Lilja hears a stifled yelp and glances back to see that Vicki stares wide-eyed, hand over her mouth as if to protect her from the life-threatening smoke.
“Stand back,” the redhead warns, then she takes aim.
Those eyes go wider, the other woman unsure what is happening. Lilja knows the confusion that must clamor through Vicki’s mind, and she needs to act fast. Not only does she not want to invite interference, but she’d also prefer not to have to make explanations. Giving another brief moment to settle her aim, she fires.
The bullet sinks into the thing’s bulbous body, almost as if sucked in and absorbed like a sandbag deterring a shot. Lilja fires again, following with two more, and the thing finally breaks its hold. She sees that it does have a face – a rugose crowd of fallow flesh held in some semblance of form, and it screams at her, showing a crowd of tiny hooks lining the inside of that maw. It releases the man, using arms and the suddenly quite capable motion of its sickening body to launch itself at her.
She holds her ground, pulling the trigger rapidly, aim unflinching, as she empties the magazine into the thing. It lies there, then, defeated and diffusing, seeming more a dark stain than anything animate. She smoothly ejects the magazine, loading another and putting away the empty.
“What?” comes a huffed call, and she knows it is Vicki, though hearing is temporarily hindered for them both. “What?” again coming on the pauses between gulped breaths. “I saw something.”
Lilja ignores it, rushing to the man, seeing it is the one who tried to flirt with her when they first were exploring the house.
“Wake up,” she says, giving him a shake at his shoulders, and when this has no effect, she delivers some light slaps to his cheeks.
This works, and he begins to come around.
“Careful,” she offers, sending a quick glance to Vicki who has slipped over. “You were unconscious,” she adds, placing a supportive hand on the man’s back, helping him to turn to his side.
“Wha-?” he tries, coughing and gasping, the word squeezing off in his sore throat.
“You were unconscious. We’re at the party at the Barrington house. There’s been a fire. We need to get out.”
He takes in a few more breaths, shaking his head somewhat, eyes blinking, then he nods.
“Okay,” he manages, then looks up, recognition floating over his face, and his lips twitch into the hint of a grin. “Thanks.”
“What’s your name?” she asks, her tone calm.
“Haran.”
“Haran, I’m Lilja. This is Vicki.”
“Hi,” he somewhat manages, coughing.
“We need to get you out of here.”
“I don’t feel so well.”
“I know, and I wish I didn’t have to move you, but we need to get going,” she repeats, looking about for any further signs of the Infernal, then glancing to Vicki. “The service door?”
“It’s right there.” She indicates, and indeed there is a door none too far from them.
Lilja breathes a sigh of relief, then gets the other woman’s help in standing and supporting their charge.
“Lilja!”
She looks up from the shambling cadence they use to hold Haran, the man seeming more weakened by the demonic attack than they initially thought, to see Zoe running to her. She quickly displaces Vicki, proving better assistance.
“I called 911. They’ll be here any minute. I hear sirens.”
Lilja doesn’t, but that also doesn’t surprise her.
“This is far enough,” she says, and they help to set Haran on the soft grass of the yard. “You rest here,” she orders, removing her jacket and draping it over him.
“I-” he coughs out a short, embarrassed chuckle, “don’t need this.”
“Yes, you do. You might even need to lie down. Take it easy until the paramedics get here.”
“What are you doing?” Zoe asks, noticing a particular set to her colleague.
“There are more people inside. That woman we first found and the guy who attacked us. I’m not leaving them in there.”
She glances across the way, seeing the accusatory eyes of Mrs. Barrington on her.
“Right,” Zoe nods once, “let’s get to it, then.”
They turn to head back inside, going to a jog.
“I also saw a de-” Lilja begins, but her words stop as an explosion erupts from within the house, shooting glass and wood splinters out from the first floor.
They both freeze, not close enough to experience any damage, then rush toward the spot. There, in the distance, is a shape, shrouded in darkness and the flickering shadows from flame. A survivor. Lilja picks up the pace. The figure rises, seeming incapable of normal movement, perhaps wounded. She wants to cry out for them to not move, to just wait, but something halts her tongue. The shape gets to its feet, still wobbly, but it looks uncanny, wrong, and then as it turns, focusing on her, she realizes it is another of the mannequins from the basement. It begins walking toward her, stunted and bobbling.
Lilja stops, bringing her weapon up and aiming. She freezes, feeling a sudden creep boiling up like a lingering flame finally reaching crescendo – she recognizes the figure.
Zoe rushes up beside her, settling into a shooting stance, but then she glances at her partner, confusion inking onto her features.
“Lilja,” she hisses out a whisper, “what is it?”
“We don’t just lurk in shadow … we also live in dust.”
Zoe slowly moves her eyes over, realizing this has come from the mannequin. The voice is somewhat high-pitched, strangled, though still managing a deeper undertone, hinting at being carried on a foul wind. Lilja still stands in place, eyes wide, unblinking, as though latched onto the thing against her will. The mannequin continues its shamble, stumbling ever closer.
