Dance of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  It lunges again, taking up one of the men in its hands, bending him in two with little effort, breaking him at his lower spine, gore exploding and pouring from the victim, then casting the pieces aside. One of the remaining mobsters has gone still and silent from shock, sitting there where he has fallen, no longer firing, eyes locked on the unnatural beast. Denman peels up from the shadows, the blade of his weapon dragged over the man’s neck. She sees this, anger taking her, her face tensing, and she rises from her hiding place, firing the rest of her pistol’s ammunition futilely at the monster. She ejects the magazine, ignoring it as it clatters to the ground, obviously taken up in the intensity of the situation, sliding her last in place, chambering the first round, then continuing to steadily walk closer, firing and firing and firing into the loathsome beast.

  It seems hardly concerned, as though it is enduring blunted bee stings, turning instead to the person closer, the one who has pulled forth a .50 caliber Desert Eagle and fired these much larger bullets into it, hitting two of its more than a dozen faces. Those mouths cry out in unison, pain and anger, and it springs forth again, moving its serpentine body with preternatural speed.

  Gnegon screams as he is crumbled beneath its weight, the monster rolling and writhing over the man, sounds of shattering bones coming forth like the snaps of wet wood, the crime boss’ resistant yells turning from his own anger to the unmistakable cries of someone enduring mortal pain. Lilja stands there, horrified, watching, as the thing positions itself better over the man, those many mouths latching onto him, feeding, the large, skeletal-seeming hands working over the form sickeningly, caressing and pumping the body to better force out the vitae.

  “Dear gods,” she whispers.

  Then she spies more movement, a flash of color, and the beast cries out, jerking spasmodically, and she sees that Denman is pressing the close attack. She holsters her spent sidearm, jerking free her katana and rushes in to help.

  As the thing turns to retaliate against Denman, she comes in from behind, slicing out and cutting deeply into it. She was not sure what to expect, but the beast’s flesh yields readily enough to the keen edge, the blade passing through with more than half its length, and a dense spray of ichor erupts, some of it splashing onto her. It yowls again, its mouths causing a storm of sound that proves nearly paralytic, and it turns to face this new attack. Judging from the jerks of its body, Denman continues to apply wounds, but she is taken by the haunting look of those empty eyes staring at her. She still moves though, turning her wrists so the blade again faces the beast, and she pulls her arms back for better force, slicing across and upwards, cutting through several of those horrible, mask-like visages.

  It screams more, agony now, unsure which to attack, lashing out with both ends. She and Denman move away with practiced ease, slashing and stabbing, causing more of that odiferous fluid to blast forth from within, as though the thing may be comprised of not bone, muscle or organs, merely this gelatinous substance. They continue to engage it with a savage ferocity, and eventually it lies prone, collapsing on itself, those eyes managing to look blank now, the mouths slack, the lengthy fingers dangling, useless.

  “Not bad,” he says to her, and the compliment is uttered seeming without any begrudging.

  She looks at him, her eyes beaming out with a brilliance, her form quite covered in that slime, as is he. It would be comical, but she finds little humorous about the arrogant man or their situation. She then looks over.

  “Skot!?” she calls out, for he has ceased his machinations, now down on his knees, head hanging; she rushes over, taking him in her stained arms, seeing that his eyes are half-open, “Skot? Skot!? Are you alright?”

  “He’s just drained, from closing the gateway,” Denman says, gesturing, and she looks over to see that indeed the fissure is gone.

  “I’ll be alright,” a weak voice manages, and she looks back to see Skot giving her a thin smile, but that expression falters as he looks her over, “You … are you alright?”

  “Yes,” she smiles, laughing lightly, giving him a deep hug.

  “Good, good,” he manages, hugging her back, albeit much more weakly, then, as he picks up his head, “Where is Denman?”

  “So, you’ve proved your usefulness,” the Professor of Philosophy says, looking down at Ernst.

  Throughout the final conflict, the young man had moved from hiding place to hiding place, finally stopping in a locale that has not proven very adequate but did give him some distance from the goings-on. He also has again lapsed into a somewhat catatonic state, eyes drooped, a sheen of drying drool on his mouth and chin. He does not seem to register the presence of the other.

  “Hmmm?” Denman continues, looking over the poor youth, “Have you finally broken? Was this too much for you? Perhaps so,” he answers his own question, his hand tightening on the handle of his weapon, “I could easily put you out of your misery,” he says, readying to take a step closer.

  “Stop.”

  He turns, seeing Lilja coming up to him, the blade still in her hand.

  “What?” he retorts, that smirk going to his lips.

  “I said stop,” she repeats, then she brings the tip of the katana up to very near his neck.

  He blinks, eyes going wider, though he still keeps much of his aplomb.

  “That’s enough killing,” she says, looking very serious.

  “Is that so?” he chides, unworried of the lethal promise so close to his throat.

  “Yes, it is,” and this solid reassurance comes from Skot, who walks up to the pair, giving a piercing look to Denman, “As I said earlier, he is coming with me,” he refers to Ernst.

