Quiver

by Holly Luhning

  As she watched the screen, she embraced the sting of pulled hairs, the hard crystals against her skin. Imagined that the beads were tiny knives, her body punctured, bleeding, wetting the steel grey with warm red.

  She thought the girl screamed unconvincingly. She was not impressed. If she had played the role, there would be no eyes scrunched unattractively tight, no blind flailing. She would have looked at the Countess, watched her jewelled wrists, the ringed hands that held the pick. She would have kept her eyes on the lady. Would have felt her breath, smelled her skin as the Countess leaned in. She would have known what she was screaming for, would have done it beautifully as her blood slipped from her and coated the blue-white skin of the Countess.

  The screen faded to black. The next scene was filled with sunshine, the now-young Countess riding to meet her lover.

  She sat up. The dress fell from her torso, settled heavily in her lap. She looked in the box again, fished out a deep red card with black cursive writing: Your work lately has been impeccable. We look forward to seeing you in this soon.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I’m staring at my computer screen, trying to focus on the new batch of paperwork I’m now responsible for. But I keep thinking about Maria, about her invitation to write an afterword for the diaries. And about leaving Stowmoor, creating my own success.

  I’m tempted by her offer. I would be able to think, to write about Báthory and Foster for a wide audience. I could hypothesize any way I wanted to, without worrying about following academic form. And I would be working with, be partners with, Maria. My stomach flutters with excitement and worry at this prospect.

  Besides the moral and possible legal problems of what Maria’s proposing, I’m not sure what I would write about Foster. Is he fabricating his accomplices—this cult, as he calls it—just to promote his fame, create speculation, manipulate public interest? To gain a legal advantage? Or is he actually hiding his involvement in something larger? Either way, with things as they are at work right now, I don’t know how I’ll get much opportunity to find out.

  I ordered a few books online after my last conversation with Foster. I pull them out of my bag. Bad Men Do What Good Men Dream. Deadly Cults: The Crimes of True Believers. Masochism and the Self. I shove the paperwork aside and start researching.

  Blood cult, cabal, network, whatever you want to call it, there isn’t an official clinical term. But Foster fits the profile. He’s youngish, has some university education, had a decent job at a software company before his arrest. Had a flat, lived independently. He could almost be considered conventionally good-looking, if it weren’t for his unfashionable “ginger” complexion. Cults and cabals primarily recruit from a demographic sometimes referred to as “sophisticates.” Relatively educated, idealistic, under thirty-five. People who are a bit lost, maybe confused about life, unsatisfied with themselves, searching for a universal truth, a way to connect their lives to a great purpose, an extreme action, an elite understanding that eludes the masses.

  According to these criteria, Foster would have been a strong candidate to be recruited into a cult. On the other hand, this description sounds like a lot of the people I knew in graduate school. And just because someone has qualities, tendencies, it doesn’t mean they’ll act on them.

  But the violence. The meticulous planning that went into his attack. Completely possible he did it all himself. But also possible he was coached, his tendencies encouraged, the details of the killing suggested by others.

  There’s not enough information to know for sure. I know Maria wants me to forget about the absolutes. She wants me to indulge in the “could haves” and construct intrigue and ambiguity around Foster. To take this opportunity to create success for the book, for ourselves. But if I do that, I will not only glamorize his crime, I will benefit from it. I will benefit from the murder of that fifteen-year-old girl.

  I hear my email tinkle. It’s from Abbas. Subject: Assignment of New Duties.

  I’ve been expecting this for days. After careful consideration of the incident, which has called into question my adherence to Stowmoor confidentiality codes, it has been determined that it would be best for me and Stowmoor patients if I were removed from working with DSPD populations. This removal may or may not last the duration of my fellowship. Starting tomorrow, I will no longer conduct assessments of or have regular contact with patients housed in the Paddock.

  I close the message. I look at the covers of my books. Regardless of whether I work with Maria, whether I write about Foster in her book or in a scholarly article or never again, I want to know. I want to know if, behind all Foster’s innuendo, his attempts to unsettle me, there’s anything more.

