Now Myers was totally confused. “Grounded? Who’s grounded?”
A corner of Clay’s mouth turned up as he realized how little Myers actually knew about what he was getting into. “Okay. You saw the fish man, right?” When Myers nodded, Clay’s small smile turned into an outright grin. “Well, come on in and meet the rest of the family.” He pulled an odd-shaped electronic key from his jacket pocket and used it to unlock the door. A turn, a clank, then three solenoid locks revolved before a couple of steel vertical pistons lifted. When the vaultlike door finally opened, Agent Clay pushed the food-laden cart through the entrance and gestured at Myers to come in after him.
Myers followed, eager to learn more. On the other side of the entryway was a solid concrete bunker. There were no windows, and the decorating would have been austere except for a few seemingly out of place samurai suits of armor and weapons. Even stranger were the cats—there were dozens of them wandering around and curled up on the furniture. On the inanimate side were the Zippo lighters; like the cats, there wasn’t anywhere Myers looked that he didn’t see one—new, old, dull, shiny, from every era.
In the center of the large room was a sofa that looked like the kind of urban design project seen on the more ridiculous reality TV shows. It was huge, made from the bed of a pickup truck, and stuffed with cushions, blankets, and comic books. There was junk everywhere—books, comics, odds and ends; all in all, it was like the world’s biggest bachelor pad—big, messy, and poorly lit.
Agent Clay folded his arms. “He gets fed six times a day,” he said matter-of-factly. “He’s got a thing for cats. You’ll be his nanny, his keeper, his best friend. He never goes out unsupervised.”
Myers was still gaping at the “apartment” spread out in front of him. “Who?”
Clay gave him a look full of exaggerated patience, then pointed at a torn comic book tossed on an end table.
HELLBOY: THE UNCANNY
Myers picked it up automatically, then focused on the cover. He frowned, trying to understand the image. It showed that Hellboy character the media was always squawking about, this time on top of a building, locked in battle with a monstrous ape. It was like watching a demon go up against King Kong.
Out of the corner of his eye, Myers caught movement. He looked toward it instinctively, then felt his jaw drop as a tail, long and red, waved in and out of a pool of light about ten feet away. One of the cats mewled and leaped at it, trying to play; the tail moved away from the cat, then back, obviously teasing.
Something clicked in Myers’s brain and he jerked his head back toward Agent Clay. “You’re kidding!”
“Those comics,” someone rumbled. “They never got the eyes right.” The voice was deeper than any human voice Myers had ever heard, chesty and powerful.
The comic tumbled from Myers’s hand. “Oh, Jesus!” he breathed. “Hellboy…is real?”
Agent Clay looked like he was enjoying himself immensely. “Yup. Sixty years old by our count.” Although he was keeping his expression professionally bland, Clay’s dark eyes were shining with laughter. “But he doesn’t age like we do. Think dog years—he’s barely out of his teens.”
Myers gasped as he finally focused on what was in the shadows. It was a monument-sized figure, sitting in total relaxation while it used a massive arm to easily curl what had to be a three-hundred-pound, stainless-steel dumbbell. The novice agent could see biceps the size of cooked hams working in the crimson-fleshed arm. His heart was pounding in surprise but Myers strained to see despite himself; he was rewarded with a glimpse of an unlit cigar stub held tightly in a stark, straight mouth.
“What’s with the hair, Clay?” the voice rumbled again. “Finally got those implants?”
A dim part of him knew his mouth was still open, but Myers seemed powerless to close it as he watched Clay flush with embarrassment and self-consciously run a hand front to back across his scalp. “It’ll fill in. Where do you want your dinner, Red? By the couch?”
Finally Myers managed to close his mouth with an annoyingly audible click. He watched Clay push the cart until just to the start of a pile of junked television sets. Trashed or not, they all still worked; they must have been wired together, because on the screens the same footage, a loop of Fleischer cartoons and home movies, cycled endlessly. One image, that of an attractive young woman with raven black hair and china-pale skin, steadily reappeared.
“Who’s the squirt?” demanded Hellboy. He already sounded unhappy enough to make Myers fight the urge to shake. If he was supposed to be taking care of this…uh, of Hellboy, then he needed to stand his ground and be confident.
