He takes the data key, then moves to put the rest of the package in the room’s safe. Once secured, he walks back over and boots up his laptop, slipping the key in its port. The information contained within tells of the weapon, giving some basic specifications and things to note regarding the customization of it and the bullets. The majority of the data pertains to the serial killer.
He sees reports, analyses, photographs, many of which are from the Police or Coroner’s office, information he likely should not have. He becomes engrossed in the information, his brow slowly furrowing as he takes it all in, skimming over some parts, giving much more attention to others. He has not completely forgotten about his drink, picking it from time to time to partake of it.
He sits back, letting the knowledge absorb into him just as he swallows more of the liquor, feeling the simmering burn caused by both. He ruminates. An outside observer might wonder if he has lost vitality, such does a stillness settle over him. He finally blinks, once, heavily, breath returning to his body in the motion of his chest beneath the dark pajama shirt. He picks up his sleek, thin phone, placing a call, but as expected, the ringing resolves over to the voice mail. He does not leave a message, instead he switches modes and sends a text to the caller, hoping this will result in gaining better attention.
His sister, Nicole, is notoriously difficult to get a hold of, being a woman of many talents and pursuits. He could call her husband, but he’d rather not involve anyone else at this juncture. He just wants information, the sort which she is best suited to provide.
His thoughts wander again to Lilja, for she is a caretaker of knowledge. His lips slowly curl up into a smile, a subconscious gesture as he ponders more on her. She brought up Nicholas Rémy’s Daemonolatreiae libri tres, and though it could have been the results of mere cross-referencing, he wonders how much more she might know of the particular subject, namely that regarding witchcraft, the supernatural, the infernal.
He sips further of his drink, wondering how much more of the veil he ought to lift for her.
*****
“That day, the witches are wandering around, gathering supplies for their journey to Mount Kyöpeli, a sacred magical shrine for magic users. They go door to door, selling spells and good luck charms. It is like Halloween, but a much older tradition. Children dress up as witches and sell spells and lucky charms for candy and goods. It is basically similar to trick-or-treating from Halloween in the USA, but instead of the subtle threat of a ‘trick’ if a ‘treat’ is not received, the children provide good luck magic to people and receive the treat as payment.”
Lilja pauses in the lecture, looking out over the small gathering, for this is not a formal class, but she had been asked to give a short presentation on lesser known holidays, something with a voluntary attendance. She knows some professors had offered their students a form of credit for attending, and some people are genuinely interested, so she is not speaking to a nigh empty room.
She wears her usual dark colors, but instead of black, she is dressed in deep reds and rich browns, almost as though she represents the fullness of fall even as she discusses an obscure day that is more a harbinger of the vitality of spring. Her form-fitting turtle neck is crimson, the neck of it somewhat loose, hanging in a gentle swoop of drapery, revealing a portion of her throat. She has tied up her hair into a rather utilitarian-seeming bun.
Her skirt tapers down along her slim hips, stopping just at her knees, the color of dark chocolate, sometimes even catching a sheen when hit properly with the lights. She also wears stockings, adding a smoothness and the whisper of a darker hue to her pale skin. She moves about atop her four inch heels, a graceful surety in the motion within the dark pumps.
She pauses, the small device in her hand which may advance the presentation or even emit a beam to point out certain portions of the visuals, looking out over the gathering. She raises her chin as she spies something.
“Yes?” she looks in the direction of a raised hand, perking her eyebrows as a bid to speak.
“Is it always that day?”
“The last Sunday of March. Always,” Lilja answers, then going on to intone in her mother tongue, her voice rich, sure, even lilting a bit as though adding a hint of song to the verse:
‘Virvon varvon
Tuoreeks terveeks
Tulevaks vuodeks
Vitsa sulle
Palkka mulle’
“That is the most common spell, and it means - I make you, or this household, fresh and healthy for this upcoming year. Lucky wand for you, price for me. And thus the ‘witch’,” she continues, raising her hands and making the unmistakable ‘quotes’ sign with her fingers, “receives the price, usually sweets, and gives the wand as a lucky charm. Wands are made from the willow tree, a magical tree for Finns, and decorated by the witch themselves.”
She nods toward another raised hand.
“So, in Finland, witches are not automatically treated as bad?”
“No,” she shakes her head once, more of a slowly shifting movement, “Witchcraft is a very big part of Finnish history, culture, and religion. Though we had good witches, and black magic was not allowed.”
“Where is Mount Kyöpeli?” asks another, not waiting to be called upon but pitching the question in the ensuing silence.
She turns her eyes in that direction, still meandering as she talks, the images on the large screen changing in a series of slow dissolves, giving backdrop to her words.
“You can only get there by flying and magic. It is said to be located in a secret place, close to the border of Tuonela, the Finnish land of dead.’
