The quest for youth only leads to death…

The Blood Countess—Elizabeth Bathory, a true monster of history—is one of the most infamous serial killers. Said to have murdered 650 young women for their blood, she believed bathing in it would preserve her vitality and beauty. It’s a story that has always fascinated archaeologist and TV host Annja Creed. Something so fantastic could only be a story. So what is Annja to make of the girl she finds dying on the side of the road…from blood loss?

There’s something eerie in this small Slovakian town, where rumors of vampirism hang unspoken in the air. Yet, out of fear, the locals say nothing. Shut out by the police, Annja only digs deeper into the strange death, uncovering troubling scraps of evidence—and cover-ups. Her one lead is an enigmatic retired police officer who has been investigating the disappearance of more than twenty women. All of them young. All of them beautiful.

The only way Annja can see to uncover the truth is by becoming the Blood Countess’s next victim….

The woman was still alive…

Annja felt her heart leap in her chest. In that instant, everything changed.

Time became the enemy, a crushing weight resting on Annja’s shoulders. Every minute counted now. Annja needed to get the woman covered up and back to the top of the ledge, then to a medical facility as fast as humanly possible.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m going to try to get you out of here. Don’t struggle. Just lie still and let me do all the work. Understand?”

She leaned in close, but didn’t hear a response.

“All right. Hang on. I’m going to free your arm, then roll you over.”

Annja looked down at the woman she’d come to rescue. Her face was as pale as the rest of her, but even in her present state Annja could see that she was beautiful. Beauty, true beauty, always brought the predators out of the shadows.

One of the woman’s eyes was swollen shut but the other opened.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay,” she told her. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

The woman blinked, then moved her lips slightly. “Krv…Grofka.”

Startled, Annja pulled back. That was one Slovakian phrase she did understand.

Krv Grofka… Blood Countess.

Bathed in Blood

Alex Archer

Table of Contents

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Copyright

1

Csejte Castle, Upper Hungary December 30, 1610

The castle door stood partially open, as if in invitation.

From his hiding place amid the shrubbery half a dozen yards away, Count György Thurzó eyed the door cautiously.

He didn’t like it.

He had planned every detail of this mission, for failure could not only doom his career but bring reprisals the likes of which he’d never seen. Thurzó had informed no one of his intent to visit the castle; the king had merely ordered that he investigate the accusations, a task he could have assigned to one of his own court functionaries. But Thurzó had decided to investigate himself. If the claims proved to be unfounded, he would cull favor with the countess, the widow of his old friend, for having saved her from public embarrassment.

If the accusations proved to be true... Well, then, he would be in a position to handle the situation with the delicate hand it would surely require.

He and his men had traveled from the capital only at night, hiding out in abandoned barns and empty groves each morning so that none might see their approach and send word ahead to the castle’s mistress, Countess Elizabeth Báthory. The success of their venture depended entirely on surprise; the countess might not be cut from the same cloth as her deceased husband, Ferenc Nádasdy—a man whose ruthless ferocity on the battlefield had earned him the moniker the Black Knight of Hungary—but Thurzó knew her to be extraordinarily intelligent and cunning, a combination that was apt to make her dangerous.

His group had reached the village of Csejte just before sundown and hidden in a narrow canyon half a mile outside town until full dark. Then and only then had they passed through town and headed up the narrow road that led to the castle proper, sitting atop a hill that overlooked both the town and the surrounding territory. Nearing the castle, they’d dismounted before the final bend in the road, tied the horses to nearby trees and crept forward to their present position: a clump of shrubbery that allowed them to see the castle without being seen.

That door looked like trouble to Thurzó. He hadn’t come all this way to be ambushed.

Why leave it open?

Thurzó watched the entryway carefully, his gaze returning again and again to the narrow triangle of light spilling across the floor tiles just beyond. If someone was waiting inside the door, they would eventually shift their position, and their shadow would dance across that space, even if only for a second.

But the light on the floor remained steady; no shadow disturbed it, even after waiting several long, tense moments.

Not an ambush, then? A careless servant, perhaps?

If that was what it was, they were in luck. Before setting out for Csejte, Thurzó hadn’t known how he was going to gain access to the castle. He’d run through various scenarios, but each and every one of them, aside from clandestinely scaling the walls, had required help from someone already on the inside. He’d had his men pack grappling hooks and ropes just in case, but he’d spent the better part of the journey here praying for another solution.

It seemed his prayers had been answered.

He glanced back at his men, gave the signal and then rose from his crouch and headed for the half-open door at a brisk walk, drawing his sword as he went. If it came to fighting, he would be ready, as would his men; the handpicked fighters following at his heels were some of the best in his retinue, never mind the most trustworthy. They’d been sworn to secrecy for the duration of the mission, and he was confident that each and every one of them would keep their word. He heard more than one blade slide from its sheath behind him, and smiled at the sound.

Thurzó didn’t stop when he reached the door but strode in, an excuse about his concern for the countess’s safety ready on his lips. The excuse turned out to be unnecessary, though, for the foyer was empty and quiet.

Too quiet.

Thurzó waved his men forward. Perhaps it was just a misperception caused by his own unease, but every single man that followed him inside seemed to hesitate, as if aware that crossing the threshold put them on a path from which there was no return.

Real or imagined, Thurzó didn’t blame them. What they’d come here to investigate would chill even the most hardened of hearts. And if it was true...

If it was true, then God help us all.

The men quickly split into two groups. The first would sweep the upper floors while the second, led by Thurzó himself, would cover the main floor and then descend into the dungeons.

If the rumors were true, that was where he expected to find Elizabeth. Word had reached the king a week hence that she would be gathering tonight with her confidants for one of her dark rituals. Thurzó had come to catch her in the act.

Better me than someone else, he reasoned. At least I will show restraint.

They found the first body less than five minutes after separating from the others.

The young woman lay sprawled facedown against the side of the passageway. She was naked, with long blond hair that was caked with drying blood. A thin, wavering trail of the same stretched out behind her, as if she had been crawling forward on her stomach before her strength had given out.

Thurzó rushed to her side, but when he rolled her over it was clear he was too late; her unseeing eyes stared up at him from her slack face.

He noted absently that she’d probably been quite pretty, but the majority of his attention was drawn to the extreme pallor of her skin and the multiple wounds that covered her chest and abdomen. He stopped counting at twenty. The sheer violence of the act sickened him; who would do this to a woman?

He knew the answer, of course. He didn’t want to admit it.

Elizabeth, what have you done?

At first, Thurzó thought the injuries had been made with a knife or dagger, but upon closer examination he could see the wounds were rounded, like those delivered with an auger or some other tool designed for puncturing. They were also deep and had no doubt led to significant blood loss. That alone made him think she hadn’t crawled here on her own; someone had been dragging her and dumped her here when they had no more use for her.

After she’d been drained dry...

He shook the vile thought from his head and rose from the body, knowing this wouldn’t be the last corpse they would find within these walls.

“Nothing we can do for her,” he said quietly to his men. “We’ll take care of the body once we’ve secured the countess. Let’s keep moving.”

The group continued deeper into the castle. The halls were well lit but eerily empty, and the strange silence lay about the place like a shroud.

Thurzó was familiar with the general layout—one of the reasons he’d been chosen to lead the fact-finding expedition. He had been friends with Nádasdy, Báthory’s deceased husband, and had often played within the castle walls as a child. He used that knowledge to lead his squad through the various rooms that made up the lower floor with relative quickness until they neared the stairs that led to the dungeons. There they found a second body.

This one was also a woman, though slightly older than the first. She was a brunette and she, too, was naked, making it obvious that the two women had been treated similarly. Thurzó could see the same rounded wounds, the same pale hue to the skin that indicated massive blood loss, the same refined beauty in the woman’s features.

His men muttered darkly at the sight, and he knew their mood was changing from apprehension and fear to anger. It was one thing to accidentally kill a woman in the hot blood of battle. It was quite another, however, to ruthlessly murder a woman in one’s home. The noble class was not known for its gentle manner toward commoners, but this...this was just obscene.

Thurzó rose to his feet, intending to speak to his men, but before he could do so the door to the dungeons proper, just a few feet away, was shoved open. He spun around, sword at the ready, to find himself staring at two older women dressed in dark garments, carrying an injured and bloody girl between them. The way they were holding her, dragging her up the stairs by her wrists, made it clear they weren’t concerned with her welfare in the least; she was just another piece of garbage to be disposed of, no doubt the sooner, the better.

The two groups stared at each other for a long second, both nonplussed at being interrupted.

Thurzó recovered first, springing forward and pushing the point of his sword against the throat of the woman on the left, whom he recognized as Dorotya Semtész, one of Elizabeth’s personal servants.

“Put her down, gently,” he told them.

For a moment he thought Semtész might actually try to argue. She glared at him, pretending to dismiss the blade at her throat, but a glance over his shoulder at the rest of his party, all heavily armed and no doubt as angry as he, must have convinced her that arguing was a waste of time. Without a word she lowered the injured girl toward the floor and her companion followed suit.

Thurzó kept his blade on Semtész’z throat as he said, “Bakoš, Kollár, help that young woman. Szabó, keep your eye on her—” he indicated Semtész’s companion with a nod of his head “—while I talk to this one.”

As his men did as they were ordered, Thurzó nudged his captive off to one side, away from the others, with the point of his sword. When they were far enough away for his men not to overhear, he asked, “Where is she?”

