Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

When she turns her attention back, the host has dived behind the counter, whimpering and calling out in fear. There must be a panic button, and she needs to keep him from pressing it. She glances up and notices the camera and realizes she has likely already been seen. The children are already in danger. She hears rapidly approaching footsteps, and she gets behind the bar, readying herself. The young guy cries out in fright, trying to curl up in more of a ball, hoping to push himself into the wall and be as far from the intruder as possible.

  The other three guards come barreling up through the center hallway, uncaring or ignorant of basic tactics, as this routes them into a limited area and makes them easy targets. They fire wantonly, one holding a submachine gun, the other two unloading their noisy shotguns. The receptionist cries out as a projectiles gets through the meager wood of the counter, hitting him in the leg. Beneath the ruckus, she fires her weapon with much more care and precision, and soon the other three are in a crumbled heap like their comrades, some semi-conscious, others moaning, cursing, all of them bleeding from painful wounds.

  She turns to the man with her behind this area of concealment, and he whimpers in pain, holding tight to his leg. He finally notices her attention, and he raises his hands in a warding gesture.

  “No, no! Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!” he cries out, cringing from the wound, moving his hand back down in a flash to cover the area.

  Without a word of response, she quickly zip-ties his wrists and ankles, also ignoring his further protests and shouts of pain. She is not sure if this is all the resistance. She feels fairly confident that no other clients are here, since no one had arrived during her lengthy surveillance before beginning the mission. She moves out, weapon ready, barrel moving from man to man, assessing if there are any threats. One is meekly trying to aim a pistol, his hands shaky, and the P90 coughs out, and he slumps, not dead, but out of the fight. She is more careful now, moving slowly, listening, wishing the receptionist would shut up. She hears cries from some of the children. She quickly zip-ties the guards, the customer she followed, then heads further in.

  All of the doors are locked from the outside, easily opened from the hallway, and within, she finds them. Some are frightened of her, of course, some are in a state more akin to near catatonia. She speaks to them in a calm tone, trying to reassure, trying to let them know they will soon be rescued, that she is here to help and more help is on its way.

  Then, in one of the rooms, she sees the explosives.

  She rushes about, alarm gripping her, and she sees that other rooms are also wired, and she runs back to the foyer.

  The receptionist cries out as he is grabbed, hurt, pain purposely applied. Lilja does not take care in handling him, wanting it rough.

  “You’re going to blow this place up, aren’t you? You’re going to kill the children? I won’t let you!”

  His protestations go unheard or ignored as she holds him by the neck, jerking forth her Glock to point it at his head.

  “I won’t let you!” she yells, her voice a force of its own, drowning out his continued cries.

  She spies movement in her peripheral vision, and she angles her gun in that direction, pointing it with the unerring precision of one who has spent many hours in practice. The child screams, freezing in place.

  Her eyes are held open, just like those of the young girl, just like those of the bound young man, both of them looking at her with abject fear. She blinks, pulling in a sharp, stunted breath, and she releases the man, realizing he had not been moving at all as though to trigger the explosives or call for more help. She re-holsters the pistol, holding her hands out, fingers splayed. The young girl is crying.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay. Help is coming,” Lilja tries to sooth, but as she steps nearer, the child emits a strangled sounding whimper from within her throat, and she turns and runs back to her cell.

  Lilja takes several deep breaths, then pulls forth the disposable mobile phone, calling the police, letting them know the number of perpetrators, how they are armed, their condition, the number of children, and informs of the explosives. When the operator demands to know who she is, to know how she knows all of this, she calmly sets the phone on the top of the reception counter, not disconnecting the call.

  She stands there, trying to regain herself, and she waits. She steps through the front door, and she hears the sirens in the distance. She then leaves.

  When the emergency services have arrived and secured the area, they know this is the vigilante’s work, but they also note the increased violence. Though the vigilante has not been as active for some time, they know that guards are usually subdued through non-lethal means. These have all been shot, some in spots quite close to vital areas, requiring critical, emergency care. They wonder what this might portend. Is this a war?

  Is this personal?

  *****

  The meeting consists of more people than are in the hotel suite, the room having been acquired partially for this purpose. The place is not the kind David would usually choose, but he’d been directed here. He knows how to follow instructions.

  He and Duilio sit in comfortable chairs about the small, circular wooden table. The entire room is warm, composed of soothing colors and conventional, if not a bit modern, décor. The sizable, high definition flat screen monitor is split in half, showing images of the two other people in obvious attendance – Skothiam, the Head of House Felcraft, and Asenath, the Head of House Malkuth. They are also able to see each other from their respective locations as well as the two in the hotel room. Zoe is in her own room, ruminating. It did not please her to fail to receive an invitation, but David has promised to talk to her afterwards.

  “How is Anika?” Duilio carefully intones, his first vocalization since the appointment began, a slight pause in his cadence, as though he is somewhat intimidated by this whole thing.

  “She is fine,” Asenath smoothly speaks, the voice silken and polite, yet still managing to convey being bothered by this inquiry.

