Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  “You’re funny,” Alec remarks, “You’re the one who jogs.” He extends his right arm to somewhat encompass the park with a gesturing hand. “It winded me to take my time just walking here to try to catch you.”

  “Well, hey, if it makes you feel better, we can be workout buddies if we can’t be partners, anymore.” Quain gives an encouraging grin.

  “As I said, you’re funny.”

  And both share a moment of what closely passes for sincere laughter.

  “Don’t worry about it, Alec,” Quain says, then takes on a caring tone, “I’ll put in for a move to another department. You just stay where you are. I’ll cause the wrinkles.”

  “Well …”

  “And until it comes through, we’ll just figure it out,” Quain continues, oblivious to what his partner might have been about to say.

  “Okay,” Alec says, not sure at all if things will be ‘okay’, anymore.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The body of Konrád Michael Wentreck, a journalist and blogger, was found outside the Troika district in a somewhat isolated area, making it easy enough to spot the corpse once the sun had risen. No effort to hide it had been made, and though the removal of the hands, feet, and head may indicate some effort to thwart identification of the body, their all being found less than five hundred meters away suggests otherwise. He had been stripped, and ligature marks suggest he had been bound before being killed and mutilated.

  ‘Michi’, as he was affectionately called, had reportedly been investigating a child prostitution ring in the city, and postings on his blog appeared to indicate the nearness of a real, supportable discovery. Local and international media groups have demanded of authorities to commence a concentrated and thorough investigation. The murdered man’s wife had been quoted to remark about the commonality of killings in the City, but this one stands out in its brutality, implying her husband had indeed hit on something. It appeared he was being made an example of and a warning.

  A more creative member of the local investigatory squad of the police had noted the placement of the head, hands, and feet, realizing that they might mark the points on a pentagram, the main part of the corpse positioned in the center. This had been left out of official reports as well as any announcements to the press. What could not be avoided was Michi’s known willingness to tangle with corrupt officials, having exposed more than one in his day as he consolidated his reputation as a stubborn, courageous, if not overly risky, independent journalist.

  Even if the ritualistic nature of the murder, still very much under speculation, had been omitted, its brazenness could not be denied. The killer, or killers, wanted everyone to know the identity of the victim, uncaring of what repercussions this might cause. The detectives assigned to the case would have to avoid jumping to conclusions that were already fomenting.

  What else would also not be brought forth, the evidence of such already shadowy and now being thoroughly dispersed, was the journalist’s connection to that secretive network that gathers and feeds information to the vigilante. He had been tangentially involved, exchanging data with another person as opposed to having any direct line to the main contact, but his death would be felt deeply. The danger was again rising, and all involved would need to be wary or else get away while they still had the chance.

  *****

  Lilja is not sure how he has procured their use of this expanse of remote land outside the city, but with the resources at his disposal, she is not surprised. They spend some time just walking around, enjoying each other’s company, talking, as well as inspecting the grounds for safety and seclusion. They are in no hurry, and this is meant to be part of practice and training. Once they feel confident and comfortable with the area, they walk to the vehicle – an olive green Jeep Renegade.

  They take their time setting up the targets, Skot following along as Lilja uses the range finder to set the thick wood and cardboard silhouettes at 200, 300, and 500 meters. The ground seems well suited for this, and she gives some thought to Skot’s scouting of it, letting a very gentle curl take her lips for a moment. She gazes out, noting how the land slopes somewhat downward then rises up to a gentle hill, which will serve as a land block for the shooting exercise.

  She glances back to see him looking at her, and she blinks her eyes wider from where she had been narrowing them in distant focus.

  “Good?” he asks.

  “Good.” She nods once, and they head back.

  They then set up the shooting area, though as with the way things proceed here, she takes care of it. Skot mostly observes and helps a bit. A blanket is laid out not far from the vehicle, upon which is placed a plastic box of ammunition, containing .338 Lapua Magnum cartridges. She then retrieves the encased rifle, having field stripped and given it a thorough cleaning and lubricating before coming here to the range, checking the components for any visible cracks or breakages during that time as well as running it through a bench test.

  She now brings forth the black Sako TRG-42, the barrel pointed in the direction of the targets, not at either of them, giving the weapon a short look over before setting it down gently. She glances up at Skot from her kneeling position, noting that in the interim, he has put on his ear protection and retrieved the small pair of binoculars. Lilja gives him a little smile, putting on her own muffs, adjusting them to a comfortable fit, then adding the yellow-tinged shooting glasses. The bipod is then deployed, and she goes prone, checking the sights, locating a mark, and chambering a round.

  "Target at 200 meters. Furthest left ... taking a shot,” she declares.

  The report is easily heard, despite the ear protection, but certainly not enough to potentially cause any damage. Skot watches through the binoculars, noting the slight delay between the sound and when the bullet hits the distant target, the cold bore shot scoring an off-center body strike, somewhat toward the left shoulder region. She adjusts the sights.

  “Same target … second shot.”

  This one hits near dead center.