Semtész didn’t bat an eyelash as she lied through her teeth. “At her estate in Vienna. She’ll be there for a fortnight.”

Thurzó knew that wasn’t true; he’d had men watching Báthory’s other estates for three days, and he knew she hadn’t left Csejte.

Kollár interrupted him from behind.

“She’s dead, sir.”

That made three victims so far.

God help them.

“If Lady Báthory is out of the country, then I suppose this was all your doing?”

Báthory’s servant was smart enough to see the trap he’d laid for her—admitting to the crime would mean she was as good as dead, since murder was a capital offense—but she surprised him by nodding in agreement.

“Yes. The girl’s death is my fault.”

He didn’t believe that for a moment, but he also realized the futility of trying to get information out of her when she was all too willing to confess to murder. Anything she said would be suspect, and all of it more than likely designed to delay him from carrying out his real objective—locating and arresting the countess.

He didn’t have time for this.

Thurzó grabbed the woman by the arm and led her back to Szabó, who was keeping an eye on her companion. “Put them in irons,” he told his lieutenant. “We’re taking them both back to Bratislava to stand trial.”

“Yes, sir.”

Semtész glared at him, but he ignored her, his thoughts on who he’d take with him into the dungeon for Elizabeth’s arrest and who he would leave behind to guard the prisoners.

He never got the chance to make a decision. Cries for help erupted from down below.

Thurzó didn’t hesitate; gripping his sword, he rushed down the steps. The stamp of booted feet on the stone behind him let him know that several of his men were following. At this point it didn’t really matter who it was, just that he had some backup.

Torches burned in sconces set into the walls, lighting the way before them, and the group of men quickly found themselves standing in a narrow passageway with rows of cells on either side.

The cells were full of women.

Some held the living. Some held the dead. Some held a mix of the two, and it was often difficult to tell the difference given the terrible state many of the prisoners were in. One glance was all it took to recognize that the women had been tortured. They had been beaten and battered and in some cases bitten, though by whom or what Thurzó didn’t know.

He had his suspicions, though, oh, yes.

Unlike the women they’d found upstairs, some of these prisoners needed immediate assistance, and he couldn’t just pass them by without giving aid. Leaving the dead to fulfill their mission was one thing; abandoning the living was something else entirely.

Thankfully the doors to each cell were made of wood, rather than iron. That meant there’d be no need to wait for a blacksmith. Thurzó had anticipated the need to smash through a few doors once they were inside the castle, so several of his men were carrying battle hammers.

“Break them down!” he called to his men. “Break them all down. Get these women upstairs and give them what aid you can!”

His men immediately got to work, the wood resisting at first and then splintering beneath the repeated blows. The noise drew the other half of his party from the halls and chambers upstairs, where they’d been searching for the countess, and the added manpower made the job go that much quicker.

Soon his men were entering the cells, leading those who could move up the stairs and into the great hall, where they received as much care as Thurzó’s men could provide. Those who were too injured to walk were carried upstairs by one or more of his soldiers; the gentleness these hardened warriors showed to the wounded struck Thurzó deep in the heart.

When the last of the prisoners were upstairs, the bodies were carried out of the cells and lined up in the passageway one after another. Thurzó stopped counting when he reached forty-three.

He’d checked the first few corpses—those that were reasonably intact, at least—and noted the same kinds of injuries as they’d discovered upstairs. They’d been bled dry like animals brought to the butcher’s for slaughter.

His disgust now in full bore, Thurzó stood back and let his men work, his mind wandering to all-but-forgotten days, trying to figure out just where the countess was hiding.

The upper floors were vacant, and they had covered every inch of the lower floors, as well. Lady Báthory had been inside these walls when the night had begun, and Semtész’s behavior seemed to indicate she was still here somewhere.

But where?

He cast his thoughts back, back to the days when he and Ferenc had run wild through these tunnels, and as the images rushed through his mind, one stuck out. A faint memory of Ferenc showing him a hidden door in one of the cells, a door that led to an unfinished tunnel...

Thurzó slipped away from the others and entered the cell in question. Holding a torch, he walked over to the back wall and pressed on it several times, trying to remember how his childhood friend had done it all those years ago.

Something about putting pressure on the right slab while standing...just so?

The wall slid open silently, revealing the passage he remembered from his youth. At that time, the tunnel had led to a dead end, but he could see now that improvements had been made over the years, widening the tunnel and lengthening it, as well. Torches had been lit at regular intervals. The tunnel took a couple of sharp turns and then opened up into a wide chamber.

In the center of the room, a large rectangular sunken bath was surrounded by half a dozen braziers. Each had a fire blazing inside, no doubt to help ward off the room’s chill.

In the flames’ lurid light, the bathwater had an unusual crimson tint.

Thurzó stepped forward, moving closer, and as he did so the smell finally hit him.

A thick, coppery scent—one he was intimately familiar with from the time he’d spent on the battlefield.

With slowly dawning horror, Thurzó realized the bathwater wasn’t truly water at all. It was blood, a vast pool of blood hot enough to give off steam.

He’d never seen anything like it.

And while he stood there, the surface of the pool suddenly rippled and a figure rose out of its depths, shocking him so much that he stumbled backward.

A hearty laugh—a laugh he recognized—filled the chamber as the woman rising from the bath caught sight of him.

“What’s the matter, György? Surely you’ve seen a naked woman before?”

Elizabeth!

He stood there staring—he couldn’t help himself. The countess stood thigh deep in the tub, the fluid slowly sliding down her curves and back into the bath, allowing her pale skin to peek out from the crimson flow. Her usually raven-black hair was highlighted with streaks of color, and her blue eyes peered out of a face that seemed to be camouflaged in red paint.

When she licked her lips, he was reminded that it wasn’t paint at all, but blood.

Human blood.

“My God, Elizabeth, what have you done?”

She laughed again, longer and harder this time, and he realized that asking what she hadn’t done might have proved a more useful starting point.

Even so, her answer surprised him.

“What have I done? I’ve found the very thing man has spent centuries searching for, the very thing he thought forever out of reach. I’ve found the secret to immortality!”

Thurzó couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Immortality? You’re insane! Look at yourself, Elizabeth. You’re covered in blood, for heaven’s sake!”

“Yes, look at me, György. Look at me!” she exclaimed, spreading her arms to draw his attention to her body. “I’m fifty years old and I look like a girl of twenty-five! I’m getting younger with every treatment.”

Thurzó was looking; as morbid as the scene was he couldn’t take his gaze off her. He told himself he was looking for evidence to back up her claims, preposterous as they were, but deep down he knew the truth. Countess Elizabeth Báthory was a beauty, even as she appeared now; Thurzó couldn’t deny that. He’d found her attractive when they were younger, when she’d been betrothed to his friend, and the years had only done her justice.

He looked because he wanted to look. It was as simple as that.

Rounded wounds, like those caused by a pike or an auger...

The thought slipped in like an enemy from the shadows, reminding him of just how the countess and her companions had obtained all the blood currently steaming in the sunken bath and Thurzó was suddenly ashamed.

He focused his gaze just beyond her, so he could see her movements but wouldn’t be so tempted to stare. Thurzó tried to figure out just how many bodies it must take to fill a tub of that size. And she had mentioned multiple treatments...

“I don’t care what you claim to have discovered,” he said through a jaw stiffened with anger and distaste. He waved with his free hand at the bath before him. “You should be struck down where you stand for this...this abomination!”

Elizabeth walked forward slowly, swaying slightly as if listening to some sensual rhythm only she could hear. Thurzó tried to keep his gaze focused over her shoulder, but the closer she came, the more difficult that was, until he had no choice but to face her.

By now she was only a few feet away.

His gaze found hers, and then, as if by its own volition, dropped to her body once more.

Catching himself, he looked back into her face and saw her smirking at him.

“Oh, but you’re not going to do that, are you, György?” she asked softly. “There are other things you’d much rather do than strike me down.”

She was right; he could no more hurt her than he could grow wings and fly. The sad truth was that he’d been in love with Elizabeth Báthory for years.

Elizabeth moved closer, until her blood-slicked body was just inches from his own. He could feel the heat rising from it as she said, “So what are you going to do, György?”

Thurzó stared deep into her eyes, letting her see the storm that raged within him, and then, steeling himself, said, “In the name of His Majesty, King Matthias II, and under the authority granted to me as the palatine of Hungary, I place you under arrest for the torture and murder of multiple young women under your care...”

Bytča, Hungary

January 1611

THE TRIAL WAS a madhouse.

Thurzó had been observing the proceedings from the balcony overlooking the judges’ box for the past several days. He’d watched witness after witness take the stand and condemn the three women and one man on trial for the evils conducted at Csejte and elsewhere.

Elizabeth herself was not on trial; she remained at Csejte Castle under house arrest, guarded by ten of his most trusted men. It had taken considerable effort on his part to convince King Matthias that putting a member of the upper nobility on trial would serve little purpose. Báthory came from a wealthy and influential family; angering them by trying and executing her, which was precisely what Matthias wanted to happen, would have caused no end of difficulties. Thurzó had hoped to convince the king that Elizabeth should be spirited away to a nunnery for the remainder of her days, but that possibility became less and less likely as word of Báthory’s involvement in the atrocities quickly spread.

Just the day before a journal was produced as evidence by one of the maids, listing six hundred and fifty victims who’d died by Elizabeth’s hand. Thurzó hadn’t seen it himself, so he couldn’t vouch for its authenticity, but at this point it really didn’t matter. Elizabeth was responsible for killing young women and stealing their blood. Thurzó had witnessed her crimes firsthand.

