The cone of light from his flashlight danced over the dark gray marble when he unerringly crossed the old mansion's foyer, then turned left until he stood in front of another door. Behind it, a steep flight of stairs lead down to the cellar. Meticulously, he closed the door behind him, switched on the lights and waited patiently until his eyes had adapted to the sudden brightness, then unhurriedly walked down the narrow steps. At the foot of the stairs he paused to get his bearings. On the right hand side, a passage opened to the small room that housed the security system's server rack, with a generous wine cellar located to the left, and straight ahead, at the end of a short corridor, a massive steel door awaited him.
"One thing after another!" he admonished himself and turned to the server rack first. Its primitive lock did not put up any serious resistance and a few seconds later he pulled out the keyboard tray, then his gloved fingers flew over the keys when he entered a string of commands into the system's console, disabling all of the connected alarms. In due course, the program would delete his back door into the system and remove all traces of his nocturnal visit, but in the meantime he could look around at will.
When he routinely called up a list of all reporting points connected to the system, Eric was in for a surprise. The configuration had been substantially upgraded with respect to the original plans he had gained access to. An entire network segment had been added. Another query provided him with the location data for the new sensors but since he had only a text console available, Eric had to strain his excellent spatial ability to interpret the data.
He whistled softly through his teeth because, apparently, treasures were not to be found beyond the vault door at the corridor's end alone. It seemed there existed another, rather generously sized basement room that, interestingly, was missing from any official plan of the house. Judging from his many years of experience with his clientèle, such caches often held more lucrative booty than the official safes or vaults, to which inquisitive tax inspectors or other public servants could demand access at any time. In addition, his involuntary benefactors often preferred to tacitly accept the loss of assets stored in such places rather than bother the authorities with their theft.
One thing was strange, though. Why had the sensors, which according to the listed device IDs also included cameras and microphones, been placed inside the cache? Eric frowned. He recalled what few facts his research in the run-up to the break-in had brought to light about his current victim, Prof. Dr. Reinhard Hartmann. He was a middle aged physician and art dealer, fabulously wealthy, well-established and well-connected in the highest social circles for many years, yet he was always careful to avoid any publicity. This morning he had departed for Eastern Europe, which incidentally was the reason for Eric's unannounced visit to his castle-like home. What would such a man want to keep secret from the authorities?
Visions of stolen art treasures filled Eric's mind, for although they were difficult to unload, potentially they were very profitable as well for someone with the right set of connections; yet probably still nothing that would justify the surveillance equipment he had stumbled upon. On the other hand, notable individuals who had come to wealth by rather dubious means happened to be prone to certain forms of paranoia...
Further speculation clearly was not letting him make any headway. He envisioned the coordinates of the reporting points until he was positive where he had to look. The rear wall of the wine cellar was occupied by a head-high, apparently continuous shelf, but Eric knew better now. About three strides from its left-side end, he began to systematically examine the rows of dusty bottles of red wine, then while scanning the Burgundy vintages his efforts were rewarded. The layer of dust on a 1995 Corton seemed much less pronounced than that on adjacent bottles and using his flashlight, he discovered a nondescript, narrow slit in the wall behind it.
His hunting instinct was stirred. Without hesitation, Eric pulled out the rigged key card and inserted it in the slot. A subdued clicking sound proved he was on the right track. Experimentally, he shook the wine rack to find that a meter-wide section could effortlessly be pulled forward and swung aside. In the masonry revealed behind it, the outlines of a narrow rectangle could be discerned and when Eric pressed against it, the camouflaged door swung open silently, granting access to a small, apparently empty chamber only dimly lit from behind. The actual treasure had to be stored beyond the heavy steel door that was set into the rear wall facing the entrance. When Eric entered the chamber, the lights suddenly switched on. He flinched and instinctively took a step back, his shoulder colliding with the door frame before he could recover his composure. Cursing softly he rubbed his aching shoulder.
All of a sudden his elation was gone to be replaced by a certain uneasiness. Normally, he could not be discomfited so easily, but in his considered opinion this night had brought enough surprises already, and Eric hated surprises. In his field they usually indicated a lack of planning and thus rarely boded well.
