Behind the lattice work of coalescing limbs, he could see a line of sprouts erupting from the ground. They, too, grew heads and limbs, bristling with armor, and they began to march The ringing of the phone mercifully cut the nightmare procession off. Hellboy fumbled for the receiver and dragged it to his pillow.
"Yeah?"
He could hear Abe stirring in the bed across from him.
"Call to Search Team One from the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense in Fairfield
"
"Yeah, yeah, put them on," Hellboy stammered impatiently.
Elizabeth Shermans voice changed his mood. "HB, you all right?"
"Since it's you, Liz, I'm fine. Why the wake-up call?"
"Kate couldn't reach you earlier, contacted us with some new information on an old university not far from you, the Faculté de Médecine. Could you meet her there tomorrow?"
Hellboy fumbled for the pen and reached for the light. Abe groaned as he turned it on and buried his head in the sheets. Tough having no eyelids at this time of morning. Hellboy scrawled down the specs, underlining the time and street address.
"Right, the Latin Quarter. Got it. Thanks, baby."
"HB, you all right? Manning wants to know if you need any assistance
"
"Just more bad dreams, Liz. Still nothing physical. It'll be over soon." He dropped his voice as he clicked off the light and leaned back against his pillow and the shattered headboard.
"This isn't Cavendish Hall. In. Out. No one gets hurt, right?"
At the mention of Cavendish Hall, Abe pulled the sheets down and turned to look at Hellboy.
Abe kept his gaze fixed on his partner long after the call had concluded, and the steady heaving of his rusty barrel chest had slowed into the even rise and fall of slumber.
Francine waited until she saw Guy shuffle down the stairs at the Metro Richard'lenoir. He was on his way back to the Faculté; she had time, finally, to visit the appartement one more time and get her things out of there.
Sobbing, she timidly used her key, climbed the stairs, and entered what had been until a week ago her their
home.
The stench was terrible. It was the same odor that had clung to him that night that Thomas had died, magnified one hundredfold. She choked and rushed to the cistern to wet her handkerchief. She held the damp cloth to her nose, taking shallow breaths.
She went to the closets, pulling out her travel bags. When she turned to the armoire, her heart sank to see her clothes and belongings already out of the drawers, rudely piled atop it.
Did he want her gone so badly?
The tears were streaming down her cheeks as she took the wet handkerchief away from her nostrils. The stink was overwhelming, but this was worse. Sobs racked her body as she struggled to refold her clothing. As she did so, she realized all of Guy's clothing was scattered here, too, and more of it was strewn on the floor and crammed behind the armoire.
Regaining her composure, she gingerly slid what was hers into the travel bags, pausing to slide open the top drawer and check if she had everything. She gasped and drew back.
The drawer was filled with leaves, precisely arranged and stacked like banknotes.
Shivering, she closed her bags and rushed out into the darkness.
Guy furtively glanced down the hall. What was the Faculté Directeur doing here this time of morning? It was barely three o'clock.
Catching sight of Guy, the Directeur waved. Guy nervously waved back, and turned to return to the archives.
He had to reach the bibliothèque. He had to get the head his head
out of here.
As he continued down the hall, adjusting the empty backpack he'd brought to take the head home, he heard the Directeur's voice. Turning, terrified the old man was following him and wanted to engage in some small talk, Guy was further alarmed when he heard other voices.
Sweating, he stole his way back to the end of the corridor.
The Directeur's voice was raised now, boisterous: his public voice, representative of the institution. A woman responded, followed by a deep, guttural growl, like that of a mastiff, and a soft, barely audible gurgling voice.
Guy quietly lay flat on the floor, and slowly, ever so slowly stole a glance around the corner.
There were three figures standing with the Directeur, who seemed somewhat intimidated while checking identification papers the woman had in her hand. No wonder he was intimidated: the two men with her were strange. The one looked normal enough, but wore a hat, sunglasses, a scarf, and gloves, baring not a fraction of his skin.
