Hunter of the Dead

by Stephen Kozeniewski

  “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…”

  She trailed off.

  “I told you, don’t be afraid to speak your mind.”

  “How is it that you can trust a mortal with our secrets?”

  Hedrox returned with a few lengths of rope in varying colors. Cicatrice switched over to Cantonese.

  “Most of what I tell the brethren is lies. You must understand: in the daylight, they’re the only thing between us and eager Inquisitors. So it is important to surround yourself with mortals, to protect yourself with them. Besides, I find it comforting that there are so many of them that are willing to serve us. It makes me less concerned about our numerical disadvantage. What is your favorite color? Respond in English.”

  Idi Han’s mouth worked for a moment at the strange request.

  “My favorite color?” she replied. “It’s…red.”

  “That was Topan’s favorite as well. It’s a good color. The color of blood. The color of this House.”

  He pointed at Hedrox’s right hand, which contained among many other coils of rope, a blood red one. Hedrox nodded, and with dazzling speed, began to make thirteen knots.

  “Now, tell me, Hedrox, why did you knock on my door unbidden when I expressly said I was not to be disturbed until I said otherwise?”

  Hedrox nodded, her eyes still not on Cicatrice. Her fingers played the rope like a violin. Idi Han had never been a stranger to knots, having yoked the oxen and tethered the barn, but she had never seen someone as adept as this mortal apparently was.

  “Yes, Father Cicatrice, you did say that, but you also have a standing order. An order that supersedes all others.”

  Cicatrice was silent so long that Idi Han wondered if something was desperately wrong. He never showed emotion, but now he was silent and it was terrifying.

  “The Hunter of the Dead has been sighted?”

  Hedrox nodded as she completed the last loops of her noose.

  “Allegedly. Patriarch. Shall I cut this to Idi Han’s measurements?”

  “Leave it. Who sighted The Hunter?”

  “A very ill-reputed member of House Signari. A fixer, not even finished his apprenticeship. His name is Italo Scavatelli. Apparently Benito Scavatelli’s brother in life and he brought him across.”

  “Yes. I’m familiar with them both.”

  “Signaris?” Idi Han said. “Then this is a ruse.”

  “An exceedingly strange one. The Signaris are gutter-dwellers and Italo Scavatelli is not even well-regarded amongst them. You don’t send a peasant to treat with a king.”

  “But you might send a clown to fool one.”

  Hedrox proferred forth the noose.

  “Your tie, Idi Han.”

  Cicatrice shook his head.

  “No, you misunderstood, Hedrox. That’s for you.”

  For the first time Hedrox looked up into her patriarch’s face, perhaps to confirm a joke. She may as well have kept her head down for all the impassiveness of Cicatrice benefitted her. She slipped the noose around her neck, and fitted it under her collar as though it were a necktie, the same way Topan wore it. She tightened it up to her throat.

  “Have the Signari sent in.”

  “Right away, Father.”

  Hedrox rose. She reached into her chest and drew out a razor blade she wore around her neck. She lifted the end of the noose and made ready to cut it at about waist length.

  “I told you not to cut that.”

  Hedrox blinked, but after a moment nodded.

  “Yes. Yes, of course, Patriarch.”

  She disappeared from the room, the endless string of rope trailing behind her like a sad tail. A moment later she returned and gestured for a bedraggled punk to enter. The punk’s hair was partially up in a deflated Mohawk and he wore a wretched denim vest and a Misfits t-shirt under it. Every bit of him looked as though it had been beaten, battered, and seen better days.

  Hedrox attempted to slip out but Cicatrice held up a hand.

  “Wait.”

  Hedrox nodded, folded her hands and dutifully waited in the doorway.

  “Italo Scavatelli,” Cicatrice said with a grunt, “my new heir, Idi Han.”

  The man looked at her, not really seeing her.

  “No more Topan? I thought he…”

  “We had a disagreement.”

  No more, it seemed, needed to be said.

  “Idi Han, this is Italo Scavatelli, quite possibly the least impressive immortal on the planet. He and his adoptive sire Connor MacVicar have been bums for decades. And when I say bums I don’t mean they were delightful roguish scamps who never caused anyone any harm and made their own way in a world they never chose. I mean they were indigent parasites, suckling at the teat of anyone who would bother to have them. The distance from he and I may seem to be only a few meters, but in reality it is as far as the sun is from the moon.”

  Scavatelli sucked in a wholly unnecessary breath to pump up his chest.

  “Father Cicatrice,” Scavatelli replied, “you know I wouldn’t bother you. You know I wouldn’t…”

  “Then don’t, Signari. Hedrox!”

  Startled, the mortal hurried back inside.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “Your rope.” He gestured at the noose around Hedrox’s neck. “Toss it over that ceiling beam there.”

