Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  She opts for her car, the black 1989 BMW M3, hoping she doesn’t get pulled over, but she figures it’s too risky to take the motorcycle. This is not vigilante business, so she avoids that quicker, stealthier mode of transport. The drive to the campus is a short one, but her tensing nerves make it seem overly long. She chances one vacant intersection, going through it as the light has barely turned to red, hoping that no cops are nearby. She gets lucky. She knows she’ll chastise herself later, but for now, she’ll take the good fortune.

  She screeches into a parking place right out front, barely taking time to close and lock the door of her car. The library is not open at this time. There will be a record of her after hour’s entry, but she isn’t going to worry about that. Not yet. She shoves the Glock 19 into the pocket of her hoodie and rushes in, turning off the general security of the building, realizing this has not been triggered. She spares a moment in hope that the alarm in the Rare Books Collection room is a false positive, but she doubts it.

  Her booted feet resound rapidly off the steps as she rushes down to the place that is so often her office. The door to the rare books room is open, that alarm having been bypassed. She’ll have to figure out how the thief did it, but for now, she has to stop them from taking the Book.

  She doesn’t slow her pace until she is almost there, both hands now holding the loaded and ready pistol, finger near the trigger, the weapon held close to her chest, pointing out. She hears a noise, labored breath, and she pauses just around the way from it, near a tall, heavy shelf of books. She listens, the respiration coming with some sound of moisture, some grunts, a sound as though a slogging movement of something heavy. She tries to calm her breathing, and she pulls in a slow inhale, then peeks.

  She sees a large form there on the floor. It appears human, but Skot had told her some of the protection put in place would only trigger for Infernal attacks. He had assured her. She sees some dark, shiny stains of what must be blood. The figure is trying to move, one long leg dragging behind the effort, useless. She walks fully into the area, pointing the gun.

  “Stop,” she commands.

  The figure grunts in alarm and a spike of anger, jerking its head about, and there is now no mistaking that this is Pothos Wilbraham, the odd-looking student who had come seeking to borrow the Book. She is somewhat stunned, eyes going wide, and he grimaces, baring his teeth, raising his right arm, and she sees the flaring to life of outré light there, like a strangely colored flame taking his clawed hand. He unfurls it, lashing out at her, and she manages to dodge most of it, feeling a sharp spike of pain in her side as the magick bolt partially collides with her.

  With this, he forgets her. He gets to the rarest of the rare books, pulling himself up, his hand now aglow with a different color as he tries to force his way through the rigid plastic, pounding it with his gigantic fist.

  “Stop!” she tries again, now on one knee, aiming better, ignoring the pain in her side.

  He does not, and when the manmade substance does not give, he flexes his fingers outward, that preternatural light rising, preparing to focus the use of his supernatural abilities on the enclosure.

  “Stop, or I will shoot,” she declares.

  Another growl from him, his red-tinged eyes slitting over to her, and the color about his hand changes to what it was moments before. He is preparing another attack. With the cool assurance of a veteran of much practice and experience, she fires.

  The bullets fly out with the amber-tinged hue of that special preparation done to give them enhanced lethality to the Infernal, and Pothos spasms as he is hit by all three of the quickly delivered shots. He is struck on the right side of his torso, and the force stuns him, and he falls forward. His hand collides with the cabinet housing the book, and the transparent face protecting it fractures. This sets off another defense, another poised to only arise if breached by magick, and this one is far deadlier than the one already triggered.

  She watches, her gun still aimed, but it becomes quickly apparent such will likely not be needed. A swirling force, a white luminosity, spirals up from nowhere, going about the intruder. His eyes gaze at it wildly, then it spikes with a brilliance, closing in on him. Lilja does not know if it is heat or what it may be doing, knows little to nothing of it, in truth, but it seems to be causing him terrible pain.

