Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  “Negative,” he clips, knowing they have a job to do.

  He moves through the growing crowd of people, noting that several of them are wearing variations of masks. He did not know this was intended to be a Masquerade. Of course, judging from the lack of them, not everyone knew or has elected to participate. He gives passing thought to this, wondering why some are covered and some are not. The masks also vary, some hiding nearly the whole face, some leaving but the mouth free, whilst others are more decorative, not much shielding the wearer’s features at all.

  The boss also notes this, some minor concern entering his mind. He also does not know why some of them are so bedecked. He leans in close to Yelena, whispering in her ear as she interacts with some of the party-goers, “Why do some wear masks?”

  She merely gives him that smirk of hers. He stands as though stone, thinking this must be some surprise of hers in the making. He is not amused. He makes his way through the throng, bodyguards in tow, leaving her to her more apt socializing. He does not note the intense gaze of the woman standing midway up on one side of the grand staircase. She knows this mark will take much more work than did Soosaar.

  Volkov is not completely ignorant of the function, having given approval to Yelena at some point, else it would not have happened. He also got involved to some degree, and not only with funding. Still, this is not his type of soiree. Too many people.

  He notes several very physically appealing young men and women working through the crowd, especially up here on the second floor where less people congregate. They are dressed quite nicely, but they stand out from the regular guests. There is something different, something more sensual and revealing in their mode and measure of appearance. He realizes they are not those on the select list of invitees but intended as favors. This suspicion is nailed home when he sees a couple, obvious guests, abscond to privacy with one of the young women, not much more of an introduction than a light grab of her arm.

  Appetites, he realizes. This party is but an expensive, elegant buffet. He is more curious now, resolving to explore further. He knows he is being followed, for he may hardly move anywhere in such a public venue without his ‘guardians’ nearby. He does not know, though, of the man and woman who have joined in the wake. They arrived together, but now they follow somewhat separate from one another.

  Tomas knows where Livie is. They trail in such a way as to give themselves potential for exploiting opportunities as well as watching over one another. They have done this before. Still, he is anxious about Nenad’s sudden silence. The sniper may well have been found, but then he wonders why Volkov would not be vacated from the premises. He lets it nag at him that they may need to do the same. Risks and more risks.

  Volkov continues his wandering, gaining notice from some but largely remaining a passerby. He sees people in the throes of varied imbibing, whether alcohol, drugs, flesh, or some combination thereof. He continues on his way, noting the growing energies as he delves deeper into the estate. There is something here, he realizes, though he is still not sure what. He follows, like a dowser, sensing a surge nearby, one he realizes is not such a swell but has only appeared so to him, and he opens the door, entering the dark, comfortable-seeming room.

  The masked man in the center plays a theremin, arms held poised, hands moving, even his fingers undergoing deft, subtle movements, as though deliberately plucking delicate strings that hang invisible in the air. Volkov watches for a time, noting that the small gathering of people in here portrays a spectrum of responses. Some are rapt, paying close attention, others look bored or confused, while a tiny subset have taken to a distant, shadowed corner, engaging in more attention of each other, perhaps somewhat fueled by the music.

  “It sounds like crying in the fog,” Volkov says, noticing that Yelena has appeared, standing next to him, peering as though desirous of his reaction.

  “I thought you might like it.”

  “The theremin is not an easy instrument, and he plays it well. How did you find him?”

  Her lips curl, noting his interest - a fish nibbling at the hooked morsel.

  “I know him,” is all she gives.

  He holds more interest in the music than her mysterious answers and seductive ways. The tune ends, the small crowd giving forth a smattering of applause. She sees that he also joins in, his hands slow, deliberate, sincere.

  “What else would you like to see?”

  He looks at her, thinking passingly on why she does not offer to introduce him to the musician. Perhaps the masked man does not want his privacy intruded upon. Some artists may be eccentric. Or perhaps she knows he’d walk over there himself if he were so inclined.

  “I will see more,” he replies, moving out of the room.

  She follows, as do the others.

  Tomas has seen many things in his time, especially considering the path for which he opted and his current choice of employment, but he’s never been to a party quite like this. He is not here as a real guest, of course, but he lets his imagination work toward that scenario. He is a man of control, but he still wonders what it might be like to partake of the many offerings. This event is a temptation, but it is not just one of the flesh. He finds himself taken by things he does not fully comprehend. Still, mind on the job.

  “Any word from Nenad?”

  “No,” Alex speaks.

  “Have you informed Eldon?”

  “Would you like him to?” Livie speaks after a short pause for her and Alex to converse in their mother tongue.

  “Not yet,” Tomas decides after a short time of thought, “Stick with the target.”

  The music changes significantly as they careen through some hallways and happen upon a large room, viewing it from a walkway that curves around the edge of the entire circular chamber. Tomas peers over, noting several people on the lower floor, but he sees nothing producing the somewhat eerie, electronic sounds, not even a piano or keyboard, though there are such recognizable tones within the strange miasma. He thinks, then, that perhaps it is not so different from the theremin, all of it meant to invoke something in particular, though he knows not what. This music, though, is being piped in from elsewhere, perhaps pre-recorded.

