Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  He’s been on this one’s trail for a while, hoping to catch glimpses like shadows from fire. Things had proved slow, methodical, taunting, as they are wont to be at times, until this most recent upheaval. They know he tails a powerful one, which is why this is his quarry. It would not do to send the untried to meaningless death.

  He stops atop another building, not far now from where he senses the latest disturbance. He slows, walking at a determined pace but mitigating his noise. He doesn’t think anyone will look up here, and even if they do, the shadows may well hide him, but he sees no reason to wantonly invite scrutiny. He pauses near the metal structure of an air vent, staying close to it as he peers across the four lanes of the street. He sees the yellow police tape, the real scene inside that other building. He’ll not get any closer, though, as the many lights crowning the vehicles announce the continued show. The police are not done with their investigation. It doesn’t matter to him. With the trail so fresh, he doesn’t need to get any closer. He stares, losing himself in his focus, and then he deeply draws in breath as though suddenly gifted with the ability. He blinks once, then moves his head in the direction he knows he must follow.

  A trail which leads to a room, this one constituting a small space. Three of those inside move about freely, but one, the fourth, sits in a chair, his thick, muscled arms pulled back and held by handcuffs. He seems not at all perturbed by this confinement as he looks at the others, his eyes piercing, challenging beneath the tangled, chaotic mess of his short, black hair. His sideburns stretch down to beside his ear lobes, also overgrown and unkempt, and his blunt chin looks as though it might be its own weapon. His overall appearance is one of generous, good health, swarthy in tone, and amused by his situation.

  “We got you at the scene, blood on you, so just admit what you did and tell us why.”

  The suspect’s eyes gaze intently into those of the detective, the man’s blazer on a hook outside the interrogation room, his shirtsleeves unrolled, one unbuttoned. His tie is loose, the collar of his white shirt undone. He does not look to be entirely past his prime, but he is on the downward slope.

  “Do you think having me handcuffed keeps you safe?” the man challenges, the edges of his lips curling into a grin.

  The two uniformed officers look from the man to the detective, a shimmer of unease coats them both like translucent oil.

  The detective walks closer, looking down at the prisoner. “I think you being handcuffed and unarmed while we’re armed and trained means we’re pretty safe, yes. Now … the question.”

  The man presses closer, the wood of the chair straining, as he closes the distances between himself and the detective, his prominent chin leading the way. The two officers move in, one on either side of the man, but then he sits back, looking at the pair, grinning more openly.

  He then lapses into a soliloquy, and the detective has heard it before. He moves away, wandering about as the man speaks, pausing, looking up at the ceiling in the tiring room.

  “… because I can, because I enjoy it, because you are all so pathetic,” the prisoner says, “and that is why you are not safe around me … ever.”

  The detective walks back over, his seething contained but not enough to completely conceal. He shares a lingering stare with the man before turning to one of the uniformed officers. “Kovar, go get the shackles for our guest here.”

  The amused twist to the man’s lips never leaves, his eyes going from one person to the other, as though hungry, until presently his ankles are held together by much thicker chains and metal than what makes up the handcuffs still about his wrists.

  “There,” the detective says, arms crossed as he regards his prisoner, “Satisfied?”

  The only answer he gets simmers through the ubiquitous grin on the man’s face.

  “Well?” he continues, “Answer the question.”

  The man peers up at the detective, eyes moving beneath his suborbital ridge, his mouth opening a bit further, showing more of his yellowed teeth, and then there is a flash of something in those eyes. Something that jars the detective, something he obviously does not want to see.

  The moment passes quickly, for it is then that the prisoner flexes his considerable muscles and breaks free from his bonds, lunging from the seat and lashing out with hideous speed, his left hand open, fingers slightly bent, tensed, the nails of those fingers tear through the flesh of the detective’s throat, blood erupting from the deep gash. The wounded man stumbles back and falls, his own hands coming up to clutch at his ruined neck as his life pumps out with the spreading spray of his blood.

