Page 72 of Mongrel
I cometo with the taste of Bowie’s blood in my mouth. I swallow, confused but aware something’s gone terribly wrong. The more blood slides down my throat, the more I remember. Our plan failed. Báthory on the battlements. The arrow in my thigh.
Horror dawns as I blink open my eyes. Wolf form in front of strangers. Farkas would banish me for this.
Lapping at Bowie’s wrist helps the pain in my thigh to subside, but it means another terrible secret has fallen into Báthory’s hands because we’re not alone. I lift my gaze from the polished wood floor with its gruesome brownish-red stains to discover we’re in a cage—Bowie and I in one, Janos in another not far away.
It’s a macabre sitting room, part parlor, part dungeon. The sheer opulence overwhelms my senses. The room smells of blood, fear, and Báthory herself. Sweat and stench are baked into every crevice.
An array of terrifying tools hangs from hooks along the walls: blades, pinchers, wrenches, whips, scissors, pins, and needles. All of them are well used if the scent coming from the wall is any indication.
I must whimper because Bowie attempts to soothe me by stroking my fur.
“By god, the wolf wakes.” A woman’s voice, coming from somewhere behind me. Assessing. Intrigued.
Glancing around, I see that beyond the cage’s bars lies a collection of lounges and chairs plush with gold velvet cushions. Oversized patterned drapes in bronze and brown hang from ceiling to floor, framing small windows. I get the impression of height as the view is of sky and clouds. The walls are painted in intricate, colorful detail: lines, dots, stars, swirls—too much for the eye to take in, too busy.
Janos stands in his cage, scowling, his eyes darting from Bowie and me to just beyond us and back. The urge to turn my head and behold our captor myself swells, but I ignore it. Best she thinks me weak and injured, though Bowie’s blood has already worked its magic.
Whatever poison races through my veins is thwarted. I test my leg. The arrow has been removed. The site of the injury doesn’t hurt. Still, I remain limp, half sprawled in Bowie’s lap as he takes his wrist from my mouth to his lips and licks the wound closed.
Well, that’s that. She’s seen all our tricks. Nothing good can come of this.
I hear a snapping of fingers, then Báthory’s voice, curt and demanding. “Ficzko, fetch the witch Marjarova. Tell her of the wolfman and bid her come.”
“Yes, Countess.” Odd shuffling footsteps scamper off. A door slams shut.
Báthory continues, her voice aimed in our direction, “You will teach me everything. Your powers will become my powers.”
“We will teach you nothing for free,” says Janos. “Our secrets have a price. One you may not want to pay.”
Her answering cackle makes my ears twitch. “You’re in no position to bargain, demon. I own you both and your wolfman. If you fancy living, you’ll do as I say.”
Janos huffs. “You won’t kill us. Our power holds you captive as surely as your bars hold us.”
His stubborn arguing only serves to pull another round of amused chortles from Báthory. “Believe that if it helps you sleep at night, but rest assured. I have ways of making people talk. And you have much to lose.”
A shiver begins in my spine and trembles to my extremities.
“Look at me, wolf,” she demands.
My fear keeps me frozen.
“He’s not well,” says Bowie. “There’s only so much my blood can do. He needs a doctor.”
“He looks fine to me,” she says, her tone clipped, annoyed. “Look at me, or I’ll take your eyes so you can look at nothing at all.”
Cringing, I lift my snout from Bowie’s thigh. His hands on me lend me strength. My body is fine, but my mind is racing. This wasn’t supposed to happen. How will we save Cecily now?
I slowly turn my head, feigning a struggle, and my eyes land on the devil herself.
Báthory glowers, her irises nearly as black as her pupils, skin powdered ghost white. Her dark hair is styled into an evil halo around her oval face, adding inches of height to her average frame. Stained red lips form a bitter smile, the kind of grin you’d expect from a sly fox while she tricks her prey into a snare. The kind who enjoys watching the victim’s agonizing struggle before the inevitable death.
Wicked intelligence gleams in her gaze, a frightening blend of cruelty and ambition. She stalks forward, hands on her hips, the black satin fabric of her gown swishing over the macabre stained floor.
She’s a viper hiding in plain sight. Her unthinkable acts are reflected in her predatory gaze, her obvious enjoyment of my fear, of Janos’s protests, and of Bowie’s protective nature.
We are no match for such malevolence, but I must remind myself that her villainy is contained in a package of flesh, bones, and blood, same as any man or woman. And people can be killed. She can’t be allowed to continue her reign of terror. No matter the cost, the world must be rid of such a monster.
“Feeling better?” she asks without a hint of earnest concern.
