and Rendor’s warnings about how isolated she would be came back in a nasty flood. The Slayer would find no help in this fiendish place, and it was clear that her Watcher, although highly regarded in the village, had been unable to send assistance or even gain entrance to the castle.
Still, there was no time for recriminations. She was where she was—alone—but she would not betray her fear to this monster in a woman’s clothing. “I have never seen such a thing.”
“It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it?” came Elizabeth Bathory’s answer. The voice floated on the drafts in the dungeon like the ethereal version of a poisonous snake. “I had it made by a clockmaker at Dolna Krupa.” If such a thing were possible, Ildikó thought she could actually hear the woman smiling. “Such a fine and . . . efficient piece of art.”
Ildikó grimaced, not sure whether her expression could be seen in the darkness, not really caring. “Art? It seems more a work of cruelty to me.”
The countess chuckled but still kept her distance. “Quite overspoken, aren’t you? A perilous thing in my service, you know.”
The Slayer tensed, but no one moved forward. “My apologies, Your Highness.”
The countess waved away her words. “No matter. You are different from the other maidens,” she commented. “More robust, I think. Stronger. My sorceress tells me of your great stamina and health, that you are . . . special.” A finger of unease stroked the base of Ildikó’s spine. Even for one of Elizabeth Bathory’s stature, it was bold indeed to admit to employing a person of the dark arts—of what other things regarding Ildikó did this so-called sorceress have knowledge?
