Soul of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  And there it is. They stand in front of the non-descript door to this unit, the only thing marking it as different from all the others being the numbers. Therese also gives a slight gesture of her head. Duilio looks, slitting his eyes. She rolls her own, pointing emphatically and showing the small lens of the camera there beside the door.

  “Should we?” Duilio begins, feeling caught.

  She shakes her head, looking directly into the small device and giving three steady knocks to the door.

  “Maybe he isn’t home,” Duilio hopes after a short wait.

  “He’s home,” she states, flatly.

  She knows how little she used to leave her own place. Days would go by with her staying tucked into her dark hovel. Those who thought she might go mad from the enclosure had no idea of the magnificent scope of the virtual world. She felt more claustrophobic and oppressed when she’d go out for supplies than when expending hours in cyberspace.

  She’s changed, of course, grown, but she still prefers the online world to this harsher, more desolate seeming one.

  She gives a raise of her chin to Duilio, then glancing pointedly at the lock. He passes a raspy inhale through slightly parted lips, shaking his head before producing his tools and bypassing the lock with some ease. He carefully opens the door, breaking the seal and waiting for any sound of an alarm. None comes.

  “If he has one, it’d be silent, but I don’t think he has an alarm. We’re being watched, though,” Therese says.

  She again takes the lead, heading in.

  The place is darkened by closed blinds and pulled drapes. The late afternoon sun manages to creep in, casting gray illumination everywhere it touches. She notices dust on several surfaces, barely any decor on any of the walls. The place is hardly furnished, yet it feels cramped. The condition belies age and a lack of care.

  “Hello?” she calls, gaining a startled look from Duilio. “We’re not intruders.”

  “Therese, we just broke the lock and entered uninvited.”

  “We’re not here to try to harm him. We’re here to try to help him.”

  “Good luck with that,” speaks a voice with a cultured Transatlantic accent.

  They both freeze, looking over to see the well-dressed, handsome man seemingly materialize from the shadows. It is done so well, and after all Duilio has seen, he wonders if the man has appeared here via magick.

  “Denman.”

  “Gaspare,” he returns, giving a single nod of his head as if this were a casual encounter. He then slips that gaze to Therese, and Duilio is not at all comforted by the shift to a more predatory look.

  “Ms. Stendahl.”

  She says nothing, staying frozen in place, eyes on the man. Duilio steps forward, protectively.

  “Denman, we’re here-”

  “Spare me,” Denman holds up a hand. He then lets pass a lengthy breath, one suggestive of boredom. “You took long enough in getting here. I barely had the patience to wait for your conversation to give me the proper dramatic moment to announce my presence. It’s all very tiresome, really.”

  “We…” Duilio draws out, spreading his hands, giving one of his short chuckles through a light grin.

  “Oh, Gaspare,” Denman says, a condescending smile on his face. “Have you fallen in love?”

  Confusion takes both, though Duilio is the more expressive.

  “Your taste surprises me.” Denman gestures to Therese. “But why else would you risk yourself so? She’s not your daughter, is she?”

  “No!” Duilio clips, gaining a further grin from the Malkuth.

  “Good.” He nods. “I know you, Gaspare, but this does surprise me. Still, I doubt you’ve fallen far from the tree.”

  The man blinks, unsure what Denman means.

  “And you, Therese,” Denman continues, his eyes now on the woman. “Eve with the apple, hmm? And you managed to get our good Gaspare to eagerly partake. We let you find that information. How stupid do you think we are? It’s really quite pathetic. You two actually think you have a chance, but why did you come here?”

  Though Duilio would agree, he says nothing.

  “Kettle is already dead,” Denman says, no grin on his face now. He speaks with the placid calm of one completely sure and entirely uncaring.

  Therese gives forth a barely perceptible tremble, her eyes drilling into the Malkuth.

  “You’re angry,” Denman notes. “How could you possibly care so much for him? Well, you clearly see yourself in him. It’s a shame, really. Why bother? You should take a page from the ex-inspector there. He is much more selfish.”