“Agent Myers is your new liaison,” Clay said calmly.
There was an uncomfortable pause, then Hellboy asked in a softer voice. “Got tired of me?”
Clay grinned. “Nah. I’ll be around, Red. Just back in the field.”
BANG!
Hellboy dropped the dumbbell. The sound of it hitting the carpeted concrete floor was enough to make Myers jump. So much for acting confident.
“I don’t want him.”
Clay shrugged. “Manning says I’m too soft on you.” He nudged Myers hard with his elbow. “The candy,” he said under his breath. “Give him the candy.”
Myers blinked, then remembered the two candy bars he was holding. Give him the candy? This was a three-hundred-fifty-pound creature, not a four-year-old. “Oh—uh, hello,” he heard himself manage. “I…I have these. For you.” He held up the Baby Ruth bars.
When he saw them, Hellboy sat up straighter in the shadows. “Father’s back?” When Clay nodded, Hellboy asked a little more carefully, “Still angry?”
Clay lifted his chin and gave Hellboy a stern look. “Well, you did break out—”
“I wanted to see her,” Hellboy grumbled. “It’s nobody’s business,” he added in a voice that sounded as though he were talking only to himself.
But Clay shook his head. “It is. You got yourself on TV again.”
Hellboy didn’t respond, just sat sulking in the shadows. Finally, he said in a resigned voice, “Myers, huh? You have a first name?”
Myers swallowed, but before he could answer, Agent Clay nudged him again. “Try not to stare,” he said quietly. “He hates when people stare.”
Myers gave a little nod. “Uh…oh. John,” he finally remembered to tell Hellboy. Out of the corner of his mouth, he semiwhispered. “Stare at what?”
“His horns,” Clay said in a quiet, bland voice, as though he were telling Myers nothing more important than last weekend’s football scores. “He files ’em. To fit in.”
Myers’s eyes widened. “His what?”
There was movement a few feet away, and Hellboy finally rose to his full height and strolled into the better lit part of the room where Myers could get his first good look. He was quite the awe-inspiring image, with his patterned scarlet skin bulging with exaggerated muscle, his chiseled features housing deep-set, clear, golden eyes. Myers had seen the image a hundred times, no, a thousand, on television and in the news rags—especially the so-called “scandal sheets”—but to have that image made flesh, right here and now, in person… He could no more have stopped his involuntary recoil than he could have kept the sun from rising in the east.
And in spite of himself, he couldn’t help staring at the horn stumps.
“Whatcha looking at, John?” Hellboy’s voice was a mildly dangerous growl.
“O-oh,” Myers stuttered. “N-n-no. I—”
His useless denial was mercifully cut short when a shrill alarm suddenly screamed from a small speaker overhead. On the wall to the right, a light he hadn’t noticed previously came to life, blinking a sudden, furious red. His denial forgotten, Myers looked around, bewildered.
Hellboy glided forward, the movement of his huge body surprisingly smooth and quick. “Hey, hey, hey!” he chortled in Clay’s direction. “They’re playing our song!”
Clay, however, was suddenly all business. “We’re on the move,” he barked and
gestured brusquely at both Hellboy and Myers.
Hellboy looked at Myers and gave him what Myers thought might, once he got used to seeing it, actually be a grin. “C’mon, champ—Happy Halloween!” The expression widened, showing blocky bottom teeth along a massive underbite.
“You’re taking me for a walk!”
5
THE MACHEN LIBRARY, MANHATTAN
THE MACHEN LIBRARY WAS AN IMPOSING, FOUR-STORY structure comprised of mortared-together massive stone blocks and held up by pillars and pediments on all sides. Suspended from four wires across its grand entrance was a long banner, oversized and gaudy in the orange-and-black colors of the season—
MAGICK: THE ANCIENT POWER
Peering through the one-way glass, Hellboy could see the entrance and the overabundance of people crammed into the area in front of it. Halloween or not, it should have been nothing more than a normal afternoon filled with college students, tourists, folks grabbing a quick tour of the new exhibition on their lunch breaks. Instead, outside was complete chaos; in addition to the people who, willingly or unwillingly, had gotten trapped in the melee, there were policemen, television reporters, even mounted police. The numbers were too great to count, the noise solid enough to make it through the glass and into Hellboy’s ears.
