Masks and Shadows Page 6

  “The bodies had been disfigured, Your Highness. As if they’d been ripped apart and . . .”

  “And?” the Prince prompted. His face was pale and stern.

  “. . . And sucked dry,” the lieutenant finished weakly.

  Charlotte closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. She did not care to hear any more music tonight, after all.

  Chapter Six

  “I know what it was that killed them.” György leaned across the house officers’ table in the servants’ hall, fixing Anna and Erzebet and two other listening maids in his gaze. “It was old Ordog.”

  “Or-what?” Anna asked.

  “Ordog?” Erzebet snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m not. It all makes sense. This demon comes in a thunderstorm, tears his victims into twenty pieces”—he ticked off the points on his fingers—“and at the end”—he lowered his voice to a thrilling whisper—“he drinks all their blood!”

  Anna grabbed hold of the bench beneath her to keep herself still.

  “No one believes in demons anymore,” Erzebet said.

  “No one? My grandfather says—”

  “Yes, yes, my grandmother told me stories by the fire, too, all about her cousins and her uncles and all the horrors they had seen, but none of those stories were true.” Erzebet patted Anna’s shoulder without taking her eyes off the footman. “We’re not little children anymore, to be frightened by hearth tales.”

  I’m not a child, Anna thought bleakly. But I am frightened.

  The howling of the storm outside sounded even in this inner room. If there had been windows, would she have glimpsed faces peering in from the darkness? Mouths with long, yellow teeth that dripped blood?

  “You’re frightening Anna,” Erzebet said. “Look, she’s as white as a ghost!”

  “I am not,” Anna said. But her voice cracked as she spoke. Humiliating tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back. “What does an Ordog look like?”

  “Nothing,” Erzebet said quickly. “Because he doesn’t exist!”

  György ignored her. “Great and dark, with flaming eyes. You’ll know he’s coming after you when you smell the stink of swamp mud in the air. Then you’ll hear hoofbeats following close behind you, though you’ll see no one when you turn to look.”

  “But . . .” Anna took a deep breath. “How can you protect yourself?”

  “Against old Ordog?” György gave a shout of laughter.

  “György,” Erzebet said, through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, all right.” He sighed. “You don’t need to worry about anything, little Anna. This palace is strong, and we’re under the Prince’s protection here. No monsters can get in. It’s only the villains, the traitors and the fugitives running around in thunderstorms at night that run the risk of meeting Ordog. Satisfied?” he added, glaring at Erzebet.

  “Nearly. Anna, what did your mistress say about all this?”

  “My mistress?” Anna blinked. “What would she have to do with any of it?”

  “She was sitting with the Prince when the soldiers came, wasn’t she? I heard there was a real commotion. Ladies fainting—”

  “Oh, not the Baroness. She wouldn’t do that.” Anna paused. “But perhaps . . . perhaps her sister might.”

  “That von Höllner woman? I could well believe it.” Erzebet rolled her eyes. “But didn’t the Baroness tell you anything?”

  “Only that the evening had ended badly. She hardly ever gossips, though.”

  “Oh well. We’ll find out soon enough what really happened. Try not to worry—you know, it was probably only wolves.”

  “Wolves?” Anna repeated. Her voice rose up to a squeak. “Wolves?”

  The other maids burst into giggles.

  Erzebet sighed. “Anna . . .”

  György smirked. “Wolves?” he mimicked, falsetto.

  The other maids nearly exploded with mirth.

  Red-faced, Anna pushed herself up from the table and hurried away, ignoring the sound of Erzebet calling her name.

  “Ha!” Anton crowed, as his ball sank smoothly into the table’s pocket. “My advantage at last, you dog! Get me a drink.”

  “Get yourself one.” Friedrich leaned over the table, pretending to study the position of the balls. The din of the other officers’ voices filled the smoky room. Behind him, one man’s voice rose above the rest, laying a bet on what had killed the two actors.

  “Ten gulden it was bandits!”

