Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  Anika holds up a hand, stopping the quick retort. “He’s not that stupid. It’s due to your qualifications, which are quite substantiated. I presume he doesn’t think it coincidence that you and the Book ended up together, as it were.”

  Lilja takes this in, wondering of it, and not for the first time. She also notes the almost casual validation. This woman likes to take her on a roller coaster, a way to test and possibly upset her. She finds the method sophomoric, and she feels she does not deserve it.

  “You should have learned something of me in our sparring match,” Lilja says.

  “Oh?” Anika perks her eyebrows, amused.

  “I am well aware of my own abilities. Do not take my silence as fear. It is pointless for me to boast, and even if I did, why would you accept my words as proof? I think this goes beyond a mere audit of the security.” She peers, drilling Anika with her eyes. “You are trying to crack me. You don’t just want to see the defenses or even test them, you want to fracture them, so you Malkuths can make some case for removing the Book. You want it for yourselves.”

  Anika does not say anything. She does not look perturbed, either, but Lilja takes the reaction as something of a victory.

  “In fact,” she adds, sounding somewhat casual, “I wonder if that is your charge, or if you are doing it on your own to try to earn favor within your Family. Maybe I ought to give my own report on our interactions.”

  The Malkuth grins, the expression already hinted at throughout Lilja’s speech, now growing in a slow manner, as though the time-lapsed unfurling of petals. “Very good. I like that. Push back. And feel free to tell Skothiam anything you like of me. Maybe it can be pillow talk,” she chides.

  Lilja smirks right back, staring.

  The moment stretches, the surrounding sounds again wrapping them in their embrace, a potential chaos reduced to white noise. Both just stare. The game of silence, though, is one in which Lilja has been raised, and not even as a game, merely as a culture.

  “Well,” Anika exhales into the word, “Good for you, then. I suppose you may count this as a small victory.”

  Lilja leans forward, voice pitched low, direct. “It’s not the first time I’ve made you tap out.”

  She then rises, collecting her things, and leaves.

  *****

  “This is one bad dude.”

  Therese moves her eyes up from where she had been looking at information on her laptop. She’s at Macar’s offices, though they’re in something of a break room, sitting at a round table that has seen better days. The coffee, at least, is strong, and both of them partake.

  The P.I. is standing, one hand in his pocket. Therese had not much been paying attention, just arrived for this exchange of information, status updates, and she had taken a mug and a seat, preparing her own files. She studies him now, and she notes the difference in his demeanor. For all his bravado, his image, his effortless calm, he’s bothered. She thinks he’s even afraid.

  “He lords over a kidnapping and sexual slavery ring of children,” she comments, “Of course he’s bad.”

  She then gets back to her computer.

  “Yeah, but …”

  She finally looks up after the silence takes on its own volume. He’s still just standing there, not even looking at her, not trying any of his usual charms and tricks to get into her panties. He finally moves his arm, almost as if in a dream, taking a sip of the powerful brew.

  “What have you found?” she asks.

  “A lot,” he answers, slipping into the chair across from her.

  That’s also different. He’d usually take the seat next to her, maybe even sliding it closer, going into his usual, almost thoughtless routine of coming on to her. It’s just his nature, and though it is bothersome, she finds its absence to be chilling.

  “He’s not just into the kidnapping, trafficking, and prostitution.”

  “I know,” she replies, her voice even, though still laden with some of its usual defensiveness.

  “And not just the other things you’d expect, like extortion, racketeering, all that.” He pauses, taking another slow sip of his coffee.

  “Macar?” she summons his slippery focus, “What did you find?”

  “This guy’s into some weird shit.”

  She sighs, rolling her eyes. “I’m weird shit. What do you mean? What did you find?”

  “He has some interesting appetites,” he continues, “Extreme bondage and sadism, the occult.”

  “What?”

  “I found some things, during my investigation. This sort of stuff comes up a lot … well, not the bondage and occult shit, but I often end up stumbling onto some personal things, even if I’m not looking for them.”

  “Stumbling?”

  “Yeah.” He finally looks at her, his own thin coat of challenge rising. “I’m digging, and people don’t hide their secrets near as well as they think.”

  “Well, regardless of your opinion, none of that is illegal.”

  “I know that,” he retorts, dismissive, “It’s just more of the colors on this guy’s palette.”

  “How poetic,” she snarks.

  They trade further stares.

  “Look, that doesn’t make him a bad dude, okay?” she speaks, “I told you what was going on when we started this. You took this case, knowing he’s a powerful, dangerous crime boss, knowing the kind of shit he’s doing to children. But now you find out he’s into whips and pentagrams, and you’re spooked?”

  “It’s not just whips and pentagrams,” he throws back.

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s just …,” he pauses, licking his lips, eyes moving away then back, “I’m not so sure the people he’s doing this to are all into it, and-.”

  “So, he’s also a rapist? That doesn’t surprise me,” she interrupts.

  He just glares for a moment.

  “And,” he continues, “the stuff he is doing is generating some bad energy.”

  She blinks, shaking her head as though having to force her eyes to re-open. “What?”