Commotion spread through the courtroom below, breaking into Thurzó’s thoughts. Leaning over the banister, he could see that Royal Supreme Court Judge Theodosius Syrmiensis was returning to his seat while his twenty co-judges took their places in the judges’ box.

Thurzó felt his pulse race; a verdict must have been reached.

Judge Syrmiensis sat down and waited for the wardens to restore order to the room. When all was quiet, he faced the defendants.

“Dorotya Semtész, Ilona Jó, Katarína Benická and János Fickó, this court finds you guilty of eighty counts of murder.”

A roar went up in the courtroom, and the judge had to wait until the wardens could quiet everyone a second time.

“Defendants Semtész, Jó and Fickó shall be put to death, sentence to be carried out immediately. Defendant Benická is sentenced to life imprisonment. The court has spoken.”

Commotion erupted again, but Thurzó had lost interest. The verdict was exactly what he’d predicated; Benická had been bullied by the others and therefore deserved a lesser sentence, an opinion he had stressed during his own testimony a few days earlier.

Justice had been served.

A memory of Elizabeth rising out of the pool of blood reminded him that one aspect of this whole mess still needed to be resolved. Thankfully the verdict would give him the opportunity to see the king and plead his case again.

Perhaps this time the king might listen...

Forty minutes later he was ushered into the king’s meeting chamber, where he found Elizabeth’s eldest son, Paul, already in conference with His Majesty.

“Ah, welcome, Thurzó,” the king said when he arrived. “How goes the trial?”

“Judge Syrmiensis returned a guilty verdict less than an hour ago. The three sentenced to death have little time left in this world.”

“And thank God for that,” the king said with a grim expression. “A nasty business all around.”

Thurzó glanced at Paul, but the other man wouldn’t meet his eye. A tremor of concern shook Thurzó. Had Paul been negotiating with the king behind his back?

Thurzó suspected he had, and the king’s next words confirmed it.

“Young Báthory has a rather unique answer to our other problem.”

“Is that so?” Thurzó replied, glancing at Paul one last time—still no response—before giving his full attention to the king.

“You made it clear that a public trial and execution of Countess Báthory would be a mistake.”

“Yes, I have and...”

The king held up a hand, silencing him.

“I happen to agree with you. As does the countess’s heir.”

This time Paul met Thurzó’s gaze and nodded briefly before looking away again.

“We cannot, however, allow the countess’s monstrous actions to continue.”

Here it comes, Thurzó thought.

“I have agreed to grant Countess Báthory my pardon and absolution for the crimes she has committed against my subjects. In return, her son will consider my debt to the Báthory family repaid in full.”

Thurzó knew the family had loaned the king considerable amounts over the past several years. But Countess Báthory controlled that debt, not Paul. And she would continue to control it until her death. Then, and only then, would control pass to her son.

The king wasn’t finished, however.

“Paul agrees that the countess must pay for her crimes. It is only just. To that end he has suggested that she be imprisoned within her suite of rooms inside Csejte Castle, there to remain until she passes from this earth. Since she would be unable to carry out the myriad duties her position as head of the Báthory family requires, I would have no choice but to declare her legally dead and pass control of her estates to her heir.”

Matthias and young Báthory smiled at each other, and Thurzó knew in that moment it was already decided. The king wanted his debt excused and Elizabeth’s son wanted her out of the way. The solution was elegant and simple. Everybody would win.

Everybody, that was, but Elizabeth.

At least she’ll be alive, he told himself.

Pasting on a smile, Thurzó told the king he approved of the solution.

“Good,” the king replied. “I’m putting you in charge of the masonry work.”

It took a moment for the king’s words to register. “Masonry?”

“Yes, of course. Did you think we would just guard the door?”

That was exactly what Thurzó had pictured. Post a guard, allow her to spend some time in the fresh air every day—the civilized approach.

But too late Thurzó remembered that Matthias had a cruel streak, and this was his way of getting back at the countess for holding that debt over his head.

“I want the entire suite of rooms bricked up. Doors, windows, everything! We’ll leave a few slots in the walls through which she can receive her food, and so the guards can keep an eye on her, but she will remain a prisoner—a real prisoner—until the day her vile countenance passes from this earth! Do you understand, Thurzó?”

He nodded and waited for the king to dismiss him with a toss of his head. As he moved toward the exit, one final question occurred to him.

“If I may, Your Majesty, why me?”

The king didn’t even look at him as he delivered his answer.

“You should have killed her when you had the chance, Thurzó, and saved me all this nonsense. Since you didn’t, I’m leaving it in your hands.”

And that was that. In trying to save her life, he’d ended up bringing her a fate worse than death.

Love certainly was blind.

2

Csejte Castle Present day Slovakia

Annja Creed eyed the camera for a moment, and then stepped forward to adjust the angle of the lens an inch or so to the left. Satisfied, she nodded to herself, moved back to her former position and keyed the remote in her left hand.

“As you can see, behind me lies the ruins of Csejte Castle, home to one of the most beautiful, and most villainous, women who ever lived—the Blood Countess herself, Elizabeth Báthory.”

A shake of her head, a double click of the remote to stop and restart the recording, and then she tried again.

“The crumbling walls you see behind me are the ruins of Csejte Castle, once home to Elizabeth Báthory, a woman some consider one of history’s greatest monst... Gah!”

She stopped the recording and turned away in frustration. Creating the opening to the show should have been a piece of cake. She’d done hundreds of such takes during her time as cohost of Chasing History’s Monsters, the cable television show she’d worked for these past few years. Yes, normally she would’ve worked with a cameraman and wouldn’t have to worry about framing and proper exposure, but she was a steady hand at this by now and probably could have shot, edited and produced the entire show on her own.

Which was exactly what she was intending to do for this one.

The whole thing was a bit of a lark, she had to admit. She’d been with her regular crew in the Czech Republic, filming an episode on Faust and the mysterious creatures that still supposedly haunt his house, but the shoot had wrapped early. With a few extra days suddenly on hand, Annja decided to make the jaunt across the border into Slovakia to do some rock climbing and maybe even visit Báthory’s legendary castle.

She’d caught a flight into Bratislava, took a train northeast into Košice and drove the short distance to the small village of Višňové. Annja could see the castle’s ruins on the hill above the village as she’d driven in, and that was when the idea had struck. She’d checked into her hotel, fired up her laptop and searched the database.

For some strange reason, Chasing History’s Monsters had never done an episode on the world’s most notorious serial killer, Countess Báthory herself.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Annja, she’d reminded herself, and decided then and there to see what she could put together on her own. Selling a complete episode—shot, cut and edited—to her producer, Doug Morrell, would net her some extra cash and give him an episode he could deliver to his own bosses seemingly overnight. That would make him look good, and he could even hold on to it for an emergency situation when some other episode’s filming went south. It was a win-win situation.

She was pretty certain Doug would take the show; the subject matter was right up his alley. It would make a great episode.

If she could get the opening right, that was.

Annja turned and surveyed the ruin of the castle. There really wasn’t much to look at, truth be told. A few sets of crumbling walls, an extended tower or two, but not much more than that. The castle had been sacked and plundered by Ferenc II Rákóczi in 1708 as part of the Hungarian uprising against the Hapsburgs. It had been left to fall into ruin, and a ruin it had become.

And yet something still drew people here.

She knew what it was, of course.

The lure of history.

Annja understood that; she’d felt that same thrill, that same connection to the past, every single time she’d started an expedition or been involved in an archaeological dig. It was the reason she’d pursued her chosen career—as an archaeologist, not as a television host—in the first place. To reach out and touch something from the past, to hold a piece of history in your hands and wonder about the person who’d last held that object hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of years before... Yes, archaeology had a way of getting down deep into a person’s soul.

But in this case it was more than that.

It wasn’t just the lure of history.

It was the legend of the Blood Countess.

The idea of standing on the same stones where the notorious serial killer had once lived held a kind of eerie fascination for many people. The fact that it all happened back in the 1600s didn’t make any difference; as with Vlad Dracul, the Wallachian prince who was generally recognized as the inspiration for Bram Stoker’s Dracula, the legend of Elizabeth Báthory had grown over the ages.

However, Annja wanted to expose the history behind it all. No doubt Doug would prefer her to ignore the high road and feature reenactments of the beautiful Báthory climbing naked out of a pool of blood. But that simply wasn’t Annja’s style.

If she was going to do a show about Báthory, she was going to tell the truth.

Or at least as much of the truth as anyone knew.

Annja stepped to the edge of the escarpment and looked out across the forested hills and rocky crags. The late-afternoon sun lit everything with a patina of gold as it sank toward the horizon. She imagined the countess had done the same thing many times, though with her own deeply tanned skin, long auburn hair and amber-green eyes, there was little chance of anyone mistaking Annja for the pale, dark-haired woman who had terrorized this land for nearly two decades.

Never mind my baseball cap, Annja thought with a laugh as she reached up and adjusted the brim to keep the sun out of her eyes. It was a nice day, warm and clear, and she could see for miles. It would get colder later that night, but for now she was perfectly comfortable in her long-sleeved shirt, shorts and hiking boots. It was her usual dig attire, and fans of the show expected to see her outfitted in the same. She didn’t mind; it was what she would have worn anyway, show or not.

As she turned away from the overlook, she reviewed what she knew about the countess.