  He howls with an ululation that threatens to curdle her resolve, but she remains poised, watching, waiting. He rises up some, of his own accord or from the supernatural power, she knows not, but the tension in his large form is apparent. He begins to spasm and quiver, then his appendages flail more openly. He remains contained in that spiraling light, and finally, when she is about to have to completely close her eyes to the brightness, it stops, and he crumbles.

  She waits, still holding her aim. Seconds pass. There is no movement from him to indicate respiration or life of any kind. She finally dares to move closer, arms still out, pistol still pointed. The attack has rent him, body and clothing, and what she sees defies explanation. She is somewhat bulwarked by her limited experiences with the Infernal, but his grotesquery is still a challenge for her senses. Not just in what she sees, but also in the smell as his ichor leaks out.

  The dark, coarse hair covers his upper torso like a matted, uneven carpet, some areas of his pallid flesh showing through completely, but as her eyes travel down, she sees that his semblance to humanity falters. The flesh becomes dryer, harder seeming, as of a carapace, giving way finally to a rash of tentacles as though the fat and stunted lengths of an anemone. These cover his belly, following his shape in a way that offsets the location of his ribcage, beginning short and growing longer the further down they go. The remnants of his clothing, his wounds, and the lack of light spare her much of it, and for that, she is grateful. He appears dead, and she is not entirely inclined to check for a pulse, but, holding the Glock ready in her right hand, she does finally press to the inside of a wrist. She feels nothing. She experiences no guilt at the sense of relief this brings her.

  Is he a skin wearer, she thinks, recalling the discussion back at Felcraft manor, is this the one they’re hunting in America? Her mind reels with the possibility, with confusion, and she shakes her head sharply, realizing all of that can wait.

  She steps back then, knowing what she must now do. She has been left very specific instructions of how to handle something like this, and she goes for her phone, setting that in motion.

  *****

  They have now been tracking their target for many days and hundreds of miles. Nothing further has happened as substantial as the attack on their camp, though there have been two more killings, both of civilians. One was in a small town as they passed State lines, the other in a more rural location. Neither looked as though they’d be found anytime soon by anyone else, seeming to have been chosen as a taunt to the pursuers.

  It upsets David, as well as all of them, but he makes the decision to delay a call to local authorities just in case such proves problematic to their hunt. When more time has passed, hopefully, when this is soon done, then they’ll make the reports if the victims have not already been found by then. For now, they need to keep on the trail and stop the monster doing this.

  The hunting party is now a trio, being comprised of David, Duilio, and Zoe. Anika had been left in medical care, her family informed. It had been close, but as far as they could tell, she’d survive. She had suffered a rather nasty wound at her chest, as though the Demon had been trying to get to her heart. For whatever reason, either its impatience or her fortitude, it had not succeeded. She would have died of blood loss from that wound and the one at her skull, but they’d done enough, gotten her to the emergency clinic in time to save her.

  There have been no further updates, and none of them expect any. She is the concern of the Malkuths, and they certainly are not inclined to share. Duilio would not even be getting that information, largely told to continue providing status reports and stay close to the Felcrafts.

  The comment that Pèi
re had lobbed at him moments before his death, observing that the inspector appeared to be getting quite close to the Felcraft Hunter, holds somewhat true. Duilio is experienced enough to understand this. He respects the younger man, and their time together in this crucible is also forging a bond. Such does not take a licensed psychologist to realize. He cannot quite say the same for Zoe, though, the Huntress generally keeping to herself, giving him little more than cold stares if not the occasional sneer. It is clear, though, that she respects and defers to David, and it is obvious the elder Hunter acknowledges her tracking abilities.

  Duilio wonders if they’d have been able to maintain this pursuit at all without the young woman, feeling fortunate that she was not slain in the attack. He does not fully understand her supernatural abilities, so for all he knows, there are others who possess similar skills, but he is glad she is here. He senses a chip on her shoulder, though, and not just due to his being affiliated with their rivals. He suspects her youth, gender, and general personality may lead to her being discounted by others. Duilio does not do so, and he’ll happily let her lead any charge to confront the Demon, if and when they finally corner it.