Whispered words finally fall from Lilja’s lips. “But … you’re supposed to be dead.”
“Varjolilja … you are bound to me. You owe me,” the thing speaks again.
Zoe does not exactly remember this one, for it bears the appearance of a young man, though still cracked and distorted, but it looks more human on its face than the others.
Zoe experiences a moment of further confusion and hesitation. She does not understand how the Infernal manage to possess these dolls; the oddity of the whole thing gives her pause. She continues glancing back and forth between Lilja and the encroaching mannequin. Why Lilja seems so suddenly stunned? Even though it chapped her to not be given lead on this assignment, she knows Lilja to be very controlled and to the point, unhesitating even as she displays a great deal of calm. Zoe also knows the Infernal have tricks they’ve never encountered.
Zoe pulls the trigger of her pistol, firing continuously. The thing takes four shots before it crumbles. She glances at Lilja, the redhead still unmoving, so she walks carefully toward the target. It lies on the ground, twitching a bit, so she puts two more rounds in its head, not exactly sure if that makes a huge difference, but it does stop the moving. She then trots back over to Lilja.
“What was that all about?” she demands, noticing that the emergency vehicles are now pulling up.
“I …” Lilja begins, the word seeming to come from the depths of her, robbed of its volume and strength.
“Are you alright?” Zoe presses, eyes narrowing.
Lilja blinks, then nods.
“Good. We need to put our guns away and let them handle this now, right?” She gives an indication behind Lilja with a jab of her chin.
Further blinks, then a breath, and Lilja turns, seeing several vehicles have arrived. The people within quickly begin to take control, lengths of hoses being pulled out in preparation of dealing with the fire, paramedics seeing to the milling people. She also notices Mrs. Barrington speaking to a police officer, a meaningful glare sent their way.
“Right,” she finally responds.
*****
“It seems her sense is coming along.”
Skothiam looks over at his sister. Nico
le-Angeline wears, as usual, something gossamer, ethereal, looking less and less like a conventional occupant of this corporeal world. He is dressed in one of his many bespoke suits, having spent time today in more conventional dealings. He’d felt distracted as his thoughts often meandered to Lilja. They’d conducted the formal debriefing as soon as possible when the two had arrived back at the manor. From business to debriefing to this, and the day escapes. He holds a crystal glass of fine scotch in his hand, taking a lingering sip.
“You know this?” he asks.
She gives a steady look of her eyes, then a single nod.
Anxiety gnawed him after the fact. Had he made an incorrect decision in sending only those two? He knows they are capable, and he knows there are always risks. Still, sending the woman he loves on such operations fills him with conflict. He is proud of her, fully confident in her abilities, and yet, every assignment could be the last. It seems she is developing another talent that will make her even more valuable, thus putting her more and more in the face of danger.
“You must realize the attack was for her.”
His eyes move over again to his younger sister. He exhales deeply, then glances into his drink as if he might scry some solution from the contents.
“Varjolilja,” his sister intones, reminding him that answers await, open and before them, ripe for the plucking.
“Yes, she told us everything that happened.”
“I am not attacking her, Skot.”
He sighs again.
“Your love for her tempts you to compromise.”
“I know,” he finally admits, “I’m also worried because of what they said about Dad.”
The message sent by the Infernal had come nearly a year ago now, but it still remained emblazoned in their concern, raw like a fresh brand.
“We cannot know if their taunt is true,” Nicole says, moving nearer, her own features now laced with sorrow, for she had been very close to their father.
“And it is their way to do just this sort of thing. They want to gut us, weaken or kill us all.”
“That, we do know.”
“So, her dead ex-boyfriend shows up in the face of an animated mannequin and calls her ‘Shadow’ Lilja. Both she and Zoe saw her shadow inverted.” Skot has a deep taste of his drink. “What are we supposed to make of that?”
“First of all, it was not her dead ex-boyfriend.”
“I know,” he clips, gaining a stare from his sibling.
“But it means they are aware of this piece of her past, and they feel it is a weak link they can exploit.”
He nods to the words, knowing they are something of an apology for the quip.
“We had thought once that she was bothered by paranoia. She is,” Nicole continues, gaining a pointed look from her brother. “Not the kind we originally assumed. She worries of hurting those she cares about. One way to absolve that is to stop letting people close. To not overly care about anyone.”
“She is not heartless.”
“I am not saying that.” Nicole returns the stare, the link acting as though it may shift to a challenge. “You act as you do out of defense for her. You know that does no good. I am not the one attacking her.”
Skothiam releases a deep sigh, looking away. He has more of his drink, noting it is nearly gone. He refrains from making another.
“There is more,” Nicole resumes, then adding as though the coax of a sharp needle, “Whatever she saw in the waters of the fountain.”
“What?”
“She saw something in those waters.”
“How do you know? She didn’t say anything about that.”
“Zoe did.”
