From the last corner that he checked, that he missed, a spidery form rose from the pool of shadows on the floor.
Kroenen, his body encased in shiny black latex from head to toe, checked the close-fitting harness on his chest; its carefully maintained gears ticked softly, in perfect working order. With the guard gone, he moved out of the corner and stepped up to a nearby glass case that stood about four feet tall. Inside was an ancient wooden statue of one of the Eastern Orthodox saints, exquisitely painted. He glanced around and sneered to himself; all these things were fakes, useless pieces of wood carefully worked over so that they would deceive the foolish, unsuspecting public. And yet this one, the most important one, had been overlooked.
Fools.
Kroenen saw movement on the glass surface—the lovely Ilsa, stepping up silently behind him.
“Move,” she ordered.
Obediently Kroenen stepped aside. Ilsa looked at the glass, measuring it with her eyes, looking for the best place to strike. She chose a spot low and to the right, then swung her hammer at it; the glass disintegrated, falling like sharp water. The library’s alarm shrieked instantly to life along with the generator-driven emergency lights hung every two yards at the juncture of the ceiling and walls.
Neither Kroenen nor Ilsa moved. When the last of the glass had hit the ground, Kroenen yanked an evil-looking doubled-edged sword from a sheath at his belt; he twirled it overhead, then arced it across the statue at shoulder height.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a sound like a window splitting in extreme temperatures, a diagonal crack appeared in the richly painted wood. A second later, the upper part of the statue toppled off.
As Kroenen carefully rewound a small crank in the center of the gear structure on his chest, Ilsa moved past him and reached into the hollow center of the statue with both hands. Grunting, she lifted out the object inside, a large reliquary jar. The top slid aside momentarily, revealing shimmering golden sand.
“You—don’t move! Hands up!”
Ilsa and Kroenen looked back. Guards were filing through the nearest door, six in all. Armed with guns and flashlights, they looked anything but happy to find intruders.
Body shaking with enough force to mimic a seizure, Kroenen pulled a second blade from his belt and stepped up to face the guards.
One of the guards decided not to wait for the unauthorized and quite well-armed visitor to attack. He squeezed the trigger of his gun—
BAM!
—and the bullet tore into Kroenen’s arm. Kroenen didn’t cry out or fall—he didn’t even seem to notice. The guard gaped at the small explosion of dust that appeared in the hole where his bullet had struck—not torn flesh, not spurting blood, but dust. Fear overrode his training and he fired again and again; a split second after his second shot, his panicking coworkers added their own bullets to the flurry.
But Kroenen wasn’t about to be hit again. He swung his circular blades up and over, twisting and turning until they were little more than a blur in front of his body. Sparks flashed in the dimly lit hallway as the shots ricocheted wildly, pinging through the shadows; three of the guards grunted and fell, struck by their own returning bullets. By that time, two of the others were practically on top of Kroenen, but he made short work of them, too, this time using his blades, letting their blood wash the floor beneath his feet and sweep away where the dust from his body had fallen. Finally it was just one last guard.
“Don’t,” the man said. Kroenen was too far away to reach him with his knives and the guard raised his weapon threateningly…then screamed as something he couldn’t see grabbed his wrist and twisted. The bone broke with a snap, then the flesh of his neck pushed upward under his chin, as though a ghost had wrapped invisible hands around his neck. Gagging, he flailed and kicked as his body was lifted into the air, and it wasn’t until the red-and-yellow bubble lights of the police cars arriving outside shone through the windows that Kroenen and Ilsa could see what held the man. It was Grigori, his arm muscles twitching and shifting beneath his skin as he gained more strength with each breath. A quick and brutal twist sent the top and bottom parts of the hapless guard’s body in different directions. The man went limp in Grigori’s hold, and he carelessly tossed aside the dead body.
He turned to look at Ilsa. “Ready the welcome, my love.”
Nodding, Ilsa leaned over the reliquary jar and opened it, then picked it up and poured a slow circle of fine, pale powder onto the floor.
