These last thoughts brought me up against the barn. Veronika opened the doors with a key bigger than the dragonheads at Kouzlo Noc. The place was enormous, but only housed the one valiant steed, Yankee Doodle. Mr. Cohan “who owns the house and the horse, loves Americans,” Veronika had informed me as we’d made the trek to his house. Apparently, Mr. Cohan was currently soaking up the American culture in California at Disneyland, which was why the Duskovas had been “horse-sitting.” I cautiously approached Yankee Doodle, and gave him the fat carrot provided from the Duskova kitchen, rubbed his neck and tried to establish a unified relationship as best as I could within the limited time I had before he and I sallied forth on our rescue mission.
Jozef handed me a compass, explained the directions for the fifth time (Did I mention I’m not the world’s greatest navigator, didn’t I?) then hugged me. “Be safe, Abby. We shall pray for your journey to be a successful one. God go with you.”
Veronika didn’t say anything. She just hugged me, tears in her eyes, and that was enough. I knew how important it was that I not fail in bringing back help for Marta. One Duskova had died yesterday; there needed to be joy brought back to this family. If Marta died, I would call upon the colorful vocabulary that hits me in times of real anger and spew out a few choice words for Aura Lee and the Baron. His curse was supposed to have been lifted sometime after midnight but so far I wasn’t seeing a lot of evidence of peace and harmony restored.
I was helped to the top of the horse by Jozef, who then held the heavy barn doors open so I could take off in the storm while continuing to lean down and chat with Yankee Doodle. I’m neither a real rider nor a horse-whisperer, but everybody who ever read Black Beauty or watched National Velvet knows you and the horse have to have a rapport, especially in times of crisis, so the more Yankee Doodle and I bonded, the better the chances of both horsey and girl actually making it to Prague in one piece. It took me at least ten minutes to get any kind of ‘feel’ for riding again but Yankee Doodle didn’t try to throw me or tease me by racing off toward a cliff so it appeared I had a chance to survive this adventure somewhat intact.
We had to go through a patch of forest before we could get onto the main road leading back to the city. The snow was blinding, the ground slushy and it was just damn cold out as well. But the compass showed me I was headed in the right direction, the snow had turned to simply snow, not sleet, and I was wearing more layers than a Texas Seven-Tier Nacho Dip so I wasn’t completely chilled. The horse understood that we had to weave between the trees and not hit them head on and for a few minutes I felt like I was a rodeo rider, zooming in and out of barrels, dead-set on grabbing the ribbons off the tops of each one.
What comfort I’d felt for a few moments oddly disappeared when we were well away from the trees and on open ground. We’d even made it to what was normally a fast-moving highway when all the fear and lack of confidence came wailing back at me. The storm had picked up again. Snow wasn’t coming down in nice heavy drifts as it had for the first half-hour of this jaunt. Ice pellets were stinging both the horse and me, and the wind had kicked up again to an extent where it was no longer safe to go any faster than a walk. No trotting and definitely no galloping. At the rate of movement, we’d be lucky to reach Prague for Yankee Doodle to celebrate the Fourth of July.
I jumped off his back and began to lead him for a while. It was too dangerous to try and ride with the visibility as bad as it was and neither the horse nor I needed an injury. I kept the compass out and figured at least I wasn’t lost. Just covered in ice and snow and desperation. Every bad thing that could possibly happen came flooding through my brain.
Marta could already be dead. Yankee Doodle could slip and fall and we’d both be frozen by the time anyone was able to find us. Then we’d be dead. We’d actually get to Prague and find a police station but it would have been hit by an avalanche and they’d be dead. Or the one man left would have a car that wouldn’t start. The car would be dead. Or it would start, but that one man would be dead and telling me that the ambulances were all in use for a crowd of vampires who’d bitten all the patrons of Club Krev. And gotten sick because of the drink called Teeth of Blood.