Báthory had been born in Hungary in 1560. Both an uncle on her father’s side and her maternal grandfather had been princes of Transylvania. She was also cousin to Stefan Báthory, the king of Poland and duke of Transylvania. Elizabeth was raised on the family estate in Nyírbátor and taught to speak multiple languages, including Hungarian, Latin and Greek.

By all evidence an extremely intelligent woman.

Engaged to Ferenc Nádasdy, a Hungarian nobleman, at age twelve, Elizabeth became pregnant after an affair with one of the palace servants the following year. She gave birth in secret, but not before Nádasdy had the servant castrated and thrown to the dogs. The child, a daughter, was quickly disowned, and Ferenc and Elizabeth were married in May of 1575 when she was fourteen and a half years old. His wedding gift to his young bride was Csejte Castle and the territory surrounding it.

Fourteen and a half? Annja couldn’t imagine getting married now, in her midtwenties, never mind a decade or so ago. She knew it was the custom of the time, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. Especially given what happened next.

In 1578 Báthory’s husband was appointed head of the Hungarian troops and led them to war against the Ottomans. In his absence, Elizabeth was responsible for the care and upkeep of the castle and its environs, including the country house of the same name and the seventeen villages nearby.

Fertile hunting grounds for appetites that grew harsher as the years went by.

Annja knew the countess had gotten bored with castle life. She and her husband wrote letters back and forth, as any married couple might do, but Elizabeth and Ferenc talked about methods of torture to be used on the Turkish prisoners. She would suggest new techniques and her husband would report the results back to her; some of those letters were still stored among the Nádasdy family documents in the National Archives of Hungary.

Soon the countess was trying out techniques of her own on her staff, all peasants—and therefore of no consequence in her view—from the surrounding villages. Severe whippings and beatings were frequent, often for the slightest infractions.

As time went on, more girls were lured to the castle under pretense of working for the countess, and then those girls started to disappear. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much the people could do about it. Báthory not only controlled the land they lived on but was related to the very authorities the villagers would’ve brought their concerns to.

What a terrible situation. Parents forced to watch as their daughters were taken from them with impunity. One of history’s monsters, indeed.

Báthory had finally paid for her crimes. The countess was imprisoned inside this very castle. She’d lived alone for four long years before dying from some unknown illness. Even the date of her death was conjecture; several plates of food had sat untouched just inside her chambers, so there was no way of knowing if she’d been dead for a few minutes or a few days when she’d been found.

That’s it! she thought. That’s the opening!

Annja rushed over to the camera, snatched up the remote and got into position. She took a few deep breaths and then stared directly at the lens as she pressed Record.

“Four hundred years ago, a woman was walled up inside the castle that now stands behind me. Her crimes were so terrible she would earn a reputation as the world’s foremost serial killer. Her name? Countess Elizabeth Báthory. Her rumored victims, six hundred and fifty in number, were all young women, and the savage way in which they were killed earned Báthory the nickname by which she is more commonly known—the Blood Countess. But was Elizabeth Báthory a monster? Or was she also a victim, caught between two sides of a titanic struggle for power that reverberates through this region today?

“Join me as we examine the reality and the myth surrounding the Blood Countess, Elizabeth Báthory, here on Chasing History’s Monsters.”

3

Annja spent another hour shooting video of the castle ruins, footage she could splice in during the editing phase, and then packed up her gear. By the time she’d loaded the rented four-wheel-drive vehicle, the sun was just about down.

She drove through the small village of Čachtice, home to some three thousand residents, and headed for her hotel in nearby Nové Mesto nad Váhom, a town about five miles northeast of Čachtice.

Annja had been driving for less than five minutes when her headlights picked up a figure standing by the side of the road, frantically waving his or her arms. As she drew closer she could see it was a young woman of about twenty-five, dressed in hiker’s boots and jeans and wearing a canvas jacket against the chilly evening. Behind her, Annja could see a backpack sitting on the ground.

Her first thought was hitchhiker, but then she caught sight of the young woman’s face and realized something was terribly wrong. She pulled to the side of the road about ten yards away, turned off the engine and got out.

“Are you all right?” she called from her position by the driver’s door.

The woman shouted something back at her. Annja recognized the language as Hungarian, or Magyar as it was known here, but it wasn’t related to any of the half dozen languages she did speak, so there was no chance of her getting the gist of what was being said. The woman’s frantic hand motions spoke a language of their own, however.

Come here! Quickly!

Most people would’ve been concerned at this point. A dark road with no one around made the perfect place for an ambush, and a woman driving alone in a foreign country would no doubt be an attractive target. Not only that, but she had just made it easier for any would-be bandits by getting out of her vehicle.

Annja wasn’t concerned. If this was a setup, she’d deal with it. She’d been in tougher situations before and had managed to extricate herself just fine. It helped that she was the bearer of Joan of Arc’s weapon, a broadsword she could pull out of where it waited for her—the otherwhere, she called it—with just a thought.

The sword had been shattered by the English commander who’d overseen Joan’s execution, the pieces scattered into the mud like so much waste. In the wake of that sundering something miraculous had occurred; the lives of the two men who had been assigned to watch over Joan, a knight named Roux and his apprentice, Garin Braden, were extended indefinitely. Both were over five hundred years old and still as hearty as they had been the morning their charge had met her fate.

Roux had set out to retrieve the pieces of the sword, and one by one they’d been reunited. Annja had been present when the very last piece had been added to the puzzle and the sword had restored itself in a flash of power that bound her and the blade together in a stunning, and rather unexpected, fashion. The sword wasn’t bound by the rules of time and space and so was available to her at any moment with just a thought. It made getting out of tight situations much easier.

The way the other woman was reacting, the obvious relief on her face that someone, anyone, had stopped to help, made Annja think that whatever this was, it wasn’t a trap.

When Annja got closer, she realized the ground had given away on the side of the road. The woman was still talking nonstop, but now she was pointing frantically into the darkness.

Annja suddenly understood what the woman wanted.

Down there. He’s fallen down there.

Annja turned around, intending to go back for a light, and the woman shrieked and rushed forward, grabbing Annja’s arm.

“Easy now, take it easy,” Annja began, but the woman wasn’t listening. She was clearly in panic mode, more than likely thinking Annja was leaving. The backpacker was talking a mile a minute, pointing into the darkness over the edge, and paying no attention to what Annja was saying.

Annja knew how to fix that, at least.

She dug in her heels, pulled her arm back sharply and yelled, “Wait!” as loudly as she could.

The sudden blast of sound broke through the woman’s panic, and she snapped her head around to stare at Annja.

Annja held up her free hand in a “take it easy” gesture. “I’m not leaving,” she said soothingly, hoping the woman understand a little English. “I’m going to get a light, so we can see.”

She mimed shining a light over the edge and looking down after it.

Understanding blossomed on the other woman’s face and she calmed down.

Annja turned and hurried over to her vehicle. Opening the rear doors, she pulled out one of the polymer cases containing the lights and carried it back to where the woman was waiting.

“I’m Annja,” she said, pointing to herself. Then she pointed at her companion and raised her eyebrows.

That, at least, the woman understood. She smiled wanly and said, “Csilla.”

“Okay, Csilla,” Annja said, “show me what’s got you so upset.” She extended her hand palm up in a sweeping gesture, the universal “after you” sign, and then followed Csilla as she hurried over the edge of the drop and pointed downward at a spot a few feet to their left.

Annja nodded and then set the case on the ground next to her. She flipped open the catch and pulled out a handheld spotlight. The light used only a single thirty-five watt HID bulb, but it generated a fifteen million candlepower light beam that was twenty-eight hundred feet long. If there was something out there, this light would find it.

She hit the switch on the top of the rig and the beam of light leaped into existence, throwing back the darkness. The brush lining the edge of the drop jumped into view, seeming larger than life in the cold light of the spot.

Csilla nodded and pointed again, more emphatically this time.

“Siet! Siet!”

Annja didn’t need to understand Hungarian to understand.

Hurry.

She did as she was told, pointing the spotlight in the direction Csilla was suggesting. Annja began to sweep the beam across the rocky slope below them.

At first she didn’t see anything but the jagged shale for which the region was known, but then she caught sight of a flash of white against the harsh gray of the stone. Slowly, carefully, she swung the beam back and found the object a second time.

It was a human hand.

Female, judging by the size and shape.

It thrust up from the slope as if it were waving to them. The hand was attached to a forearm—thank heavens!—and the arm presumably to the rest of the body, though she couldn’t see the latter. The woman was hidden by a depression in the slope.

“Hello? Can you hear me?” Annja shouted.

Silence.

She might be too injured to shout back.

“Hold on!” she called out. “I’m coming down after you!”

She thrust the spotlight into her companion’s hand and ran over to the rear of her SUV. She grabbed her climbing bag and carried it over to Csilla, who was keeping the light on the hand.

“Were you traveling together?” Annja asked as she pulled several pieces of gear, including a nylon climbing rope, out of the bag. “Did she fall?”

Csilla shook her head, but Annja wasn’t sure whether the woman didn’t understand what Annja was saying or didn’t know what had happened.

Annja pulled on a headlamp and switched it on, then grabbed the gear she’d pulled out. She looked around for a suitable spot to anchor her rope, finally selecting a tree that stood near the edge of the drop. Hurrying over, she pushed on it for a moment, testing its strength, before deciding it would do. Using a couple of slings and some carabiners, she quickly rigged an anchor and then fed the rope through it, tying the two loose ends together. She gave the rope—and the anchor—a good tug to double-check, then coiled the rope and tossed it over the edge.

