Disclaimer: I do not own nor do I claim to own any characters or concepts related to Hellboy. This is a nonprofit work of fanfiction.
Nearly six years and FFN still doesn't have a subsection for Hellboy under Movies? Dang. Anyway, this fic is most definitely movieverse, so if that isn't your cup of tea, well, now you know.
This is set before the first film by a couple of years. The summary was nicked (and the inspiration for this story derived) from Liz's del Toro-penned bio in Hellboy: The Art of the Movie; the full quote is included in the notes after the story.
Salamander
"Liz. Liz."
Her cheek stung where someone slapped her, warm hand, hard touch, again and again.
"Come on, kid. Gotta get up."
She turned her face away.
"Hey," he said. "Liz. Come on. Upsy-daisy."
She opened her eyes. Hellboy crouched over her, his shoulders bare, his eyes dark, his mouth a hard line.
"Oh, Red," she said. "You're bleeding."
"Just a scratch," he said. "Come on. We gotta get you outta here."
Thick puffs of snow drifted on the breeze between them. She smelled fire and smoke, and the heavy, charred smell that lingered after a fire, a large one, a wild one. Not snow. Ash. The sky was grey, dark with smoke, clotted with ash, and the earth beneath her was black.
She spread her fingers through the cinders and said, drowsy, "What happened?"
Hellboy touched her cheek again, lightly this time, his fingers still on the ridge of bone beneath her eye.
"We gotta go," he said.
The lights in Bruttenholm's library were dimmed for the hour, so early in the morning. Abe was awake; he slept so little. In his tank he twisted, dancing silently with himself to Vivaldi. Liz set her bags down just inside, next to the door.
"Oh," said Abe. He turned, blinking. "Liz. You're here."
"Hi, Abe," she said.
He set his hand upon the glass as she approached, her boots murmuring, hushed, over the fine carpet.
"You've finished?" he said. "With the monastery?"
"They let me go early," she said. She smiled thinly. "Star pupil."
He inclined his head, but said nothing against this.
"We've missed you," said Abe. His voice echoed strangely through the speakers.
Liz smiled at him and leaned against the glass, cool beneath her cheek. "I missed you, too. But I'm back now."
"So I see," he said.
She lowered her gaze to the bottom of his tank, where the light played, rippling with the water across the cement. She picked at her nails absently, then dropped her hands in her lap.
"How's Red?" she said.
"Well enough," said Abe. "You know how he is. He doesn't like being cooped up."
She smiled, watching the light move through the water. "No one does. Not really."
Vivaldi faded into a quiet which lingered, the speakers whispering static. The recording resumed.
"He's missed you, too, you know," said Abe. "Very, very much so."
She threw him a sharp look. "Not now, Abe."
He fluttered his hand through the water, as if to fling the thought away.
"You are wearing red today," he said.
"I'm trying a new look. You like it?" She looked down at her sweater, loose around her shoulders, the red dark like wine. She smiled lopsided. "All my other stuff is dirty."
"Ah," said Abe. "Bottom of the drawer. I thought that was it."
She shook her finger at him. "No cheating."
He curled his fingers and tilted his head, his great, dark eyes blinking at her through the water and the glass between them. "I don't have to read your mind to know that's the only reason you'd go around wearing colors."
"I like black," she said. "It's comforting."
"A little depressing," said Abe.
"Hard to clean," she agreed. She stroked her hand down the opposing sleeve, the knit showing red like blood between her fingers.
"He'll be back this evening," said Abe. "If you were wondering."
Liz looked up to him, her brow furrowed.
He spread his hands. "Hellboy," he said. "He's investigating a pixie infestation in Glendale or Scottsdale, one of those hot, dry places. But he should be home this evening."
She looked away from him. Her chest ached. She wanted to say something clever, something sharp.
She said, "Thank you."
"You missed him, too," said Abe gently.
She closed her eyes against the light, the water, the steady, knowing sympathy of Abe's gaze.
"No cheating," she said.
She took her bags to her room, that small, nondescript chamber halfway down a small, nondescript hallway. Not quite so nondescript: the corkboard remained beside her bed, photos laid over each other, covering the entirety of the board.
