Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  She sits stock still, save for her hands and eyes, just absorbing information, seeking out more. She knew the possibility always lurked of something bad happening to the vigilante. Of course, the very act itself is illegal and subject to risks and threats. Still, she had resolved into something of a comfort zone, perhaps naively. She’s even made confrontations in the face of what she believed was failure of the responsible party. Now she wonders if perhaps that has led to greater risk-taking and this. Her thoughts go again to Macar, Quain, Alec. She experiences blame at all of those losses. Is she good for nothing more than putting people at risk, leading to their deaths?

  An increase of tension may be noticed along her jawline. She does not toy with her snakebite piercing as she is often wont to do. Instead, her teeth clamp together as she imbibes as much information as possible, hacking into reports and comm-links with a subconscious-seeming simplicity.

  The police have sent out their heavily armed response units, sniper teams, anticipating potentially lethal action. They’ve surrounded the building. Casualties have been spotted inside - men shot, dead.

  Why would she do that?

  Thoughts careen in her mind, like a tumultuous white noise, the occasional formed piece flitting into her awareness like a larger chunk of detritus, threatening damage.

  Is she okay? Is she okay?

  Worry further grips her. She no longer interfaces with her computer, having collected all worth doing so at the moment. She waits, perched on a precipice, wondering what the next news will say, wondering if she ought to do something.

  Back before all of this began, such thoughts would cross her mind but in a different context. She’s always felt like she is able to do something, and that is part of why she has gotten so deeply into hacking and cyberspace. But now her considerations include actions that involve going offline, leaving her tiny, comfortable apartment.

  She feels like throwing on her clothes, hopping on her bike, and driving over there. But then what?

  She can’t very well demand that the police let her in. They’d as likely detain, then maybe arrest her if they realized how she came by her information or her connection to the vigilante. Does she really think she can do anything helpful?

  Then another thought shoots through her mind, and she is stunned for a short spell.

  She knows Lilja’s address.

  It had not been too difficult to find, and upon doing so with such ease, she had been left to doubt her once solid surety that her self-defense instructor is indeed the vigilante. She’d never gone, not wanting Lilja to think her some stalker, but she had retained the information, just in case. She could go over there now, and if no one is home..?

  And what if someone is? That would surely mean that Lilja is not the vigilante, but then what? What would she say to the woman? And even if she is not there, it doesn’t mean she is the vigilante. Still, as she sits, thinking, fretting, she knows she is going to do something.

  She gets up to hurriedly dress and be on her way.

  Consciousness returns like a warm sunrise bringing sensation, the lull honing to a sharpness that also brings awareness and anxiety. She remembers going down the tube she found hidden in the fireplace. She made it to the bottom, yes, after a lengthy descent. During that climb, she had even passed by some areas where she swore she heard the police through the walls. She had remained still, quiet, not wanting to alert them to her presence. When she had made it to the bottom, it was dark. She’d gone to use her goggles when something had happened. Something had crept up on her, something nigh-invisible and then … nothing.

  “You are awake.”

  Lilja looks over, blinking, and she sees him. They have never met face to face before, but she knows his appearance. He has, of course, never met her, and though he now looks upon her unmasked visage, he does not know who she is.

  “Imagine surprise to find vigilante is woman,” Volkov says, and though one might expect this to be uttered with some insulting bite of humor, his tone and expression sound quite deadly serious, “And this glorious hair of yours.”

  She glances side to side, noticing the telltale glimpses of the vibrant coloring of her locks. They’ve undone her hair.

  “I could make a lot of money off you.”

  The moment lingers. Lilja knows what he is threatening, but she also knows that unless he used constant drugging, she’d make her escape. She feels the lingering effects of something, perhaps a gas used to knock her out, and she spends these moments testing the bonds. They feel quite secure.

  She supposes he expends the moment to try to frighten her. It doesn’t work. She merely continues in the assessment of her situation. She is tied, tightly. She is on the ground, on her knees, not only having her limbs restrained, but she also feels as though she is anchored to something in the wall. The rope is quite thick, tactical, like the rope she uses for rappelling. She won’t easily get free.

  As if to accommodate her intelligence-gathering, the lights come up. They are still quite dim, but she now sees that they are not alone. She makes out eight other men in here with her and the crime boss. The room is similar to the ones in the other building. The area is quite large, pipes visible at the ceiling, and there is no other furniture in here that she sees save the old, wooden table beside which he stands. The guards are armed, of course, and she has been relieved of her own weapons. The situation is quite bad.

  “But I won’t do that with you, no,” he says, walking nearer her, but still, she notes, keeping sufficient distance. He does not seem to be a stupid man. “You would sooner die, I think, than be subject to that. As soon as you got chance, you’d kill yourself, or kill others and get away.”

  She drills her eyes into his, and he returns the gaze, unfettered. Neither show agitated on the outside, but the unspoken storm waits, churning just beyond the horizon.

  “Still, a woman. I am impressed.”

  She remains silent, just keeping her eyes on him. Though she is bound, she will not be again taken unawares. And she is not gagged. She may yet cause damage with her head and teeth if given the chance.

