Awareness was instantaneous. There was none of the expected pain or any leftover sleepiness pulling at her with heavy, enticing arms, just an overwhelming feeling of disorientation and a slight brush of hunger deep within her belly. While she did not know where she was, she did take a little comfort in the spontaneous realization that she was still Gwendolyn of Báthory.
But the question of her location was more serious. A twist of her head showed nearly everything around her was steeped in a cold blackness that yawned nearly out of sight, yet despite the lack of illumination, Gwendolyn's eyes were able to pick out the closest details around her as she looked for an exit; a narrow rise of roughhewn stairs at the far end of the cavernous room caught her attention.
She seemed to be lying on some sort of stone bench and Gwendolyn sat up, pulling away the coverings wrapped around her. Had she gone down here to sleep? Why would she do such a ridiculous thing? She couldn't recall and she frowned impatiently— another mindtaxing empty spot, one more in the thousands apparently fashioned just to infuriate her over the ages. She swung her legs down and shivered as her feet touched the floor; if a servant or one of Christopher's menatarms had thought it funny to place Gwendolyn in the castle dungeon while she slept, she'd see how amusing they found fifty lashes of the whip. Worst still would be Christopher's price for allowing such a travesty to occur in the first place. Rusted iron chains hung here and there along the rough stone walls, backed by sinister stains in shapes that seemed to move each time her gaze slid past to the huge devices of wood and iron and leather that squatted close by. The smell of the place was musty and thick, and vaguely . . . red. Something brushed her ankle and broke her train of thought; Gwendolyn looked down and even in the lightless room she could see the rat that rubbed her ankle like an affectionate, filthencrusted cat. She grimaced and kicked it away without fear as she made for the staircase.
When Gwendolyn pushed through the door at the top of the stairs, she found herself in the rear of the buttery, a small room tucked off a corner of the tower which she seldom visited; there were few candles lit here and finding her way to the great hall in the dimness with her thoughts engaged on other matters was like wandering through a maze. When Gwendolyn finally stepped into the hall, it was to yet another eveningdeserted room, though the high windows showed the last visages of daylight still lingering among the growing night echoes. It was odd that she could have slept for so long in such a brutally uncomfortable place as the horrible rooms below, but night was surely coming and as usual there was not a single servant to be found. Still, her ears picked up furtive sounds from the chambers above and she sought them, climbing the steep stairs with ease.
Gwendolyn's bedchamber was dark, but tidy and deserted, her clothes still hung neatly on pegs and the wash basin clean and dry. Unlit logs had been placed in the fireplace and Gwendolyn returned briefly to the corridor for a rush light with which to start a fire— the chamber was damp and chilly, and the thought of warmth on her skin brought a smile to her lips. While the flames grew strong she found a half dozen candles and lit them around the room to further dispel the gloom.
When at last there was a semblance of light in the chamber Gwendolyn could finally see more than just a shadow of herself. Disbelieving, her throat closed as she looked down; the white gown that she wore was covered with filth and grime, and rat droppings clung stickily within its folds. The mass of yellow hair hanging over her shoulders was matted and dull, and when she reached to touch it, she realized with horror that dirt had caked under her fingernails. Shuddering, faintly nauseous, Gwendolyn hurried downstairs and drew water to wash, then returned to shed the filthy rags and throw them on the hot logs, watching in approval as they burst into flames. The water was frigid but Gwendolyn had no patience to warm it and she washed anyway, clenching her jaw against the temperature as the muck on her body peeled away like dead snake skin. She tried to remove the leaden weight of the Báthory necklace but found she couldn't work the clasp; the best she could do was wipe at it with a wet cloth.
That done, Gwendolyn found a clean but simple black gown and coat and dressed, then returned downstairs yet again to dump the filthladen water. She brought more water upstairs and doused her head, feeling her body tremble as the frigid water soaked her hair and touched her scalp. The fire rapidly warmed the air around her but seemed unable to chase away the deepbone chill Gwendolyn felt; as she sat before the fire and struggled to comb the tangles from her abundant heir with little success, she suddenly felt like crying.
Where was everyone— anyone? She felt so bleak and hopeless, she would welcome even Christopher's presence. Though she could feel the heat of the fire on her face, still she couldn't stop herself from shivering violently.
There was a stealthy sound behind her and she jerked around.
Face drained of color, Maida poised in the doorway and stared at her with dumbstruck horror,
"Maida," Gwendolyn said plaintively and held the comb toward the girl, "would you help me with my hair? It's become so entangled I'm unable to draw the comb through." Maida gave no response and simply stared at her. "What's wrong?" Gwendolyn asked. "What ails you?"
"My lady, you're— you're alive!" she breathed.
The shocked statement brought no irritation to Gwendolyn; instead she merely looked at Maida with a serene expression. "Must we replay this conversation every three days?" she chided. "Come, attend to my hair."
Maida stepped into the chamber reluctantly and nearly snatched the comb from Gwendolyn's fingers. "But Lady Gwendolyn, it's almost full dark. I must be on my way home." The serving girl's voice was shaking so hard her words were barely comprehendible.
"It will take you but a moment or two— you didn't arrange it or help me dress." Having the girl near her made her feel warmer; hunger sharpened in her stomach. "Do you know if there's food still out in the bailey? I'm famished."
Maida finished her task with unusually clumsy fingers and set the comb on the table, then edged back as Gwendolyn reached for the hand mirror. "I imagine so, mistress. I—"
Gwendolyn's scream cut off the girl's words as the mirror fell from Gwendolyn's fingers and clattered on the table's surface. "I can't see myself!" she wailed. "Why can't I see myself?"
