Lights Camera Blood:

Author's note: This is Chapter 2 in the chain story Light, Camera, Blood. Be sure to read

the prologue by AlinaX

and

Chapter 1 by Tio_Narratore

, and look out for further chapters by pink_silk_glove, Erozetta and Omenainen.

*

Chapter 2: The Countess

"It's a ruin!"

Disappointment was plain in the young woman's voice. In the front seat, the taxi driver gave a shrug. She'd asked for a ride out here, so this was where he'd taken her. Čachtice was popular among the tourists, and this late in the year he'd been happy for the fare.

Despite its condition, or perhaps because of it, the castle was a dramatic sight to behold. Perched on a rocky hilltop, it dominated the landscape even in its diminished state. The autumn sun softened the lines of its walls and painted shadows that hinted at dark secrets.

Not that the place needed tricks of the light to create a sense of mystery. History was written in blood here, in death and shame and legend.

The taxi driver had told the story a thousand times. Tourists ate this stuff up, staring wide-eyed at the ruins and picturing Elizabeth Báthory, the Bloody Countess, and her coterie of servants. Orgies of lust and murder. The perfect combination for a daydream, or a nightmare. And on their way home they'd buy a fridge magnet to remind them of their adventure.

His present passenger seemed different, though. For a start, she had a small travel trolley with her, as if she was planning to spend the night. The name on the tag read

Mircalla Bartók

. She was also looking as if she expected to see someone waiting to meet her.

It was November. There was no-one here.

Even so, she opened the door and got out, peering around. Her coat seemed flimsy protection against the wind that crept around the hill like a thief. The taxi driver watched as she pulled it close about her, emphasising her narrow waist and the plump denim-clad arse.

"Hey!" he called out through the open window. "That's fifteen euros."

She turned around as if startled, as if she'd forgotten he was there. Then a smile appeared on her face. He'd sneaked glances at her in his mirror while he was driving, and thought it was a pretty face. The smile made him reconsider. It was more than pretty. It was beautiful, in a timeless, untouchable way.

It was framed by carefully arranged dark hair, brushed back in a wavy pattern so that it fell across her shoulders like a midnight waterfall. Below a wide forehead, pale grey eyes looked down along a dainty nose between smooth, pale cheeks. Her bright lips, showing a glimpse of even white teeth, were stretched into a wide smile that emphasised the clean line of her jaw above an elegant neck that disappeared into the collar of her coat.

The taxi driver realised he was staring, and quickly swallowed. "Fifteen? Uhm, fifteen euros?"

"Of course. I did not intend to forget to pay." The woman's accent -- Hungarian, the taxi driver suspected -- gave her English an exotic lilt. It seemed to both clash with her perfect appearance and amplify it. The taxi driver found himself staring again, hoping she'd speak some more as she took her phone from a pocket in her coat and withdrew a bank card from the case.

The transaction took only an instant to complete -- no tip, but the taxi driver didn't mind. When his passenger had leaned forward to press her card against his terminal, her coat had fallen open to reveal her low-cut sweater. He had a full three seconds to stare into her cleavage. A hint of her perfume still lingered in the car as he drove away.

Mircalla Bartók.

This was a memory he was going to cherish and nurture for a long time to come.

Left behind in the autumn sunlight, the woman called Mircalla looked up at the ruined castle again. The shiver that crept up her spine had nothing to do with the chill wind. Even before reading Adamir's script she'd heard the legends about this place.

Legends that were credible enough to bring down a king, even in Elizabeth's own lifetime.

Adamir was supposed to meet her here. Or someone was. She checked the email on her phone again, and frowned. The English wasn't entirely clear -- and her own English wasn't perfect -- but as far as she could tell she was supposed to come to Čachtice Castle this afternoon.

Well, if no-one was waiting for her here, perhaps they were already up in the castle. At the very least she'd have some shelter from the wind, to enjoy the November sun.

It was a steep climb, but she'd had photoshoots that were far more arduous, and at least she was in sneakers, not four-inch heels. At least no-one was shouting at her that she was walking wrong.

The broad path led her and her trolley to the top of the hill and the ruined white walls. This close, the castle felt both small and vast, like a great warrior struck down by age and infirmity, hunched over his memories of glory.

