Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  “I saw enough of it to get the message. So did Nicole. I don’t know how she managed that, but she says she saw when I burnt his body. We … compared notes.” He angles his eyes toward her for a moment, as though apologetic of his choice of words. “And there is a very clear message there.”

  She continues just looking at him, her left hand splayed gently on his chest, her right arm still bent at the elbow, propping herself even as his arm is still somewhat about her. She gazes at him, taking it in, waiting. She nods, again a bid to continue.

  He exhales, looking away within a blink, eyes angling downward, then he turns them back to her. “I expected it to be the usual taunts, perhaps about Charles, threats to the family, to the human race. They use those sorts of approaches very often, so much so, really, that it may become white noise, but this was different.” He pauses, taking in another breath. “They are claiming to be the cause of my father’s death.”

  She blinks, brow knitting.

  “I’ve mentioned he had a rare illness, and the ‘official’ documentation does specify a known disease, but that was done to keep the paperwork tidy. We were never quite sure exactly what it was or how he got it. It turned out to be non-contagious, and we eventually determined what it was doing to him. No matter what we tried, it could not be cured. We were able to delay it somewhat, but in the end, it was as terminal as we all expected. We had time to come to grips with it. But now, they, the Infernal, are saying they caused it, they gave it to him, through some repeated exposure to them and their influence, like a slow acting poison.”

  “That’s …,” she finally speaks, still obviously confused, “Is that possible? Do you believe it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She leans in to him, embracing, and he returns it. They hold each other, feeling one another’s presence.

  “If it is true, they could, theoretically, do it again.”

  She nods against him, the motion seeming more conciliatory than real agreement. She then again senses something and pushes herself back up, looking at him.

  “And that’s exactly what they’d want,” she expounds, “Fear from you.”

  He nods, slowly, contemplatively. “I know. And even if it is true, we won’t stop what we’re doing. They’d actually be exposing a very real, secret threat to us, which is our first step in thwarting it, so why?”

  “To taunt you, just as you said, to give you a reason to fear,” then she pauses, looking him over, her eyes gone wider.

  “What is it?”

  “What if …?” She blinks, her lips straining together, threatening a frown. “What if you’ve already been exposed?”

  He quickly takes her in his arms, holding her close, feeling the near desperate return from her, the tight clutching of her strong limbs. He then realizes their strategy. If they do speak true, then why indeed would they reveal this secret weapon? For this very reason – to cause strain, worry, even hesitancy amongst them. It is far easier to steel one’s self in the face of adversity than to realize a loved one may be equally at risk and possibly taken away.

  “We have documented symptoms, as best we can, and we do keep an eye out for them. Even though we were not sure what it was, and especially since it did not sufficiently match anything found in popular medical history, we were quite wary. We had not thought to attribute it directly to the active intent of the Infernal, but we are, obviously, exposed to certain … unnatural things, so to speak,” he tries to explain and soothe, “We will not stop our work, but will be no more blind than we have to be.

  “Lily,” he says, and a gravity now weighs in his voice that worries her.

  “Yes?” She looks back at him, her courage evident.

  He wants to just hold her, not speak of such things, but that sort of naïveté is for adolescent romance.

  “My father lived to be almost sixty-five years old,” he informs, “For a Hunter, that is long-lived.”

  She understands what he is saying, and such had been in the deeper, darker places of her mind for a while now, but she is not unfamiliar with risk. Decidedly not so. She gives another nod, and though this one shows slightly weaker, it is still there. She faces her fears.

  “Maybe they did poison him,” he posits, “Maybe his fortitude and ability proved him to be such a great adversary they had to try something different to defeat him.”

  And even as he mentions defeat, he recalls the appearance of his father’s specter, whether true ghost or some technological apparition, which led him to that rare book more than a year ago. His father was an amazing man, and nothing will change that.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, and the sincerity of it touches him deeply.

  He smiles warmly, if not somewhat wistfully, and he pulls her into another hug.

  “Thank you.”

  When they part, they remain close, and he takes her eyes again in his own.

  “I love you,” he utters.

  “I love you, too.”

  “You help me to feel stronger,” he says, and she smiles at this, “But there is still very real danger to my family and how we live our lives. Some much more so than others.”

  “I know.” She nods, the fingers of her left hand again moving as though of their own accord through the light tuft of his chest hair. “This scares me,” she admits, “but really not because of that. We all die someday. Life is risk. I’m more afraid of emotional pain than death.”

  He lets a deep, thoughtful breath pass through him, and she looks up to meet his eyes.

  “I promise to do my best to never be the willful cause of such pain to you.”

  She nods, pondering this, then she again fixes her gaze onto his, her lips curling ever-so-slightly.

  “Likewise,” she also vows.

  *****

  The buildings of the campus display a baroque seriousness, not quite the Georgian or Neoclassical styles one might expect of prestigious colleges in other parts of the Western World. This is not the oldest school in the country, nor the most popularly respected, but something of it speaks of mystery. Still, on this reasonably sunny late afternoon, as students clamber over the sidewalks amidst the well-tended greenery, it looks to be just a place of higher learning.