“It is also said that it is actually possible physically, or even mentally, to travel in Tuonela and go have a chat with your dead friends and relatives and other people,” she carries on, a curve to her lips. “There are tales that witches and sages have traveled there to learn long lost lore and spells. Only problem is that it's very hard to get back from there. There are many guardians. Cats are but one example in our own world.”
And before long, the lecture is concluded, and everyone is filing out. She had hoped he would be here, but he had an unfortunate timing issue with an appointment he could not miss, one that had been arranged long in advance. He even toyed with the idea of cancelling or rescheduling, but she had begged him off of that, not wanting to inconvenience him too much for this. He had asked to be allowed a copy of her presentation, along with a write-up, which she had happily agreed to provide. He had also suggested she might give the lecture again, to him, as a private lesson. She smiles a touch bashfully lost in that thought, as she gathers up her things.
“Well done, Ms. Perhonen,” says a voice, and it carries well, for they are the only two now left in the chamber, and the man speaks with a clear, deliberate intonation.
She looks up, knowing who it is by the sound of that speech, her enjoyable thoughts and mood gone completely.
“Professor Malkuth,” she greets, her eyes on the well-dressed, handsome man as he wanders toward her, having obviously been sitting in the rear, “I did not realize you were here.”
He lets his lips take on the barest of curls at this admission, though it does not last long, resolving back to his more congenial expression.
“I do hope it is alright that I attended, though I am obviously not a student,” he says, and he tries a grin on her which fails to yield any sort of positive response. “I heard mention of your lecture, and I must confess, the subject matter appeals to me, and I could not pass up a chance to watch you at this sort of work. I had no idea you were such an accomplished public speaker.”
She says nothing, for he has not asked any question, so she continues gathering up her things, powering down her laptop, placing it in the small black carrying case, finally looping the single strap over her shoulder. She then sets her eyes back on his, for he has also not seen fit to move away or say any goodbyes during this time.
“I am glad you enjoyed it, Professor,” she finally says.
&nbs
p; “Mmm,” he nods, thoughtfully, eyes drifting away in contemplation, or the appearance of such, before looking back upon her, “I also wanted to congratulate you on your recent, quite amazing acquisition to the Rare Collection.”
She just looks at him, her eyes steady. After a moment, she blinks.
“What acquisition might that be?”
“Ah, well, yes, one of the books I asked about, one on my list, the one I emailed you,” he persists, and she finally gives him a sort of reaction with the nod of her head, “A rather important one on that list, if I may say, perhaps even the most important, well it seems it is now in your collection, so I presumed you must have made that acquisition very recently, hmm?” he finishes, his hands having gone together in an interlacing clasp of fingers, his well-tended eyebrows perked up above his self-satisfied smile.
Despite her easy tendency to blush in certain situations, there is no response at all to indicate she may have been ensnared, but her mind is reeling. She had to have known he would find out, but her recent distractions of late have perhaps made her willing to accept less than general avenues of approach to potential problems. She begins trying to figure out how he found this knowledge. The inventory of the collection is certainly not that much of a secret, but she had actually taken some recent precautions on how that particular title may come up in more public inquiries. And if he knows they have the book, he may well know when it was brought into the fold.
“It was not a recent acquisition,” Lilja says, still giving him that impartial look.
He blinks, his brow wrinkling, head moving to the side, “Oh?” he says, playing the consummate actor, “I wonder, then, why you told me it was not in the collection?” and he throws that perk of his eyebrows back on the end of the question, as though he is harmless and deserves all answers.
“I suppose I missed it when I glanced through your index,” she offers. “I am sorry. I have been very busy lately, so I did not give your list that much time.”
“Ah, a pity, but no matter, I was able to rectify this … oversight,” he says, his speech as polished and premeditated as a skilled politician’s, his hands now separated as he talks. “I do realize you must be a very busy woman, Ms. Perhonen, and they even have you giving lectures now in addition to all your other duties,” he announces, smiling.
“It is something I do from time to time,” she intones.
“Indeed,” he says, pondering a bit before his smile grows to show some of his teeth. “Well,” he clips, inhaling a sharp breath, “Is your interest in witchcraft just academic, or is it personal?”
“Regardless of the answer to that, I am here, giving this information in an academic capacity,” she answers, still just standing there, facing him, eyes not wavering, her right hand on the top of her case, ready to leave at any moment.
“Ah, yes, I see, well, I was just curious,” Denman says, putting on the touch of an apologetic smile, and she can see the intent of this, hoping to give her reason to think she has over-stepped and needs to make amends.
“Curiosity is something with which I am quite familiar,” she speaks, and though it is not the hoped for reaction, she can sense she has given him a morsel, and she inwardly, and silently, curses herself for it.
“Ah, yes, curiosity,” he tastes the word, “Are you curious about that book in your collection?” he asks, his fingers again interlaced, his eyes not giving a centimeter of ground in their staring battle.
“I am curious about every book in the library’s Rare Collection.”
“Well, yes, of course,” he somewhat dismisses, releasing his right hand for a little wave to that effect, before slipping them back together, “But this book is unique, extremely valuable, does it not warrant more than the usual amount of curiosity?”