"Vampir!" Maida whispered in terror. She would have run to the door had not Gwendolyn's hand whipped forward to grasp the folds of her skirt.
"What did you say?" Gwendolyn demanded angrily. "Vampire? Why would you call me such an evil thing?" Her gaze fell on the hand mirror and she released Maida abruptly and touched the metal back of the looking glass with trembling fingers. "Is that why I can no longer see my own reflection? Can such a thing really be?"
The girl gave no answer but slid fearfully along the wall and out of her reach. If she could just reach the door—
"Please," Gwendolyn said without looking at her. "Stay for just a moment. I swear I won't hurt you— have I ever?" she entreated. Trembling, Maida stopped and shook her head nervously. Gwendolyn pushed the mirror away a little fearfully, then pulled her hair over her shoulder and began braiding it herself. It was easy to see that her gaze made Maida even more nervous and she turned her eyes to the table, hoping the servant would relax enough to explain. "Tell me of this . . . creature you speak, and why you would believe I have become one."
"Because you're dead!" Maida blurted. Her hands slapped at her own mouth as if to stop the words, but more flew between her fingers. "You died three nights ago and they placed your body in the family tomb. I saw you lifeless with my own eyes."
"But that cannot be," Gwendolyn said sharply. "Look!" She rose and held up her hands, then opened and closed her fingers. "How can you say I'm dead when even now I stand before you and speak?"
"I don't know!" Maida cried. She cringed as Gwendolyn stepped toward her. "Please— I must go! All who live here know it's not safe to be on the castle grounds after dark!"
"And why is that, Maida?"
The girl shrieked and stumbled back into the chamber as Lord Christopher's dark form appeared in the entryway, making her careen around the room like a child's toy as she tried to avoid moving within reach of Gwendolyn. He gave a low laugh. "I wonder what legend could cause such a belief among my countrymen and my serfs." A few steps put him in front of Maida and the serving girl cowered and backed against a tapestrycovered wall, looking frantically at the deepening night beyond the window as a tiny sob escaped her lips. Christopher's grin deepened. "If you believe so firmly in these tales, my child, then what of your presence here? Perhaps you are willing to be your mistress's first—"
"Stop it!" Gwendolyn's voice was strong and clear. "There is no cause but your usual cruelty to frighten the girl. Let her return to her home."
Christopher stepped back, indicating the door with a flourish of his arms. "By all means, dear Gwendolyn, whatever is your wish." He looked at Maida and gave a lean smile. "You are free to leave, child. I would suggest you do so most quickly." In an instant, Maida had gone.
Christopher stared at her expectantly, then finally paced the room as Gwendolyn finished attending to her hair in stony silence. At last, he spoke.
"I see you look quite fit— I was concerned you would be confused and perhaps wander the countryside dressed in rags like some crazed beggar woman. You seem to have coped quite well."
"Indeed," Gwendolyn hissed and slammed the comb on the tabletop a final time. "And no thanks to you— you monster. What evil thing of the devil have you forced upon my unwilling body?" Dark red lights danced in her once tawny eyes as she glared at him.
His voice rang out in mirth and she ground her teeth— he seemed to be forever laughing at her. "My ears surely deceive me." His dark brows raised in mimed innocence. "I thought I heard the word unwilling. If I forced myself upon you, what of the kisses that met mine so warmly? And the body that opened so willingly to me? An easier battle was never fought," he ended smugly.
Gwendolyn's cheeks went scarlet. "Easy, perhaps— but still unholy."
Christopher guffawed. "Holy! If that word burns my lips, it should sear the very skin from yours." His rugged face darkened. "Your bargain with the devil has cost me eternity with the only woman I ever truly loved— and one whom I waited years to be with. Now her soul rests peacefully where I cannot reach and you are bound to take her place, whether it pleases you to do so or not. If I cannot possess her in spirit, I must be content with her in form— and that form, my love, is you."
Gwendolyn gaped at him. "What do you mean, take her place?" She pounded a small fist upon the table. "You do not own me, you conceited lout! Find another to satisfy your evil appetite. I will leave this place anytime I wish."
"Really?" Christopher's brows arched. "Then perhaps we should pack your things— we'll start with the mirror." He snatched it up and pushed it in front of her face. "You should really examine your smile— if you can. It's grown quite . . . strong." She yanked her face aside and he threw the mirror to the floor. It shattered and he kicked the pieces away. "A strange feeling, isn't it?" he demanded. "To look and be unable to see yourself. And if you find it to your liking to venture beyond the castle walls, you will find a host of other oddities— like the sun, the merest hint of which will blacken the skin from your fine and beautiful bones— or the villagers, who though pleased to find work and wages at the castle during the day, unlike your faithful Maida would be more than happy to pound a piece of sharpened oak through your breast should they catch you at one of your weaker moments.
"You have so much to learn, dear Gwendolyn." Christopher spread his hands. "And I must admit I cannot understand your reluctance— was it not your own fondest wish to live at all costs? In your foolishness, you have made a pact that would see you cheated at every turn. Yet I have given you that precious thing which you desired most: eternal life." Something out of place flickered in his deep, dark eyes: hurt. "Yet still you scorn me."
"Eternal life!" Gwendolyn cried. "What kind of life is this socalled gift of yours? Why, you have stolen from me not only the ability to do the simplest of humanly tasks, but the right to just sit peacefully among other men and women. No longer can I walk outside and feel the warmth of a summer sun on my face as I gather flowers— instead I must fear the sun's rays as an instrument of my death. For the rest of my existence I will see loathing and terror on the faces of those I would ask to serve me, even those upon whom I would never place a harmful hand. Of all the different days and times I have walked this earth, I have yet to be granted the joy of childbirth and the feel of my own baby in my arms, and now you wrench the same from me forever and make of me a hated and hunted thing in the eyes of mankind."