  Those funneling into the Morgan building are doing so as part of their freshmen orientation. They find their way into the main room, much more modern than the structure’s exterior suggests, built to be something like a small auditorium. It almost appears as though the room descends deceptively into the ground, but it merely takes advantage of the landscape and some creative architecture.

  A scant few, small gatherings of the prospective freshmen show that some of those here already know each other, but the majority look lost in the unfamiliar. One in particular, a quite tall young man with stringy black hair hanging down the sides of his face, wanders in, his drab green satchel seeming quite heavy, the color washed out, the thing looking old and well-used. His expression is one of a careful curiosity, nothing though belying a sense of arrogance. He finds a seat in the uppermost rows.

  No one here knows him. His intelligence marks him as one easily suited to command admission to the exclusive, expensive university, but his social skills look lacking from the way he carries himself. His dark eyes peer about, not meeting any other gaze for longer than it may take to even realize such a look is joined. They do not dart, though he does feel a weight, but their movement is continuous. He hesitates when a trio sits near him, their conversation marking them as friends of some degree. They prove content to ignore him. His furtive glance at them is not noticed, so he looks longer, taking measure. This suits him, as he goes back to observing over the large chamber and the people gathering within.

  The clamor is quieted as three older students walk out onto the obvious area of attention, that portion of the room at the head of the angled seating’s intended scrutiny. They prove to be upperclassmen, one a senior working toward a very difficult degree. This gets suitable reactions of awe from most. The curiously tall stude
nt continues to watch with a quite aloof air, still appearing as though somewhat guarded and more interested in taking in the crowd than what is being imparted by these “veterans”.

  His scores on the various entrance examinations had been phenomenal, and though he towers over the average students, his age is actually lower than them, his genetic pedigree obviously giving him accelerated physical growth as well as mental. His age of record is sixteen years old, his height 190 centimeters. He is here on scholarship, his academic abilities garnering him a coveted place in this year’s freshman class. His physical size has not lent itself to any athletic accomplishments, and his personal history has not equipped him socially and emotionally to the same degree as other attributes he possesses. He had been home-schooled and quite isolated from those outside his family.

  When this session is ended, he lumbers out, moving slowly, eyes cast mostly downward from his impressive height. He does not show any obvious discomfort or imbalance as might be expected from some who experience such radical growth, but he still moves slowly. He receives looks from other students, but if any were inclined to bully or make fun of him directly to his face, his size proves a deterrent. This does not stop the whispers and points on the part of some, but most of these first year college students hardly notice him, more concerned with themselves and their education than the over-dressed student in their midst.

  He is not so due to wearing too expensive clothing but because he appears to wear too much, especially for this warm weather. His baggy pants pile atop the heavy, dark boots, the light jacket hanging over his frame, the sleeves so long as to cover more than half of his hands. He looks a bit paunchy in the middle, as though somewhat pear-shaped. He holds onto the strap of his satchel with his left hand, moving steadily to his destination. As he does so, he clambers past the library, hardly sparing it any notice.

  Inside that same building, down on the floor that is below ground, Lilja works, tidying up the room that houses the campus’ Rare Books Collection over which she holds curatorship. She does not necessarily expect any visitors, but she likes to keep the room clean. She also checks over the security of the more valuable books, paying particular attention to one.

  This book’s already impressive security measures had been increased when the endowment had come in from the Felcraft group. It does not seem as though the very rare and priceless tome will leave the school’s collection for the private one of the distinguished family, but with this donation, they all but possess it. Knowing now what she does, Lilja also acts more overtly as the special book’s guardian.

  No threats have arisen to it since the initial one last year, but they remain ever-vigilant. Amanda Honeycutt, her assistant, had been moved to another position. It had been a delicate affair. The woman’s obvious fraternization with Denman Malkuth, a member of faculty, may not have been enough to get her fired, but the record of her violating protocol and giving him access to the invaluable book had resulted in a serious warning and transfer to a different role at the school.

  Marcel had graduated last year, and as if his multiple degrees did not indicate his love for education, his application for the vacant position indicated his desire to stay here. He had not been an automatic approval, but he had stood out above the other few prospects, and Lilja had offered him the job. His training had been rather easy, his taking to the security and other such stringent protocols regarding the collection occurring rapidly. The job really is quite mundane, even considering the value and age of the books here. So long as the demons stay away, and the Felcraft’s rivals, the Malkuths, it really is generally common, perhaps even boring.

  Even so, she has her precautions – the gun in the new false bottom of her desk drawer, loaded with an eight round magazine of the specially treated bullets. The pistol is an H&K USP45CT, given modifications to better suit Lilja’s personal specifications.Skot had even advised her in the use of some sensory systems that might detect the Infernal. It had all seemed like so much magick to her, but he has begun to explain that it all has its own set of rules, those that just prove difficult to understand or not in line with what we know of our accepted, corporeal realm. It is a science and an art. They use the term ‘magick’, just as they do ‘demon’, ‘devil’, and ‘infernal’, but he cautions to not attribute too much of a human-made meaning to such words.

