He has listened patiently to the words of some of those here with him, and once spoken, a certain amount of trepidation seeps up from the others as they wait for him to respond. He holds the tiny mug, seeming to look at nothing of his surroundings, perhaps focused inward, then he sips again. He finally returns the demitasse cup to its saucer, then leans back, inhaling a breath.
“We’ve not heard from vigilante for so long, I began to worry he might have retired or been killed,” Volkov finally speaks.
The men stare, some eyes manage to blink, others look around. Perhaps it is not what they expected. The boss folds his marked hands in his lap, taking in another breath, holding it a bit before exhaling, nodding as though to himself.
“Good, good,” he murmurs, then looks up, as though remembering that others are indeed here with him. “So, four dead, unh? That is not so bad. We have many more, yes?”
Some of the men emit low, stunted chuckles, unsure if this is a joke, for the boss does indeed now wear a thin, cold smile on his usually straight lips. They continue to glance about, seeking some sort of reassurance from their comrades.
“Some of the men were not happy about the order, though,” one of the others reiterates.
Volkov slits his eyes over, and any lingering chuckling or smiles quickly dissipate. “Of course,” Volkov utters, his gaze and manner remaining steeled on his lieutenant, “Killing children is not easy for most.” This gets some meager nods, almost as if a sense of relief dawns. “We need sterner men,” he adds, choking that embryonic ease, “The ones who object, watch them closely. They will not advance, and if they falter, kill them.”
“Yes, boss.”
“The children serve their purpose, as children do,” Volkov speaks in a somewhat musing tone, and he reaches forward, gingerly placing the fingertips of his right hand about the rim of the mug, turning it, producing a light, scraping noise. “There is demand for everything in this world … and supply. Children possess vibrant energy.”
The silence stretches, and it is clear the others thought more would be coming in this spontaneous lecture, but the man has gone quiet.
“What should we do about the vigilante?” one of them finally dares.
Volkov moves his eyes to the speaker, studying him calmly for a short time, then he replies, “Capture him.”
More looks are exchanged, more indecisiveness.
“You don’t want us to kill him?”
“Not if you can help it,” Volkov answers, “and I will be disappointed if that is result.”
This carries more weight, though it is added as if an afterthought.
“I know vigilante is slippery one. He gave my predecessor much trouble, no?” Again some unsure chuckles boil up, though the boss does not even smile, and the brewing noise fails to take hold. “He was killed,” the man adds, then he raises his left hand extending the fore and little fingers, then he turns it and presses the digits against the flesh of his own neck, the gesture meant to accentuate the mentioning of Gnegon’s death. “But new head rises in place of old. We are not exactly hydra, as I am only one head to replace loss, but we will see how things may go differently. Regardless, we will show vigilante and city that we do not die so easily, mmh?”
This proves much clearer to the men, and they give hearty returns, some raising their glasses.
“Now, get out of here,” Volkov says, waving his right hand, a somewhat casual flare of his fingers, and the men rise, nodding, showing other signs of obsequiousness, as they are dismissed.
All save one. The large man hangs back, standing there, just looking at his new boss, quietly.
“It is shame to end the lives of children like that,” Volkov resumes the earlier topic, his voice gone back to that slower cadence, “There is great promise in early life, and it may be used, but now, it has been quenched in those.”
The other man just continues to stand, watching, listening, a frown on his face.
“Still, that energy manages to retain some memory of origin, and that can be useful.”
“Is this all just bait, boss?”
Volkov stops toying with the demitasse, his hand held poised.
“That is not your concern, ex-Detective Sladky,” the man speaks, “You do only as told and nothing more.”
*****
Lilja moves with a smooth grace, a practiced ease as though like water shaping rock, following currents and motions, pathways and energies, focusing and harnessing as well as giving in to that flow. She wears white gi pants and a form-fitting sport top, bare of foot, her hair in a single braid. She engages in practice with her katana.
The room is spacious, the ceilings tall. The coloring of the walls is a somewhat dark, soothing beige, the hue of the ceiling a shade lighter. One wall is covered with mirrors. The opposite side of the room displays some equipment – a rack with a pull-up bar, bench press, and the gleaming array of some free weights. A heavy punching bag also occupies a corner, a grappling dummy showing itself ready for use.
She cuts air as she strikes out, no noises coming from her throat, naught but a very grim determination on her features. Her expression may seem calm to those who do not know her well, but there is something simmering, brewing beneath that controlled exterior. The very effort being exerted to maintain the appearance belies the turmoil.
The polished sword drawn free from having been returned to its scabbard, striking in one single move, executing the iaijutsu flawlessly
She sees the bodies of the dead children, sees the grotesque, obscene flow of thick blood pouring from their head wounds, sees those lifeless lumps, the fire that once animated them gone out. If she had been quicker, faster, better, they’d still be alive.
Striking down from over her head, right foot forward, blade paused briefly at chest height only to rise and swipe out in a second cut, body turning, pivoting on that foot until perpendicular to its prior orientation
She sees the bodies of the dead women from last year, how they mounted and mounted, eventually giving way to the nightmare she witnessed in the compound’s basement. She wonders if she is capable of facing such things. Yet, she did. She did more than survive. She does more even now, but is it enough?