In her rage, her inexpert plait had fallen free and now her hair tumbled around her in the candlelight like a shimmering cloak. Like his niece Elizabeth, though he supposed for different reasons, Christopher had developed a fondness for the color red and found the newlyfired scarlet lights in Gwendolyn's eyes intoxicating as they flashed amidst skin so white it was almost transparent.
"Don't you see, Gwendolyn?" he said pleadingly. "The things of which you speak are only minor inconveniences, doorways to a world that you no longer need. In a short time you will learn to do things you never dreamed possible— we can even fly, for pity's sake! In its own way, the night is just as beautiful as day, the moon just as enticing as the sun was once warm. Given a little time, I promise— you'll learn to love your new existence, and I'll take you by the hand every step. Besides," he shed his cape and leaned back on the bed as his expression turned smug.
"You have no choice."
"I don't want you to come here anymore."
In the months that had followed her second awakening in Castle Báthory, Gwendolyn had been incorrect in her assessment of only one thing: Maida had never looked at her with hate. Fear, yes— but never had there been even a hint of the loathing she knew was hidden so poorly among those few of the other villagers whom she actually saw scurrying away in the twilight minutes preceding full darkness. Her serving girl seemed to have either some warped sense of loyalty that drove her to see to Gwendolyn's comfort upon her awakening each evening, or Maida surely held some wretched, unfulfilled desire for the danger which increased with each sunset.
Despite Christopher's reasoning, pleading, and finally fury, Gwendolyn would not feed.
Last evening her "husband" had brought her a child, a living, breathing infant kidnapped from his mother's arms by some filthy and greedy servant of Christopher's during the daytime hours. In his anger Christopher had not even stayed to argue, simply thrust the naked and squalling baby into Gwendolyn's arms and quit the chamber. Gwendolyn's skin glowed paler each evening, until the veins in her body were nothing but empty blue trails under a fragile alabaster shell, yet even the agony of starvation would not end her miserable existence. The mind was willing, but the flesh far too strong.
The hour had been late and Maida was long gone; unable to bear the fire of the baby's skin against hers, Gwendolyn wrapped the boy child in a double thickness of blanket and rocked him until he slept. The woolen blanket was useless, little besides wrapping on an enticing, forbidden package; within a quarterhour Gwendolyn had become nearly mesmerized by the pulse of life in his tiny pink body and she dropped his swaddled form on the bed and beat on the stone walls in frustration. Arms empty as she pressed against the opposite wall of the room, she could hear and smell the blood that pumped through the infant's small, strong heart.
In a panic Gwendolyn had snatched the boy from atop her bed and run from the castle, feet carrying her quickly along a path heretofore forgotten until she stood in front of a small hut almost a mile away. Though she'd fled full speed the entire way, she was not even winded when she beat frantically on the door.
"Who's there'?"
Maida's timid voice sent a spasm of relief through Gwendolyn's feverish thoughts. She heard Maida's father bellow not to open the door but the girl had thrown the bolt before he could stop her. Warm, cheerful light spilled from the hut and Gwendolyn's servant stood just inside the door, terror and pity warring in her eyes. Her sire, an old man of nearly four score years, yanked his daughter aside and bravely placed his own body between Gwendolyn and his offspring.
"Begone! You are not welcome in our home!" he cried, crossing himself. "My daughter does not serve you during the night hours, evil one."
His genuflection burned Gwendolyn's eyes and she ducked her head, then pushed her burden into the arms of the astonished man.
"Tell your daughter to return the child to his parents, though I know not who they are," she hissed at the old man. "He was . . . given to me."
Gwendolyn had run then, back to the relative safety of the castle and away from those who would so love to part her head from the despicable form into which her spirit had been trapped . . . though even as she ran, Gwendolyn truly didn't understand why she should still want to continue this painful, empty existence.
And tonight Gwendolyn sat, head in her hands and staring at the rough wood grain table, doing little besides following the swirls and gouges with her eyes and memorizing their patterns, her mind a blank, hungry horror. Each night her body whispered to her with black dreams of release that brought her closer to surrender and tested her vow not to feed upon some poor, helpless person. Deep within her mind, the shreds of what had once been her conscience asked insidiously who would be her first victim when she succumbed— how could it not be that same young girl who so faithfully tended her?
"Did you hear me, Maida?" Gwendolyn demanded, her voice hoarse. "You are to be gone from this bedeviled place each day well before the sun sinks below the horizon." Gwendolyn purposely kept her gaze on the table, knowing how easy it would be to trap the girl with her eyes and doubting her ability to release Maida if it happened. "I can no longer trust myself around you. You must leave immediately."
Gwendolyn heard the rustle of cloth and something clanged softly as Maida set it down on the chest. "The boy child has been returned to his mother," Maida said carefully. "The woman sends you a gift in gratitude for the safe return of her son."
"I want nothing but for you to LEAVE!" The last word was almost a scream as Gwendolyn's fingers yanked at her own hair in an attempt to keep her mind on something other than the scent of blood she imagined was filling every corner of the chamber. She turned dreamily to face the girl but Maida was gone, her footsteps already echoing in the hall below. Dark longing filled Gwendolyn and she had a sudden mental image of how easy it would be for her to catch the servant girl and bring her back. And then what? Gwendolyn's fingernails dug deeply into her arms, each opening a bloodless gash in her white skin. Distracted for the moment, she withdrew her fingers and watched with detached interest as the cuts closed and mended within the space of a few moments.
