I sigh in surrender and don my cloak.
“Come now.” Ágota insistently holds out her hand and I reluctantly take it.
Holding her fingers against the window panes, she closes her eyes. The glass dissolves beneath her touch and flows like water over the stone façade of the castle. Cold air swirls through the narrow opening, chilling me to the bone. Ágota steps onto the narrow windowsill and gazes upward into the darkened sky. The air quivers as her magic begins to build.
“Leaving in the middle of the night is very rude.” Dominique swings into view and regards us with a cross look. She hangs upside down on the outer wall of the castle with her long blonde braid swaying in the wind.
Ágota grunts with annoyance. “I should have known you were spying.”
“Yes, you should have. But you are a young and naïve. I am old and cunning. Back into the room with you. Wirich has bestowed his hospitality upon you and it would be very bad form to leave. You did promise to deliver his message to your father.”
“He wants one of us to marry his insipid son,” Ágota retorts.
“Marriage is a political game among the wealthy, titled, and powerful. You should know this, but I suspect you have lived quite a long time away from your father. You have none of the manners of the well-born.” Dominique crawls along the wall as she speaks. She reminds me of a spider with her arms and legs stretched with her head tilted at an inhuman angle.
Ágota watches the vampire warily. “I will not have it. I certainly will not marry him and neither will my sister .”
“Deliver the letter to your father, Ágota. Allow him to make an allegiance with Wirich. Your father will most likely need it with the upheaval in the Kingdom of Hungary. Besides, have you considered your sister may like being a noblewoman? A countess with her own castle?”
Ágota gives me a sharp look as I attempt to stifle any sign of excitement in my features.
“You brought us here to be broodmares,” Ágota says crossly.
“I brought you here to assist a friend that I care for dearly. He desires to renew the magic in his bloodline. You have to understand how important that is to him. Can you imagine sensing the wells of untamed magic around you, yet being unable to wield it? He does not want that for his grandchildren.” Dominique pushes Ágota back from the window.
To my surprise, my sister allows this action.
Perching in the window, Dominique regards us with her dark blue eyes. “Besides, you cannot leave. If you do, The White Woman of the Wood will curse you for violating your promise. You may not be in her territory, but you are in the home of a member of her family. I am keeping you from a terrible fate.”
“What fate is that?” I ask boldly.
“Being turned into a boar, hunted, and eaten at a great feast,” Dominique replies.
“The boar over the mantle…” Ágota’s voice is hard. “Who was it?”
“Wirich’s uncle. On the mortal side of his family tree. His uncle decided to claim his title and lands for himself. The White Woman of the Wood intervened. So you see… it is really best you stay in this room. Tomorrow, you can depart for your home.”
Ágota grunts with annoyance. “With a letter of introduction to my father that I will be able to read first, correct?”
Dominique grins. “Much better than being a boar, is it not?”
“I hate you,” Ágota growls.
“One day, we will be friends. I promise.” Dominique reaches out and lightly pinches my cheek. “Such a pretty little girl. One day you will be a beautiful woman. Albrecht will be pleased.”
“She will not marry him,” Ágota fiercely declares.
“Restore the window and return to bed. Sleep well. No one shall interfere with you tonight. I promise.” Dominique propels herself out the window and vanishes from sight.
With an irritated flick of her wrist, Ágota repairs the window and tosses her bag on the floor. “So that is that. We are trapped.”
“Until tomorrow,” I remind her.
Ágota picks up the bed covers and flings them onto the slightly askew bed. “Sleep, Erjy. In the morning we leave to never return. I promise.”
I remove my cloak and join her on the bed.
It is strange to rest next to my sister after she has so boldly lied.
We both know the truth of the matter.
One day I will return and I will be Countess Dolingen of Gratz.
