Hunter of the Dead (7 page)

“You’re going to drink her blood?”

“Oh, no,” Topan replied, his eyes shining in the moonlight, “In a century or so, when you’re at the height of your power, that energy, that essence that you sensed in dear Papa here’s blood? You’ll be able to tap into it directly.”

Topan’s hand tightened on Mama’s scalp. Mama began to roar, such as she could, behind her gag. Topan laughed, and though it seemed like nothing was happening, Topan’s skin began to grow robust, his eyes began to glimmer, and he began to bear the look of satisfaction. Mama, conversely, began to lose her sheen, the laugh lines under her eyes deepening into sharp wrinkles, her hair turning gray before the young girl’s very eyes.

It was as though Topan was sucking the very life from her.

A moment later, reduced to a shriveled mummy, Mama’s body stopped giving up its vital essence. Topan let go of her head and she tumbled forward, crumbling to dust upon impact with the floor.

“Now let’s clean up this mess and get you home to America.”

***

“You can’t have her! You can’t have her! She’s mine, Cicatrice, mine, mine, mine,
mine
!”

“The giant of his own story,” Cicatrice whispered in her ear.

Topan stood in the doorway, his fists raised in fury. He made quite a contrast to Cicatrice in his red, Western-style suit. Around his neck he wore a noose like a necktie. His face was distended with rage and he had the look of a man who hadn’t slept in days. Cicatrice took a step forward, surreptitiously placing himself between Topan and Idi Han. He folded his hands behind his back.

“Hello, Topan,” Cicatrice said, his voice utterly deadpan, “so nice to have you home after all this time.”

Topan strode forward but stopped just short of laying hands on his patriarch.

“That’s my get. I sired her. She is my gift to the ages.”

“I am neither yours nor anyone’s property,” Idi Han said.

“Quiet, little one, or this will not go well for you after you’re back in my hands.”

“Do not call me that.”

She glowered at him. He wheeled back, taking another look at her.

“You think you’re someone special? Stop hiding behind your nursemaid’s coattails, then, little one.”

“I told you not to call me that anymore.”

“Yes, she’s chosen a name for herself,” Cicatrice said, “One you taught her, in fact, Topan.”

Topan’s eyes narrowed. Cicatrice put his hand on Idi Han’s shoulders and brought her around in front of him.

“Tell him,” he said, tapping her shoulder.

“My name,” she said, “is Idi Han.”

“Idi…” Recognition dawned on his face. “The giant? From the story? I think you misunderstood the point.”

“No. It’s you who missed the point, Topan.”

Topan looked from Cicatrice to Idi Han and back again. His anger either softened or he regretted threatening his sire. A voice which Idi Han did not recognize emerged from the smoke-filled doorway.

“Well, I’d say that’s about enough primping and preening. I’ve little interest in internecine House Cicatrice politics.”

Cicatrice, whom Idi Han had never seen so much as tremble, seemed to have developed a severe aneurysm at the sound of that voice. His grip tightened so much on her that he shattered both her shoulder blades. She gently tapped his hand and he relieved the pressure, her bones instantly knitting as he let go.

“Otto,” Cicatrice said.

A man entered the room. He wore a sort of stylized armor, bronze but painted white in places, with a number of nasty barbs and hooks. His face was painted from the nape of his neck to his forehead with a broad white stripe, which continued, in a sense, onto his head in the form of a bleached white Mohawk. A wolf’s pelt, complete with a wolfshead cowl, completed his rather eccentric ensemble.

By his side was a woman. She was clad in a labcoat and goggles and her face was speckled with oil, as though she had been pulled away from a workbench for this meeting. It took Idi Han a moment to realize that her hand was not flesh, but mechanical.

“Idi Han, this…
person
…is the patriarch of House Signari, Otto Signari.”

Signari approached bullishly and grabbed Idi Han’s hand. She almost wrenched away but he merely bowed and kissed the top of her hand delicately.

“Charmed,” he said, with a wicked smile.

“And Sephera, an elder of the Teslans.”

The woman nodded, adjusting the goggles on her head as though they were glasses and she was wearing them.

“Otto, Sephera, may I present my get, Idi Han?”

