Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  He then hears the noise from inside his apartment.

  He sits up, blinking, looking about, as though that would help him discern what may be going on. He doesn’t snap on the light or call out. Those are amateur things to do. If no one is there, it won’t matter. If there is an intruder, he doesn’t want them to know he’s heard.

  Maybe it’s the vigilante, he lets slip almost comically through his mind.

  Very quietly, he retrieves his pistol from the nearby nightstand. He knows it may not be the safest course of action to leave a loaded weapon there, but ever since he had that last talk with Alec, he’s kept it nearby and ready. He slowly gets out of bed, straining to hear anymore sounds. He doesn’t, but he won’t let that convince him everything is safe. He’ll check the entire apartment. Then, if it’s nothing, he’ll get back to his inability to sleep.

  As soon as he barely cracks open his bedroom door, he knows something is wrong. He sees the light coming from the living room, and he knows he did not leave it on. He walks very carefully, his bare feet making next to no noise as he steps with purpose. He holds the weapon close to his chest, pointing the way. He gets to the end of the hallway, then dares to peek around the edge, bending at the knees, so his head does not emerge where someone might expect it. He is stunned.

  “Alec?” he says, walking into the living room, pistol pointed, though it pains him to do so, “What are you doing here?”

  The bulky man sits on his couch, the nearby lamp casting its light over him. He just stares ahead. Quain sees no weapons, and his ex-partner sits in a way that he does not have his hands hidden.

  “I’ve been sent to kill you,” the man finally utters.

  “Is that so?”

  Alec just slowly nods.

  “Well, I see you got into my flat, but …?” he leads, moving more into view, still pointing his weapon.

  “I’m not going to do it,” Alec states.

  “Thanks?”

  Alec then finally angles his eyes to the other.

  “Arrest me. Put me in custody … safe custody, and I’ll tell you all you need to know.”

  Some time later, after transport, booking, some arguing, and Quain and Maria have been given permission to question the recent arrestee.

  “I’m doing what I can to secure special arrangements. You know how this works, Alec, and I wish I could say that your being an ex-cop was helping, but…” Quain’s voice trails off.

  “I appreciate it,” Alec replies, “and I understand.”

  He looks over at Quain’s new partner. She looks more interested in her coffee, though Alec presumes some of that may just be irritation at having been called in here when she’d probably rather be asleep.

  “So?” Quain tries, his brow rising, “Do you want to begin?”

  “Sure,” Alec says, glancing once at the two cops, then looking down at the surface of the table for a moment, sitting forward in his chair, cuffed hands clasped together. “I was ordered to kill you. You, Detective Quain Contee. I was ordered to kill you by Kazimir Volkov.”

  “We’ve heard that name before,” Maria remarks, still more interested in her drink.

  “Sure you have, and I work for him. I can describe him to you, in detail. I can give you distinguishing marks. I can tell you where he spends a lot of his time, and I can tell you about some of his operations.”

  “Some?” she angles.

  “I don’t handle everything for him.”

  “Right,” Quain interjects, though, for once, Alec proves the calm one in a potentially brewing situation, “What sort of operations?”

  “The usual,” the ex-cop begins, “Conspiracy, extortion, racketeering, assault, money laundering. Kidnapping, coercion, human trafficking, forced prostitution of children.”

  “You witnessed this?” Maria perks up, moving forward in her own chair.

  Alec nods, again that weighted feel, as though a pendulum. “Yes, yes I did.”

  “What about the murders?”

  He looks over to see that Quain has asked this, and he is somewhat placated to hear the underlying hesitancy.

  “No, and I’m not just saying that to save my own ass. I’m completely fucked. I’m done for, but I do know how this works. I won’t overstep what I can offer you.”

  “So, you don’t know anything about the child murders?” Maria persists.

  “I didn’t say that. I didn’t witness them, but I’ve been there when he’s given the order to execute them, and I’ve heard him talk about other things,” he says, his voice somewhat losing its volume, eyes looking away.

  Quain sees it, and he is reminded of their talk those days ago. He knows from experience that not much frightens his ex-partner, and he sees fear in the man.

  Maria looks from one to the other, then when the silence stretches too long for her, she speaks, “What other things?”

  “It’s a sacrifice, a ritual, even the executions,” he finally answers, eyes still averted, words so heavy they almost disappear into a consuming silence as soon as they fall from his mouth.

  “How?”

  Quain looks at his partner, blinking into a confused frown. He had not expected that reaction. Alec knows what she’s after, though, as he swivels his head back, so slow, like the workings of a rusted machine.

  “It’s a transference of energy. Volkov has talked to me, said odd things, but I’m not as stupid as most think.”

  “What kind of odd things?” she presses.

  “About the vitality of children, about their … potential.”

  The interview and debriefing take some time, but Alec has provided enough to convince them to put him into solitary holding for now. Quain walks slowly toward the exit of the building, his partner with him. He glances at her.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “It’s the job,” she comments.

  “Yeah, but, well, it’s not always convenient.”

  She sets a smirk on her lips for a moment, then repeats, adding emphasis, “It’s the job.”