  “You have great power in you, hmm?” he says, perking his eyebrows, “I have seen much of this, so I know what I talk about. You will not be wasted by being cheap sex slave. I am glad you found secret passage and escaped our first trap. I would have been disappointed had you not.

  “We called police. Even left them some bait to get them very interested,” he says, speaking of the men he chose to sacrifice, having them assassinated by a more trusted guard when the time came to spring the gambit. “I was a little worried you would not find secret passage, but you did.” He almost manages a tiny smile. “Second trap was much better, and it got you. Now, I have you. Good, good. We put end to this soon.”

  He looks to one of the other men, speaking in Russian. She knows something of the language but not enough to really make out what is said. The man nods, then heads out, two of the other guards in tow. Volkov then looks back at her, studying her in silence, just as she does to him.

  “Your power will soon be mine.”

  Her brow knits the tiniest bit. She wonders what he means by this. Is he going to use the knowledge of her appearance against her somehow? Maybe he plans to release her image to the press, co-opt all she has been trying to do as the vigilante, but she is still confused by his intent. He captured her, on purpose, then let her regain consciousness when he could have easily killed her. What is his plan?

  Another voice then enters the silence, that of a woman, and it is not her own. She shifts her eyes and sees the figure resolving from the darkness on the far edge of the chamber. She is speaking to Volkov in Russian, but her eyes are firmly fixed to Lilja’s. She steps further into the light, and Lilja blinks, moving her head back.

  Yelena looks at the bound captive. Her manner of dress is the same as always, as though she has just stepped off a runway. The sound of her stiletto heels is somewhat echoed in the room, and her darkly painted lips hold her ubiquitous smirk a
s she gazes upon the vigilante.

  “You should not be surprised the vigilante is a woman,” she says, switching to English, “I am not surprised at all.”

  She strides past her man, her steps slow, deliberate, getting closer to their captive. She then halts, bending at the waist, peering. Lilja scans over that face. The jaw is rather pronounced, strong, and it seems to press into further definition, as if the woman is grinding her teeth together as opposed to really smiling. Her eyes are a striking grayish-blue, her hair that white-blonde. Lilja also glimpses something else there, high up on the brow, as though the intent of the hairstyle is to hide something.

  “Not surprised at all,” she repeats, then stands back upright, looking back at Volkov, “Let us get to it.”

  Therese stands in front of the door, unsure. She’s come this far, but now, she doubts. She can knock, of course, and part of her wants Lilja to be home while another part of her hopes she is not. She doesn’t want anything bad to happen to her teacher, but she badly wants to be correct about her being the vigilante. She’s not sure why she feels this way, almost as if she has somehow let this idea of the vigilante coalesce in her mind and now she juxtaposes it on Lilja along with desires she does fully admit to herself.

  But if Lilja is home, she is safe, but what, then, does Therese say to explain her presence? She supposes she could just be honest, but she begins to question that almost as soon as the thought forms. She steels herself, deciding some action is better than nothing, and she knocks.

  She waits, tense, almost feeling a nervous tremble of trepidation. She hears no signs within as though someone coming to the call. She knocks again.

  And again, nothing.

  A third time gains the same result.

  Therese has acquired some non-computer skills during her time as a hacker, meeting other dwellers in that shadowy, gray world between the law and crime. She’s sometimes traded knowledge for her expertise when someone wanted something but did not have the funds. Besides, some information and abilities are worth more than money. Though she has had little opportunities to practice, she did learn how to pick a lock.

  She glances about, making sure her knocking has not garnered any notice. She then retrieves her tools, and though it takes some effort, and she begins to worry of being caught before even getting in, she manages to pass the bolt. She looks about again, and still it seems no one has taken interest in her presence. She gets inside.

  She notices signs of a cat, and she wonders if the animal is hiding somewhere inside or might even come out to investigate her. She hears nothing as she takes a few quiet steps within. It’s dark, and she wonders then if perhaps Lilja is home and maybe is a deep sleeper. What if she now wakes her highly-trained teacher and gets dealt with as an intruder? Well, she’d deserve it, so she tries to summon more courage. She moves further in.

  The place is not too large, and though it is dark, she uses her phone, with one of its many apps, to offer similar illumination as a flashlight. She quite quickly notices signs of disarray and what she assumes to be a struggle. Alarm spikes inside her, pulse increasing. She freezes in place, as though willing her ears to hear anything that may be in wait.

  Nothing.

  She peers about, shining her phone hither and thither. There is upset furniture, what appears to be stains of some sort on the flooring, and even jagged tears on one wall. What the hell happened here? She gets down closer to the ground, peering at the stains, then gives a sniff. She wrinkles her nose from the rancid stench, and this only gives her more confusion.

  She now decides that she doesn’t care if she’s caught. She has to know. She searches the entire place, which does not take long. She finds no cats, but the bedroom looks to also be in a state of disarray. This is not someone being negligent of cleanliness or orderliness. She can see from other parts of the apartment that Lilja is obviously not uncaring of such things. This is clearly signs of a struggle.