She pulled on her climber’s harness, secured a locking carabiner to the front and then clipped on to the rope.

“I’m going down. Keep that light on her,” Annja said. Then she pointed at herself and down the slope in an effort to make her companion understand.

Csilla nodded.

Letting the rope play out between her hands, Annja began backing down the incline. The footing was loose, and therefore treacherous. Annja wouldn’t be able to get the other woman out of there if she cut herself on the shale while climbing down.

Slow and steady, Annja, she reminded herself. Slow and steady.

As she moved downward she began to edge sideways, angling toward the spot where the floodlight was shining. She called out several times, hoping for a reaction, but she didn’t get anything in return. That wasn’t a good sign; the woman was either too injured to respond or past the point of help. Annja hoped for the former.

An experienced climber, Annja was able to descend the hundred feet or so in less than ten minutes. She called out as she drew close.

“My name’s Annja. Can you hear me?”

No response.

Annja carefully maneuvered herself over to the lip of the depression and looked down.

The woman lay facedown on the hard stone about two feet below Annja’s present position, her long dark hair hiding her features. She was nude, which meant she probably hadn’t been Csilla’s traveling companion...and her injuries likely weren’t accidental.

The woman lay unmoving and didn’t respond to Annja’s repeated calls. Her skin was extremely pale—blood loss?—and the woman didn’t appear to be breathing.

The fall down the rocky slope had cut her body in several places, but there was very little blood around the wounds, leading Annja to believe the woman had been killed elsewhere and dumped here. Whoever was responsible must have expected the body to fall all the way to the bottom of the slope.

Fate, however, had intervened.

The woman’s arm had become wedged in the cleft between two rocks, arresting her fall and holding her body in place against the slope. If her arm hadn’t gotten stuck, her body would have been hidden from view and wild animals would’ve likely gotten to her remains long before anyone chanced upon them.

Someone would have gotten away with murder.

Getting the body out of there wasn’t going to be easy, especially on her own, but Annja had to try. She could take the time to go back to Čachtice and look for some help, but the woman’s weight might finally pull her arm free from the rocks while Annja was gone.

If that happened, the effort to recover the body would be considerably more difficult, never mind expensive.

No, if she was going to do something, now was the time to do it.

The question was, how?

The depression in which the woman’s body rested was filled with loose rocks and debris. The footing was going to be treacherous, and it would be all too easy to step on the wrong piece of loose rock and send the body sliding free.

What she needed to do was get to a point below the body and work her way up toward it. That way, if the body slipped, she’d be in a position to do something about it.

Annja climbed back up the slope a few feet and then moved a couple of yards to her right, far enough that her actions wouldn’t have any impact on the body’s position. She rappelled downslope about ten feet and then began searching for a suitable place to put an anchor. When she found it, a narrow cleft in the rock, she used a spring-loaded cam device attached to a sling to anchor the rope. She gave the anchor a tug to test it and then clipped the rope into it with another carabiner.

The wind had picked up since the sun had set, and the temperature was starting to drop. Annja could feel her hands tingle from the cold.

Get moving, she told herself. You don’t have all night.

With the anchor in place, she moved confidently to her left, picking her way across the rock face until she was directly below the body. She could see it on the slope above her, just a few feet overhead.

Annja climbed upward.

She moved as carefully as possible until she could kneel next to the woman’s body. She glanced around, hoping to find a spot where she could place another anchor, but all the debris made it difficult. Annja reached out and put her hand on the woman’s forehead. Her skin was deathly pale and icy cold to the touch, but to Annja’s astonishment she thought she felt some movement. The woman’s arm was stretched out by her side, and when Annja glanced at it, she saw one of the fingers twitch.

The woman was still alive!

4

Annja’s heart leaped. She reached out and felt for a pulse.

It was weak and erratic, but it was there.

In that instant, everything changed.

Time became the enemy, a crushing weight on Annja’s shoulders. The woman probably had internal injuries, and exposure to the wind and rapidly falling temperatures wouldn’t help. Every minute counted now. Annja needed to get the woman covered up, back to the top of the ledge, then off to a medical facility as fast as possible.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m going to try to get you out of here. Don’t struggle—just lie still and let me do all the work. Understand?”

She leaned in close but didn’t hear anything. The woman’s fingers might have twitched again in response.

“All right. Hang on. I’m going to free your arm, then roll you over.”

Moving slowly and carefully, Annja put one hand beneath the woman’s left armpit—the arm that wasn’t trapped—and used her other to grasp the woman’s wrist just above the spot where it had become wedged between the rocks. She braced her feet as best she could and then, before she had time to worry about it a second longer, hefted the woman upward just enough so she could free her arm from the rocks.

No sooner had the arm come free than the woman’s body began to slide downward. Annja had already worked out what to do. She didn’t hesitate, grabbing the woman about the torso while pushing against the rock beneath her to stop their slide.

For one heart-stopping moment Annja felt the two of them sliding toward the drop below as the debris shifted in response to the added weight. Annja held the woman tightly against her chest. The anchor she’d placed would stop their fall, but Annja might drop the woman when the device jerked them to a halt. Thankfully the rocks were only settling into a new position, and they stopped moving just a second or two later. Annja sat with her back to the rock face and the injured woman held securely in her arms.

Annja looked down at the woman she’d come to rescue. Her face was as pale as the rest of her, but even in her present state Annja could see she was beautiful. Her slim face, high cheekbones and full lips were framed by long dark hair that was almost, but not quite, black. It didn’t take much to imagine what that face would be like animated by even the slightest bit of personality. Annja had no doubt the woman had been targeted for that very reason.

Beauty, true beauty, always brings the predators out of the shadows.

One of the woman’s eyes was swollen shut but the other slipped open, and Annja found herself staring into her brilliant blue iris. It seemed to focus on her.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you. You’re going to be all right,” she told her. “I’m going to get you to the hospital.”

The woman blinked—which Annja hoped was a sign she understood—then moved her mouth slightly.

Was she saying something?

Annja bent closer until her ear rested less than an inch above the woman’s lips.

The woman tried again, her breath tickling Annja’s face.

“Krv...Grófka.”

Startled, Annja pulled back and stared down at the woman.

That was one Slovakian phrase she did understand. Krv Grófka—Blood Countess.

“What did you say?” Annja asked, not believing she’d heard correctly, but whatever it was would have to wait; the woman had slipped into unconsciousness.

If she didn’t have hypothermia yet, she would soon unless Annja did something about it. Bracing the woman with her knees, Annja stripped off her coat, then gently lifted the woman and wrapped the jacket around her torso.

Now all she had to do was climb out of here while carrying the injured woman.

Get a move on, she told herself. Time’s a’wasting.

It only took her a few seconds to figure out how she was going to manage the woman’s weight while climbing. Taking a few slings from her belt, she fashioned a rudimentary harness and secured it around the woman’s body. Keeping her cradled against her chest, like a mother carrying a child, Annja clipped the rigging into her harness.

If she slipped, at least they’d fall together.

Try not to slip.

Right. Gotcha.

Holding the woman against her chest with one arm, Annja got to her feet and began carefully moving back to the spot where she’d anchored the rope.

Csilla must have been watching what she was doing, for the light moved with Annja, lighting the way. It was full dark now so Annja was glad for its presence; it kept her from feeling alone. Once she reached the anchor, she swiftly unclipped it and stowed it back on her belt. With the rope now free she immediately began climbing upward.

Annja pulled on the rope while powering herself up the slope with her legs. Step by step, she made her way up the slope to where Csilla waited.

At the top, Csilla stepped forward and took the injured woman out of Annja’s arms, allowing Annja to clamber over the edge and back on solid ground. Once there she unclipped from the rope, left it and the rest of her gear right where it fell and hurried over to her SUV, Csilla close at her heels. Between them they lay the injured woman across the backseat, and then Csilla climbed in back with her while Annja got behind the wheel.

“Hang on!” Annja cried as she started the vehicle, threw it in gear and stomped on the accelerator, sending a stream of gravel flying out behind them as they shot down the road in the direction of Nové Mesto nad Váhom.

The village of Čachtice was closer, but it didn’t have a hospital. Nové Mesto might be a few miles farther, but it had three separate hospitals, one of which wasn’t all that far from her hotel. That was where Annja headed.

Knowing time was critical, Annja kept the accelerator mashed to the floor, rocketing down the narrow road as fast as she dared. She was betting they had two and a half, maybe three miles before they hit the town limits, and she let the SUV eat up the distance like a hungry beast, racing through the night.

A gentle melody broke into her train of thought, and when Annja glanced in the mirror, she found Csilla singing softly to the woman cradled in her arms. Annja didn’t understand a word, but the tune and the tone of the lyrics was soothing, making her think it might be some kind of Hungarian lullaby. Csilla must have sensed she was watching, for she looked up and caught Annja’s gaze with her own, then shrugged, as if to say, What else can I do?

Annja nodded back at her, understanding exactly how Csilla felt, and then focused on the road once more, demanding that the car go faster, as if by force of will alone they could beat the clock that was silently ticking down around them.

It wasn’t long before they hit the town limits. Nové Mesto was nearly ten times the size of Čachtice and had the corresponding increase in traffic as well, but Annja didn’t slow down as Csilla leaned over the front seat and said, “Siet!”

Annja didn’t need to be told twice. She leaned on the horn and began weaving in and out of traffic, shouting at people to get out of her way despite the obvious fact that they couldn’t hear her. It didn’t matter; the yelling helped release some of her stress, which, at the moment, was a welcome relief.