Would Christopher come to her tonight? And if so, what horrible offering would he tempt her with this time? Gwendolyn wondered if it was that question which was making her mouth water and her nerves sing until she wanted to spin off the walls like some child's top. Even now she still smelled blood and her eyes swept the chamber like a caged animal— then stopped abruptly at the jewel chest by the bed.
A large chalice of beaten brass sat upon a snowwhite square of linen; the dark liquid within beckoned.
Dazedly, Gwendolyn's feet carried her forward until she stood above the goblet, staring down and into its crimson depths. It was blood— no, her mind corrected snidely, not blood: food. And she was so very hungry . . . . Gwendolyn's tongue ran over her cold lips and along the edges of her teeth— so long and sharp now, and probably as white as the cloth upon which this tempting meal sat— but she would never see them. Was this the gift of which Maida had spoken? Surely no normal person would offer such a thing.
Her hands were shaking so badly it took both to grasp the chalice and bring it to her lips; juices filled her mouth in anticipation. The scent that drifted up was not what she expected and before she could stop herself the warm taste of salt and copper was in her mouth and pouring eagerly down her throat.
But it was all right, because the visions that filled her head were not of humans, but cattle— huge, gentle creatures with warm brown eyes and more than enough life to share with even a deathbringing creature of the night such as herself. Gwendolyn closed her eyes and drank, hearing the soft sounds of cattle lowing as the blood filled her stomach and chased away the ice in her veins. A short while later she was sick and fighting to keep the blood in her system as she staggered to the bed and collapsed; she felt as if she were human once again and ill because of tainted food or too much ale.
"Nauseating, isn't it?" Gwendolyn wearily raised her head from the pillow; her eyesight twisted and wobbled but still gave her a view of Christopher examining the empty chalice. His tongue darted out and he lapped a stray drop from the rim, then turned to her with glittering eyes. "You've waited so long, it will be a miracle if you can keep it down. Had you fed properly there would be no question, of course, but cow blood is not the chosen food of the vampir. I'll wager on the morrow you'll feel as if you've plied yourself with a full skin of cheap wine." He shrugged and sat beside her, smoothing her hair back tenderly from her forehead as she groaned and let her head fall to the pillow. His voice was infuriatingly sympathetic. "But it will fill your needs for a while." He pulled her limp form against his chest, then leaned back and put an arm behind his head. "Myself, I prefer meals of a finer quality."
"You're evil, Christopher," she mumbled against his shirt. "And damned for all eternity."
He smiled cheerfully. "We both are, my dear. But at least we'll be together."
Gwendolyn had thought the problem of feeding solved with the discovery that she could consume animal blood, but though she gained strength daily, the sweet call of human blood tempted her more and more despite her now steady diet. It took flying into a false temper before Gwendolyn finally impressed upon little Maida that she had truly meant it when she ordered the girl to be out of the castle before sunset each evening. Maida had looked both hurt and relieved at the command and ultimately obeyed, though each night she now left a chalice of some type of animal blood in the hopes of soothing her mistress's unholy appetite. Christopher was spending more time with Gwendolyn each night, yet she had never known such loneliness. She yearned for companionship other than the handsome, sharptongued creature who stubbornly titled himself her husband, a man around whom she suspected she would never truly be comfortable. Comfort was something she had lost a lifetime ago, purloined with her ability to walk in the daylight without care.
As always, Christopher seemed to read her mind— she wondered if this was a skill she too might someday learn. In the meantime, he used his talents in the most maddening of ways.
"I've written Elizabeth," he announced one night. "She'll be here within a week. I've given instructions to the servants to prepare for guests at the castle. She's bringing ladies and menatarms and practically an army of servants; perhaps that will fill your need for company."
"I am not particularly fond of the woman," Gwendolyn said in exasperation. "You should have spoken with me first."
"But why?" he asked in surprise. His face was a mask of innocence. "I would have invited her anyway. Whether you like her or not, she is still a blood relative. Besides—" he gave her a vulpine grin— "I thought you could amuse yourself with her entourage."
"You are disgusting," she snapped. "Why must you constantly strive to make me angry?"
"Because you are even more beautiful when your temper shows," he replied calmly, reaching to play with the fall of golden waves down her back. "One of these days, you'll have to admit your new existence to yourself and acknowledge that mortals are nothing more than prey to you now. You've become far superior to these fragile beings who cannot even venture into a harsh winter without the protection of dead animal skins."
Gwendolyn ignored his comments and pulled her hair smartly from his fingers.
"As for Elizabeth," he continued unperturbed, "you should take your pick of those fools in her entourage. They certainly know the danger of serving her, just as the villagers here are fully aware of the Báthory history. I would guess she'll probably avail herself with the choicest of your servants."
"What!" Gwendolyn jumped up with a snarl. "If she so much as touches Maida, I'll—"
"You'll what?" Christopher interrupted. "Even as a vampir you've not a violent bone in your body. Why, if we had such a thing as honor among us, you would be a disgrace!"
Gwendolyn stared at him in anger, knowing he was probably correct, then not caring. In a fit of temper she flung the chalice at him, hoping desperately to hear the sound of metal bouncing off his arrogant head. But though her aim was true, Christopher was much too quick and had ducked through the doorway before the goblet could find its mark. Gwendolyn gave the fallen cup a petulant kick and left it, making her way down to the disused dungeon and the small, secret pallet she had made for herself. Such a lovely place to sleep, she thought sarcastically.