“Get?” Signari wore a contrived grin. “Well, now this
is
news.”

“She’s not yours!” Topan fairly shrieked.

Signari folded his arms.

“That’s what your firstborn here keeps saying, anyway. That this delightful young member of our special fraternity of the night is rightfully his get. And that you stole her from him.”

“I am no one’s for the stealing,” Idi Han said, taking a step forward.

Signari laughed, slapping his knee with the flat of his palm.

“I like her. She’s a good one. Doesn’t smell like much,” Signari sniffed the air, and Idi Han surreptitiously stuffed the wreath of garlic she was still wearing into her
cheongsam
, “but then I guess you know these matters better than I do.”

Topan sniffed the air, too, deliberately.

“Garlic. You’re hiding her power. You don’t want them to know how strong she really is.”

He spotted the corner of the string around her neck and stepped toward her to grab it. As he reached out for her, Idi Han snatched his hand, twisting his wrist backwards, shattering every bone in his arm, and dropping him to his knees.

“Let’s all keep our hands to ourselves,” Cicatrice said, gently patting Idi Han’s shoulder so that she released Topan and let him scuttle away as his wounds mended, “I must say, Otto, I’m used to Topan coming around, throwing tantrums, and usually demanding money. But what brings not only a House elder but a House patriarch to my doorstep on this of all nights?”

Topan’s finger shot out, pointing in Cicatrice’s direction.

“They’re here to tell you that you have to give her back, Scar. Or it’ll mean war.”

Cicatrice snorted derisively.

“There hasn’t been an open war between the Houses in three hundred years. You mean to tell me the Signaris would go to the mattresses over an internal House Cicatrice matter? I sincerely doubt that.”

Signari rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, tapping it with each finger in turn.

“Right is right, Cicatrice. And it won’t be just the Signaris.”

Cicatrice turned a baleful eye to the one-handed woman, Sephera.

“You mean to tell me the Junkers are against me in this matter, too?”

Sephera cleared her throat; a gesture which it occurred to Idi Han was entirely vestigial.

“Well, you see, Father Cicatrice, with all due respect…”

“Oh, I see,” Cicatrice said, cutting her off sharply but coldly, “It’s not just two Houses. All twelve of you are arrayed against me.”

Sephera nodded, seemingly genuinely chagrined.

“Then the council convened without my presence to deliberate?”

“This is a matter of some urgency, Father Cicatrice,” Sephera said.

“Urgency? Decisions over siring and heirs in House Cicatrice? How could that possibly constitute an emergency?” Cicatrice eyed Topan. “What did he tell you?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Father Cicatrice, please,” Sephera mouthed, “It’s unbecoming.”

“This serial killer you’re all so worried about?”

“Serial killer?” Idi Han asked, “An immortal serial killer?”

“Possibly,” Sephera said.

“We don’t know that,” Signari stated flatly.

“More accurately I suppose I should say, a serial killer who preys upon immortals,” Cicatrice corrected himself.

“It’s no myth, Father Cicatrice. The data is as plain as the nose on my face.”

“I can count as well as anyone, Sephera. I know there are more lives lost than can be accounted for by Inquisition activity or accidents or even by cold war. Yes, there is
something
preying upon our kind, whether you wish to call it a serial killer or something else.”

“But what does that have to do with me?”

All eyes turned to Idi Han. Topan was the first to speak.

“You’re my tonic, little one. You’re my plan. My solution. The first rumors of the serial killer – or whatever you want to call it – started four years ago. I’ve been searching for someone worthy of siring for decades. Since the 1950s, wasn’t it,
Father Cicatrice
? When we parted ways?”

“I seem to recall having to take you back under my wing since then.”

“Yes, you’re right. It’s only in the last ten years that I really began to scour the Earth, obsessed with a single thought: somewhere, out there, was a human with the potential to become the most powerful immortal who ever lived. And he…
she
, rather…would root out the serial killer like a rat. It would be my contribution to history.”

Cicatrice barked out a mirthless chuckle.

“And the council bought this load of horseshit? Without even seeking my presence to ask me if it were true?”