  The two uniformed officers are momentarily stunned, eyes gone wide with shock. One reaches for his revolver, but the man is exceedingly quick, moving over to this nearer cop and again striking out with terrible speed and strength, using the thick nails of his fingers as deadly weapons, slashing at tender flesh. The third manages to pull his weapon, aiming and firing, and the sounds ring out loudly in the confined room. The man has turned, intent on dispatching the last of his interrogators, and he dodges with a deftness perhaps unexpected in one his size.

  He closes the distance even as the officer methodically retreats, still firing, but there is nowhere to go in the locked room. A third casualty arises in the chamber, more blood marking the walls and floor, some even splashed up onto the ceiling, such is the ferocity of the killing.

  The station is on alert, alarms ringing out to those here at this hour, and they are converging on the room just as the secured, metal door bows and bursts out from within, the reinforced hinges unsuitable to the task of the force applied. The bent piece of metal collides with the wall, and clanks to the ground. The man comes barreling out and into a barrage of bullets.

  His speed proves an amazement as he moves toward the firing line, dodging and weaving, though some of the shots find their mark, bloody wounds opening on the man’s shoulder, arm, and thigh, but such does not slow him in the least. His face is still that set mask of homicidal enjoyment, teeth clenched and bared, lips curled into some deformity of a smile, and all about lies, darkness, and blood.

  It takes a moment to reach the adrenalin-heightened brains of the police, but there is something not “right” about the man. Something in the way he moves and endures the ballistic wounding in his thick muscles, even something now in the way he looks, as though the growing shadow of the beast within has come more unto appearance. Still, these moments are like the flashes of lightning bugs, and out just as quickly, as the man moves systematically from one to another, executing them all, increasing the volume of the blood bath.

  He finally stops, as though the eye of the storm settling over a broken home. In his hand he holds the limp body of his latest kill, his impressive fist about the torn collar of the uniform. He looks toward the door, his eyes narrowing subtly.

  “You,” he utters in his basso voice, that determined grin increasing a few scant degrees.

  In the doorway stands the man who had been lately leaping across the rooftops, stalking, tracking, and now he has found his quarry. He steps in, holding position, looking with obvious distaste upon the other and the gruesome display he has wrought. He stands ready, his posture relaxed as one familiar with deadly fighting.

  The suspect drops the dead cop, turning to fully face the intruder, his lips curing into a smirk. “Dessert,” he says, lunging with a shocking suddenness, clawed hands leading the way.

  The other, the Hunter, pulls forth twin daggers, the blades nine inches in length, a darkly drawn runic pattern lining the sharp edges of the rich, deep gray metal. He holds his weapons with a practiced ease, moving forward to meet the attack, then aside, not wanting to let those powerful hands find purchase, and he counters with quick swipes, one dagger used more defensively than the other. The two part from their initial test, eyeing one another, neither having found their mark.

  Unwilling to offer too much of a respite, the man again attacks, bringing forth a flurry of blows, pressing, trying to use his advantage o
f size and strength to finish his opponent. The Hunter, though, proves more capable than those who so recently fell victim, dodging, returning the attacks, even suffering glancing blows without faltering. The man replies with his own ability, not allowing the ornately-tooled daggers to find a place in his flesh, and it may be seen how the weapons sometimes glow with luminescent edges in the scant moments before a potential strike.

  Despite the evident ferocity and speed, the fight is methodical, calculated, neither willing to make a mistake. The carnage left in the wake of the man’s activities this evening incenses the Hunter to no end, but he cannot afford to dim his wits with anger or passion. His face is almost a calm mask, his movement fluid, experienced, as the dance continues. His eyes do not always look directly at his prey as he moves with instinct, the motions almost a thing unto themselves. His opponent keeps his eyes locked on the other, as though they might consume in their eagerness. It seems the very vessels within rise up in great definition, threatening to tear free and lunge out to aid in the fight.