Looking down at the circle, Grigori smiled. “Salt,” he said. “Gathered from the tears of a thousand martyrs. Restraining the essence of Sammael, the hellhound, the seed of destruction.” He sliced through the air with his open hand, drawing glyphs in the emptiness. Then he held out one hand and a small, black flame sprang to life in the very center of it, dancing on his open palm. He pulled his hand away and the flame stayed where it was in the air, suspended over the center of the circle. After a moment, the tiny spot of fire slowly descended to just above the golden-colored salt.
The heap of sand below the flame began to move, churning and flowing like hot mercury. It spread outward as its lines fused into more of a heap, melting and bubbling, foaming as the circle grew larger and larger. Bones began to take shape, tendons and ligaments and muscles stretched themselves outward and connected, slick skin knitting over the whole and pulling up and up and up, until finally…Sammael.
And the hellhound stood fully upright and roared with the joy of its own existence.
Abe let go of Professor Broom’s hand and stepped back, then jerked as he realized Broom was pale and shaking. Was it because of the intensity of the vision? Watching him, he saw Broom wince and grab at his side; Abe reached for the older man’s arm automatically, offering his support, momentarily feeling what Broom felt—a bolt of pain, sharp enough to pull his breath away. He steadied Broom, then raised his webbed hand and tested the air a few inches away from the professor’s back.
Abe’s eyes widened. “Professor,” he said softly. “You are very sick.”
The old man blinked at him and said, too quietly for anyone else to hear, “I don’t want Hellboy to know.” He gently pushed Abe’s hand away. “Sixty years ago, Abe, they tried to destroy the world. And they’re back—in my lifetime!” For a moment, the professor looked absolutely stunned. “They’re back…to finish the job.”
9
TONIGHT, CENTRAL PARK WAS AN OKAY PLACE TO BE.
Hellboy knew that normally folks would stay away from the place, wisely avoiding the muggers, rapists, and murderers that often prowled there after dark. It was only on special occasions, such as the warmer weather and the little Halloween celebration currently set up, that New Yorkers were free to enjoy—within reason—the greenery and outside area without fearing for their lives. Right now, there was plenty of light to help keep things livable; lines of tiny, sparkling orange lights, Halloween cousins of Christmas decorations, crisscrossed from tree to tree, waving cheerfully in the mild October breeze along with abundant paper lanterns.
The weather was perfect—no rain, cool enough for snuggling but not so cold that people ended up shivering instead of enjoying the festivities. Children ran and teased one another, making comically scary faces around their rubber masks, their high-pitched laughter winding through the small crowd milling about. Even the smells were good—hot and buttery corn on the cob, warm pumpkin pie, mulled cider with cinnamon.
Slightly out of the flow of traffic but still close enough to the rest of the people for safety’s sake, a young couple sat on the bench and listened to the bluesy music floating through the small fair. Laughing, the guy brought up a brown paper bag and pulled out a six-pack of beer, cold enough to make the sides of the cans sweat. He set it on the bench at his side, and when his girlfriend giggled and whispered something in his ear, he pushed it off to the side, then grabbed her and gave her a long, hearty kiss.
With his eyes closed, the young man missed the bright red tail that slid around the side of the ben
ch and deftly snatched away his evening’s liquid refreshment.
Hellboy grinned, pleased with his little larceny. Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t have swiped it, but he might be doing that couple back in the park a favor—they were probably too young to be drinking anyway, and there was always the don’t-drink-and-drive thing. He was just protecting them from themselves.
The lights of the Halloween festival were a long way gone now. This street was darker, quieter, safer for someone like him, who didn’t want to be seen by the everyday eye. The trees were evenly spaced on each side of the avenue in this older neighborhood, and so heavily leafed that their crowns nearly met overhead, deepening the shadows and making the pools of illumination thrown by the streetlights seem like solitary islands. The dried leaves flying up in little whirlwinds of cool air only added to the sense of loneliness.
As Hellboy walked on, carefully keeping himself in the darkness, several emergency vehicles roared past, their lights and sirens grinding through the silence of the otherwise deserted street. When they were gone and the street fell back into silence, Hellboy stepped up his pace until, finally, his destination came into view.