  Her mind begins to race. What if someone found out she is the vigilante and attacked her here? What if she fought off the attack, then went for a counter-attack or revenge? It doesn’t seem like Lilja, and the stains on the floor and wall are not that fresh. No, something else happened and not this evening. But why, then, would she leave her home in this state?

  And what if it is still not related at all? Maybe there was an intruder, much as she just broke in. If someone was stupid enough to break in to Lilja’s place, there would surely be a fight. Maybe she repelled the attack, but she got hurt and is in the hospital? She’ll run a check on records.

  She realizes she is also stupid to have broken in, and now she begins to think she should not be here. She is worried even more, not having gained any real resolution from this visit, and she decides it is time to go. She’ll head back to her place and run those checks and keep a vigil on the situation at the building and hope against hope that Lilja is okay.

  “How are you doing, dear? Are you okay?” Yelena asks of their tied-up prey, giving a lilting tinge of seduction to the end of her words.

  Lilja does not respond, having remained silent throughout. She watched as the two had a somewhat heated discussion. It did not even broach an argument, but she could tell from their expressions and body language that tensions were rising. The woman wanted something, and perhaps she got it. Lilja is not sure, but at some point the boss dismissed the other guards, leaving just the three of them now in the room.

  “She does not waste her breath on useless speech,” Volkov notes, giving a small motion of his head as though complimentary of the silence.

  He lets that very silence linger, standing there, looking down at her.

  “Do you know much of folklore and myth? Religion?” he speaks, raising his eyebrows on the last. He waits a moment for her response, but none is forthcoming. “Lies, truth. I know something of the Truth that exists in this world, and it escapes many.”

  She feels that tension at her forehead, that confusion. She wonders what he means about power and now this, and then she snaps her eyes back to the woman. She merely stares in return, calm-seeming. Lilja moves her focus to Volkov, wondering what he knows and into what she’s really gotten herself.

  “Some say Eve had red hair, that it was sign of her Original Sin, a stain. I see your hair is not natural red. Your color is also stain. Some also say this stain was seen on her firstborn son, Cain.” Volkov narrows his eyes, parting the polite-looking hold of his tattooed hands. “Do you know these legends?”

  She moves her eyes again from him to the woman and back.

  “You have mesmerizing eyes,” he comments, “but you are not Russian. This much, I know. I wish I knew more about you, but what I do know will have to be enough.”

  Confusion now races through her mind. She tries to corral those thoughts, make some sense of them, find a light in the storm. This man is no mere local crime boss. The presence of that woman here confirms it. What’s going on?

  “I did much research on you,” he continues, “You have done good in this city. Thank you for dispatching predecessor. It opened door for me, opportunity, where I long wished to have one.”

  He pauses, noticing a slight reaction from her.

  “Do not worry. You are not my pawn. I am not that powerful, but you have helped me. Thank you.”

  His tone is not at all sarcastic or taunting but sounds laden with dry sincerity. She tries to fight the confusion, the worry. She wishes she had some way to call Skot. She doesn’t think this because of being caught, but because of what she now knows and senses even further of this man and what is going on. She has safety protocols in place. If she does not ‘check in’ by a certain time, Skot will receive a message and a password. He could use this to access the details of her mission along with a way to track her phone, but even with her lapse into unconsciousness, she does not think that time has yet come.

  She realizes the two are speaking somewhat quietly in Russian. She finds this odd. As if she could decipher their words were they louder.

/>   “No, there is something about her,” Volkov pronounces, shifting back to English, looking her way, obviously wanting to include her in the discussion. “She is not entirely ignorant. I can tell. She is strong. Da, da, very strong.

  “You know, don’t you?” he continues, setting those hard eyes of his firmly back unto her own. “There are many bad men in this world, but they are sometimes driven by demons, no?”

  She blinks, eyebrows perking, though she is trying not to give away too much by any sort of reaction. Still, with the presence of that woman, she supposes pretense is all gone. He may be speaking metaphorically, of course, and besides, even if he is not, what may she do now?

  Even as she thinks this, she remembers what happened when she faced the Demon that attacked her in her home. She does possess abilities beyond the normal human kin. She tries to drive the confusion from her mind, trying to focus in hopes of bringing forth that magick. Perhaps she may use it to free herself or do something, anything that may help.

  “What do you gain from this taunting?” Yelena steps forward as she pitches this question.

  “I am not taunting,” he looks over to her, a shade of confusion, almost defensiveness there as though how could she come to this conclusion. “I respect her power, even if she is not fully aware of it. Look at what she has done.”

  Lilja tries to ignore their words, even as they gnash and pull at her curiosity. There is so much more going on here than she ever anticipated, but now, she needs to free herself, fight back somehow. She continues to peer inward, trying to coalesce the very power of which this man speaks, of which she knows she holds.

  “I know what she has done,” Yelena replies, and she moves in closer, her hands touching Volkov, moving along his shoulders and back as she nears, pressing her body against his. “I know what she can yet do, just as do you ,” she whispers into his ear, and as she does, she sends a sidelong glance to the bound woman.