Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  Duilio looks at the man, staring, the dim glow from the dashboard casting an eerie illumination.

  “This is worse than I expected. I’m going to report back to the Family, as soon as I get a chance, and you need to do the same with the Malkuths. They need to know.”

  “Are we giving up?”

  Duilio barely notes the shaking of the head in the darkness.

  “No, but that Demon just took out nearly half of us, and I think it was holding back. We need to approach this differently.”

  “Why would it be holding back?”

  “It’s just how they are. They’re sadistic. It’s not fun to just slaughter all of us in our sleep,” then David pauses, taking in a breath, trying not to think too much on the slain , “We need to keep on its trail, but we need to be better prepared. We’ll get Anika fixed up, and we’ll find a place to get some good, safe rest, and we’ll move on.”

  “Are we taking her to a local emergency clinic?”

  “Yeah.” David nods, peering about, some lights in the distance showing that they will soon arrive at a town. “We’ll use one of these small, less-used places. We can make up something about an animal attack, and we’ll be able to handle any records or information they try to pass on.”

  “I suppose you’ve done this before.”

  David cuts his eyes to his passenger, looking for a bit, then he just nods, re-focusing on the road.

  “This is a bad one, a bad one …” he says, his voice trailing in volume, “We’ll get it, eventually. I just …” He pauses, and though Duilio hangs on his words, he begins to think David has ceased, but then the rest finally rises, like brittle petals on a warm, coiling breeze , “I just wish I knew why it was here.”

  *****

  He’s been contacted.

  The person who has done so has proven themselves by sharing information they ought not know, some of it similar to that he has given the network that feeds the vigilante. He’d then offered to prove himself, which the person scoffed off, for it seems they’d satisfied themselves before approaching.

  He sits in his car, waiting, occupying a space in the middle level of a parking complex, one that he was told to go to. This structure typically services the more modern, surrounding office buildings, so it is mostly deserted at this late hour. He’s taken a ticket from the machine to get in, and he knows there are cameras, so there will be some record of his having come here. Still, he figures he ought to be forthright if he is now on the ‘right’ side of the law.

  The car’s engine lies dormant, lights off, and he just waits. He spies a few other vehicles in the general vicinity, none too close, and none have arrived or departed in the short time he has been here. He takes occasional sips from the bottle of water. He’s a cop, so he’s done stakeouts before. He’s not here with his new partner, though, and he figures she’d not be too happy with this. Still, maybe she’d not mind, as this is just the gathering of information. Investigating, as it were.

  He’s learned that she is a single mother, though she’s not very forthcoming with her personal life. Still, they are detectives. She has a young daughter who’s giving her some trouble, skipping school, getting into fights, and it seems poised to get worse rather than better. He figures that is part of why she is so intense regarding her job – she’s trying to make up for the lack with her daughter by protecting all the children. He pities her, though he knows she doesn’t want it. He thinks she ought to focus more on what she even has a chance of affecting. No one person can save everyone.

  His raises the bottle again, and he pauses, his action and thoughts interrupted by the sight of a flicker off in a dark corner. That’s the sign, so he gets out of his car and walks over.

  The form is smaller than he had expected, but then, what did he expect? He was contacted, and the individual doing so had proven they were part of the vigilante’s network. He realizes he is hoping it is the vigilante, but that’s more of his unreal expectation. He pauses a decent distance away, not too far, not too close, understanding the clandestine nature of the rendezvous.

  The lighter’s flame had been closed out before he got all the way here, but he spied enough to note that the person is small-framed, wearing dark clothes, a dark hoodie, and when the voice chimes forth, he is surprised to realize it is female.

  “We need to do something to keep more children from being killed,” she says, “and to stop the prostitution, the sex slavery.”

  She speaks with a cold cadence, as though almost uncaring of the very shocking things she wants to thwart.

  “Yeah, I’m on the case. We’re processing leads, working on ID’ing the bodies-”

  “I know all that,” she cuts him off, and he senses a rise there.

  He wonders if it is from exasperation, or if he has somehow offended her.

  “Alright, it’s clear you’re well-informed,” he acquiesces, then tries, “You’re receiving lots of intel from all over the city.”

  “If I know where the kids are being held and prostituted, then so should you. What are the police prepared to do?” she demands.

  “We,” he begins, then pauses, perplexed, “We’re going to do all we can … within the law.” He sees the expected scoff. “Look, we follow process, you know that. That’s why the vigilante is so important. He doesn’t have to.”

  He glimpses the hints of another reaction there on the face shrouded by the hood. He is not sure what it means though.

  “The vigilante is one person. How much can one person do? Doesn’t it help if you police get the information? Does it need to be gift-wrapped?”

  “That wouldn’t hurt,” he tries, smiling a touch.

  It doesn’t work. He can feel the frown growing on the person.

  “Are you taking this seriously?” she pushes.

  “Yes, yes I am,” he is quick to say, putting on a tone to match.

  “We may not be able to rely on the vigilante for this.”

  “Why? What’s happened?” he pitches, but it seems his requests for information are being ignored.

  “There are things I can do, but if the police would actually just do something, that would fix everything.”