By the time they hit the town center they’d picked up a police escort. Annja barely heard the warbling of the siren—she was completely focused on keeping them alive long enough to reach the hospital. When the white multistory structure with a big red cross on the front appeared, she gave a shout of victory and roared into the parking lot, the police close behind.

Annja slammed the SUV into Park and jumped out, hands in the air, as the police car braked nearly on top of her. As soon as the officer managed to extricate himself from the car, he ran for the hospital doors. By then Annja had the door to the SUV open and was taking the still form of the injured woman from Csilla’s arms. As she turned toward the hospital doors they burst open from the inside and the cop returned, this time with a doctor, an orderly and a rolling stretcher.

The doctor said something in his native tongue and she shook her head. “I don’t speak Hungarian.”

“What happened?” he asked, switching to English as he helped her lay the injured woman on the stretcher.

“I don’t know. We found her halfway down a ridge by the side of the road a few miles north of Čachtice.”

The doctor glanced at the cop, then bent over the patient. “Was she coherent when you found her?”

Annja remembered the comment she thought she’d heard. Blood Countess.

“No,” she answered, brushing off the memory as a figment of her imagination. “She looked at me and seemed to understand what I was saying, but that’s all.”

The doctor nodded to show he’d heard her, but his attention was mainly on his patient. He began giving instructions to the orderly as they wheeled the stretcher toward the door. They were met by a pair of nurses and the little group quickly disappeared inside. To Annja’s surprise, Csilla followed them.

As she watched them go, someone beside her said, “You should get that looked at.”

Annja turned to find the police officer pointing at her leg. Looking down, she was surprised to find a nasty scrape across her right calf leaking blood into the top of her boot. She hadn’t even been aware she’d cut herself, the adrenaline rush masking any pain she might have been feeling.

“Lovely,” she said as the pain finally hit. It wasn’t a serious injury, but it stung like a son of a gun. She glanced toward her SUV, then back at the police officer. He was a young guy, in his midtwenties or so.

“Don’t worry, miss. I’ll keep my eye on it while you get that taken care of,” he said, standing a bit straighter under her scrutiny.

She gave him a smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it,” she said, and then limped into the hospital after the others.

5

“Why don’t you tell me your side of the story?”

Annja was sitting in an interview room at the police station with a fair-haired detective named Alexej Tamás. He was in his midthirties, and might have been attractive if he didn’t have a permanent scowl plastered on his face. He’d found her at the hospital after she’d had the cut on her leg cleaned and bandaged, no doubt summoned by the officer outside. Tamás had asked her to accompany him to the station to give a statement, and she couldn’t think of a good reason not to.

Now she was starting to question that decision.

Annja had been in more police stations than she liked to admit, had given more statements than she cared to recall, but still bristled at the insinuation that she was telling a “story.” She might bend the truth occasionally, especially in situations that involved the sword, but this time around she was telling the whole story, and the detective’s pessimism annoyed her. Still, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt for the time being. Getting upset would only make her appear suspicious, and Detective Tamás already seemed predisposed to find the worst in people.

Better to be as cooperative as possible, Annja decided.

Smiling, she said, “Of course, Detective. I’d be happy to.”

She told him about filming at Csejte Castle earlier that afternoon, being flagged down by the woman named Csilla and then climbing to help the other woman.

Tamás let her talk, making occasional notes on the legal pad in front of him, but didn’t interrupt. Annja tried to read what he was writing, having gotten pretty good at reading upside down over the past few years, but the detective was writing in his native language, which might as well have been Egyptian hieroglyphics.

Then again, she probably could have translated the hieroglyphs.

Several long moments later she sat back and waited for Tamás’s response. When it came, it was on a tangent she wasn’t expecting.

“What were you filming at Csejte?”

She frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked what you were filming at Csejte.”

“Oh, just some filler for a piece we’re doing on Elizabeth Báthory.”

What else would someone be filming at Csejte?

“We? There are more of you?”

“Ah, no. I’m here alone. I meant ‘we’ in the sense of the television series I work for.”

“Ah, I see. What television series would that be?”

“It’s called Chasing History’s Monsters. We look at historical figures and try to...”

He waved her explanation aside. “So you claim you didn’t know the other woman—” he checked his notes “—Csilla Polgár, until she flagged you down.”

This time Annja let her irritation show, but just a little. “Yes. I said that.”

“So you didn’t meet her here in town? She wasn’t helping you with your television shoot?”

Meet her? Helping me?

“No, of course not. I told you, I’m here on my own.”

“Is there someone who can vouch for what you’re doing here? A producer, perhaps?”

Annja spoke without thinking. “Of course my producer can vouch for me, but what is this about? Why are you...?”

“His name?”

Annja stared at the detective. What was going on here? Did they honestly think she had anything to do with what happened to that poor woman?

She couldn’t think of any other reason for the detective’s questions.

“Doug. Doug Morrell,” she told him flatly, showing her displeasure without actually saying anything.

Tamás was undeterred. He rose, stepped over to the door and opened it, speaking to someone in the hall outside. After a moment he came back to the table and took his seat. In his hand was Annja’s cell phone, which she’d been asked to leave with the desk clerk when she’d arrived at the station.

“Let’s call Mr. Doug, yes?”

She almost said, Look, I’m not calling anyone until you tell me what on earth is...

Annja smiled. “Of course.”

She picked up the phone, started to dial Doug’s office in New York and then stopped. It was close to 9:00 p.m. here in Nové Mesto. The six-hour time difference would make it 3:00 a.m. in New York. Even Doug wasn’t that much of a workaholic.

One thing was for certain. He wasn’t going to like being woken up at this hour.

Couldn’t be helped.

Tamás was staring at her, so she stopped thinking and got to doing. She dialed Doug’s cell phone and waited.

One ring. Two. Three.

“Do you have any idea what time it is, Annja?” Doug asked.

Annja couldn’t tell if he was irritated or just half-asleep. With Doug, they were often the same.

“I know it’s early, Doug, sorry about...”

Tamás stretched out his hand, waiting for her to give him the phone.

“Annja? What’s going on? Why are you calling me at...”

“Got someone who needs to speak with you,” she said, and then handed the phone to Tamás.

“Mr. Morrell? My name is Detective Tamás, Slovak Police. I wondered if you would be willing to answer a few questions about Ms. Creed?”

Annja sat there and fumed as Tamás asked Doug to confirm just about everything she’d told him, castigating herself the whole time for opening her mouth without thinking about the implications. She hadn’t told Doug about the episode she was shooting; she’d intended on surprising him with it when she got back. If he told Tamás he didn’t have any idea what she was doing in Hungary, that would set the detective’s alarm bells ringing and he might want to keep her here for a lot longer than she intended.

Thankfully Doug had covered for her before. He must have answered the detective’s questions to the man’s satisfaction, because after several minutes Tamás handed the phone back to her.

“All I can say is that you’d better have a good explanation for being wherever the hell you are when I thought you were in Budapest.”

There was no mistaking his tone; this time he was ticked.

“I do, Doug. And I guarantee you’re going to like it. Let me finish up here and I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Harrumph.”

That was it—a grunt and then a dial tone. Sometimes Doug could be the worst kind of prima donna. Then again, she tended to be less than pleasant when woken up at 3:00 a.m.

She hung up the phone and slipped it back in her pocket, staring at Tamás the whole time, all but daring him to challenge her. She’d had enough of being treated like a criminal. Now she intended to get some answers.

“Satisfied?” she asked.

Tamás shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

“I would think you’d be interviewing the victim, not harassing the Good Samaritan who saved her life.”

The detective eyed her a moment and then sighed. “Trust me, if I could interview the injured woman, I would. Unfortunately, she passed away fifteen minutes ago, leaving you and Miss Polgár the last two people on earth to see her alive.”

Annja didn’t know what to say. She’d thought the woman was out of the woods when they’d gotten her to the hospital and turned her over to the medical staff.

Such a tragedy.

She wondered how Tamás had gotten word of the woman’s death, as he’d been in here with her for the past half hour and hadn’t taken any calls, but then she remembered his conversation with the guard outside the door when he’d retrieved her cell phone.

No wonder he’d wanted to verify her story. Annja and the woman who’d flagged her down were his only leads in what had suddenly become a murder investigation.

Annja looked up to find Tamás watching her, though this time with less hostility. She decided to risk a question.

“Have you been able to identify her?”

Tamás shook his head. “No, not yet. No one here recognizes her and there are no missing-persons reports that match her description, which probably means she isn’t a local. We’re searching for more information and processing her fingerprints now, but our access to the larger police databases is somewhat limited, so it will take a few days.”

Her curiosity getting the better of her, she risked another. “Do they have a cause of death?”

The detective shrugged. “We won’t have an official cause of death until the autopsy this afternoon, but I don’t think we’ll find anything surprising. She was thrown down a cliff and left to die in the cold.”

Annja frowned. “But what about the blood loss?” she asked, almost to herself.

Tamás’s softer expression suddenly sharpened. “Blood loss? What are you talking about?”

“Her skin was so pale, with a gray undertone to it,” Annja told him. “I took that to mean she’d lost a lot of blood.”

The detective relaxed. “Just a result of being exposed to the elements, I’m told. We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

The explanation didn’t make sense to Annja—she’d seen the effects of exposure before and was convinced this was something else entirely—but she wasn’t willing to raise Tamás’s ire by continuing to pursue the issue. When he moved the conversation to another line of questioning, she let him do so without protest.

