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
“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
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