Dozens of reporters protested as the cops crowded them backward so they could wave a line of black sedans through. Not too far from where they were driving past, a blond reporter held a microphone close to her mouth and gave her waiting cameraman her best and brightest smile. “The NYPD has yet to issue a statement,” she said around a mouthful of capped, impeccably white teeth. “We’ve got SWAT vans, para-medics, you name it. And now here’s a garbage truck.” Her wide eyes and big smile faltered and she looked away from the camera for a moment, bewilderment etching into her pretty features as she tracked the vehicle. On the side of it, Hellboy knew she was reading Squeaky Clean, Inc. Waste Management Services. “A garbage truck?”
In the front cab, Agent Clay, his face as impassive and plain as the workman’s clothes in which he’d rapidly changed, carefully steered the clunky-looking truck through the crowd while Myers, redressed in the same gray uniform, sat nervously on the passenger side, trying to take it all in. He’d thought he’d have a little time to get acclimated to his new transfer position, meet the boss—Broom—and the other hierarchy before getting tossed into field work. Obviously not.
The media crews outside were being held back by the security forces and when the people milling about looked up and saw the garbage truck bearing down on them, they parted like the Red Sea for Moses. Hellboy could see dozens of faces through the heavy, one-way glass that masqueraded as a mirrored logo on the outside of the truck; only inches away, a mounted policeman worked his horse carefully through the people and slowly passed their vehicle. Hellboy grinned to himself and wondered what the horse would do if it saw him.
He shifted uncomfortably on the side bench, wishing he could stand up, stretch his legs, his arms, stretch something. It was always like this in the under-cover vehicles; even the oversized ones like this—and he had to admit a garbage truck was someone’s pretty good idea—could barely handle his massive frame. He couldn’t move around much, and they were always telling him to be careful about the expensive equipment surrounding him. Break this and it cost this much; break that, and there was a bill for some other amount. Blah blah blah. Sure, he could appreciate the getup—fully equipped mobile crime labs didn’t come cheap—but the powers that be ought to try riding for hours while stuck in a hunched-over position, see how their backs felt when they tried to straighten out. Every time he moved he had to remember that the thing was crammed with high-tech gear and low-tech talismans; everything in here was equally important in the Do Not Break! realm.
And, of course, Hellboy was sharing the space, which made things all the more crowded. Sitting across from him, Abe Sapien had been out of the water for about as long as he could manage without help; now he carefully fitted a respirator over his smooth-skinned face. It was a strange contraption that looked like a modified Elizabethan collar. The valves around the bottom of it bubbled and hissed as Abe inhaled liquid through his mouth and expelled it through his gills. For all of its bulkiness, the respirator must’ve done some wonderful things, because Abe visibly relaxed after a few inhalations.
“Look at them ugly suckers, Blue.” Hellboy gestured at the crowd shambling around the outside of the truck. “One sheet of glass between them and us.”
Abe’s voice was tinny through the respirator. “Story of my life.”
Hellboy grinned as he looked away from the glass and studied the scarred, knobby knuckles of his red-skinned hand. “I break it, they see us—Happy Halloween. No more hiding.” He looked pensively back at the glass. “I could be outside.”
Abe folded his hands and regarded him dispassionately. “You mean outside with her.”
Hellboy shot him a glance, then reached over and plucked a huge utility belt from a shelf. It was laden heavily with amulets, rosaries, horseshoes, and other out-of-the-ordinary gear. After strapping it on, he grabbed a handful of stogie stubs from an ashtray off to the side; he lit one, then dropped the rest of the cigar bits into a pouch hanging from the belt. Finally he said, “Don’t get psychic on me, Abe.”
Abe gave a graceful lift of one shoulder. “Nothing psychic about it. You’re easy.”