  I finish writing the summary for the file I’m working on. I email it to Kelly and print out a copy to file here. Technically, a copy needs to go to the nurses’ station in the Paddock, too. Kelly usually drops it off. But I print out a second copy, sling my soon-to-be-void ID around my neck and walk it over myself.

  I make small talk at the Paddock nurses’ station. They tolerate my chit-chat while they stock the meds cart, speed in and out. No one says anything about Foster. I leave the copy at the desk and walk down the hall. Make it look like I’m on my way somewhere, passing through to deliver more important documents, attend a scheduled appointment.

  I turn down Foster’s hallway. Logically, I know I probably won’t learn anything of value through another encounter with him. I don’t even want to think about the risk I’m taking, not only for my own emotional health, but for my professional life as well. But I keep walking. I feel like I’m walking towards some space in myself, no longer an itch somewhere deep inside, but a crusted, infected wound I can’t leave alone to heal.

  His sideroom is the fourth one on the left. He’s probably not there, likely not back from lunch yet. I walk slowly, my steps as hushed as I can make them in this dim, grey concrete corridor. Brighter light glows from the small windows in the side-room doors; fluorescent rectangles beam into the cold hallway.

  I’m at his door. I stand on my tiptoes, peep in quickly. A flash of his empty bunk, a stack of magazines. I look down the hall, right, left. No one, nothing except the red dots of light on the cameras that hang from the ceiling at either end of the hall.

  I rest my hand on the cardlock beside the door handle. I touch my ID on its string around my neck. One swipe and I could be in. Five minutes in his room, with his things. I could find something. If I open the door it will show at the security station: Sideroom 4 Open. But what if I’m quick? It might not be noticed at all.

  I stand on my tiptoes again, peer through the window at his few possessions: bed, magazines, an extra pair of socks on the floor. A stack of books, some pages of loose-leaf crammed into them. I trace my finger around my ID card. Every rule, every protocol, forbids unauthorized entry into a patient’s room. But I keep staring at his things. A swipe, a turn of the handle and I could have them. I fantasize about impressing Maria with the story of me examining Foster’s belongings.

  There are voices down the hall. I jump back from the door and drop my folder. The voices and footsteps get louder; Foster and an orderly round the corner and start walking down the hallway.

  I bend down to pick up the folder. Pretend you’re on an errand, I tell myself. I stand up, straighten my jacket and start walking briskly down the hall towards them.

  Foster smiles. “Dr. Winston! Lovely to see you.”

  I nod and don’t break my pace.

  He stops in the middle of the hallway. “Were you coming to see me?”

  “Just passing through.”

  “Pity you’re in a rush,” he says. The orderly prods him to keep moving. “Come back anytime!” he singsongs as I pass him.

  Once I’m a few feet farther down the hall, I look back. He’s standing outside his room while the orderly opens his door. He’s watching me. Then he steps inside and the orderly shuts him in. The window shines with a pale light, the beam piercing Stowmoor’s ubiquitous g
rey.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  When I get back to my office, there’s an email waiting from Maria.

  Dani,

  So glad we straightened things out on Saturday. Now we can go ahead, make our own way. Here is another section. Think of us, working on this together.

  x, M.

  I want to write her back at once, tell her about Foster’s room, tell her that I almost broke Stowmoor’s rules so I could find out Foster’s secrets. I imagine her sitting in front of her computer, her blue doll eyes focused on a message from me, half jealous, half impressed at my temerity. But first I open the attachment and read what she’s sent me.

  Čachtice, July 15, 1608

  Darvulia finished the talisman today. It is a small square, made mostly of calf hide, with special tokens sewn in. There is a patch of skin from the first girl we killed with the mannequin; there is a piece of hide from one of the spring deer, folded over pressed poppy petals from outside the castle walls. Darvulia has marked it with special symbols and emblems that will keep me safe from the treachery of others. The King has returned none of my letters, and Darvulia says she has heard he is in league with the Palatine and the clergy against me. I cannot believe they could stop me—what would they do, burst into my chambers and arrest me? I am a Báthory.

