“Get on the floor! Lie face down, hands-,” Billy says, and his voice is cut off as he crumbles.
The other guard looks over in time to see his colleague fall, and he barely makes out the darkly-garbed figure clinging to Billy’s back, arms about his neck. His eyes widen, but despite this, he blindly fires the spray. Lilja moves quicker and with much more focus, quickly subduing him. Soon enough, both men are unconscious, wrists and ankles zip-tied.
“Sorry, Billy,” she whispers, then looks at Skot as he comes up beside her, “What’s happening?”
Before he may answer, a figure comes through the doors, appearing to float, carried upon those preternatural winds. She is ethereal-seeming, her clothing flowing like drapery on the forceful air. Her long hair also flips about, though it appears unnatural, not as chaotic as one might expect, more waving about her as might the serpentine hair of a gorgon. She is aglow with power, and as though she were the nexus, the heart, the intensity of the magick rises. The remaining demons are drawn in and ripped apart.
The storm then calms, the wolves sniffing and looking about for remnants of the enemy, finding none. The woman now stands on the ground, as calm and controlled as might be someone at a garden party, not a hair out of place. She sets her eyes on them.
“Nicole,” Skot says, voice flat as he rapidly steps to her “Why are you here?”
“You needed my help.”
Skot tenses, moving his face to the side, as though beginning to shake his head and stopping it just as it begins.
“Thank you,” he manages, “but I had hoped to keep this inconspicuous.”
“I shared that hope,” Nicole intones, “but the situation has worsened.” She sets her eyes on a particular point in the shadows, drilling the spot with her vision.
Anika walks forth from that place, looking slightly sheepish. Lilja notes this, realizing the Malkuth woman is more afraid of Nicole than anyone else. Nicole studies her for a short time, but she says nothing.
“How has it worsened?” Skot finally presses.
His sister turns her eyes to him, still maintaining her poise.
“The skin wearer is here.”
“What?” Skot blinks, and though they had somewhat anticipated it, there had been hope that it would not happen.
“Where?” Lilja interjects, stepping nearer to the powerful woman.
A tense moment passes as Nicole appears to inwardly focus, then she finally speaks, “At the Book.”
Lilja turns immediately, rushing away and toward the stairwell. Skot prepares to follow.
“Skothiam?”
He turns back to the beckon of his sister, eyes on her.
“There are more on the upper floors. A threat to the humans.”
He gives a single nod, anxious to help his love and to deal with this situation.
“I have also discerned the source from which they are launching this attack.”
He gives another nod, “A gateway? Is it near?”
“It is close, yes,” she replies, her voice smooth, a slow pace that is almost infuriating for those wanting to be off, but it manages to leech some of that tension. “I shall tend to it.”
He gives another nod, and then his sister is away, again appearing to glide on ethereal winds, if not more composed of them than physical form. He readies once more to follow Lilja, but he spares a glance to the Malkuth.
“She’s not going to help us?” Anika asks, and he might think this some subtle way to find out if Nicole is no longer an obstacle, but it feels different.
“She is. By closing the gateway.”
“She didn’t say it was a gateway.”
“I know that.”
He wishes to know why she is here, why she is suddenly acting this way, but he also knows Lilja is off, alone, to hurl herself headlong into the face of a very serious threat. He moves out, hearing the sound of Anika’s footsteps as she follows. They pause at the stairs.
“I ..,” she begins, sounding uncharacteristically unsure of herself, “I’ll go upstairs, deal with those there.”
“Alone?”
She nods.
“With no more than a conventional weapon?”
“This is not my only weapon,” she says, and it does not sound like the typical Malkuth boast.
He desperately wants to get to the Rare Book Collections room, but he is not comfortable with this, either.
“That … Demon,” Anika continues, eyes shifting to the downward sloping stairs then back to Skot, “The skin wearer. It’s very strong, very dangerous. You weren’t there. It almost killed me, and I never even saw it coming.”