The other wore a trench coat, but that was his least impressive aspect. He was gigantic, fiery red, like some sort of demon. He dwarfed the Directeur completely.
As Guy stole a final look, he could have sworn the red man had hooves.
They didn't see him, not even when he scraped himself away from the corner and stood on shaky legs, his hands at his face.
They were here for the head, he knew it. They were here for his treasure, with an entourage of demons to spirit it away.
As the Directeur's voice raised anew and their collective footsteps reverberated through the hall, nearing the labs, Guy darted away. He could hear the distinctive tap of the Directeur's cane as he walked, and something else:
Hooves.
He had to get to the bibliothèque. He had to rescue his savior, and be off, but they were between him and the library. He wasn't thinking straight; all he could think of was getting to the archival lab before they did.
He would think of something there.
"What's in the backpack, Guy?" the Directeur inquired. He gently prodded the pack with his cane.
"I brought some books. To read. Later," Guy stammered. The Directeur seemed satisfied and left the pack alone, resting there by the door.
"We like to hire readers," the Directeur explained. "Even our janitors are educated men, you see?"
The woman had been eyeing Guy ever since she'd set foot in the room. Guy busied himself with sorting the files, arranging the stacks from the middle sections of shelves, but he couldn't stop sweating.
The red giant eyed the shelves opposite Guy, while the man in the hat, scarf, glasses, and gloves simply stood in the doorway.
"And you say all you've found so far seems in order?" the Directeur asked. "Nothing unusual?"
"Well, the shark embryos gave me a start the first night," Guy chuckled. And sweated.
He furtively glanced over his shoulder at the woman, who stood her ground and held her implacable glare.
The Directeur seemed satisfied, but the woman touched the old man's sleeve.
"May I?" she asked, still pinning Guy with her gaze.
Ever affable, the Directeur said, "But, of course."
Guy looked away. Sweating. He could feel her staring as she moved behind him and took a position between himself and the far door, where the muffled man still stood.
"Guy, I'm Dr. Kate Corrigan
"
"Doctor of?" he stammered, afraid to face her, still stooping over the files he uselessly shuffled. The Directeur's cane tapped Guy's elbow.
"Guy, you are to fully cooperate. We have nothing to hide, have we?"
"Guy," she continued, her voice flat and dark as slate, "we are investigating some archival materials we have reason to believe found their way here over fifty years ago."
Guy finally turned and glanced at her legs. He was sweating, sweating still. The demon turned its attention from the odd collection on the shelves to him, now. The muffled man was facing him. The Directeur looked stern, his brow furrowed over his wire rim glasses.
"What is it, then, can you tell me?" Guy shakily asked, gathering the nerve to look her in the eye. "Can't you tell me what it is?"
The demon spoke, his bass voice causing Guy to flinch.
"We're not sure. It was a head, but made of stone or metal, and
"
"In pieces, it was in pieces, oui?" Guy stammered, steppi
ng over to the shelves behind him, the shelves that led to the doorway where the muffled man stood. The muffled man was stepping into the room now. Guy had their rapt interest, all eyes were on him.
"You know of such a thing, Guy?" the Directeur whispered. "Why didn't you bring it to someone's attention?"
He stumbled over to the shelves, running his hand along the upper ridge of the highest shelf he could reach.
The shelves by the door weren't attached to the wall, they were free standing; if he could reach them Kate stepped between Guy and the doorway as the muffled man moved in closer. Guy stole a glance at the red giant, who seemed less interested in Guy than what might be up on the shelves Guy seemed to be motioning to.
"I
I thought it was a puzzle, just a puzzle," Guy blurted out, finally gaining hold of the edge of the free-standing shelves. "I thought it was just a teaching tool, or a puzzle."
"Where did you put it," the woman named Corrigan said without inflection.
"Here, up here, right up here by these
"
For a moment, all eyes moved to the shelf above Guy.
Stealing his chance, he pulled with all his might on the free-standing shelving unit, and suddenly the woman, the muffled man, and the Directeur were lost in a shower of paper and cardboard and jars and fetuses and glass.