  Once done speaking, Denman brings his hands together near his chest, the tips of his fingers touching. He steps casually toward Therese.

  “Denman!”

  The man turns, still moving slow and casual, though Duilio knows well the lethal speed he holds in reserve. Denman sets eyes on Duilio, eyes which now show a complete lack of amusement.

  “You didn’t let me finish my job.”

  The Malkuth perks his well-sculpted brows, the only quarter he is willing to give. Therese has moved away, but little more than the wall of the room now waits her in this small space. She sweeps her eyes over Denman, watching for signs of an attack. She tries to remember the lessons she learned from Lilja so seemingly long ago, but something in this man’s casual, predatory nature gives her terrible fear. She stands no chance against him.

  “You sent me to see who was prying into your business, and I found her,” Duilio continues, gesturing the obvious. “You told me to find out what she knows and determine if she is a threat, and if so, to plug the leak.”

  “You are a disappointment, Gaspare.”

  Duilio dares to move closer, and he notes the subtle rise in the already perked brows. Denman is not unawares.

  “Let me plug the leak,” Duilio bids.

  “You?” Denman begins, and he chuckles. The sound carries, growing to a stream of low laughter. “You will slay her, hmm?”

  Duilio stares at Denman with pleading eyes, and though the levity does not entirely leave, Denman gives another deep breath.

  “I do hate to repeat myself, but you really are a disappointment. I can only presume that desperation now moves you. Why do you even care?”

  Duilio steps closer, hands held out like a beggar.

  “Pride in my work,” he says, gaining a smirk from the Malkuth. “I am not entirely cynical, Denman, not yet. Let me have something.”

  “We let you live and work for us,” Denman states, turning to more face the other man. “Call it your survival instinct, though I prefer to note it is merely a concentrated selfishness, but you possessed some meager value to us.”

  “Possessed?” Duilio gives rise to his own eyebrows, trying to sound hurt.

  Denman shakes his head. “This is a waste of-”

  Duilio moves as quickly as he is able, turning those beggar’s hands to action. He has had years upon years of experience, but he has actually rarely ever unholstered his sidearm in the line of duty. Never has he ever tried to outdraw someone before. He has borne witness to this man’s lethal prowess, so deadly that merely being within arm’s reach of him is dangerous. He notes the flaw in Denman’s thinking, though, and he hopes to have exploited it for the proper price.

  The pistol is produced, a gleam of polished metal, pointed and fired. The sound is deafening, and Therese cries out, colliding with the wall as she moves back and tucks into a smaller form. She watches intently as Duilio and Denman part from that quick moment of near embrace. The Malkuth stumbles back, a thin tendril of smoke rising from his chest. No hole has come from his back. Duilio has used a hollow point load, figuring rightly that if ever such a scenario as this would take place, he’d have one chance.

  In Denman’s right hand, he holds his obsidian dagger, the blade a light-drinking black, and it drips with blood. He dabs at his chest with his left hand, coming up with more blood. He wobbles, slightly, looking at Duilio, and he grins.

  “You…�
� he begins, then stumbles back, dropping to his knees before rocking and falling.

  Naught but sheer adrenaline and shock has kept Duilio on his feet. He holds the smoking gun in his right hand, his left clamped tightly over his throat. He had not felt the strike at all, but he knows Denman’s methods. Fluid leaks and seeps from behind his hold, and he also falls.

  Therese rushes over. “No!” she demands, taking hold of Duilio. She slides her own hands in, displacing his, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Duilio quakes, trying to shake his head, wide eyes going toward Denman.

  Therese looks over, still maintaining the hold. She watches, her body a taut purveyor of stress, but Denman does not move. She looks back. “You got him,” she says, her tone gentle, and she even tries to crook her lips into something of a smile.

  Duilio nods, though it comes out more as a shiver, and he gurgles, coughing.

