Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  Lilja does not respond to this, does not spend any more time on studying that woman. She continues focusing, trying to channel the energy within, hoping she can again manifest it. She needs to be free of these bonds. She needs to fight. She realizes that even as she does this, she is not just struggling against physical restraints. She has to find this strength within herself. She knows it is there. She knows she can do it. She just has to find it and use it as she will.

  “We’ve wasted enough time,” Yelena declares, still close to her man, and she moves somewhat behind him, as if being attached to his side like some leech prevents him from going to their captive and doing what he plans.

  Volkov stares at Lilja. She looks up at him, having turned her own focus down to the floor as she works to gather her energy. She has felt nothing flare up as it did when she fought the Demon. She can sense something there, deep within, but it almost feels like her own voice catching in her throat, breath robbed from her even in the effort. She tenses, trying to continue normal respiration, readying herself for what is to come. She can read on his body language that he prepares to act.

  “Blood, darling,” says a voice, and Lilja’s eyes narrow, for this has come from the woman. She has uttered it so quietly, yet it has reached her ears. “There will be blood.”

  Volkov nods, once, closing his eyes briefly at the end of the gesture’s motion. The woman’s pronouncement did not sound like a question, and perhaps his response is not an answer but more an offering of respect to the prey at the time of slaughter. He again parts his hands, having moved them back to an interlacing aspect. He is full of careful, heavy attentiveness, but in the end, it proves to not be enough.

  His eyes widen, staying held in this strained aspect. Lilja tenses, moving back as she is able, even though he is not yet near enough to touch her. She then notices the movement at his neck, just near his Adam’s apple, and there it is, catching a certain light, casting a shadow, a shadow that is interrupted by a sudden and steady flow of blood – the metal item rises forth, having been driven into the back of his neck by the woman. She may hide her true hair beneath a very convincing white blonde wig, she may speak Russian with the expertise and sound of a native, she may call herself Yelena, but in truth, she is Anika Malkuth.

  Lilja wonders why the man does not turn on his assassin, for even though this puncture of metal through his neck may be painful and lethal, it should not be so thoroughly debilitating. But then, this is a Malkuth doing the killing. She snicks her eyes to the woman, seeing that Anika stares back. Volkov’s hands begin to move up, then they stop just above waist height, and the trembling begins. The fingers of his right have form the shape of a claw, defiance even in his death throes. More blood trickles and leaks from his throat, then he collapses to his knees.

  He remains this way for a moment, a testament of his strength. Lilja again moves her eyes to Anika. She sees the once palpable shadow gone, and Lilja wonders what other magicks may have gone into the woman’s disguise. She looks back at Volkov as he falls to the ground on his face, the momentum causing his head to turn, and she glimpses two glints of metal. That is how she ended him, then, and it means the one in his neck was unnecessary, for the suggested angle of the other thin spike shows it has been buried up into his brain.

  She sets her eyes on the woman, wondering what shall now happen. Anika somewhat surprises her by moving forward and releasing the bonds. She gets some distance from the Malkuth once she is free, standing there, moving her limbs to regain proper circulation. She wonders if there is about to be another fight.

  “No ‘thank you’, then?” Anika taunts, and Lilja notices how smoothly the woman shifts to her ‘normal’ speaking voice, or what Lilja presumes is that.

  Lilja glances over at the fallen man, thinking of all the pain he has caused, the lives he has ended, and she thinks this is an inadequate end to him. Something does not feel right about it, but she will not mourn his passing.

  “We’ve been with him for some time.”

  She shifts her deep blue eyes back to Anika as the words are uttered.

  “Why?”

  “Ah, so you do still possess the power of speech.”

  Lilja’s eyes narrow, and she moves away, scanning about the room.

  “I know where your things are, if you are looking for them.”

  “Where?” comes out the single word, not a plea but a demand, delivered in a firm tone that broaches no deny.

  “We’ll get them for you. You’ll need them.”

  “Why?”

  A moment of silence rises as the two stare, challengingly, at each other.

  “As much as I’d enjoy another round with you, we don’t have the time,” Anika finally speaks, “The Guardian has been detained, and they are after the Book now.”

  “What?” Lilja’s eyes widen, tension rising in her muscles.

  “He was a warlock, for lack of a better term, but not a very good one. He knew of the Infernal, and like some empty-headed fool, he worshiped them. They tricked him, made him addicted to this ‘power’.”

  “And you were with him the whole time, and you could have stopped him,” Lilja almost growls, stepping in close to the other woman, achieving the necessary balance and position for combat, a natural flow and motion of her body even as her agitation clearly rises.

  Anika glances her over. “I said we don’t have time.”

  Lilja does not seem so eager to back off, merely standing there.

  “We’re not the Felcrafts,” Anika reminds, “You need to get that through your head. Once I knew he intended to kill you, I killed him. Aren’t you the least bit grateful?”

  A deep breath passes through the redhead, then she backs away a step. She glances back down to the cooling body.