  The other quickly assesses his situation, then, “Fine. I’ll leave you Felcrafts to clean up this mess then.”

  Skot sets his eyes on him, letting the moment linger just a touch, then, “Get out.”

  Denman backs away, slowly, then when sufficiently distant, he turns, heading away from the room.

  Skot then looks at Lilja, his eyes changed to something much more caring.

  “I am sure you have many questions, but I need to make some phone calls. This area needs to be secured and cleaned.”

  “You are also drained,” she points out.

  “Yes, that is true,” he agrees, giving her a gentle smile, but it drops when she does not return it, “I want to explain everything to you. I just need some time.”

  “I think I need some, too,” she says.

  He nods, just looking at her, and he is very relieved that she does not look away.

  “May I call on you soon?” he asks.

  She finally speaks, “Okay.”

  Epilogue

  She sits in front of her monitor, looking over more of the same sort of information she has been perusing now for some hours. She sips of her coffee, eyes having some difficulty continuing to focus. She looks down when she hears the noise, smiling at Dali.

  “Miau,” she replies, their usual conversation, but then she peers more steadily at him, “So, you could see them all this time, huh?” she asks, and he looks up from rubbing against her leg to give another meow.

  Reading about cats being able to sense otherworldly entities and being able to travel between worlds, sometimes even acting as guardians or gatekeepers, had been nothing new to her. Still, she’d never been so brazenly shown the existence of such things. She pulls in a deep breath, exhaling loudly though her mouth.

  She starts lightly as Dali springs up into her lap, then rolls her eyes, giving another exhale, her lips curled into a warm smile. She immediately goes to petting the large cat, and his purring resonates loudly. She reaches for the mug with her free hand, taking a slow, contemplative taste.

  This research has not been terribly extensive, for how could such a thing as she has now witnessed still be secret if real information of it were so readily available? The effort is more an exercise in trying to focus her thoughts, otherwise they’d be running about in such a chaos she’d have little hope of making anything
fruitful of them.

  She does not feel betrayed, the shock of the revelation having cleaned such thoughts and feelings away quite well. She also cannot lose sight of the fact that she has kept her own secrets. There are demons, they are quite real, and Skot hunts them, even uses something that she cannot help but think of as magick to fight them and close off their access to this world. She is the vigilante. She goes out some nights dressed like an urban ninja and engages very dangerous criminals in violent situations. They both have kept secrets, and now, they will decide how much to share and explain to one another.

  After a time, there is a knock on the door. She gently pats Dali’s rear, encouraging him to move as she stands, padding slowly over on socked feet. She’s been in pajamas since she woke, just giving her face a fresh scrub and a good brushing of her hair. She knows who it is at the door, or at least, she is expecting him. A peek through the peephole proves that it is indeed him, and she opens the door.

  “Hello, Lilja,” Skot greets, smiling warmly, though she can sense something of the anxiety behind it.

  He is dressed relatively casual himself, though she suspects many people may not see it that way. He wears a light coat against the coming chill in the air, and he holds a bouquet of a half dozen white and red variegated tulips.

  “For you,” he announces, noticing her gaze, proffering them.

  A curl traces over her lips as she receives them, “Thank you,” then turns, letting him inside, “They’re beautiful,” she adds, heading into the kitchen to give the stems a trim before settling them into a thin vase, adding water.

  He follows her inside, closing her door, then turning to see the cat standing there, looking up at him. A meow is given.

  “Hello, Dali,” he greets, smiling pleasantly, and the feline meows again, moving in to press at his lower legs; he bends to give a brief pet, then goes into the kitchen with Lilja.

  He merely watches, trying to gauge something of her, observing how she handles the flowers, her deft fingers moving over the delicate stems. So much has changed recently, and yet, he hopes some things have stayed the same. He understands what stress may do, but it need not always cause things to break.

  “Would you like some coffee?” she offers, glancing over at him as she finishes the arrangement.

  “No, thank you. Might I have some water, instead?” he tries on more of a smile.

  “Sure,” she replies, somewhat returning the expression.

  She fetches a large glass from the cupboard, turning the tap to cold, waiting a moment then filling the glass from the faucet, handing it to him.

  “Thank you,” he raises the glass, drinking down some of the cool, clean liquid.

  “Want to sit?” she invites, gesturing to the couch, and he nods, so they both move over, taking places on the couch, turning to face one another, not touching but not as far apart as the couch would permit.

  “Shall I just begin with some explanations, or did you have specific questions?” he finally speaks into the growing silence, noticing that any semblance of warmth or affection that may have seemed ready to grow upon her has now gone.

  “Tell me about the demons,” she says, bringing her mug up from where it is held in her lap by both hands, taking a sip, eyes not drifting from him.

  He nods, “Alright,” then taking another drink of his water, pulling in a breath, preparing himself.

  “Demons and devils exist,” he says.

  “Devils?” she interjects.

  He nods, “Yes, devils, or what we perceive as very rare, very powerful entities that seem to live in the same realm, acting in some leadership capacity.”

  “Are they like fallen angels?”

  “Some think so.”

  “Some think so?” she queries, confusion appearing on her features.

