Soul of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  She also knew that was not entirely honest. She missed the vigilante.

  That even was not entirely honest.

  She missed her self-defense instructor, Lilja, the one whom she felt all but certain was the shadowy crusader. Therese never learned why Lilja’s apartment was in the state it had been when she broke in those months ago. She never got her confirmation if the reason Lilja had been absent was because she was indeed the vigilante and under pressure from the police. It nags her, wondering if - if Lilja really is who she thinks she is, and if Therese even did the right thing by going to the apartment.

  Classes had been on hold for a while. This had happened before, and just as with other times, the underground network that fed the vigilante information seemed in a lull. Therese knows she is not the only cog in the machine, so she tries not to assume too much from the lack of activity, but she cannot help but be drawn to the correlation.

  So many seeming coincidences, yet none of them are enough to be sure.

  And then the request for information had cropped up in that most secretive of emails.

  Despite the oddity of the bid, she pursued it as she did all others, tackling it with a verve that spoke of trying to impress. She generally approaches her work with an aloof assurance. She knows she is one of the best at what she does, and she does not feel the need to prove it to anyone. Well, almost anyone, but the more she becomes convinced that Lilja is the vigilante, the more she puts into each opportunity to find and present information. This came along with her greater dedication to the self-defense classes. The woman inspires her.

  She’d found the expected when checking on that strange word, ananael. It came up in something called Enochian, the Angelic Language. She’d also found a link to a metaphysical system whereby the world was divided between the celestial and the infernal. The word “chthonic” had even cropped up, suggesting a more literal interpretation of “beneath the earth”.

  Everywhere she looked, the initial information talked of Angels and hidden knowledge. Therese found it all somewhat pretentious and new age. Most of the people using it had found it from the same source and were just applying it as some sort of tag. Those sorts of things might shape a meaning, but she felt there was little value in such results. Her contact had not specified an area for conclusions, but Therese mostly ignored those, digging deeper.

  She’d discovered information about the man who supposedly “discovered” the language, one Edward Kelley, associate of John Dee, astrologer and possible spy for Queen Elizabeth I. Dee had been one of the earliest to suggest an officially sanctioned library, and when denied, he’d kept an impressive collection of his own. One that eventually fell to arson.

  A library might certainly be considered “secret wisdom”, and if one were particularly needful of keeping such secrets, destroying the source might be one way to do so. Still, she kept such conjecture out of the report. She also couldn’t help to make the association between this sudden information about libraries and the fact Lilja is a librarian. She knows she is reaching, but nothing sufficient has happened to keep her from such thoughts.

  Ananael is a word in Enochian, an occult language discovered by Edward Kelley and used by the Angels, were one to believe the claims. Therese put this aside, trying to find mention of the word in the City, perhaps used as some code or other by criminal elements. She, of course, finds nothing, and when she finally compiles her report, readying to send it off to the vigilante, she feels as though she has done a poor job.

  But she cannot dislodge this nagging feeling of oddity, that the assignment hints at something else, even as it seems to harbor the very concept of secrecy and ciphers.

  Chapter Two

  Fog lurks thickly, impeding sight, enhancing sound. A sibilant cadence shifts throughout like a dissonant orchestra teasing at ear drums. Some find it calming. For others, it is a constant torture.

  “Does the time finally near?” asks one of those here, one who is possessed of voice, fortitude, drive.

  “Time is not the same for us,” remarks the other, a rise to the flesh of the brow.

  Satariel says nothing. He, for this one is indeed a male, possesses power in this realm. As befitting, he also holds wisdom, and such does he restrain his tongue.

  “Everyday has its dawn,” she says, realizing Satariel will not speak. There is still the perch to the brow, the haughtiness, distasteful even if deserved. “Motherhood teaches one patience. Who knows more of that than I?”

  He dips his head but a bare bit. She notices, and it is enough.

  “You are quite worshiped by them.” He finds his voice. “Loviatar.”

  An expression that may pass for a grin takes her lips. He calls her by the name she most prefers. A gift.

  She is not blind, and as much as she may be capable of causing death, her purview is motherhood. Her prolificacy is well known amongst them. Though the expression may be different, reverence finds her here as well as in other places.

  “Do we seek worship from them?”

  “No,” he answers after a brief time of thought, “but it may provide opportunities all the same.”

  She angles her gaze upon him. “I am aware of the various expressions of power, and you did not come here to discuss religion.”

  Again, the tongue holds.

  Her fingers weave as a spider’s limbs, movement brought unto them as a deliberate wave only to find otherworldly stillness once posed. The fog, this entire realm, is their haunt. The jagged cracks and dark, glassy surfaces might stab at the minds of other beings, but they have learned to survive within.

  “We are familiar with the hunt. Mayhap overly so,” she intones. “We learn to wait, to linger, to watch. I am the patient fisherman.”

  The winds waft, the hissing brought over as though an audience pained with curiosity. Time is indeed not the same for them, and a portion of it passes with no more discourse.

  “And do you have a bite?” Satariel finally asks.

  The grin takes her lips again. She knew he would speak first. Silence does not discomfit her. She thinks of it as a treasure.