She knelt on her bed to look at them. Abe here and there, Kate in that corner, Professor Bruttenholm smiling out at her, his lined face so severe and so gentle all at once. She touched one of the photos, an older one with a small burn mark at the edge of it. A survivor. Hellboy grinned at her, a cigar glowing yellow between his square teeth, the flash shining off his deep-set eyes. The line of his jaw was blurry: too close. She turned from the board.
She'd brought little with her to the Ural Mountains and little more back with her. A CD for Abe of the monks singing and a manuscript for Professor Bruttenholm which Father Petrovich had copied for him by hand. Liz tucked the manuscript inside her desk, between the newspaper and magazine clippings and the mess of photos she hadn't thought worth pinning up, but couldn't throw away.
Clothes, she dumped down the laundry chute. The book she'd grabbed at the airport, that she wedged in alongside the others arranged on her one bookshelf. She pocketed a box from the second bag. The rest, trash.
In the silence of her room Liz turned slowly once on her heel. Her room at the monastery had been smaller, darker, but it had a window which overlooked the mountain, falling away from the stone face of the monastery. The first time she had looked out it she'd nearly thrown up, so dizzied by the severity of the angle, the promised violence of the drop.
The fluorescent lights hummed. Liz scratched at her arm through the sweater. Her nails caught on the thread.
"Damn," she said, picking at the hole.
She traded the sweater for a black tank top, then she left the silence of her room, empty and bright, behind her.
She took up a position on one of the railings that dotted the facility. She was small enough and light enough to get away with it, though the bar dug into her thighs. Eight forty-five. Liz pulled her top down, tugging out the wrinkles. It was too tight around her breasts. She wished she'd stuck with the sweater. Nine o'clock.
"Hey, Liz!" said Agent Mallow. Tall woman, short hair, a quick and lively face that split into a smile. "Heard you got back today."
"This morning," she said.
"Still a little tired," noted Mallow. "Long flight, huh? Where'd you come in from?"
"Bolshoye Savino," said Liz.
"Jesus!" said Mallow. "What were you doing in Russia?"
Liz smiled back at her, a short smile. "Need to know basis," said Liz.
"Ahhhh," said Mallow, unoffended. "I hear you. Say 'hi' to the big red guy when you see him." She grinned at Liz, then set off.
Liz smoothed her hands down her thighs, jeans rough on her skin, and thought twice about the wisdom of waiting in the open like this.
She heard him before she saw him, his boots sounding out hard and regular against the floor, his belt jingling.
"We'll talk about this later," snapped Manning, his voice muffled.
"Yeah," said Hellboy, his voice a low growl, "sure. I'll pencil you in."
Liz pulled herself up straight. She set her hands on the railing and held her chin up.
Hellboy rounded the corner at a clip, his coat billowing behind him, a lighter held up to his mouth. He took three broad steps, his heels pounding on the floor, then he looked up and he saw her. He stopped, the cigar forgotten at the corner of his mouth. He clicked the lighter shut.
Liz smiled at him across the distance, so vast and so little, and shrugged, awkward. She tightened her grip on the rail, her fingers curling, nails scraping over the metal.
"Hey, Red," she said.
Hellboy took the cigar from his mouth. His tail twisted, peeking around his legs.
"Liz," he said.
Hellboy strode ahead of her, then slowed, falling back to walk beside her. His tail lashed back and forth, like a cat's. "When'd you get here? Why didn't you call? You should've called."
"This morning," she said, laughing. "Abe said you were flying in tonight, so."
"Abe," he said darkly. He rounded on her. "Why didn't you say you were coming home soon?"
She smiled up at him, that familiar square face turned down to her: long angles, hard corners, the stubbed horns curious in their roundness. There was a line on his cheek near his ear, a scar she didn't remember. She looked to their feet, his oversized boots falling heavily ahead of her small, quick steps.
"I wanted it to be a surprise," she said.
"Chalk one up for the kid," he said.
Obliging, Liz licked her finger and marked a tally in the air. Hellboy snorted, amused, and preceded her into his room.
"Father's still out?" said Hellboy.
"That's what Abe said," said Liz. She dropped low to catch one of the cats, of which three had emerged from hiding. Hellboy stooped to greet the other two.
"Hey, Molly Malone," he said to a calico, who twined around his foot, rubbing her head against his leg.
Liz stood, cradling the tabby to her chest. "Is this Snickers?" she said, peering into the cat's face. The cat blinked, unbothered. His ears twitched. "Oh, my God, he's so fat."