Okay. It was really friggin’ cold because I’d started hallucinating—assuming these weren’t Dumas premonitions. I got back up on the horse, then screamed. I’d dropped the compass. I jumped back down and spent a few futile moments digging through snow and ice. And, then, miraculously, I found it. It was lying next to the large rock that had coincidentally managed to completely smash it.
I buried my head in the horse’s sodden mane and debated the merits of just sobbing for a few moments, but decided that would not be a good plan since all those tears would merely freeze and I’d still be lost, cold, wet and frightened, plus have chunks of ice nailed to my cheeks. Painful as well as plain unattractive. And then I’d be dead.
I shouted to the universe, “That’s it! This is just nuts! Why is nothing going right in this scene? For that matter, who’s directing this scene? Do you want Marta to die? Do you want me to die? And is it fair to kill the horse just because Marta and I are goners? You can’t kill a horse, dammit! It’s like bumping off a cat or worse—a dog—in a cozy mystery. It’s just not kosher! So, enough! I need help and I need it now!”
The snow stopped. The ice stopped. The wind stopped. The sun suddenly appeared. The frigid air became—well—not warm, but not freezing either. It was as if the temperature had risen thirty degrees in thirty seconds. This was all good.
But the compass remained broken and I still had no idea which way to go. I looked every direction hoping to at least see a spire from one of the cathedrals in Prague. I saw various towering monuments, but shoot, I saw them everywhere. This area was crawling with castles with high turrets. No clue as to which turret was in Prague—or over the mountains in Bavaria.
Then I heard a flute sounding the notes used in the scene in The Magic Flute where the trio of young boys guide Tamino and Papageno toward Sarastro’s temple. Bless him. My favorite ghost, Ignatz Jezek, had snuck out of the castle to provide music for the trip and I was going to follow it. I was still on Yankee Doodle’s back. I nudged him gently with my knee encouraging him to go the way I wanted to go. The lovely notes continued for the next fifteen minutes or so, leading us to a small town I hadn’t known existed. It wasn’t Prague; I doubted it was even be on a map. It didn’t matter. It was a town and a town meant people. A town meant hope.
The music stopped right as the horse and I reached a small building that looked surprisingly official. I jumped off Yankee Doodle, wound his reins around an ancient lamppost outside the building, rather in the manner of a cowboy in a Western movie heading for the saloon, then staggered into the very solid warmth of what turned out to be a police station.
Far from being the empty room filled with dead people like my sad vision on the road, this place was more crowded than the Duskovas sitting room had been last night for Aura Lee’s séance.
“Anyone speak English?” I gasped.
A middle-aged man who reminded me a lot of my dad hastened to my side and threw a dry blanket over my shoulders. “We all speak English, young lady.” He didn’t waste time. “What has happened? Where do we need to go?”
I also didn’t waste time. No one needed the details of my trip, or even my very real suspicions that a murderer lurked at Kouzlo Noc. The important thing was that Marta get help.
“The castle up on the hill? Um -about eight miles from here? Kouzlo Noc?”
Nods all around.
“Well, there’s an injured woman there who needs medical attention. It’s Marta Duskova. Is there an ambulance available anywhere close by or do we need to get someone to come up from Prague?”
The gentleman looked almost offended. “Of course we have an ambulance. My brother is finest doctor in the village. We go now.”
He was on the phone within one second, calling numbers and rattling off instructions in Czech. I dried my hair and my clothes as
much as I could, then turned to leave to help guide the villagers to the castle.
The gentleman handed me another dry blanket.
“No, no. You are soaked and cold. You stay here. I am the Chief of Polici and I know the castle well. Do not worry. All shall be attended to. You may trust us.”
Trust. That word again. And without analyzing why or how or whether I should—I knew I could—and I did.
Chapter 28
Animal lovers everywhere will be pleased to hear that I did not let the sweating, shivering horse just hang out by the parking meter to flirt with any of the cute little fillies—aka tiny European autos—that were parked close to the police station. A boy who looked about twelve years old and did not speak English engaged me in a nice pantomime which clearly indicated he would see to the horse’s needs. He smiled at my mispronunciations of “stable” and “feedbag” but I figured Yankee Doodle was in good hands.