  The Book, though, now lies within layers of better protection than it yet ever has, and they hope that the use of these defensive measures shall never see a need.

  Ultimately, the goal is to someday, somehow acquire it into the private collection with the first of the trilogy. It also seems that if the school were to ever consider such a thing, the Felcrafts would be the obvious candidates. Still, if it were put to auction, it would not only be subject to that set of rules but also put into a possibly compromising situation. For now, it is watched, closely, and if its utmost safety is accomplished where it is, then it need not be moved.

  And this is another reason she is reluctant to leave the City, though she wonders how much of that is an excuse. She has willingly taken upon this burden, this responsibility, but in truth, she is not the only one capable of such. If an imminent attack were known, they’d also not leave her alone to thwart it. She is surely not the most adept person at fighting those unearthly beings and their horrible powers.

  She stands there, now, left arm held over her belly, right bent at the elbow, her eyes on the book. Her thoughts stray, taking up force of their own. Her eyes lose focus, and she thinks of him.

  A part of her wants to abandon everything else and just be his, just fall into him completely. Another part of her fears this, and not just for how it might compromise her individuality, her independence, but she still lets that gnawing doubt dance at the edges of her consciousness – what if he hurts her emotionally? Her only experience with a serious relationship ended in great psychological pain.

  “Lilja?”

  She looks over to the delicate-sounding bid to see Marcel standing there.

  “Sorry.” She smiles pleasantly. “I was lost in my thoughts.”

  “I could tell. I was just saying that I’m about done for the day. Mind if I head out a bit early?”

  “Oh, not at all. Go ahead. Thanks for your help.” She keeps up the warm expression, and he gives a short jerk of his head, a sort of simple bow and nod, then turns and heads out.

  After he has gone, she looks at the clock, seeing that his ‘early’ departure is all of twenty minutes. She exhales a single chuckle, lips smirking a touch. She’ll have to get him to relax. Even though he spent that time in the general library as a volunteer, he seems anxious now that he is formally employed, and in this respected department, no less. Their business is serious, but there is no reason for it to be stuffy.

  She checks the security on the book, noting that, as usual, all is well and in place. She supposes she ought to also relax. Even though she just glanced at the clock, she does so again, thinking that in a short time, she will be at the townhouse, with him. It is his home, he owns it, but she thinks of it as theirs.

  Maybe she ought to give up her lease on the apartment. Maybe she doesn’t need the crutch of a ready escape plan.

  She’ll think about it.

  *****

  If things did not feel so serious, he might crack his usual smile and make one of his disarming, yet acute, remarks. As though in accordance with this singularity, he does not wear his sunglasses, though doing so in a dark room such as this would surely draw unwanted attention. This bar is quite nice, surely not the most exclusive or expensive but more than adequate. He wonders if perhaps the people who have summoned him here think of it as ‘common’. He almost lets a smirk touch his lips at this thought. He also manages to keep himself from smoking, though he feels like he could use a cigarette. A glass of good brandy sits before him, barely touched, as he waits.

  And as if he had denied his usual nature so much as to leave the cliché meter empty, something happens to quickly fill it.
r />   “Inspector Gaspare Duilio of Interpol,” says a voice from behind him, “Good evening.”

  The accent is polished, deliberate, what some would call Transatlantic, making the place of origin somewhat difficult to peg.

  “Good eve-,” Duilio begins to return, his own obvious Italian accent emerging within his cultured tone.

  “No, do not turn around,” says the voice, adding further to the cliché, as if that once thirsty meter will now overflow with gluttony.

  Duilio managed to peripherally spy the form of the seated man, obviously wearing a nice suit, dark, hidden mostly in shadow, before turning back forward. It makes no difference if he sees him or not, the inspector decides. He has seen and learned too much in the recent months, and he is far more at risk than he had ever imagined. He chooses, instead, to have more of his drink.

  “Thank you for coming,” the man continues, and it seems they will have a nice, polite conversation, just positioned further from one another than usual and one looking at the other’s back. “We are to assume that you have opened your mind to what we have shown you, what you, yourself, saw last year?”

  Duilio nods, ponderously, his hand still about the glass, and he now thinks he should have ordered a double.

  He also thinks back on the event at Gnegon’s compound. He did not realize what all he had even borne witness to at the time, but now, he knows.

  “Si,” he admits, exhaling.

  “We have need of your talents.”

  It takes a moment for these words to sink in.

  “What? How can I help you?” he asks, not a bid, but a sincere question.

  “Your humility is not needed, Inspector.”

  “I am not being humble.”

  “Ah, well, then if you are unaware of your own abilities, you may not prove useful to us for long. As much as you may find that possibility attractive, let me assure you, it is not.”

  Duilio looks forward, eyes moving within a series of blinks. He feels like he is drowning. He has always prided himself on possessing a modicum of control in all situations. Such hearkens back to a discussion he once had with some compatriots about this all being a game, like poker, and how to read people and play properly. He thought he was fairly good at the game, and now he finds that for all this time, he was falling for the bluff.