She nods.
“We are now both marked for death.”
“Everyone dies.”
“Of course they do, Therese, but do you want to be brutally murdered when still in your prime?” He pushes through her aloof façade. “Hmm? I have seen Denman Malkuth kill people in the blink of an eye, with no care.”
“So he is a Satan-worshiping serial killer.”
“Oh, no,” Duilio quickly says, and Therese looks up at him from where she had been staring at the floor. “The Malkuths fight the demons. They have convinced themselves that they are better suited to protect and rule humanity than anyone else, and they are coldly pragmatic. They will end any number of lives for what they feel is the greater good.”
“Jesus …”
“Yes, as you say … unbelievable.”
And Therese whispers the word at the same time he speaks it.
“Do you think the vigilante knows?” she asks him.
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“So,” she begins, and the tone gathers all his attention. “What are we going to do about it?”
*****
They carefully follow the shopkeeper through a short hallway and into a medium-sized room that feels all the smaller for being cluttered. Pieces of forgotten furniture share space with boxes and crates, these covered in dust and filled mainly with books. Skot is given to passively wonder why these reside in refuse. They make their way through, helping to move some aside to eventually find the unceremonious resting place.
The sarcophagus lies on the ground. It is carved of stone, showing age, despite this ageless place. It feels disrespectful to have it discarded so. Burning questions crowd his mind, but Skothiam voices none of them. He merely works with the others to push aside the heavy lid. Zoe is the only one who does not help, keeping a watchful eye on their host.
The body inside holds little more than bone and the tatters of clothing. There is no book, but within the dark and dust, a worn piece of jewelry may be seen – a necklace that holds the symbol.
“How do we even know this is him?” David asks. He does not look at the shopkeeper, expecting nothing of assurance from the curious man.
“Where is the Book?” Lilja demands, stepping up to the proprietor, and though she shows no outward sign of aggression, her force holds a veritable weight.
“It was not buried with him.” All eyes turn on him, and he cringes, shoulders crowding up as he tries to retreat. “I said I would show you the Guardian, and there he is!”
“We came for the Book,” Skothiam reminds, his tone so casual as to sound conversational.
“I know … but-”
“We’ve been very patient with you,” Skot continues. “You have lied to us, manipulated us, and you are working with someone opposed to us. Where is the Book?” He enunciates the question more emphatically, though the volume of his voice retains its normal level.
“Please understand, we are also trying to protect it.”
“I will not threaten your life,” Skot says, moving closer. The others move minutely away, and this does not comfort the shopkeeper in the slightest. “There are ways to plumb your mind without your cooperation. They’re not pleasant, but if we’re stuck here, then we shall try another way.”
The man looks between them, fright beading on his face with the sheen of perspiration. He begins to tremble. Skot waits a moment longer before turning back to the others.
“We’ll need to bring in a larger team, but let’s keep it small enough to not garner too much attention. We’ll lock the place up and confiscate the books. We need to go through every inch of this place and see if the Book is here. And if it isn’t,” he says, turning his eyes back to the shopkeeper, “we’ll see what clues we can find that will tell us where it is.”
“No,” the proprietor says, the word not much above a whisper. “You don’t need to do this. The Book is not here-”
“Earlier you tried to dissuade us from seeking it because it is some sort of heart of this place,” Skot interrupts. “Then that means it is here.”
“Y-yes, but it is not in my store.”
“Why do you have the Guardian here? Where is the Book?”
“This is the resting place. I have no choice.”
“Who does have a choice?” Zoe joins, giving him a pointed stare. “That woman I heard you talking to?”
“Who is she?” Skot continues. “Who’s doing all this?”
The proprietor’s fright grows. He looks at each of them, perhaps hoping to find a crack, some solace, something, but he sees no condolence there.
“I can tell you how to get to the Book.”
“No,” Skot says. “You’ll guide us to it.”
*****
Duilio remembers the place from his prior visit. He had not even wanted to come here, and his initial gut feeling had been to try to keep Therese from accompanying him. After recent events, he decided against it. She is persistent, and he wonders why it has taken him so long to understand and choose better when and how to try to influence her.
He had opted to call David Felcraft, hoping he might be able to reach out and find something like … sanctuary. He is not sure, but he and Therese must do something. They are in deep, but they will not give up on looking for a way out.
Therese, though, has proven impatient. Now with the cat out of the bag, her anxiety has understandably grown. She smokes like a chimney, making him feel sometime uncomfortable with it. She had initially questioned his idea about contacting the Malkuth’s rivals, but once his assurance had set, she dove all in.
Unfortunately, phoning David had yielded naught but voicemail and no return calls. Therese had grown more agitated as the minutes turned to hours, and then after only one day, she had taken a visible turn for the worse. Duilio wondered if she had slept at all, and he spied her popping a pill into her mouth before chugging coffee. He can’t blame her. How does anyone handle this sort of news in a healthy way?
