Hunter of the Dead (12 page)

It dawned on Pablo then exactly what these fiends expected of him.

“I cannot commit this blasphemy.”

“Good,” Signari said, “then I was right all along.”

“Brother,” Cicatrice said, his voice all syrup and malevolence, “when you leave this place, you shall go unmolested. But we have been waiting for someone like you to tell the world that the Golden Age of the Immortal is now. If you can’t meet this simple obligation, then you’ll suffer for an eternity in our dungeons. It is a tough cross to bear, I know, but didn’t Christ bear his oh so well?”

Pablo swallowed the speech he had been preparing. This was a madhouse, no simple den of vice nor court of ignominies. It would be better that he fled, and if conducting a fanciful imaginary ceremony made that happen faster, then so be it.

“Shall I say some words?” he whispered.

“Allow me,” Cicatrice said. “Take the crown – with care, mind you, Brother – and step up on that dais.”

Pablo did as he was told and Lily knelt before him, her gowns turning to a puddle of putrescence beneath her.

Cicatrice spoke, “My own sire, who granted me the Long Gift and taught me the ways of the world, I can think of no other immortal on earth worthy to bear this responsibility and this burden. May you lead long and wisely. It is therefore with whatever humble authority you have granted me, that I crown you the spiritual and temporal mistress of all our kind, Lily the Only.”

His hands shaking, Pablo gently lowered the crown onto her brow. She rose, her gowns billowing beneath her. She grabbed Cicatrice’s ear and cheek with one hand and planted a kiss on his face.

“My first act is to name you my chief vassal and head evangelist. Cicatrice, you are now patriarch of House Cicatrice. May you reign forever in the shadows.”

She held out a scroll, sealed with wax and stuffed through a ring. The ring was carved from obsidian, and alive with graphic images of murder, torture, and rape. Cicatrice inclined his head.

“Your Worship.”

Lily beckoned with a single ethereal finger to Signari.

“Otto Signari, I name you third most powerful amongst our kind. Warlord of my armies, trusted advisor, chief protector of the dark faith, and patriarch of House Signari.”

She thrust another scroll towards him. Signari dropped to one knee, and reached up to accept the scroll and the ring. Cicatrice snorted loudly. Signari glared, but Lily only smiled. He immediately jammed the obsidian ring onto his finger and broke the wax seal of the scroll to read it over.

“And your first act as my chief protector,” she said, “is to deliver these eleven other letters of patriarchy.”

She gestured at a basket which had remained innocuously hidden on the dais throughout the ceremony. Pablo had not even noticed it before, but now that it was pointed out to him he recognized the protruding rounded sheets of parchment. Signari retrieved his gauntlet, tugged it back on, rose, and grabbed up the basket.

“I leave immediately, Your Worship.”

He turned to eye Cicatrice.

“Father Cicatrice.”

“Father Otto,” Cicatrice muttered.

Signari disappeared with one last glance back from the darkness of the exterior hallway. Cicatrice turned to face the newly-crowned empress.

“Mat…I mean, Your Worship…what exactly…?”

“Not to fret, dear boy. I could tell you were having trouble deciding who to invite here. You forget how well I know you. Well, no more cause for regret. I made the decision for you. Eleven of the most important immortals, most with a number of important gets and vassals. They won’t dare refuse to show now.”

Unable to contain it, Pablo sneezed. Both of the fiends turned their gaze on him. Both stepped towards him. He held out his hands.

“You said I would return to my army unmolested!”

The new Empress of Immortals reached out and crushed his ear with her hand like a petulant boy crushing a daisy.

“And so you shall,” Lily said, “Only older. And wiser.”

With that, she drained fifty years from his life, and tossed him towards the exit.

***

“Is this story true?”

Cicatrice rose from his plush chair in the monstrous, labyrinthine library. After what felt like an eternity he returned with a book which seemed ancient beyond reason. He placed it on the table before her, open to a page.

The dust-covered manuscript was illuminated in glorious lettering, and though she could sound out the words, she knew hardly any Latin. The book was illustrated, though, and despite having dulled with age it clearly depicted the Necropolis, Lily the Half-Faced, Otto Signari, and her own patriarch.

She reached out to touch the pages, but a hiss from Cicatrice suggested she not do so. It dawned on her that this book was so ancient, the oils of her fingers could ruin it irreparably. Instead, with great care, Idi Han slowly closed the ancient tome. She ran her fingers along the cover, which bore a massive dragon sigil and the words
De Vermis Mysteriis
.

“So the priest lived?”

“For another year or two. Historical records speak of the priest who turned from a youth to an old man in a single day. This book, though, is the only extant explanation of why. And copies exist only here and deep in the Vatican archives.”

“Doesn’t that concern you?”

“My enemies having information about me? No. The Inquisition concerns me minimally. They’re boys playing with wooden swords and I treat them as such. Or perhaps more accurately they’re Don Quixotes, tilting at windmills, all the time never guessing the windmills couldn’t care less.”

“Father Cicatrice, I appreciate you taking the time to confide…that is to say, to teach me about our ways, but is this really the right time?

“What other time would you suggest?”

“But Signari…the others…isn’t the enemy at the gates?”

Cicatrice rose and beckoned her to follow him. He led her to a window, the first she had seen since being smuggled into Cicatrice’s manse under cover of darkness, asleep, hidden in a crate of soil. The window was hidden behind a false compartment in the wall, perhaps to keep the ambience of near-absolute darkness. Cicatrice popped out the false back and opened wide the window.

A city of twinkling lights greeted her. She had rarely been to Guangzhou, and that had been nothing like this place. The decadence, the extravagance, the fountains and towers. This was a place where life began at sundown. The perfect home for an immortal.