Hellboy pulled a key from a smaller pocket on the belt and unlocked a steel box at his feet. The inscription stenciled on its lid always made him grin appreciatively—The Good Samaritan. Flipping it open, he pulled out a mean-looking, custom-built handgun. Double-barreled with a clean, blue finish, it was a veritable handheld cannon. But this was one of those rare days when even the Good Samaritan couldn’t make him switch into good-mood mode. He held up the gun and looked at it glumly. “How am I ever gonna get a girl?” he lamented. “I drive around in a garbage truck!”
Abe shook his head, making the air bubbles in his collar shimmer. “Liz left us, Red. Take the hint.”
Hellboy hefted the gun again and scowled at it. “We don’t take hints,” he growled.
Up front, Clay steered the garbage truck into an interior courtyard, then let it coast slowly forward as heavy iron gates were readied behind them. He could see the FBI and B.P.R.D. teams outside, spreading out and ordering the uniformed cops to leave as they secured the area for themselves. The resentful glares from the local police did nothing to change the situation. That done, three B.P.R.D. agents, Quarry, Stone, and Moss, quickly closed the gates and had the entire area sealed off.
The radio in Agent Clay’s left hand crackled to life as Stone told him, “All areas secured.”
Clay craned his neck so he could look at the roof of the building in front of them. From the rooftop, Agent Lime gave him the all-clear signal. Clay lifted the radio to his mouth. “Seal the doors. Red and Blue are coming in.” He hit the brakes and the truck shuddered to a stop, then he pulled hard on a lever on the dashboard. In the back, the Dumpster loader unfolded on its hinges, dropping like a drawbridge to reveal Hellboy and Abe.
Clay turned back and looked at them. “Okay, boys. Let’s sync up our locators.”
Abe and Hellboy flipped a switch on their belts at the same time Agents Clay and Myers flipped theirs. Tiny lights blinked to life and each made a barely perceptible beep. Satisfied, Hellboy clambered out of the garbage truck and headed toward the library. Abe, Clay, and Myers were right on his heels.
The inside of the building was spacious and full of massive stone pillars and expansive marble panels. Display cases lined the walls on either side of the lobby area, but the various trinkets inside obviously hadn’t interested anyone. All the cases were intact—not a single piece of broken glass dared mar the immaculately swept floor. A couple more banners advertising the library’s magic exhibition flanked the wide marble staircase where they could be best viewed by visitors, not that anyone could’ve missed the huge one hanging outside.
Agent Clay pulled a report from a pocket hidden inside his coverall. He unfolded it and read the summary out loud. “At 1900 an alarm tripped. Breaking and entering, robbery. Six guards dead.”
Hellboy’s eyes widened. “Hold on, hold on,” he interrupted. “I thought we checked this place. Fakes and reproductions.”
“Apparently not everything was fake,” said a familiar voice.
Hellboy jerked at the sound of Professor Broom’s voice. “Father?” When Broom didn’t say anything, Hellboy sheepishly averted his gaze from the steadier one of the fragile old man and stared at the floor. He looked like some kind of childish Goliath, chastised and sullen, about to start toeing the ground at any moment.
After an awkward pause, Agent Clay cleared his throat and motioned for the group to follow him down the main corridor. The sun had fully set, pulling away the light of the day and leaving the museum’s high ceilings shadowed in the checkerboard light-and-dark pattern cast by the faraway hanging lights. At the end of the corridor was a double set of eight-foot-tall brass doors, brightly polished and impressive. They were closed, and while there was no indication that they should do so, Myers found himself slowing as he approached them, some secret instinct making him more cautious than appearances said he had to be. Then again, appearances could be very deceiving.
Abe stepped to the front, then held up his leather-gloved hands. With a snap, he pulled one free, then slapped his hand against the door, spread his webbed fingers, and concentrated. His bright blue eyes fluttered and closed as two agents hurried up, dragging a rolling munitions case. Myers watched from the sidelines, his gaze flicking from the concentrating Abe Sapien to Hellboy as the red-skinned demon opened the case and looked over a potpourri of bullets.
Professor Broom spoke for the first time since the group had stopped at the doors. “A sixteenth-century statue was destroyed,” he said quietly. He gave Hellboy a meaningful look. “Saint Dionysius the Aeropagite.”
Hellboy tilted his massive head to one side and considered this. “Who wards off demons.”
Hellboy Page 5
