Review
...gives us a vintage Chicago held in a bloody grip of terror beyond any age. I couldn't put it down. -- Wayne Allen Sallee, author of The Holy Terror, With Wounds Still Wet, and For You, the Living
Daughters of the Moon is a scary book. I don't give higher praise than that. -- Mort Castle, author of Writing Horror: The Handbook of the Horror Writers Association
Terrifying, sexy, and stunningly original. . . solid as a tombstone from the chilling opening scenes to the mind-blowing climax. -- Steve Beai, 1999 Stoker finalist, author of Widow's Walk.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Hungary 1610
She thought at first the distant pounding was in her head, the onset of another one of her spells. The Countess cursed and rose slowly to her feet, bracing herself for the wave of vertigo that always preceded the blackouts. The thumping stopped as suddenly as it had begun and she paused for a long moment, taking stock of herself before turning her attention once more to the girl.
Oh, I would not forget this, pretty one, the Countess said, bending down and pulling the ankle restraint tight. Not for one as spirited as you.
The girl, a sixteen-year-old peasant named Doricza Szalaiova from the neighboring town of Rednek had been employed at the castle for little more than a month. Her stay had been relatively uneventful until last night when she had been brought before the Countess and had naively declined her sexual advances, unaware that it was not a matter of choice. Large and powerfully built, she had already weathered a beating that would have left most women, or men, for that matter, dead. All her resistance, however, along with any hope she may have harbored of ever leaving Castle Cachtice alive, lay puddling in the thick blood pooling around her bare feet on the cold flagstones. Doricza opened one swollen eyelid and groaned, a final, barely audible plea of abject and total surrender.
What was that, miserable whore? the Countess asked rising up, just inches from Doricza's face. I could not hear you. Did you ask for another kiss?
Doricza could feel the Countess' warm breath on her face. She squeezed her eyes shut, in anticipation of another bite when the door at the top of the stairs exploded in a splintery shower of wood and mortar.
Count Gyorgy Thurzo, Lord Palatine of Hungary, emerged from the band of raiders that spilled down the dark stairwell into the torch-lit bowels of the castle. A crusader and veteran of countless bloody campaigns, he stared, wide-eyed and repulsed, at the human carnage strewn about the torture chamber.
So, it is true. . . . he said, finally finding his voice. Accursed woman, you have brought shame upon the nobility and disgrace to the family name. These atrocities will not go unpunished. The people demand justice.
Do not speak to me of the family name, cousin, the Countess scowled. You know it means nothing without my money.
Count Thurzo could scarcely believe his ears. The woman's arrogance was forever a source of amazement. You shall have to answer for this, Erzsebet, he said, as if talking to a child. To the people of Hungary, and ultimately to God. I answer to a higher power than your God! the Countess spat, reaching into the folds of her gown. And as for the people. . . . She whirled and brought the knife around in a deadly arc across Doricza's jugular vein, barely able to contain her glee as the blood poured and splashed the tangle of soldiers struggling to pull her away.
The Blood Countess of Europe was tried in absentia on January 7, 1611, a mere eight days after her arrest. Fearing intervention from the Catholic King Matthias II, Count Thurzo moved quickly. He staged the trial in Bytca, his own village, before the Hungarian Parliament could reconvene and lay claim to the vast Nadasdy-Bathory land holdings.
Twenty handpicked jurists listened as thirteen witnesses spun grisly tales of cannibalism, black magic, and vampirism before returning with the predetermined verdict. Citing the esteemed war record of her deceased husband, the Black Knight, Ferenc Nadsady, Count Thurzo sentenced Erzsebet Bathory to lifelong imprisonment inside the walls of her own castle.
The Countess languished for three long years entombed in the north tower of Castle Cachtice before slipping from this world and crossing over into the waiting arms of the Dark Master on August 21, 1614.
The peasants danced in the streets upon learning of her passing, but that night they sealed their windows and doors with garlic and wolfbane, refusing to believe that something so evil could ever truly die.