  “I do,” she allows. “It will be as I have foreseen. One of them will be the gateway.”

  He does not ask. She will tell him if she so sees fit. For now, they merely ponder the possibilities.

  *****

  Asenath Malkuth sits at the table with her cousin, Denman. Neither of them favor rising early, but the demands of life have given them to understand that sometimes one must do what may be considered unpleasant. Judging from the sumptuous breakfast arrayed on the circular table, they are not the only ones aroused and working at this hour.

  Asenath sips at her coffee, lips unpainted and holding that seeming constant hint of sensuality as they close upon the edge of the fine cup. She feels the urge to grin when catching her cousin’s eyes on her but suppresses the expression.

  Denman idly wonders why she has summoned him, just as he does with all such meetings. He won’t ask, so he also samples the brew. It is exquisite, as expected. He does not live at their family manor. He finds the visits to be bittersweet, having spent much time here growing up. He covets living here as the master and Head of the Family. Asenath’s hold, though, proves iron strong. Some such ambitions are expected of him, but he knows she would never want him to succeed.

  “One book in the library,” she mentions after another sip of the coffee. Neither have yet touched the ample food that waits, steaming.

  “The other two still out there,” he adds to the conversation.

  He finally looks over to see her cut glance upon him. His eyebrows perk as question.

  “I presume you mean ‘out there’, waiting to be found,” she leads. “All we can be sure of is that we don’t know where they are. For all we know, the Felcrafts have them both.”

  “You don’t think they would let us know?”

  She gives a subtle shrug.

  “I think Skothiam retains a modicum of naïve optimism. Oh, he harbors cynici
sm, no doubt, but I think he truly believes there is always a chance that we may evolve beyond what he considers petty greed and create some sort of miraculous cooperative.” Her lips find a smirk as she completes the observation.

  “You know him far better than I,” Denman gives.

  “We need better information from their home. Why has it been so difficult to insert an agent? Their staff is quite large.”

  He nods, swallowing another taste of the fine coffee. “Their vetting procedure is very thorough. They’ve never actually caught us in the act, but none of our candidates have made it in.”

  She ponders. The seeming depth of it makes him feel a scratching encroachment of nervousness.

  “Have you sensed something?” he finally dares.

  “A hint. I am not sure if it is portent or memory or something else. It could be that someone has a lock on the location of one of the books.”

  “Someone?”

  “The Infernal is always a threat. Always,” she replies, slowly looking over to him. “Even with all the security we may ever hope to bring to bear. So long as they exist, they are a threat.”

  He exhales, catching himself partway through, controlling, limiting the audible nature of the breath.

  “They are a worthy fear.”

  He wonders at the sincerity of this, a bit shocked by what actually feels like sympathy coming from her. Still, subtle layers of manipulation may lie beneath the genuine.

  “Caution is prudent, but fear would paralyze us.”

  “You do have a flair for the melodramatic.” She grins, gaining nothing but a stony stare in return. “It might compromise us, but it need not paralyze. Some measure of fear may prove useful.”

  “What use?” he retorts. “We will either win or lose. Fear doesn’t help.”

  “Then we need to find the books. If it turns out they are all three held in utmost security by the Felcrafts, then so be it, but I want to know. This … feeling I have had does not make me secure.”

  “What is it, Asenath?”

  She notes the sincerity, still finding it possible to plumb him. Though as he matures, he becomes more and more formidable. In any other family, he might have risen to the rank of a global leader of industry, but here, he walks in her shadow. She thinks he’d have been wasted otherwise.

  He also lacks the sensitive attunement she has to the realm of magick. She is not on par with Nicole-Angeline Felcraft, but her power is not without its potency.

  “You may wonder why I asked you here at this ungodly hour.”

  He lets slip a light grin onto his lips, wondering why she plays at casual conversation.

  “I depart soon to pick up my son. The jet should be arriving shortly.”

  “Ah, he is coming for a visit, then?”

  She does not answer, instead, “He seems to be doing well in school. I hope his diligence emerges. He has great potential.”

  “Do you think he might be any help to us?” Denman asks, the question taking some time to come forth, for he had not thought such a thing would ever be.

  “I’m not sure. He made his choice some time ago, even if he was not fully aware of it. I expect such matters as this-” she waves a hand, “-to be put aside when he is around.”

  Denman nods, fully understanding.

  “I’d like your attention to it, of course, but do not let these concerns vex you in his presence.”

  He gives another nod.

  Once their meeting has ended, and he is left alone with the remnants of breakfast, his thoughts drift over what has been exchanged. He has met Asenath’s son before, and though the young man is charming and intelligent, he seemed unwilling to engage the Malkuth business. Denman wonders now what may be changing. He also wonders if this may finally be a chink in his cousin’s nigh impenetrable armor.

  *****

  “It means ‘school’.”

  Skot looks over at his sister. They have gathered here for a sharing of information. His expression implies he had not expected this.

  “School? I thought you said ‘secret wisdom’.”

  Nicole merely nods.

  He glances at Lilja, the only other person present, as if seeking confirmation from her for the lack of loquaciousness on the part of his sibling. Lilja says nothing, silence being very familiar to her.