Chapter 9
Awareness comes gradually and a woman’s form sharpens into focus. Her soft skin is dark and her luminous eyes are black as coal. I do not recognize the young woman leaning over the bier to brush and pin my black tresses into place. The deft fingers twisting and curling my hair tremble against my scalp. I am so cold and tormented in my agony, but her gentle ministrations lull me into a stupor. She smells deliciously of fear and life. I want to touch her and feel her warmth, but I am too weak to lift my arms. Tears tremble on the edges of my eyelids. The tenderness of her hands reminds me of another time, another place.
“Where is he?” I ask, my voice cracking due to my dry throat.
“Outside,” she answers.
“You are one of his gypsies,” I state.
Bristling at my insinuation that she belongs to Vlad, her spine straightens
The gypsies often visited my mother when their caravans passed by our home. Though they claimed to be from Egypt, my mother told me they kept their true origins a secret. My beloved mother had an affinity for the swarthy people in their caravans and they for her.
Vlad, though, regards them with disdain and enslaves them to do his bidding with magic and trickery. The young woman with the large dark eyes is doomed and I wonder if she understands this truth.
Finishing my hair, she picks up a damp cloth to run it over my hand. My frail fingers are feeble against her grip, but her warm skin is soothing. I am surprised when she carefully runs the edge of the cloth under my sharp nails. Surely she must know the brown flakes are all that remains of a previous victim. Cleaning away the dried blood, she does not flinch from her duty.
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Magdala.” There is the slightest tremor in her voice.
She rinses the cloth in a basin and starts to wash my other hand.
“When... when did he capture you?”
“We serve him because he offered us gold. A season of servitude and we will be able to travel on to better lives.”
The desperation to believe the good fortune of her clan weighs in her words. I do not mock her with laughter, but grant her a sorrowful smile of understanding. I, too, was once seduced by dreams of a grander life.
“You know what he is,” I say. “What I am.”
“Yes, but there are many monsters in the world.”
“Have you seen many?”
Magdala somberly nods. “Sometimes it is best to make deals with them instead of fighting or fleeing if you wish to survive.”
I almost chuckle at her naiveté. I, too, had once believed as she does. Her eyes drift to the stake that skewers my body. I bristle with fleeting anger, her judgment unwanted, yet correct. There had been a time when I’d placated monsters instead of fighting or absconding. When at last I did fight back, I sealed my fate.
Magdala is gentle with my hands, which I appreciate. With very little difficulty, because my limbs are withered, she removes my rings and washes them in her basin. Though her people are believed to be thieves, even if tempted, she will not steal from me. Vlad looms close by and she will not dare risk his wrath. I flinch when she returns the gold ring with a large ruby to my finger. I despise this particular gift from Vlad. Though originally given as a token of love, it later became a symbol of his domination.
At last, she sets the basin aside. I expect her to depart, but instead, she sets a sewing basket next to me on the bier. Vlad must despair observing me in such a terrible state to have set her to this task. With delicate stitches, she repairs my gown. I watch her in the torchlight admiring her handiwo
rk as the tatters and frayed lace are set right.
“Is it winter yet?” I ask.
“Autumn,” she answers.
“The castle is so cold in the winter.”
“We are preparing for the snow,” she assures me. “The larder is full and the firewood is piled high.”
I notice Magdala’s hands do not tremble anymore. Perhaps I am not so terrible now that we are engaged in conversation. She is bold, clever, and kind. I appreciate these qualities and my heart softens a bit more toward her.
“It will be so cold here,” I lament.
“Aren’t the undead always cold?”
I do not answer. I am a vampire. I steal life. When I feed, I am flush with life, warm to the touch, and mortal in appearance. That is the veracity of my existence.
“Who is Countess Dolingen of Gratz? Her name is on this mausoleum. Why was she buried so far away from Styria?”
“She was a naive woman from the Kingdom of Hungary who married young, for she craved love, security, and the life of a noblewoman. A handsome young count from Styria offered all she desired and she willingly left her home for him.”
“And did she find all she desired in Styria?”