“What do you know about Miss Polgár?”

“No more than I’ve already told you,” Annja said.

“To be clear, you’ve never spoken to her nor met her prior to tonight when she flagged you down to rescue the victim. Is that right?”

“Correct.”

“What makes you think she had nothing to do with the victim’s injuries?”

The question made Annja hesitate. “I’m sorry?”

“You said earlier you thought Miss Polgár had spotted the victim’s upraised hand while hiking down the road and flagged down the first passing vehicle for assistance, which happened to be you.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“So what made you believe Miss Polgár was traveling alone, instead of with the victim? Couldn’t she have easily pushed the other woman over the edge?”

Annja distinctly remembered wondering if the two women had been traveling together, but she didn’t mention that to the detective. There didn’t seem to be much point, given that the injured woman was found nude. If it had been an accident, the woman would have been dressed in her hiking clothes. Annja said as much to Tamás.

“Not if Polgár knocked her unconscious and then stripped her before pushing her over the edge,” the detective replied. “Polgár had several sets of clothing in her backpack, including another pair of hiking boots in a different size than those she was wearing.”

Annja thought about it for a moment and then shook her head. “I didn’t get that sense, Detective, sorry. She appeared genuinely concerned for the injured woman and was extremely helpful during the rescue.”

“What better way to throw the authorities off her trail than to assist in the rescue of the woman she attacked and left for dead, no?”

The cynicism inherent in that line of thought made Annja happy she didn’t have the detective’s job. Still, she just couldn’t see that young woman as the culprit.

“Thank you for your patience. We appreciate your help with this investigation. Will you be staying in Nové Mesto much longer?”

“I have at least another day of shooting at Csejte Castle, and then some archival research at the state museum in Bratislava, so I’ll be here for a few days yet.”

Tamás nodded. “Please be sure to leave your contact information with the desk sergeant so I can get in touch if any more questions arise.”

“Of course, Detective. I’m happy to help in any way I can.”

“I appreciate that, Ms. Creed. Good day.”

A uniformed officer escorted her down the hall, past another interview room where Polgár was being questioned by two plainclothes detectives. At the front desk a sergeant took down her cell phone number, the name and room number of her hotel, and asked her to keep them informed of when she intended to leave the country. Annja agreed to do so and five minutes later was standing on the steps of the police station, suddenly exhausted from her ordeal.

It had been a long day and night. It was time to get some sleep.

That, however, was easier said than done, as her rental car had been confiscated by the police as part of the murder investigation.

The rental car company was going to love this, she thought as she flagged down a cab for a ride back to her hotel.

6

Annja awoke the next morning with an uneasy feeling in her gut. The comments Detective Tamás had made during her interview lingered. She understood why he’d considered her and Csilla suspects—ninety percent of all violent crime was committed by someone known to the victim, and he’d thought she and Csilla knew each other or the woman they’d found. But once he’d learned the condition of the body and heard both of their statements, his attention should have shifted elsewhere. The idea that either of them had anything to do with the woman’s death was ridiculous. The fact that he might actually think she and Csilla had brought the victim in for medical treatment in order to deflect suspicion was, well, crazy.

He hadn’t seemed to be in a hurry to chase down the cause of death and that, too, set her nerves abuzz. She didn’t need to be a CSI or NCIS fanatic to know that the best chance of catching a killer was in the first forty-eight hours after the crime had been committed. Leaving the crime scene, and whatever evidence it might contain, to the mercy of time and the elements while he waited for word from the medical examiner was asking for trouble. He should have had a crew out there last night.

Maybe he did, she thought. She didn’t know what happened after her interview. Maybe they’re still out there combing the rocky slope.

Easy enough to check, wasn’t it?

She got up, made herself some coffee—wishing all the while it was hot chocolate instead—and picked up the phone. She needed to call Doug, and it was probably best if she got it over with now. Doug’s mood didn’t tend to improve with time.

The phone rang a couple of times, and then he picked it up.

“Doug Morrell.”

“It’s me,” she said.

“Me? Me, who? This wouldn’t be the infamous Annja Creed, would it? Wake-me-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-without-even-an-apology Annja Creed? That one?”

Annja sighed, though she made sure to do it away from the phone where he couldn’t hear. “I can explain, Doug.”

“I’m waiting,” he said.

Doug wasn’t much younger than she was, but he knew next to nothing about history, or the state of the world, for that matter, which had a tendency to drive her nuts. He didn’t care about the facts, he often said, but about the ratings. Always the ratings. He had no qualms about “enhancing” an episode with some creative special effects if he thought it would keep viewers from changing the channel. More than once Annja had been forced to threaten him with bodily harm—in a loving way, of course—if he mucked about with her carefully constructed on-screen performances. Over time they’d become friends, and Annja knew that, in the end, she could count on Doug.

She filled him in on what she was doing in Hungary and how she’d planned to surprise him with an episode on Elizabeth Báthory. Then she told him about getting caught up in a police investigation when she’d stopped to rescue the woman who’d been thrown over a cliff and...

“Wait, wait, wait!” he said, finally interrupting her stream of explanation. “Elizabeth who?”

Annja sighed again. “Báthory. Elizabeth Báthory, also known as the Blood Countess.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because she liked to bathe in the blood of virgins. Thought it would keep her from aging and give her immortality.”

There was sudden silence on the other end of the line.

“Doug?”

Nothing.

“Doug?”

An intake of breath, and then his voice came thundering down the phone line.

“You’re over there filming an episode about a woman who liked to bathe in the blood of virgins and you didn’t tell me about it first? Are you insane?”

Annja wasn’t sure what to say. Not that it mattered, since Doug wasn’t finished.

“Not just blood, but the blood of virgins. Probably beautiful ones, at that! For heaven’s sake, Annja, what were you thinking? We need to jump on this right away!”

“Ah, Doug, jump on what?”

“The reenactment, of course! We’ll have to get someone good to play this Liz Batha-whatever woman and surround the bathtub with all the virgins and...”

Annja couldn’t take it anymore. “The virgins were dead, Doug. How do you think she bathed in their blood?”

As usual, the facts didn’t bother him in the slightest. “Well, of course they were, at some point. But not right away. And we can use that. We can most definitely use that. When will you be back with the footage?”

“I’m not sure this is such a good idea, Doug. Remember last time you tried...”

“Ancient history, Annja. We can’t face today thinking about the mistakes of the past. If we’re going to back you on the episode we need to be thinking about the audience. Now answer the question—how long?”

Figuring she could deal with any of Doug’s so-called improvements to her episode once she was back in the States, Annja focused on getting the resources necessary to make it all work. “I need a few more days to get the right shots of Csejte Castle and then...”

“See-what?”

“Csejte Castle. The Báthory family estate here in Slovakia.”

“Right, right. I knew that.”

“So I should probably stick around for another three, maybe four days. I can get by on my own, no need to send anyone else, but it would help if the show kicked in some funding.”

At the mention of funding, Doug’s over-the-top enthusiasm was suddenly replaced with a miser’s attention to details. “Funding? For what?”

“I need to eat and sleep, Doug.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll wire you some money tonight. Where are you staying?”

She told him.

“Three days. That’s all you’ve got. After that I want you back here in New York with the footage so we can have the boys in the editing suite start putting it all together.”

Three days. That should be good enough.

“Thanks, Doug. Got to go.”

“Annja, I want...”

She hung up the phone before he could finish the sentence. The less she heard about what he wanted, the better. She could get back to the episode tomorrow; right now she needed to see what Detective Tamás was doing to solve the woman’s murder.

Putting the phone back on the nightstand, she took a quick shower before getting dressed and headed out the door.

Annja was halfway across the parking lot before she remembered that her SUV had been confiscated. She went back into the hotel, asked to use the lobby phone and spent the next half hour explaining what had happened to the rental car, finally cajoling the clerk on the other end of the phone into sending another vehicle to her hotel until the first one was released by the police. When the car finally showed up it was a beat-up-looking sedan that spouted small clouds of gray exhaust at regular intervals like a mechanical whale spitting water through its blowhole. Annja didn’t care; all she wanted was something to get her from one place to another.

She signed the paperwork, handed it to the clerk and settled behind the wheel. A crank of the key, a sputtering rasp of the engine until it caught and then she was wheeling the car around and dashing out of the hotel parking lot, retracing the route she’d driven so frantically last night.

Annja was fully expecting to come upon the police combing the cliff side, so she was surprised to make it almost all the way to Csejte Castle without coming upon the crime scene. Thinking that perhaps she’d gotten the distances mixed up in all the excitement of the rescue, she continued driving, only to find herself entering the village of Čachtice less than five minutes later. She hadn’t seen a single police car or found anyone standing watch by the side of the road.

What on earth was going on?

She glanced at her watch, noting that it was almost 10:00 a.m.

Could they have come and gone already?

She didn’t think that was possible. It should have taken them hours to search the surrounding area. Perhaps they’ve only done a cursory inspection and intend on coming back with a full crime scene unit?

Scowling, she pulled an abrupt U-turn. This time she drove slower, watching for the brightly colored climbing rope she’d left behind with the rest of her gear. It didn’t take that long to find; the rope was still anchored to the tree, and its orange color stood out starkly against the dull gray of the tree trunk.

Annja drove well past the scene, not wanting to disturb any evidence, and then she parked by the side of the road. Getting out of the car, she stood by the driver’s door for a moment, surveying the area.