  “No!” she cries again, pushing harder, but it doesn’t matter. What she may be preventing leaving through the slit in his neck is finding its way into his lungs.

  He manages some control of himself, and he looks in her eyes. He tries another shake of his head.

  “No. No,” she says, and the desperation is indeed there.

  It gives him sorrow, and he closes his eyes.

  “No, Gaspare.”

  She leans down over him, still holding her hands over his throat, and her body gives into the convulsive wracks of terrible sobs.

  She doesn’t wait too long, a part of her analytical brain nagging at her that surely someone has called the police, and they will be here soon. She sits up, looking at Duilio, knowing he is dead - another casualty.

  She doesn’t even check on Denman, wanting to get no closer.

  Instead, she stumbles to the kitchen, washing her hands. She wets a ratty towel she manages to find with a short search and wipes at where blood has gotten on her clothes. It is her fortune that the dark shades of her clothing manages to hide the stains well enough.

  She doesn’t bother looking for Kettle or his set-up. She knows the cameras saw them, and the police may be able to get this information. She’ll deal with that remotely, once she is safely home.

  Safe …?

  She wonders if that is even possible anymore.

  *****

  The land’s fertility, such as it is, abates. They enter this area, colorless, lifeless. It feels incomplete. They have arrived.

  Zoe and Skot had pursued the pursuers, their guide running along with them. Zoe’s drive and harshness spoke much to the former storekeeper, telling him she’d just as soon further wet her blade on his blood and damn the consequences. He kept his mouth shut and followed.

  It did not take them long to find Lilja. Or, to be more precise, for her to find them. The haggard ones did not prove effective as trackers or fighters. She had tangled with few of them before winding her way around and waiting. It had been her plan to disrupt them, separate them, then avoid. Those wasted people were only good at capture by deceit, and they had played their hand.

  David was lost. They would mourn him, but they knew they had to carry on. The rites would be performed for a fallen Hunter as had been done many times before. He had been amongst their best, and the loss was deep, it’s manner ignoble even though he had faced it with as much fight as any other.

  Skot had felt that anger surging in him even as it expressed itself so openly in Zoe. She wanted to continue hunting those people, kill every one of them, but he managed to calm her. They were easily avoided, unworthy of any fight. Victory came with correcting their own mistake and being loose from them. Victory waited with the final Book.

  And thus were they here.

  “What is this place?” Lilja asks, bright eyes looking about, her voice not much more than a whisper.

  “It is the end of here,” their guide speaks, fatigue and more laden in his voice. “It is the why of here.”

  “It feels … unfinished,” Zoe remarks.

  Skot wanders, half-listening, senses eagerly open. Not only is the environ washed of color, but as he looks over his companions, they even seem somehow dulled. A perpetual gloom bathes this place, as if poised at the cusp of a held breath of creation.

  He looks about for the Book, but he does not see it. He searches for signs of its resting place, but all that greets him is this strange landscape, again having gone from a crowd of brittle plant life to rocks somehow not natural but not precise enough to seem human-placed. As if it weren’t confusing enough, a wet cough invades the solitude. He is quickly joined by Lilja and Zoe just as those two curious ones from before reveal themselves.

  Lance looks upon them with an unerring gaze, difficult to read, suggesting he doesn’t want to be there. Pierce wheezes, trying to catch his breath, and when he finally does, he sets a look on them clear in its intent.

  “We-” he begins, straining suddenly, clearing his throat angrily, “we took a shortcut, but it wasn’t easy.”

  Zoe’s machete is held ready, appearing there so quickly it may have never been sheathed. She is halted in her steps by Skot’s hand on her shoulder.

  “Who are you?” Skot demands.

  “Who are we?” Pierce repeats, smirking. “That’s what you want to know? After all this!” His held out hands shake once with the volume of his last word, then he buckles over with coughing, finally ejecting a bloody expectorant with what force he may muster. A stubborn trail of it clings to his bottom lip. “I guess,” he begins again, then pauses, blinking, and he wipes with the back of his left hand. “I guess that’s actually a very important thing to know.”

