Read Online House of Bathory by Linda Lafferty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Lafferty
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“I am expecting a patient.”
Morgan rose from her chair, following Betsy to the door. Betsy swung it open. A few dead leaves blew in circles on the porch, refugees from the earlier snowstorm.
Morgan frowned, making her way out into the unsettled weather.
“There is one more possibility,” said Betsy, called after her. She wasn’t sure what prompted her to continue this conversation, especially as Morgan was a few steps into the wind. “There is a phenomenon called shared dreaming. A sort of astral traveling, an out-of-body experience. Carl Jung himself believed in synchronous dreaming as part of the collective unconscious.”
Morgan nodded, deep in thought. She jingled the car keys in her hand.
“Roger will be in contact soon,” she said. “Good-bye, Dr. Path.” Then Morgan turned and walked back to her car, patches of snow-packed ice crunching under her boots.
Chapter 10
S OMEWHERE IN S LOVAKIA
D ECEMBER 6, 2010
D r. Grace Path wanted to scream, but the hood covered her mouth and she knew screaming would do no good anyway. No one could possibly hear her. She was in a car, hurtling over a road she couldn’t see.
She had struggled, but it was useless. And now, little by little, her mind began to work again, began to think, began to analyze.
The smooth ride made her certain they were on a motorway. It was a luxury car, she could tell by the purring motor, the leather seats. A heater blasted her with warm air, carrying the scent of a new, expensive automobile.
She could see the flash of headlights occasionally as they filtered through the thin material of the cloth that had been thrown over her head.
The two men in the front seat spoke a language she did not understand. It was not Slovak.
The hood smelled of an old-fashioned scent. What was it? Clean smelling, freshly laundered. Had they used this same hood to kidnap other people?
What could they want with her? She wasn’t rich. There was no chance of ransom.
Lavender. The scent on the hood was lavender. And, even now, even here, her mind noted that “lavender” was the root of “laundry”—the flower was used in the Middle Ages to camouflage odors, protecting precious cloth from mildew. Fresh-washed linen left in the sun, strewn with the flower. From the French. Late fourteenth century.
She felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Damn it! What could they possibly want with her?
As the hours passed, they ignored her, except to ask if she wanted water. They spoke in heavily accented English.
“Yes, water please,” Grace finally said. She hated to give them the satisfaction, but she was thirsty.
She heard the crackle of a plastic water bottle being opened, and the sloshing of water into some sort of glass.
The car’s overhead light snapped on just for a minute and she felt the presence of a man stretching back toward her from the front seat. Pale translucent fingers pulled the hood a little way off her face, shoving a thin tube toward her mouth.
“Is straw,” said a young man’s voice. “Hood stays over eyes, lady. Drink.”
The fingers pushing the straw into her mouth were ghastly pale—white bones against the black cloth of the hood. They smelled metallic, inhuman. She shuddered, trying to pull her head away from the fingers.
“You not like water? It comes from the springs deep under castle. Healthy, mountain mineral cures all sickness—”
The driver cursed angrily in the unintelligible language. The man giving her the water said nothing for a few seconds.
“Here. Drink, lady. Drink.”
Chapter 11
D OWNTOWN M ANHATTAN
R UBIN M USEUM
D ECEMBER 6, 2010
W et snow sluiced under the tires of the taxi pulling up to the curb at 150 West SeventeenthStreet.
Betsy paid the Pakistani cabbie, tipping far too much. She chalked it up to her excitement, she was actually about to see Jung’s Red Book —she wanted the entire world to share her excitement, the joy of anticipation.
Forget the analyzing, Path, she told herself . You are
Morgan rose from her chair, following Betsy to the door. Betsy swung it open. A few dead leaves blew in circles on the porch, refugees from the earlier snowstorm.
Morgan frowned, making her way out into the unsettled weather.
“There is one more possibility,” said Betsy, called after her. She wasn’t sure what prompted her to continue this conversation, especially as Morgan was a few steps into the wind. “There is a phenomenon called shared dreaming. A sort of astral traveling, an out-of-body experience. Carl Jung himself believed in synchronous dreaming as part of the collective unconscious.”
Morgan nodded, deep in thought. She jingled the car keys in her hand.
“Roger will be in contact soon,” she said. “Good-bye, Dr. Path.” Then Morgan turned and walked back to her car, patches of snow-packed ice crunching under her boots.
Chapter 10
S OMEWHERE IN S LOVAKIA
D ECEMBER 6, 2010
D r. Grace Path wanted to scream, but the hood covered her mouth and she knew screaming would do no good anyway. No one could possibly hear her. She was in a car, hurtling over a road she couldn’t see.
She had struggled, but it was useless. And now, little by little, her mind began to work again, began to think, began to analyze.
The smooth ride made her certain they were on a motorway. It was a luxury car, she could tell by the purring motor, the leather seats. A heater blasted her with warm air, carrying the scent of a new, expensive automobile.
She could see the flash of headlights occasionally as they filtered through the thin material of the cloth that had been thrown over her head.
The two men in the front seat spoke a language she did not understand. It was not Slovak.
The hood smelled of an old-fashioned scent. What was it? Clean smelling, freshly laundered. Had they used this same hood to kidnap other people?
What could they want with her? She wasn’t rich. There was no chance of ransom.
Lavender. The scent on the hood was lavender. And, even now, even here, her mind noted that “lavender” was the root of “laundry”—the flower was used in the Middle Ages to camouflage odors, protecting precious cloth from mildew. Fresh-washed linen left in the sun, strewn with the flower. From the French. Late fourteenth century.
She felt the sting of tears in her eyes. Damn it! What could they possibly want with her?
As the hours passed, they ignored her, except to ask if she wanted water. They spoke in heavily accented English.
“Yes, water please,” Grace finally said. She hated to give them the satisfaction, but she was thirsty.
She heard the crackle of a plastic water bottle being opened, and the sloshing of water into some sort of glass.
The car’s overhead light snapped on just for a minute and she felt the presence of a man stretching back toward her from the front seat. Pale translucent fingers pulled the hood a little way off her face, shoving a thin tube toward her mouth.
“Is straw,” said a young man’s voice. “Hood stays over eyes, lady. Drink.”
The fingers pushing the straw into her mouth were ghastly pale—white bones against the black cloth of the hood. They smelled metallic, inhuman. She shuddered, trying to pull her head away from the fingers.
“You not like water? It comes from the springs deep under castle. Healthy, mountain mineral cures all sickness—”
The driver cursed angrily in the unintelligible language. The man giving her the water said nothing for a few seconds.
“Here. Drink, lady. Drink.”
Chapter 11
D OWNTOWN M ANHATTAN
R UBIN M USEUM
D ECEMBER 6, 2010
W et snow sluiced under the tires of the taxi pulling up to the curb at 150 West SeventeenthStreet.
Betsy paid the Pakistani cabbie, tipping far too much. She chalked it up to her excitement, she was actually about to see Jung’s Red Book —she wanted the entire world to share her excitement, the joy of anticipation.
Forget the analyzing, Path, she told herself . You are
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