Bellamie Mental Hospital had been built in the 1940s, when funding from the local government had been a little more plentiful. Later decades had seen the Feds pump more than a little cash into the facility, said cash specifically being earmarked to support particular areas that were kept out of the general public eye…and even out of range of most of its own medical staff. Six stories of dark brick rose up behind a high wall topped with barbed wire, a security feature designed as much to keep people out as it was to keep the patients in.
The scene beyond the wall was a little more cheerful; while all the windows were covered in dark steel mesh, Hellboy could see colorful jack-o’-lanterns and funny-faced paper skeletons taped to the windows, along with the expected assortment of seasonable bats, spiders, and cartoon cauldrons. Between the wall and the building was a lush topiary garden, and the sight always made Hellboy shake his big head in amazement. What rocket scientist, architect, or hospital administrator had thought it was a good idea to put something like that outside a building full of people with mental problems? He hoped they weren’t surprised when half of their patients complained about how the shapely green rabbits and various other animals moved or chased them. Jeez.
It took all of two seconds for Hellboy to get on top of the wall, choose his spot, and flatten the wire until he had himself a nice place to sit and wait and, of course, watch the second-floor windows. The cold beer cans felt good against his hot skin, so he kept his tail-hold on the six-pack, swinging it idly but also being gentle about it; it wasn’t good to have the beer can blow up in your face when you popped the top. The part of his arm where Sammael had grabbed him was aching badly and bleeding, and Hellboy glanced at it irritably. The sleeve of his overcoat was soaked in blood; he’d have to get that looked at, but later. He had other things to look forward to right now, and like always, he knew it would only be a matter of time.
The second floor hallway was twenty-six-year-old Liz Sherman’s haven, her own chosen place of peace and quiet. The patients were good—fairly stable and well-behaved, and she’d worked hard to get placement down here and away from the more volatile wards of the upper floors. Her own behavior was good enough so that one of her regular duties was to carry the evening meds tray for the nightly rounds. The evening psychiatrist in charge, Dr. Marsh, was an older woman nearly as tall and lithe as Liz herself, except with regal white hair kept in an impeccable and expensive style. In that respect, she could have been Liz’s opposite, her tanned complexion and light hair contrasting sharply with Liz’s own longer, raven black hair and piercing dark eyes, the pale skin of her face marred by the scar that crossed her forehead. Where Liz wore the expected patient’s gown, Dr. Marsh sported a white lab jacket over an expensive designer business suit and was always sure not to have any pens or other sharp objects in the jacket’s pockets.
They were almost at the end of the patient line when Kenny, one of the more vocal Down’s Syndrome patients, cocked his head slightly and turned toward the window. He looked, then abandoned the medicine line and pressed his face against the reinforced glass. “There’s a big red guy down there!” he burbled.
Dr. Marsh glanced at him and raised one impeccably groomed eyebrow. Then she went back to checking off little boxes on her clipboard against the medicine cups on the tray Liz was holding for her. “That’s fine, darling. Santa’s not here for another month.”
But Kenny shook his head. “Not Santa—big. And red.” He switched from shaking his head to nodding vigorously, trying to make his point. “With gold eyes…and he has beer!”
Liz looked at Kenny sharply, but of course the boy didn’t notice her glance and wouldn’t have understood if he had. Dr. Marsh was through dispensing the medications, so Liz tucked the tray under one arm and briefly closed her eyes, then tugged on one of the wide, heavy rubber bands around each of her wrists. She pulled it out and let it go, wincing as it snapped hard against her skin. After giving the tray back to the desk nurse and watching Dr. Marsh move farther down the hall, Liz wandered over to one of the windows, moving as though she had nothing better in the world to do than gaze out at the stars struggling to peek out from between the October clouds and the city smog. But there was nothing—the gardens below were empty.
Sure they were.