  “You may not buy in to this stuff, but frankly, it doesn’t need people’s belief to be true.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Macar?” she asks, her voice surprisingly taking on a more casual cadence.

  “There’s stuff out there, things, powers, and they generate energy, or they change it. I don’t fully understand it, but I’ve seen some things, and I’ll tell you, there’s bad things out there in the world that most people don’t know about. This guy knows about them, and he’s bad news.”

  “Are you talking about the supernatural?”

  “I don’t know,” he quips, his voice raising, “It’s just energy, okay? Energy can’t be created or destroyed, right, so we’re all just gateways for it, catalysts … batteries. Most of us just eat, shit, fuck, and die, so whatever, normal, boring lives, but some people know how to use that energy for themselves in bad ways.”

  “What … the fuck, Macar? Are you saying he’s some devil worshiper or warlock or something?”

  “No, nothing like that, but he’s into some weird shit, generating some bad energy. I felt it.”

  She shakes her head some more, small noises of frustration emerging, incoherent words belying her own inability to form cogent expression in the face of this revelation.

  “Look,” she changes tact, turning her laptop to face him, “I’ve found some things, too. I’ve been keeping on the trail of their finances. They’re sloppy, not normal.”

  “What’s normal?” he thrusts.

  “Neither of us are new to this, okay?” she counters, “I’ve had to do some imaginative digging and hacking before, but with this, I just finally realized they’re old-fashioned and sloppy.”

  “Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe he expects his magic to protect him,” she ejects, gaining another glare from him, “I’ve found some investments, properties, probably efforts to launder money, but one place stood out.”

  He sc
oots closer to the edge of the table, his curiosity finally getting through his unusual demeanor.

  “It’s a flat in a nicer part of town. Not the nicest, but still, many steps up from his usual places,” she shows.

  “Maybe it’s just where he’s living.”

  “You know it isn’t.”

  “Okay, then, just an investment? He flips it, makes some profit, another cog in the chain to distance him from his illegal income.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” he presses.

  “He’s had it for a while,” she informs.

  “What’s a while?”

  “A few months.”

  “A few months? That’s nothing. Maybe he’s just waiting for the right offer.”

  Quiet descends. The two just look at each other.

  “Fine,” Macar finally gives in, “I’ll check into it.”

  *****

  He exits his vehicle after having been admitted through the gate, parking his rental in some of the limited available space. This is a very nice part of the City and a very nice townhouse, but real estate is still quite sparse here, things somewhat packed, narrow, and rising up instead of out. There is a garage, closed, and he supposes the vehicles owned by the people who live here are inside. Not everyone here feels the need to own an automobile. He does not. He travels so much, uses rentals so often, that owning his own car is pointless.

  He is greeted at the door by the man himself. It surprises him, his having thought perhaps a butler or assistant or some such would field the arrival.

  “Thank you for coming,” Skothiam offers once they have formally exchanged names and a handshake, inviting the agent into his home.

  Duilio’s grin increases, a brief nod of his head in thanks. “How could I refuse such an invitation?” he asks as he walks in, looking about, turning in the expansive, high-ceilinged foyer to politely await his host. “You have a lovely home.”

  “Thank you,” Skot replies, wearing a pleasant, light smile, “If you please?” He then leads the way into a comfortable sitting room.

  A tea service awaits, and again, Duilio is surprised when his host offers to pour it himself. He accepts graciously, then once Skot has his own, they both take seats in the several available and quite comfortable chairs.

  “This is very good tea.”

  “Thank you,” Skot replies, still wearing that genteel smile, “I do thank you for coming. You did not have to accept my invitation.”

  The grin on the other man’s face falters, a stunted, breathy chuckle emerges, and he looks down for the duration of it.

  “Well, as the Malkuths are fond of reminding me – I work for them. I am not one of them.”

  Skot’s grin slides up at this, eyes studying the man.

  “Oh, we have meetings with them, too, as you well know.”

  “I would suspect they’d not like one of their … assets having an unsupervised meeting with their rivals.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel better, you can always tell them about it when we’re done.”

  The two men share a quiet grin.

  “This is a courtesy, of course,” Skot continues after a sip of his tea, “But it’s also a way to let you know that we’re aware of you being back in the City.”

  Duilio nods, swallowing his own further taste of the mellow drink, hints of some spice tickling his palette but not overwhelmingly so.

  “I’ve tried to relieve myself of expectation when it comes to dealing with … uhm … people like the Malkuths and yourselves.”

  Skot’s smile again increases.

  “How is that working out?”

  “Eh, not so well,” the agent admits.

  “I would suspect your experience with Interpol has helped.”

  Duilio looks at his host for a moment, wondering what his words imply, wondering what all he might know.

  “I guess my experience helped me to get noticed,” he says, speaking slowly, carefully.

  Silence descends, the two looking at each other, their drinks untouched for the time being. Skot finally breaks the quiet.

  “Some might consider it a poor idea to go down the rabbit hole.”

  Duilio gives forth another of his short, stuttering-seeming exhalations, like an aborted laugh.

  “Working for the Malkuths has been … uh … interesting,” he eventually offers.