So, here they sit, the car idling, outside the house that ostensibly belongs to Skothiam Felcraft. At least Duilio knows this is the one he visited back when this all was in its early stages. He hopes the man is home. He hopes he forgives the unannounced visit. The gates don’t open, so after unvocalized but obvious pressure from the somewhat jittery woman in his passenger seat, Duilio gets out and heads to the call box.
“May I help you?”
He gives a release of pressure that at least someone has answered so quickly.
“Uhm … yes. My name is Gaspare Duilio. I … apologize for coming without an appointment …”
“How may I help you, Mr. Duilio?” the voice politely interrupts.
“I have been here before. I … met Skothiam Felcraft. I- if possible, I would like to meet with him again. This is a matter of life and death.”
“One moment, please.”
Duilio stands there, waiting. He glances back to find Therese drilling holes into him with her eyes. He grits his teeth, preparing to hold up a hand to suggest she stay in the car, and that is when the gate opens.
He does not enter the property, though, as a smartly dressed young woman has come out to meet him.
“I am Victoria Felcraft.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Felcraft.”
“We have record of your having come here. You also participated in a field mission with some of ours, did you not?”
“Yes.” He nods, a bit shakily. “I did.”
“I’m sorry to inform you, but Skothiam is not here.”
“Ahhh.” Duilio looks away, then back. “Is David here, by chance?” He throws a sheepish sort of grin onto the inquiry, as if it might help.
“He is not. Skothiam and David are unavailable.”
A moment passes. Duilio does not do the best job of hiding his disappointment, and Victoria gives a glance to Therese before fixing Duilio with a studied gaze.
“I wish I could be of more assistance. Our records also indicate you are in the employ of the Malkuths.”
His eyes shoot to her, and he finally gives up another jittery nod. “That is correct.”
“Then you understand the complications this presents.”
“Uh … no.” He exhales into a grin that he hopes is charming. “I don-”
“We’re not sure how much we can trust you.”
“Ah … yes. Well, I’m not … uhm … gifted like-”
“We know.” She offers a polite smile.
“I … uhm.”
“I will let Skothiam know that you stopped by,” she says, slightly raising her eyebrows.
It is all the hint he needs.
“Well?” Therese presses after he has barely gotten back into the car.
“We’re on our own.”
Chapter Eleven
Their shambling through the throng does not go entirely unnoticed. As with others who come to visit this place, the regulars do not make it obvious that their focus has altered, their routine upset. The slower of the two stops at a stall, his pace less than that of his companion due to a pronounced limp. The other eventually realizes it and scurries back.
“Lance, what are you doing?” Pierce asks, ending the demand with a partially swallowed belch.
Lance glances at Pierce then back to the wares. “Something,” he begins but stops to cringe and hold his lower back.
“You suffer from pain?” the shopkeeper asks in thickly accented English, his general suspicion drying up at the potential of a sale.
“We all do,” Pierce quickly interjects, sharing an impatient look to both. He grabs at Lance’s wrist. “Come on.”
“Wait,” Lance says, moving his limb to avoid being pulled. He shifts closer to the curious products on display, but he instead focuses his eyes on the shopkeeper.
The man reels back from it, moving his head to gain some subtle distance. He shifts his eyes from one to the other. Lance finally turns back to Pierce.
“They were here.”
Pierce moves in. He takes a deep sniff, then, when the inhalation peaks, he erupts in a riot of coughs. The shopkeeper cringes, brow furrowing in a transition from disgust to anger.
“Get out of here! I don’t want your sickness on my goods.”
Pierce does not relent, curiously nosing about, getting a feel for the immediate area. Lance shuffles back, casting worried eyes at the owner. Some of those nearby take further notice, a few angling toward them.
“Pierce,” Lance whispers, trying to pull at his friend, his own stability wobbly.
“Where did they-” Pierce begins, bloodshot eyes on the shopkeeper, but he stops himself, waving a dismissive hand. “You don’t know.”
He backsteps, then looks around, registering the growing collection of people. This time, Lance lets himself be pulled away as the two make a reasonably paced exit of the area. The crowd watches, all eventually going back to their business as if on some unvoiced cue.
The shopkeeper continues to scowl, taking away some of the items that may have been in Pierce’s soiled path and putting them away for salvage or trash. He rearranges piles, hoping there has not been too much damage. He pauses, freezing, then looks up.
Nothing is there, but a sense of deep unsettling has seeped in like a furtive fog. His eyes move, trying to find what has changed, what has arrived. He then sees it, but for a flashing moment, and the yelp which begins deep in his throat is almost as quickly strangled. The sound is more like a failed breath, a wispy hiccup.
He is not sure what he has experienced, but even in this strange locale, it stands out. The passing moment gives way to a lingering sense of foreboding rather than any return to comfort. Those two have brought something in their wake that belies a greater power than originally thought.
The shopkeeper decides to close up for the day.
