Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  He narrows his eyes at her, seething.

  “Calm down, Denman,” she says, finishing her wine and taking to her feet, which he also does out of courtesy and some defensiveness, “You know how much we feed on the mistakes of our own. For me to tease you is a concession. Had you truly failed, you’d be feeling much worse.”

  Before he may say anything else, she saunters over, placing a hand on his chest, then leaning in the short distance to give a brief kiss to his mouth. She then heads to leave the chamber.

  “Asenath?” he halts her, and she turns.

  “Hmmm?” she perks her sculpted eyebrows.

  “Did you have any specific orders for me?”

  She grins, lightly, “I’ll let you know.”

  *****

  He is young for what he does, though not so much so that it brings to mind questions of such things as nepotism or even more fantastical fancies like deals with the devil. He has earned his place. The tattoos on his sleekly muscled body tell that tale, dotted throughout his torso, down his arms, even over the top of the segments of his fingers. The stars at his shoulders, the epaulets, just below the collar bones, those tell of his high station within the organization. Some call them the Marks of Cain.

  The sleeves of his dark colored shirt are rolled up to near his elbows, and he wears latex gloves. He takes up the hand of the man lying on the table, moving a bit, somewhat indelicately, to get a better hold. He brings the small, sharp clippers to the index finger, worming them into a good position, and he snips, easily cutting through flesh and bone. The first of ten digits falls free of its former connection, resistance evident from the chilled condition of the body. A lack of reaction and blood shows the man is dead.

  He is nearly done when the others enter the room.

  “I used to do this when I first started,” he speaks, his back still to the entryway, “It was more difficult then. I was young, frightened … determined.” His voice carries an obvious accent, his words slow, though not from lack of familiarity with the language but from a lack of need to feel or act rushed. “I am only still one of those now,” he continues, almost as an aside, and his head moves with what may pass as a short, introspective chuckle.

  He then turns, picking up the smoldering, thin cigar from the nearby ashtray, holding it with the pair of tongs already secured about its body. He takes a lengthy taste as he eyes the men. His brown hair is slicked back high on his head, the styling of it making it appear darker. His pale brown eyes are sloped slightly downward, and as he raises his dimpled chin to better study the arrivals, it almost gives him a gentle cast. Those who know him know there is little to nothing gentle about him. He exhales a thick, piquant plume, still looking at the one man with whom he holds much less familiarity than the others.

  “You come alone.”

  The man to whom he speaks is large, overweight, perhaps even oafish. He nods, the expression somewhat jerky. The other man raises his eyebrows in bid for more.

  “My,” he begins, then clears his throat, “My partner didn’t come. I talked to him about it, but … I don’t think he wants in … anymore.” A flash of eyes is given, as though a plea.

  The other nods slowly, thoughtfully, then drags on the cigarillo before setting it back. He returns to his work.

  “This man was one of us,” he says, gesturing with the clippers toward the pallid face before getting back to the last of the digits.

  The “guest” glances inquisitively at the others to his sides, and one gives a somewhat snarling up-nod, indicating to step closer. He listens, but he also peers at the corpse, belying some of his own nature.

  “He betrayed us, but we still show him respect. It does not keep him intact, as you can see,” the man says, and though it sounds like it might could be a joke, it is uttered with such dryness as to bring that to question.

  No one laughs.

  He then takes up a different tool, this one with longer, slimmer pincers, fine grooves on the inner tips. He opens the body’s mouth, getting a good grasp with the instrument, then takes a firm hold across the forehead with his left hand, strong fingers clamping against the temples. Thus stabilized, he begins wrestling with the teeth. It is clear he has done this before, and the guest somewhat cringes as he watches.

  “We can’t have jackals like you easily identifying him when he is found,” the man says, keeping at the chore, depositing the teeth in a small container as they are extracted, “If you stayed out of our business, such dishonor would not be necessary.”

  The guest looks up from watching, staring at the speaker, but the man seems intent on the corpse. Tense time passes, further dull sounds of ripping and tearing and the clicks of the teeth collecting together in the cup. Then the man turns, removing and discarding the latex gloves.

  “What are we to do with you, Detective Sladky?” the man asks, then he narrows his eyes, musing, “Sladky? What is this name? Are you Polish? Jewish?”

  Alec Sladky shakes his head. “Czech.”

  The other continues to observe, his steely eyes unfaltering.

  “A pity you are not Russian, Detective.”

  “I can still be of service,” Alec tries.

  “Yes, I am sure,” the man says, stepping nearer, raising the already heightened level of tension, “Like you helped my predecessor, Gnegon, hmm?”

  Alec nods eagerly.

  “The one who is now dead,” he adds, perking his eyebrows higher.

  “I – I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “I know you didn’t,” the man all but scoffs, moving away, then he turns, leaning back against the table, uncaring of the corpse, “Na vore shapka gorit.”

  Alec blinks, squinting his eyes, then shakes his head.

  “Ah, yes, you are Czech,” the other says, waving a hand dismissively, his silver watch gleaming in the dim lighting, “I forget. That is too bad.” He lets a moment pass before he speaks again, “It means ‘A thief’s hat is burning’. It is proverb. It says that a guilty mind betrays itself. You betray yourself.”