  “The Malkuths are very Greek tragic.”

  Duilio blinks his eyes, his little grin gone, traded for confusion. His expression asks for better understanding, but he does not say anything. His host merely looks back, that polite smile still there on his lips, and he also offers nothing further on the subject.

  “What was your involvement here in the City last year?”

  Duilio huffs out a short grin. “Of course, you would know of that. It would be stupid of me to ask how.”

  Skothiam just looks at him.

  “I was not working for the Malkuths, then, if that is what you are after.”

  “I know that.”

  “Ahhh.” Duilio licks his lips, nodding. “Yes,” he mulls, giving himself some time by having another slow taste of his tea. “It really had nothing to do with any of … this.”

  “That is what you thought, initially,” Skot expounds, gaining a look from his guest, “There are those who are born into this ‘world’, Signor Duilio, and all the others who find their way in do so in a manner that necessarily originates from ignorance.”

  “Yes,” comes another of the shallow grins, though the host’s has dropped some due to the sudden seriousness of the topic.

  “So, whatever it is you were doing, you somehow became exposed to … this.” Skot offers a light gesture of his hand. “Though if you are uncomfortable telling me more, so be it. My point is that something happened, and I’m sure you know what that is. And it gained you notice. Now, after going on a hunt with my cousin, David, you have been sent back here. Does that not strike you as odd?”

  Duilio’s eyes widen, and he sits up in the chair, shoulders going slowly back.

  “Is the Demon here?”

  “Not that we know,” Skot reveals, and when he sees some relaxation in the other man, he reiterates, “Not that we know.”

  Duilio stares back, noting the piercing gaze beneath somewhat raised eyebrows. He nods his understanding. He then drains his cup as though willing it to have a more potent potable than its current contents.

  “Would you like more?” offers the host.

  “Ah.” Duilio seems lost in thought. “Yes, but do not trouble yourself. I can get it myself … if that is alright with you?”

  “Of course.” Skot returns to his pleasant smile, sipping much slower of his own drink.

  He glances more pointedly at his guest when the man’s back is to him, thoughts whirling through his mind.

  “As you might guess, Mister Felcraft, I was raised as a Catholic,” Duilio says, mixing up a fresh tea for himself, “I even spent time as an altar boy.”

  Skot nods when his guest’s eyes find him again.

  “But when I outgrew my childish innocence, I found it … uh … difficult,” he sends out a short-lived grin, continuing, “to maintain my faith. I tried, but it just wouldn’t take. My mother was very disappointed.”

  “I can imagine,” the host remarks.

  “Yes.” Duilio gives another of his brief smiles, almost as though he is somewhat embarrassed or that he may have even spent an instant forgetting anyone was there. “But now, learning that demons are real, all of this …” he says, moving a hand in a circular fashion, “business with the Infernal … well, it’s quite something to process.”

  “It doesn’t mean the Catholic faith is true.”

  Duilio looks over, eyes widening a bit.

  “These are not demons from Hell?”

  “We don’t know. They are malignant, non-human entities that come from another plane of existence than our own.”

  “But…” The agent blinks, eyes narrowing, ponderi
ng. “Your family does not believe this is proof of the existence of God, Heaven and Hell, Angels and Devils?”

  “I do not.”

  “You said ‘I’.”

  Skot nods once, slowly.

  “But you are the Head of the Family. Don’t you speak for more than yourself?”

  “I do in some things, but the beliefs, the conscience of a person, that is their own personal business.”

  “Yes, of course,” Duilio almost whispers, eyes again lost in thought.

  “Why do you think you were sent back here?” Skothiam finally asks after giving the man a moment.

  He blinks himself back into focus, looking over. “I don’t know. Do you?”

  “I’m not sure, but I have some suspicion.”

  “May I ask what that is?”

  “Both of us, the Felcrafts and the Malkuths, have reason to believe the Demon you helped to hunt is going to come to the City, or perhaps may already be here. In addition to this, we think the Infernal may be preparing to launch a force, an attack, to acquire something important we are trying to keep from them.

  “Something similar happened last year. There was a confluence of forces, of power, though much of it was not deliberate. It culminated at the well-protected compound of a local crime lord who, incidentally, lost his life that same evening.”

  Duilio’s eyes are locked on Skot, his body betraying a stiffening, a rising tension, though the host gives no reaction, continuing in his speech.

  “Many other lives were also lost. It was a tragedy, one which was largely hidden from the public, much of which was also hidden from the local authorities. Unnecessary death, pain, and suffering. All to further the constant attempts of the Infernal to enter this world and subject us. And it was, as I mentioned, mostly unintentional. We worry that now, the efforts are more-.”

  And his words halt as the fine china teacup falls from the inspector’s hand, shattering on the floor.

  Duilio starts, blinking rapidly, looking down at the mess then over to his host, preparing, no doubt, to offer apologies, but the seated man is quicker of tongue.

  “I forgive you,” he says, casually, unperturbed by the lost cup.

  “I am …,” Duilio manages, then gives up another of his huffed-out grins, “Ahh, thank you, though I am sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”