He realizes now. She is afraid, and she had probably hoped Nicole would be dealing with the powerful monster. He also realizes that Lilja is down there with it, alone.
“Get upstairs,” he says, all but giving her an order, then he heads down as quickly as he is able.
Lilja had sprung into action immediately upon hearing the words uttered by Nicole, no thoughts given as to whether anyone might be following. Perhaps such is reckless, perhaps she ought to value her own life more than the security of the Book. She is not even fully aware of what knowledge or power is held in that old tome, but she feels the enormity, the deep responsibility of keeping it out of Infernal hands. She is also the Guardian, and she will not permit this theft.
She had somewhat cleaned and re-sheathed her katana after slaying the lesser demons. She knows she is not armed with the special ammunition she needs, but she grips the assault rifle readily, moving on silent, quick feet to the door to the Rare Collections room.
It is open.
She crouches, listening. She hears noises within, and were it not for the late hour and situation, she might find the unobtrusive sounds to be nothing alarming. She moves her masked head just enough to peer with one eye. She sees nothing, for not only is the room shrouded in darkness, but the area where the most valuable books are kept is further within and obscured by shelves.
She creeps in, going silent on her jika-tabi. She is not sure exactly what to expect, knowing only what she has been told of this very powerful Demon. She holds her G36C close and at the ready, pointing the barrel as if a herald that leads the way. She finally comes to the point where she will arrive unto the place of the Book. It seems almost holy now, a shrine, a sacristy. She remembers when she stood in almost this exact place, a very similar situation, readying to face the strange half-breed and former student, Pothos Wilbraham. She feels much more forewarned and forearmed this time.
Peering about shows another large, human-looking shape, obviously working at the defenses and trying to get at the Book. The misshapen half-breed had been inelegant, awkward, but this one is all muscle and surety. She notes the telltale signs of some of the supernatural measures having been triggered, leaving a scant detritus in the area that would be missed by most. Where these deterrents hindered the ex-student, this intruder appears none the worse for having breached them.
She also notices a rising glow. The person is big, and she corrects herself, for this is no “person”. Its expansive, well-muscled back is to her, so she figures it is busy with its hands at the shield over the prize. Some magick is being used to break through and get to the tome. She knows there is more than just this, and other quite lethal traps are in place. Still, she doubts, not wanting to just leave this one to such. This one seems to either be immune or has bypassed them altogether.
She steps about, carefully aiming the weapon. “Stop what you are doing,” she issues in her commanding tone of voice, “Put your hands on your head.”
The intruder complies with the first, giving an immediate cessation of signs of movement. The glow, which had been steadily increasing in brightness, also tapers off, though it does not disappear entirely. Instead of placing hands on the head, the creature turns, fully facing Lilja.
It looks human, though something in the eyes hints otherwise. The short hair is dark, angled chaotically, the brow heavy. The chin is lowered as it shifts its ga
ze down to the petite one issuing orders, such is the height it possesses. Those cracked lips spread into a large grin.
“Ahhhh, the Guardian,” it utters, voice rising from the very bowels, grating and deep, “So, our trap failed.”
“Put your hands on your head.” Lilja persists, her index finger moving closer to the rifle’s trigger.
“This is fortunate. Some of the traps you have here have also failed, but this last safety is proving bothersome, but I am sure you know how to get to the Book.” So said, it raises its hands, though instead of placing them on the head, the thick fingers curl and tense, and that emanation of light sparks back into greater luminosity.
The Dark Claw of Botis, she ponders, remembering the name given to the spell the half-breed used on her. She had been told such magicks were generally quite deadly, and she was fortunate to have resisted. She was also told this skin wearer is possessed of great strength and power, and she wonders if the magick preparing to be unleashed might supersede that she once faced.