  And then, like the sudden snapping of bone, it is over.

  The two stop, the man still grinning, and an exhale emerges noisily from his gaping nostrils. The Hunter slumps, his outré weapons clanging to the ground as his fingers lose their tension. With his left hand, the man pushes on his opponent, angling his right downward, and the corpse slides away slowly, revealing the glistening, blood-soaked fist and forearm. The gaping, dark wound in the torso shows where the man has finally hit his mark, punching through his prey.

  “I can see your heart beating,” the man says, standing over the other as blood pools thickly.

  The Hunter says nothing in return.

  *****

  They move steadily, quietly, through the underground passageways, both wearing dark colors, both suits utilitarian. They had gotten to the entryway wearing reasonable civilian attire, carrying their packs, then geared up once in a more secluded place. Lilja strapped her leg holster over the cargo pants, then the combat harness atop the long-sleeved shirt, slipping on the tactical gloves before arming herself with the pistol and submachine gun. Her vibrant red hair is tied up in a high ponytail, a shemagh-scarf about her neck, the folds showing a dark pattern of black and shades of gray.

  Both of them wear combat boots as they trudge as silently as possible along the stone and concrete grounds, sometimes avoiding puddles of fluid, other times forced to move carefully through such when no other options afford themselves. They had come via abandoned metro tunnels to get here, moving along inexorably in a slow, creeping descent, further and deeper. Those footsteps, no matter how much they try, are not always sufficiently low of volume, and they even sometimes create echoes. Doubts may fill minds as to whether all such heard are indeed a reflection of sound waves or perhaps noises made by something else. This far down, they know they are not alone, so they try to make it as difficult as possible to draw the attention of any others.

  Skothiam leads the trek, one hand pointing a sleek flashlight, illuminating the way, the other holding his cane, the highly-polished and reinforced ebony promising more of a lethal than balancing function. He carries a custom-modified Walther P99 on the left of a shoulder holster, the other side sporting a pair of extra magazines. She carries her FN P90, leading hand about the fore grip, suppressor and subsonic bullets not part of this mission, such stealth unneeded. She keeps the tactical light on, sometimes adding to Skot’s beam, other times moving about and rear as she regularly checks that no one is watching or following. Whenever her angle passes him, Lilja lowers the barrel, her extended right index finger near, but not on, the trigger. She cannot shake the feeling they are being watched and followed.

  He knows the way, having been told it by his sister before they set out on this mission. They have taken him to this place, Nicole revealed, gleaning the information through one of her many inexplicable abilities, the ones that make her seem less of this corporeal world. Charles Felcraft, second cousin, thirty-eight years old, killed in battle, and his body had not been left where they might retrieve it and show it the proper honor. She had even discerned something of the nature of the demon that had slain him, a very powerful one, more powerful than they have encountered on earth in some time.

  How did it get here? What does its coming mean?

  These questions may be pondered afterwards, but for now, they need to deal with the body of their fallen.

  Deeper in the tunnels, and Skot moves his beam aside, peering. Lilja creeps up beside him, angling her barrel away. Her depthful blue eyes look up at him, curiosity on her features, then she stares further, trying to see what he sees.

  “What is it?” she whispers.

  “There.” He points with the hand holding the cane , “A light.”

  He flicks off his torch, and now she can indeed better see – a faint gleam ahead of them.

  They move within a careful pace, though both feel an eagerness to reach the source of the illumination. Once there, it shows that they have found a small underground church or shrine, rock carved into depressed shelves on the curving walls, a table rising up from the center as though grown from stone, its top spreading out, narrowly, the structure in the shape of a ‘T’. There are also sigils hewn into the walls. He knows many of them. She feels certain she recognizes some, having come across similar shapes in her capacity as librarian, researcher, and curator of a rare books collection at a prestigious private university.

