reports on all but the last of them, are beyond doubt being committed by a vampire. A creature who must have blood to survive.”
“Okay, I’ll grant your premise. What does that have to do with Dick Benson?”
After a sip of his hot coffee, Dr. Bouchey said, “Before I come to that, I must provide you with a bit of background, senhor Wilson. There was born in Hungary in the year 1560 a woman named Elizabeth Bathory.”
“We’re really going back for our background.”
“If you will bear with me. Elizabeth, a very pretty girl, grew up in the Carpathian mountain country, vampire country,” continued the old man, his eyes burning brightly in their wrinkle-rimmed sockets. “She became a countess by marrying one Count Ferencz Nadasdy. After his death, she had the run of Castle Csejthe, which had been her husband’s. It is fairly certain that by this time she was already a practicing vampire. Now, ruling the area, she gave full vent to her desires. Unspeakable things were done, for she lived only for blood. And thus they came to call her the Blood Countess. She is supposed to have been finally found out, and for her punishment she was bricked up within her own chambers in the castle.” He stroked his beard. “I do not believe that is what really happened. I have unearthed evidence to indicate that Elizabeth Bathory substituted a servant girl in her place . . . that she escaped. I am certain that the Blood Countess is still alive.”
“I’ve got a couple of great-aunts who are pretty tough old birds, but I don’t think I’d be afraid of a four-hundred-year-old wench.”
Bouchey shook his head. “She has never aged, senhor Wilson,” he said. “The blood keeps them young in appearance and they live, though actually it is a living death, on and on through decades and through centuries.”
Remembering his coffee, Cole drank some of it. “What you’re leading up to, professor, is that this countess is flapping around Mostarda.”
He wiped more dust from his sleeve. “Yes, I have seen her.”
“At work?”
“What is more, your friend has seen her, too.”
Cole straightened up in his chair. “He told you that?”
“I told him,” said Dr. Bouchey. “I have learned, since his disappearance, that senhor Benson was visiting the castle known as Pedra Negra. It was there he—”
“Whoa, now. You’re suggesting that Elizabeth Bentin and your countess are one and the same?”
“For the past two days I have been digging into the records of this area,” said the old man. “I have established definite links between the people who have owned the castle for generations and the heirs of the Bathory estates in Europe.”
“As I understand it, Miss Bentin is one of the people Richard stood up when he vanished. So I don’t see—”
“His car, as you must know, was found abandoned only a few miles from the castle. There is nothing else in that direction save the ruined temple. And I doubt a man would be going there alone late at night.”
“In the vicinity of the castle isn’t the castle,” Cole pointed out. “Seems to me the fact that the car never got there proves Richard didn’t, either.”
“We have only the girl’s word that he never got there, senhor Wilson,” reminded the professor. “He may have met her at the castle and then driven elsewhere. Or she may have met him on the road before he reached it. There are many explanations. But the important point is . . . this girl is a vampire. And I fear our missing friend has been her latest victim.” He turned his gaze on Cole’s face. “Have you met the girl yet?”
“No, but I’m going to remedy that situation at once.”
CHAPTER XV
A Secret Meeting
The man who called himself Bulcão climbed down the metal ladder into the stone room. His heavy boots clanged on the rusty rungs.
The room was thick with the smell of the oil burning in the hurricane lamp that sat on a rough-hewn table in the room’s center. The lamp made a flickering
“Okay, I’ll grant your premise. What does that have to do with Dick Benson?”
After a sip of his hot coffee, Dr. Bouchey said, “Before I come to that, I must provide you with a bit of background, senhor Wilson. There was born in Hungary in the year 1560 a woman named Elizabeth Bathory.”
“We’re really going back for our background.”
“If you will bear with me. Elizabeth, a very pretty girl, grew up in the Carpathian mountain country, vampire country,” continued the old man, his eyes burning brightly in their wrinkle-rimmed sockets. “She became a countess by marrying one Count Ferencz Nadasdy. After his death, she had the run of Castle Csejthe, which had been her husband’s. It is fairly certain that by this time she was already a practicing vampire. Now, ruling the area, she gave full vent to her desires. Unspeakable things were done, for she lived only for blood. And thus they came to call her the Blood Countess. She is supposed to have been finally found out, and for her punishment she was bricked up within her own chambers in the castle.” He stroked his beard. “I do not believe that is what really happened. I have unearthed evidence to indicate that Elizabeth Bathory substituted a servant girl in her place . . . that she escaped. I am certain that the Blood Countess is still alive.”
“I’ve got a couple of great-aunts who are pretty tough old birds, but I don’t think I’d be afraid of a four-hundred-year-old wench.”
Bouchey shook his head. “She has never aged, senhor Wilson,” he said. “The blood keeps them young in appearance and they live, though actually it is a living death, on and on through decades and through centuries.”
Remembering his coffee, Cole drank some of it. “What you’re leading up to, professor, is that this countess is flapping around Mostarda.”
He wiped more dust from his sleeve. “Yes, I have seen her.”
“At work?”
“What is more, your friend has seen her, too.”
Cole straightened up in his chair. “He told you that?”
“I told him,” said Dr. Bouchey. “I have learned, since his disappearance, that senhor Benson was visiting the castle known as Pedra Negra. It was there he—”
“Whoa, now. You’re suggesting that Elizabeth Bentin and your countess are one and the same?”
“For the past two days I have been digging into the records of this area,” said the old man. “I have established definite links between the people who have owned the castle for generations and the heirs of the Bathory estates in Europe.”
“As I understand it, Miss Bentin is one of the people Richard stood up when he vanished. So I don’t see—”
“His car, as you must know, was found abandoned only a few miles from the castle. There is nothing else in that direction save the ruined temple. And I doubt a man would be going there alone late at night.”
“In the vicinity of the castle isn’t the castle,” Cole pointed out. “Seems to me the fact that the car never got there proves Richard didn’t, either.”
“We have only the girl’s word that he never got there, senhor Wilson,” reminded the professor. “He may have met her at the castle and then driven elsewhere. Or she may have met him on the road before he reached it. There are many explanations. But the important point is . . . this girl is a vampire. And I fear our missing friend has been her latest victim.” He turned his gaze on Cole’s face. “Have you met the girl yet?”
“No, but I’m going to remedy that situation at once.”
CHAPTER XV
A Secret Meeting
The man who called himself Bulcão climbed down the metal ladder into the stone room. His heavy boots clanged on the rusty rungs.
The room was thick with the smell of the oil burning in the hurricane lamp that sat on a rough-hewn table in the room’s center. The lamp made a flickering
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