Read Online Hunter of the Dead by Stephen Kozeniewski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen Kozeniewski
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immortal from the planet and start fresh before I would give in to you and your joke of a council. Now leave my manse. Send your attackers if you really have the backbone to go through with it. But I know, as always, you won’t.
“You are all dismissed from my presence.”
Sephera seemed flustered. She nodded, and strode out the door. Signari, as always, was smiling.
“I’ve waited a long time for this, Scar.”
“Enjoy the anticipation of our first battle, Otto. It’s the only joy you’ll get out of this.”
Signari bowed elaborately and put his hand on Topan’s shoulder.
“Come on, boy. A kingdom of ashes. That’s what you’ll inherit. But you can rebuild.”
“Cicatrice,” Topan growled.
“Topan,” Cicatrice said, “I want to be clear on this matter. When this little mutiny of yours is finished and you come crawling back to me for the thousandth time to test my infinite mercy, be clear. Be one hundred per cent clear. There will be no mercy for you this time.”
Four
Price’s pants were already around his ankles. He fiddled with the key in the trunk lock like a cat burglar finessing a deadbolt.
“Come on, baby, come on…got it!”
The trunk popped open. Price kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his trousers. Nico hazarded a glance into the Caddie’s massive trunk.
“Holy shit, Carter!”
Price’s trunk looked like the storage closet of a museum – or a movie studio. Guns of every description sat alongside axes, crowbars, swords, and knives. More mundane supplies like bottled water, beef jerky, dehydrated meals, and candles filled up one corner. He was already pulling on jeans and knocking on the soles of a pair of heavy-duty steel-toed boots.
“You ever wonder why I drive a ’63 Caddie, kid?”
Nico shook his head. Price couldn’t hold back the shit-eating grin.
“Most trunk space of any car ever made.”
Price dropped the boots on the ground and unrolled a black t-shirt.
“Somehow I doubt that,” Nico replied.
Price shrugged.
“Well, that and a little thing called style.”
Price slung a bandolier of shotgun shells over a shoulder and a bandolier of what appeared to be wooden stakes over the other. He slipped a sheathed machete onto his belt and buckled it, then started strapping a sawed-off shotgun to his other leg.
“So you’re some kind of secret vampire hunter?”
Grunting, Price peeled back the bandage from his right wrist, allowing Nico to get a glimpse of a green double cross tattooed over his radial artery. It seemed spooky and ancient enough to be the sigil of an ancient secret society like the Illuminati. And the fact that Price had long kept it hidden seemed to suggest that as well.
“Inquisitor. But yeah, that’s about the long and short of it, yeah.”
“So what’s the…plan?”
“The plan?”
Price reached into the trunk and with a reverence that belied his previous hurry, drew a tan leather or possibly deerskin jacket with tassels out of his collection of junk. He ran his hand along the painstakingly oiled surface of the jacket for just a moment before seeming to remember his earlier haste and threw it on. With the ensemble completed he looked like he could have stepped right off the stage of a ‘70s Dad Rock concert.
“The ‘plan,’ kid, is that you’re going to get home. You said you came by bus?”
“What am I supposed to do, Carter? Wait by the crater that used to be the Fill-Up? How am I supposed to explain that?”
The faraway look in Price’s eyes at that moment was something Nico had only ever seen on war veterans and in movies. “The Thousand Yard Stare” they called it sometimes. A symptom of deep, pervasive PTSD.
He sighed.
“You explain it, kid, by blaming it on that weird ex-con you worked with. ‘He always was a firebug.’ Some shit like that.”
Price slammed the trunk shut loudly and walked back toward the driver’s side. Nico felt liquid panic flood his heart and he hurried around the
“You are all dismissed from my presence.”
Sephera seemed flustered. She nodded, and strode out the door. Signari, as always, was smiling.
“I’ve waited a long time for this, Scar.”
“Enjoy the anticipation of our first battle, Otto. It’s the only joy you’ll get out of this.”
Signari bowed elaborately and put his hand on Topan’s shoulder.
“Come on, boy. A kingdom of ashes. That’s what you’ll inherit. But you can rebuild.”
“Cicatrice,” Topan growled.
“Topan,” Cicatrice said, “I want to be clear on this matter. When this little mutiny of yours is finished and you come crawling back to me for the thousandth time to test my infinite mercy, be clear. Be one hundred per cent clear. There will be no mercy for you this time.”
Four
Price’s pants were already around his ankles. He fiddled with the key in the trunk lock like a cat burglar finessing a deadbolt.
“Come on, baby, come on…got it!”
The trunk popped open. Price kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his trousers. Nico hazarded a glance into the Caddie’s massive trunk.
“Holy shit, Carter!”
Price’s trunk looked like the storage closet of a museum – or a movie studio. Guns of every description sat alongside axes, crowbars, swords, and knives. More mundane supplies like bottled water, beef jerky, dehydrated meals, and candles filled up one corner. He was already pulling on jeans and knocking on the soles of a pair of heavy-duty steel-toed boots.
“You ever wonder why I drive a ’63 Caddie, kid?”
Nico shook his head. Price couldn’t hold back the shit-eating grin.
“Most trunk space of any car ever made.”
Price dropped the boots on the ground and unrolled a black t-shirt.
“Somehow I doubt that,” Nico replied.
Price shrugged.
“Well, that and a little thing called style.”
Price slung a bandolier of shotgun shells over a shoulder and a bandolier of what appeared to be wooden stakes over the other. He slipped a sheathed machete onto his belt and buckled it, then started strapping a sawed-off shotgun to his other leg.
“So you’re some kind of secret vampire hunter?”
Grunting, Price peeled back the bandage from his right wrist, allowing Nico to get a glimpse of a green double cross tattooed over his radial artery. It seemed spooky and ancient enough to be the sigil of an ancient secret society like the Illuminati. And the fact that Price had long kept it hidden seemed to suggest that as well.
“Inquisitor. But yeah, that’s about the long and short of it, yeah.”
“So what’s the…plan?”
“The plan?”
Price reached into the trunk and with a reverence that belied his previous hurry, drew a tan leather or possibly deerskin jacket with tassels out of his collection of junk. He ran his hand along the painstakingly oiled surface of the jacket for just a moment before seeming to remember his earlier haste and threw it on. With the ensemble completed he looked like he could have stepped right off the stage of a ‘70s Dad Rock concert.
“The ‘plan,’ kid, is that you’re going to get home. You said you came by bus?”
“What am I supposed to do, Carter? Wait by the crater that used to be the Fill-Up? How am I supposed to explain that?”
The faraway look in Price’s eyes at that moment was something Nico had only ever seen on war veterans and in movies. “The Thousand Yard Stare” they called it sometimes. A symptom of deep, pervasive PTSD.
He sighed.
“You explain it, kid, by blaming it on that weird ex-con you worked with. ‘He always was a firebug.’ Some shit like that.”
Price slammed the trunk shut loudly and walked back toward the driver’s side. Nico felt liquid panic flood his heart and he hurried around the
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