Butterfly Catchers – Part XI

Will winced as he dropped Pedrolino. ‘Bloody hell, I think one of those swine broke my ribs.’

Pedrolino scuttled away on hands and knees, cringing up against the kitchen dresser, pressing his face to its dark wood.

‘You need to gain height on an Impresario, then they are simple enough to deal with. And as I recall you were told to keep your distance.’ Angelus couldn’t take his eyes off his prey. Pedrolino was white – white as a woman. White as a vampire. Streaked with dirt and bruises and tears trickling over them in a silvery sheen.

‘He attacked me! It was kill or be killed. Sodding pigs!’ Will lashed out with his foot, kicking Pedrolino with a dull, wet sound. Angelus felt something quaver deep inside his chest. And Pedrolino screamed, sobbing over his belly, his head dangling down like a broken puppet, shaking.

‘William!’

‘What? Bastards hurt me, I’m hurting one of them.’

Angelus’s throat felt dry, his palms were slippery. ‘That is no excuse for anger. Come here.’

Pedrolino had put his head in his hands, was shuffling on his knees the few inches that there were, into the corner between the dresser and the stone bulk of the sink, clutching at the iron of the pump handle.

‘We are not human,’ Angelus said as Will scuffed over, scowling. ‘We do not give in to anger with our prey, ever. Do you understand?’

‘Yes sir,’ Will chanted. ‘We are finding the art in pain, the beauty in their suffering, one should never be angry with art.’

Pedrolino whimpered.

‘Will, listen to me – any human can torture another. They do it all the time. There is nothing we can do to them that they don’t do to one another sooner of later. But we are above that. We are special because we seek for something greater. Art for its own sake, the beauty of creation, the love behind the pain.’

Pedrolino was dressed in a suit of crushed green velvet, with a large lace collar and cuffs. The dress of an aesthete, an artist, a musician. Huddled in the corner he looked like nothing so much as a weeping child.

Angelus set a gentle hand to Will’s cheek. ‘Do you not want to be part of that art?’

‘Yes sir. You’re always explaining this. My side hurts.’

‘Show me.’

Will yanked his shirt up and they both stood and looked at the purple-black bruise. Angelus reached out and traced it, feeling Will wince under him, the tiny, barely allowed hiss of pain, the flinch of cold, soft flesh. So very alive.

‘It’s not broken, just bruised. Stop complaining.’

Will turned away to thrust his shirt back into place, his hair flopping across his eyes, keeping his expression hidden.

Angelus walked over to Pedrolino, making his footsteps loud on the stone flags, confident, without pause. There was a steady rhythmic plop of water from the pump as it dripped, and the gasping, irregular sobs from Pedrolino. Angelus forced himself to sound calm.

‘Now, evirato, are you paying attention? Sei sveglio?’

‘Sissignore.’ It sounded like a hiss, a sigh of pure fear.

‘Bene.’ Angelus squatted down over him comfortably.

‘Vi prego, Signor Angelus, Vi supplico…’

‘Hush, hush,’ Angelus held a finger to Pedrolino’s lips. ‘In English. My boy here speaks no Italian.’

‘Please, Signor Angelus, I beg of you.’

Angelus patted his cheek. ‘I’m sure you do. Now, we’d better do the paperwork first. Can you write?’

Pedrolino’s wide blue eyes went even wider than before, but he nodded, a little bobbing quiver of his head. ‘Sissignore.’

‘Splendid. William, a sheet of headed notepaper, if you please. And pen and ink. I have left some on the table. Here, evirato, let me help you.’ Angelus reached out and one finger at a time removed Pedrolino’s hand from where it clutched at the thin iron pipe of the pump. Then he stood back and crooked his finger for Pedrolino to come to him.

Inch by inch, Pedrolino shuffled forward on his bottom, out of his corner, edging round the side of the dresser, his back pressed against it, eyes staring wide and white up at Angelus.

Angelus smiled.

Will coughed politely and proffered the writing materials.

‘Thank you, William. You’ll have to hold the ink for him. Now, evirato, to my dictation.’

Pedrolino stared for one terrified moment at Will, who had slid into demon face. Angelus paused, wondering whether to criticise this unauthorised action, then shrugged. It could do little harm.