I looked and felt like a refugee in a bad 1950s horror movie. As soon as the police chief and five of his deputies left on the rescue mission, three women popped their heads in from the back entrance and motioned for me to join them. I was afraid that the area held the jail cells for the tiny station, and I’d be tossed into the slammer for my own good (keep the crazy American from rushing out into the snow again) but was pleasantly surprised to discover a dining room, and two den areas behind the front offices. The ladies ushered me into one of the dens, which also held a restroom.
“You change in there, yes?” stated the tallest of the trio, a plump, red-faced lady who was clearly the leader of this pack, probably because she spoke English.
I smiled. “I can definitely use the facilities and I’d love to wash some of the grime of the road off, but as for changing, I guess that’s going to wait until I’m either back in Prague or up at the castle. I didn’t exactly bring a suitcase on this trip.”
“Oh, we haf see that,” she exclaimed. “But we haf brought for you dry clothes and warm. Katya! Quickly, give to the young miss before she becomes chilled.”
Too late. I was already chilled, but the prospect of clean clothes was heating me up in a hurry.
Katya, a tiny woman who looked like she’d passed her ninety-fifth birthday about ten years ago handed me a bundle, bowed, then backed away, flashing a toothless grin as she picked at her long black woolen skirt, then smoothed her nondescript, colorless scarf. Central Casting would have trotted her out for every World War Two “peasants sheltering Resistance members” movie every made. If I didn’t get her signature on a Features Extra contract for Shay before I left, there’d be another ghost at the castle because Shay would make sure I joined all the recently deceased.
“Dekuji” I said in my very best (and limited Czech). I bowed too. The ladies all seemed thrilled that I’d managed the one big word of “thanks.”
I’d left the now-soaked coat Veronika had given me in the main office of the station, so I just headed for the restroom and tore off my wet jeans and turtleneck. My socks were so damp they’d almost frozen to my feet, and my sneakers were two lumps of fake leather ice, so I hoped whatever garments the good ladies of this nameless town had procured included some sort of dry footwear. Within minutes I’d changed into what had to be the town festival outfit for some local Saint’s Day.
The blouse was a simple white peasant top that laced at the neck. A red vest, also laced, hugged my torso. The skirt was made of black wool with red and white embroidered flowers stitched into cute scenes every four inches or so of a skirt that stuck out as wide as a ballerina’s tutu. The kind ladies had neatly folded socks that I found under the skirt. They were also made of wool and fit nicely into black boots which were the warmest footgear I’d ever had on in my life. I wanted these suckers for those days in Manhattan when the wind chill drops to minus nine and the sidewalks inhale the cold and then send darts of ice through unsuspecting New York feet.
I emerged from the restroom to the sound of “ooh” and “ah’” and “hezky” from my trio of dressers. The only one of the group who hadn’t said anything, nor provided me with clothing, now stepped forward with a woolen cape, complete with metal hasps in the front. The last part of this outfit was a white scarf tied through a bonnet that had little red flowers bursting out all over.
I could have joined the Von Trapp family singers on the spot. Call me the foxy chestnut-and-green-haired one on the left.
I loved it. I thanked the ladies again, then we all trooped back into the offices where a divine little electric heater was keeping things cozy. Apparently, this village had been spared the power outage we’d been hit with up at Kouzlo Noc. I sank into a huge leather chair on the “wrong” side of the chief’s desk (obviously tough love for criminals was a non-existent concept here) and closed my eyes, intending merely to soothe the feeling of cold from the stinging pellets of ice that had assailed my face on my ride.
I woke up several hours later. Only one of my trio of dressers was still there, Katya, the ancient, and she was still smiling that toothless smile at me. I had the strangest feeling that she hadn’t moved the entire time. My guardian angel.
My eyes traveled from Katya to the figures standing behind her. Johnny Gerard and Shay Martin.
“Am I hallucinating again?”
