In distress, he searched the shore for Anastasia, praying she would be all right. He found her where she stood with Shelby Claremont, not far from Arun Lahiri and several other members of the team.
Tentacles lashed out for them, but most were able to scurry to safety. Karl Idelson was not so lucky. A red, bleeding tentacle lifted him off the ground and beat him mercilessly against the sand. After the second blow, Hellboy could see by the way Karl’s body moved that his spine was broken, and perhaps his neck as well.
Then he saw that another tentacle has lashed around Shelby’s leg and pulled the poor woman into the lake. She went under in an eyeblink, and Hellboy knew if he did not free himself immediately, Shelby was dead. They all might be dead, if the creature didn’t need water to live and could go after the others. He didn’t know anything about the monster, save for its murderous intent.
“Uhnnf!” he grunted, as the thing squeezed even tighter. Another tentacle whipped up, going for his head. Hellboy had a momentary flash of his head being popped off like a sadistic child’s doll. It chilled him.
“I don’t think so!” he shouted.
When the tentacle whipped toward him, Hellboy grabbed it with his right hand and held on. With no idea how to combat the thing, and with its hundreds of tentacles snaking across the land, Hellboy was at his wit’s end.
The beast surged up out of the water and Hellboy looked down. From nearly one hundred feet in the air, he stared into the single, cyclopean eye of the beast from the oasis caves. Whatever it was, prehistoric monstrosity or other-dimensional god, it had an eye. It had to see. It could be hurt.
In his experience, anything could be hurt.
Switching the tablet to his right hand, Hellboy tried desperately to slide his left under the tentacle, to get to his belt. He had another moment to wish for the sword he’d left beneath the lake, or even his gun. Then he sucked in his stomach and slid his hand between his flesh and the tentacle before it could tighten.
In seconds, he found the right pouch and pulled out a magnesium flare. He didn’t dare drop the tablet, not after all he’d gone through to keep it. Instead, he brought the flare to his mouth, closed his eyes, and pulled the pin with his teeth. It flashed in his face, scorching his skin.
Then he dropped it, straight down. He had timed it perfectly. When the flare struck the creature’s single eye, it exploded with a flash of fire. The eye burst and the creature screamed.
It dropped Hellboy, who plummeted to the lakeshore and struck the sand painfully. When he looked up, the creature was gone, disappeared beneath the surface and back into its lair.
Whatever else they had to face to finish this investigation, he prayed they had seen the last of the lake monster.
CHAPTER EIGHT
—
In the heat of late morning, wind-whipped sand grated lightly against Creaghan’s tent. He had become so used to the noise that he ceased to notice it, the way people who lived near the ocean sometimes lost the ability to hear the crashing of the surf.
The surf. What he wouldn’t have given to be at the shore just then. The south of France would have been nice, but Creaghan would have been happy to swim in the testicle-crushing frozen waters off Scotland’s northern coast. He missed water. He missed civilization.
He missed sanity.
Creaghan didn’t know what the hell was happening at the oasis, but he knew two things for certain. The first was that it was paranormal. Disembodied heads didn’t often speak to him. And as far as he was concerned, nothing human could have done what had been done to those poor bastards on Lady Catherine’s archaeological team. Otherwise the killers would have been in the British government’s employ during the Falklands War.
The second thing of which Creaghan was certain was that he, himself, was not crazy. His thoughts were perfectly clear and rational. That was what disturbed him the most. To deny what he had seen would mean to question his own unshakable sanity. Creaghan wasn’t prepared to do that.
The Captain lifted a ceramic mug and took a long draft of tepid water. There was a slight metallic tang to it, but he didn’t question the taste. It was water. That was all that mattered.
With a snap, one of the long flaps at the entrance to his tent folded back, and Agent Rickman stuck his face inside.
“We’re all here, Captain,” Rickman announced.
“Very good,” he replied. “Bring them in.”
Rickman’s eyes widened. “All of them, sir?” he asked. “There isn’t much room inside your tent.”