"Cut him some slack," said Hellboy. "He's got a thyroid problem. Doc's still working out the right dosage for his meds."
She eyed him over Snickers' broad head. "You aren't feeding them scraps, are you?"
"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't accuse me in front of the kids," said Hellboy.
"Is your daddy feeding you scraps?" Liz asked Snickers, who yawned, his pink tongue rolling. She held him as she crossed the floor, looking to the flat ceiling, the television displays, the tidied bed in the back of the truck, refamiliarizing herself with his room.
"Where is the professor?" she said, turning to Hellboy, who was watching her, his yellow eyes shadowed. She looked away.
He straightened, Molly purring noisily in the crook of his arm. "Father?" he said. "Some government thing. More work for us," he said to Molly. He set her down on the table. She meowed plaintively up at him, then flopped down on top of a magazine, her tail twisting and untwisting.
"How was Russia?" he said, affecting an accent.
Liz fell back on the couch. Snickers wriggled around in her arms, bucking until she let him curl up in her lap, his paws flexing. Hellboy settled down beside her, the couch creaking beneath him. His arm brushed hers.
"Cold," said Liz at last. She petted Snickers once, following the supple line of his spine. "Quiet. Serene," she said, tasting the word.
"Sounds like one hell of a party," said Hellboy.
She smiled. "It was nice," she said.
He grunted. He stretched a stone finger out to Snickers, who sniffed at it, whiskers twitching, then licked it.
"Oh," said Liz, "I got you something."
She hefted a protesting Snickers and dumped him in Hellboy's arms. Hellboy adjusted the cat, tucking him in against his chest. Snickers snarled, then relaxed.
"Better not be nesting dolls," said Hellboy. "Unless you did get me nesting dolls, in which case I love 'em."
She withdrew the box from her pocket. "They might be a little crumpled," she said. "But you can still smoke them."
Gingerly he took the box from her. "Cigars," he said. He looked at her, his head low, eyes even with hers. "Russian cigars?"
"Sort of," she said. "They're Kahlua White Russian Cigars." She dropped her voice, apologetic: "I bought them at the airport in Italy."
"Liz," he said. Slowly he grinned, the far corner of his mouth pulling back. "You shouldn't have."
"They're for special occasions," she said, as he peeled the plastic wrapping free.
"What do you think this is?" he said. He popped the carton open. "You. Me. All alone on a Saturday night. Just like old times."
She huffed a laugh, quiet through her teeth. She smiled at him again, softer now, following the harsh contours of his face, so near.
"Just like old times," she said.
"Nothing more special than that," he said.
He flipped his lighter open.
"Wait," said Liz. She held her hand out, her fingers wriggling.
"Since when do you smoke cigars?" he demanded.
"I've smoked cigars," she said.
"Last time you smoked a cigar, you puked on my rug," he said. "That's why I don't have a rug."
Liz lifted her chin, her mouth arch, her gaze steady. Something in his face flicked; something stilled. He looked to the carton.
"You owe me a cigar," he said, handing it to her.
She leaned forward, holding the tip to his lighter. The cigar caught. She leaned back again, folded her arm across her chest, and smiled at him over the length of cigar, fat between her fingers.
"You're gonna puke," he warned.
"I think I can stomach it," she said. To illustrate, she dragged on the cigar. She held it on her tongue a moment, triumphant, then she turned, coughing. Her throat scraped; her chest clenched.
"Told you," said Hellboy. His tail flicked between them, against his thigh, then hers. "Should've stuck with cigarettes. Lightweight." He rested his left hand between her shoulder blades, steadying.
She scraped her teeth over her tongue, blanching at the taste. "Here." She handed him the cigar. "This is yours."
"Yeah, thanks," he said. He took it, scowling. "Waste of a perfectly good cigar."
She looked at him over her shoulder, her eyes bleary, lashes wet. "Just smoke both," she said.
"And look like a grade A jackass," he said, dragging it out.
Liz pressed the heel of her hand to her eyes, blotting them. "I don't think the cats really care what you look like," she said.
"That makes nine of you," he said. He considered the cigar in his hand and the cigar in his mouth, then shrugged. "Jackass it is." He popped the second cigar between his teeth, then glanced sidelong at her. He tipped his head. "Well?" he said, his lips pursed.