Another visit from Countess Báthory. Was there to be no end to her torment?
The Countess was already waiting in Gwendolyn's chamber when she climbed the stairs, but Gwendolyn had known that from the moment her eyelids had opened in the blackness of the lower dungeon. Even through the thick, ancient walls of the castle she could smell the woman. Elizabeth bathed in human blood— the secret moisture potion, Gwendolyn thought derisively— and spending time around Elizabeth would sorely tempt Gwendolyn. And Elizabeth had called Christopher's appetite a waste!
The beautiful Countess was reclining gracefully on Gwendolyn's bed and it nettled the younger woman that Elizabeth had the gall to feel so at home after threatening her hostess with a dagger on her previous visit. The last time Gwendolyn had been eager to impress the woman; she felt no such compulsion tonight.
"Gwendolyn!" Elizabeth said brightly as she sat up and stretched her mouth into in a wide smile. "I see you've fared well since my last visit. You look marvelous."
"Thank you, Elizabeth," Gwendolyn replied, not attempting to disguise the coldness in her voice. "There is something wrong with your chamber that makes it necessary for you to retire in mine?"
The Countess lifted her chin slightly. "Of course not, my dear. I simply realized that you would come here first when you awoke." She drew a sharp fingernail down the linen of the bedcover, leaving a faint trail of broken threads in the finely woven fabric. "Besides, Christopher bade me do as I wished in the castle. After all, we're family."
"I've no doubt he did," Gwendolyn said. Maida had built quite a fire and Gwendolyn stepped to the fireplace and prodded absently at the flames with an iron poker; the heavy logs turned easily at her touch. Though Gwendolyn still refused to feed upon human blood, Maida's nightly offering of animal blood sustained her fairly well and Gwendolyn could feel a barely constrained and almost brutal strength within the deceptively feminine lines of her arms and hands. "And by all means, you should do so." She turned her back on the fire and stared at Elizabeth; the glow of the flames behind her made Gwendolyn's figure little more than a black silhouette with glinting redgold eyes. "But not in my chamber— nor with any of my personal possessions."
Elizabeth threw up her hands in feigned dismay. "My pardon, Gwendolyn! Had I known you felt so strongly about this . . . little intrusion, I would never have dared." The Countess swung her feet to the floor and stood, smoothing the skirt of her aquacolored gown daintily. "Regrettably, Gwendolyn, we don't seem to be getting on as famously as Christopher— or I— had hoped. Perhaps it would be best if I, ah, amused myself in the daytime during the course of my visit rather than at night, lest another disagreement between the two of us cut short this visit as it did the last." She gave a spurious little grin. "I wouldn't want to upset you like I did the last time. Christopher would not be pleased."
If the Countess had thought to put Gwendolyn on edge by calling up the unpleasant memory, she failed miserably. To Gwendolyn the recollection of the dagger at her breast was hardly anything more than an old annoyance now, and the idea that this woman might be trying to intimidate her was blatantly ludicrous. That Gwendolyn suffered Elizabeth's presence was charity enough; she had no intention of bending to Elizabeth's will as well.
"I assure you, Elizabeth, there is little you can do now to frighten me. There will not be a repeat of the incident that occurred prior to the end of your previous visit, nor anything remotely resembling it."
"I never said there would be, dear Gwendolyn." The Countess was unruffled and her dark eyes found a sudden gleam as a thought occurred to her. "By the way, I thought I might have that serving girl— what was her name, Maida I believe— attend to me while I'm here. She seemed so capable and my own maidservant is young and has only been with my ladies for a few days; she could use Maida's tutoring." She gave a predatory smile as Gwendolyn's head jerked up.
"You do not have my permission to use Maida. I consider her my personal servant and she is forbidden to attend to anyone else." Something unspeakable and deadly stirred restlessly in Gwendolyn's mind at the thought of sweet little Maida being victimized by this perverted, murderous noblewomen.
"I see," Elizabeth said. "Then she is in the castle at night?" she asked innocently.
Gwendolyn felt her fingers curl into claws without her command. "That is of no consequence. Be warned, Countess. I see the girl as a serf and therefore one of my personal— and favored— possessions." For the first time since her unholy transition, Gwendolyn felt a hint of the power that she possessed struggle to take the form of anger. "Surely you have not already forgotten what I said about my personal possessions."
"Of course not," the Countess said with a toss of her head. Her expression turned sulky. "Although I'm sure Christopher will not approve of your treatment of me. Besides, as a member of royalty I should be able to have and do whatever I want— and with whomever I please. Christopher has always agreed with me in that respect."
"No doubt he has," Gwendolyn said through a sharp smile. "However, in this instance it is obvious that Christopher and I do not see eye to eye. And I should remind you, Elizabeth, that while Christopher may feel for you the bindings of family, I do not. I must insist that the servants of this castle and the village remain untouched and that you confine your entertainment and your ugly appetite to those poor, doomed souls who accompanied you on your trip." Gwendolyn glared at the other woman. "And I promise you I will not hesitate to vent my displeasure should I find that harm has befallen my serving girl."
The Countess blinked and back-stepped unwillingly, and Gwendolyn finally saw a hint of fear in Elizabeth's eyes, though she still wouldn't trust the older woman to stay away from Maida. Maida would have to be told to stay elsewhere day and night until the Countess returned to Csethje three weeks hence.
"You may leave my chamber now, Elizabeth," Gwendolyn said in a soft, deadly voice.
