Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  “I did a lot of thinking while I was out.”

  He nods, still holding her, knowing that is something of her way. When she is troubled, she heads into nature or exercise or both, but she needs some time to herself to sort things. He is one to want to talk things out, to try to use words and communication to drive to a conclusion. She is not.

  “Did you want to share any of that with me?” he gently tries.

  The moment stretches, and he can all but feel the turmoil inside her. Not only is she torn by her own inner demons, but she experiences difficulty in deciding if she will even speak of it with him.

  “Okay,” she finally agrees, stepping back.

  She goes to preparing the coffee, knowing how he likes his just as he knows how she likes hers, and it takes some time before she continues. He thanks her for the brew, the two of them taking the initial tastes. He just watches her, though her eyes stray, more of her collision of thoughts. It is difficult for him to observe and say nothing, but he does so because he believes that is the best way to support her at this time. Despite this knowledge, he feels impatience and concern gaining more of a hold. He is about to give in and prompt her, when she pulls in a breath and speaks.

  “Please don’t get upset with me,” she begins, which puts him more on edge, though he says nothing. “These are just my thoughts, okay?”

  “Okay.” He nods, calmly, his coffee largely ignored.

  “I feel … overwhelmed, kind of even … lost,” she says, still not looking at him, more traveling in her thoughts and feelings, still trying to make sense of the maelstrom, “Before we met, I thought I had it all figured out, knew who the bad guys were. I know I can’t stop them all, but I felt capable enough to handle what I did, even with the obvious risk. Some risks are necessary.”

  Her voice trickles off, as though even she is not convinced. He just looks at her, remaining silent, hoping she will say more.

  “And you showed me a whole new world out there.” Then her eyes move quickly to his. “I’m not blaming you, okay? I’m glad you showed me. I want to help, but …”

  And he sees the beginning of pain there, the furrowing of her brow, the tense stare in her remarkable eyes.

  “Lily,” he says, moving to her, wrapping her again in his arms.

  She accepts the hug, for a time, then extricating herself. She stays close to him, but she resumes her coffee. For all that she generally seems so inward and taciturn, she appears now ready to say something, whether to help herself or offer him some insight, or perhaps both, he is not sure, but he is still grateful for her effort.

  “Your joining us feels miraculous, though I know it’s not coincidence,” he says, forgetting so easily how he intended to let her speak, his words tumbling forth like a frothing river, “You have been amazing … amazing.” Skot lightly grips her arms, getting her to look him in the eyes. “I have never seen such an impressive acclimation. You are wonderful.”

  “No,” she flatly states, looking away, “I’m not.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Lily.”

  “I have to be,” she forcefully retorts, and the intensity she suddenly wears gives him more concern. “I’m not just playing with my own safety but also them, those children.”

  “You saved all those kids on your last operation.”

  “I pointed my gun at one of them,” she reveals.

  “Oh, Lily.” Skot reaches out to comfort her again, but she moves away.

  The motion is fluid, easy, so he is not sure if she has deliberately avoided his attempt or just meandered off on her own. She does not go far, but she does put some distance between them, whether intentional or not.

  “But you didn’t shoot,” he says, a statement, not a question. “How did it happen?”

  “I …,” she starts, and the tension rises further, one of her fists clenching, “I was … making sure one of the bad guys was secure, and I saw movement, so I just went on instinct, training, and I pointed my gun at …”

  “Well, that’s not so bad,” he proceeds, carefully, “You know there is a reason why innocents are told to lie down and be still during a crisis. The responders are there to secure the situation and neutralize threats. You saw movement, you aimed, then you realized it was one of the children, and you didn’t pull the trigger. That could happen to anyone.”

  She just stands there, looking downward, though the tension appears to have left for the time being. Her head finally begins a slow nod.

  “I guess so.”

  “Come on, Lily. You know so. The kid was probably in shock, scared, but you know the safest thing for someone like that is to remain in place, down low, and wait.”

  “Maybe, but I also have an idea of the condition these children are in. I can’t expect them to be calm and logical.”

  “No, but you did not pull the trigger,” he reiterates, speaking slowly, emphatically.

  “I pulled it a lot on that mission.”

  He lets a slow breath cycle through him, preparing to speak again, but she carries on.

  “The pressure is enormous, and I’m not saying that as some excuse, but I had no idea they’d be so … cruel, even with what I’ve seen. Cruel and cold. How could they just execute those other children? How can anyone do that?”

  She turns her face to him again, and the look he sees pains him, just as it shows her own pain and simmering anger.

  “I … don’t know, but it happens.”

  “So, now I know that they will kill the children I try to rescue. I can’t afford mistakes. I can’t afford to be as careful as I like.”

  “Maybe …,” Skot starts, and Lilja jerks her eyes to him, almost as if she had forgotten he was there, “Maybe you just need a break?”

  She blinks, brow wrinkling, a light shake of her head. “What? A break?”

  “Yes,” he answers, still trying to speak slow and calm, “The tension is obviously getting to you.”

  “So, what then? Just leave those children out there to be prostituted?”