He vowed to proceed more cautiously, and looked about thoroughly before he made the next step. The steel door that controlled entry to the next room appeared to be very sturdy, but fortunately was secured by another electronic lock that in all likelihood would succumb to his virtual master key just as easily as had the others so far. At eye level, there was a narrow observation slit covered by a panel that would allow Hartmann to visually inspect his treasures without having to open the door. The treasure chamber would have to wait, however, because true to his resolution not to rush ahead, Eric first turned to the flat metal cabinet that occupied the vestibule's narrow right side wall.
He opened the cabinet's door and unexpectedly found himself faced with an assortment of weapons that would put a SWAT team's arsenal to shame. In addition to guns of all calibers, it contained menacingly looking, automatic weapons whose possession was not covered by any firearms license he knew about, as well as a taser, several knives and even a Japanese looking, very sharp sword.
Eric was mystified. Either the good professor was one of those gun nuts who figured to survive World War III well-armed in his own private basement bunker or he spent his spare time as some sort of masked avenger like Batman. Both ideas seemed equally absurd to Eric. Yet he could not picture Hartmann as a trigger-happy mobster either; in those spheres of society one rather bent the law, if necessary, instead of breaking it, no doubt out of respect for "its majestic equality, forbidding the rich as well as the poor to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal bread." (Anatole France)
Thoughtfully, he closed the weapon locker. It was time to risk a look into the compartment beyond the steel door and so with a vague sense of unease he slid aside its cover and peered through the observation slit. At first, Eric believed he was confronted with the laboratory of some modern day follower of Dr Frankenstein, but as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light and he was able to pick out further details of the equipment distributed over the entire room, he realized his mistake. What he really faced, was for all practical purposes the modern, clinical-looking version of a torture chamber.
Eric let his eyes roam slowly around the spacious, white-tiled room. Some type of treatment chair, resembling those found in a dentist's surgery, took center stage. Steel brackets for fixing the "patients" suggested that any treatment could be carried out regardless of their resistance. Right next to it was a couch, also equipped with analogous restraints as well as metal leg-rests akin to those of a gynecological chair. Near the right wall stood a wide table with a stool in front of it, and on which some technical equipment was arranged looking as though it might actually belong in a lab. In the semi-darkness, a solid steel cage could be seen at the room's rear end, and the left wall was graced by a metal lattice from which numerous chains hung, as did others from the surprisingly high ceiling where an electric hoist was installed.
Eric tore himself away from the sight of the room beyond the heavy steel door and deliberated. Hartmann undoubtedly pursued an exotic hobby and the effort he had put into disguising his 'hobby room' suggested that this was far more than just the playroom of a closet sadomasochist.
What had he stumbled upon here? Did Hartmann use his torture chamber to practice 'enhanced interrogation techniques' on 'unlawful combatants' on behalf of the CIA?
A faint tinkle made Eric turn around and drew his gaze back to the cage at the room's other end. Inside, the play of dull reflections betrayed some movement.
"What the hell?" Eric swore quietly, but with feeling. It seemed that he had been wrong with respect to Hartmann again. Apparently, he was neither a modern day Victor Frankenstein nor a secret agent, but rather a Josef Fritzl or Marc Dutroux. Eric had already put his smart card into the door lock's reader when he realized what he was doing. He was about to violate one of his cast-iron rules: no accomplices, no witnesses!
On the other hand, it was too late, he was already stuck in the thick of it. He could not just close the door of the secret compartment behind him and pick up where he left off. His conscience forced him to continue, then the click of the door's lock put an end to his misgivings and without further hesitation, he pushed the heavy door open and stepped through. Once again the lights came on automatically, but this time Eric had expected it and proceeded unperturbed to the cage at the other end of the room. In the bright light of the ceiling spots the slender figure in its interior was clearly discernible.
Based on the proportions, it was obviously a woman, and she had been forced into a skin-tight, black latex suit that clung to every contour of her body. With her feet stuck in high-heeled boots and her head enclosed in a mask, not even the tiniest bit of skin was visible. She knelt bent double in the narrow metal prison, whose massive bars left her no room to change the uncomfortable position one iota. Nevertheless, her captor had deemed it necessary to secure her even further with chains.
Eric grasped the details of her cruel bondage only bit by bit, while at the same time his residual hope that he might be dealing with some indeed extreme, but nevertheless consensual SM game was dashed. He had enough experience with such practices to know that one must not leave a helpless person alone in a situation such as was presented before him, unless you recklessly accepted the risk of her death.
