Dance of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  “Yeah, how was he supposed to know you are a ninja in training?” he beams a grin at her, chewing more of his food.

  She gives a good-natured roll of her eyes, “I study karate and jujutsu. I am not a ninja.”

  “Heheh,” he offers an awkward chuckle, “I know, just teasing. Don’t knock me out!”

  She shakes her head a bit, having more of her strong coffee.

  “So, what’re you reading?” he asks, motioning his head up to indicate the material in her lap, slipping another fork-load into his mouth.

  “Oh, something riveting,” and she holds up the magazine, which appears to be a publication on book collecting.

  He narrows his eyes, leaning forward to peer at it, then he smirks, shrugging, “Not my sort of thing.” Then he has more of his food, chewing exuberantly, setting back in the chair as he drinks of his tea, eyes on Lilja even as she goes back to the article which before held her attention.

  “It’s yours, though, yeah,” he says, and she glances over at him, looking over the thin metal frames of her somewhat narrow glasses. “Why doesn’t a pretty lady like you date?” he bluntly asks, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

  She is somewhat aghast at the question, but she says nothing. He even asked her out once some time ago, and he seems to have taken her negative reply in good enough stride.

  “I’m married to my work,” she offers a shrug, deciding to not take offense and just answer the question as plainly as she will.

  “Yeah, I figured,” he nods, making this statement with no judgment, going back to his quite rapidly disappearing meal, “You do a good job, though, I know that, and you still have time to learn how to drop a ninety-five kilo guy like he’s nothing.”

  “I can’t say as I’ve had the best luck with relationships, anyway,” she says, and she immediately wonders why she has offered this.

  “Oh, yeah? Well, if some guy hurt you in the past, then he was an idiot. A lady like you deserves to be treated right.”

  She gives a genuine smile, “Thanks, Billy.”

  “You’re welcome.” He smiles back, scraping up the remnants of his food, following it with the rest of his tea. “I’ve gotta run. We don’t get long for our breaks. I’ll see you around.”

  He gets up, holding his tray, offering a departing smile and little wave. She waves back, watching as he leaves, getting lost in her own thoughts.

  It has been a few years since she’s been involved, having tried one date with one person after the unpleasant ending of the only serious relationship in which she has ever been. Now it just seems that the idea of a romantic relationship never enters her mind. She certainly garners her share of attention, but it just doesn’t seem an option. She doesn’t want to be hurt, and she doesn’t want others to get hurt.

  She glances back at the open magazine, the one she pulled from storage at the library. It is over two years old, and it will need to be digitized and disposed of soon. She wanted it for the article on noted collectors, having a little read-up on Mr. Skothiam Felcraft.

  Chapter Three

  “Christmas came early for you guys. What’s to complain about?” says one of the men in the coffee room, looking over from pouring some of the dark, settling ichor into a plastic cup.

  “Yeah, well, don’t tell the press, or we’ll look like idiots.”

  A few sips of coffee, some chuckles, but not everyone is so joyous.

  “And now we have some self-righteous vigilante to chase. Yeah, Christmas,” asserts a grumbler.

  “We sure were doing a great job,” sarcastically adds another cynical, displeased person, “That warehouse operating right under our noses, and you know they weren’t just using it for human trafficking.”

  Looks are exchanged, one in particular taking close note of the conversation. The most recent speaker continues into the sudden silence.

  “We should be glad for the help. How can that place have been there without us knowing it?” and accusatory eyes are angled out at the impromptu gathering.

  “Since when did you get a warrant to go into any place you want?”

  “You can excuse it anyway you like-”

  “You better watch what you’re implying,” comes the challenge, this cop getting right up to the other, despite her being a woman.

  “Hey, calm it down,” orders a gruff, forceful voice, “We’re all on the same side here, and that vigilante is breaking the law, just like those people using the warehouse. It’s a good bust for us, but this goes beyond a ‘helpful’ citizen.”