*****
The landscape has changed from dense urban to a thick darkness. There is enough light to see, and what it reveals shows a tortured venue of once lush forest. Lilja and David use small flashlights to illuminate as needed. All are armed, save their guide. They have made their way here in a span of time that feels too rapid and yet expanded with tendrils of fatigue. Skot looks again to the dark sky, noticing the twinkling of even darker stars. It would seem impossible, yet that sight meets his eyes. Occasional sounds interrupt the eerie stillness, scattered coughs, irritating scratches, and even the gurgling of fluid. They come upon a narrow passage of water, its current slow.
“We must cross to the other side,” says their guide, the book shop owner.
They have given up on questioning his every suggestion. It seems none of them possess sufficient sense to tell if this alien land holds promise or death. It is passive in its threat, giving forth nothing more than an unsettling grip as they delve further.
“No bridge?” David asks, shining his light along the water for the sign of any such structure. The darkness consumes closer than their vision would normally permit.
“No.”
“How deep is it?” Lilja asks.
“Not deep enough.”
They all look at him, curious. Is he making a threat? His aspect does not speak of such things. He appears resigned, as though having surrendered to his fate.
Lilja is first in the water, though Skot is close behind. They descend slowly, the liquid virtually impenetrable in its blackness, giving up the occasional glimmer of reflected outré light. They proceed slowly, crossing the languid flow.
The water is tepid, possessed of the same feeling of a lifelessness unrealized. The distance can be no more than ten meters, yet time is eaten by the laborious, slow trek. The water stops rising once it gets to Lilja’s hips. She continues to lead the way, glancing back occasionally to check on the others. When she returns her gaze forward, the light glints, and she stops immediately, noticing a shape beneath the surface. She flicks on her torch.
“What is it?” Skot asks as he steps nearer, his voice just above a whisper.
“There’s something under the water.”
They freeze. The sound of churning liquid continues from only one – their guide. He comes up to pass Skot and Lilja.
“Corpses.”
No words fall from their lips, but even in the still darkness, their inquiring gazes speak loudly enough.
“The stream bears them,” he continues. “They drowned themselves rather than face a worse fate.”
The Hunters look down, trying to pierce those depths, not for want of seeing but in realization of their surroundings.
“How do you know that?” Zoe challenges.
The man gives a noncommittal shrug, continuing to the other side. The hunters eventually follow, moving even slower now in hopes of avoiding the macabre occupants of the dark waters.
Once across, it does not take long to find themselves amidst trees and plagued by a foul stench. The wood of the plants shows signs of rot, the entire place decrepit and reeking. A buzzing reaches their ears. Lilja’s flashlight again finds life, and she directs the beam to a hive of bees on a nearby tree. The honeycomb is exposed, whatever fluidity may have once been now dried into a miasma of crusty waves and droplets. Despite this, the insects continue. Lilja’s light does not even seem to impede them. She quickly shuts it off.
“What is this place?” She asks the question on the forefront of all their minds.
“We are still in-between,” the proprietor says. “The Book is vital to these lands, but its power is not unlimited.”
Skot sets his gaze on him, but what is said next proves unexpected.
“Were it properly cared, vitality might return.”
“What?”
The man blinks, looking to Skothiam.
“I’m sorry. Nothing more than proverb.”
“That didn’t sound like proverb,” Lilja replies.
“It -” The man sighs. “This place is unsettling. Forgive me.”
Another distant, coughing sound rises, as though drifting on fog.
“And what’s that?” Skot asks as Zoe peers in the directio
n, using her keen senses to try to discern an answer to the inquiry pointed at their guide.
“I don’t know,” the man confesses. “I know some of this land, and I know the way to the Book, but I do not wish to know more.”
Skot then looks to Zoe. She shrugs, so they carry on.
“How do you know about this land?” Skot asks, gaining a peculiar look.
“I have been told … by a compelling … source.”
“The woman you were talking to about us?” Zoe pitches.
“Yes,” the man finally admits after some time.
“I’d like to know who that is when you’re ready to tell us.”
The man stops, turning his full attention to Skot. The others halt as well, watching, cautiously.
“You might change your mind once you do know.”
The noise of their guide’s resuming steps comes all too loud in the fetid air.
*****
The grounds of this place are well cultivated. The hills roll off toward the horizon, eventually giving way to less tamed growth. Trees clutter one border, swaying gently in the wind as though unafraid to remind of their presence. He has arrived here as summoned and walks some ways to get where he has been directed. He thinks of lighting up a cigarette but decides against it. He is anxious, and he is outside, but something prevents it.
He finally finds the man he is here to see standing just outside an enormous barn. Someone else is washing down the flanks of a gorgeous black horse. The beast stands there, content to be cleaned, pampered, its muscles occasionally twitching.
“Signor Duilio,” his host greets, turning to him as he arrives.
“Mr. Malkuth,” Duilio returns, dryly.
Denman quirks a brief grin, then wanders a bit away from the horse. Duilio follows.
“How are things with our little leak?”
“Fine. It was all coincidence.”
“So you’ve mentioned in your reports, but that’s hardly satisfying, hmm?”
Soul of the Butterfly Page 17