  He pulls in another breath.

  “Lilja, I will do my best to explain this to you,” he begins again, his hands now free of the glass, moving them a bit toward her, turning them out in bid to take her hands, but she does not move to engage it, “We have many records in my family, going back for generations. Some things we feel confident that we know as real, but some things are still inference, some more like legend or myth.’

  “We know there is at least one other plane of existence out there, and that it is possible for gateways to form between it and our own. They can use those gateways in various ways, dependent on several factors. We know that the … occupants of that realm are not very pleasant, and they harbor ill will toward us if not outright malevolence.”

  “Can we go through the gates to their world?” she asks.

  “No,” he answers, “And we don’t understand why. It’s been tried, and there is even a legend of a Hunter doing so a long time ago.”

  “But I saw the opening,” she remarks, “It looked like I could have gone through.”

  He nods, slowly, “Yes, it does, so perhaps I should say that it seems possible we can use the gates, but not one of us, ever, has come back.”

  She takes a moment to ponder this, then, “So, are they demons?” she asks, her tone somewhat flat, demanding.

  “That is a common belief, and for convenience, that is the word we use, but we do not have enough information, at least in my opinion, to be sure. We refer to them as demons, and we refer to their world as the Infernal.

  “But this seems to also assume a belief in certain Judo-Christian concepts, namely that of God, Heaven, Angels, Hell, etc.”

  “There are no angels?” she asks.

  “We don’t know,” he admits, “There are many who believe that there are. We have allegory to support it, but the information we have is not as substantial or verifiable as what we have on the demons and their home.”

  “Then how do you know they are demons and devils?”

  “As I said, we’re not completely sure, but,” he pulls in a breath, “we have to call them something, so we call them that. And there is an obvious distinction between two broad types, if you will, of creatures that dwell there, so we call the less populous and much more powerful ones ‘devils’ and the others are ‘demons’. It seems somewhat obvious to us that the devils have a different make-up, which leads to thinking they may also have a different origin.”

  “Was that .. one at the end … the thing with all the faces, was that a devil?”

  “Oh, no,” he says, “That was a demon, though more powerful than the others. Devils rarely can get to our world so directly. They have to use influence, minions, as it were. And they are significantly more powerful.”

  He pauses, looking at her, giving her a moment to say anything or react, if she is so inclined. She has another sip of her coffee, returning his gaze, then she nods.

  “Okay?”

  “We’re rather thankful that the devils are unable to as easily reach this plane,” he resumes, giving her a somewhat hesitant look, moving his hands together, fingers interlacing, “You see, they seem bent on conquering this world, and their inability to get here freely and en masse is all that stops that.”

  “Aren’t you helping to stop that?” she asks, and it is not exactly what he expected, and he is relieved to hear such a practical response.

  “Well, yes, we are,” he says, smiling lightly.

  “And the Malkuths, too?”

  “Ah, yes, as a matter of fact,” he says, his appearance subtly changing at mention of that name, “We are rivals, but we do share some similar goals. It is largely in our methods that we differ so strongly.”

  “How so?” she presses.

  “Well, both our families have been around a long time. We might even share common ancestry if you go back far enough and interpret the extant records in a particular way, but, well,” he pauses, collecting his thoughts, “We, the Felcrafts, we want to do this to protect humanity, to serve humanity, and I do not say this to be trite. We strongly feel that what we do, we do for the survival and betterment of humankind.

  “The Malkuths …,” he continues, looking at her, noticing t
hat her beautiful eyes do not falter from him as he speaks, “They feel that the best way to protect humankind is to rule it. They engage in activities that we find disagreeable, morally speaking, and they actively, though subtly, work to someday actually control all of humanity. It sounds silly, almost like some cartoonish villainy, but they do consider themselves better than others, and they look upon the rest of society as if cattle, or some such, over which they should lord and protect.”

  She narrows her eyes, “I noticed that Denman showed an obvious lack of respect for life.”

  He nods, “Yes. The needs of the many outweigh those of the few, that sort of thing, which they have distorted into thinking that if someone stands in their way, the best option is often to just kill them. They use this perversion of pragmatism to justify their methods while their end goal is nothing short of self-superiority.”

  She looks away, obviously displeased with this, then she returns her eyes to him, “Denman said he thought I’d fit better with you than him. Now I see why.”

  A brief blink of tension passes over him, then he merely nods.

  “I’ll give you another example,” he resumes, “Do you remember the poor, young man we found down there - Ernst?”

  She nods.

  “He possesses a sensitivity to the Demonic, the Infernal,” Skot explains, “As best we can tell, it’s genetic. Some people have it, most do not.”

  “Do you?” she throws in.

  He meets her eyes for a moment, the nods, “I do, yes, most Hunters do, to some extent or another. Ernst is one that could have become a Hunter.”

  “Could have?”

  “Well, I suppose he still could, but, as I am sure you can now attest, learning of the Infernal, of this ‘secret’ world, but not having anyone to help explain it to you, well that can be quite damaging. And Ernst is very sensitive. We’re going to help him as best we can.”