Creaghan didn’t even look up at Rickman again. “Bring them in. We could all do with being out of the sun, even if only for a few minutes.”
Rickman nodded. A moment later, the men began to file in, filling the tent on either side so that their heads poked at the material and they had to crouch a little.
Captain Creaghan looked around at the expressionless faces of the ten MI5 agents in his command. Burke, Carruthers, Rickman, and the others were all deeply tanned and visibly exhausted.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said honestly. “Like it or not, we’re going to stay on here until we have some answers for the Prime Minister. It isn’t as if we can stroll into Buckingham Palace and tell the Queen her cousin’s little girl got beheaded by some paranormal force and have that be the end of it. We’ve got to get to the bottom of this.”
None of the men would meet his gaze. Creaghan didn’t like that at all.
“What?” he barked. “What in bloody hell is the problem today?”
Most of them glanced up nervously, then looked over at Carruthers. Creaghan stepped around the table upon which were spread maps of the nearby desert and the oasis of Ammon. He moved in close to Carruthers and stared at the man until he was forced to lift his eyes.
“Carruthers?” Creaghan asked.
“Well, sir, it’s only that none of us are trained for this kind of thing,” Carruthers explained. “We’re not cowards, Captain. We’re MI5, by God. But we’ve searched miles of desert by land and by air. If there’s . . . well, magic involved, Captain, how are we to even begin a proper investigation now that we know that Lady Catherine’s party are all dead?”
Creaghan stared at Carruthers, eyes narrowed with disapproval. But it was that the men had doubted him that bothered their Captain, not their uncertainty. That, he could most surely understand.
“You’re right,” he said finally, and a small smile crept across his face.
Carruthers’s expression of astonishment was comical. “I’m sorry, sir?” he asked, apparently not believing what he had heard.
“As you should be,” Creaghan snapped, his smile gone. “Don’t question your superior officer. Any of you.” He turned and strode to a corner of the tent, so he could address them all at once.
“You’re trained better than that,” Creaghan told them. “Whether it’s covert ops in Liverpool and Hong Kong, or in this godforsaken, inhuman place, you’re MI5, and you answer to me. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes, Captain!” the men responded in chorus.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “Now, let’s get down to it. Just so we have no argument about it later in case one of you boys doesn’t have the bollocks to admit what he’s seen, whatever’s happening here is not earthly. Call it sorcery, or whatever you like, but it isn’t natural. Still, somebody’s responsible, and it’s our job to find out who and eliminate the bastards.”
There was no argument. Nor would he have accepted any. Creaghan took two steps toward the center of the tent and brushed all of his maps and geological surveys onto the ground.
“Right, then,” he announced, “this stuff’s useless, isn’t it? So what do we do now, gentlemen? What is our next move?”
Rickman opened his mouth, then closed it quickly. Creaghan narrowed his eyes and glared at the man. Of all his team, Rickman had always seemed the least reliable. He was a slight man, and apparently nervous by nature. His thin goatee and round wire-rim glasses gave him a boyish look. But, after all,
Rickman was MI5, which meant he was a skilled soldier and capable killer, if it came to that.
“Don’t be so damned hesitant, man,” he scolded Rickman. “Let’s have it, then.”
“Well, Captain,” he said anxiously, “it seems to me that Hellboy is sort of drawn to these sorts of things. Or them to him, I’m not sure. But, either way, sir, I believe our best chance is to keep close watch over him.”
“And just wait until the answers present themselves, eh?” Creaghan asked, apparently skeptical.
“Yes, sir,” Rickman replied. “Whatever’s out there, it’s more likely to show itself to him, or even to attack him, than us, I should think.”
Creaghan nodded grimly. “Unfortunately, gentlemen, that is our plan. That’s why I’ve gathered you here. Burke, Carruthers, and Meaney, you’re to watch Hellboy and Dr. Bransfield at all times. The rest of you will stay here with me to deal with the regular army wankers we’ve got breathing down our necks.”