  She goes through nearly the whole box of ammunition, taking her time, scoring many hits, adjusting the sights on occasion, but it is clear to him that she possesses a marksman’s level of ability. He is, of course, familiar with how well she aims and fares in combat situations, but seeing this is still no less impressive. And as if to underscore her ability, as she is finishing up -

  “Same target,” she says, shooting at the furthest, “Last shot.”

  He watches, the delay between firing and the hit filled with expectation, and the shot strikes between the eyes. The binoculars are lowered, and he looks down to see her peering up at him.

  “Nicely done.”

  “Thanks.”

  Afterwards, with the rifle and ammo put away, they have a meal of the food they’ve brought with them – sandwiches, fruit, and, of course, water.

  “You had said once before that the Felcrafts and Malkuths might share a common ancestor,” and then she takes another taste of her smoked salmon sandwich.

  He has noticed in their time together that she possesses quite a memory. He’d not go so far as to call it photographic, but she will do things like this, where she manages to snatch something from so long ago, as though having mental access to a file, and just mention it in a casual manner. He also understands that this is her way, sometimes, of trying to subtly ask questions or initiate conversation. He knows that in her cultural upbringing, too-pointed inquiries of certain topics are considered rude, so you wait until the other person brings it up, or you broach it in an oblique, polite method.

  “Well, that is suggested but it is not sufficiently known,” he replies, her eyes on him as she continues working through her food, munching on a carrot in between bites of the thick sandwich, “Do you mind if I relate some legend to you, something that is considered myth or folklore by some but quite true by others?”

  She nods, swallowing, reaching for the bottle of water. “Like religion?”

  He perks his eyebrows, then continues, “
Exactly, and as much of this is steeped in religion, that may be more fitting than you realize.”

  She allows her own slight rise to her sculpted eyebrows, belying her curiosity.

  “We’ve spoken, somewhat, about what we consider the genetic potential or predisposition to being able to wield the various skills we do, the Hunter Genes, as we colloquially call them.”

  She nods to this, scooting closer, listening intently.

  “This might seem to suggest a similar ancestry, though the credibility of that could be argued, much the same as arguing a common ancestor for all humans. What we do know, though, is that there is something within us, something that does seem to have a scientific basis, that allows us to do as we do, and it is possible that it has come from a common source.

  “Have you ever heard of the Grigori or the Nephilim?”

  She ponders for a moment, and he just watches as she ruminates. He begins to wonder if he has perhaps lost her to her thoughts, but then she finally speaks.

  “Name is familiar, but I haven’t really heard anything else.”“The Grigori were a group of angels sent by God to watch over humans. They are sometimes called the Watchers. They were also told, by God, to not ‘lie with the daughters of Men’, so basically, no sexual union with humans.”

  She proceeds with her second sandwich, looking at him as he pauses to also have some of his own. She is content to wait, silently and patiently, for him to continue.

  “Their half-breed offspring were the Nephilim. They were sometimes referred to as giants, other times as cannibals, biters, or even drinkers of blood.”

  Her brow furrows as she takes this in, holding a water bottle poised for a sip. A question may be on her lips, but instead, she takes that drink, still working on her food and paying attention to his words.

  “Goliath from the tale of David and Goliath was thought to perhaps be a Nephilim or a descendent of one.”

  She looks at him. “So, there would be an obvious genetic component to this, though it would arguably be diminished with each generation.”

  He smiles, lips still together, nodding lightly.

  “Depending on one’s interpretation, the Flood from Noah’s time was meant to wipe the earth clean of whatever seed remained of those bloodlines.

  “So,” he continues, “it would seem the Nephilim were these mixed offspring that may have had supernatural attributes. They'd have been rare in the world, and it seems they were malevolent or perhaps remembered that way because they were different, and 'normal' humans feared and hunted them.”

  A short moment passes as she ponders this, her eyes off into the distance.

  “Humankind have always hunted, degraded, or even demonized things that are different, especially western and Christian society,” she speaks, her tone almost one of musing, then she blinks her eyes to him.

  “That would mean that any extant genetic component in today’s population would be very rare.”

  She nods to this, her head moving smoothly in time to her chewing, but then she stops, forehead wrinkling in further thought, and she swallows, looking at him.

  “The Hunters are the Nephilim?”

  “That is a piece of mythology, well, our mythology, as it were, not amongst the general populace. As I said, some attribute more truth to it than others. But this is where the concept arises of their perhaps being a common ancestry or ‘source’ to the two families.”

  “And all Hunters end up in one or the other?”

  “Most.”

  “What about those who don’t? Do they work alone, or are there smaller groups or families out there?”

  “Well,” Skot begins, shifting in place, carefully weighing his words, “it’s difficult to know.”

  Lilja gives him a calm, open look, one asking without words.

  “The Malkuths do not accept the independence of someone with the Hunter genes.”

  “And the Felcrafts?”