  “Don’t expect me to arrest this ‘helpful’ citizen,” says one, and a few laugh.

  “Shut that shit up,” growls out the forceful one, “You especially don’t want the lieutenant hearing that kind of talk.”

  Silence greets this, but the one who spoke about not arresting merely shrugs.

  “What do you think, Alec?” one asks, up-nodding to the officer seated at a table by himself, having a snack of a pastry.

  He raises his eyes, wide, noting all attention suddenly on him. Laughter results.

  “Alec is busy,” says one, and the raucous increases, and Alec scowls, generating more chuckles.

  “Come on, Alec, join the conversation.”

  The big man shrugs, pursing out a lower lip, “Eh, I’ll take the help, but I guess if I have no other choice, I’ll have to arrest the guy, but if he’s as good as he seems, I’d rather just wait until he’s gone, right?” he says with a big grin.

  And this gets more chuckles in response from most, while some scoff and others look potentially offended.

  “A lot of help you are!” calls out one.

  “Hey, hey, I know my civic duty. I’ll volunteer to help when I’m not busy.”

  “Oh yeah, right,” come various and myriad responses of disbelief.

  Alec stands, smirking, squaring his ample shoulders.

  “I’m serious. If I can help, I’ll help.”

  “Yeah, yeah, well go talk to Kenneth, then, if you’re serious. The lieutenant gave him that Task Squad.”

  “I will,” Alec announces, mostly to teasing disbelief expressed on the part of his coworkers, but he, of course, means it.

  *****

  He studies the open book, looking over the finely printed text, leaned over and somewhat close as if proximity may aid in plumbing the secrets hidden within the words. His laptop is on the table, near the book, and he occasionally consults it, looking over images, quickly tapping on the keyboard to keep track of his own notes. After a time, he sits back in the chair, evincing fatigue, perhaps even frustration, in his posture.

  “Do you speak Latin?” she asks, not too far away, occupied with some of her own work.

  He looks over, smiling lightly, “Yes, though I don’t often seem to find myself in situations requiring it.”

  She returns the grin, though it drops for a more inquisitive gaze as his own has disappeared as he looks away. “Is everything alright?” she asks.

  “Oh, yes, thank you.” He returns his eyes to hers, the polite curve returning to his lips, “Just trying to unravel the mystery, but the threads are not being terribly cooperative.”

  She nods, returning to her own chores, so he gets back to his work after taking a sip of the strong coffee she has so generously made available to him during his visits of the past few days.

  “May I confess something to you?” her voice then breaks the shortly resuming silence.

  He looks up, naught but open sincerity with a coloring touch of guarded stupefaction on his face, “Of course.”

  She takes a few tentative steps closer, looking also quite serious. “Your being here to examine the book is really quite curious, especially coming back and spending so much time with it, so I decided to do a little investigating myself.”

  He merely nods to this, the gesture slow, deliberate-seeming.

  “Did you know this book is mentioned in Nicholas Rémy’s Daemonolatreiae libri tres?”

  He blinks, just studying her. She shi
rks the barest bit under the scrutiny, her head moving a few degrees to the right and down, and her hands, yet held together in that same arrangement they seem so wont to show, display the subtle movement of fingers.

  “Are you familiar with it?” she asks in the encroaching quiet.

  “I am,” he nods once, though he is not inclined to tell her why.

  “Ah, then I’ve not told you anything you do not already know. I’m sorry for interrupting.”

  “No, no,” he says, surprising himself with the tone of urgency, sitting up further in the chair, bringing himself more attentive to her place in the room. “That is not an easy clue to come by.”

  “Oh, well,” she exhales a single, audible breath into a short smile, “I do have … some experience with this sort of thing.”

  He perks his eyebrows. “A curator is not necessarily a book detective,” he says with a warm grin, “I’d not turn away assistance, if you know of anything else regarding this.”