Mircalla shook herself to clear the thoughts from her mind. It was just a pile of rocks, a place where terrible things had happened four centuries ago. Time and the elements had cleansed it of its memories and sins.

"Hello?" Her voice sounded very small in the empty air. "Is there anyone here? Adamir?"

The wind's cold fingers brushed Mircalla's cheek. For a moment they seemed to whisper,

I'm here.

She jumped, looking round. The hairs on her face and neck were standing on end, and not just from the cold. She could have sworn she'd heard a voice on the wind, deep and sensual and undeniable.

"Hello?" she called again, hoping to hear a human voice reply. "Hello? Anyone?"

Again the wind caressed her with chill fingers, stroking her skin, her hair, the jeans covering her legs.

Come in, if you dare,

it seemed to say.

What will you risk to find your reward?

"Shut up." Mircalla felt foolish saying the words out loud, as if the wind could hear her. But it gave her a sense of being in control. "You're just my imagination."

The wind teased at her hair and stroked her cheek, mocking her with its silence.

"Fuck this!" She stepped forward boldly, striding towards the gap in the ancient stone walls. Her agent would have been horrified at how she was walking. There was nothing sensual in it, nothing to sell. Just a woman walking over a gravel path.

"Fuck this," she said again, quieter this time. This was supposed to be her big break. A step up from modelling for small-time local brands. A movie. An actual movie, on location, with a famous director. Scripts to learn, a chance to put all those acting classes to good use for once.

It wasn't going to be a blockbuster. She knew that. Mircalla Bartók wasn't going to be a household name all of a sudden. There was no Oscar or Palme d'Or in her immediate future.

But still. It was a break. An opportunity. She was tired of fat, unshaven men telling her to twist this way, pout that way, be a tigress, a falcon, or on one startling occasion even a flamingo.

She was tired of greasy-haired photographers in skinny jeans and baggy sweaters looking at her like a piece of meat or a movie prop, or an annoying element of their composition that they couldn't get right. She was tired of being an object. She wanted to be someone.

This movie was going to be the first step along the way. Arthouse style, an erotic horror. Mircalla wasn't under any illusions why she'd been cast. She'd done two hardcore shoots a few years ago, just to make ends meet. That experience was what set her apart from other actresses, who'd be squeamish about sucking cock -- at least while the cameras were rolling.

The thought was empowering. Here she was, ready to take a leap because she wasn't afraid to break taboos.

I'm going to make it! This time next year, everyone will know my name. And I'll do it on my terms, too. If I have to suck cock, at least it will be part of a movie, and not in some casting director's dingy office.

Standing there, on top of a bald hill, surrounded by the ruins of an ancient place, she was ready to conquer the world.

She'd have to wait for Adamir to show up, though. "Fucker." Disrespectful, that's what it was. She was supposed to be his leading lady, after all.

Well, she'd had plenty of practice waiting. And the sun was shining, and there was a spot by a ruined wall where the grass was soft and the wind seemed reluctant to venture. She took off her coat and rolled it up for a cushion.

She'd only met Adamir once. He'd been very intense, but no more than the people she was used to working with. Less creepy than she'd expected too, especially with his reputation. She'd been prepared to feel his hands all over her, or at the very least his eyes.

Instead, the casting had been almost clinical. A few questions, a few lines to read, some details to discuss. He'd spent most of the rest of the hour talking about Elizabeth Báthory. It was clear he'd done his background reading. Mircalla had prepared, of course -- anything that could give her an edge over the other women applying for the role -- but she was astonished by what he knew.

He'd given her the Countess's entire life story, condensed and rehearsed in a way that told her he spent a lot of time thinking about it. And talking, too.

Well, Mircalla wasn't going to complain about anything that kept her body free from unwanted hands. She hoped that the rest of the crew was as obsessed with Elizabeth as Adamir.

It was a pleasing thought, and she felt her lips curve into a smile just as her eyelids fell shut at the sunlight's insistence.

*

She knew instantly that she was in a dream. For a start, the castle around her was no longer a ruin. Tall walls rose proud and clean from the hilltop. Shutters with interlocking triangles of red and white hung by the windows, and banners with the same colours waved languidly in the autumn breeze overhead. The courtyard was carefully maintained, and through the open windows she glimpsed carved furniture and rich tapestries. Everything spoke of wealth and power.