Blade brought in and pointing downward over bent, raised arms, sharp edge out, like a block, rising up to the balls of her feet, then leading out with the right foot, lowering the center of gravity, right arm extended behind, blade out, as the focus is forward, anticipating
She considers the last mission a disaster. She blames herself for going through with it as she did.
Not enough intel, not enough planning.
Moving again, weight on the left foot, bringing the right up off the floor, blade brought around and above the head, arms again raised, bent, poised, as she launches into the air
Way too much of relying on luck rather than anything else.
Coming down as the body twists from momentum, facing now in the opposite direction, bending the knees, force applied to a strong, downward strikeShe was fortunate the door in the corridor was not locked. Sure, the many others she had checked had not been secured, so it was a reasonable assumption, but what if she had not been able to get through that one? She was lucky she did not get shot. She was lucky the guards didn’t decide to just shoot through the wall into the bathroom.
She let the children die …
Rising up, only to swing the arms in a strong, fluid motion in another strike, then looking back and bringing up the left leg, pivoting the hip and right foot and delivering a quick kick
She killed a guard. She lost control, almost killed another …
She whirls, arms following the motive force of her body, both hands on the sword’s hilt, striking out with a strong cut, then holding that place. She spies a figure off to the side of the training room as she turns, but she knows who it is. There is no reason to fear, no reason to halt her practice. She is almost done.
She continues, her movements like a methodical dance, the pace of which is controlle
d through deliberate intensity of muscle, tendon, nerves, channeled from her knowledge and practice until it all works together in a unified expression. It is purposeful and without thought.
When done, she walks over to the place on the far side of the room where her things await, the sword in its black, lacquered saya, tucked into her belt. She’ll tend to its cleaning and return to its storage soon. For now, she takes up the large glass, gulping water, then using the small, white towel to wipe at her face.
“Very well done, Lily,” Skot says, a light smile on his lips as he walks to her.
She glances at him, giving a very shallow smile in return. “Thanks.”
His eyes narrow, brow furrowing as he looks at her. She goes back to her water, having more, lost in thought.
“What’s wrong?”
She blinks, looking up, then moves to better face him, staring. He looks into the depths of her brilliant blue eyes, noticing how dark they look. He wants to wrap her in his arms, but he doesn’t, instead returning her gaze, knowing something is bothering her, and he tries to be patient, waiting for her to respond.
“I’m okay. Sorry,” she says, her lips curling at the edges as though some evidence of her words.
She reaches, picking up the glass of water, the towel thrown over her shoulder. She begins heading away.
“Lily.”
She stops, looking back. “Yeah?”
“Something is wrong. What is it?”
“Nothing. I don’t know. Sorry,” she manages, and as she says this, her head tucks down a bit, shoulders coming up, eyes glancing cautiously at him, then away.
“Lily,” he says, his voice laden with concern, walking over to her, and now he does wrap her in his arms. “I can tell something is bothering you.”
She accepts the embrace, though she only returns it lightly. He releases her after a nice snug, looking at her with a gentle smile.
“Sorry I apologize so much about so many things. I’m not trying to irritate you. Sorry if I do.” She gives him another hesitant look.
“It’s okay,” he tries to soothe, “It doesn’t bother me at all.” He places his hand on her left arm, petting down. “What’s wrong, Lily?”
She keeps her eyes averted, the silence lengthening. He wants to speak further, wants his words and actions to be what she needs to help her feel better and open up. He knows, though, that only goes so far and could even perhaps create undue pressure or dependency, so he again waits, leaving her to her own strength and will.
She finally moves her eyes up to him, looking, and he can see the tension on her. It makes him feel anxious, but he tries not to show it.
“I’m an emotional wreck,” she finally says.
“What’s bothering you, Sweetheart?”
“I’m not good enough,” she says, and the pained look that suddenly takes her feels like a tear to his heart. “I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you and everyone.”
“Lily.” He takes her in his arms again, and to his great relief, he feels her accept it, leaning into him. “You’re an amazing, strong woman. Why do you say you’re not good enough?”
She remains against him for a short time, head lying sideways against his chest, then she also pulls back, eyes moving once again up to his. He sees a shimmering there, a growing wrinkle to her brow. He wonders if she is about to cry, and he wishes she would. It would be a release, but she does not.
“I let those children die.”
“Lily! You did not kill them. You are not responsible for their deaths. You are a brave person. Look what you did do. Look what you have done. That takes courage. Those men murdered those children. They are the cowards.”
She emits a weak nod, and he is not convinced by it.
“Sorry,” she says, her voice very quiet.
He sighs, deeply, bringing his arms up to wrap her in another tight hug. She moves her hands as best she can, returning it.
“Sorry,” she says, again, murmuring, “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”
“Oh, Lily,” he breathes, clinging tighter, “I don’t feel bad because of you.”