As the heavy shelving toppled onto them, Guy leapt over the racks. The red demon took a swipe at Guy, but he was clear of the monster's reach with the shelving taking up almost half the floor space now. Guy snatched up his empty backpack and darted out of the archives and down the corridor.
Hellboy rushed to lift the shelving unit off the trio. Free of its decades-old burdens, the shelving was light and lifted easily, but the contents had buried all but Kate's head and Abe's legs. Kate was coughing, but Abe was making a horrible sound.
"Katie! Abe
are you all right?"
"The Directeur," Kate managed to sputter, "help the Directeur
"
Abe was in trouble. All around him was broken glass, some of it jutting from oversized jar lids. A tangle of fins and fur and tentacles lay over his coat and head, and the one gloved hand Hellboy could see was twitching in agony. The smell of formaldehyde was pungent and ever-present.
"Jeez, Abe," Hellboy muttered as he lifted his friend up from the debris with one arm, and spun the other to unwrap the scarf from his throat. The formaldehyde had saturated the scarf, Abe's clothes, and his gills were making a wrenching sucking sound.
"Christ, help the Directeur," Kate shouted, pulling herself free of the wreckage.
"We're losing Abe," Hellboy insisted, prompting Kate to take her first look at their partner since they'd entered the Faculté. Hellboy had succeeded in getting the wraps and headgear off Abe's head and neck, but he was clearly in trouble.
Kate rushed to Hellboy's side. "There were some bathroom showers down the corridor," she recalled, "I'll get him to them. Help the Directeur, find out where that miserable little bastard lives."
With an exchange of looks and Abe's trembling self, Kate and Hellboy switched places. By the time Kate had managed to hustle Abe out of the room, Hellboy had uncovered the Directeur. Shards of broken glass pierced the old man's face and there was blood everywhere, but the cuts seemed superficial. The state of shock the old man was in, however, was deepening.
Hellboy didn't try to lift the old man. He swept the debris laying on and around him aside, clearing a space for the Directeur. Hellboy took off his trench coat and draped it over the old man. It looked huge over the frail
fellow, covering him completely like a blanket.
"Try not to move, Directeur," Hellboy whispered. "We'll have a doctor here in no time."
"Guy
" the old man whispered back.
"I'm after him. Do you know where he lives?"
The Directeur swallowed once, twice, then raised his voice.
"He takes the Metro
to Boulevard Richard'lenoir
a second floor appartement
the number
"
Guy cradled the head in his lap. Thankfully, no one else was on the Metro this morning, so he could pull the edge of his backpack down and look at it now and again. Even when it was covered, it spoke to him, soothed him, comforted him.
It whispered fortune and infamy, purges and pyres, and chuckled at the threat of women and demons. They were nothing to fret over, it assured him.
It offered more predictions, and told Guy of the armies they would sire together. But first, it was hungry.
He made his way to the door, which was partially open. He could see the backpack, empty on the rug, and heard something crooning inside. Hellboy eased to the door of the appartement, hoping to get a look at whatever was inside. There was a light on, and Guy sat in an odd position in the middle of the bed at the far side of the room. He was still sweating like a pig and moaning softly, and seemed to be cradling something in his lap.
The fellow remained oblivious to Hellboy's presence as he stole further over the threshold to gain a better vantage point. Now he could make out the bandages across Guy's chest, blood-stained in the front; some of the stains were fresh, shiny wet amid broader expanses of dried rusty hues.
Guy was rocking gently and groaning like an idiot, one arm bent back and braced against the bed to support him, the other cupping something that looked like a pink-tinged bowling ball at his crotch. Coiled around his legs were more bandages, stained with blood.
"Guy?" Hellboy whispered.
The spell was broken. The emaciated young fellow cocked his head in Hellboy's direction, his eyes narrowing in fear and rage.
"Get owwwwwwwwt!" Guy hissed, leaning protectively over the thing at his crotch, throwing both of his spindly arms over it.