  There is a naked woman below, sitting in a rather regal chair atop a pedestal. Well, she is not technically naked, as she wears jewelry upon her fingers, wrists, and toes, and she wears an ostentatious mask, stopping just above her richly red-painted lips. A man in an equally rich red cassock intones words that seem fit for a religious ceremony, then inviting people to step forward and take something from a silver tray situated between the woman’s spread legs, a communion of sorts, or a perversion of one. It takes a moment, but eventually someone approaches, taking one of the morsels. The woman smiles. The ice thus warmed, others move forward, a queue eventually forming, as though aspirants waiting their chance to worship.

  “What are these trappings?”

  Yelena looks to her boyfriend, his face somewhat wrinkled in judgment.

  “Oh, they are just having fun,” she replies, “These people like to pretend they are into some secret as they engage in their debauchery, like the Hellfire Clubs of Britain.”

  “You invited them, did you not?” he throws back, “You set this up.”

  “Da.”

  He studies her, then huffs, “The one playing the theremin was much better.”

  Volkov turns, heading away. He does not see the delicious grin that takes her lips.

  Tomas keeps on the tail, playing it casual, giving gentle smiles and nods to some as he makes his way through the manor. He continues to keep a mental blueprint of the place, realizing it proves more expansive and complicated than he had earlier assessed. He hopes to make it quiet and be able to slip out unnoticed and reasonably unhurried, but this method inherently brings a great deal of risk. He already feels pressed with Nenad’s sudden disappearance. He again contemplates aborting the mission, but he does not issue the order.

  “Hello.”

  He look
s up to see two gorgeous women in front of him. He had all but completely missed them, moving to go around without thinking, as though they were a lifeless obstruction. They are both dressed in a display of finery, both looking as though they stepped off the runways of a fashion show. They remind him of Volkov’s lady friend, looking quite predatory.

  He gives a smile and a quick nod of his head, making to continue on his way.

  “Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?” one asks, and he detects an Eastern accent to her words, though he cannot exactly peg her origin.

  “Mmmm,” the other purrs, a hand moving languidly up her friend’s naked arm, “If you know something exciting going on, please take us with you.”

  “I…” He grins more openly, a stunted exhale trying to open his lips. “I am just exploring. It is a very nice house, don’t you think?” he tries, then again going to step by them.

  He glances over, realizing he has lost sight of his prey. He curses mentally, wanting to be away from these two ladies, so he can check if Livie is still on him and pick back up the trail.

  “It is,” one of them agrees, her words elongated in obvious seduction, “May we accompany you and see what you find?”

  “Excuse me,” he says, being more final but still coating his expression with some measure of manners, then slipping away.

  He steps more rapidly than he likes, not wanting to catch anyone’s attention and give cause for alarm. The two ladies see this, of course, watching as he departs, their subtly lecherous grins not faltering from the seeming rejection.

  He moves into the hallway, noting it is darker here, devoid of people. He continues, somewhat surprised when it curves rightwards and also feels as though it is descending. He wonders what desire and will would lead to someone putting such a passageway into a home.

  “Livie,” he whispers into the com.

  Nothing.

  “Alex,” he tries, voice more demanding.

  Nothing.

  He guesses there must be something obstructing his efforts here.

  He finally reaches the end of the hallway, and the door there is locked. He emits a sharp, frustrated snort of air through his nose, then looks about, realizing how dark it is. His eyes must have adjusted as he descended. And even with this realization, he does not see from what emits the very limited illumination. He tries the comlink again, and again, nothing. He decides it is time to get back up out of this strange hallway, but he gives it one more try. The knob turns.

  He blinks, brow wrinkling. He heard nothing to indicate it had become unlocked. He wonders if someone may be waiting just inside, but he can always play the lost guest. He pushes the door open, walking in slowly, looking about.

  He can make out shapes in the dark room, but none of them are people. He glances up, noting the ceiling is so tall he has trouble making it out, wondering if he is playing tricks with himself. He decides to take a further risk, and he pulls out his mobile, using it as a makeshift torch, the modification to it producing a quite decent amount of illumination. If there is anyone here, they remain silent, for surely he has now announced his presence.

  He realizes the ceiling is not so impossibly high up as the darkness initially gave his mind to think, but what he sees gives him pause. Painted around the uppermost portions of the walls are eyes, or the suggestion of such. They all look hastily drawn, more perhaps like symbols or sigils than true depictions, but they all stare at him, made of their bold, daring red lines, as though defined by blood. He notes the sheen reflected by his light, suggesting the insignia are fresh. He wonders what this is, all of his, the entirety of it suddenly scratching at his awareness, for his duty here has kept him from truly pondering the oddity of the gathering.

  He navigates slowly, noticing the blocky, non-descript furniture, almost suggesting this is some storage room, though there is enough deliberate arrangement to it to make him wonder if that is indeed the case. Several steps in, and he spies the less blocky and more bulbous thing toward a far wall. It is covered, and he doesn’t like what his gut tells him. He moves over, still going slow and quiet, though he wonders if such stealth is any longer necessary.