  “I-,” he tries.

  “I won’t do that,” she persists, the volume of her voice still normal, but the forcefulness of the words is undeniable.

  “Lily, you can’t spend every moment of every day fighting. You’ll burn yourself up.” She turns, facing him more, and he sees the tension there, the anxiety. He cares so deeply for her, so he will push, but he fears making her think of him as an obstacle. “We have a lot of resources in the Family. Why don’t you let me help? I can take that information of yours and send some teams to rescue those kids, or I could even exert some political pressure, get someone to champion the cause.”

  “No,” she flatly states, “This is mine. I’ll do this. Don’t come in and try to ‘fix’ it.”

  “That’s not what I’m trying to do,” he says, somewhat exasperated, “I just want to help. Let me help you.”

  “I don't need help!” She suddenly hits her clenched fist on the countertop, her shoulders rising with the rhythm of her strong breathing as she defiantly stares at him. “I won't lose my independence.”

  He stares at her, his eyes wide, realizing he is afraid, not of her physically but that he may have gone too far. He never wanted to cause such a reaction in her. He dares not even to breathe, just looking at her.

  After a time, her shoulders slump, and she covers her face with her hand, letting out a deep sigh. “Sorry ... I just need some space, some time … to figure all of this out.”

  “Okay, that’s fine,” he says, “That sounds like a good idea.”

  “But I can’t take time.” Lilja looks deeply at him, her eyes taking on a shimmer. “The children can’t wait.”

  He sighs, deeply. She looks away. He looks at her.

  He takes the few steps to be near her, putting an arm about her shoulders. She leans into it, pressing herself against his chest, tucking her arms in rather than overtly returning the hug. He tries to remove all worry from his mind and just enjoy the feeling of her proximity. He knows there
is much mounting, much teetering on the edge, and he must do something to help her to keep it from falling over.

  Something must be done.

  *****

  He sits for a moment on one of the chairs at the heavy, wooden kitchen table. Though he lives alone, he actually enjoys taking meals here as he is able. Though it is not often, he relishes the peaceful passing of time when he cooks and savors the food. He is not an especially good cook, but he still likes it. It is more a luxury, even something of a ritual. This is not one of those times.

  He has just hung up the phone, still keeping an old-fashioned land line here, not many of whom know that number. He has been summoned by the boss. He wonders, fears what it may be.

  Certainly such calls to work have happened before but never like this. The voice is one he recognizes but not one he knows well. Someone closer to the top than he, far closer. He’d been given the opportunity to speak but one word before the single sentence had emerged, ordering him to the appointment, soon.

  Instead of a self-prepared meal, the serving space before him shows an empty, clear glass, a bottle of vodka, and a loaded pistol. He ponders his life, wondering how he got to this place where he feels he needs any of those. He has often thought and said that it is too late for him. This is why he has never let himself get too close to any one woman, not that droves of them are throwing themselves at his bulky frame. He has no children he is aware of. There is not much to him now, if there ever was. His eyes nigh unblinking, he stares at the bottle and gun. He’s been summoned.

  He finally moves, his hands unscrewing the cap and pouring nearly a glassful of the potent liquid. He downs it rather smoothly, his throat working with the swallowing. He then takes up the pistol, standing, and tucks it in his waistband.

  Ex-detective Alec Sladky leaves his modest home, fueled to face whatever shall come.

  A short drive later, and he is at the park. It had seemed a somewhat strange locale for him, one which might also give him a false sense of safety. It is not nighttime, but they could lead him anywhere, take him anywhere. He rises out of his car, noticing them quite easily. There are a decent number of folk out here, some jogging, others walking or just enjoying the day. He can so easily distinguish between the civilians and the soldiers. He is given a surly head-jerk of a greeting, unspoken permission to pass through the tight knot of guards and go to the man.

  “Look at them, Sladky,” Volkov says, motioning to the general area, a tattooed hand moving from within the gray encasement of his shirt sleeve.

  Alec turns about, not fully putting his back to the man. He is not sure to whom his boss refers.

  “See heavy clothing, jackets, trenchcoats,” Volkov instructs, and Alec does. “It is still autumn. These weaklings do not know of cold. I know cold.”

  Alec wonders what the man will say or do next. Unless there is a sniper, or the man will be like Gnegon and do something himself, none of the sentries can approach him without his knowing. Still, even if that happens, he will not jerk forth his pistol and shoot the boss or himself or any such nonsense. He will face his fate, such as it is.

  “We are still having trouble. You know this, and not just the vigilante. Police are becoming more of pain,” he informs, giving his underling a particular look, “Your friend, Detective Contee is on case, hunting me.”

  The moment stretches, and though Alec has tried to now only speak to Volkov when asked a direct question, he senses the man wants something.

  “Of course he is. That's how it works. He's a cop, so he goes after criminals.”

  And then he see something he thought he'd never see - a smile forms on Volkov’s face, though it does not stick, more like a cut forming on the man, a jagged opening appearing, trying to take hold, more disturbing, frightening, than anything reassuring.