The woman's delicate wrists bore wide, softly gleaming steel manacles, these locked together behind her back and connected by a short chain to the massive collar around her neck, so that her arms were pulled high up between her shoulder blades. Yet that was not all, apparently she had been forced to clench her hands into tight fists so they would fit into small hollow spheres made of the same steel as her cuffs. Even if freed from her her strict arm bondage, she would be unable to reach for or manipulate anything, let alone operate the lock of her cage should she miraculously come into possession of the necessary key.
More metal bands were clasped around her slender ankles and, using a sturdy padlock, directly connected to a loop welded to the bottom steel floor of the cage. From a second loop at its other end a taut chain led to the front ring of her collar, forcing her head down onto her knees. However, all that paled in comparison to her head's imprisonment!
It was encased by a tight-fitting mask that made the woman's whole face disappear, including her eyes, under a layer of heavy, black rubber. Over her mouth and chin stretched the muzzle of a strict head harness, its web like straps digging deep into cheeks apparently distended by an oversized gag and adamantly constricting her head. Only her jet-black hair escaped the helmet; in the form of a thick braid it passed through an opening at the back of her head. That was not all of it though, because Hartmann had woven a long chain into the braid, then fastened it to the loop holding her ankles as well, so she was forced to tilt her head back, unable to turn it aside even one inch.
Instinctively, Eric squeezed his hand through the bars and gently touched the captive on the shoulder. She flinched violently, as if she had received an electric shock, and tried to escape his touch to the extent allowed by her chains, since of course, blind as she was, she had mistaken him for her tormentor.
"Don't be afraid, I'm here to help you," Eric tried to calm the woman, unfortunately without much success. Maybe she could not hear him properly under her mask? Or maybe she was completely traumatized by her involuntary stay in Hartmann's Hell Spa? He withdrew his hand and looked around for a way to open her cage and undo her fetters. Matching keys were nowhere to be found, and so presumably Hartmann had taken those with him.
With a sigh Eric pulled the tools of his trade out of his pocket. Although it had become increasingly rare that he had to rely on his skills as a lock picker, he had made it a principle to refine his technique through constant practice. After a brief appraisal of the locks he was confident that they – despite being of highest quality - would not withstand his skills for long.
A little later, the door at the front of the cage swung open and after another five minutes, he had picked the padlocks which held the woman in the cage. When his attempts to cajole her into leaving her prison failed to produce results, he resorted to pulling cautiously but insistently on the chain leash fixed to the front of her collar until she was compelled to abandon the dubious protection afforded by the bars of her prison. Again he wondered what Hartmann must have done to her so that she considered staying in the cage the lesser evil. It took almost a minute during which she reluctantly wiggled forward inch by inch on her knees before she had escaped the cramped space. Once outside, she immediately toppled onto to her side and slowly stretched out her legs, accompanied by clearly audible groans despite her gag and mask.
Eric knelt next to her and began to release the buckles of her head harness and this time, the woman cooperated and turned her head willingly into the positions he indicated with gentle pressure of his hands, obviously having no reservations regarding the removal of the latex helmet. Even so her gag put up resistance: steadfastly refusing to vacate its accustomed place in her mouth. Once all the straps were released, Eric pulled first cautiously, then with increasing force on her headgear, making no progress. At long last, he grabbed the gag's mouth shield with both hands and yanked at it until he finally managed through small tilting and twisting movements to wriggle the huge and obviously custom-formed rubber pear out of her mouth.
„Nnngahhh!"
The suppressed groaning with which the woman had accompanied his efforts gave way to a relieved sigh. Under the muzzle, a pair of blood-red lips was revealed, framed by the thick black rubber of the mask that continued to cover the rest of her face. To overcome the stiffness caused by the long, severe gagging, the woman gingerly moved her jaw up and down and ran her tongue over her dry lips.
In the meantime, Eric grappled with the helmet's fastening at the back of her head. A double row of eyelets allowed the mask to be laced up like a corset, only Hartmann had used stout wire instead of ordinary woven cord, then inextricably twisted its ends and additionally secured them with a ferrule. Fortunately, Eric's equipment included a side cutter so this obstacle did not prove insurmountable. Unfortunately, he did not take into account that the strict lacing kept the mask under considerable tension: as soon as he cut the wire, its ends whiplashed through the eyelets of the mask and slashed across the back of his hand.