"Oh, very impressive," she said, nodding.
He faced forward. "Just like old times," he said.
In silence they sat together, his arm firm against hers, Snickers purring softly in his lap. Hellboy's tail flicked again, brushing her knee. Liz leaned her head against his shoulder.
"So," said Hellboy. He gestured to the televisions stacked before them. "What're you in the mood for? Chaplin?"
"Bogart," she said.
"Maltese?"
"The Big Sleep," she said.
He exhaled and the smoke, the scent of the cigars wafted before her. Liz closed her eyes against it. Beneath her cheek, his shoulder was warm, the angle of it gentle.
"Good movie," he said.
She woke in the night to the scrape of a tongue on her cheek: one of the cats, nuzzling into her hair. "Hey, kitty," she murmured.
The room was dark, the TVs silent. She stroked the cat and listened to the distinctive, even rumbling of Hellboy breathing in his sleep, somewhere in the shadows that surrounded her. The blanket he'd thrown over her smelled faintly of cigars, of cats and chocolate and pizza.
The cat purred in her ear, its tongue rasping across her skin, its nose cold, wet against her ear. She rubbed its head gently, the fur soft beneath her fingers, the skull delicate.
"Good kitty," she whispered. The cat butted her palm, pressing near.
Liz closed her eyes.
"So," said Hellboy, "what'd they teach you up there in that monastery?"
They were alone in the gym but for an agent in the far corner, working grimly at the treadmill. Hellboy hefted the weights above his shoulders; he held them there a moment.
"Patience," drawled Liz. She flicked him a meaningful glance through her lashes. "You should try it."
"Never had the patience for it." He lowered the weights, the muscles thick through his chest relaxing minutely. "You learn anything useful?"
"I can make stone soup," she offered as his shoulders stiffened again, muscles cording. "And I know how to cast out an ala now."
"That'll come in handy next eclipse," he grunted.
She watched him work, his skin rippling with each cycle of the weights, his muscles bunching, broad shoulders holding even. Another scar foreign to her cut across his left shoulder blade, a thin pucker in the flesh.
"That's fifty," she said at last.
The floor shook when he dropped the weights. The agent in the corner looked at them briefly, then turned away, her face lifted to the small TV. Hellboy followed her gaze. His jaw worked.
"I learned something else, too," said Liz. He looked down at her, considering. "Want to see?"
"I'll clear my schedule," he said.
In the locker room he fished his lighter out, tossing it to her. She caught it between her hands, the metal cool to the touch.
"It's a control technique," she said as she struck the light. The small flame rolled, guttering, then steadying. She curled her hand around it, at a distance. "I reach out to the fire," she said softly, the flame burning, burning, "and I pull it inside me." The flame vanished. She felt the heat in her hand, in her wrist, in the bones, then nothing more.
Smiling, Liz looked up to Hellboy. His gaze was steady on her, his hard face somehow soft. There was a weight to his gaze, a heaviness.
She held the lighter up to him, the metal glinting silver in the light. He held his hand out, accepting it. She placed it neatly on his palm, her fingers brushing his skin, rough against hers.
"It's not much," she said. "But it's a start."
He closed his fingers around the lighter.
"What astounding progress!" said Abe, when she showed him later. She flexed her fingers, the tips tingling. "And what control. You simply take it into yourself?"
"That's the idea," she said.
"Impressive," he admired. "And how long did it take for you to achieve this?"
"Watch it, Mister Tact," said Hellboy, without much heat.
"That's really funny coming from you," said Liz.
"What?" he said. He settled back in his chair. "I'm tactful. I'm the master of diplomacy."
"Oh, yeah," said Liz. "That's why you're in PR."
"Hey," he said, pointing his cigar at her. "Now who's tactful?"
Liz turned from him, laughing. Abe's mouth twitched, his own quiet, miniscule approximation of a smile.
"Out of scientific curiosity," said Abe, soothing. He turned his hand over between them. Behind his goggles, he blinked, the nictitating membrane flicking over his eyes. "How do you do it?"
She rolled her shoulders and said, "Um, well, it's sort of a meditation thing? And an attraction thing."
"Like calls to like," mused Abe. "Yes. And the greater power consumes the lesser. That is very good, Liz. An excellent start."