Realizing she is quite out of her depth, she pulls the trigger, squeezing it many times, unleashing multiple three-round bursts. Some of her shots hit, but she is not sure which is more unbelievable, that her adversary moves so quickly, so suddenly, that he appears to be able to dodge some of the shots, or that the ones that do hit hardly affect him. Before she realizes it, the distance has been closed, and with a powerful swipe of an arm, her rifle is ripped free from her hands, the strap snapping as the weapon flies away from her torso, clattering onto the ground some distance away.
She lunges back, instincts kicking in, honed by countless hours of practice. The Demon sets its eyes on her, the ‘disguise’, if the form is still meant to be such, giving up more as those orbs take on a sheen of scarlet luminescence. The face remains as stone, save for this change, eyes of a predator on its prey. Lilja shifts her feet, improving her stance in these scant moments the beast has seen fit to give. She watches it as closely as it watches her. Her body has shifted to present less of a face, less of a target, her left hand held forward, ready for blocking, as her right inches back to the hilt of her sword.
It moves again with that sudden speed, but this time, she is better prepared for it. She springs backwards from the attack of its clawed fingers, unsheathing the katana in the same motion, striking out. She feels the blade hit flesh, and when she comes to rest again, eyes still on her opponent, a dark fluid oozes down the blade.
The Demon stands back, glancing down at its forearm, noting the deep cut across the dense muscles. Lilja might have expected this strike to completely shear the limb of a normal opponent, but this has only resulted in a rather nasty looking slice.
“It stings … a bit,” the thing utters, more commentary than any true bother.
She wonders why it is spending any time at all on words, hoping that the moments it wastes will result in an opening she may exploit. Help may also arrive, but she does not want to count on that. Just as she ponders these things, it attacks again.
Its speed is phenomenal, and not only that, but it evinces little concern for itself in the method of its attack, plunging headlong. She shifts to the side, the movement elegant, like that of a dancer, and she swings, the arc of the attack moving upwards. She is surprised, though, when it manages its own effortless dodge, and the blade swipes through air. It turns about, angling a clawed hand at her exposed torso, and she presses on her back foot, pivoting, pushing back and away from the counter.
It carries the offensive, swiping and grabbing at her. She recalls it asking for her to give access to the Book, and she wonders if it is trying to capture her. Its massive attacks seem full of lethal promise. She had held some small hope that it wanted her alive and thus might have to hold back in its force, but if this is holding back, she wonders what, indeed, a full hit might entail.
She is not sure if she now knows, but when its punch hits her in the chest, it hurts. She flies back, colliding with the nearby bookshelf, almost falling to the ground as she feels her breath knocked away and the pain of the strike taking her. She wonders if she has suffered a fracture, though the main force has been in the region of the breastbone. She clutches her chest with one hand, gasping for breath, still maintaining some hold on her sword, angling it out toward her foe.
It moves its fingers a bit, as if they were tentacles feeling the air for some sign of weakness, then they again set into the fierce shape of those claws. It bends its knees, preparing for another attack.
“Demon!”
Two sets of eyes look over for the source of that commanding shout. Skot stands just inside the doorway, his cane held in one hand, his drawn pistol in the other. Once he sees he has the beast’s attention, he squeezes the trigger, firing multiple shots, each alighting the air with that particular amber hue tracing the trajectory. Some of the shots hit, but the creature uses that same incredible speed to retreat, going into hiding in the darker places of the chamber. Skot keeps his pistol aimed as he rushes over to Lilja.
“Don’t worry about me,” she says, and though he, of course, does, the tone and manner of her voice lets him know she is reasonably okay. “We have to stop that thing.”
He nods once then rises fully to his feet, Lilja doing the same. The two know the creature is there. They can hear it breathing.
“Aaaahhh.” The voice curdles up from the darkness. “The Head of House Felcraft. Did you like the present we left you?”
The tone of its voice holds obvious taunting. Skot and Lilja give each other a glance then spread out, making careful approach toward the hiding place. They both know that this particular Demon is very powerful, possessed of physical as well as magickal strength, and with it hidden in shadow, they must be wary. It may seem the two Hunters have it cornered, but this may not necessarily be a position of weakness for the monster.