It struck her as odd, even in her dream, that the place seemed deserted. She wandered the halls and corridors, climbed the stairs, wandered along the battlements, and saw no-one.

She paused by a tall window and looked out across the rolling countryside. Although it was light inside, outside the sky was midnight blue, with a crescent moon balanced on the horizon. The stars seemed impossibly bright and close, like white pinholes against the dark.

Below, the land was as still as the castle. Nothing moved. No lights shone from farms or villages, no headlights lit up the roads. The hills rolled away into the distance, black fields marked by blacker hedgerows and lighter tracks.

Even knowing this was unusual, Mircalla felt strangely detached and unconcerned. She turned away from the window, and froze.

Before her, perhaps five paces away, stood a woman. Mircalla might have thought she was looking at herself in a mirror if not for the stranger's clothes: richly embroidered silk and brocade, decorated with silver threads and pearls, in a style more than four centuries old.

Mircalla struggled to speak, to ask who she was, why the castle was empty, but no words came out. Giving up, she raised a hand to give a slight wave.

The other woman's hand mirrored the movement, then fell as Mircalla's hand also dropped.

Again Mircalla fought to make words appear on her tongue, determined this time not to give up. Just as she found her voice, though, the other woman spoke.

"Welcome home."

*

She woke with a start, feeling a chill spread across her. It was the wind, of course. With an army of clouds blowing in, it had found the courage to breach the walls. But for a moment, while the dream lingered, Mircalla thought that it was the woman's presence that made her blood run cold.

She rose, rubbing her hands and face. The castle was the same ruin as it had been before, although darker now, with the sun balancing on the horizon. Its light coloured the white walls red -- but not the warm, friendly red of the setting sun. The red of blood.

Her stomach growled, and she suppressed the sudden notion that it was the thought of blood that made her hungry.

I've watched too many of those horror movies,

she chided herself.

Spent too much time reading up on my character. I'm starting to see things.

The memory of her dream pushed its way into her mind again, but she ignored it. A few pills, that was what she needed. Some water from the bottle in her case, and a few of those pills her agent supplied her with.

One or the other must have worked, because a minute later she was feeling steadier. Deciding she'd better see whether Adamir had shown up at last, she followed the path out of the ruined courtyard to where the slope fell away.

"About fucking time."

A long black car was just arriving on the road before her. A limo, but an old one. A statement. "Look at me. I'm different."

Adamir's limo.

She made her way down the hill, her trolley grumbling along behind her while the wind teased at her hair. The car was waiting when she reached the bottom, and Adamir climbed out to greet her.

"Here she is, my Elizabeth!" He pressed both his hands to her cheeks and kissed her on the lips. Mircalla didn't pull away. She wasn't about to offend him now, and besides, it didn't seem to be sexual. Plus his breath smelled sweeter than most of the creeps who'd forced their attentions on her.

"Adamir," she said, once she'd let go of the trolley and pried his fingers from her face. "I was early, so I had a look at the castle."

"Yes, and I saw you come down! Like a vision! Not, of course, dressed like this," he stepped back and gestured at her sweater and jeans, disdain written across his face, "but in appropriate costume. The beautiful Countess descends to calm the unruly peasants. Bold, unafraid, sensual. The scene writes itself!"

Mircalla turned and followed his gaze up the hill to the ruins. The sun had vanished below the distant hills now, and the white walls and towers were a stark black against red clouds.

Blood red.

She tried to stop herself from shuddering, and failed.

"You are cold!" Every word that Adamir spoke was a proclamation. "Here, into the car. Anna! Anna, where are you? Take my Elizabeth's case. We go to the hotel."

Adamir's tall, pale assistant emerged from the car just as Mircalla climbed into the back seat. Anna was dressed in a grey uniform that hugged her chest, waist and hips, with a cap and large mirrored sunglasses to complete the picture.

The woman gave a smile and took the trolley from where it stood abandoned at an angle on the uneven gravel. Her red hair contrasted with her outfit.

Red.

As if Mircalla wasn't already unsettled enough by the woman.

Anna had an intensity about her that had taken Mircalla aback at their previous meeting. She hadn't said much, mostly just nodding at what Adamir said, but there was a look in her eyes that said the whole world was her prey.