  “We do have a record of a Hunter about two hundred years ago. He gained knowledge of some of these secrets on his own, so he was not in the usual nascent stages we encounter. We’re still not sure exactly how, but given enough time, it will happen. He did not lose his mind, nor was he consumed by any demons. He was approached by the Family, and everything was explained to him, how he’d be hunted by the Infernal and the Malkuths if he chose to remain independent, and he chose that. We respect that decision, but we know what the Malkuths do.”

  She nods, pondering further, thinking of all that happened last year.

  “How is Ernst doing?” she throws out.

  Skot smiles warmly, having grown used to the sometimes chaotic-seeming cadence of her thoughts. The question not only shows the quick logic of her mind but also her sense of caring.

  “According to the last news I received, he is alright, doing better, but he will need some more time of care and therapy before he is healthy enough to be given his own recognizance. And yes, he is an example of a person who seems to possess this genetic potential but did not end up in either of the families. It does seem somewhat prideful to say, if not even a bit callous, but due to the … rivalry and differing moral approaches, we both go after all potentials quite intently. Part of that is because of what the Malkuths do to people like Ernst.”

  A moment of silence grows, almost as though a short period of respect for the unfortunate young man who had been possessed of great mathematical and artistic ability as well as his sensitivity toward the supernatural realm. The Malkuths had found him and used him in a torturous, perverted way, driving him to the brink of insanity for their own gain, and had it not been for the timely intervention of Lilja and Skot, Ernst would have been summarily executed once he had expended his usefulness.

  “What is the other part?” she finally asks.

  “Well, we need numbers, of course. Those who may become Hunters are extremely rare, and frankly, we’d rather be the ones to come out on top. The Malkuths’ vision of human society is less … free than ours.”

  She nods, recalling their discussion regarding the ethics of the rival family.

  “How do people decide which family to join?”

  “They just do.” He shrugs. “It’s quite interesting, really, and it does sometimes make me wonder about morality and how we come about it, but it just seems it is a simple examination of where one fits. The philosopher in me rebels against the idea of it being so black and white, but the two choices encompass enough flexibility that a way is found to fit in one or the other. We don’t have traitors or spies or anything like that,” he shows another casual shrug, “We also respect the individual’s choice.”

  “Romeo and Juliet?” she pitches.

  He nods. “There have been such cases, yes. And it makes a certain amount of sense. As I’ve mentioned to you before, we do seem somehow drawn to those with whom we would be genetically compatible, so it would be quite probable that a member of one family would find themselves attracted to someone from the other.”

  “And their children?”

  “Ah, well.” He exhales. “That can be difficult.”

  He pauses, collecting his thoughts, and she waits, eyes on him, her expression calm, open.

  “Some parents might want to exert undue control over their child’s development. It is quite easy to say that an individual should be allowed the freedom of their own choices, but that may be tested when it is someone very close to you, and especially if they seem to be veering from what you may think is ‘right’.”

  Lilja nods, listening.

  “The idea is to aid in the healthy growth of the children, then, when they are ready, they are allowed to make their own choice.”

  “When are they ready?”

  “That is also difficult. I’m no child psychologist, and there is a lot of unknown in that field. Who can say? We just try to do the best we can. And I am hesitant to make these things sound like Fate, but it usually just sort of comes down to a decision known all along, and we just had to come to that realization.”
>
  She appears accepting of this, those sparkling blue eyes still set on him.

  “So, if I may return to the legend and the Grigori,” he leads, “Depending on one’s source, those angels fell, becoming devils, and their number also varies. Information has been found, along with various interpretations, that some within our world believe that Lucifer fell this way, too, not due to wanting to take God’s Throne, as it were, but he did so prior to the fall of the Watchers.

  “I’ve mentioned that there are two general classes of the Infernal, and we refer to them as Devils and Demons, the Devils being far more powerful and much more rare,” he carries on, gaining further, slight nods and intent glances from her, “Some think that the Devils are those fallen angels, a very finite number, and their ability to reproduce, as it were, is also very limited.”

  “Okay?” she finally speaks into the lengthening silence.

  “There are some schools of biological thought that say a life form is imbued with a strive toward immortality, survival, if you want to call it that. This is achieved either through the individual or the species. The more long-lived or stalwart a being is, the less need there is for reproduction. That may make sense from a biological standpoint, but there is also competition, war. Imagine if an army of Devils awaited, ready to attack this plane the first chance they get to engineer a proper passage?”

  Her eyes appear to freeze, not widening so much as indicating her fall into the depth of this consideration. She blinks once, still stuck in those thoughts, then her eyes slowly move back to him.

  “That would be very bad.”

  He nods, ponderously. “It would.”

  “But …,” she begins, a knitting of the brow showing her own attempts to grasp and collect a response, “If the legends are true, they were here before. They bred with us. They … Are you saying that Hunters are part devil?”

  “Well,” he answers, smiling a bit sheepishly, “Those who subscribe to this school of thought tend to think that Hunters, if they are indeed remnants of the Nephilim, are part angel. The timing is delicate, but there is the optimistic approach that the first unions were before the angels fell.”