  “So, we send Lilja and Zoe to investigate a place with activity, and they find it, along with a closet bearing a word in a supposedly Angelic language that means ‘school’. Why?”

  “We don’t know,” Nicole finally says in the growing quiet.

  She wonders if her brother has asked the question rhetorically, perhaps to stimulate their thoughts, or if he actually expected her to have an answer.

  “We may assume the artist was touched by the Infernal.”

  “Like Ernst.” Lilja finally speaks, her nigh-whispered tone almost interrupting Nicole.

  Both look over at her, but her eyes gaze in another direction. Skot knows that expression, knows she is lost in her own thoughts.

  “How did Mr. Barrington come to know that word?” Lilja asks, turning her attention back to them, seeming unaware of why they might be scrutinizing her.

  “Are we sure he wrote it?” Skot advocates.

  “I don’t think it was his wife,” the redhead continues. “She was living off his success, but something about it bothered her. I could tell. She probably rarely even went into the basement.”

  “The place was left to fester,” Nicole comments.

  “Skot …” Lilja begins, the hesitancy causing another gathering of concern from the others. “When you closed that gateway, you spoke some strange words that sounded like Latin.”

  “That was not Enochian,” he is quick to say. “There are many languages at play here.”

  “We actually know little of this one,” Nicole expands, “that is one reason it took us some time to truly decipher the word. It is not the most highly regarded of occult languages.”

  Lilja nods. “There are some who think Edward Kelley invented it as a scam.”

  Skot perks his eyebrows. “You’ve done some of your own research.”

  A self-conscious smile graces her lips for but a moment, her eyes shifting away then back. “You know I like to do research, so I did some checking.”

  He smiles warmly, walking over and taking the seat next to her on the couch. “What did you find?”

  “Well,” Lilja begins, eyes shifting between Skot and Nicole, “John Dee is quite a figure, and he was associated with intelligence gathering for Queen Elizabeth. I suppose the language could just as well have been a cipher as a scam.”

  “Yes, but if so, then why does a word from it appear in the artist’s closet?”

  She sets her eyes on Skot. “We know of the language. We found out about it. Mr. Barrington could have done the same.”

  “She’s right,” Nicole intones. “We have no evidence that the Infernal whispered it into his ear. We know they were there, but we mustn’t jump to further conclusions.”

  “How can we discern that?” Skot returns. “We’re investigating as many avenues as we can. Some are sure to be dead ends. Regardless, there is something about that closet and the markings inside it. Isn’t there?” This last comes with a firm set of his eyes on Lilja.

  It takes her a moment, but she blinks, then looks over at Nicole to find a degree of focus from the woman.

  “What?”

  Nicole drifts closer. She continues looking at Lilja but takes on a gentler aspect. Lilja has been around Skot’s sister enough to be wary of such expression.

  “The attack was for you. I doubt it was initially laid for you, but it happened when and how it did for you.”

  Lilja begins to sit up straighter, leaning back slowly, almost imperceptibly.

  “This is not news to any of us,” Nicole continues, still wearing that light, calm smile. “It behooves us to consider whatever felt meaningful to you.”

  “I …” Lilja begins. “The closet …” She stop
s, sitting in silence.

  Skot knows what is happening now, and he doesn’t want to push too much. “It’s worth checking. Even if Mr. Barrington did his own research and found Enochian, why did he have that closet, and what of the star? It must have been important to him, and we know the Infernal were there, quite probably influencing him. So, why did he do it? What is it supposed to mean?”

  “It means ‘school’,” Nicole repeats, moving away from Lilja, returning to her usual demeanor. “Why use that word except to relay such meaning? Mr. Barrington felt his work, or where he worked, might be a place of education. Or he was referring to a specific such institute.”

  Skot shakes his head lightly. “How are we supposed to find that out?”

  “He used Enochian for a reason,” Nicole carries on. “He could have used Latin or Sanskrit or any number of other languages, but he chose Enochian. Why?”

  “It must be for the connection with Edward Kelley and John Dee,” Lilja tries.

  “Alright, then what school?” Skot asks. “Was there a school where the occult teachings of Dee were taught? I haven’t heard of such.”

  “Nor have I,” Nicole adds, “but I did find information of a particular school of magick that John Dee sought.”

  “Oh?”

  Nicole meets Skot’s eyes. “Scholomance.”

  *****

  “Has the Elusive Vigilante Finally Met His End?” “Is the Infamous Vigilante Merely a Hired Gun for Criminals?” “Should the Police take Lessons from the Vigilante?”

  Therese scours over old news reports she keeps in her records. She ignores the sensationalistic aspects, but she culls from all of them for that most important of commodities – information. She is impressed that the vigilante has managed to continue operating and remain undiscovered, but she is learning things from the patterns. More than once now, the vigilante has gone enough off the radar, and the news outlets assume an end. Whether dead, captured, or merely on vacation, no one knows. These times correlate with occasions when Lilja has been out of town, the self-defense classes on hold. It is still circumstantial, but it nibbles at her notice with a stubborn insistence. The hacker digs deeper.