“Captain, I . . . ,” Rickman began. Creaghan held up a hand to prevent him from saying anything more.
As far as he was concerned, Rickman was a little bit too much in awe of Hellboy. It could get the man killed. If he thought that was unfair, so be it. Fairness was hardly a part of Creaghan’s job description.
“You have your orders,” he said.
“And I have mine,” came a voice from just outside the tent.
Creaghan looked up, and blinked as the tent flap was lifted and the sun shone in. The darkened silhouette wore a uniform. After a moment, he recognized the voice. Then the man came further into the tent and he could see precisely who it was.
Colonel Shapiro. The American was filled with that brusque brand of Yank confidence that had always grated on Michael Creaghan. But MI5 were trained to shake anybody’s confidence.
With a ratcheting of safety catches and a chambering of rounds, ten automatic pistols were leveled at Colonel Shapiro. The American knitted his greying eyebrows together, but otherwise showed no reaction. Creaghan was impressed. Shapiro had cold blue eyes that did not waver even for a moment from their focus.
“Can I help you, Colonel?” Captain Creaghan asked.
“I’ve consulted with my superiors and I’m afraid you’ll have to withdraw yourselves and Dr. Bransfield’s team well away from the border, Captain,” Shapiro said blandly.
“Really? Consulted your superiors, did you?” Creaghan noted. “That must have taken quite some time.”
None of his men smiled at the barb. They were MI5. They weren’t allowed to smile.
“In any case, your superiors — as I’m quite sure you realize — are not my superiors,” Creaghan continued. “My orders come from the Prime Minister of Great Britain. From him, and him alone.”
“Your defiance is imprudent, to say the least,” Colonel Shapiro observed. “We won’t be able to defend you properly. You are all in grave danger the longer you remain here.”
Creaghan almost smiled at that. If he bothered to tell the American just how much trouble they all might be in, the man would think him certifiably insane.
“Yet you can’t force us to go without causing an international incident, and a possible exchange of weapons fire that might well cost civilian lives,” Creaghan said. “We have a job to do, Colonel, just like you. You don’t get in our way, we’ll do our best not to get in yours.”
The two men stared at one another for several moments. None of Creaghan’s men cleared his throat, or scratched his head, or wavered his aim even the slightest bit.
“Out of courtesy, I would expect at the very least that your men would lower their weapons,” Colonel Shapiro said. “We are allies, after all. Your countrymen are under my command out there.”
Creaghan did not instruct his men to lower their weapons. They did not. Ten barrels pointed at Shapiro’s head, ten bullets prepared to shatter the American’s skull on his order.
“I apologize for your discomfort, Colonel,” Creaghan said insincerely. “You’ve intruded upon a meeting you Americans might call ‘top secret.’ My men are merely following protocol for such an intrusion.”
They stared at one another.
“You may go now, Colonel,” Creaghan said sternly. “Your concern is appreciated. I’ll pass it on to Dr. Bransfield when she returns from today’s expedition.”
Shapiro pushed his left hand through the silvery grey hair on his head, and smiled. It was a hateful smile, but Creaghan had become familiar with such reactions over the years. Maybe it was MI5, or just him, but he seemed to bring such joyous fury out in people.
“If war happens, Captain Creaghan, I will assume that you and your people have evacuated the area,” Colonel Shapiro said. “If this camp is vaporized by the Libyans, or even friendly fire, well, even your countrymen under my command will not be able to report that you were not warned.”
Creaghan smiled back, then replied: “And if your troops wake up one morning to find that someone slipped in during the night and slit your throat, Colonel, you can rest easy knowing that my men will find the Bedouin camel driver responsible.” He had never reacted well to threats.
Shapiro seemed about to speak, then swallowed hard. “Just so we understand one another,” the Colonel said.
“Oh, I believe we do,” Creaghan responded.