I hesitate, measuring my words. “She did indeed.”
“Was she happy?”
Again, I pause. “Yes. For a time she was very happy.”
I listen to the gentle beating of Magda’s heart and the whisper of the needle piercing the satin of my gown. I am at peace despite Vlad lingering outside my prison like the darkest of thunderclouds waiting to erupt.
“Was the count handsome? Did she love him at first sight?”
“He was very handsome,” I reply, tears slipping free to wet my temples. “She loved him because he chose her. Fought for her. No one had ever truly noticed her before. She had always lived in the shadow of her sister and mother.”
“When did she know she would give her heart to him?”
I close my eyes. “When he gave her the rose that morning...”
Darkness comes.
The heartbeat stills.
The scuff of the needle quiets.
I open my eyes to see Ágota leaning over the bed. “How can you sleep so soundly?” She shakes me again. “Let us be on. I do not like it here.”
Sliding my legs out from beneath the bedcovers, I stare at the opulence of the room. Ágota’s magic has restored the furniture to their rightful spots. Chains crisscross the section that hides the secret passage and are bolted to the wall. My sister has definitely made her point.
“I am still tired,” I whine, wishing to fall back into the warm comfort of the bed to sleep longer.
“You just need to move your limbs,” she answers. “Hurry.”
Rubbing my eyes, I watch Ágota pacing about the room. Her clothes are unfamiliar in color and cut.
“There is a wash basin in the corner. A new dress and leggings are beside it for you. Gifts from our host. I already determined they are free of magic. Make sure to place your clothes in my bag. Mama made them for us. We cannot lose them.” Ágota’ falters, wiping at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I wish she was here. She would know what to do.”
“You are taking care of me as you promised,” I say, attempting to console her.
“I can handle taking care of you. You are not a nuisance. Well, not all the time. It is not you I am concerned about, but the occupants of this castle. I am a peasant girl. I am not experienced in dealing with people such as these. They are far more devious and clever than I am.”
“I know for certain you are quite clever,” I assure her. “And devious.”
She quirks a smile. “You are jaded by sisterly love. Hurry, dress. Let us be done with this place.”
I obediently pad across the cold floor to undress and bathe. Ágota prowls about the room, wringing her long hands and mumbling in Magyar. The water is lukewarm, so I rapidly wash my body before donning my new clothing. The dark brown color isn’t very pretty and it does not have embroidery on the hem and sleeves like the clothes my mother made for me. Nonetheless, I do see the wisdom of dressing simply like other poor folks. I roll up my blouse and dress and stash it at the bottom of my sister’s bag. Again, I notice that it does not appear any larger on the outside despite everything Ágota has stored inside. I ponder if I could hide within it.
Taking the bag from me, Ágota loops it about her neck and takes my hand. “We are leaving as soon as I have the letter for my father. My obligation will be satisfied. I do not trust anyone within these walls.”
Though I am quite lost in the maze of corridors and stairwells, Ágota guides me with surety. We pass servants and guards along the way, but none seem surprised to see us or attempts to stop us. Each room we pass through is more elegant than the last and it is far too easy for me to imagine myself as the lady of the house.
When we enter the great hall, I am even more impressed than the evening before. The gloriousness of the great hall was shrouded in the darkness when we had arrived. Sunlight streams through the high windows and illuminates the grandeur of sweeping arches, elegant columns, artwork, tapestries, and armor.
Wirich stands at the end of the long table talking with several men. He is taller than the others and I wonder if it is because of his fey blood. Dressed in a red tunic with a raven embroidered on his broad chest, he is just as frightening as the night before. Ágota stalks across the heavy rugs strewn across the stone floor dragging me in her wake. I stumble along for I am enthralled by my surroundings and crane my head to view everything veiled from me the previous night.
“Ágota! Archwitch of the Lost Witch World!” Wirich throws out his arms in greeting. “How nice of you to join me!”