The thing about the second floor ward of Bellamie was that it was low security—many of the second-floor patients, Liz included, were allowed to go in and out of the gardens at will, so long as it was at a reasonable hour. She was pushing the envelope here a little, since it was after dark on a rapidly cooling October evening (and Halloween night to boot—the staff at the hospital were very aware of that seemingly minor detail), but she thought she had maybe ten or fifteen minutes before the guard at the topiary door outright refused. She’d also dressed sensibly for the outing, as there was nothing like a vacant-eyed patient wearing only a thin hospital gown and wanting to go outside to tip off security that all was not copacetic in someone’s mental la-la land. The truth? Please; the last thing Liz Sherman would ever need was a sweater to keep her warm. It also helped that she had an old Polaroid camera swinging from a strap around her neck; that was so much a familiar sight to the hospital personnel that for her to leave it behind would have been worse. Human beings, even mentally unstable ones, always followed routines, and the professional folks here always looked suspiciously at anything that deviated from the normal pattern of things.
Even so, Liz kept on her overly warm sweater as she went outside, knowing the sharp-eyed man was watching her through the security glass, maybe a little too closely. Down, boy, she thought and smiled a little to herself. You don’t want to get singed. Outside, the sunset had taken the last of the day’s heat with it and the air was cool and on its way to crisp. She thought it felt wonderful and, had she been going to stay out here, would have welcomed the ongoing cold nighttime air. But there was no time to think about such things now; instead, she focused on the trail of blood, a splash here, a splotch over there, that finally led around to the back of a large, thorn-studded bush.
Yeah, she thought so.
Liz took a deep breath. “Back so soon?”
Something rustled, then moved deeper within the branches. She waited, then saw a leg and part of the familiar overcoat slip into view. Another second and Hellboy’s tail poked out from beyond the leaves; its end was curled around a dripping six-pack of some kind of foreign brew.
“Uh…I brought beer.”
In spite of herself, a corner of Liz’s mouth turned up at the hopeful note in the big guy’s voice. She lifted the camera to one eye, found the frame she wanted, and pushed the button. “To wash down my Lithium pills?” She peered into the bushes but couldn’t quite get a view of him. “I may get a few perks, H.B., but I’m still a patient.”
The rustling in the branches grew louder, and he finally climbed out, lookin
g at the ground, at the bushes, the building—anywhere but directly at her. She always thought it was funny that Hellboy was so strong and rock ’em, sock ’em, but so helplessly shy around her. She started to say something about this, then forgot those words as her gaze stopped on his arm. Even thought it was night and the dark color of his overcoat camouflaged it, she could see the fabric was soaked with enough blood to make it drip. She frowned. “You better have that looked at.”
Hellboy blinked, then glanced down at his arm and shrugged. “Just a scratch.” He paused awkwardly. “I…wanted to see you.”
Liz sighed, then motioned for him to follow her to a bench that was around the corner and about as far away from the door she’d come out of as possible. Hellboy would hear the guard the instant he opened the door, and the distance would give them time to say good-bye. They settled on the bench and she watched him for a few minutes while neither of them said anything. He was so big, and so completely…out of place in the real world.
He was a lot like her.
Finally, Hellboy spoke. “We miss you at the Bureau,” he said hesitantly. “Abe’s crazier every day. And Father’s still mad at me.” He saw her smile and took it as a sign of encouragement. He rushed on. “Come back, Liz. Come back. I—”
“No,” she broke in. “Not this time, H.B. It’s been months since I’ve had an episode. And you know what?” Her gaze bored into his. “I’m learning to control it.”
He said nothing, just watched as she looked down at her own right hand. Another beat and a faint blue aura of fire bloomed around it, crawling over her fingers like a pale, velvet haze. She stared at it for a moment, then flexed the fingers thoughtfully. “I’m learning where it comes from,” she said at last. Then she added in a softer voice, “And for once in my life, I’m not afraid.” Without warning, Liz clenched her fist and put out the flame. When she looked at Hellboy again, her gaze had cleared of the introspection. She raised a finger and pointed. “Looks like your ride is here.”
Hellboy Page 8