  He senses the cynicism in her. She doesn’t want to be here, doing this. She doesn’t trust him. For some reason, she’s desperate.

  “What do you want us to do?”

  “These people are breaking the law, in a very organized fashion. Find them and stop them.”

  “It’s not that easy,” he says.

  “Why not? I can tell you where this is happening. Go … do what it is you do.”

  And again, the exasperation.

  “I’ll take all the help I can get. We often work on leads provided by civilian witnesses and informants. The question is going to arise though, who you are and how you came by this information.”

  “Why does that matter? These kids have been kidnapped, held against their will, used for prostitution. They are being raped, tortured, and some murdered. More lives will be lost. Is that what you want?”

  “You know I don’t.”

  “Then prove it. Do something.”

  “I am,” he says, his own frustration brewing, then he changes his tone, sighing, realizing the complications of his own situation is largely his doing.

  He moves his eyes to the obscured figure, not anticipating any sympathy. She does not disappoint that expectation.

  “It just takes time,” he says, feeling the silent drilling of her attention.

  “While those children are raped and may be killed.” She throws acid on the fire.

  “Then you do something,” he challenges, his anxiety again trying to get the better of him.

  She raises her chin, and he sees a bit more of her, noticing a glimmer at the edges of her lips.

  “I am,” she grates out, “And if you don’t want to help, then why the fuck am I here?”

  “Sorry,” he says, holding out his hands, placatingly.

  “You’re the fucking police. What go
od are you?”

  “Alright, alright,” he says, “I do want to help, okay? Maybe more so than a lot of others in the department. I’ll keep providing information, and I’ll take what you can give me. I’m not going to rely on the vigilante to take care of all of this, but … I’ll take that help if I can get it.”

  “It’s not for you,” she points out.

  “I know. The children,” he says, trying to sound sincere and not peeved, “We want to help them. I got it.”

  “Good,” she emits after a moment of just looking at him, “I really hope so. This is serious.”

  “I know,” he repeats, a touch of defensiveness to his words, “So, what now?”

  “You keep feeding information to the network. I’ll send stuff to you, too, but you’ve got a badge, so feel free to make some arrests and save some of these kids.”

  He exhales through his nose, fighting to not shake his head. He doesn’t like her tone or accusation, but he understands. He is an officer of the law. The purpose of that institution is to protect people and to arrest violators. She is doing no more than expecting him to do his job. In fact, she is doing more, she is trying to help him do it.

  “Thanks,” he mutters.

  “For what?”

  “For helping.”

  She eventually gives out a single, begrudging nod to this.

  “Are we done, then?” he asks, delicately.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you …?” He looks around, then back. “Did you drive here?”

  “We’re done.”

  “Okay, got it.” He holds up his hands again, then he turns and walks back to his car.

  Therese watches Detective Quain Contee until he has driven away. Her right hand never left the pocket of her hoodie the entire time, holding onto a can of very potent pepper spray, ready to use on him and run if need be. She wants to trust him, but she feels like she needs to stop being so stupid in some of her endeavors.

  She thinks further on Lilja. She had not exactly denied being the vigilante, but her attitude makes Therese question if maybe she is wrong. She knows she wants Lilja to be the vigilante, and she realizes she had put her on a pedestal, maybe still is, and she thinks she ought to be a superhero, saving all the children. It hurts her to think less of the woman, to do this and try to make progress on her own, but still, this is about helping the victims, stopping the criminals. It’s not about that cop or the vigilante or even Therese.

  She can’t escape the feeling that she is disappointed in Lilja, or the vigilante, and she still holds onto hope that maybe the vigilante will come through. Maybe Lilja will end up all she expects her to be.

  *****

  Marcel is busy cleaning books in a back room, so she walks to the front when she hears the unobtrusive, electronic noise that announces someone has entered the main area of the library’s Rare Books Collection, the chamber being open for access some hours of the weekdays during academic semesters. The person standing there is a sight to behold, though she displays no untoward reaction. He is looking about, having bent to peer more closely at some of the shelved tomes, but he turns to set his gaze on Lilja as she comes forward.

  He is very tall, and as he moves, she notices his lack of a well-defined chin, his lips somewhat protuberant, thick, a rather wide mouth. Dark, coarse-looking fuzz has sprung up about the lower half of the face, more like the beginnings of a pre-pubescent boy than a day or two’s growth of beard on a man. His nose is firm, though a bit bulbous along its bridge, and his ears appear almost elongated. She cannot escape the feeling of general oddity that permeates as he sets his dark eyes upon her, not in the least bereft of a focused acuity, though he does look awkward.

  “E-excuse me,” he begins, clearing his throat, as his voice breaks, and he looks away, then back, eyes moving over the diminutive woman who waits patiently, looking up at him. “I … I’ve come for a book.”

  Lilja smiles politely, holding her hands together at her belly, left hand cupped over the curled fingers of her right.

  “How may I help you?” she finally bids after the silence merely continues to lengthen.

  “I’m working on an assignment … for a class,” he expounds, “Folklore and mythology.”