‘“Beloved Master.” Is that how you would address Harmonia, evirato? No matter. Dip your pen and begin. No time to waste. “Beloved Master, I bring you a message from the noble and powerful Angelus of Aurelius, the Scourge of Europe, Master of the Order in England, favoured of the High Master, most feared…” Well there’s more but one mustn’t show off. So. “The great Angelus returns me to you…”’

Pedrolino looked up, a breathtaking blossoming of hope in his eyes.

‘Don’t stop. “Returns me to you as a token of what good will exists between his clan and yours. Know that if you presume to remain within his domain, your remaining minions shall be destroyed. If you make any attempts upon any of the game within his lawfully held reserves, then that prey shall be taken from you, and dealt with as I have been. If you do not fear Angelus and the power of the Aurelians, then learn to now. A copy of Bradshaw is enclosed for your convenience.” Well don’t gape at me, evirato – sign your name. Will, hit him, please, once in the throat.’

Angelus clenched his fists whilst Will punched. Felt the waves of tension building up inside his sinews. It was as if cold prickles danced across his spine and through his scalp. Making him shiver. Making him alive. Under his skin he could feel his brow muscles twitch, his fangs strain to drop.

When the coughing and retching had subsided, Angelus fixed his gaze, cold, dead, on Pedrolino’s mouth. ‘Sign it.’

Will took the paper and passed it up for Angelus to glance over.

‘You don’t have very neat handwriting. Well it will have to serve; I don’t have all night. What’s the matter, Will?’

‘“Dealt with”, sir?’ And Angelus simply couldn’t tell if it was an honest question or if Will was beginning to show a little talent for the game.

‘Oh yes, thank you for reminding me.’ Angelus drew his knife. ‘Stand up, evirato. Help him, Will. Now pin his arms behind his back. Good boy. Now see if you can hold them with one hand and with the other tip his head back. Very good. Hush, evirato, you mustn’t make a sound. Don’t you remember? Evivva Il Coltello!’

Pedrolino struggled, frantic flailing of his podgy limbs, so that Angelus wondered if he would have to tie him down, or worse, knock him out. It would be such a shame. But Will’s grip was firm, although Angelus saw him swallow nervously.

Angelus gripped Pedrolino’s jaw, letting his eyes gleam golden at last. He breathed deeply, the pounding scent of fear singing into his blood.

‘Don’t you dare look away, William. I will expect you to know how to do this in future, and I will be asking questions.’ He opened Pedrolino’s jaw. ‘You however, Signor Pedrolino…’ the tongue felt wet and warm in his hand, a jerking, flinching rod, the knife slid through flesh and muscle like slicing a ripe peach, ‘…won’t be.’

Blood sprayed out as Pedrolino jerked his head back, Will’s fingers flying away, terrible, bubbling sounds rising in a froth as Pedrolino thrashed from side to side. Gagging, clutching at his throat.

‘Oh God,’ Angelus said.

He felt a shudder surge right through him. It was like being caught up in a wave – thrashed and pounded and driven against the shore, the pebbles sucking down all around him, and then caught up and hurled clear again. Again and again and again. Helpless to resist.

He stood back. ‘There,’ he held the severed tongue out. ‘That can go in the envelope, Will. Will! Well take it. You’d better wrap it in a handkerchief or something or the letter won’t be readable.’ Angelus cast the gobbet of quivering flesh on the table. ‘Don’t be so damn feeble, boy. I thought I’d beaten that nonsense out of you.’

Will shook himself, like a dog casting off water, and took a quick step towards the table. ‘I’m not being feeble. It just startled me, that’s all. I didn’t know you were going to do that.’

Angelus grunted, cleaning off his knife, forcing his shaking hands to still.

‘Is he going to bleed to death?’ Will asked, staring down at Pedrolino as he flapped, hands held across his mouth, the strange, bubbling, ill formed wail still emerging from his chest.

Angelus shrugged. ‘Maybe. We’d better get him back to them quickly. He might live if they can get him to a doctor in time.’

Will looked up, bewildered. ‘Why do you want him to live?’

‘Sometimes, the greatest art is to let them live. Don’t you understand that?’

‘Yes sir,’ Will said, but Angelus could see the frown in his eyes. Angelus sighed and turned away, shaking his head.