  “Why do you suppose it has come down here?” Duilio posits, peering over at David, Zoe off out ahead some ways as a scout.

  It is muggy, hot, both of them covered in a sheen of sweat. They are beneath the earth, traversing the pathways of a long derelict coal mine, the fires of which still burn further within. They bear head-mounted lamps on adjustable, canvas straps, their mouths and noses covered by mask or cloth to avoid the potentially toxic fumes.

  David glances back at Duilio. He would have rather left the man on the surface, but he knows that would have been riskier, just leaving the inexperienced agent alone as a veritable offering to the monster. Zoe had mentioned some difficulty in discerning the trail here, but they feel confident the beast has gone into the subterrene pathways. Confident enough to pursue, but not enough to leave Duilio behind.

  “You think it’s cornering itself?” David finally speaks, keeping an eye out, both of them holding loaded weapons at the ready.

  Duilio looks over, peering, the Beretta held in his hands. David’s large caliber revolver is in a holster at his hip, the twin blades also sheathed and ready at his lower back. He holds a customized M4 Carbine, one hand on the fore grip, ACOG scope and tactical light rounding out the system. They have other rifles, too, and they could have loaned one to Duilio, but all they have done thus far is provide him with some rounds of the enhanced ammunition. David had received reassurance from Skothiam that this was alright, while at the same time letting the Malkuths know and garnering a sort of promissory of payment. It is all part of the sometimes intricate diplomatic dealings between the two Families. The Felcrafts do not seek an exact tally of bullets used so that their rivals will repay in kind. They just want them to know what has been done, building up a potential debt to be properly repaid at another time and in another fashion. They both do it, sharing a lengthy historical precedent of such methods.

  “Maybe?” Duilio tries, finding his potential resolve already quaking under the experienced Hunter’s query.

  “And maybe it’s luring us into a trap.”

  The beam from the light shows more of the dark walls, some portions looking veined, others almost rugose, trails and tales of the insistent water that had run through here in the past.

  Duilio shifts his eyes about, as with a newfound cautiousness, though what he has already seen of the Demon fills him with trepidation. He is now better armed, but he has still been advised by David to flee in the event of encountering the creature, then send alarm to the Malkuths as quickly as possible.

  The place also worries him, the eerie illumination of the very deep and incessant smoldering of the coal leaking somewhat into the passages giving the place an unearthly feel, as if the heat and noxious fumes were not enough of a hazard. As they further descend, moving slowly, casting their attention about in a careful, methodical way, it begins to feel more and more overwhelming, even as the glow grows. Before long, they don’t need the lights they have brought, save for shining into precise locations, for there is still the contrast and shadow cast throughout the tunnels.

  Duilio blinks, freezing in place. He stares, willing his eyes to remain open. The heat is oppressive, the fetid air unpleasant, and he has to give in, blinking again. He swears something has changed. He remains in place, looking, and then he thinks he sees something on his periphery, so he moves his eyes left. He does see it again, something that looks like the reflection of featureless eyes, somewhat large, wide set, very round, not human. It is not the beam hitting some small, shiny metallic deposits in the landscape. The motionlessness is uncanny, haunting, but he is beginning to realize they are being watched.

  “David?” he whispers, still looking in the direction of the objects.

  The Hunter stops, sensing the urgency in the tone, peering over. He sees that the inspector is frozen in place, staring, so he looks in the same direction. He then points his barrel, shining the tactical light, and when he does, they see the blink of movement.

  “Shit! Get down,” David commands, rushing nearer, and Duilio does, crouching low.

  The sounds then arise, something like a scurrying, a dull tap and drag to it, despite the rapidity, like a staccato drumming with soft-headed sticks on a solid surface. David jerks his gun in that direction. Duilio ducks instinctively, though the barrel of the carbine does not come near to pointing at him. He sees another glimpse of movement, more of the sounds, and David fires three quick shots.