  The transition begins, and though it is alarming, the trio of Hunters finds it not entirely unexpected. Their guide recoils, eyes going wide, and he skitters away to find a hiding spot.

  The eyes take on a red hue, the glow beginning subtly, like the appearance of the full moon in the early night. Both gain a more erect posture, chests filling with vibrancy, shoulders moving back. Pierce takes a deep, untroubled breath, and Lance stands strongly on his swollen foot.

  “Skin wearers,” Zoe breathes.

  “No,” speaks a voice from Pierce’s mouth. It is more powerful, laden not only with strength but a subtle echo and reverberation as if more than one speaking. “These vessels are human, though they have been changed.”

  “We are many within,” says an equally chilling sound from Lance, and then he raises a finger to point at Lilja. “Ask her who we are.”

  “Lilja?” Skot dares as their eyes meet.

  “I don’t know them,” she says, her firm tone showing the barest hint of desperation.

  Zoe looks at the redhead, remembering their trial back at the Barrington house. That entire encounter had felt tailored to Lilja, and now, this. She grips her weapon more tightly, watching Lilja closer then the two who have accosted their progress.

  “It is there,” says Pierce, the cadence of the words off, inhuman. “Deep in your memory’s memories.”

  Lilja stares at them, then looks to Skot, finding his eyes already on her.

  “I don’t know what they mean,” she says.

  “These shells do not do us justice,” Lance intones, and the two begin to walk toward them. The three Hunters ready themselves for the fight. “But surely you recognize your own brothers.”

  “Brothers?” Lilja blinks, and the hold she keeps on her weapon slackens. She whispers, “I don’t have any brothers.”

  “We are the ills and the plagues,” Pierce says as the two continue their slow, steady encroachment.

  “Colic and gout,” says Lance.

  “Consumption and ulcers,” says Pierce, giving a strange nod. “These are the ways you choose to comprehend us.”

  “The ways you fail to comprehend us,” Lance elaborates.

  “We slip in through your weakness. What hope have you?”

  Skot takes a half-step forward, bringing the murmuring of his voice to a greater volume, and he unleashes a force of magick akin to the one he used to dispatch the stone
figures. It propels from his palms, divided in particular ways by the placement of his fingers, and it rushes over the two as a hurricane’s wind.

  Tattered clothing peels away first, followed by skin, hunks of viscera. The two halt, but in the end, they merely wait out the spell. When over, they remain, though not formed as they once were. The parts sloughed away show a taut, powerful musculature, a deep red hue seeming to coil within. The pair stands taller, bringing up clawed fingers, and they attack.

  Lilja thrusts Skot back with one hand even as she propels herself forward, katana at the ready. Her strike is blindingly fast, but it misses Lance. Pierce takes a different angle, heading toward Zoe, lust in his features. Zoe pushes forward to meet the attack, her own desire for death still evident. She cries out when those claws rend through her bicep. She stumbles, colliding with a large rock, hissing in pain. Her opponent looks at her, having suffered nothing in his attempt.

  “Zoe!” Skot calls out, then brings forth his sword-cane, sliding the blade free as he moves toward Pierce. He presses, whipping the air with the flexible, razor-sharp metal. Pierce retreats, dodging with preternatural speed, that insufferable grin still on the lips.

  Lilja gives some attention to how Zoe and Skot fare, and in doing so, Lance attempts to strike her. She steps aside, almost casually, then swipes with her sword. The tip finds some flesh, giving forth a spray of blood. Lance stares at her, top lip curled in a smirking suggestion of anger.

  “You wound me, sister.”

  “I am not your sister!” Lilja retorts, the final word not so much shouted as uttered with an emphatic force. She lashes out at the same time, but Lance avoids this easily, emitting a guttural sound, something that might be a titter were it not so disturbing.