  Darvulia has folded the patchworked material into a small square and then sewed it in place with golden thread. Helena Jo has begun sewing tiny pockets in the sleeves of my dresses and blouses so that I can keep it on my person, discreetly, at all times. I will guard it as if it were bejewelled with diamonds.

  Čachtice, November 21, 1608

  I have been too tired get up from bed for the last three days, and the headaches have returned, despite the elixirs Darvulia has given me to prevent them. Her eyes are not what they used to be, and I wonder if she is giving me the right doses. She insists she is, but my pain grows worse.

  Čachtice, April 16, 1609

  The worst has passed, and I am able to sit up in bed, take some broth and some wine. I have sent Dorca and Helena Jo to make arrangements for a trip to Piešt’any. I would not go if Darvulia did not think it necessary. I have heard that one reeks of rotten eggs for days after bathing in that water. But it is a sure way for a cure, says Darvulia, for my constitution, and perhaps even her eyes.

  Helena is to ready a group of girls for us. She has seven of them here at the castle, and she is to make them fast until we leave. I want them wan and well-behaved for the journey.

  Darvulia says taking the waters will restore us. But I know that the games last night are what brought me back to myself today. That girl was almost cherubic, with her round, dimpled cheeks and her dark golden, curled hair. Dorca and Helena stripped her naked and presented her at my bedside. The girl was shivering, from cold or shame. Darvulia handed me a candle, and I motioned for the girl to come closer. I was inches from her ivory-pink thighs. I nodded to Helena and Dorca, who held the girl by the arms. She startled then and strained against them, so she did not notice that I moved the flame to her vulva, but she jumped and squealed as I seared her pubic hair. My women held her firmly, and I applied the candle again, until I had burned away all the hair, and I could see her raw labia. The pretty thing had not yet cried, which was refreshing. Instead, she made a repeated, high-pitched squeal, thrashed her lovely curls and tried to kick away. It is nice to have a fighter every now and then instead of these small, delicate girls.

  Darvulia walked behind the girl and clubbed her a few times. She was more sedate after that, so I asked Dorca to lean the lovely thing closer to me. Now the girl was crying, with tears running all over her face, dripping onto her shoulders. Her skin was the colour of sunset on the first mountainside snow. I leaned into the round apple of her shoulder and bit. Harmlessly at first, soft bites as if she were angel cake, or a fresh strawberry. She shook and cried and I bit harder—walnut, turnip, mutton. I felt my molars grind together, and my mouth full of blood and muscle. I spat out the first piece and went back again, near the clavicle, and again, on the top curve of a breast. She bled freely now, and I lay back, my face covered with her blood.

  Darvulia and the others finished the girl with a beating. I drifted off, and woke up feeling much restored.

  Čachtice, April 20, 1609

  Darvulia told me she lived with a noblewoman in the east who coveted her stepdaughter’s smooth, fair skin. The woman became obsessive, raved about the beauty of the girl’s skin, and stared in the mirror at her own wrinkled face for hours at a time. Finally, she accepted Darvulia’s counsel. She arranged for a hunter to kill the girl in the woods, then bring back her heart and liver. Darvulia boiled the organs into a stew, and served them to the woman. She said the woman’s complexion brightened considerably.

  The recipe to retain one’s looks is simple. Destroy and consume. I have been doing this in part, with the blood treatments. But Darvulia says we must increase the momentum, the energy behind these acts. I look forward to it.

  Čachtice, April 25, 1609

  That stupid Helena. We drove the carriage all the way up to the castle, only to find that she has starved most of the girls almost to death. Only one could even walk. We took that one with us. We had no choice but to leave the others—they were scrawny and looked like they would die within hours.