  “So, this was all meant to catch me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Anika clips, regaining the other woman’s eyes, “The Infernal would have been just fine launching an assault with you there, but he was obsessed with you. How convenient that the vigilante happened to also be the Guardian.” She delivers this with slit eyes, as though driving home an undeniable point. “Letting him trap you was something of a reward from them. Pathetic …”

  Lilja blinks, a rapid series, as though waking, and she regains her focus. She looks from the corpse to Anika.

  “We need to get to the library.”

  *****

  Skot is not alone here, which is what he hoped. He wonders what else transpires this evening that has been planned by others and shall prove unanticipated by him. His thoughts also drift to Lilja, but he tries to remain focused. Yes, he is very concerned for her, very, but there is nothing he can do on that front.

  He does not think it chance that she has gone off on one of her missions this very evening that the special alarms have been raised in the library. He hopes it is coincidence, hopes that her mission is going as planned, and she will soon be done and realize there is yet another matter begging attention. It won’t prove easy on her, but it is better than several other alternatives. He called, left her a quick, concise message as he was rushing out the door. Now he stands here, just inside the front doors of the large library building, lurking in the shadows, watching.

  The cleaning crew is here, and though he wonders why they’d still be at it at this hour, such detail seems incidental. They are here, going about their business as if nothing is amiss. For them, that is well how the evening may and should pass. Not only are members of the janitorial staff at work, but he has spied Marcel, Lilja’s assistant. He is given to wonder why the young man is present, but perhaps he is just one of those who lives for his work, feels more comfortable here than even at home. He lets doubt tickle at his mind, but there is no real reason to suspect him.

  And to top it all off, there is the security. They are always about patrolling the college ground, and he has seen two of them inside, one talking to Marcel. He worries that the intrusion may have tripped one of the conventional alarms, giving security a reason
to investigate. All of these “mundane” people being here only complicates matters. He has to get below and be sure the Book is safe, protect it if need be.

  He’s already summoned up some of his magickal abilities to scan the people here, feeling the hinting drift into another focus, the coiling warmth, and from what he can tell, none of them are compromised. He hopes to keep it that way, and he wishes there were something he could do to get them to leave. He knows, though, that revealing himself would only cause more issue, so he uses another preternatural skill of his to obscure his presence. He does not quite go invisible so much as unnoticed. He would, of course, be spied if someone gave him direct, steady attention, but it is surprisingly easy to avoid such, even without the aid of magick.

  He grips his cane in one hand, ready to draw the hidden sword at a moment’s notice, his shoulder holster also affixed, bearing of the two-toned Walther P99, loaded with that special ammunition, spare magazines on the other side of the harness. He has not brought a suppressor, so if it comes to firing, he will be easily heard. He hopes it won’t, but knowing the special alarms have been tripped leaves him with scant faith of that.

  He waits outside the door to the Rare Collections room, noticing it has not been opened. He knows how to access it. Part of the deal for the Malkuths to accept this resting place had been that more than just the university’s personnel would be able to gain entry. He knows they still blanch at having lost this treasure, so they hoped to gain this bit. He had forced their acceptance by saying the Felcrafts would also know how to access the room. The Book is under Lilja and his Family’s care, but he knows their rivals would love any excuse to take it.

  He has gone into a slight trance, sending out more scans, and he does not detect anything in that room. His abilities in this vein are not the best, but he feels sufficient to this task. If there is no demonic presence in the locked chamber, then why did the alarms trip? He pauses, realizing another possibility. They may be preparing to launch a very serious attack, one which would take a measure of power he does not think they have here at the ready, but again, he is taken by the feeling of the unanticipated. Surprise attacks are meant to overwhelm the opponent, and they did lose their half-breed. Perhaps this is also motivated by revenge.

  He heads back to the main room, trying still to maintain some semblance of obscurity. Marcel is there, sitting near the entrance as he once did so often as a student-volunteer. He is bent to some studious task. Skothiam thinks he has indeed realized something more about the young man and his feeling of home here. He could imagine worse places to experience such a comfort, but right now, the library is unsafe, and the unwitting assistant sits right at the entrance.

  He hears some noises, looking to his left, and he spies two people chatting in the distance – a security guard and one of the janitors. They seem happy to pass some time with small talk or the like. It is dark, few lights on, quiet, and any ruckus would travel through the locale like a clarion. Skot takes in a breath through his nose, feeling a rise of tension. He wishes none of them were here, but wishing it will not make it so. He wishes Lilja were here, too, but again, such a desire does not cause her to suddenly appear.

  She tears through the streets on her motorcycle, the stealth mode engaged, and she hopes against hope that she will not garner any notice of the police. As if this were not risky and unusual enough, she has a passenger clinging tightly to her back, one Anika Malkuth, who just recently saved her life. She abhors feeling indebted to the woman, but that will have to wait. She speeds recklessly through the streets, keeping off the main thoroughfares, trying to maintain sharp senses to notice vehicles, pedestrians, any other potential obstacles.

  They manage to reach the library, and she stops the bike quite close to the entrance. She notices lights and motion inside, so she does not get as near as she had planned. She has already re-donned her mask, also wearing her goggles for the ride. Anika slips off the motorcycle quickly, and Lilja follows, gathering her items from her bag.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve a spare for me?”