From somewhere Elizabeth dredged up the courage to meet Gwendolyn's gaze for only a moment, then forcefully dragged her eyes away. "Yes," the Countess said, valiantly struggling to hide the shakiness of her voice. "I think that would be best."
"When is that woman going to leave, Christopher?" Gwendolyn demanded. "Her presence here is a curse to me every night!"
Christopher looked at her and laughed, and for an instant Gwendolyn could have sworn she saw merry lights in the blackness that was his gaze. "Well, well," he said mildly. "Aren't we in a temper tonight!"
"Damn you!" she hissed. "You're a curse to me besides!"
He watched as she paced angrily in front of the fire, then shook his head and spread his hands. "I thought you wanted the sounds of human voices in these halls at night."
"I did!"
"Well, here you have it. Sights, sounds, people."
"And Elizabeth!" she snapped. "Always baiting me, in spite of her fear! Foolishly trusting that you will protect her."
"Alas, yes." Christopher sighed. "I must tell you she bent my ear well because of your threats."
"I never threatened her," Gwendolyn said scornfully. "I simply impressed upon her the importance of not trespassing in my chamber and leaving Maida and the rest of the villagers alone. She must satisfy herself with her own servants, not ours."
"That's hardly the way a normal hostess would behave." His back to her, Christopher grinned wolfishly as he waited for her response. He was not disappointed.
"What!" she said incredulously. "Normal? Elizabeth is hardly a normal guest, Christopher!"
He turned to face her and his expression grew serious. "Gwendolyn, you cannot go on like this. I know Elizabeth irritates you, but believe me when I say that I don't care a whit about the woman and she deceives herself when she claims I feel a family loyalty. I asked her here because I knew she would bring an entire entourage, an entourage of which you might pick without guilt any number of men or woman on which to satisfy your . . . need. "
"No!" she railed at him. "I will not feed upon the blood of my fellow man like some . . . leech!"
"Fellow man!" Christopher's eyes widened in amazement. "You must be jesting!" He folded strong arms and smiled at her, purposely showing his pointed, beautiful fangs. "Fellow men, my sweet, walk handinhand in the sun; they do not hide from another who hunts in the night. These puny folk are nothing but your prey— even cousin Elizabeth, if that is your wish." He reached for her, pulling her unresisting body towards the fire. Taking one of her hands, he held it close to the flames until she felt the heat against the surface of her skin.
"Do you feel that, Gwendolyn? The fire is warm on your hand but never penetrates inside, where you need it most." He thumped his chest for emphasis. "Trust me when I say that you will never, never feel warmth again unless you fill your appetite for human blood. The animal blood which you drink each night will never satisfy you, and while you refuse to admit it, you know I speak the truth when I say your need for real sustenance grows stronger each night."
"I cannot!" Gwendolyn cried, hiding her face in her hands. "It's wrong!"
"What is wrong?" Christopher demanded. "To prey upon those weaker than us? The mankind of which you speak so fondly has done so for a millennium, and will probably continue to do so even beyond our own perceived existence. Is it wrong to eat, Gwendolyn?"
"But they're people, Christopher." She looked at him pleadingly, desperate for him to understand. "They're alive and doing this terrible, terrible thing will unfairly rob them of that. What we do cannot be . . . undone."
"Mankind does just that to all manner of living things, even to the animals that have thus far sustained you. Can't you see that?"
"To kill makes us monsters— I won't be that. I won't." Gwendolyn tried to turn away from him and flinched when his hands roughly pulled her back.
"You talk of monsters, Gwendolyn? Then let Elizabeth be your first meal. There is a monster; a woman who tortures and kills for no other reason than to fulfill her own sick sexual fantasies, then bathes in her victims' blood because her twisted mind believes it will keep her young. Our countryside is pitted with the graves of her victims, and the family name tarnished forever. Feed upon her— if anyone deserves to become prey instead of predator, it is surely Elizabeth!"
Christopher released her shoulders and Gwendolyn spun away from him. Damn him yet again, he almost had her convinced. Why did she listen to his words, so logical . . . so evil!
And yet . . . it was within her power to stop the Bloody Countess and save the lives of tens, perhaps hundreds of innocent maidens . . . .
"No!" she cried. "You're as mad as she— just another cruel murderer!"
Christopher chuckled. The light of the flames highlighted his dark face and gleamed within the myriad curls of his hair. In spite of the hell of her existence and knowing what he— and she herself— was, Gwendolyn still found him attractive, still longed for the iciness of his touch.
"Murderer? Perhaps," he mused. He opened his arms and she could not resist stepping into his secure embrace. His cold lips caressed the golden strands of hair at her forehead. "Though I've never tortured anyone upon whom I've lain a hand." The skin at his eyes crinkled into smile lines as his fingers slipped the cape from her shoulders and tossed it on a chest. "Perhaps it's best if you leave her be. Unless you destroyed her beautiful body, we could well have the dubious pleasure of her company for the rest of eternity!"
Laughing at Gwendolyn's horrified expression, he swept her in his arms and carried her to the bed, never betraying his knowledge of Dorkó, the Countess's most trusted servant, listening just beyond the entrance to the chamber.
When Gwendolyn climbed the stairs to her chamber the next evening, Countess Elizabeth Báthory was gone, as was her entourage and every trace of her presence. In a way Gwendolyn was relieved; she detested the woman, more so because of the threat she had posed to Maida than as a result of the horror of her previous visit. Once again, however, the halls and chambers of the castle were silent and echoing, filled with nothing besides the squealing of inconsequential prey and predator: the chittering of an occasional mouse as it chased after a beetle, followed by the hiss of a hungry cat.