  “Bandits?” Anton looked up. “What the hell are you thinking, Lautzner? Bandits don’t drain their victims of blood!”

  “Then what do you think it was?” Lautzner retorted. He looked around for support from his friends. “A wampyr? Old Ordog?”

  “A ghost?” one of his friends supplied, waving his beer stein. He snorted with laughter at his own wit and raised the stein for a hearty swig.

  “It wasn’t a ghost,” Friedrich muttered.

  “What was that?” Lautzner’s friend lowered his stein, frowning.

  “Nothing.”

  “You have a problem with what I said, von Höllner?”

  “No,” Friedrich said, frowning back. “I just said, it wasn’t a ghost.” He attempted a careless shrug. “All right?”

  Anton stepped up beside him, laying down his cue stick. “Of course it wasn’t. We aren’t peasants here, to believe in that nonsense, are we?” He stared down Lautzner’s friend. “Are we?”

  “Never said we were,” the man muttered. “If that’s what he meant . . .”

  Anton smiled and stepped back. “It was probably just a pair of hungry wolves. Perfectly straightforward.”

  “Wolves? In the summer months?” Lautzner shook his head. “That’s a mad idea. They only attack men when they’re starving and desperate. This time of year they’ve got hares . . . mice . . . sheep . . .” He grinned. “And anyway, who ever heard of a wolf who drank blood?”

  Friedrich swiveled back to the table as the argument developed. He could feel his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

  It wasn’t a ghost.

  Black robes formed again in his mind, settling silently into place. Men playing at silly dress-up games, he would have said, and laughed, had anyone described the scene to him. But in the guttering candlelight, it hadn’t been amusing. And some of those hoods hadn’t surrounded faces; he’d been certain of that. Only black, empty voids had shown beneath—voids a man could be sucked into, screaming, as he lost his sanity. And some of those foot-covering robes hadn’t bothered to touch the ground . . .

  No. He lashed out with his cue stick, wildly off-target, and sent balls spinning across the table. He’d been drunk. End of story.

  But he’d received their letter scant hours before this attack. Could it really be coincidence? Or was it sheer, bloody-minded Fate come home to crush him for all the stupid decisions he’d made in the past, like—oh, yes, so especially like—following a new friend down that slippery trapdoor passageway in Vienna, all those months ago . . .

  God. What if tonight had been aimed at him? They would have known he’d find out, known that he’d be frightened. What if it was a warning? A threat of what would happen if he didn’t follow their damned orders?

  “Not likely, my lad.”

  It took Friedrich a paralyzed moment to realize that Anton was talking about his last move. Anton gazed at the scattered balls on the table and shook his head, smirking.

  “You’re never going to win against me playing that way. I’m afraid you’re going to lose our wager tonight, von Höllner.”

  “Just trying to throw you off your guard.” Friedrich wiped a hand across his forehead and tried to grin back.

  “A feeble attempt.” Anton tossed down another stein of beer and picked up his cue stick. “I’m going to really enjoy my winnings this time.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  For once, though, Friedrich couldn’t make himself enjoy the thrill of the wager. Thirty gulden from Prince Nikolaus’s purse, passing th
rough Friedrich, straight back to Anton Esterházy, the Prince’s cousin . . . What did it matter, in the larger scale of things? Not much, compared to the threat of gory murder.

  “I think that letter’s still throwing you off,” Anton said, as he aimed his cue stick. He raised his voice to carry through the room. “Von Höllner got a love letter from Vienna today, fellows . . .”

  Hoots of derision and laughter filled the air. Friedrich sighed.

  “Esterházy . . .”

  “Made him go as white as chalk, it did.” Anton swept another two balls into a pocket with one tap of the cue stick, then looked up and grinned. “I think he’s got a secret family tucked away in the big city, eh, Friedrich? Was the little woman writing to tell you she’d had another set of twins?”

  “Come on, now . . .” Friedrich began.

  “Good for you, von Höllner!” Lautzner roared. He slammed another beer stein into Friedrich’s hand and forcibly poured it down Friedrich’s throat. “Tell us all about her! What’s she like in bed?”