"Ahh... Damn!" he vented his anger. A scratch appeared on his knuckles where the end of the wire had torn the skin, but now at least, a wide gap yawned in the neck area of the hood that Eric could squeeze his fingers in. He slowly peeled the semi-rigid mask from the woman's head and at last exposed her face, pale and marked with the deep indentations left behind by the harness. She sat up, blinked a few times in the bright light, then in one smooth, swift movement turned to Eric. It took a few tries before she regained enough control over her voice so he could understand her parched whisper.
"Who are you?"
The penetrating gaze of her green eyes contained something compelling and without volition Eric found himself answering truthfully.
"Eric Rennfeld."
"Has he sent you?"
Her special emphasis left no doubt in Eric's mind whom she meant.
"No, Hartmann is out of the country, he doesn't know I'm here."
"So you're not a friend of his? Then how come you knew I'm imprisoned here?"
"I had no idea. I was looking for his stash of art, when I found you."
"You're a thief," she stated without reproach, but mild astonishment.
"Yes," Eric admitted. "But do not be afraid, I will set you free."
She held his gaze for a moment longer, then sighed deeply and closed her eyes. A shiver ran through her as part of her pent up tension left her body. Eric awoke as if from a trance and took the opportunity to study the woman more closely.
Her face was of stern, classic beauty, and thanks to her flawless alabaster skin and finely chiseled facial features, she represented his ideal of a noble woman of eras past. Astonished, he noted that the marks left on her skin by the head harness had already faded.
With eyes shut, she looked very young and if they had met under ordinary circumstances Eric would have put her age at no more than 25 years. As it was, he was still under the impression of the almost hypnotic gaze from her eyes which seemed old beyond her years. He could hardly fathom what she had been through, but it was probably enough to make any one mature before their time. Still, the days, weeks, or even months in Hartmann's dungeon had not been able to touch her fascinating beauty.
Eric first realized that he had stretched out his hand and touched the woman's cheek when she snapped her eyes open and watched him warily. Of course, given her state of helplessness her extraordinary appeal to the opposite sex could instantaneously turn into a dangerous liability. Embarrassed, he nodded at his watch.
"We're wasting time. Please turn around so I can free your arms."
Provisionally reassured by his calm, nonthreatening manner she silently complied with his request and Eric tackled the lock that joined her manacles and connected them to chain running down from the back of her collar. While he worked, he began to satisfy his burning curiosity.
"Who are you?"
"Lisbeth Bathory."
"How long have you been here?"
There was a long pause. Eric considered repeating the question, when she huskily replied after all.
"That... I can't tell. It seems like an eternity."
Eric fell silent, grimly focusing his attention on the recalcitrant padlock until it finally succumbed with a click.
"It's done, in a moment you'll be free," he informed her of his success. Now all he had to do was extricate the padlock's massive shackle from the attachment loops on the cuffs and the collar chain's end link, then Lisbeth could lower her arms at long last. She did so with features contorted by pain, unsuccessfully trying to suppress a groan. After her wrists had been fastened who knows how many hours in the unnatural position high up between her shoulder blades, each movement had to be an ordeal and it was entirely possible that she had suffered permanent nerve damage.
Eric took hold of one of her nervelessly dangling arms and examined the steel sphere enclosing her fist, turning her wrist back and forth, but only with difficulty spotting a fine seam that ran around the sphere. Her voice broke his concentration.
"You're bleeding!" Lisbeth stared at his injured hand and nervously licked her lips. In fact, a few drops of blood were showing at his knuckles.
"It's just a scratch," he dismissed her concern. "I'd rather you told me how to get these balls open."
"You can't open them. The latches of all my fetters are located within their metal body and completely inaccessible. Once they were fitted, I was stuck in these bonds forever. You'd have to destroy them in order to set me free."
Eric stared at her in horror. Rather than by the enormity of what Hartmann had done to her, he was startled most by the sober tone in which she discussed her plight. On the other hand, Lisbeth had probably been compelled for quite some time to get used to the idea of being permanently denied the use of her hands and since Hartmann obviously had not intended to let her go while she was alive, maybe it had not really been the most urgent of her problems. At any rate, now that rescue was close, she seemed to recover from the physical and psychological trauma of her captivity at a reassuring rate.
"Don't worry. We'll find a solution once we're out of here," Eric assured her and squeezed her shoulder. "I'm so sorry for what's been done to you. What drives people to do such things?"