  “Then why isn’t she here?” David adds, his eyes moving minutely from the woman in charge of the rival family to his cousin and back. “No offense to Inspector Duilio, who did great under the circumstances, but shouldn’t a more … direct representative of the Malkuths be here?”

  “I am not direct enough?”

  Skot manages to suppress anymore reaction to Asenath’s words than closing his eyes briefly and pulling a slow breath in through his nose.

  “I meant one of yours that was actually on the hunt.”

  Some time passes, and they begin to wonder if Asenath will merely refuse to reply, but she finally speaks, “This was a Felcraft hunt. We were just there to assist.”

  David’s eyes shoot back to his cousin, realizing the implication of this.

  “Thank you for saving her instead of leaving her there to die.”

  The experienced Hunter looks back over, his eyes narrowing slowly.

  “You’re welcome,” he finally manages, begrudgingly.

  “She is fine now, thanks to you, and as far as why she is not in attendance … ask your cousin.”

  Both men seem confused by this, both pairs of eyes looking at the other person on the monitor.

  “Skot?” David finally nudges as more silence ensues.

  “We’ll talk about it in private, David. This is a joint debriefing of the hunt. The hunt is over. When the Demon makes itself known again, a new hunt will begin.”

  David finally gives forth a short nod, also realizing the implications of this. After a time, he finally sighs.

  “It was a wild goose chase, just like I told Duilio. Even though we had Zoe, I think that thing could have lost us anytime it wanted to. It took us all over, for miles, then it finally led us into that mine. And though they would have been happy to kill all of us, its real goal then was to finally elude us,” he continues, eyes again moving between the two figures on the screen. “What happened?”

  “Something has happened,” Skot finally admits, “
But as of now, it’s conjecture as to whether or not it’s related. We’re still looking into it.”

  “So,” David presses, obviously displeased, “we have no idea where the Demon is?”

  “We are no happier than you to know such a creature is walking this earth,” Asenath interjects, “but if it just walks the earth, then there is no threat. Once it does something, we’ll know.”

  David does not manage to conceal all signs of his seething, but he does no more than glare at the woman. He is not stupid. He knows this. He also knows that the Demon could do things, very terrible things, without their knowing it.

  “That monster was one of the most powerful I’ve ever seen. It’s amazing that any of us survived, and I only think we did because it let us.”

  “Come now,” Asenath quickly says, “you’re a better Hunter than that.”

  “You lost one.” David steels a narrowed gaze at her, not bothering to hide his brewing anger. “Almost two. We did lose two. That Demon could have had us all. I already told you how it bypassed our defenses. It’s killed at least a dozen people, probably more, and now it just disappears? No. One that strong doesn’t get out that often. They’re planning something.”

  “Of course, they are,” Skot says, noting that he has kept Asenath from speaking, though she closes her rouged lips, waiting. “But as I said, this is a debriefing from that hunt.”

  Asenath gives a very subtle smirk. Of course they all have their ideas as to why this powerful skin wearer is here and why it made itself known as it did, then disappeared. Skot is trying to get his cousin to shut up about that since he does not wish to discuss such in mixed company.

  “David is very driven,” she observes, “I would assume he just wishes to continue the hunt and kill this Demon.”

  David and Duilio see Skot’s eyes shift a bit, and this is from him moving his focus to the image of his rival on his own computer screen.

  “I’ll handle the affairs of my Family.”

  “Of course.”

  There is more talk of what happened. More questions asked by both Heads of the Families, and eventually the meeting ends.

  Skot disconnects, then sits for a moment, collecting himself. He takes in some breaths, then reaches for the stout glass of vodka and soda just as she walks in.

  “You witnessed the whole thing?” he asks of his sister.

  The woman nods once. Skot turns in his chair, taking a decent swallow of the cocktail, noting the stark hit of the fresh lime.

  “What do you think?”

  “David is correct in his assessment,” she replies.

  Skot looks at her, his hand and wrist moving lightly, doing so to somewhat further mix the drink. He takes another taste, eyes on his sibling.

  “They are related,” she expounds, “The Demon is a piece on the chess board - a powerful one, and it was used to distract us from the half-breed. There is no way Lilja would have recognized it. How many of us have even ever seen one?”

  “So, now what? Is the Demon going to try to get the Book?”

  She notes the concern laden in his voice, and she wonders if he is more worried for the rare, powerful tome or its guardian.

  “I am not sure, but the Infernal will try for the Book again.”

  He nods, contemplatively, looking away as he ponders.

  “Skot?”

  A short moment passes, and he looks up. “Yes?”

  “We must find the breeder.”

  He sighs, nodding. “I know, but we also have to be concerned for the safety of the Book.”

  “Can we not come up with some reason to temporarily remove it from the collection?”

  “Probably, but it would not be easy, and it would take time. We left it there, because we accepted it to be safe.”

  “Then it is safe,” Nicole iterates, gaining a look from him that might as well be the beacon of a lighthouse for all it tells her. She files this away for later thought and possible discussion. “We must find the breeder.”

  Skot emits another exhale, this one louder, more forceful, and he stands.

  “You’re right. They can do too much damage with a breeder, and I cannot imagine the state of the poor person. We need to find and rescue them.”