  Hedrox looked up at the ceiling. She swallowed a lump in her throat, but did as she was ordered. The rope was now split into two parallel lengths, one snaking up to the ceiling, the other dangling down.

  “Hand that end to Scav here.”

  Hedrox turned and looked at the Signari. Scav shrugged, also apparently uncl
ear what was going on. Hedrox handed him the length of rope.

  “Now that you know precisely how I feel about this…individual standing before me, I want to make yet another point. This man is an immortal. He is one of my kind. As diminished as he is from me, that is nothing in comparison to how diminished any mortal is from one of our kind. Now, Scav, if you will favor me with a bit of your time, please, pull on the rope.”

  Scav looked from Cicatrice to Hedrox and back again.

  “Hey, listen, Father Cicatrice, if this is some kind of a lesson, hey I know better than to touch that which is yours. This is your disciple and I…”

  “Spare me the platitudes, Scav. You’ve come seeking my protection. You’re beyond groveling and at this point you’re fully within my power. This is not some trick to put you in an awkward position. This is me making a point to a very stubborn mortal.”

  Scav shrugged and despite Hedrox’s wide-eyed stare he tugged on the rope until Hedrox’s feet dangled off the ground and she choked, scrabbling at the noose she had so ably tied herself only moments before.

  “Are you listening, Hedrox? Are you listening as this piece of shit chokes the life out of you? I don’t care. I don’t care about you. You’re not one of my kind. You’re nothing to me. Property. To be used, to be abused. I am no more upset watching this happen than I would be if my car had been broken into. You understand that?”

  Whatever Hedrox understood or not, her choked cries did not especially illuminate.

  “Now, this young woman? She is important to me. Not just to me, but to my kind. She is my heir. Whatever you thought you had coming to you, the Long Gift, whatever. Understand it’s mine to give or to withhold as I see fit. I’ve seen fit to withhold it from you, and grant it to her. Your position in queue or however you want to look at it is meaningless to me. It is devotion I look for in choosing a new immortal. And you have shown by failing this test that you are still not worthy of it. If you had taken Idi Han’s appearance with aplomb, you might have been next. Now I don’t know. Let her go, Scav.”

  “What? Oh, sure. Sorry, Father Cicatrice.”

  Scav released the rope and Hedrox dropped to the floor. Her legs crumpled up beneath her and she lay on the ground, gulping for air like a fish out of water.

  “I don’t know. Maybe I made a mistake in choosing you for my circle in the first place.”

  “No!” a strangled cry came from Hedrox’s throat.

  “No what? No I shouldn’t have chosen you? Then I release you. Go back to your kin, Vizriel. I’m sure they miss you.”

  Hedrox scrabbled, barely able to rise above a crouch. On her hands and knees she dragged herself before Cicatrice, hands raised in pleading as though clasped in prayer.

  “Please! No! Patriarch! Please!”

  “Please what?”

  Hedrox’s rasp took on something of a semblance of a human tone again.

  “Please don’t dismiss me.”

  Cicatrice shook his head.

  “But how can I keep you if you are jealous of my heir? Who knows, if I died tomorrow, she would be your new matriarch. I’m not certain I can take that risk with you.”

  “Please, Idi Han, please, I would ever serve you. Please don’t make me go.”

  Hedrox dropped her head to the ground and banged it against the tile, her hair flying back and forth in time.

  “Well, it seems the choice is up to you, my beloved get. Shall we retain her?”

  Idi Han looked from her emotionless patriarch to the wretch on the ground to the bemused punk. A few days ago such a scene would have been far beyond her imagination. Now she understood that she had been brought into a life where power dictated ancient codes of behavior and all sorts of people were beholden to one another. It was time to become mature.

  “It seems you’ve mastered the carrot and the stick, Father Cicatrice,” she said in Cantonese, then continued in English, “If she’s served you well this long, Patriarch, then I think she’s deserving of a second chance.”

  Cicatrice nodded.

  “A wise decision. Every time your mouth opens I become ever more convinced I made the right choice anointing you my heir. Yes, Hedrox shall have a second chance. And know that among immortals, second chances are exceedingly rare. You owe your good fortune to your future matriarch, Hedrox. She is far more merciful than I have ever been faulted with being.”

  “Yes, yes!” Hedrox cried, “Thank you, Idi Han, thank you! I swear eternal fealty to you!”

  “Get out.”

  Nodding, and bobbing up and down like a water-drinking bird toy, Hedrox disappeared out the door, her long tail of a noose trailing behind him. Cicatrice lit an unfiltered cigarette in a bone holder and turned on Scavatelli.

  “Now then, Scav, pretend I haven’t much time for you…in fact, I haven’t any…and tell me what you know about The Hunter.”