"I probably could've learned more," she confessed, "if I'd stayed longer."
Abe studied her in that gracious way he had, not demanding, but receiving. Hellboy watched her in his own brooding way; she saw the tip of his tail flipping on the carpet.
She shrugged. "But it wasn't home," she said.
Abe smiled again. Hellboy dragged on his cigar, his eyes lowered. Liz ducked her head. She tucked her hands into her cuffs, drew her sleeves tight over her wrists.
Hellboy tapped his cigar over a plated ashtray.
"Anyone up for a game of poker?" he said.
Bit by bit she relaxed into the patterns of life at the BPRD, half-remembered, not forgotten. The air in the compound was sterile, so far beneath the earth, and the walls of her room equally barren but for the corkboard of photos which watched over her as she slept. She felt strange, as if half of her were present and half of her were not, gone someplace else. She thought perhaps she was waiting for something.
At night she dreamt of Father Petrovich and the window which looked out upon the mountain.
"We must take care," said Father Petrovich in his deep, somnolent voice, "that we do not fall."
She closed her hand and out of her palm, fire licked her fingers. A breeze came through the window, a cold breeze, and the fire died in her hand.
Late in the afternoon of the third day, the professor returned.
"Liz," said Professor Bruttenholm. "So you've returned."
He smiled fondly at her, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses. She hugged him without meaning to do so. His shoulders were thin, his movements delicate, and his embrace stiff. But the lightness of his hand on her back was sincere and the dry warmth of his cheek pressed against hers a comfort.
"Yes," he said, "we've all missed you terribly as well. And how was your trip?"
She held his hands in her own and thought. "Productive," she said at last.
He squeezed her hands firmly. "I'm glad to hear it. And I'm glad to see you are well. Should we expect another such trip soon?"
Liz smiled. "No," she said. "No, I don't think so."
"Good," said the professor. He patted the back of her hand, his fingers dry, still chill from outside. "Good. Things are never quite the same here without you. But I'm afraid," he said, "I must cut this reunion short. There is a situation, one which requires our particular attention. My son—"
"Yes, Father?" said Hellboy.
Professor Bruttenholm started. He turned about and smiled up at Hellboy, as he came around to stand beside him.
"Hello, my boy," said Professor Bruttenholm. "Well. Come with me," he said, looking to Liz, "the both of you."
In the library, he drew out a large folder from his case, which he set neatly upon the floor. Liz busied herself with a length of yarn, stolen from one of Hellboy's cats. Hellboy took up a respectful stance beside her, his hands folded at his back, his head turned down to his father. Abe, outfitted in breather and goggles, looked on.
"We received word of a peculiar package," said the professor, "which was carried into this country by one Richard Trencher, from a curio shop in Italy. Oddities and Curiosities, is the name. They deal mostly with small items, personal tokens, marginal magics of little concern. But we have had trouble with them before."
He withdrew a packet from the file.
"This is a manifest of what was brought in from that shop. Customs thought little of it," said Professor Bruttenholm, "but we think very much of it indeed." He turned a page in the manifest, then set it upon the table for them to see. He tapped his finger against the third line. "Salamander."
"Salamander," said Hellboy. He wriggled his fingers. "Little crawly lizard? Likes the rain?"
Professor Bruttenholm smiled down at the manifest. "'This has no digestive organs,'" he said, "'and gets no food but from the fire, in which it constantly renews its scaly skin. The salamander, which renews its scaly skin in the fire,—for virtue.'"
"Leonardo da Vinci," said Abe, pleased.
"Virtue, huh?" said Hellboy.
"So it likes fire instead," said Liz. She twisted the yarn quickly thrice around her wrist.
"Yes, it likes fire," said Professor Bruttenholm. "It needs it. To eat. To bathe. To live. Which is all well and good, but for that it also makes fire where ever it goes, unless it is properly contained by someone who knows what they're doing."
Liz pulled the yarn tight, tight so her fingers tingled.
"This Trencher fella," said Hellboy. "We know anything about him?"
"He is a teacher," said Professor Bruttenholm, "at a small university in Pennsylvania, of folklore and literature. Or he was."
"Was?" said Abe, politely.