  “Or put them out of their misery.”

  “As I said,” Skot states, “rescue them.”

  She merely looks at him, that half-lidded, calm gaze that rarely changes. They know one another on many levels, though as with any other individuals, not entirely. They at least have an understanding with this.

  “How do we find them, though? Do you have anything?”

  “I might,” she says, and he knows what that means, “Would you like me to speak to David about it?”

  He considers this, then nods. “Yes, that may help. He was very agitated to have not gotten this one.”

  “Or would you rather he come here?”

  Skot angles his eyes at her.

  “Why would I want that?”

  “It seems prudent to assume and prepare for the Infernal to try again for the Book. It might also be a safe assumption that the skin wearer will come here for that purpose. We might increase our defenses and conclude the hunt to our satisfaction at the same time.”

  “Our awareness of that helps, of course, but speak to him, anyway, about what you know.”

  She nods, taking her leave. Skot picks up his drink, preparing to head to the bedroom, where the woman he loves awaits.

  At that same time, Duilio makes it into his own hotel room, and he is quite startled, for he did not expect anyone to be awaiting him.

  “Inspector,” the culture voice intones.

  “Dammit, Denman.” Duilio takes in a breath, trying to ease the tension of being so surprised. “Why do you do this espionage thing? Can’t you just call me and tell me you want to meet?”

  “Of course, I can.” Denman smirks.

  Duilio turns to fully face the seated man, hands going to his hips, and he presses his lips together, nodding slowly.

  “Fine, then,” he accepts, returning to his small tasks of depositing the contents of his pockets onto the counter, removing his jacket, and making a drink for himself. He does not offer one to his unexpected visitor.

  He sits on the side of the large, plush bed, drinking quite generously of the whiskey he has poured himself.

  “Well, what do you want?”

  “You didn’t think all was said and divulged in that little debriefing, did you?”

  “I’m tired, Denman, and I did all that you Malkuths asked. Please say what you want to say or ask what you want to ask and let me get some sleep.”

  Denman’s smirk increases.

  “Do you hear the way you said that? The way you said my family name?”

  “Uh?” Duilio replies, glass tilted up to his mouth, eyes on the other as he drinks more.

  “You don’t like us,” Denman continues, leaning forward, a certain sound of amusement coating his words, “The corrupt career Interpol agent does not like the Malkuths.”

  Duilio fixes a narrowed stare on his visitor.

  “Oh, please,” Denman finally speaks, “Don’t try to intimidate me.”

  “I was not,” Duilio says, “but you are pissing me off. What is the point?”

  “Ah, yes, well, I suppose there is no point to that,” Denman admits, giving his own casual wave of one hand, before bringing it to its partner, holding them loosely together in his lap. “I have come to warn you, Inspector. We saw potential in you, so we recruited you. The Felcrafts did not. I don’t care how well you and David may have gotten along. You are with us. You are not one of us, make no mistake, but you are now with us. You are an asset of ours. We do not lightly lose the assets we have so carefully chosen.”

  “You were rather flippant toward my safety in this first assignment.”

  “Our work is dangerous by its very nature. I don’t suppose all of your dealings with Interpol … and other parties, were some glistening examples of safety.”


  A moment stretches, both men studying one another. Duilio’s drink seems forgotten.

  “Did you come here to threaten me?”

  Denman perks his eyebrows, that ubiquitous smirk still on his handsome lips. “I thought I just did.”

  “Good. Consider me threatened. Now, may I please get some sleep?”

  “Very good, Inspector. You will be happy to know that you passed the test.” Denman rises.

  Duilio looks up, still sitting on the side of the bed. “What test?”

  Denman’s grin increases, and the Italian does not like it one bit.

  “The one where you get to live or die,” he says, speaking in a casual, charming tone, “Though I am assuming you want to live.”

  “I want you to get out of my room. Now.”

  “Oh, I’ll leave when I’m ready.” Denman steps closer, looming. “And do not forget who is paying for this, so one may consider it more my room than yours, hmm?”

  Duilio does not reply, his grip tightening on the glass, his eyes piercing into the other.

  “There really is no point for you to get upset. You chose your life.” Denman meanders away. “You did a fine job, too.”

  He looks back over, angling a smile at the agent that causes more inner seething, and then, as quickly, the expression is gone for a very serious look.

  “We’ll be watching you, and we’ll be in touch.”

  And then he leaves.

  Duilio breathes a sigh of relief, realizing just how tense Denman man has made him. He looks into his glass, as though scrying of its contents. He then does make a prediction, his words a muttered leak.

  “I hope there is enough booze in my room.”

  *****

  In the midst of the warm-up, she feels a light tap on her shoulder. She looks at Miranda, a slight perk of her eyebrows an unspoken query. The tall, well-fleshed woman points a thumb toward the entrance.

  “Looks like a new student.”

  Lilja looks over, her usual calm, open expression dissolves immediately as she sees Anika Malkuth nearing. The woman is obviously dressed to exercise in her form-fitting, black athletic shirt, sweat pants, and bare feet. Lilja meets her before she breaches the chosen area of the classes.