The Uncovering

The electronic lock released the door latch with a loud click. Eric smirked and returned the rigged key card to the breast pocket of his close-fitting, black jacket. The state-of-the-art security system should have formed an insurmountable obstacle; fortunately, the manufacturer had failed to secure its own corporate network adequately.

A short glance at his mobile convinced Eric that the silent alarm had not been triggered. All-clear. He pushed the heavy door open a crack and slipped through. For a moment, he paused on the other side and listened intently. Apart from the pounding of blood in his ears, everything remained quiet.

The cone of light from his flashlight danced over the dark gray marble when he crossed the old mansion's foyer. At its back, he opened another door, revealing a flight of stairs that led down to the cellar. Meticulously, he closed the door behind him, switched on the lights, and waited until his eyes had adapted to the sudden brightness before unhurriedly descending the narrow steps. At the foot of the stairs, he paused to get his bearings. To his right, a passage opened to the small room that housed the security system's server rack. A well-appointed wine cellar was located to the left, and straight ahead, at the end of a short corridor, a massive steel door beckoned him.

"First things first!" he admonished himself and turned to the server rack. Its primitive lock did not put up any serious resistance and a few seconds later he had plugged in a USB drive and pulled out the keyboard tray. His gloved fingers flew over the keys when he entered a string of commands into the system's console that disabled all connected alarms. In due course, the program he had just uploaded would delete his back door into the system and purge all traces of his nocturnal visit. 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 compared to the original plans he had gained access to. An entire network segment had been added. Another query provided him with location data for the new sensors. Since he had only a text console available Eric strained his excellent spatial ability to interpret the data.

He whistled softly through his teeth. The vault door at the corridor's end might not protect the only treasury to be found here. There existed another, rather generously sized basement room that, interestingly, was missing from any official plan of the house. Judging from many years of experience with his clientele, such hidden 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 than to bother the authorities with their theft.

One thing was weird, though. Why had the sensors, which according to their device IDs also comprised cameras and microphones, been placed inside the cache?

Eric frowned. He recalled what few facts his research in preparation of this visit had brought to light about his involuntary to-be benefactor, Prof. Dr. Reinhard Hartmann. Eric's latest victim 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 publicity of any kind. This morning, Hartmann 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. Although those were difficult to unload, they constituted highly profitable booty for someone with the right connections. Still, they would not justify the surveillance equipment he had stumbled upon. On the other hand, notable individuals who had come to wealth by dubious means often were prone to certain forms of paranoia ...

Clearly, there was no point to speculate further. He tried to visualize the coordinates of the sensors until he was positive where 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. 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 pulled at the wine rack to find that a meter-wide section could effortlessly be slid forward and swung aside. In the masonry revealed behind it, the outlines of a narrow rectangle could be discerned. Eric pressed against it and 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 replaced by trepidation. Normally, he was not discomfited easily, but in his considered opinion this night had brought too many surprises already. Eric hated surprises. In his line of work, 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 master key just as easily as had the others. At eye level, there was a narrow observation window that allowed Hartmann to view his treasures without having to open the door. The treasure chamber would have to wait, however. True to his resolution not to rush ahead, Eric first turned to the metal cabinet that occupied the narrow vestibule's right sidewall.

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 big-bore guns, 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 katana.

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 preposterous to Eric. Yet he could not picture Hartmann as a trigger-happy mobster either. In his stratum of society, there was little need to break the law in "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)

Abstractedly, Eric closed the weapon locker. It was time to risk a look into the compartment beyond the steel door. With a vague sense of unease, he peered through the observation window. At first, Eric believed he was confronted with the laboratory of some modern-day Dr Frankenstein, but as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light and he was able to pick out further details, he realized his mistake. What he really faced was for all practical purposes the modern, clinical-looking equivalent 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 "patient" suggested that the treatment would be carried out irrespective of any attempt to offer 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; the technical equipment arranged on the tabletop looked as though it might actually belong in a lab. In the semi-darkness, a solid steel cage could be discerned at the room's rear end, and the left wall was graced by a metal lattice from which numerous chains hung. More dangled from the surprisingly high ceiling where an electric hoist was installed.

Eric tore himself away from the sight 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. His gaze was drawn to the cage at the room's far 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 concerning Hartmann again. Apparently, the man 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 principles: no accomplices, no witnesses!