Skot knows the thing is referring to his cousin Charles, whom it slaughtered, as well as the condition in which they left the body. He tries to block such thoughts from his mind as he and Lilja continue their careful approach.
“I see you both,” it reveals, “and I invite you both into the darkness with me.”
They continue moving, and Lilja fans out, trying to make an angled approach even within the limited space of the room. She hopes to flank the thing, or at least widen the coupled angle of their potential attacks.
“You are both strong. I can smell it. The other was a morsel,” it says, referring to Charles, “but your father …”
Skot’s step hesitates. Lilja shoots her eyes over, looking at the man she loves, hoping he doesn’t lose his focus to this.
“Yessss,” the Demon hisses, “Your father was giving us too much trouble. He was too strong, such fortitude, but we got him in the end.”
Don’t listen, she wills, continuing to move, hoping to get to the thing first now, hoping her presence will distract it, keep it away from Skot. She dares to shift her eyes to him, and she sees that he is still approaching, being careful, slow, gun held at the ready. He looks unfazed now, but she can sense a tension. She knows he is a stalwart man, much like his father, but no one is full proof. A crack may lead to a crumble.
She wishes she had her rifle, but she remembers how ineffective that proved. Skot’s weapon at least holds the specially-crafted rounds. She readjusts her grip on the katana, and she feels a rising anxiousness pushing her to get to the Demon first. She knows that is not good. This should not be rushed. She also knows she has that power inside her. She just needs to again tap it.
“We exploited his weakness. The same you all share.”
She uses its voice as a target, but she can tell the thing is also moving. She knows it is toying with them both, for there are moments of silence, then when it speaks, she can tell it has moved. It is capable of remaining completely quiet, so it does this to upset them. She also worries of that enshrouding darkness, for it looks too dark, perhaps even that it may be growing.
“You so highly praise your pathetic ‘hunter genes’, b
ut your very humanity, those genes, that is your taint, your stain, your weakness.”
She glances over again, and she can no longer see Skot. She freezes, panic threatening to take her. She resists it, easily, but she knows it is there, simmering deep within. She wonders that she can no longer spy him, and she thinks the darkness is doing it, blocking her view. She also notices a tiny movement in that same area of shadow, and she prepares to lunge.
“We got to him,” it grates, “It took many years, but the pain and suffering … ah, it was so exquisite, so worth it. We let death waste him before he even died, and we’ll do it again-.”
Shots ring out, coming rapidly. She looks over, the illumination allowing her to see Skot, and he is not that far. They have both managed to indeed come up on varying sides of the unnatural blackness cultivated by the Demon, her angle more than perpendicular to his. The special bullets fly into that area, the firing flame from each shot causing quick flashes of brightness. She sees the thing, and it looks more bestial, its dark skin more ashen, the etching lines of its muscles more defined, and a hideous grin has its lips, showing teeth bared in enjoyment.
She springs toward it, blade ready. In that same instant, another illumination flares, a dark fire of purples and blues, and the Demon unleashes a wild magick. It erupts, and she feels its force, though it proves mainly aimed at Skot. It hits him quite squarely, and he goes flying, his pistol and cane dislodged from their hold.
The power sends her back, though not as terribly as Skot. The Demon propels itself, going toward her man. She cannot tell how he fares, but she knows that he is now without physical weapons. She knows also that he possesses other abilities, but she is not sure if he even now possesses consciousness … or life.
“Skot!” she cries, hoping to get the beast’s attention as well as some arousal of response from him.
A sudden thought hits her, and she runs, clambering, moving with speed of which she did not know she possessed. The Demon is going to kill the man she loves. It seems to no longer care of the Book or her, but it wishes to destroy one of its chief adversaries. She feels that rush of concern filling her, and it gives her preternatural speed and focus.
Sword of the Butterfly Page 40