The uniformed woman placed the trolley in the limo's boot, then moved to stand beside the director. Adamir was looking at the sky, the ruins, the crescent moon, holding his hands up as if to frame pictures.

"The light is good now, yes? Make a note of the time, Anna. Those trees, they have to be pruned -- or cut down. Talk to whoever does that in the village. They will not mind, not for Adamir! This movie will make their little castle famous!"

Mircalla watched him through the open door, fascinated. He had a feverish look in his eye, and a fleck of spit formed at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away absently, still firing off instructions at Anna, who listened, nodded gravely, and never once made a note of anything he said.

At last, with the sky nearly black, Adamir turned away from the castle and climbed into the car opposite Mircalla. Anna got into the driver's seat, and a moment later the engine came to life with a distant rumble and they set off.

Adamir the host was a man transformed. He poured two glasses of crémant from a bottle that had stood in a covered ice bucket and handed one to Mircalla. "Better than most champagnes," he told her, "but fools pay double for the name. Now my dear, tell me about your journey."

By the time they made it to the hotel, Mircalla's head was spinning. Fatigue from her journey, perhaps, or the bubbles in the wine. Perhaps even the warmth of the limo after the cold air of late afternoon on the hill.

The hotel that served as the film crew's basecamp was called the Danica. Once it had been a manor house, or perhaps a nobleman's hunting lodge, and it still retained an aura of rustic grandeur. A gatehouse led through a tall wall into a courtyard, beyond which stood the main building. Lanterns provided a warm glow and cast black beams into sharp contrast with white stucco and slate roof tiles.

The place was swarming with people. Anna drove the limo past the vans filling the carpark outside and took them under the gatehouse. People scattered before their approach, then returned to their business, unloading boxes and crates and stacking them everywhere.

The limo made a confident turn around the flowerbed in the centre of the courtyard that held a huge rosebush with white and red blooms. Anna brought the car to a halt before the wide, wooden doors and got out. She opened the door for Adamir, and Mircalla followed quickly after him. She couldn't tell from the look on Anna's face whether she'd hold the door open, or whether she'd slam it shut on Mircalla's legs.

Adamir was already striding inside. If he'd been wearing a cloak, Mircalla thought, he'd be flinging it over his shoulder. If he'd had a moustache, he'd be twirling it. The old house seemed like something from an American movie from the 1950s, with swashbuckling heroes and dastardly villains, and Adamir fit right in.

She was about to follow him inside when she became aware of Anna beside her, with the trolley. She'd taken off the sunglasses and cap, and her red hair spilled across the shoulders of her grey uniform jacket.

"Thank you," Mircalla said, forcing a smile and reaching for the trolley.

Instead of holding it out for her, Anna held her gaze for a long moment, then leaned forward. Mircalla felt the woman's breath hot on her cheek, could almost feel her lips brush against her earlobe, as she whispered, "He needs this."

"What?" Mircalla turned her head in surprise so that their cheeks touched. Her head took another spin. Anna didn't pull away, though, but instead brought her mouth closer to Mircalla's ear. "Do what he tells you. Be his Elizabeth. You will find it... rewarding."

Mircalla shivered as she felt the other woman's lips nibble at her ear, her tongue glide over her skin. The tongue felt unusually long. "I don't-- " she began, but Anna wasn't finished.

"Do this. Or..."

Mircalla waited, then, when the other woman only continued to lick her cheek, she asked, "Or what?"

As if she'd been waiting for just that question, Anna bit in Mircalla's earlobe -- a sudden, sharp bite. Mircalla gave a small shriek and pulled away, raising her hand to her ear and staring at the other woman in shock.

Anna smiled at her. "You're better off not knowing." Her voice was low and full of promise. "Just do it."

Before Mircalla could reply she'd turned away and grabbed a passing crew member by the arm. "Here," she said, thrusting the handle of the trolley at him, "take this to the Countess's room." Then, as if she was a footman in a pantomime, she gave Mircalla a mocking bow and gestured her towards the doors.

The pantomime continued inside. Everyone bowed their head as Mircalla passed, and at the reception desk the manager himself welcomed her with profuse greetings, wiping sweat from his bald head with a white handkerchief.