  Alec raises his hands, palms somewhat outward. His opens his mouth, but before he may speak, the other continues.

  “There is another – Bog pluta metit. God marks the crook. Some say these mean same thing. I do not agree.” And he holds up his own hands, but his are not to ingratiate.

  He angles them outward, displaying the tattoos on his fingers, hands, and forearms.

  “Do you see, Detective Sladky?” he asks, always giving the title that subtle hint of malice, as though the word is distasteful to him, “I am marked, and I wear it proudly. I have chosen my side. You, though, you wear a burning hat, and you do not see it. That flame will eat you. You are ashamed of your own choices.”

  “No, I’m-,” comes the refutation, but it is clipped as assuredly as the fingers that were once on the nearby corpse.

  “You … are ashamed,” the voice resumes its usual controlled pace, “You are in turmoil … Limbo. It is here. You have become slime in this city. This place is mud pit, pot of boiling sludge. It wants to be progressive, to give everyone equal footing. That makes everyone into dirt, unh?” He perks his eyebrows. “We will stand on dirt. No more getting soiled with cooperation; no more dirty cops. We do not need police. We will not bow. We will not even want your loyalty. If you are loyal to us, then you will be one of us … not police officer.”

  Alec stammers, stumbling without making a sound or movement, such is his unease obvious.

  “You corrupt cops and other officials of government, you will never be loyal to us. You will take and take. You are parasite, leech. You think you help us. No. You wish us to pay dues, like some tax, and you will continue to squeeze, draining our blood, and when there is not enough, you will throw us to our doom. Like him,” he adds, an afterthought, as he turns, gesturing to the dead man, and a very subtle, self-satisfied smirk briefly takes his lips.

  “Now that I am here,” and he raises his left hand, holding up his first two fingers in an indication
to himself, “Kazimir Volkov, things will be different.”

  Another moment passes, Volkov staring intently at Alec. The detective has learned to hold his tongue, for once, and he merely waits. The other man, the City’s new Russian crime boss, nods a single time.

  “Your partner has chosen his side. Good for him. Now, Detective Sladky, you must choose.”

  Alec does not note the slight change in tone from the man, the sudden loss of venom from the appellation. He sees the obvious indication of dismissal, and he is escorted out, relieved enough that he still breathes, torn over what he shall do. His next stop will be a bar. One in which he feels comfortable, will be treated with respect because of who he is. One where he can drink and drink and drink some more, and try to decide what to do.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Skot sits in the small bathroom chair, wearing only a towel about his waist, having come from a recent shower. He looks up into the gleaming eyes of the woman sitting in his lap. She wears a thin, white cotton bath robe, the length of it generally not making it very far over her lithe thighs, bunched up now as she straddles him. It also hangs open, her having not even bothered to tie the sash when she finished drying from the shower they had shared. He sneaks his hands in slowly, placing them about her waist, the right holding her somewhat firmly, the left curling the fingers and brushing her supple skin.

  “Don’t make me lose focus.” Lilja smirks, then carefully draws the edge of the straight razor along his throat.

  He tilts his head up, offering her better access as she continues to shave him. He breathes in slowly, taking in the intoxicating nearness of her, emitting a very low, light moan as she presses down, leaning in. She has done so to better support and balance herself as she proceeds to finishing up along his sensitive neck, but he feels the movement and presence like an arousing lure. It surges through him despite the recentness of their lovemaking in the shower.

  He blinks when he realizes she has stopped, sitting back, and he peers at her.

  “What is it?”

  “Are you going to let me finish?” she continues, holding out the fine shaving tool in her right hand, wrist bent away, her eyebrows perked.

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t want to cut you.”

  The sound of the metal moving along his short whiskers seems quite loud, and she carries it through with a deft smoothness. The master bathroom in this townhouse is large, but they spent enough time in the shower to have made it feel somewhat humid in here. She had also lit candles, though not for illumination, as their cleaning tryst has occurred in the late morning, but for the scent. This adds to the odors of the soaps and shampoos they used on one another, mingling also with the erotic smells produced by their healthy bodies, creating quite the heady bouquet.

  Her long, red hair has been combed into a wet, shiny curtain along her upper back, kept also out of her way in this manner as she uses her left hand to hold his face, having come in very close, touching up her work. She sneaks the edges in the subtle crooks of his throat, up in the more rear, recessed areas of his jawline, being very thorough.

  The townhome is one that has seen many years, much upkeep, and relatively recent renovation. It still holds its old world charm even as modern amenities dot throughout its area. When Skot recently acquired it, he’d had further modifications made to suit his needs. The property is ostensibly an investment, as he does not figure to live here indefinitely, but they all know why this has happened - she is here.

  Lilja had proven hesitant to accept his invitation of last year to move in with him to the manor in the United States. She explained to him that it was something she felt she wanted to do, but the idea of such a move so soon proved too scary to her. She had also been eager to be sure he knew it was not due to any lacking of emotion toward him or their relationship. She had left her home those years ago for personal reasons, reasons that were not entirely positive, but she does not like to move. She prefers to grow roots, likes to make a place a home and then remain. He understand this, and so he tries to be patient, catering to her concern.