  Lilja looks over.

  “I did just save you, and we are in a hurry,” Anika interjects in the ensuing silence.

  Reluctantly, Lilja hands her sidearm to the other woman, offering the Glock, which Anika takes with a little twist to her lips. She gives the weapon a cursory examination.

  “Conventional rounds,” Lilja notes.

  Anika gives a little look, as though this is just further disappointment, but she takes hold of the pistol with a show of experience, moving her eyes to the entrance of the library.

  “We can’t go that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “There are people there,” the redhead answers, her voice muffled by the balaclava.

  “Why are there people here at this hour?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “This is the most expedient place of ingress, and we’ve more important concerns than some young man who shouldn’t be here. For all we know, he’s-.”

  “He is not,” Lilja cuts her off, sending a firm authority into her voice, well acquainted with the Malkuth attitude toward innocents who happen to be at a scene.

  “Fine.” Anika gives in, obviously unhappy with this. “This is your place of work, your charge. How do we get in?”

  “This way,” Lilja says, but the tail end of her statement drifts into something she did not intend. Just as she completes the utterance, Marcel’s head rises, quite suddenly, and he peers into the distance, face moving forward with it.

  She and Anika watch, quietly, neither at an angle to discern what has gathered the man’s attention, but he gets up from his place and walks further inside.

  “Fortuitous,” Anika clips, heading for the entrance as though she is no longer interested in any discussion with the other woman.

  Lilja quickly follows.

  “What the bloody hell?” comes frustration from Anika as she finds the door locked.

  Lilja gives a quick eye roll, pushing the woman out of the way with the intrusion of her own presence, disengaging the lock. She leads the way inside.

  None too many steps within, and Lilja pauses, glancing back to note that Anika has stopped.

  “What is it?” she sends out an insistent whisper.

  Anika looks over. “You don’t feel it?”

  “No. Feel what?”

  “They’re here.”

  Skot is not yet aware that his love has arrived, bringing with her an unlikely guest, but he is aware that the Infernal are now, indeed, here. He has felt it, drifting into awareness with a disarming subtlety, like a slowly encroaching mist that thickens and billows, turning to obscuring fog. It does not take long before he senses more, shapes hiding within the haze, lesser demons, but still a threat all the same. He is able to continue to conceal his presence from them, for these are little more than ravenous beasts, and he doubts they have been sent to secure the Book. It is more likely they are merely advance troops or scouts of some sort, sent to harass anyone that may be present or even to serve as sacrifices to the special deterrents in place.

  They will sense the others, though, for Marcel and the mundane humans are not in position to hide their presence or offer any sort of real resistance save their own force of will. These lesser, bestial demons are not entirely corporeal, using the fog and the power it conveys to drift in where they might normally be unable. But just as with hauntings, they may use this to indirectly affect the humans here, potentially causing great turmoil.

  He has to do something.

  He sends out a subtle touch of magick, resulting in a collision of energies and forces on some nearby books, causing several of them to shift, one to fall. This gains Marcel’s attention. Skot continues the “show”, a slight flicker of amber light, more rustling of the books. He realizes this very thing might be perceived as ghostly activity, but he’d rather the young assistant’s experience with the paranormal be of this more benign nature than what gathers now in the invisible fog.
>
  Still, such beacons may attract more than intended, and Skot curses himself as he realizes that some of the as yet intangible creatures have also taken notice.

  They scuttle over, two bypassing Marcel as though unaware of him, more interested in this sweeter promise, but a third does pause, appearing as though to sniff in what may pass as such an orifice to sensory reception. It then nudges, managing to make contact with the young man on some level. Marcel stops, looking down in the general direction of the squat, stocky thing, confusion on his face, something drifting toward fear.

  Skot curses again, realizing his attempt to distract and remove Marcel has only put him at greater risk. He moves then, easily avoiding the other two that shamble to the upset books, sniffing and slavering as though on the trail of wounded prey.

  There is a shift, something that may be there but seems to not quite be. Marcel blinks, head rising up on stiffening spine. He looks around, though not back toward the area of the entrance. He senses something, and a shiver runs up his back, causing tension in his jawline. He feels unsettled, uncomfortable, unsure.

  Skot has swept by, using more powerful magicks to further obfuscate himself, though he knows that the fog, the demons, and Marcel’s state have added to this stealth. He drew his sword in the quick passing, the momentum of the unsheathing causing an arc of force, and he had cleaved the beast in two as it rose on elongated, disjointed feet to get closer to Marcel. There had been an accompanying flash of light, quick and sharp, and the thing now lies on the ground, squirming in pain, giving forth cries of anguish in an unheard tongue.

  Marcel blinks again, wrinkling his nose, but he just stands there.

  Move, Skot thinks, willing it to happen. The other demons are still somewhat rapt in their exploration of the very diversion he had intended for Marcel, but they shall soon look back at their dying brethren.

  “What’s going on?” the young man sends out a whisper laden with suspicion.