  Scav bit his lower lip. He looked from Cicatrice to Idi Han. Idi Han gestured for him to sit, half expecting Cicatrice to belay her with a wave, but he did nothing. Tentatively, Scav pulled out a chair and seated himself across from them.

  “Well, that’s not the first thing I want to talk about, all due respect, Father Cicatrice.”

  As ever, Cicatrice’s face remained impassive.

  “Your position is tenuous. Is MacVicar dead?”

  Seemingly unable to find words, Scav only nodded.

  “Then you’re not a real boy. Sireless. Houseless. By rights I should destroy you.”

  “But that’s just it. My sire told me he’d release me tonight. And then he was killed.”

  “By The Hunter of the Dead?”

  Scav nodded.

  “Are you sure? Before you answer, understand that if you’re lying to me or worse, if you’re wasting my time, whatever you fear is going to happen to you if you turn yourself in to your own House will pale in comparison to what I will make you suffer. I don’t make idle threats, you understand that?”

  “I understand.”

  “Are you certain you saw The Hunter of the Dead?”

  Scav looked from Cicatrice to Idi Han and back again. The look in his eyes was haunted.

  “Yes.”

  Cicatrice glanced at her.

  “Do you believe him?” he asked in Cantonese.

  “I do.”

  “That’s because he’s telling the truth. And it vexes me deeply. Tell me everything you know, Scav, and you’ll have my protection, such as it is.”

  With obvious relief, Scav began to recount meeting The Hunter, and how it had dispatched his travelling companion. She looked to Cicatrice for some sign of distress or even acknowledgement. He was as placid as though the man were recounting a series of bookkeeping statistics.

  “And I thought I should come to you,” he concluded.

  That was the only part that seemed to be a lie, but something still bothered her about the story. He hadn’t explained how he had escaped. No excuses, no explanation. He had simply left it out.

  Cicatrice nodded. He rose and folded his arms behind his back, turning his back on the Signari.

  “This was last night?”

  Scav nodded.

  “And you’ve spent the intervening time doing what? No, nevermind. I already know. You’ve spent it trying to get back into the good graces of the Signaris, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so you come to me as a last resort at nearly dawn the day after the fact. The trail has gone cold. Many lives will be lost because of your dithering, I think.”

  Cicatrice walked to a shelf and pulled out an atlas. He opened it on the table to a map of Nevada. He pressed his finger to a spot west of the city.

  “Cashley’s compound is here if I’m not mistaken.”

  “That seems right.”

  “Then The Hunter could be anywhere by now.”

  “Perhaps he’s headed to Los Angeles,” Idi Han said.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Cicatrice said, closing the atlas. “He is drawn to immortals like a mot
h to a candle. LA is very lightly populated by our kind. Strange, even with Cashley’s excesses I can’t imagine why The Hunter would awaken after all these years, and be drawn to Vegas, no less. There are only a few dozen of us here.”

  Scav snorted, a noise that was physiologically totally unnecessary. The smile that had started to play across his face withered under Cicatrice’s oppressive gaze.

  “Something amusing, Scavatelli?”

  The Signari looked from Idi Han to Cicatrice like a drowning man looking for a lifesaver. Sadly, whatever the joke was, Idi Han hadn’t been let in on it.

  “Uh…” Scav said, choosing his words as though he were picking his way across a minefield, “I’ve never said this to a patriarch before, but you’re wrong, Father Cicatrice. There are dozens of immortals in town. Hundreds, maybe.”

  Eight

  Keys seemed to be a constant issue to Carter Price. He stood in front of his apartment door, purring and stroking the doorknob, trying to get it to accept his advances as though it were a woman or a particularly treacherous cat. Nico, for his part, couldn’t take his eyes off the exposed pipe in the hallway of Price’s building that was dripping water at a disturbingly steady clip. It had turned the floor below it into a mold civilization that threatened to collapse at any moment.

  “There it is,” Price cooed, as the door opened, revealing all its secrets.

  The inside of his apartment was, somehow, even less impressive than the outside. Without even turning his head, Nico could see all there was to see in the studio. A naked mattress (thankfully stain-free, at least) was jammed in one corner. Price appeared to own precisely two chairs, which did not match and appeared to have been rescued from the curb. Kicking off his muddy shoes in whichever direction they cared to land, Price stomped into the closet-sized partition containing a stove and a fridge which could out of kindness be called a kitchen.

  “You want something to drink?”

  “Yeah, actually, that sounds great,” Nico said, slowly closing the door. He hadn’t realized how parched he was until Price asked.

  “Well, I’ve got coffee and bourbon.”

  “Er…coffee, then.”

  The sounds of water splashing and a cheap coffeemaker percolating filled the apartment.

  “How do you take it?”