  Ten minutes later, Friedrich’s head was spinning happily, and he was at the center of a boisterous circle, all trying out-do each other’s tales of conquests. He slammed down yet another beer stein and scooped up a new one, shouting to make himself heard above the others.

  “Just wait until I tell you—!”

  As the circle of faces turned to him expectantly, Friedrich’s throat closed up. Tucked into the handle of the new stein was a sealed note, addressed to him. He recognized the seal.

  “Well?” Anton demanded. “Well, damn it? What?”

  “Nothing,” Friedrich mumbled. “Never mind. I don’t remember.” He swallowed down bile. “I think . . . I have to go now.”

  “Bloody girlish Westerner.” Anton frowned. “Hell, you actually don’t look good. Shall I come with you and help?”

  “No,” Friedrich said. “No.” He slipped the note out of the cup handle and backed away. “I need . . . I think I’d better be alone.”

  He walked out of the room, weaving slightly, while catcalls followed after him.

  Anna whirled from one grand, high-ceilinged room to the next. In the daytime, the nobility walked these floors, and she’d never dare show her face where she hadn’t a specific task to complete, even if she’d had the time for aimless wandering. Now they were all asleep in the central wing of the palace, and she was free, although she’d pay dearly in exhaustion later.

  Her tears had slowed after the first few minutes. She still hated György—hated the other maids who’d laughed with him—hated . . .

  She chewed her bottom lip, fighting down the misery.

  More than any of the rest, she hated herself, for turning into a laughingstock just as she’d finally begun to make a few friends here.

  A song welled up in her chest, crying to be released, to soothe her. But even now, well after midnight, it wasn’t safe for her to sing in an open space. If one of the other servants heard, she’d never earn back any respect.

  She forced herself to keep walking, despite the throbbing headache that had begun at the back of her skull. Another half an hour and she’d be able to sleep, too tired to worry about what other people thought of her, what her nightmares might be, or even about the bloodsucking demons that lurked outside the castle walls.

  She turned down a narrow side corridor and then shrank back. A gust of cold wind swept drops of rain onto her arms and face. Who would have opened a window in this weather?

  She took a few hesitant steps into the corridor, wincing at the cold, damp air. Perhaps she ought to close the window herself. There were expensive-looking porcelain vases standing on pedestals nearby, being spattered by the rain.

  On her third step, she looked down and saw blood on the floorboards.

  Blood and an open window.

  A silent scream swallowed up the back of her throat. Dizziness enveloped her. She leapt sideways, reaching out to the inner wall for balance—and heard a man’s deep voice murmuring in the room on the other side. He spoke too quietly for her to make out any words but with a tone of compulsion that drew her closer despite herself, straining to hear more.

  A hissing, whooshing sound answered the man. And then the voice rose in anger—

  Soft footsteps sounded in the distance. Anna gasped and jerked back from the wall as if stung. The voices cut off. A listening silence replaced them.

  A cold wind blew at Anna’s back as she picked up her skirts and fled back to her own room and safety.

  A minute later, a small figure in plain, unfashionable English attire appeared at the end of the corridor. It was the man known to his traveling companions as Edmund Guernsey, the nervous little English tourist.

  Guernsey’s face was cold and set. His eyes darted back and forth as he walked down the corridor. When he thought he heard a whisper of sound, he paused and listened intently at the wall.

  But the voices had silenced before he’d arrived, and the rain had washed the bloodstains from the floor.

  Guernsey walked down the corridor, shook his head, and moved softly on, through the darkened byways of the palace.

  Friedrich shivered in the cold rain. His eyes were finally starting to adjust to the blackness after ten minutes of standing outside, and his head, unfortunately, was clearing rapidly. He’d much preferred intoxication.