“It has been thoroughly authenticated. We know of its rarity and value, and thus it is under the most secure protection we have available.”
“How very nice,” he says, letting his statement take on a tone of condescension. “You must realize that a book of such rarity and value would be coveted by others.”
“There were other interested parties when it was made available. The school won out.”
“Indeed, and I do offer my sincere congratulations, even if it is not a recent addition,” he replies, still just looking at her.
The moment lingers, and she can tell he wants more, but she has decided she is not inclined to give it.
“If you’ll excuse me, Prof-,” she tries, but he cuts her off.
“I would imagine that some of those interested parties, as you put it, may be unhappy that they do not have it. There may be, even now, new interested parties who want it … badly.”
“Professor Malkuth,” she says, sternly, “If you do not mind, I-,” and she is interrupted again.
“The Book is a danger.”
Lilja shakes her head very slightly, eyes blinking from a wrinkling of her forehead, and she figures he misspoke or she misheard.
“How is the book in danger? We have it under very tight security, even water and fireproofed-.”
“The book is not in danger, Ms. Perhonen, it is a danger,” he reiterates.
“What?” she finally gives in, the word clipped, demanding.
“It is a danger because there are people who want it, people who will stop at nothing to get it, and it is a danger because of the knowledge it holds. You were lecturing on witchcraft just now, magic, spells. Do you believe in any of that, Ms. Perhonen?”
“I don’t see how that is relevant,” she says, eyes widening somewhat.
“You are correct, of course, it isn’t, but what is relevant is that those who covet the book do believe in it, and they will not let you stand in their way to acquire it. Are you willing to give your life for that book?”
“Professor Malkuth,” she says, using some effort to keep a calm tone of voice, “I am leaving now.”
He watches as she walks away, the clicks of her heels very steady, though she does not rush or storm out. She continues to show that measure of control, though he knows he cracked it a bit, just a bit.
“Goodnight, Ms. Perhonen,” he calls out after her, not even sure if she has heard it, but he adds a little teasing tone to the end, just in case she is still in earshot.
He remains there after she has left, looking about the room, pondering, seeming to almost try to focus in on residual energies that may not be so easily visible to the common senses. He wonders further at her guardianship of the book, for he assuredly thinks of her thusly. She is no mere curator, but a protector, a fortitude and drive that appears inherent in her very nature. And now this curious, intriguing morsel – the very subject of her lecture, paganism in Finland.
She hails from a land with an interesting culture and a quite tolerant attitude toward the practice of witchcraft. She spoke of being able to travel to worlds beyond the corporeal one in which humans live, and though that land may be conveniently referred to as a Land of the Dead, there was mention of witches being able to go there in life.
How much do you know, Ms. Perhonen, he finds himself pondering yet again.
He had already begun to think of her as an enigma, and that idea only strengthens. There is much more to her than he had initially thought, and now he knows he must learn as much of that as he is able.
*****
Therese sits in the chair opposite the desk, watching as the other woman looks over the printed sheets that had lately been stuffed unceremoniously into a manila folder. She sucks on the left inside of her lip, darkly-lined eyes peering about as she waits, somewhat impatient but almost bothered. Her black jeans cling so tightly to her thin legs as to appear more a textured paint than pants, giving greater contrast to her clunky, black boots. She also wears a black leather jacket over a hoodie and t-shirt, despite the continued warmth in the air outside.
The woman behind the desk, one Ilona Salomon, appears a vision of professionalism compared to the other in here, though in truth, she opts for practicality in
her appearance – sensible shoes with rubber soles, basic button-down shirt tucked into her trousers, somewhat masculine-seeming even, a point that has sometimes been used to disparage her.
She finally looks up at the hacker, “I assume there’s more than just this.”
The other moves her eyes to meet those of the older woman, and she nods her head.
“There’s always more with you, Therese,” she says, somewhat as an aside, somewhat laced with exasperation, then, more pointedly. “What are you hoping to do with this?”
“Make a difference,” comes the almost muttered response.
“Since when do you care?” the reply shows quickly, not pitched as scathing sarcasm but actual curiosity.
Therese just keeps looking, boring her own eyes into those of Ilona’s, whose eyebrows finally lower as she realizes how serious the other is.
“This is dangerous stuff, Therese,” she continues, gesturing with the now closed manila folder, “We normally work on deep background check, insurance fraud, aggressive validations-”
“I know that,” the almost muttered words cut her off.
“Then why bring this to me?” she presses, still holding onto the folder, which Therese takes as a good sign,.
“Because I trust you,” comes the simple answer.
The taller, stouter woman pulls in a stabilizing breath, then exhales it smoothly. She is not unused to potentially troubling, even confrontational situations, but she still likes to be careful.
“I trust you too, Therese, and that is one of the reasons I take this seriously, why it worries me, and why it doesn’t seem like you.”
Dance of the Butterfly Page 21