So much more clambers in his mind, so much more wanting to pour forth from his mouth, but he holds himself. That is his way, how he communicates, but that is not her way. He has to help her in a way she will understand. He feels her pulling back, and he relaxes his hold.
“I’m going to clean and put away my sword then take a quick shower. If that’s okay?”
He smiles pleasantly, rubbing slowly up and down her arms, nodding. “Of course, it is.”
She smiles thinly, the expression very brief, gone before she breaks contact and turns away. He watches as she leaves the chamber.
He stands there for a moment, and he wants to cry out in anger, sadness, exasperation, and even his own fear. He wants to pummel the punching bag, but he figures that would bring Lilja in here, curious, concerned. He knows that will not help, so he restrains himself. His eyes close, tightly, and he lets some heavy breaths pass through him. These slow, deepening, and he begins to feel calmer.
He is trying not to let his own worries get the better of him, but for all his demeanor, for all his responsibility, he struggles with worry and anxiety quite often. He is worried about the message sent to him from the Infernal. Is there really such a thing as they claim? Is that the reason for his father’s curious illness? Is he infected? Is someone else?
He greatly admires his father for how he endured through that. He doubts he’d be so stalwart. He sometimes wonders how it is even possible to live up to that legacy, that example. How can he do his father and family proud?
He wonders if he has sent David off to his death. He knows they are in the midst of a war, and there have been casualties, and there will be more, but it does not mitigate the feelings. If anything, since the more powerful creature appeared and the discovery of Charles’ body, Skothiam’s confidence has been shaken. Sometimes he makes the mistake of letting himself think they are doing so well they are invulnerable, untouchable. That is foolish. It is not something he carries like some bravado, but after enough time with no serious repercussions, it does creep into him with a sense of unwarranted security.
He worries also of her. Not only the situation she has faced and just opened up to him, but he feels some concern for her in general. He is somewhat used to risk, and so is she, and he hopes this does not make them complacent. He frets over her possibly suffering injury in her outings as the vigilante as well as the even greater danger to which he now exposes her. He knows that will not stop. She is who she is, and he holds great admiration and respect for that, but he feels the walls cracking.
That is what they want. He knows that, and he has to be strong. Just like she has to be strong. But there must be a relief to that mounting pressure. They must support and help each other.
He finally breaks from his reverie, moving from the room. He hears the sounds of the shower. He knows she is in there. He ponders going to her, but he falters. And just as this happens, he questions it. He does not like this feeling of insecurity. They both must possess a certain fortitude.
Still, he wonders, what should he do? What should he do?
*****
Just as David promised, their trek has taken them off the beaten path. A camp has been pitched here in the forest, a large clearing occupied near to the rising slope of a gentle mountain. Others have also joined them. Several tents dot the area, surrounding a central fire pit that has been further cleared and encircled with rocks.
Once the trail had been picked up outside of its point of origin, these others had gathered. Duilio had been surprised by the arrival of a couple of members of the Malkuth family. Though just as with David’s contacting him at his motel, the inspector figures these sorts of things ought not be unexpected. Three Felcrafts had also convened on the area, and now the entire group of seven works more overtly in tandem.
David had explained to Duilio that the others were ‘lesser’ members of their respective families
. Like the Felcrafts, the Malkuths have a Head of the House, so to speak, and the more powerful of the network are closer either in relation, ability, or both, to the Head.
“How is the Head determined?” he asks as they recline in two reasonably comfortable plastic and canvas chairs near the fire, relaxing now that the camp has been pitched, supper consumed.
The two of them sit somewhat isolated, the others self-segregating by family, engaging a somewhat begrudging civility. Some did not bother with this at all, going off to wander, check the perimeter, other defenses and sensors, gather fire wood, or any number of other ‘chores’ that might be done.
“Depends on which Family,” David answers, taking a sip from a metal mug of campfire coffee.
Duilio senses tension, and he wonders if it is due to the people here being rivals or a potential proximity of their quarry.
“Yours?”
“It’s a bit complicated, but you could think of it sort of like a practical form of democracy, or maybe more like a republic, because not everyone gets a say, but basically there are many factors that go into it, and I assure you it’s not just how good a Hunter you are.” David sort of pulls up and in on one side of his mouth, nodding slowly, and Duilio wonders what underlying commentary this implies. “But we balance out the requirements, and then we know the candidates. Then, we have a kind of council that votes, if it needs to.”
“If it needs to?”
“Yeah, it usually doesn’t, or the vote is usually unanimous.”
“More like a formality,” the other suggests.
“Yeah, like that, since, generally, we all know who it ought to be.”
“There is never any doubt? Never any … competition?” He perks his eyebrows.
David throws on a more obvious smirk, glancing sidelong at his partner in conversation.
“Good-natured. Discussion, more, really.” David takes further sips from his mug, swallowing, parting his lips and pressing his teeth together. “Call us pragmatists. We know what we want, and we’re usually able to evaluate and make a good case as to who’ll best lead us in that direction. We’re not always right, and it may not always be smooth as glass, but it works out.”
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