Though it sometimes feels like mistrust, they generally conduct debriefings as a team and then individually. Not only are their different senses and vantages to consider, but the very nature of what they do is mysterious, even compromising. Zoe had said little during the group meeting, but she had found her voice when away from Lilja.
“You were there when Zoe gave her version of the events. You know she mentioned the fountain and the effect it had on Lilja. You are still acting in blind defense of her. If it bothers you so much, then stop-”
“I won’t remove her from field work,” Skot quickly says, then more contemplatively, perhaps even sorrowfully, “we both know she’d carry on independently, anyway.”
“Which is even more dangerous.”
Skothiam nods.
Time stretches, a weighty quiet. Nicole studies her brother, the Head of the Family. She looks to almost go into a trance, such is her unblinking focus. He does not notice, lost in his own mental travels.
“They are targeting her,” he finally speaks, musing. “Why? Zoe is much more experienced and a blood member of the family-”
“And Zoe is more stalwart in the face of such attempts.” Nicole cuts into his thoughts.
Skothiam looks over, another small battle of stares.
“I begin to worry of many things,” Nicole speaks, her words floating like a prophecy.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Lilja is marked,” she expands, holding place like a statue, studying her brother closely. “For whatever reason, they are laying traps for her. Such effort cannot be dismissed.”
He exhales into a nod, then decides to refill his drink. He moves to the bar service, taking his time with the selection of ice cubes and pouring of fine scotch. Nicole sees it, knowing he is trying to buy time, trying to avoid the picture being painted before him.
“The heptagram … and the strange word they found – ananael,” he leads.
“It is Enochian.”
“The language of the Angels?”
“If one is inclined to believe Edward Kelley. Not the most reputable fellow, according to several sources,” Nicole remarks.
Skothiam nods, familiar enough with this but not familiar enough to have so immediately recognized the word.
“What does it mean?”
“Secret wisdom.”
He nods, slowly, thoughts careening through his mind.
“It would be simple enough for the artist to have known of this and painted the word of his own volition.”
“Of course.”
“But there is something else.”
“Hmm?” He looks over to his sister, the silence having again grown.
“Allow me some time to check into these things, then I will tell you more.”
*****
Water. Droplets falling like a natural metronome. They create a soothing rhythm, one that speaks of calm even as it acts a herald to change unseen and unseeing.
Varjolilja. Why was he even there? Why did that demon take on his face?
Lilja strikes the punching bag with a particularly powerful blow, following it up with several more. Her hands are taped, but they will end this exercise bloody. She is not conducting class, nor having one of her post-class workouts. This is exercise she craved, hoping to face the whispers in her own mind, or at least perhaps elude them.
What did it mean for them to invert her shadow? Varjolilja …
She bounces lightly on her feet, hardly thinking of such movements, face seeming calm, but furrows take it as the doubts take her. Her lips barely part, showing clenched teeth, and she strikes the bag again and again and again.
She is not a bad person.
She teaches her classes to help women. She is a good girlfriend to Skot. She protects the book!
Lilja lashes out again, hoping to punctuate each point, rising forth with a knee, then a kick. It is as if each hit hopes to dig a trench for her resolve. Yet doubt proves a merciless adversary.
Still, she has been approached to expand her classes, to teach men, to teach emergency workers, police, even military personnel. She has declined all of those. Why?
And Skot … Skot has been very patient with her, though she knows he wants more commitment. He doesn’t press, but she knows he remains here in the City for her, not for the Book. He would marry her if
given the chance. He’d welcome her back in their palatial manor in the United States. She avoids all of those. Why?
The chains holding the punching bag rattle out their resistance as her strikes again intensify. She dances about, the only breath given forth coming from her exertions. She does not call out any of her hits, though she also does not care if anyone is about that might hear her. She is focused, determined, still working on a dual front of conquering and evading. She knows in the back of her mind that those two do not work together, but she is not exactly sure how to rectify the situation. She has run before, fled, escaped, or so she thought.
Why was his face on that demon?
And she hears the name again, like a petal fluttering on warm winds, the edge tickling at her flesh as it tumbles by – Varjolilja.
She is not a shadow! Punch, punch, punch!
The bag does not move of its own accord. It is not a cogent opponent. She fights the whispers, she flings her fist in an effort to smash that tickling petal, to destroy it.
They inverted her shadow. Did they take a part of her and taint it? Do they merely show what is already there? Punch, punch, punch!
She finally stops, realizing tears have welled up and fallen in streaks down her face. She also bears a sheen of sweat. She is thankful no one has seen. She grabs a nearby towel, wiping her face. She heads to the shower, knowing a good, long time beneath the blast of the hot water will do her good.
Other things do not clean so easily.
*****
Therese has done as asked. It had been a strange request. She had been eager for something, she had to admit, having heard nothing from the elusive vigilante for some time. She had watched the news, her electronic sniffers doing a better job than the normal outlets, and nothing of note had been found. The City, for once, seemed to be enjoying a calm.
She knew it was something worth celebrating, but she missed the work.
Soul of the Butterfly Page 4