The men he had been conversing with make a hasty departure through an arched doorway. Through another smaller door, several servants appear with trays of food.
“Thank you for your hospitality. We will be off now,” Ágota answers. “Can I please have the letter for my father?”
“After you eat,” Wirich says with a smile, but his comment is most definitely an order. He is a man who expects obedience. He seats himself at the end of the table where writing utensils await him.
I eagerly eye the fruit, porridge, and bread on the trays. I am famished and fear Ágota will force us to leave without taking advantage of the hospitality of our host. The stiffness of her spine and defiance in her eyes does not bode well for my hunger pangs.
“We have a very long way to travel, and it is best we start now,” Ágota replies.
“Yes, but you have a younger sister who is staring at the food like a starved beast. Be kind to her. Allow her to fill her stomach.” The dark eyes of the count meet my sister’s and he does not falter beneath her baleful gaze. “Sit down and eat. I insist.”
With an annoyed exhalation, Ágota drags one of the chairs out from beneath the table and nudges me toward it. I obey while she sits next to me. Of course, she has chosen a spot far from where Wirich resides. He appears to take no notice of her agitation and takes a quill in hand.
The servants move forward to set down the trays of food and I eagerly grab a pear. Biting into the fruit, I am grateful for the meal, for I know how keen Ágota is on continuing our travels to Transylvania. Every delicious bite makes me grin wider. My sister, meanwhile, spoons porridge into her mouth while glaring at Wirich. He ignores her while carefully writing on a piece of parchment. I look about for Albrecht, but he does not appear. I eat more than my fill and my stomach protests. Ágota stows several pears and some flat loaves of bread in her bag. If the count notices, he does not say a word. The scratch of his quill against the paper is the only sound other than the rhythmic tapping of Ágota’s fingers against the table.
Finally, Wirich motions to Ágota to approach him. “Read it, Archwitch, and tell me if it suits you.”
Shoving back her chair as noisily as she can, Ágota approaches Wirich while I watch. My sister moves with slow purposeful movements. I cannot discern if she’s
behaving like the predator or prey. Wirich’s gaze never leaves her as she nears him. There is respect in how he regards her, which surprises me. It occurs to me that I do not fully understand the undercurrents filling the room. Wirich does not have magic like Ágota, but he is not powerless. There is a certain aura about him that is intimidating. Is this the result of his fey blood? Or is it from years of ruling over his land with a sword in hand?
Bending over the table, Ágota peers down at the letter Wirich sets before her. Fingers flexing at her side, she silently mouths the words as she reads. I suspect she is weighing each one carefully, seeking hidden meanings. She finishes and starts over.
Wirich chuckles at this, settling back in his chair to await her verdict.
I watch him more than my sister. I have not been around many men. I was always sent away when my mother’s suitors arrived at our cottage. I am frightened of Wirich, but I also crave his approval since if I am to marry Albrecht, I would like to be in the good graces of his family.
It occurs to me that I have not seen Albrecht’s mother. The night before Dominique had presided over the table at Wirich’s side, but she cannot be Albrecht’s mother. Vampires cannot have children for they are undead. Perhaps, like me, Albrecht has lost his mother. The thought softens my heart even more toward the boy. Again, I look around the great hall, hoping to see him appear.
Ágota finishes reading a third time and steps back from the table.
“Is this acceptable?” Wirich asks, pointing to the letter.
“Yes, it is.” Ágota sounds certain, but I notice her hands twitching at her side.
Wirich places a thick finger on the paper and drags it to him. With great flourish, he folds the letter before sealing it with wax and the indention of his signet ring. The count pushes back his chair and rises to his full height to tower over Ágota. He bows over the letter as he hands it to her.
“Thank you, Archwitch, for your patience and for delivering this to your father.”
“Do not take my delivery as a sign of my approval.” Ágota drops the letter into her bag and holds out her hand toward me. “Now that we are done here, we shall be on our way.”
The Impaled Bride Page 9