Professor Bruttenholm withdrew another packet from the file, this one topped with glossy photos. Liz turned her face from them, too late. Blackened bodies curled in upon themselves, faces stripped of flesh, laid over with ash. Hellboy touched her shoulder, briefly.
"He died," said Professor Bruttenholm, with a sort of distant regret, "along with his wife and a child, in a fire which consumed his house one week ago."
"Damn," said Hellboy.
"Please watch your tongue," said Professor Bruttenholm.
Hellboy lowered his gaze. "Sorry, sir."
Liz grinned at Hellboy, who grimaced back at her, the harsh lines of his face folding somewhat at the edges.
"The police suspect arson," said Professor Bruttenholm, "but we suspect otherwise."
He set another sheet upon the table, a satellite image of a city, dotted with red circles. Pittsburgh, said the print in the bottom corner. Liz leaned forward. Lightly she touched the largest circle, which sat at the edge of a park.
"Nine more fires have been reported, all leading away from the Trencher residence." Professor Bruttenholm folded his hands together upon his cane. "The fires are growing," he said, "in size and in strength. So, too, is the creature. If we cannot contain it before it reaches maturity, the harm—" He shook his head. "Incalculable."
"Salamander," murmured Liz.
"So we find it," said Hellboy. "We contain it. We send it home. Easy like Sunday morning."
"And if we cannot contain it?" said Abe.
"Then you must kill it," said Professor Bruttenholm.
"All right," said Hellboy. The plane jittered and he swayed lightly, more solid than the others. Liz clutched the table to steady herself.
"We've got maps with the projected route here, and police scanners. Everybody gets one. One one seven one is fire, but there's a couple other codes you'll want to know. Read 'em before we land."
He passed the papers to Liz, who passed them down to the agents hunched around them.
"We're looking for a lizard," said Hellboy. "Big one, getting bigger. Probably on fire."
"What, like, a dragon?" scoffed Agent Shale.
"Not a dragon," said Liz. She looked Shale over, dismissive. "Dragons are easier to find."
Shale glowered. "Then what?" he snapped.
"A salamander," said Abe.
"Hey, I know those," said another agent, Dolo. "Cute little things."
"Mm, yes," said Abe, dispassionate, "adorable. But that is a very different creature."
Hellboy grinned at them around his cigar. "We're hunting a fire elemental, boys and girls."
Abe continued, unbothered. "Plural, salamandrae," he said. "Brother, or sister, to the European dragon or winged serpent, and cousin to the basilisk, 'the king of serpents.' The salamander seeks out fire and heat to replenish itself. If it cannot find a fire, it makes one. Once it matures, it divides itself into equal parts, and so continues its line."
"Least it doesn't have to worry about finding a date," said Hellboy.
"So we have to find it before it grows up," said Liz. "And at the rate it's moving, we've only got about ten hours left."
"Big city," said Hellboy. He flicked his cigar. "Lots to burn."
"We are to contain it," said Abe, "but if we cannot, we must..." He spread his fingers delicately. "Extinguish it."
"And how are we doing that?" said Mallow.
Hellboy stood and hefted the crate he'd been sitting on. "That's what we've got these for," he said. He dropped the crate on the table; it boomed, shaking the table. "Forty-two gallons of Class A flame retardant foam." He inclined his head. "We've got another two crates in the back. It's a low-expansion foam, so it oughtta cover a lot of space real quick. Just point—" He demonstrated with his cigar. "And click."
"Easy like Sunday morning," murmured Liz.
"And a barbecue after church," said Hellboy. He stabbed the cigar out.
Pittsburgh was cold. Pittsburgh was wet. Liz folded her arms across her chest, pulling the jacket tight over her shoulders. The street was dark; it glimmered faintly, slick with rain water, here and there with ice. She turned, looking the other way, then clambered back into the truck. She jerked the door shut behind her.
"Gotta find a more glamorous way of getting around," Hellboy was muttering.
"Everything's quiet out here," said Liz.
She brushed her hand over his shoulder in passing. The monitor displays winked back at her, thermal readings next to silent video feeds of the street.
"What do you think?" said Hellboy. He turned, following her progress.
"About what?"
"This," he said. He lifted his stone hand and looked about, encompassing the entirety of the truck.
She considered it: the solid walls, the flickering screens, the closeness of it, the smallness. The lingering familiarity. She touched the wall nearest her, felt the coolness against her skin.