His brow furrowing, Hellboy strode into the appartement, straining to get a look at the object Guy was so protective of. Whatever it was, it seemed to struggle against Guy's grasp, turning of its own volition to face Hellboy. Startled, Guy let it go and shuddered as the head sought a new position on his lap.
Hellboy bared his teeth at the sight of the thing.
"You sick freak," Hellboy gagged. "How dumb can you get? You fed the damned thing blood and
"
"
unborn infants," the head exulted, licking its bruised lips, "man's milk."
Guy bent over as if he'd been kicked in the groin. He began wailing like a baby and tumbled off the bed, spilling the head from its precarious perch in his lap.
Hellboy hunkered to follow its progress, and in two steps was standing over the reddish ball as it came to rest in the center of the dingy room.
"Moro?" Hellboy rasped.
The swollen lids pulled back from the glowing orbs as it gazed at Hellboy. The widening eyes flickered with recognition, then flared with renewed hunger.
"You've come to feed me!" it spat. "Demon ssssssseed
"
Suddenly all that mattered to the creature was gaining some attachment to this new, much more powerful host. This was the key to mastering stronger men, stealing souls, forging armies. It measured its need, the hook, the influence it might command.
A word, just a word, would do it ...
The pulpy lips bared veined gums, bursting with an ivory stubble of new teeth. The purple tongue slid over the enamel white heads, licking away the froth of fresh blood and semen before curving with the word just
a word, the word
"Father," it whispered. "I will tell you of your father
"
Without hesitation, Hellboy brought his hoof back and punted the thing across the floor.
As the engorged head spun across the room, the sinewy tendrils dangling from its throat seemed to congeal into extremities: knotted vestigial limbs, a threadlike weave suggesting arms and legs, hair-like fingers and toes.
For a second, it arced gracefully, its minute parody of a body seeking balance like an acrobat; then it hit the wall, and the d
elicate tapestry evaporated in a splash of snot and blood and bone.
Guy bolted up from his fetal position on the floor and screamed. His eyes were distended, unable to believe this fresh turn of events. For a moment Hellboy hesitated, preparing to take the emaciated boy out with one controlled blow if he tried anything. But Guy was beyond attack; he had lost everything, living like a ferret, sucked dry, and he certainly didn't dare to take on this new monster. It was so terrifying, its skin the color of flame, its right fist so huge, clad in armor that could crush him in an instant.
But the head, its promise
Grunting with satisfaction as Guy stayed clear, Hellboy returned his attention to the head. He strode over to its resting place and stared down at it.
So monstrous an evil; so fragile a vessel.
"Professor Trevor Bruttenholm was my father. All I need to know."
The head was split from crown to the stump of its throat. A dank tar seethed from the uneven network of
fissures, pooling in the broken cup of its lower jaw. Tiny arms and fingers wriggled in the stain spreading beneath.
Still, its streaming eyes drifted to Hellboy's own. Its blackened tongue arched, straining against the fragmented jaw as its torn lips vainly struggled to form the word.
"Had your say, Moro," Hellboy grunted. "Don't care to hear any more."
He brought his hoof down on the pathetic object. At the sound of it, Guy shrieked and slammed his own head against the wall.
Moro leered up at Hellboy, his eyes still brimming with hunger. Moro could feel the cheated heat of centuries-past pyres building within his skull. Even as his skin began to blister and smoke, his essence was seeping into the rug. It could not end this way, his minions and armies forever stilled here, at the threshold of their rebirth. There was still a chance, if he could only find a way to Hellboy brought his hoof down again, and the jig-sawed sections of the head shattered apart, prompting another wail from Guy. Intent on his task, Hellboy ignored the man's cries and pulverized the damned thing, bringing his hoof down time and time again, smashing it into shards that smoked and began to spark.
Still, the pulped orbs simmered in their baking brine, the seared lips stretched like worms on a hot brick.
Hellboy: Odd Jobs Page 6