  An ornate, metal brazier stands atop the table, casting an ominous red-orange hue throughout the chamber, smoke wafting up from it, the dark metal appearing to have given way to a good deal of rust. Lilja curls her top lip a bit, blinking, eyes glancing to Skot then back to the outré-seeming blaze. It smells weird to her, making the air blurry, and she pulls her scarf up to cover her mouth and nose. She gives another concerned glance to him, but though he has a history of respiratory illness and sensitivity, he acts unaffected by the smoke.

  He is intent on investigating the room, and he moves further in, examining the stone shelves, even the table and the brazier, the flames giving an eerie cast to his features. She knows he is more attuned to the “Shadow World” than is she, and she wonders what he sees. Still, she remains at the door, keeping close eye on the tunnels to her right and left.

  She strains to see and hear, knowing full well that an invisible attack is possible. Still, from what she has learned during her own time in training as a Hunter, the more invisible they are, the more difficulty they have in directly affecting the corporeal plane. Their lack of tangibility may be useful for many things but not generally in a straight offensive.

  And just as she thinks of this, she remembers their affinity with the shadow and darkness, both of which are in abundance here. She remains calm, alert, swooping her attention about these ways of ingress as well as keeping note of Skot inside the room. She then hears it, jerking her barrel in that direction.

  “We have to move,” she says, coming up to him.

  He retrieves a shiny object from a recessed portion cut within the far wall, a decently-sized amulet on a thin, metal chain that had been draped about a small sculpture, the indistinct object rising from the stone like an unnatural stalagmite. He carefully wraps it in a cloth napkin then nods to her, and they continue moving.

  They make their way through another passageway, this one angling about in a lazy, rightwards curve. They move with more haste, seeming now to have instinctively decided for increased speed over stealth. Their presence here is known. They both halt when they reach the next room, this one also lit up by a similar brazier as the other, but where the prior had been a shrine, this one is a torture chamber.

  There are devices and tools throughout, but what draws their attention, what causes terrifying feelings of shock, is the man hanging lifelessly on the cross, his body nailed in a form of crucifixion. He is naked, covered in blood, and a dark, horrible wound, a gaping hole, shows in his torso at the region of his heart. Small markings can also be spied over most of h
is flesh, as though he has been branded. The blood gleams with a freshness, and Skot steps closer, eyes narrowing as he focuses, and then the man on the cross suddenly gasps, unleashing a long, horrible moan.

  Both of them physically start, then rush over, ostensibly to get him down from where he hangs. She had said Charles was dead. Even within her aethereal investigations, Nicole had seen him dead. How can he be alive? What has he endured?

  All of these thoughts crash through Skot’s mind, but before anything else may be done, things quickly happen. His cousin’s head slumps, whatever life may have been sustained within him gone, and Lilja turns back toward the dark, gaping entryway, pointing her gun.

  “Something is coming,” she hisses out in a whisper, bending her knees to lower her center of gravity, holding her steady aim with clear signs of experience.

  Despite that history, despite all she has done and seen, she feels a shroud of dread overtaking her even as she senses something rushing towards them within the darkness. A rapid clatter, as though of bone on rock, rises, the wide beam of her tactical light showing as much as it may before the tunnel curves out of sight. She barely has time to register that Skot has not drawn his weapon before a rush of horrible, multi-legged beasts comes into view. She pulls the trigger, bullets expelling rapidly, these now treated in the special way by the Felcraft’s Weapons Master, Jericho, giving them more lethality to just such unearthly creatures as now sets upon them.

  Black ichor spews up from well-aimed bullets, wounds opening in chests and heads. The things move on many limbs, some even capable of use as arms, making them unusual targets in more ways than one, but she manages to drop several as they near. More shots are fired, her barrel moving minutely to adjust the aim, and then this initial attack is repelled. She has brought along the P90 for not only its ease of use in such tight quarters but also its capacity, and the gun now has about half the 50 round magazine remaining. She squeezes the trigger as others arrive, unleashing more bullets at a renewed approach on the part of the demons.