As usual, Gwendolyn's chamber was lit by the cheerful fire Maida had built. Also waiting was the full chalice of animal blood and she ignored the siren call that rose within her belly for the real thing— a need she could not bear to fill— and raised the goblet to her lips. The blood, stronglyscented and warm, filled her mouth and with a start she realized it wasn't the fire that warmed her meal, it was the weather. Maida faithfully built a fire for her mistress each night, yet it must surely be midsummer now. Suddenly impatient, Gwendolyn gulped the rest of the red liquid and hurried down to the great hall. There she quickly threw the bolts on the main entry and stepped into the courtyard.
The night was beautiful. Gwendolyn had not ventured outside since she had run panicstricken to thrust a stolen boy child into the arms of Maida's father months earlier. Now she craned her neck to see the stars that spilled heavily across the sky in every direction like the careless brush strokes of a celestial artist, the sparkling expanse interrupted only by a moon that might have been a huge dish of brilliant yellow paint. Warm summer air flowed around the bare flesh of her arms and along her neck and collarbone, tickling her skin and lifting her hair, bringing with it the faint sounds of crickets and owls from the woods outside the stone gates and the faraway bleating of a herd of sheep, sounds Gwendolyn knew a normal human could never have heard. She hugged herself happily as the smell of wood bark and wild grasses filled her nostrils.
"I see the fair lady has ventured from her prison at last," came Christopher's easy voice. "The night and all its charms await, my lady." He looked different as he stepped in front of her under the moonlight, more sinister and mysteriously attractive. A surge of desire filled Gwendolyn's senses and she reached eagerly to take the arm he offered; for once he did not wound her with a sharp comment. Instead, Christopher led her beyond the stone gate to a small clearing in the woods where the trees made a barrier of their own around a tiny, gurgling brook. Somewhere beyond the ring of trees she heard the soft croaks of frogs in an unseen pond.
"Let me show you how to make the night sing," Christopher murmured just before his lips covered hers and they knelt together in the soft grasses.
Cradled in his arms afterward, Gwendolyn willed her mind to stay blank. There were many things she needed to think about and plans to be made, but she dared not contemplate them in Christopher's presence. The seductive night air and the tryst with her lover had whetted the dangerous appetite within her treacherous body and made it seem as if her recent meal of deer blood had never existed. As each week passed Gwendolyn became more comfortable with her night side existence, more accepting. More than anything else, she feared that one evening— perhaps soon— she would wake and the ability to resist the beast sleeping inside her soul would simply be . . . gone.
Then what would she do?
Despite her concentration, Christopher picked up that fleeting thought and although her eyes looked elsewhere she could feel his sharptoothed smile at her side.
"Why, my dearest," he said quietly, "then you will feed."
"My lady," Maida said softly.
"What are you doing here?" Gwendolyn demanded. Hot need, an almost sexual desire, had risen in her merely at the sound of the girl's voice. "I told you never to come into the castle at night!"
Maida's eyes sought the relative safety of the floor. "I . . . felt you wanted me." She risked a peek at Gwendolyn. "Didn't you?"
"I— yes, I did." Gwendolyn started to continue, then a faint sound drifted to her ears from the hallway and her eyes narrowed. Was Christopher there, seeking to spy on her? In two strides she was past the startled serving girl and yanking the entry curtains aside; discovered, a redfaced Ferenc stood uncertainly in the hall. "What is the meaning of this?" Gwendolyn challenged. "What are you doing skulking about like a dog?"
"He was afraid for me," Maida said from behind her. "I told him he could wait in the hall."
Gwendolyn felt her shoulders relax, but only a little. It was best to get this done quickly, before Christopher put in his nightly appearance, or . . . worse. Yet her curiosity was still piqued at the maidservant's appearance. "You say you came because you thought I wanted you?"
The girl twisted her fingers nervously, and glanced quickly at Ferenc. "Yes. I— we—"
"We plan to marry!" Ferenc blurted. If Gwendolyn had thought him blushing a few seconds ago, it was nothing compared to the scarlet cast that suffused his face now. She wanted to smile; instead, she found herself forcing away thoughts of the blood flowing just below the skin of this awkward young soldier.
"Congratulations," Gwendolyn said smoothly. Her mind raced ahead, trying to refigure the plan she had made. "When?"
"Ssoon. We thought to elope," the girl answered.
"We came to say farewell," Ferenc added. "Maida thinks highly of you, in spite of . . . well. . . She wanted to see you before we left."
"So you plan to leave tonight?" Gwendolyn asked. This time she couldn't hide her surprise. "Already? Will you be returning?"
The young couple glanced at each other and Gwendolyn knew they wouldn't.
Gwendolyn sighed. "Well, that's probably best. You'll be so much better off far away from this place." She felt herself smile and in spite of the starvation that was slowly whittling away at her she felt a fierce, genuine happiness for Maida and Ferenc. "You'll have a wonderful life, with babies, andand sunshine . . ." She turned away from them as a sudden sadness filled her, blotting out the momentary joy.
Ferenc cleared his throat. "Mistress, there's another reason I came here with Maida tonight. I came to ask your forgiveness."
Gwendolyn looked at him in bewilderment. "Whatever for?"
He raised his face and she saw shame and honesty battling in his eyes. "It was I who took your prayer beads the night that Lord Christopher . . . ." His voice trailed off.
Gwendolyn's hand flew to her throat and closed over the place where scars would remain forever unseen. "You!" she gasped. "But why?"