Yet, it was already too late. He could not just close the door of the secret compartment behind him and act as if nothing had happened. His conscience forced him to continue. 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. 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 extreme, but nevertheless consensual SM game was dashed. He had enough experience with such practices to know that one must never 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 strenuous reverse prayer position had not been secure enough for Hartmann. She had also been forced to clench her hands into tight fists so they fit into small spheres made of the same steel as her cuffs. Even if freed from her strict arm bondage, she would be unable to reach for or manipulate anything.

More metal bands were clasped around her ankles and, using a sturdy lock, directly connected to a loop welded to the steel floor of the cage. From a second loop at its other end, a taut chain led to the front ring of her steel 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 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 dug deep into cheeks apparently distended by an over-sized gag and furrowed the rubber enclosing 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. Never one to pass up an opportunity to increase her helplessness, Hartmann had woven a long chain into the braid, then likewise fastened it to the loop holding her ankles, 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. Blind as she was, she must have mistaken him for her tormentor, of course.

"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 in evidence. 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 the 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 locks which chained the woman down. When his attempts to cajole her into leaving her prison failed to produce results, he resorted to pulling with increasing force 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 nearly a minute during which she reluctantly wiggled forward inch by inch on her knees before she had left the cramped space behind. Once outside, she toppled onto 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. This time, the woman cooperated and turned her head willingly into the positions he indicated with the gentle pressure of his hands, obviously having no reservations regarding the removal of the latex helmet. Her gag offered resistance, however, 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 an 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... Damned!" he vented his anger. A scratch appeared on his knuckles where the end of the wire had torn the skin. On the plus side, a wide gap yawned in the neck area of the hood now that Eric could squeeze his fingers in. He slowly peeled the semi-rigid mask from the woman's head and finally 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 sufficient control over her voice so he could understand her parched whisper.

"Who are you?"

The penetrating gaze of her green eyes was strangely 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 closely resembled his ideal of a noblewoman 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 her almost hypnotic gaze from eyes, which seemed oddly old in her youthful face. He could hardly fathom what she had been through but it was probably enough to make anyone gain life experience far beyond their years. 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 reached out 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 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 complied with his request and Eric tackled the lock that joined her manacles and connected them to the 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 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 high up between her shoulder blades, each movement had to be an ordeal. She might even have 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, he spotted a faint 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 cut through them somehow to set me free."

Eric stared at her in horror. More than by the enormity of what Hartmann had done to her, he was startled by the sober tone in which she discussed her plight. On the other hand, Lisbeth had probably had quite some time to get used to the idea of being permanently denied the use of her hands. Since Hartmann had obviously not intended to let her go alive, maybe this had indeed not 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 prodigious 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 counter-question took Eric by surprise. Actually, he'd simply uttered his platitude to show his empathy. He shrugged.

"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 mistaken, he's not deranged! Definitely dangerous, undoubtedly perverse, but not deranged. On the contrary, he even tried to cure my 'affliction'." Lisbeth snorted and made a derogatory gesture towards the laboratory equipment, then whispered in a dangerously low voice. "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.

"Getting back to your question, as is often the case, the simplest explanation gets overlooked: someone's imprisoned to punish them or protect the general public from them. Usually, both apply."

Her feline eyes sparkled sardonically. She parted her lips in a malicious smile and revealed two fangs. Eric's breath caught. Taking him by surprise, she used her elbow to deliver a vicious uppercut to his chin. He dazedly tipped backward 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 waiting for your return, but now would be the 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. Then he felt nothing at all anymore.

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 that she'd been deprived of for so long.

Lisbeth rose in a single, swift and smooth movement. Raising her arms, she 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. 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 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. By then, her superficial wounds had healed.

A little later, Lisbeth had freed her other hand as well. 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 until she had paid back Hartmann in the same coin.

For that, some preparations needed to be made. Hartmann was a formidable enemy and one not to be underestimated. She had made this error concerning his father, only to regret it for many decades afterward. But then she had not known 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 navigate 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 her blood trickle into Eric's half-open mouth. She sat down cross-legged beside him, waiting for his transformation to complete. If the long years as Hartmann's captive had taught her anything at all, it was patience. She would allow herself ample time to exact her revenge. Reinhard Hartmann would know neither the time nor place of their next encounter - only that it was inevitable.