“When you hallucinating before?” The sound of Shay’s voice flowed over me.
“On the road. Coming here. I had the damndest visions of dead vampires. Must have been because of that nutty nightclub we went to last night. No, wait, not last night. The séance was last night. Oh man, I’m tired. What time is it?”
“Noon,” was the answer from Johnny. “The cops and medical team reached Kouzlo Noc over three hours ago. They’re good. Checked out Marta and determined that she got a huge bump on her head and a concussion to prove it, but no internal injuries and amazingly, nothing broken except for one wrist. She’s resting comfortably in her own bedroom. Apparently it took you about a ninety-minutes to reach this village, but they were able to get back up to the castle in only twenty.”
“Well, they had cars with big stinkin’ chains and snow tires. I was at a bit of a disadvantage doing my Paul Revere ride thing. Oh, shoot!” I sat upright.
“What” Johnny asked.
“Yankee Doodle. The horse. Some teenager took him off to get him dry but I have no idea where he is now. Kid could have been a horse rustler and Mr. Cohan’s prize stallion—or only stallion for that matter—could be in Russia by now.”
Shay shook her head. “The horse is fine. He’s currently chowing down oats and hay and probably gulas and potato pancakes while we speak. That kid is the son of the police chief or captain—whatever they call him—here and he’s going to be very good to Yankee Doodle and take him back home when the roads are better for riding. Some friend of his who was doing the translations did mention something about adopting him since Mr. Cohan was never home but nothing criminal was discussed in our presence.”
I smiled. “Okay. Guilt lessened. So, Marta’s okay? That’s fantastic. Did she say what happened?”
Johnny replied. “As much as she knew. Jozef translated for her but all we got was that she’d gotten up to go start breakfast for all the Kouzlo Noc guests and heard a noise upstairs in the north wing so she thought a bird had flown in and couldn’t get out. She headed upstairs and tried to determine which room the noise was coming from. Next thing she remembers she’s in her bedroom and there’s a doctor holding her hand and telling her she’s fine. Her head has a lump the size of Cleveland and she’s chugging down aspirin like they’re candy, but that’s the extent of her memory.”
“Which means she was undoubtably pushed down those stairs. Or bonked over the head and dumped at the bottom of them.”
The three of us stared at each other.
Johnny muttered, “Kouzlo Noc should have been on the Czech Tour of Murders over the years. Guess it was too much to hope that would change overnight.”
“I thought that was supposed to be fixed by Aura Lee’s little rout
ine last night?”
Shay snorted. “For the big bad Baron—yeah. He’s off to do the rest-in-peace gig for all eternity, but—well—how long does it takes a big honkin’ curse to get uncursed?”
“That’s not a word.”
“What? Honkin’? Or uncursed.”
“Either. Neither.”
“So, what now?” I asked. “Hey could be the curse really was lifted. After all, Marta’s okay and she’s not dead and neither am I, nor the horse I rode in on. So those are all good omens.”
Johnny held his hand out to me, then helped me out of the all too comfortable chair. “Well, Marta is being guarded by about fifteen people including several law enforcement types and one very pissed-off sister, so now I get you both back to Prague and Abby takes a long winter’s nap.”
“Me too! Me too! I made soup and I’m tired, ” Shay wheedled and whined.
“Fine. You too.”
I tried to look through the window at the white world behind. “By the way, how did y’all get here anyway? I thought the cars were all dead.”
“They were. But the police kindly gave us a ride and even more kindly found a man who has a car to rent here in the village, and I rented it and we’re on our way.”
“Good. I feel sort of bad not going back to the castle, but I can assuage my guilt with a nice hot bath and a nice long sleep.” I let my breath out.
Johnny helped me with the red woolen coat, then he, Shay and I headed for the door. I turned around and, using my best bad Czech thanked Katya once again as I gestured toward my new outfit. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow. Thank you so much.” I repeated, then I looked at Johnny. “Do you speak enough Czech to tell her what I said?”
Aria in Ice Page 20