Ferenc's head and shoulders seemed to slump together. "I was afraid, your ladyship. Lord Christopher commanded me to do so and I was terrified to disobey him."
"Oh," Gwendolyn said, and she could not disguise the hurt in her voice. Rage filled her, then despair, and for a dangerous instant she battled the urge to kill. Just as quickly she realized that it would change nothing and Christopher would have eventually found another way to claim her.
Ferenc took a few steps forward and dropped to his knees in humility. "I beg your pardon, mistress. I did not wish to cause you such pain."
Gwendolyn could not bear the sight of him like that; it brought to mind another on her knees in this very chamber, though that one had been out of fear rather than forgiveness. "Never mind," she said hoarsely. "Get up. I wish you both the best." An idea occurred to her, and she turned to rummage through one of the chests for parchment and quill. "In fact, I've a wedding present for the two of you, though outwardly it would seem more for Maida's benefit."
"Lady Gwendolyn," Maida asked gently, "there will be no one to . . . see to you now. May we . . . do anything for you before we go? Anything at all?"
Gwendolyn froze for a second, the quill still clenched in fingers momentarily paralyzed. Her dark nature would never allow her to accomplish this on her own, and if she truly meant to have it done, here was her only chance.
"Yes," Gwendolyn said slowly. "Yes, there is."
Dawn.
Gwendolyn could feel the rays of the sun even through the thick walls of the castle, bidding her sleep and slowing her thoughts until each dragged and stopped like a heavy stone tossed into thick sludge.
A few minutes or perhaps hours later, and dimly Gwendolyn's subconscious perceived movement. She knew what and who it was—Maida and Ferenc, come to faithfully carry out her instructions. Such loyal servants! She wished she could have gifted them with wealth worth a hundred times more than the paper she had drawn up forever granting Maida her freedom and the simple purse of gold coins.
More movement now. Although she could neither open her eyes nor move, Gwendolyn still felt the sensation of being lifted, then turned and wrapped in something heavy. A thought surfaced thickly in the slow channels of her mind and she would have laughed if she could; perhaps Maida and Ferenc were at last covering her in her elusive burial shroud. Instinct made Gwendolyn want to struggle against those she knew would take her from her safe place of rest, but as she had expected, the sunrise had immobilized her and left her powerless. She felt like a baby, carried along with no control over its fate or destination, though she could summon none of the trust that an infant would feel within the warm circle of its mother's arms.
Gwendolyn wondered fleetingly where Christopher was and if, through the darkness of his own sleep, he realized what was happening to her and what she had done. She did not know where he slept and he had never volunteered the information. Once the idea that he did not trust her enough to know had hurt her, though she had supposed he certainly had his reasons; now she realized it had been a hidden gift. Had he insisted they rest together her friends— and truly they were more than servants—would not have been able to take her body. Even in sleep, Christopher was much too strong.
Climbing suddenly, her limp body at an angle that combined with her torpor and made her dizzy; she yearned for the simple relief of a moan, the small gift of opening her eyes to bring her balance back to normal. Was Maida at her feet? Surely it was the strong Ferenc who grasped her so firmly at the shoulders and bore her quickly up the stone steps. Even through the thick layers of her languor and the material wrapped so snugly about her flesh, Gwendolyn could feel and smell the hot blood pulsing beneath the skin of their hands.
Out of the darkness now, beyond the dungeon and buttery, then through the tower and into the gradually fading shadows of the great hall. Gwendolyn did moan then, an involuntary sound that escaped her lips as the couple moved her ever closer to the hated and yet longedfor light. At her shoulders and feet, the sweet warmth of their hands no longer felt good, meaning as it did that she was beyond the point of return. As Maida and Ferenc carried her from the castle, Gwendolyn felt a deep calm eclipse the darkness that had captured her soul.
An agonizing five minutes' journey and Gwendolyn felt Maida and Ferenc lower her gently to the ground. She knew instantly where she was as the planes and curves of her back molded against the bumpy earth: the clearing where she and Christopher had made love not so long ago and where she'd finally realized how close she was to losing her battle. The sun's rays painted her mind crimson and seared her eyes beneath her closed lids, but through her pain Gwendolyn could still hear the sound of the tiny brook somewhere to the left of her already spasming body and the cheerful twittering of sparrows. She tried desperately to remember what it might look like: bright green grass, perhaps the red and orange of field flowers growing along the weedchoked bank next to the silvery trickle of water. Above it all, the painfully bright sun.
Gwendolyn welcomed the feel of their fingers loosening her shroud and she knew a bittersweet joy as the black thing sheltered inside her deepest self twisted in horror and fear. She recognized the sound of Ferenc's sword as he unsheathed it, felt again the movement of her wrappings as he drew the sharp blade quickly down the length of fabric. Even before the split material fell to each side, he and Maida fled the clearing; neither wanted to watch.
Sweet, blazing agony. The sun took her and Gwendolyn felt as if she were a living meal being cooked upon a spit— perhaps her skin was even smoking. The pain was terrible yet cleansing, and when her muscles pulled into an involuntary fetal position, her body seemed like nothing more than a flaming mass of heat surrounded by an evergrowing blackness.
Gwendolyn offered a silent, fragmented thanks to Maida and Ferenc and hoped they would be safe. Somewhere in her fading consciousness she thought she heard a scream of fury from Christopher. She reached for it, but the broken voice spun abruptly away, and her only regret was that she would never be able to see the rage on his face when he realized that she had at last escaped him. It would have been amusing to tell him to spend eternity with niece Elizabeth.
The sun bore her to black oblivion on a great, spinning sphere of fire.