“Topan stood in your stead, old man,” Signari said, “Your heir. Superior to all your elders. We thought it no great matter to have him stand in your stead. Especially when his grievance was the one before the council. Because of the conflict of interest, we thought it best to recuse you.”

“Such a slight, Otto, I will never forget.”

Sephera stamped her foot.

“Yes. It was a slight. A tiny cut to your honor. You lost face when your idiot crown prince appeared before the council behind your back. But this is such a small matter, Father Cicatrice. A matter of pride, really. Give the girl back to Topan. He’s your heir, anyway. Perhaps finally having a get of his own to mentor will help domesticate him. Settle him down. Make him more like the get you always wanted.”

Idi Han stepped forward. She realized what she had to do.

“Very well. I’ll go with them.”

“A selfless Cicatrice!” Signari sniggered, “Now I have seen everything.”

Topan held his arms open; the smile on his lips suggesting all was forgiven. As if she had done anything wrong.

“Idi Han,” Cicatrice said quietly.

She stopped mid-stride. She turned back to look at him.

“Where do you want to be?”

She pinched her eyes shut. Memories of the homestead came back to her. Mama calling her in for supper. Papa keeping her up all night with ghost stories he shouldn’t have been telling her (according to Mama.) The pigs, ducks, and goats. Even that damned good-for-nothing cat that had been too lazy to catch a rat in all its life.

“I want to be back home,” she said, “In Guangdong.”

In the uncomfortable silence that followed it seemed that each of the other four immortals had words, but none could give voice to them. She continued.

“But I understand that is not our way. An immortal must be guided, taught the code, taught how to stay safe, how to deal with all these new...conditions. So knowing that, if the choice was truly mine, I would stay with Father Cicatrice. But I am a small raft on a great ocean. I will not be responsible for a war among our kind. Not now. Not ever. So I’ll go with Topan.”

“You will not,” Cicatrice said, “This is my manse and my House. The three of you have your answer. You can leave.”

Sephera stamped her foot.

“Listen to reason, won’t you, Father Cicatrice? A war? You’d have a war? Over what? How many in my House will have to die? How many in your House will have to die? Yes, Topan is acting like an infant. But give the baby his bottle and know that you’re better than him.”

“Go to Hell, Junker,” Topan growled.

“Grow a spine and fight your own battles, coward,” she rejoined.

Cicatrice slowly pulled a chair out from the table, turned it around to face his “guests” and seated himself before tenting his fingers.

“Sephera,” he said, “I understand why you’re here. There’s never been any conflict between our houses. Of all the Great Houses, my interactions with yours could be called the most…congenial. So they sent you as the good cop. Knowing that to have twelve elders show up on my doorstep would raise my ire to such a state I would burn the world of immortals to the ground before giving way.

“And Otto is the bad cop. Delighting in the role, no doubt, from a grudge that dates back to a time before any other living immortal was sired. A time when we were not so wise, and more prone, perhaps, to childish displays of peacock plumage.”

“You really should give up old vendettas, Cicatrice. It’s unbecoming of a man your age.”

“I’ll settle accounts with you yet, Otto. That’s a promise I’ve long stood by. But for the good of our kind, which must always be my paramount concern, I have long put off the revenge for our mutual sire.”

“Oh, don’t become all high and mighty on me…”

Cicatrice held up a hand to ask for silence, and even the overbold Otto Signari granted it to him.

“But this? This I cannot abide. A matter within my own House. Within my own lineage. A matter between my get and I. This is a matter that concerns no one not named Topan, Idi Han, or Cicatrice. But I know why the council is involved. My idiot former heir…” he looked at Topan. “Yes, if you hadn’t guessed, you’ve been passed over in favor of your own get.”

“You have no right…” Topan started to say.

Cicatrice stood. Without raising his voice, he continued.

“I have every right. I have the only right. I am patriarch of this House. The most powerful living immortal. None can challenge me. All my enemies exist at my pleasure. For the good of our kind. So that someday we will no longer need to be relegated to the shadows.

“But make no mistake of my consideration for weakness. The council would stand puffed up like a rooster on one matter so small they think I’ll back down. But you know something? I’m not scared to take on twelve Houses. Twelve Houses are shitting their pants terrified to take on me. Not my House. Just me.