  “Ah, that sounds very interesting.” Lilja nods, her smile increasing a touch, and this encourages him.

  “Yes, it is. It’s about the connections of many tales and how they permeate many cultures, having developed commonalities that span societies and civilizations that had no known way of communicating with one another.”

  “Fascinating,” she remarks, “Is there a particular source you are seeking, then?”

  “Oh, yes.” He nods his head in a pendulum-like fashion, and then he utters the name of a book, the Book, and she freezes. “I was told by my Professor that it was here in this collection. He referred me to it as a good source for this project.”

  He had begun rooting about in the drab satchel he carries over a shoulder, so he does not notice any response from her. He then comes forth with a piece of paper that looks worse for wear for having been in his bag, and he extends it to her. She does not reach for it.

  “I’m sorry. You are a student here?”

  “Yes.” He nods, looking confused.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Oh.” He blinks, the action taking longer than usual, as though like an amphibian. “Pothos Wilbraham.”

  She nods, pulling in a deep breath, still not taking the offering. “Mr. Wilbraham, that is one of the most rare and valuable books in our collection. It is not just made available like other books.”

  He blinks again, his arm still somewhat outstretched, hand still clutching that piece of paper, and his brow furrows. “But this is a library. I thought you lent out books to the students?”

  His tone is one of utter confusion, not a drop of challenge in it.

  “Well, we do, of course. The books in the general library above are available under the common guidelines, but those here in the Rare Books Collection are subject to more stringent restrictions, especially certain ones of utmost value.”

  He just looks at her.

  “Which this one is,” she adds.

  The quiet again grows as they both look at each other. Lilja is stalwart, though polite, now hiding any anxiety she may be experiencing due to the request. Pothos falters under more stupefaction.

  “This …,” he tries, then he licks his lips, “I … but my Professor told me of the book and has given me permission.” He moves his hand, again trying to get her to take the paper. “We came up with the assignment together, and because of the nature of the folklore and cosmology, he recommended I use this book.”

  She again fights to not reveal anything, but the word he has chosen, ‘cosmology’, shakes her. It is certainly not so rare a word as to go unheard, but she learned of its meaning that time when Skot was here studying this very book. It may prove nothing, but she cannot shake the feeling that she needs be now more a guardian than a librarian.

  “I am sorry, but it is restricted,” she rebuffs, “Arrangements may be made, of course, for supervised access, but I am not aware of that having been put in place.”

  “Supervised access?” he asks, his broad forehead wrinkling more, and he slowly puts the paper back into his satchel, closing the flap.

  She nods, eyebrows rising, head moving with the expression as though leading, trying to force the understanding of the obvious or inquire if such an apparent thing has somehow been missed.

  “I can’t just … borrow the book?” he tries.

  “No.”

  “But this is a library.” He tries again, confused.

  “Yes, and this is the Rare Books Collection of the library. Some of these books never leave the building except under very controlled circumstances, and that would not be under the custodianship of a student.”

  He looks at her, the moment lengthening, then he blinks, and she imagines she can hear the wetness of it. He then turns, somewhat upset al
ong with the near abject confusion. He reaches for the door handle, then he pauses, and it suddenly reminds her of the time Denman Malkuth came to see her, looking for the same thing. The student turns, staring back at her.

  “I’m sorry,” he says with a cold lack of sincerity, then mumbling as he turns back, opening and ducking through the doorway, “I’m supposed to say that, aren’t I? I’m sorry?”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Skot sits at the table where he has spent much time studying the Book. He sips occasionally from the cup of water, the late hour of the workday lending itself to that rather than coffee.

  Such evil sorceries I have done, facing demons that possess no human shape, he reads, translating the words in his mind as needed. He has come to a part that reads something like a melodramatic journal, and it takes him a few pages to realize the words are meant to be taken at face value. It is but another of the somewhat jarring changes in the tone of the tome, moving from depthful, flowing poetry to dry, expository lengths as of a textbook thence to fiery warnings.

  The author purports to have been trained in the occult, making mention of a somewhat formal education, becoming a mage, a warlock, and enduring the pursuit of “unmentionable orders” that worked to capture, torture, and burn him. Words tell of explorations that part the veil unto the hidden world that may harbor the fog of confusion as the Infernal and this plane mingle.

  And even beyond, traveling to a planet that orbits binary, greenish suns, the blighted landscape of bones upon bones, piled high into hills, implying that Demons have used this place to discard the leavings of their victims. The remains picked clean by the armies of scurrying, rodent-sized insect, whilst glimpses of enormous worms disrupt the distance.

  Skot is not sure what all to make of it. There is ample evidence that the Books were not written by only one person, but this section, this journal, if that is indeed what it is, suggests this person lived for hundreds of years. There is mention of a “special heritage”, and he wonders if this ties to the folklore of the Hunters being descended from the Grigori. Is this, indeed, the recitations of a Nephilim? There seems no way to prove this, and the inconsistent nature of the very contents of the tome gives skepticism to all of it. He knows it was written thusly on purpose. Merely finding the book is but the first of many steps in solving the mystery.He pauses, leaning back, stretching his arms up, letting the information sift about in his mind.