  His instincts prove correct, and once removed, the shroud reveals the body of a person, a person he recognizes.

  “Eldon,” he says, speaking the seemingly dead man’s name, wondering how and when their leader got here, or was more likely brought here.

  He shines the light over him, noting he is nude, but what makes Tomas recoil is the condition of the man’s abdomen, being rent open and leaking of its innards. He ponders the feeling he held a mere moment ago, from whence it came, and he feels fortunate his own intestines are still intact. He’d like to keep it that way. Time to abort. He turns to leave.

  “You almost discovered our secret, didn’t you?” speaks a cultured voice in a Transatlantic accent.

  He starts, going rigid, one hand moving toward the blade he has hidden on himself, the other moving to shine the light of his phone. He sees a well-dressed man standing there, wearing no mask. He might even think him a mere guest if not for the words he has uttered.

  “I’m … lost,” Tomas tries, putting on one of his charming smiles, those that mingle a self-assuredness with enough vulnerability to evoke trust.

  “Oh, no doubt of that,” the man says, studying the other, “You know, you’d almost be good enough for us.”

  Tomas blinks, perplexed. “Us?”

  The other man grins. “Yes. Us.”

  A moment stretches, the two merely studying one another. Tomas does not like the man’s calm or confidence.

  “I’m afraid you can’t be allowed to succeed,” the man says, and he sounds almost apologetic, “There is more going on here than your employers realize. It is really quite insignificant that they are unhappy with some rogue capo coming here to set up his own shop … I suppose ‘capo’ is the wrong term for the Russian mob, but it doesn’t really matter.”

  He fixes his eyes back on Tomas.

  “We still have more work to do.”

  Tomas studies the man, his own hand now having reached his hidden weapon. The distance between them is not so far as to rule out sudden surprise attack. Despite the man’s manner, he does not appear armed and both his hands are in view. Tomas decides to act.

  He moves his hand, quickly shining the light from his phone into the man’s eyes, hoping to at least startle if not blind him momentarily. He also moves forward sharply, pulling forth the small knife. It all takes an instant, but he is suddenly on his knees, his hands empty, pain beginning to seep out from his wrists and the backs of his legs.

  He makes no noise, not bothering to cry out or whimper. He hears the footsteps of the other, and he sees as his mobile is retrieved from where it stopped on the ground, the light used now to shine on him.

  “You have no chance here,” the man says, and Tomas sees the subtle, though diabolical curl to the lips. He glimpses a shine of deep red light toward the hand not holding the phone, something held there, something dripping with a portion of his own blood.

  “Who are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter who I am,” the man replies, smoothly, the hungry grin gone from his handsome face, “What matters is that at least one of you has to get away.”

  Tomas blinks, feeling somewhat woozy from the leaking blood.

  “What?” he manages, the word almost a breath.

  “Yes. One of you must get away,” he continues, as with the air of a collegiate professor, “Tales and folklore, even legend, are all very important now, aren’t they?”

  Tomas tries to speak again, but his befuddlement is evident, the continued loss of his vitae an also obvious deterrent to his focus. His heart continues pumping, that strong organ now working against him after so many years of tireless service.

  “Ahh, well I sense your confusion. Don’t worry, you’ve no hope. There are others.”

  Tomas glances up, the pain of just such worry etching his face.

  “Livie …”
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  The man smiles, the expression almost warm, but something underneath robs it of sympathy.

  “You care about her. How ridiculous. As I said earlier, you’re almost good enough. I was more referring to the other. Alex is his name, yes? He’d make a much better teller of tales, so no, I am afraid your dear Livie will share a similar fate as you.”

  Tomas hangs his head, his desire to know what all is going on leaving him with the unabated flow of his blood. He feels cold. It takes him a moment to realize the man has come right up to him, crouching. He raises his eyes, feeling a tremendous weight to do so.

  “Your end will prove more painless, though,” the man remarks, bringing up his hand, and within it he holds a rather wicked-looking dagger made of black glass.

  He moves his forearm with a smooth grace, perhaps more as though conducting a symphony than ending a life. The razor sharp edge of the obsidian slices easily through Tomas’ neck, blood thrusting out, though its power and profluence is lessened from the already significant loss.

  The executioner steps back as the man slumps.

  “I do hope you at least enjoyed my playing of the theremin.”

  *****

  She sees her standing there, looking obviously distraught, even through the general façade she usually projects, the one where she seems of stone, as though nothing, not even tears, would erode her stoic expression. Of course, they have come to know each other better over time, in so far as a teacher and student may do so. It might surprise some how much people in these roles do learn of each other, especially with the type of training they are doing. Still layers, privacy, secrecy yet remain.

  “Therese,” she greets, walking up to the dark-haired girl, putting a bit of sympathy and a question mark on the word, though more a tentative approach than anything overt.

  “Lilja,” she says in return, then, “Hi.”

  Lilja wonders if she has ever heard her student use that word.

  “You weren’t in class,” she notes, hoping this may jar the lid.

  The hacker just looks at her, then shakes her head.