There wasn’t a police officer in sight.

Shaking her head, Annja hurried along the side of the road until she reached the tree she’d used to anchor her climbing gear. She looked over the edge, toward the spot where she’d rescued the injured woman.

It took a moment, things looking a bit different in daylight, but eventually she spotted the rocks that had trapped the woman’s arm.

There wasn’t any evidence that anyone besides her and Csilla had been here.

For a moment she considered undoing the anchor, coiling her rope and taking it and the rest of her gear, but then her good sense reasserted itself. Touching anything at this point would be interfering with a crime scene, and that was just as much a felony here as it was back in the States. While the gear was expensive, it wasn’t that expensive, and it would be easy enough to replace. She had to believe the police would eventually take a look at the scene and they were bound to wonder how the heck she’d gotten down the slope without any gear. Best to leave it right where it was, she concluded.

Frustrated with how the morning was going, she headed back to Nové Mesto. Annja hoped she could see Detective Tamás and ask what was going on, but when she arrived back in town she found a small crowd gathered in front of the police station. She parked down the street and hurried back on foot to see what was going on.

As she drew closer, she discovered that a press conference had just gotten under way. Detective Tamás and a few others were standing on a small platform near the front door. A podium had been set up to his left, and an overweight man in a dark suit was standing behind it, speaking from a set of notes.

Four or five reporters, most likely from the local television affiliates, stood directly in front of the platform and held their microphones up. Behind the press were roughly twenty to thirty members of the general public.

Annja looked out over the small crowd, then stepped next to a young woman of about eighteen.

“Excuse me,” she said, “can you tell me what he’s saying?”

The girl glanced at her, then looked back at the speaker. “He’s talking about that woman they brought in last night.”

“I don’t speak Magyar. Could you translate for me?”

She nodded. “The old guy is Sándor, the—how do you say—police inspector?”

Annja guessed she meant police chief but didn’t bother to correct her.

“He’s saying the case is important and that he has his best detective, Alexej Tamás, on the case. He’s going to give the microphone to the detective, let him speak.”

Sándor stepped away from the podium and Tamás took his place. The detective looked as if he’d had a good night’s sleep, which irritated Annja.

He should’ve been up all night, combing that ridgeline for evidence, she thought sourly. She was starting to dislike Detective Tamás, and what he said next only served to irritate her further.

“The detective claims they are putting the proper resources into place to investigate this tragedy,” the girl said. “He says they’re still uncertain as to whether it was an accident, a crime or a suicide, but they hope to have more information in the next twenty-four hours.”

“Accident?” Annja muttered, feeling her fury rising. “What on earth is he talking about? There’s no way it could be either an accident or a suicide!”

The girl looked at her again, but this time her gaze lingered and Annja recognized the gleam of interest in her eyes.

“You know something, don’t you?” she asked.

Annja grimaced, realizing she’d said more than she’d intended, but perhaps she could turn this to her advantage.

“Keep translating and I’ll fill you in on what I know afterward.”

“Promise?”

“Scout’s honor,” she said, holding up three fingers. The fact that Annja had never even thought about being a Girl Scout was completely beside the point.

There wasn’t much more after that, however. Tamás spoke for another minute—mostly platitudes about doing all they could to get to the bottom of things—and then took a few questions from the press. They still hadn’t identified the woman and asked for the press’s help; photographs of the woman’s face were circulated through the crowd, and Annja took one for herself.

When the press conference wrapped up, she was more frustrated than when she’d arrived.

“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

Annja turned to find the girl staring at her, studying her features more closely this time.

“I don’t think so,” she told her, looking away.

But the girl would not be denied.

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “Yes, I have! You’re that woman from the TV show, the one that was just filming in Prague.”

Annja glanced around, afraid one of the journalists would overhear and take an interest in what was making the girl increasingly excited. She needed to get off the street.

“Not here,” she said, grabbing the girl’s hand and pulling her through the crowd. “Come on.”

Annja led the girl to a café a short distance down the street. They settled into a table in back. Annja ordered coffee for both of them; she really didn’t want any but knew the waitstaff would hover until they ordered.

When she turned back, she found the girl grinning at her, holding up her cell phone. A picture of Annja working with the film crew outside Faust House was displayed on the screen.

“You’re Annja Creed, from Chasing History’s Monsters,” the girl said triumphantly. “My friend is a huge fan, so we went to watch you filming your show in Prague.”

Annja couldn’t deny it now, not with her own picture staring back at her, so she went with the flow, hoping to learn something useful from the situation. The girl had helped her after all.

“You’re right. You’ve caught me. I’m Annja. Nice to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand.

“Brigitta,” the girl replied, shaking Annja’s hand. “My friend is going to flip when I tell her I had coffee with you.”

“Yes, well, about that...” Annja began. “Perhaps you can wait a few days before doing so?”

Brigitta was watching her closely. “You’re not here on vacation, are you? You’re working, and whatever you’re working on has to do with the woman from the press conference, doesn’t it? That’s why you know what happened!”

Brigitta was no slouch, Annja had to give her that.

“Yes, I’m working. And it might have to do with the woman they were just talking about. I’m not sure yet, though, and that’s why you can’t tell your friend about meeting me. If word gets out that I’m here, I’ll have a difficult time finding the information I need.”

The girl’s eyes had gotten wider as Annja spoke, and now she leaned forward.

“It’s the Blood Countess, isn’t it?” she asked quietly. “She’s come back, just as legend claimed.”

Annja was shocked. That was twice in less than twenty-four hours that she’d heard Báthory’s nickname floated about. Granted she was in Báthory country, but still...

“What legend is that?”

Brigitta laughed. “Right. Like the host of Chasing History’s Monsters doesn’t know the legend of the Blood Countess’s return?”

“Humor me,” Annja said with a smile.

“After she was tried and convicted of bathing in the blood of all those women, the king had her walled up inside her own bedroom suite as punishment for her crimes. You know about that, right?”

Báthory hadn’t gone to trial, was never convicted and was walled up inside her bedroom at the request of her own family, but that was beside the point, apparently. Annja just clenched her teeth and nodded, seeing no need to correct her companion.

“She lived for four years—four years, can you imagine that!—before they found her dead on her bedroom floor.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Annja said. “But that’s nothing new. Most people who know anything about Elizabeth Báthory’s history know that.”

“Yes, but what they don’t know is that Báthory wrote a message in blood on her bedroom wall before she died.”

Uh-huh, Annja thought. Aloud she said, “And that would be...?”

The girl’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll be back,” she said, in what was quite possibly the worst Austrian accent Annja had ever heard.

As Annja sat there, staring at her without expression, Brigitta burst into laughter. “I had you! I totally had you!”

Annja wasn’t amused. “Right. Well, it was good meeting you, but now I’ve...”

“Wait! Wait!” the girl said between giggles, reaching out and grabbing Annja’s arm to keep her from leaving. “I’m sorry. I was just joking around. I’ll tell you the real story. Honest.”

Grudgingly Annja let herself be persuaded. Something about the girl called to her, and she had learned to trust such instincts since possessing the sword. There was information to be learned here; she was certain of it.

“I wasn’t kidding. The countess did write on the wall of her bedroom before dying. She used candle wax to do it, though, not blood. They even found the candle in her hand.”

“I see.” Annja eyed her skeptically.

“No, seriously,” Brigitta protested. “The family tried to cover it up but word leaked out. Some say it was through the countess’s lover, though how anyone could love a woman like that, I don’t know.”

Growing tired of all the chitchat, Annja said, “Can you please get to the point?”

“Oh, right. Sorry. The countess wrote amikor vissza on the wall above her bed.”

“Which means?”

“When I return. How creepy is that? Maybe she’s come back. Maybe it was the countess that killed those girls after all.”

Annja was about to thank her for her time and get the heck out of there when the word Brigitta had used hit her like a shovel over the head.

Girls.

Plural.

Annja settled back into her seat and stared at the teenager sitting across from her.

“What girls?” she asked.

7

The phone rang seven times before it was answered. That wasn’t a good sign; it meant she’d considered not even taking his call. She only did that when she was annoyed with him, and her annoyance would make the news he’d called to deliver that much more dangerous. He was going to have to be careful.

When she finally answered the phone, all she said was, “Yes?”

“We may have a problem.”

“I pay you to handle the problems. Why are you bothering me?” she asked.

“This one’s a little different.”

“I’m listening.”

“Something went wrong with the latest disposal. The subject was recovered by two women and brought to the hospital in Nové Mesto. The police were notified.”

There was a pause and then, “And?”

“The subject was neutralized as per our usual containment plan. Arrangements have been made and the investigation will take its usual course.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“One of the women who recovered the subject is an American media personality. The host of a popular television show.”

“Who is she?”

He checked his notes. “Her name is Annja Creed. She’s the host of a program called Chasing History’s Monsters.”

There was a chuckle from the other end of the line. “How interesting. Was she alone with the...subject?”

“For a brief time, yes.”

There was another pause, a much longer one this time.

“Did they speak?”

He sighed quietly. “It’s hard to say. I don’t believe the subject was able to do so, but I could be wrong.”

Then he held his breath. This was the moment. If she told him to deal with it, he was all right. He would do as required and that would be that. But if she said she needed time to consider the issue or that she was sending someone else to handle the problem, then he would need to cut and run as swiftly as possible. The cleanup crew would have orders to eliminate any potential threat or loose end and, given what he knew, he would be priority number one for both.

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