  “I don’t really know much more than the usual information and listings, but it is intriguing that the book is mentioned in one of the most famous treatises on capital witch trials, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, I suppose it depends on how one views witchcraft and witches,” he replies, pushing away from the table, opening more toward her, inviting her to also sit with a very subtle gesture of his head toward the nearby chair, and she sets herself in, facing him.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, I think you’d find that most people do not believe in witchcraft in a literal, supernatural sense, which means that the persecution these people suffered was largely socio-political and religious. If that is the case, then it may not be odd at all to find any number of texts in the possession of these people that purports to convey knowledge prohibited by the Church.”

  She blinks, brow furrowing, “This book was so restricted?” she asks, her blue eyes looking darker as they cast quickly to the folio then back up to him.

  “It did not figure as prominently on any list of banned books, but the information contained in some parts was not looked upon kindly by the Church.”

  She nods, glancing back down at the text as though ready to spot some heresy on the open page, then again looking back at him.

  “I’m not that familiar with its contents.”

  “I don’t expect it’s on too many peoples’ lists of recommended books, either. It is really quite unknown, and you are aware of its rarity,” he offers, smiling gently.

  She nods, glancing again from the open book then to him, letting a very light smile trace her lips.

  “What is it about?”

  He looks at her, that barest of a curl on the edges of his mouth, just gazing. She meets his eyes openly, not shirking in the exchange. He notes that she returns the subtly hinting smile, and then she blinks, adjusting a stray lock of her vibrant hair which has fallen over the left side of her face.

  “May I tell you tonight over dinner?” he invites.

  Her smile grows in size and warmth, though still coquettish, and only a brief moment passes before she answers, “Yes, that would be nice.”

  *****

  The two men walk into the dingy bar, the afternoon sun pouring in through the door to announce their arrival. A few muted groans and some not so reduced scowls greet the arrival of the contrasting pair. The various people in here, the vast majority of which are male, engage in what one may expect in this sort of establishment – drinking, talking, playing billiards, darts.

  The place is mainly composed of a treated wood, disguised as darker and higher quality by the glossy finish which is smudged, worn, and chipped, giving hints to the brittle skeleton beneath. The general lack of décor also indicates the no-nonsense and very masculine nature of the business. The only places that deviate from the dark, earthy palette of chamber and customers being the rolling balls on the green felt and the eye-catching labels of bottles behind the bar.

  The two men are greeted with a nod from the bartender, the stubbled head atop the thick neck offering a single dip of some measure of respect.

  “What can I get you?” he offers, setting aside an opened bottle of beer and placing both hands atop the bar, palms pressing in the edge near him.

  “Vodka,” says the larger, paler man.

  The barkeep nods once more, curt, then his eyes settle on the other.

  “Nothing,” the leaner, darker man says, dismissively, then turns to look about the place.

  A short glance is spared back to the other, a non-verbal commentary compressed into that one look, then the man turns, fetching a tumbler, into which he pours a generous amount of Russian vodka. The customer raises it, taking in a decent swallow, then nods approvingly. The bartender goes back to whatever occupies his time when not needed, and the drinking man turns to casually look out over the occupants of the bar. He raises the glass to have another sip, eyes shifting to his partner, then in the direction the other man observes. He takes that drink, then follows his comrade as he walks away.

  The man stops at a distant table, one somewhat obscured by the varying levels of darkness in the dimly-lit place. The three men sitting there, drinking, look up, none too pleased with the potential interruption.

  “We just got out, Quain. What do you want?” one of them asks, his voice carrying a deep undertone, like muddy water gurgling over stubborn rocks.

  “You didn’t just get out,” the man replies, looking the three over, no sign of being intimidated at all showing on him.

  The other of the duo steps over, pulling out the unoccupied fourth chair with a loud scrape and sitting his bulk in it. He gives a good look to the three, bringing up his drink for another sip, not leaving much after this most recent taste.

  “We need to talk to you guys before too much time passes and you rot your memories with drink or drugs,” he unceremoniously declares.