  He nods, going through one side of the double doors as she takes the other. He pauses once outside, taking in the night air. They’ve eaten most of the evening away now. He turns his eyes back to her, finding that she is standing there, looking at him.

  “You want to get some coffee?” he bids.

  “No,” she says, not entirely unexpected, “but I could use a beer.”

  He grins, eyes opening a bit more, nodding. “Sure. Let’s.”

  They take her car, since heading back is on her way, and he continues in his surprise as she orders a particularly dark, potent brew. His choice of pale ale looks almost meager compared to hers, almost as if it is the shadow of a beer, despite it not being the darker of the two.

  “I wonder if this has anything to do with the Soosaar murder,” she comments, the high ranking lieutenant in the local criminal organization having been recently found and quite easily identified, no effort made to hinder such.

  “Probably,” Quain says, tilting up his glass.

  “Internal issues?”

  “Maybe. I’m sure glad Alec didn’t want to go through with that order he was given. Maybe some other guys are having similar problems.”

  “Even hardened criminals have a conscience?” she pitches.

  “Sure. It’s one thing to take out another guy who’s into the Life, but to execute some innocent kid in cold blood? That’s too much for some.”

  “Not all of them.” She samples more of her beer.

  He ponders for a moment, both of them content to sit in the quiet of the early morning hours in the nearly desolate pub.

  “This could be a huge break, though,” he finally announces.

  “It could.” She nods, then fixes a stare on him. “People will talk, though, since it’s your ex-partner.”

  “So? Let them.”

  “I appreciate your sentiment, Quain, and you’re tough enough, but this may also become political, and politics will play in how the prosecutors handle this.”r />
  “Yeah,” he agrees, “Okay. So, do I need to take a hands off?”

  “Probably.” She leans forward, fingers moving along the table top, closer to him. “You brought him in. We did the initial interrogation. It’s a good arrest, but you know it’s not our sort of case, anyway. When you get into work tomorrow, and it’s been assigned to someone else, don’t get upset.”

  “I won’t. And tomorrow?” he jokes, “I don’t have today off.”

  She glances at her watch. “Yeah, me, either. Only a few more hours before we start again.”

  He spends a brief moment looking at her as she muses, eyes away from him.

  “It’s a good break,” he repeats, more sincerity in his tone.

  Her eyes go back to his.

  “It is, and we have you to thank, so … thanks.” She offers a smile.

  “Huh? Thank Alec.”

  “No,” she iterates with a shake of her head, “If you two had less of a friendship, he’d have gone through with the order, or tried, so…” She blinks, her smile changing its appearance. “I’m glad you’re such good friends, and I’m glad you seem like a good cop.”

  “Seem like?”

  She just keeps giving him that little grin.

  His car remains in the department’s parking lot. Instead of dropping him off, she takes him to her home.

  They move slowly, despite the hunger. And there is hunger, a spectrum of it, from the most base to something more refined, something perhaps even of which they are not fully aware in themselves. Still, what they may lack in self-reflection, they have applied to each other, and it has only given fuel to the thirst.

  She places a hand on his chest, feeling the muscle there beneath the fabric of his shirt. He takes this as not only cue but also permission, still keeping that relaxed, controlled motion, and he places his hand on her bosom, as though they were imperfect mirror images.

  They take their time, but eventually, they are disrobed. Even in the dim lighting, she may see how refined is his body, how much attention he gives it, the available illumination enhancing the lines and definition of his muscles. She has more superficial flaws, but these do not concern her, nor do they him. They have simmered into a respect of one another, despite obvious misgivings.

  They use their hands, their fingers, more than anything else. Eyes show heavy, half-lidded, some mingling of excitement, fatigue, sudden expectation. They both move in a bloom of fortitude, eager for this even as other needs press at them.

  When they finally kiss, it is as though a peak has been reached, this union of intimacy, vulnerability. She yields somewhat, also leading with this action, and he follows her to the bed. She exhales a muted gasp through her nose when he enters her. His lips barely part, continuing the quasi-reflection. As they move their bodies together, they continue to take their time, as if owning this action which perhaps neither thought would ever happen, which perhaps both may have worried was a bad idea, regardless of desires. Now that they have consciously decided to dive into one another, they will brook no hesitancy or shyness.

  It is savored.

  Afterwards, he still finds himself unable to sleep. She shares no such difficulty. He slips quietly out of the sheets, tugging on his boxer shorts and walking to the kitchen. He narrows his dark eyes at the light of the refrigerator, finding that there is some juice in there. He picks up and examines the bottle. Apple is not his favorite, and he suddenly decides that water will do. As he is closing the door, he turns, starting somewhat to see the figure there.

  “Hi,” he manages.

  “Who are you?” the girl asks.

  “Uhm.” He swallows. “I’m your mother’s partner,” and just as he says this, he closes his eyes, gritting his teeth, wishing he had chosen other words.

  “Oh,” she replies, staring at him, then she moves past, gaining a turn from him as he gets out of her way in the none-too-large kitchen.

  She opens a cabinet, pulling out two glasses.

  “There you go,” she says, then opening the fridge to pour herself a glass of milk before going back to her bedroom.

