The vigilante turns, rushing out of the room to get a better view of what may be going on out there. The short flight of stairs is taken with speed, agility, turning to see another few stairs heading down and opening into this portion of the large chamber. The sounds are louder now, obviously someone engaged in combat. Careful steps are now taken, looking up, moving closer. There is another staircase around and to the right, and that would allow access to the walkway. There show also other doorways, some closed, some not, and then the low breathing is heard, almost shallow enough to have been entirely eclipsed by the noises from above, and the large man from earlier springs forth from the darkness of an open room, swiping at the darkly-suited figure.
The vigilante dodges back, fast enough to avoid most of the hit, but the attacker’s left hand finds the assault rifle, striking with such force that the holds on the strap break, the weapon scattering away, sliding along the ground and coming to a halt too far to be of use as the offense is pressed by the enraged man. There is still the Glock, but if the way he shrugged off the bullets of the H&K is any indicator, another weapon may be of better choice, and jumping back from continued swipes of the man’s large, clawed hands, the vigilante sidesteps, pulling forth the katana.
A short moment is spared as the red-seeming eyes of the man travel over the gleaming, polished blade, and he shouts out a cry, offended by this challenge to his lust, and he attacks. The distance between them is now very small, a mere few paces, one that may be consumed faster than most people may register and react, but the masked figure is well-trained. Legs muscles are flexed, movement happening in the blink of an eye, using the short, slender shape as an advantage, dodging from further attacks as well as moving aside from the bull rush. The large man evinces his own speed, turning, just as the blade arcs out, shearing through his neck, nearly decapitating him.
The vigilante dances further away to try to avoid the jettison of blood as the man’s head flops back, spewing forth more of his vitae as the body crumbles. Then the katana is re-sheathed after a quick, sharp movement to shake off the blood, the G36C collected, held in gloved hands, as the sounds from above have increased as that fight has continued, now at the top of the very stairs nearby.
Another man is up there, and though he is somewhat tall, he is not like the giant so recently dispatched. His form is lean, his dress dark, combat-oriented, though not as military or even utilitarian as that worn by the vigilante. He holds what looks like a stick or rod in one hand and a pistol in the other, and the things attacking him do not look entirely human.
They hold human shape, but just as with so much going on in this place, they are behaving more like animals, and just as they enter a greater degree of light, their heads show a grayness of flesh that cannot be normal, as well as a lack of hair that reveals ridges and boney protrusions along with tapered ears angling back from red eyes. They are also bereft of clothing, their squat, powerful bodies possessed of noticeable muscle, and as if this were not odd enough, they lack any identifiable genitals.
The masked figure stands there, somewhat frozen in place by the oddity of it all, brain having trouble accepting what is seen. The other man shows unaffected by such a paralysis, moving with a grace and fluidity of martial expertise, using the polished wooden cane to block a strike from lethal claws, then pointing the custom-modified Walther P99 and firing off two rounds into the beast’s chest, causing an eruption of some black fluid that could be blood. The creature howls, stumbling back, only for the aim to be adjusted, and a bullet fired through the forehead, causing an eruption from the back of the head, the thing collapsing.
The gun’s slide is now held open, the magazine empty. A button is pressed with a casual familiarity, even as the second beast lunges, and the top of the gun shifts smoothly back in place, the hand moving to slip it into the shoulder holster as feet move to avoid the thing’s attack. Then the cane is held in both hands, pulling apart, and a thin, almost rapier-like blade is revealed. Much less easily seen are the complex sigils etched into the bottom of the blade, but the observant, though somewhat stunned, eyes of the vigilante catch a shocking blink of outré color about that sleek metal as the thrust is made, the point rupturing out the rear of the monster’s neck, then being twisted and pulled back out. The beast gags, falling to its knees, fluid, like ichor, pouring from its wound and coughing mouth, and it crumbles, facedown.
A flick of the wrist causes most of the fresh liquid to be flung free, and the blade is slid back into the cane with a firm snick. The man then turns, looking down at the darkly-garbed figure, a subtle, almost calm expression on his face.
“I saw what you did,” he says, gesturing to the dead form of the large man, “Very nicely done.”
There is no response, just a stare, immobility evincing continued shock.
“You are the vigilante, I take it?” he walks down the steps, getting nearer, eyebrows perked up to accentuate the question, but there is yet no voice emerging from behind the mask. “I realize this all must be very difficult, and I would be happy to …,” and then that voice halts.
He steps closer, peering, his own blue eyes narrowing as he looks intently into the sparkling, more hypnotic blue shading of the other pair staring back at him.
“Lilja?” Skot asks, his voice turning into a breath of disbelief at the end of the spoken word.
One hand moves from the firearm, pulling away the concealing parts of the balaklava to indeed reveal the face of the curator.
“Skot!?” she retorts, “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same,” he replies, shock taking both their features.
She blinks, lips parting, but she does not speak. Then she blinks again, shaking her head.
“What were those things you were fighting?” she finally plucks a question from the many that buzz around in her head.