  His chilly fingers twitched convulsively, flipping the note over and over again in his hand. It consisted of only one line, in a tidy black script: Meet me outside the opera house, followed by the usual mark. Whoever had written it, he’d been an arrogant enough bastard to take for granted that his order would be followed, without even bothering to give a time for the damned appointment. If Friedrich had to wait another hour or two before the devil showed up, the other officers would all see him standing like a fool as they tromped back to the barracks, across the grass. Of course, by then he would have already turned into a bloody icicle, so perhaps he wouldn’t even care.

  The hell with it. Friedrich turned to leave—

  —And froze as he heard the telltale crunch of heeled shoes against the shell-lined path in front of him.

  “Lieutenant Friedrich von Höllner.” A dark figure moved through the shadows, so voluminously greatcoated that he could have been either a fat man or a skeleton. “Brother Friedrich.”

  “Ah . . .” Friedrich crumpled the note in his clenched hand as the dark figure came to a halt five feet away. The rain was finally easing, but that was no help after all. A black, beaked carnival mask covered the whole of the man’s face, which was doubly shaded under the voluminous hat that hid his hair. The sight should have been grotesque—even ridiculous—but in the black stillness of the night, with even the rain disappearing into an eerie silence . . . it wasn’t. Instead, it brought back far too vivid memories of cloaks and darkness, memories Friedrich had been fighting all day.

  He swallowed hard as they rose up once more. “About that—that night—you know, I wasn’t thinking very clearly. Not at all.”

  “No?” The dark head cocked in polite curiosity.

  Panic crawled through the bottom of Friedrich’s stomach. “So what I mean to say is . . . is, I’m sorry to give you extra trouble, but—”

  “Oh, you haven’t given us any trouble, Brother Friedrich. Not at all. In fact, you’ve made our task much, much easier.”

  “Um.” Friedrich took a gasping breath. Don’t think about those singers, don’t even let him hear you thinking . . . “I just think—I think you’d better leave me out of your plans, though, really.” He smiled weakly and stepped back, slipping the crumpled note inside his coat. “I wouldn’t be any good at them anyway. I’m not the right sort.”

  “No? Then what sort are you, Brother Friedrich?” The black shape slipped closer. “Are you the sort who takes sacred oaths only to break them? Or are you the sort who sells his wife’s virtue for an easy fortune?”

  Friedrich gasped. “I didn’t—that was Sophie’s idea! She and the Prince—”

  “T
he sort who gambles away so much of his own family fortune that he cannot afford to turn down such an offer when it arrives?” The shape continued its inexorable advance. “The sort who gets drunk and gabbles all of Eszterháza’s most private secrets to a stranger? The sort whose home and income are entirely dependent on our silence, forever?”

  “Stop it!” Friedrich stumbled backward. “I am a von Höllner. I am—”

  “A sot and a fool and a sworn member of our fellowship, as your own signature attests.” The figure withdrew a sheet of paper from the folds of his greatcoat. “Did you never think to read what you were signing that night, Brother Friedrich? This letter gives away none of the secrets of our Brotherhood, yet it commits you to the downfall of the Empress and Emperor and the nobility itself, and it purposes you to the special destruction of Prince Nikolaus’s power.”

  “But—!” Only the vaguest, floating memories rose to his grasping memory—someone holding out a paper for him to sign as he’d swayed . . . He must have passed out only moments later, the heat and the drink and the shock bearing him down into darkness. His head had been spinning so badly by then, he couldn’t have read anything to save his life. Still . . . “That’s madness! Why would I ever want anything like that?”

  “The punishment for treason is execution, Brother Friedrich, after a prolonged torture session to ascertain the extent of your crimes. Do you really want to stake your life on your ability to persuade Prince Nikolaus and the Empress herself of your innocence? Against the evidence of your own signature?”

  Friedrich stared at the paper. If he leapt forward—if he could only wrestle it away—

  “This is not the original letter, of course.” The figure tossed the paper onto the ground, where the breeze caught it and carried it away. “It’s but a copy, to remind you of your obligations. The true, signed letter is in our archives, in Vienna. It will be mailed to the Empress within the week, unless I send word that you’ve agreed to stand by your oaths.”