"Why they lock someone up in a cage?"
Her unexpected counter question took Eric by surprise. Actually, he'd simply intended his platitude to show his empathy. He shrugged helplessly.
"That too. Hartmann is a dangerous, deranged pervert. But he'll be held accountable for his crimes and get his just punishment, I'll make sure of that."
"You're wrong, he is not deranged! Definitely dangerous, undoubtedly perverse, but certainly not deranged. On the contrary, he even tried to cure my 'affliction'." Lisbeth snorted and made a derogatory gesture towards the laboratory equipment. "And I'll see to his punishment myself."
Her expression sent shivers down Eric's spine. He could not quite follow her words, but his concern that Lisbeth might have developed a Stockholm syndrome during her long captivity evaporated in an instant. He would not want to be in Hartmann's shoes when Lisbeth caught up with him and followed through with her threat. Before Eric had a chance to respond, she continued.
"But to get back to your question, as is frequently the case, the simplest explanation gets overlooked: someone's imprisoned to punish her or to protect the general public from her. Often both apply."
Her feline eyes sparkled sardonically, then she parted her lips in a malicious smile and revealed two fangs. Eric's breath caught. Taking him completely by surprise, she used her elbow to deliver a vicious uppercut to his chin so that he dazedly tipped backwards and the back of his head hit the ground hard. In one swift movement, she jumped onto him and pinned his weakly flailing arms with her lower legs. Her left forearm forced his head sideways and pressed his temple with irresistible force onto the cold tiles. From the corner of his eye he watched as Lisbeth bent down to him, then felt her lips on his neck. With tantalizing slowness she drove her tongue along his neck to the ear. Her voice was no more than a lascivious whisper.
"Thanks for your help, Eric Rennfeld. I don't know if there's a woman in your life that's waiting for your return, but now it's time to sing your 'Ch'ella mi creda' ..."
The next moment, he experienced a piercing pain when she sank her teeth deep into his throat. The last thing he felt was how she greedily drank his blood, and then he felt nothing at all any more.
Epilogue
After an eternity without real human blood it was incredibly hard, but eventually Lisbeth let go of Eric. She licked her lips, savoring the heady energy flowing through her body and mind she'd been deprived of for so long.
Lisbeth rose in a single, swift and smooth movement, then raising her arms, frowned at the steel balls imprisoning her hands. She positioned herself sideways next to the nearest wall, spread her legs, lowered her head and stayed like that for a few seconds with her eyes closed in deep concentration before, in a sudden outburst of controlled violence, she swung her right arm against the wall. Accompanied by a hellish din the metal shell encasing her fist hit the concrete wall of her dungeon, then again and again, she struck with superhuman power and precision.
The steel sphere proved no match for the sustained abuse; first, it got dents, then deformed and finally cracked open along the seam of its two halves before the internal latches failed for good and released Lisbeth's bruised fist. She could not suppress a groan when, for the first time in years, she opened her hand. It took a few minutes before she was able to flex her fingers as formerly and by then, her superficial wounds had healed also.
A little later, Lisbeth had freed her left hand as well, but for her collar and the wide steel bands around her wrists and ankles, encircling her limbs tightly without any play, she would have to find another solution. This could wait however; in fact, she toyed with the idea to keep wearing her slave bracelets and collar as a memento for as long as she had not payed back Hartmann in the same coin. Until then, some preparations needed to be made. Hartmann was a formidable enemy and one not to be underestimated. She had made this error with respect to his father, only to regret it for many decades thereafter. But then she did not know yet she was dealing with a grandson of van Helsing.
Lisbeth bent down to Eric again and noted with satisfaction that he was still breathing. Thanks to his knowledge and skills he could play an important role in her revenge plan. Since she had spent the last decades as a prisoner in this dungeon, she needed someone who could help her find her way in the outside world. The special rapport between a newly created vampire and his maker would leave Eric no choice but to comply with her demands.
Using her razor-sharp fingernails, she scratched her wrist above its metal manacle and let the resultant flow of blood trickle into Eric's half-open mouth, then sat down cross-legged beside him, waiting for his transformation to complete itself. If the long years as Hartmann's captive had taught her one thing at all, it was patience. She would allow herself ample time to exact her revenge; Reinhard Hartmann would know neither the when nor where of their next encounter - only that it was inevitable.