“Ah, yes,” he looks slightly sheepish, glancing toward the bodies, then back to her, eyes fixed, his face now serious as he utters a single word, “Demons.”
“What?” she finally manages, having to force the word out from within her continued, shaking head.
“It seems we both have some things to explain to each other, but now may not be the time,” he says, “What I am doing here is trying to stop that.”
She looks over in the direction he points, indicating further in the deeper recesses of the room, the area from whence the explosion has occurred.
“I …” She peers over, blinking more, her lips working as she again tries to formulate something to say, “I don’t see anything. Stop what?”
“I’ll show you,” he says, tucking his cane under his arm and reloading his pistol with his last magazine, slipping the empty one to the other side of his shoulder holster, next to its equally empty sibling, “That’s a … very nice rifle, by the way,” he comments, looking at the G36C with a bit of a raised eyebrow.
“Thanks,” she somewhat mutters.
“Alright, then,” he says, “Shall we?”
She gives a single nod, following as he moves to get around the multi-leveled flooring and debris so as to get to the further, deeper area he earlier indicated. They barely make it five paces before they both stop, hearing the approach of running feet. They share a glance, then both pairs of eyes look toward the incoming noise. They separate a small distance, aiming their weapons.
A young man rushes into the area, panic evident on his thin, skeletal features. Though his feet prove very determined, his eyes are open, unblinking, almost as though not seeing this world, but then they latch onto the pair, and he comes to a stop, breath heavy.
“The killer! The killer!” Ernst cries out, pointing back in the direction from whence he came, moving to put the others between himself and anyone who may be coming on his trail.
“Just calm down,” Lilja tries, having lowered the barrel of her assault rifle.
“What are you talking about?” Skot asks, his handgun also now pointing downward, “What killer?”
“The
serial killer! The one who has been stalking the city!” Ernst all but shouts, his body trembling, “Behind me, coming,” he adds, trying to indicate with a shaky hand, and he moves again to try to get further away, and as he turns to glance deeper into the large room, he stops, going rigid.
“What-?” Lilija notices, moving closer, peering at him.
Skot does the same, looking at those locked open eyes, the statue-like aspect that has suddenly claimed the ill-looking man, and he looks in the direction those pale orbs stare, then back.
“You see it?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
Lilja’s brow wrinkles with confusion, curiosity, and she also looks in that same direction. She sees the same blasted, trashed condition from the explosion, the pooled, thick, dark liquid. She presumes they must be talking of something else.
“You can see it,” Skot concludes, as no further words emerge from the transfixed young man, Ernst’s already sickly pallor appearing to pale further.
“See what?” Lilja asks, her voice also pitched low, taking the cue from Skot’s tone even though she is not sure what is going on.
“The gateway,” he says, then he looks at her, holding up a fist, hoping to remind her of their prior conversation, and then he relaxes his fingers, spreading them, space now there, “It has been opened, and it is opening further.”
“What gateway?” she persists, “Where?”
Before he may answer, an eruption of noise takes their attention. It comes from the direction Ernst has arrived. Skot glances back at him, but the young man still seems lost in what he now sees, whatever fear he felt at running from the city’s serial murderer now gone.
“Will he be alright?” Lilja whispers out the question, eyes darting from Skot to Ernst then back in the direction of the growing ruckus.
“I have my suspicions,” he answers, and she looks at him, that furrowing again found on her forehead, wondering what he means with this odd response.
He gently takes the unfocused young man by the arm, then looks again at her, “Come on,” he says, motioning his head now toward the noise, and though she is still filled with questions, she hefts her rifle and follows.
The racket is coming now from an adjacent room, and they make themselves ready at the doorway. Lilja checks the handle, finding that it is unlocked, then she glances up at Skot.
“I’ll go first,” she says, and he nods, one hand still guiding the other man, and he decides to gently move him aside, placing him against the wall as a method of safekeeping, then he nods again to her, and she slowly opens the door.
Whatever is inside causing such a turmoil does not seem to care one whit for them. They move in, immediately noticing that the chamber looms larger than they had anticipated, and even with everything else going on, she still manages to register some awe at the make-up of the compound, especially this underground level. For the first time, she wonders if it has been here longer, the more modern structures erected above it, even as additions and reinforcements may have been made down here. Time for such thoughts later, though, as she and Skot again spread out, weapons leveled at the far corner, where the darkness is thickest, where violent movement shows along with the continued noise.
She then sees flashes of color, just like that she thought she saw glimmer about Skot’s sword before he thrust it through that thing’s neck. These flashes are smaller, though broader, and they are indeed there, coming out quite frequently in the contrasting darkness, a sort of dark magenta flaring up.
A figure then spills into the light, and she blinks to wide eyes, the aim of her barrel not faltering, though her grip lessens. She sees a man in what had once been a very nice Anderson & Sheppard tuxedo, its current state showing dishevelment, stains, tears, and she has seen this man before. He does not yet notice them, though, instead springing to his feet, taking a fighting stance, and she spies a very curious weapon in his right hand. It appears to be a rather wicked-looking dagger made of black glass, and though she is no expert in such, she presumes it is obsidian. It is somewhat broad at its base, wider than the fist which clutches about the handle, tapering in jagged, lethal aspect to its point. He lunges back into the darkness.