“Las Vegas,” Cicatrice said, “The Meadows. Sin City. My city. The seat of House Cicatrice. All the other Great Houses are located in ancient places of great renown: Tokyo, Rome, London. Do you know why I chose to place my seat here?”

“This is a place of night,” she replied.

Cicatrice rarely if ever smiled, and never without purpose. He did not do so now, but if possible his face softened.

“You are wise. This is a place where living in darkness is no small thing. This is also a place where everyone comes at one point or another and makes…mistakes. I’ve been here since long before Bugsy Siegel first proposed turning a watering hole into a Mecca of vice. And I spent many years laying the groundwork for that moment. This is a new town, a town I built, a town built around me and my needs. Look out there.”

Idi Han looked down at the streets of The Strip, packed with tourists and locals alike. Everyone seemed wealthy, drunk, and jaded. More importantly, they all seemed like ants from this vantage point.

“The mayor, the police, the city council, the judges, the politicians, the bureaucrats, they’re all in my pocket. The business owners, too. I let them have their piddling profits as long as they know who is master here. Every immortal has a circle of mortal followers to service him. This entire city is mine. Every person in it, whether he knows it or not, belongs to me.

“But it’s not just the powerful, Idi Han. They’re just the most visible element of my hand. But you know what makes the human hand useful, what makes it the paragon of apes?”

“The thumb,” she replied.

He nodded.

“The very smallest digit. It allows for manipulation beyond anything in the animal kingdom. And in this town my most valuable assets are the people on the streets. Valets. Prostitutes. Pit bosses. Dealers. Maitre Ds. Housekeepers. There’s a camera in every room in this city, but more important: there are eyes on every street corner. And that’s where I get my most valuable information.

“I have presidents and prime ministers all over the world under my sway. Kings and cardinals and everyone who visits here. Their affairs, their drugs, their foolish decisions. All put them in debt to me, and all strengthen my power. Now, knowing all this, Idi Han, how much do you think I fear Otto Signari and his idiot compatriots threatening me as I sit in the center of my own spiderweb?”

“It seems I’ve underestimated you, Patriarch. I apologize.”

“No need. I feel no need for braggadocio, no need to prove myself. There’s no reason you should’ve known any of this before I told you. But you understand why I’m not afraid to spend my time grooming my new heir rather than preparing for war. War has long since been prepared for. You still need to be groomed.”

Idi Han looked back down at the
De Vermis Mysteriis
.

“What happened next?”

Cicatrice placed his hand on the book, but before he could continue, a knock came at the door. Idi Han looked to him.

“More interlopers?”

“I’ve never known Otto Signari to knock.” Cicatrice replaced the grimoire. “Enter!”

A smartly-dressed Samoan woman entered. Her cheeks were sunken in and it seemed like she had two purple eyes from lack of sleep. Her arms and neck were covered with long-healed razor blade scars, and she still had patches over what looked like fresh wounds. She was as gaunt as a rail…barely there, really.

She dropped to one knee in front of Cicatrice’s chair, refusing to look in his eye, and clutched her breast with her hand. Her stringy hair hung over her head, obscuring her face and eyes.

“Forgive the intrusion, Father Cicatrice,” she said, her voice like a wisp on the breeze.

“Idi Han, this is Hedrox. She was head of my circle until your arrival. But tradition holds that a new get should oversee her sire’s circle. Hedrox, Idi Han will be taking over for you.”

“I am pleased to have another immortal to serve, Father Cicatrice,” the woman whispered, “I do so miss Elder Topan’s firm hand.”

Idi Han scowled, wondering if she had caught a glimpse of mischief in the cultist’s eye. Cicatrice, as usual, was unmoved.

“Topan’s name is to be stricken from all records. He is excommunicated from my House.”

“I shall make the necessary changes, Patriarch.”

“Idi Han is my new heir. You will record that as well.”

Hedrox paused, just a moment too long for Idi Han’s tastes. Was Cicatrice really ignorant of his cultist’s disgruntlement? If she had noticed it so soon, surely he had.

“I’m very pleased to hear that, Father Cicatrice.”

“I sense that you’re really not.”

Cicatrice placed his fist under Hedrox’s chin and gently raised her head so that the hair fell away and revealed the skeletal woman hidden beneath the mane.

“Do not question my memory, for it is long, and faithful service is always rewarded. When Idi Han is installed and comfortable with her new position, you will have that which you have so long coveted.”

Hedrox’s eyes shone with a joy that only a mortal could muster.

“The Long Gift?”

Cicatrice did not reply. He placed the tips of his fingers together.

“Hedrox, you used to tie the nooses Topan wore, didn’t you?”

“I did, Father.”

“Go fetch a few meters of rope and show me.”

Hedrox bowed and disappeared.

“I thought you granted Topan your blessing in the 1950s.”

“I did,” Cicatrice said, “he showed such promise back then. But he went on to make many mistakes and many enemies. So many that it was only out of respect for me that they let me rein him back in twenty years ago rather than ask – and rightfully so – for his head. I put him back in charge of my circle and tried to set him straight but after another futile decade I just let him go again. I simply don’t care what he does anymore. He thought finding you would bring him back into my good graces. Any other questions?”

She paused for a moment.

“Yes. Why do you make that mortal promises you will never keep?”

Cicatrice turned to look at her.

“I’m sorry. I’ve spoken out of turn.”

Cicatrice shook his head.

“No. You are my heir. More importantly you are an immortal. And a member of my House. You have liberties I don’t grant the brethren. To answer your question, I have become most adept at dangling the carrot.”

“I sense the carrot is beginning to lose its sheen.”

“You are right, of course. Topan’s influence, no doubt. She’ll have to be executed shortly. Perhaps I’ll leave that task to you.”

“Father Cicatrice…”