  “Good. Good. I am glad you finally understand. And you will go visit your old friend ... and kill him,” he orders, the short-lived smile gone, a mayfly having done its duty and now passed into memory.

  Alec stands there, and though his immobility and focus may hearken to a statue, his blood pumps rather intently. He suspected this moment would come, and he is incensed. He suddenly wants to defy his own recent resolve and jerk forth his pistol and blow Volkov’s head off, then make a hole in his own skull. That seems a beautiful way to end it.

  “What will that accomplish?” he opts for instead.

  “It will probably make things worse, da?”

  “Da,” Alec iterates, uttering the word with a dryness.

  “It is stupid idea, to assassinate police detective, even if this one used to be corrupt. This will bring more heat to us.”

  “So, then why do you want me to do it?”

  Volkov turns minutely, raising his chin, managing to drill his already focused eyes more deeply into the other.

  “It will be message and test.”

  Alec blinks, brow furrowing.

  “Message for police,” the boss elaborates, though Alec already assumes, “This is war, not duty. The police are self-righteous fucks, yebany suki.”

  Alec does not bother asking after a translation of the obvious slur. Volkov merely stews, the coldness of his exterior along with the expletives and obvious tension making him seem all the more serious and deadly.

  “Test for you,” he adds, composure returned, “but you knew that.”

  “I don’t want to kill him,” Alec flatly states.

  The other man gives a slight shrug of his shoulders.

  “I know,” he offers, quite casual, “You don’t have to, of course. It is choice, Sladky. But if you do not, then you no longer work for me, and I may give similar order to someone else for you. I doubt they would be reluctant.”

  “Threatening me is pointless. You threaten everyone who works for you.”

  “Yes. You are insight.” He then cocks his head, pondering. “Insightful.” His expression somewhat dissolves, leaving the practical. “You are not stupid, Sladky, and being ex-detective is beneficial. I am also not stupid, but I will use tools as I see fit. I am chief.”

  Alec stares right back at the man, still pondering his actions. He figures Volkov is well aware he might try something dangerous right now. Perhaps there are hidden gunman watching through scopes. The former lawman thinks he could do some damage before they might intervene, but he has decided on another course.

  “You are,” he agrees.

  “Good. I will not believe you, though, until task is done. Go now.”

  And Alec does.

  *****

  “She sees demons.”

  He sets his blue eyes on her. The tilt of his face, the cast of his brow, and without a word, he communicates.

  “When there are none there,” his sister adds.

  She is his junior, by a time period measured better in months than years, but her understanding of the supernatural is beyond his, beyond anyone their meticulous records can recall in recent history. He knows she has ways to see things that are denied to most, but such does not make her infallible.

  “Don’t we all?” he decides, the fingertips of his right hand moving over the stout glass, it holding a decent measure of whiskey.

  “And you are drinking more than your usual.”

  His eyes again go back to her, and again they mingle challenge within the usual array of his demeanor.

  “I am not trying to be Mother,” Nicole explains, her usual smooth cadence not interrupted at all in its flow by his reactions, “It is clear there is stress within both of you and between you.”

  “A feedback loop?”

  “Mayhap, but either of you are capable of stopping it, though you are in a better psychological position to do so.” She again pauses if for no other reason than effect. “If you do not let the worry consume you.”

  “You don’t have to be melodramatic,” he remarks, his fingers again touching along the cool surface of the glass, but as with before, he does not raise it for a drink.

  “I am speaking to you in a way I
hope you will not only understand but also take as observation and advice offered in good will.”

  He exhales, nodding slowly. “Yes. Thank you. What else have you observed?”

  “I have told you of her powerful potential, but much of that is yet untapped.”

  “Much?” Skot perks his eyebrows. “She’s one of the most adept Hunters I’ve ever seen. Look how she was before we found her.”

  “I have.”

  He waits, for he senses another addition thrown out in her deceptively calm, dramatic method. She merely looks at him.

  “So, is she seeing something of the Infernal, maybe even some dark potential in people that might lure the Infernal to them?”

  “I have thought of that, and it is possible, but I think she is conflicted and suffering from some paranoia.”

  He nods, pondering.

  “It is not unusual, as you well know. We were reared in this environment, but those who are brought into it later in life often go through such, and here she is, going out on missions with the Head of the Family, expected to protect such an important personage.”

  He narrows his eyes slightly, but he knows it is enough for her to pick up on his reaction.

  “You think it’s too much for her.”

  “I am not the only one.”

  He inhales slowly, trying to fight to not shake his head.

  “Skothiam, clearly there is something bothering her. Do not let your love for her make you defensive. We want to help her and help the Family.”

  “She is a fiercely independent woman. Even if I tell her to stop-.”

  “Do not tell her ,” Nicole cuts him off. “Of course she is strong and independent. I doubt you’d have been attracted to her otherwise, but she is vulnerable. Right now, she is troubled, deeply troubled. She needs help.”

  “We’ve talked about it some, and I’ll see if I can get her to talk about it more. I am the Head of the Family, so I can control any formal assignments she receives, but it’s not just about that.”