The sounds of fighting resume, and she spares a look at Skot, her eyes more curious whereas his are watchful. She prepares to ask him a whispered question when another sound emerges from within the turmoil of the nearby fight, a noise that sounds like the curdling growl and cry of a beast. Her legs tense as she lowers, bringing the G36C to a more pronounced aim, the laser site’s beam penetrating the darkness but not showing her what she might hit were she to pull the trigger. The green beam from Skot’s Walther also unerringly points in the direction of the combat, and she wonders if he is able to see better in that darkness. They both then turn on their tactical lights, and though this presents more, the confusion of the combat has not much abated.
She spies another of those monsters, the ones Skot has told her are “demons”, though she has not accepted this yet on any real level. She is still in crisis mode, and to her, whatever those things are, they are an obvious threat.
This one, though, looks different than the two she saw dispatched earlier, its large hands bearing of the lethal length of claws. The eyes are long, shaped like upturning ovals that move to and aside the brow, and they are reflective, an uninterrupted deep red, as though the eyes are perhaps behind a jeweled shield. It’s mouth is a puckering pinch of flesh stretched over the tapering lower jaw, and she has a moment to wonder how such a thing emitted those noises, if it even did at all, and then that maw is opened, the ashen flesh parting to reveal a toothless orifice deep within which she thinks she glimpses the sheen of small tentacle lengths splaying out and waving, whether on the current of that roar or causing it, she does not know, but the entire scene again grips her mind with a threat of paralytic insanity.
It attacks with an inhuman quickness, but the man proves ready, dancing aside with his own evidence of martial prowess, swinging his hand and causing another wound to open on the beast. With this slash, she again sees the flaring rise of color about the deeply dark obsidian blade. She knows she is not seeing things. Another strike is made, the man moving very fast, and the rising color becomes like a tracer, accentuating his speedy, arcing movements.
It is not the only glimpse of color, though, and she peers over to see Skot taking careful aim. She looks back, trying to find where the green laser points within that chaos of movement and color and low lighting. She cannot tell which he intends to shoot, and just then, the combatants part, and the Walther pops out a single round. It is another hit to the forehead, and the monster’s head jerks back. It does not fall, though, instead turning to focus its haunting eyes on the shooter, a low growl emerging. That dark fluid leaks from the entry of the wound, the moment stretching before the thing wavers, head lulling to its left, and then it falls.
“Skothiam Felcraft,” the other man says, giving a slight bow of his head, “I did not know you were in town.”
“Denman,” Skot looks over, and though he does not return his pistol to the holster, he angles it downward with no intent of a target.
“And the lovely librarian, Ms. Perhonen. I assuredly did not expect to see you here,” he says, somewhat trying to arrange his clothes to something more presentable or at least comfortable, as he walks nearer to them, eyes moving from one to the other. “I suppose I should not be surprised to see you two in league with one another.”
She says nothing, and after a short time, he looks back at Skot.
“I should give your family more credit,” he carries on, “Here I thought you Felcrafts were completely ignorant of the goings-on in this city, but you are here, the Head. No wonder I did not know.”
“The gateway,” Skot says, and the other nods.
“Yes, that one,” he says, gesturing back to the now dead monster that had been lately terrorizing the city as its serial killer, “was a mere scout, but it has been here for a while.”
Skot no
ds, “The energies have been building.”
Denman gives his own nod, “Well, since you’re here, will you do the honors?”
“I will,” another nod is given, “Lilja and yourself can fend off any other attacks while I seal the breach.”
“Wait, what?” she finally gives voice, moving to him, though she keeps a wary eye on the other, “I thought you said you two were enemies. You trust him?”
“We are enemies,” Denman affirms, still keeping to that very casual, conversational tone.
“He won’t kill me,” Skot says, “There are too few of us.”
“Too few of … what?” she blinks.
“Hunters,” Denman says, and she shoots her eyes to him, “Demon hunters, to be precise.”
She looks back at Skot, the obvious questions upon questions warring there.
“I’ll explain it all afterwards, but we really need to close that gateway before more get through.”
They move back out into the larger room, Skot leading the way, the other two following. Lilja keeps an eye on Denman, not willing to trust him. He seems fairly intent on helping, but then his attention is caught by the other person there as Skot goes back to gather the still enthralled young man.
“Ah, so you’ve found Ernst,” Denman remarks.
Skot shoots him a rather unpleasant look, and Lilja watches closely.
“I should have known,” he utters, “He’ll be leaving with me.”
“As you like,” Denman far too easily concedes, giving another little bow of his head.
The two engage in a very short battle of wills, eyes drilling into one another. Skot still looks perturbed whereas Denman continues to wear that underlying visage of his arrogant charm. The moment passes quickly, though, as Skot turns, continuing his way further in.
“What is this?” Lilja asks, breaking the silence that has held sway for a while as they have neared ground zero.
Dance of the Butterfly Page 34