  And more noises, more of the movement but also sounds that come from throats - screeches, low growls, labored breaths, as though the entire bouquet of terrible tumult had been there all along, very close, only now revealing itself to their ears. Duilio turns about more, twisting up his legs some, feet shifting on the hard earth to try to keep up, and he sees now more of those paired reflections. The possessors of them have now revealed themselves, and though they are not the original quarry, they are Demons all the same.

  The beasts are small, like a human toddler, though weightier, bodies hairless, comprised of pale, wrinkled skin. Their overly large heads connect directly on their paunchy torsos, no visible neck, though they prove capable of independently moving them, one in particular turning to focus directly on the inspector, its lipless maw hanging open, slack, in a misshapen oval, displaying large, uneven, chisel-like teeth, blunted at the tips but still promising pain. There appear no noses, the place for an ear being a useless pucker, like a sphincter. The bodies hold no visible genitalia, nor are there digits of any kind on the ends of the four limbs.

  At least half a dozen have come out of hiding, and they stare, emitting that terrible, throaty hiss, like a threatening passage of air. They move well enough over the rock, unperturbed by lack of claws or fingers as well as any expected obeisance to gravity. As they slowly creep, appearing to be taking stock of potential prey, some others appear, and soon the small group has increased in number and threat.

  “David?” Duilio asks, eyes shifting to the man, then back to the creatures.

  He does not answer, eyes moving about as he assesses the situation.

  “David?” Duilio tries again, speaking slower, pitch rising at the end.

  “Stay down,” David iterates, bending his own legs more, readying for the fight.

  Duilio wishes these were just some strange but mundane subterranean creature that he happened to never learn about, but he knows they are unnatural, demonic. He doesn’t know how they’ll keep them all at bay, and he experiences a rising horripilation at the thought.

  “Duilio?”

  “Yes?” he replies, quickly, as though David’s voice is a life preserver thrown to a man in the middle of the ocean.

  The Hunter speaks slowly, but emphatically, “Keep your head down and prepare to fire.”

  A somewhat shaky nod, even as the beasts seem to sense something. Several of them bring their exposed
teeth closer together to emit a keener hiss. Bodies move as the slender appendages flex, an obvious preparation of movement.

  “Fire!” David shouts.

  A cacophony erupts, bullets flying from the carbine and Duilio’s handgun, the enigmatic light tracing the trajectory of their specially treated ammunition looking quite at home in the electric vermilion environ created by the deep, undying fires. Duilio stays down, noting that David whirls about rapidly, shooting in many directions, the barrel of his rifle passing over the other’s head from time to time. Several hits are scored, the loathsome beasts crying out as the dark ichor spews from their bodies, but not enough are stopped, and they prove difficult to strike as they rush about.

  Duilio quickly reloads, chambering a round, then starts rightwards, looking further left to see that David has shot one out of mid-air as it leapt for them.

  “Conserve ammo,” he says, “Shoot them when they get close. If they stay back, we don’t care. Zoe!”

  The inspector realizes the wisdom of this. Whether the beasts are so strategic is unknown, but they may indeed be hanging back, trying to get them to waste all their ammunition before rushing in to swarm them. Just then, he sees one peek up from a hiding place, then dart back down, only to rush out, moving zigzag along the sloped wall, heading across it, not toward them. It seems they are indeed attempting to get them to use up all their bullets.

  Duilio’s eyes widen as one appears from below, rising up through a barely noticeable access, keeping itself low to the ground and moving very effectively on all fours, teeth bared, mouth slavering. He wastes three bullets before it reaches him, launching itself the remaining short distance, latching its teeth about his shod left foot. He cries out, the thing’s nubby-tipped appendages moving in a frantic near-blur.

  David glances down, having changed out his own magazine. He sees the thing attached to the inspector, noting that its teeth may have barely made it through the leather of the man’s shoe as it moves its mouth, trying to bore deeper.