  The journey to Piešt’any took an entire day and most of the night. It took me two days to recover, and the smell here is revolting, but I do feel stronger. And I saw something I would like. She’s blonde and pale. Tall, with blue eyes. She is a baron’s daughter, from Brasov. Darvulia says we cannot take her, that the risk is too great. But I do not think there is a real danger. Girls die from the flu, a pox, all the time. I have invited her to come back with us next week. She accepted, of course. Who would not want the honour of living in my court?

  Flesh as strawberries, blood kisses. The image of Báthory biting into a girl like she’s mutton plays over and over in my head like a scene from a horror movie. Báthory’s is the ultimate story of extremity, obscenity. Of the violence one can inflict if obsession and action go unfettered. She is rare, a weapon and a jewel.

  I think of Maria transcribing then translating these words. The diaries are the antithesis of the sanitized, measured way I’ve been trained to understand disorders and offenders. I’m curious what sort of freedom I might experience if I surrender to their pull.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The next day at work, Kelly knocks on my door and hands me a thick envelope. “Just came by courier. I signed for it.”

  I look at the return address—it’s from Maria. As soon as Kelly has gone, I rip it open. Inside is a four-page contract. Maria has left a sticky note on the front page:

  Dani,

  Just some business. Sign on pg. 4. Then we will be partners! Call me if you have any questions. See you at the ball!

  x, M.

  Despite wanting to escape the constraints of Stowmoor, I’m unsure what to do. I don’t really care about becoming certified, don’t want to keep working in my field indefinitely. And as Maria says, when will I get another chance like this? If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve been hoping for something that would force me off this path I’ve been on. But what she’s proposing, it’s so uncertain.

  I look over the contract. It has nothing to do with a publisher; rather, it’s some sort of working agreement between the two of us. It mentions primary author assignation (her, of course, complete with solo dust-jacket photo), that she will receive complete and sole credit for the discovery of the diaries, that she will have final say regarding all parts of the manuscript. So much for breaking free of restrictive rules, I think. I’ve never worked on a publication like this before, though, so maybe this isn’t so unusual.

  My computer tings. I have a new email, another message from Foster’s lawyer, marked urgent. I didn’t reply to his last one. I’d hoped that whatever he wanted—whether it was to sue me for defamation of his client or to encourage me to speak about him more—
he had just forgotten about it.

  Turns out, he hasn’t. He still wants to meet. This time, he writes, I am interested in discussing the possibility of hiring you as a consultant on Mr. Foster’s case. Consultant? But I couldn’t do paid work for Lewison, a defence lawyer, if I’m employed at Stowmoor; it would be a conflict of interest. I hear Maria’s lecture from the weekend: You make your own success.

  I leave the email unanswered and call Maria. I have questions about this document, but I also want to see what she thinks about the lawyer’s email. She answers on the second ring.

  “Dani! Did you receive the package?”

  “Yes. There seem to be a lot of stipulations.”

  “This is how I work, Dani. I had an experience once, years ago, things went very sour with a collaborator. I find it is best to lay things out, very clearly, at the start.”

  “It looks like you have pretty much complete control of the project.”

  “Dani, it is only on paper, in case of the worst. With us, it will be more like we are partners.”

  “Right.”

  “Do not worry. I will take care of us. Did you get the tickets?”

  “The tickets?”

  “In the envelope. Look.”

  There’s a small envelope at the bottom of the package, with Danica and Henry written on the front in Maria’s elegant cursive. I shake out the contents onto my desk. Two gold-embossed rectangles of heavy ivory-coloured card stock fall on top of the contract. I pick one up. Art and Design Institute Ball, it reads, in what looks like hand-drawn calligraphy, Grosvenor Hotel, June 21st, cocktails 8 p.m., drinks and dancing 9 p.m. onwards. I know that tickets to the Art Institute Ball are highly coveted. I’ve heard Wilson gossip about it—Oh, the year Tracey Emin did such-and-such the night of the Art Institute Ball—it sounded like something whimsical, magical, that I would never have the chance to attend.