Page 84 of Mongrel
The vampiress says to Erzsébet, “You, my dear, have caused me quite a lot of trouble. Where’s Beauregard?”
In an effort of visible iron will, Báthory straightens. “Who are you?”
“You’ll soon find out,” says the vampiress. “We’re about to become closely acquainted, assuming, that is, you haven’t harmed my Bowie.”
I growl low and deep, baring my teeth. Bowie is mine.
Both women spin to face me. Erzsébet sneers.
The vampiress only grins. “Ivaz told me of you,” she says. “The mongrel.”
I flinch. I haven’t missed that name. Testing my back and finding it mostly stable, I rise to a sit. “It’s Andras, and I’ve heard of you too. Bettina.”
Bettina’s brows, plucked to perfection, arch with amusement. She bows as a man might. “The pleasure is mine, indeed.”
There’s no pleasure here.
Erzsébet fingers a dagger of her own, partially hidden at her side. Funny she thinks she stands a chance against these creatures. Her minutes are numbered.
I wonder what’s keeping Bowie just as another shadowy trail comes barreling down the hall toward us.
Janos materializes and bellows, “The bitch dies!”
He flings himself at the countess, only to be stopped by a dainty manicured hand wrapped neatly around his neck. Bettina lifts him so his feet dangle in the air. He grabs her wrists with both hands.
“No one touches the lady but me,” says Bettina. “Understood?”
Janos scowls, even as he nods. Bettina sets him down.
When he can speak again, he argues, “That woman’s no lady. She’s a killer. Of young innocent girls. A blade across her neck is the least of what she deserves.”
“Silence,” Bettina orders. “I’ll make that decision for myself. More guards are coming. Take care of them.” She points toward the hall.
Begrudgingly, Janos leaves to obey the command.
I rise to my feet. “The killer you just spared wouldn’t do the same for you.”
Bettina blinks. “How would you know,Andras?”
The ways she enunciates my name, with such deliberate venom, makes me wish I hadn’t corrected her. “She hides a knife in her right hand for which I’d assume you are the target.”
“Let her try.” Bettina’s laughter could peel paint off walls.
I’m not sure which of them I hate more, Bettina or Erzsébet, but the world would be better off without either of them.
Erzsébet tucks the knife into her bodice. She must know there’s no point in running, for she doesn’t attempt to flee. Her gaze darts between us. Wisely, she keeps her mouth shut.
“No one has answered my question.” Bettina stamps her booted foot. “Where is Beauregard?”
I don’t owe this woman anything. And I don’t know where Bowie is for certain, though my guess is the stables. She’ll get no information from me.
Erzsébet clears her throat. “I didn’t get their names, but if you mean the dark-haired, prissy one, he’s yet to be apprehended. Though what’s left of my guard”—she glances over the bodies at our feet without any real emotion—“ifthere are any left of my guard, still search for him.”
“You’d better pray to whichever god you believe in that he’s not been injured. Beauregard is my youngest child and as such, holds a special place in my heart.”
“Your…child?” Erzsébet’s expression turns justifiably confused. Bettina barely looks old enough to be a mother, much less the mother of a grown man. In fact, she and Bowie appear to be much the same age.
“Mortals.” Bettina rolls her eyes, then glowers at Erzsébet. “You’ve much to learn, and I assure you, it will be no picnic.”