"I kind of like it," she said.
"You like the garbage truck?" he said.
"You'd prefer to fight monsters out of a limo?"
"A Mercedes," he said. "Something classy."
"No offense, Red," she said, "but I don't think you'd fit inside a Mercedes."
"Okay," he said. "So a modified Mercedes. Anything's better than this pile of junk."
Liz laughed. She pushed off the floor, spinning slowly around in her rolling chair. She tipped her head back and watched the light on the ceiling twirl in an exaggerated, asymmetrical circle.
"Listen," said Hellboy.
She lifted her head. He was watching her, his face quiet.
"We didn't exactly get to talk," he said, "before we got on that plane. You haven't been out in the field in months," he said. "You sure about this? Being out here?"
She thought of her white room back at the compound, and a window that looked over a cold mountain. She flexed her fingers. Her palm itched. When she looked again to Hellboy his eyes were on her still, the strong line of his mouth softer now at the corner.
"Yes," she said. "I'm sure."
He leaned forward. In the close quarters of the truck, so small, his breath sounded near to her ear.
"Liz," he said.
Over the radio link Abe said, "Liz? Red? We've found something."
"Damn," said Hellboy.
Liz traced the edge of the black, wet ash clinging to the toe of her boot. She stuffed her hands deeper into her pockets and walked, following the line of the circle. It smelled of fire still, a clean fire. Pure. She turned and walked backward on her heels.
"Took out an entire park and no one noticed. Damn," said Hellboy again.
"It's remarkable," said Abe. "It must have consumed the entire park—trees, grass, wildlife, even the playground—in a matter of seconds. Leaving nothing."
"But ash," said Hellboy. He dragged his boot across the cement. "Crap. I hate cleaning this stuff off."
Liz closed her eyes. Beneath her feet, beneath the ash, through the solid, vulcanized rubber soles of her boots, she felt the heat in the ground, the echoes of fire.
"The thermal scans show it went this way," said Abe, "toward the street. Where it went from there, I don't know."
"Can't you read the ground?" said Hellboy. "Pull off some psychic trick to get us back on track?"
"I tried," said Abe. "But nothing. Where it goes and how it gets there—I have no 'tricks' to answer those riddles."
"North," said Liz. She opened her eyes.
Startled, Abe curled his fingers against his upraised palm.
"It went north. Then northwest. That way." She pointed. The wind shivered through her hair and she hunched her shoulders, burying her hand back in her pocket.
"You sure?" said Hellboy.
She nodded.
"Then let's go," he said.
As they crossed back to the truck, Abe leaned over her shoulder to say, curious, "How do you know?"
Liz shrugged. She curled her toes, the arches of her feet hot. "I can feel it, I guess," she said. "I can smell it." Smoke wisping across her tongue, an echo of fire, sharp, clean.
"Come on," she said. She picked up the pace.
"I think we got something," said Mallow, her voice clear across the line. "There's a church about five blocks from your position. Our thermal reading's off the chart."
"Any reports?" said Liz.
"Police? Naw," said Mallow. "But if this lizard's burning as fast as Abraham says it is, that's not a surprise."
"Roger," said Liz, and she switched lines to speak with the driver.
The church sat isolated on a corner, a tall, thin building with a grim stone edifice reminiscent of larger and more elgant cathedrals. The heavy doors were opened. Mallow descended the steps at their approach.
"Our thermal scans say there's definitely something in this area," said Mallow. She gestured to Agent Feldspar, pacing the sidewalk halfway down the block. "Something hot. But if it's here..." Her wide mouth pinched. She shrugged.
Liz waved to Abe and Agent Dolo, motioned for Hellboy to rendezvous with Feldspar, and shouldered her tank, the hose strapped to her wrist and swinging softly from her arm. She took the narrow steps one by one and entered the shadows of the church.
"Oh, my," said Abe. "Yes. There is definitely something here."
Like walking out of winter into a pocket of summer: the black interior of the church was stifling, the air hot and acutely dry.
"The entire block is like this," Mallow said. "But it's hottest in here." Someone called to her and Mallow turned, stepping back into the cool evening which waited outside.
Liz picked at the front of her shirt. She craned her neck, looking up to the vaulted ceiling, graceful, knotted stone arches thick with shadows, revealing nothing. Behind the altar, the Virgin Mother watched them in silence, her Son still in her arms, his hand stretched out in offering.