  Their relationship continues to blossom, and though she yet maintains her small apartment, she spends nearly all of her time here at the townhouse, even bringing Dali over from time to time, letting him get acquainted with the spacious, fine new digs. She’s even made a few decorative touches throughout the place.

  He told his family he was taking up a temporary residence here to be nearer to the book and to her. Everyone but his mother proved supportive. She had given him some none-too-subtle hints that she worried he might move there permanently, exchanging the family manor for the city in which his girlfriend lives. He had addressed some of this, though not entirely rising to her bait. Still, he knows the main reason he yet lingers in the City, and she sits on his lap, smiling beautifully at him as she towels his face.

  She continues to wear that curve to her lips as she applies the after shave cleanser to a cotton pad then wipes it gently over his freshly shaved skin. There is no alcohol in it, so he feels no sting, just the cooling soothe of it as she carefully applies. Once done, she tosses the pad into the nearby trash bucket, then looks back at him. He moves his hands again, now that she is done, leaning in, reaching down to grip her bottom. She grins, moving nearer, closing the scant distance between them, and they kiss.

  It begins as something casual, perhaps a mere punctuation to the shaving ritual, but it quickly grows to much more. Their jaws work as lips move, tasting of one another, flesh against flesh, tongues dancing with a sureness of familiarity, a simmer of need. His fingers clutch more intently, and he presses up with his crotch.

  “Are you already ready for more?” she asks, pulling back just a bit, bright eyes on him, a smile on her delicious lips.

  The grin is somewhat shy, and he loves that. Even after this time that they have been together, she still conveys that alluring sense of bashfulness from time to time.

  “Are you?” he returns, flexing his buttocks as he again pushes up against her more fervently.

  She emits a very quiet, short moan, feeling that pressure against her naked pubis as she presses lightly in return.

  “If you want,” she breathes, the words a whisper, as though carried on a soft breeze of need.

  “I do want.”

  Further kisses are ardently exchanged. He trails his hands around and toward himself, and he parts the robe. She lowers her hands, angling her arms downward, and the soft garment falls to the tiled floor of the bathroom, leaving her naked atop him, her petite, fit body writhing with the motion of her hips as she brings her hands up to gently hold aside his face. He feels a continued stirring at his loins, the towel about his waist now proving a nuisance. He gently coaxes her to stand, and he rises in her wake, the fabric already having become loosened by their movements, and it falls away.

  She glances down, briefly, at his turgid member, then her eyes come back up to his, and she bites her lower lip. She then drops gracefully to her knees before him, using her lovely mouth to arouse him to a full readiness. He takes her hand, guiding her back to her feet, leading her to the adjoining master bedroom and the large, sumptuous bed within. Time is taken at making sure both of them are quite ready for more before culminating their union, lingering over one another, expressions of reverence.

  Not long later, they lie in each other’s arms, aglow in the aftermath of their coupling, quite spent. She places her right hand on the center of his chest, playing absently with the almost gossamer hairs there. After a time, she nuzzles in, feeling a reciprocatory pull from his arm, holding her closer. She just stays there for a moment, feeling the warmth of his chest, listening to his heart beat, but it does not take long for her to sense … something. She looks up at him, noting the distant gaze of his open eyes.

  “What is it? What’s on your mind?”

  “Charles,” he finally says.

  She rises up onto an elbow, getting closer to his face, and he shifts his eyes down to hers. They look at each for
a moment, and he sees a subtle furrowing to her brow, an emanation of sympathy.

  “I’m sorry,” she then utters, leaning in, and they embrace.

  “It is not just the loss of him. Nicole said he was a message, and she was right.”

  She again rises up, now looking at him with a different sort of focus.

  “Okay?”

  “That amulet I found. And the marks on his body. Do you remember those?”

  She nods again, solemnly.

  “Those were not marks of torture. They were made after he died.”

  “But, he was alive when we got there?” and the touching lilt of her words being a question rises just at the end, as though it has become so in the moment of speaking.

  “Not exactly. A force had been applied, a power, an energy … magick, if that sounds easier,” he explains, “to give some animation to his corpse. It was false, a perversion.”

  Lilja frowns.

  “And it was not just done to affect us, though such horrors are certainly well within their normal … tactics,” he pauses very briefly, “They wanted to be sure we’d see the body, I’d see it.”

  “You?” She blinks. “They expected you to be there?”

  “So it seems. Though it is quite possible this message would have gotten to me if I had sent someone else, but still, it’s very personal.”

  “What message, Skot?” she asks, burning with curiosity, but still speaking softly, having a care for his feelings.

  “The markings on the medallion, they look abstract, but when used as a stamp, they may form an ancient script. It’s their language, or one aspect of it, at least, and it was used as a brand to make the figures on his body.”

  She is stunned. She wants to express horror, sympathy, even wonder, and these things war within her so. She merely remains silent, observing.