  The three look at him, one baring of a somewhat vacant, rheumy gaze, the other two evincing more disgust, even challenge.

  “What do you want?” the original speaker demands.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Quain asks. “Alec and I are assisting the Task Force that’s hunting that vigilante.”

  “Yes,” Alec says, “The one that handed you your asses,” and he emits a low chuckle, then downs the remnants of his vodka.

  “And before you get all bent out of shape,” Quain says, leaning onto the table, arms outstretched within his black leather coat, palms on the wood, “Gnegon sent us.”

  The man lights up a cigarette, the paper giving forth a sickly, yellowed look. He squints his eyes at both, exhaling a thick plume after a lengthy inhale.

  “You leashed dogs do good tricks,” he observes.

  “What the fuck did you say?” Alec sits up in his chair, brow furrowing, jaw flexing from clenched teeth as he brings up his right arm, elbow bent, chunky fingers curled into a tight fist.

  Quain looks right, placing a hand on his partner’s shoulder, encouraging him to calm down. He holds it there for a moment, his mocha skin a contrast to the dingy gray of Alec’s blazer, until the large man settles back down. He then turns to the smoker, who wears a self-satisfied smirk, and Quain lashes out with sudden speed, striking the guy in the mouth, crushing the cigarette in the process.

  He looks at the other two, only one of whom reacts in any real manner, the rheumy-eyed one looking barely startled for a passing moment. He does not bother with gauging the responses of anyone else in the bar, just sets his eyes back on the smoker, who now holds his bleeding lip with one hand.

  “We all have our leashes. You’re right,” he says, calmly, nodding, contemplatively, “My collar has a badge on it, too. You want to go back into a cell?”

  The man just peers at him, eyes slit, anger evident.

  “Hey, asshole,” Alec chimes in, a huge smirk now on his lips, “My partner asked you a question.”

  The man just shakes his head.

  “Good,” Quain assesses. “Now, we’re going to ask you some more
questions. We know you didn’t give much to the officers who interrogated you when you were arrested.”

  “Nothing at all, really,” Alec expands, speaking in an aside manner, and Quain nods.

  “But this is different, so you need to answer us. Okay?”

  The gangster who has lately stopped smoking just looks at Quain, still seeming incapable of doing much more than squinting, head tilted to the right, almost as though he gains more sight from his left eye.

  “Okay?” Quain tries again, leaning toward the man, perking his eyebrows.

  “Okay,” the man grumbles.

  “Great,” Quain grins, and he slides a chair over from a nearby table, settling into it, “Let’s get started.”

  *****

  They meet at Yami at eight in the evening, perhaps late for some, but her work schedule had dictated the time of their rendezvous. Skothiam had offered, of course, to pick her up, but she had insisted on meeting at the eatery. He understands the caution.

  He had arrived earlier, wanting to be there first and have a moment to evaluate the restaurant. The warm illumination and tones please him, the décor a pristine, modern take on traditional Asian styles. The place is somewhat busy, but not overly so, and he manages to procure a corner table in a more romantic section, the walls a mahogany hue, the carpet a more obvious red dispersed with black patterns.

  Lilja arrives not long after, and he sees her across the way, her striking hair drawing the eye. He notices that she has changed since work, opting for a somewhat darker arrangement of clothing with her button-down blouse, skirt at mid-thigh, and black pumps. It all even further accentuates the contrast of her vivid red locks tumbling down past her shoulders. He watches as she speaks to the hostess, then looks about. Her sparkling eyes finally find him, and he gives a signaling wave with the gentle raise of his right hand, standing as she walks over to the table, a light smile on her lips.

  She notices that he also has opted for something different for this evening out, indeed continuing the similarity in having gone for tones of a darker hue, the thin, barely perceptible, vertical stripes of his shirt serving as the only hindrance to a uniform blackness. The sleeves are French style, folded back and secured with cuff links of what appears silver and black onyx. He does not sport a jacket, though, and the shirt is open at the collar.