Finally, though he was obviously loathe to leave and appear to have backed down, Colonel Shapiro turned and strode from the tent, unmindful of the weapons pointed in his direction.
“Former CIA, sir?” Rickman asked.
Creaghan watched until Shapiro had disappeared from the tent entrance. “Former?” he asked. “Current CIA, I’d say.”
Anastasia was shaken. Whatever that lake monster had been, it had killed Shelby Claremont and Karl Idelson in seconds. When Hellboy blinded it, the thing had retreated, taking the corpses of her friends with it. They wouldn’t even be able to bury Karl and Shelby. And when they returned to London, Anastasia would be the one to have to tell their families.
God, she was tired.
Hellboy stood up a few yards from the lakeshore, and shook his head a few times as if disoriented. He took a step toward her, paused, then continued on with a more confident stride. His tail, which usually bobbed along behind him, trailed in the sand. That was her only indication that he might be injured.
“Are you all right?” he asked as he came closer.
“Christ, no,” she answered. “Just look around.”
Her comment was rhetorical, but Hellboy did take that moment to glance along the shore. What little remained of Anastasia’s team was slowly making its way around the lake to converge upon the spot where she stood.
“I’m going to send them home,” she said.
“They’re lucky,” Hellboy replied. “What about you, are you going home?”
Anastasia searched his face for some clue as to what he was feeling at that moment. She saw nothing. He was grim as ever, but Hellboy always looked grim when he wasn’t smiling. There were lacerations on his face just as there were all over his body, but they would heal quickly, she knew.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said finally. “Not until I have some answers.”
There was a red spark in Hellboy’s eyes when he smiled. Sometimes Anastasia believed it was there, and other times she thought it was a trick of the light. But she saw it just the same. There had been times when the brightness in his eyes had been quite intimate. As if, somewhere in his mind, a fire burned just for her.
“That’s what I figured,” he said. “Let’s head back to camp and grab some supplies. Then we’ll start checking out those hill caves.”
“Wait,” Anastasia said, startled by Hellboy’s abruptness. “You mean you’re not going to try to talk me into staying behind?”
Hellboy glanced at her, a quizzical expression on his face.
“Would you?”
“Not bloody likely.”
“So what’s your point?” he asked.
Hellboy tied the canvas bag containin
g Lady Catherine’s head to his belt and cinched it tight. He hefted a pack with canteens of water, rope, several flashlights, and six cans of Spaghettios, among other food items.
When he ducked out of Anastasia’s tent, she and Arun were sitting cross-legged on the sand, studying the tablet Hellboy had ill-advisedly retrieved from the underwater cave. Everyone else had left. Some with great relief, others with tearful reluctance. But Anastasia had insisted, threatening one or two with termination if they did not relent.
“Anything?” Hellboy asked.
Anastasia was tracing her fingers along one of the tablet’s inscriptions, and Arun seemed to be staring at her face. Neither of them responded.
“Hello?” Hellboy said. “Earth to wherever the heck you guys are?”
They both looked up, Anastasia apologetically, and Arun rather guiltily, Hellboy thought. If he’d had any question as to whether the professor was attracted to ’Stasia, that look resolved it. In fact, Hellboy thought it went a bit further than mere attraction.
“Ready to go?” Anastasia asked.
“Almost,” Hellboy replied. “What have you got?”
“Not much, I’m afraid,” she said. “Arun?”
Arun glanced up at Hellboy, then looked down at the tablet somewhat anxiously.
“Well, I can’t really decipher most of these figures, but they do seem to be a combination of Persian and Egyptian languages from the second or third century, B.C.,” Professor Lahiri explained.
“Obviously, part of the text is a warning not to remove the tablet or else face the wrath of . . . I think this says ‘the Ancient One’ or ‘the Elder Beast,’ something like that.”
They both looked up at him and Hellboy flushed with embarrassment. He wanted to smile, to pass it off with a joke, but he couldn’t. People had died because of his carelessness. It wasn’t funny, and he vowed to himself to be more careful in the future.
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