  “Thanks,” he manages when she is almost gone, then he gets himself that water.

  *****

  She sits in the university’s commons, a sparse meal on the plate before her, attention focused into something she reads on her phone. She has already done her usual and chosen a table somewhat on the edge of this outside area, minimizing angles of approach. It is not empty here, so she also subconsciously adjusts her perception to ignore peripheral movement that is sufficiently distant. When the one figure nears, intention obvious, she looks up.

  “Ah, hello there,” greets Anika Malkuth, looking polished as ever, her sure stride barely slowing as those vibrant eyes settle upon her.

  “What are you doing here?” Lilja all but demands.

  “Looking for you,” the woman informs, slipping uninvited into an available chair, eyes glancing at the meal. “How do you eat this terrible food? I tried to find something, but it’s all so unappealing.”

  “I usually bring my own.”

  The dark-haired woman moves her eyes slowly up to the redhead. Calculation, analysis running rapidly behind those orbs.

  “Ah, I see. So … today is different. What’s bothering you, Lilja?”

  Deep blue eyes narrow. She does not like this intrusion. She does not like the Malkuth using her first name in such a familiar manner. Anika merely smirks, the expression dimmed in its potential cliché and immaturity by how subtly it is wielded.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Of course, it is. If you weren’t the Guardian of the Book, then it wouldn’t be, but you are,” she is quick to press, sitting up quite straight in the chair, legs crossed.

  “It’s nothing.”

  A moment of weighty silence ensues between them, sounds of the world enveloping in calming tones and expected clatter and conversation.

  “Everyone has their ups and downs, hmm?” Anika speaks, eyebrows rising slowly, “But something bad might happen during one of your downs. Some might even be waiting to take advantage of that.”

  Lilja’s eyes again become more like guarded slits.

  “If you don’t want this responsibility, just say so. I’ll be happy to report that,” Anika continues within her insufferable tone.

  The librarian remains silent, just looking, though it seems this comment may have somewhat gotten under her skin. Anika returns the look.

  “You really do have some impressive potential. I wish we had found you first.”

  And her face moves back a very small amount, spine stiffening as her eyes widen slightly before closing back to that more focused, defensive expression.

  “Though I guess it doesn’t work that way,” Anika admits, “We all have our … proclivities, yes?”

  “I’m a Felcraft.”

  The posh woman grins, as though having achieved a victory.

  “No, you aren’t. You aren’t in the Family by birth, blood, or bond. Though you did manage to land quite a catch – the wealthy and powerful Head of House Felcraft. Congratulations. Tell me, did you study any archaeology or geology when you were at university?” she taunts.

  “No.” The word is clipped, dry. “And not everyone is in the Family by blood.”

  “Ah, you’re referring to Jericho, aren’t you?”

  Lilja does not respond to this, feeling as though she is being trapped, wrangled, and her retorts sound weak, or worse, like evidence of the insufficiency this other woman implies.

  “Skothiam and Jericho have known each other nearly all their lives,” Anika carries on, “Schoolyard chums. So special, isn’t it? I presume they’ve told you of the lure of our genes. We call to each other, like lodestones. Those two came together as friends and developed a lasting bond. It doesn’t have to be romantic. I can feel your allure right now, just sitting here.”

  So said, she grins again, looking, the tone of her voice there at the end, her expression, all increasin
g in an obvious flirtatious manner. Lilja does not rise to this bait. She just remains silent.

  “Well, regardless, congratulations.”

  Lilja scoots her chair back, readying to leave.

  “Running away again?”

  Her eyes snick sharply back to the other woman at these words.

  “You obviously did not study poker,” Anika observes, almost as an aside, then, “Are you …? Are you and Skot having troubles? Is that it? Are you going to run away again?”

  She just stares, silent, brewing.

  “Why did you leave Finland, Lilja?”

  And again, her eyes widen somewhat, but she then regains control.

  “That’s also none of your business,” she manages, her tone as one that might cut through ice.

  As though proof of this, Anika smirks, almost deliciously.

  “Did something bad happen?” she presses, “Something with family, friends, your job? And you ran away?”

  The redhead stands, picking up her bag and the plate upon which rests food hardly touched.

  “If you leave like that, it will go in my report, and then Skothiam will learn of it. Then he’ll come talk to you. You agreed to a certain amount of scrutiny when you also agreed to undertake this very important responsibility.”

  “I know that, but there are limits.”

  Anika casually waves a hand, dismissive. “Yes, there are.”

  After another short, tense moment of silence, Lilja retakes her seat.

  “You’re ex-military. You understand the idea of pushing limits in training. Do you think the Infernal give a fuck about your sensitivities?”

  Lilja remains like a statue, staring back, but inside, she experiences a buzz, a war of her own thoughts and feelings.

  “Well, of course they do,” Anika adds, an afterthought, “They’d love nothing more than to learn of those, to learn your limits, your weak spots, then they would exploit that.”

  “I’m not the only measure in place to guard the Book.”

  “True … but you may be the key reasons it’s still in the library here.”

  “Are you suggesting my relationship with Skot is-?”