"Hm!" said Abe.
Liz turned to him. He stood near the back corner, his head bent over the small pocket display he carried. He lowered the display.
"Did you find something?" she said.
"I believe so. There is something," he said slowly, "over here. A small light..."
He leaned forward, the hose slack along his arm. He set his hand upon the wall.
Fire erupted from the small, dark spaces between the stones of the wall, of the floor. Abe made a sound, a horrible wet sort of gasp, and threw himself into a roll across the floor, away from the conflagration, which grew and grew, sweeping now against the ceiling.
"It's here, Red, it's in here," Liz shouted into her headset, then she pulled hard on the hose, holding it up even with the fire, still spilling out of the walls of the church. Point, and click. Nearer to the door, Agent Dolo did the same.
A hissing sound, like wood popping in a fire: out of the growing, twisting flames something peered at her, a great, serpentine eye swiveling about to blink and stare for one long moment. In the fire, there was a sudden suggestion of a jaw unhinging, a tongue unfurling. The flames undulated, variations of red and yellow twining about each other, hints of green, blue, a faint white deeper within. Liz's skin crawled; her hands itched.
"What's it doing," said Agent Dolo, "hey, what's it doing!"
The eye rolled back. The salamander twisted, pulling into itself, tightening into a massive, pulsing ball—
"Red," said Liz, "it's coming your way!"
It exploded forward, scorching through the church. Liz turned her face away; the brightness of it seared through her eyelids. Agent Dolo screamed.
"Shit!" said Agent Feldspar, her voice crackling over the radio link, which flooded with static. "—the sewer—"
In the sudden darkness of the church, Liz blinked back impressions of fire, playing across her eyes, digging through her skin. No time. She shrugged off her pack, the heavy tank thumping hard against the foam-slick floor, the hose twisting briefly like a snake. Abe was silent; he was still.
"Oh, shit, Abe," she said.
She crouched over him, feeling his face, his chest. Her hands shook. Three long scratches low on his torso, the wetsuit parted, his skin blackened, rough to the touch.
"This Class A foam ain't worth shit," said Dolo. His tank clattered against the wall.
"We need someone in here!" said Liz. "Now, we need someone—Abe," she said.
His eyes blinked, the membrane fluttering. The right lens of his goggles was cracked, but his breather was secure; the glass held.
"Abe, look at me," said Liz. "I need you to look at me. How many fingers—"
"Liz," said Abe. "I think I found the salamander."
"And we lost it," said Dolo.
Abe sighed, a long, mournful sound. The membrane fluttered over his eyes again.
"No, no," said Liz, "Abe! I swear to God, Abe, if you don't look at me—"
Someone crouched across from her: Agent Shale, with his perpetual sneer. She stared at him over Abe, who gasped something; he lifted his hand, his fingers twitching.
"I got him," said Shale. "He'll be all right, Agent Sherman. Chopper's coming in from International." His fingers wandered down Abe's chest, picking out the gouges marking his gut. "Cauterized," he said. "Could be worse. Could be better, but."
Liz covered her mouth and exhaled. Her breath rolled hot across her fingers.
In her ear, the line crackled. Red.
"Hey, Liz," he said. His voice rasped. "How you doing up there?"
"Abe's hurt," she said. "They're flying him out. Chopper."
A faint crackle on the line, then another.
"Damn," he said at last. A distant voice called. Hellboy responded, his voice fading into an indistinct bass rumble. He turned back to her. "Listen," he said. "We're tracking this thing. Got a lead, for now. Sewer's wet; it can't get too far."
Liz folded her arm across her chest. In the chill of the church, in the absence of fire, her skin prickled.
"Look, Red," she said. At her knees, Abe shivered. "Just be careful. Okay?"
"Don't worry," he said. She imagined the cocky tilt of his shoulders, the line of his smirk. "I got an ace up my sleeve."
Liz looked to the doors of the church, opened onto the night, dark and thick with the promise of rain.
"And what's that, Red?" she said.
"I'm fireproof," he said. "Stay in touch."
The line went silent.
In the truck Liz watched the video feeds, the thermal read-outs, all the myriad displays, and waited, her knees pulled up to her chest. She turned a lighter over between her fingers, flicking it open, then snapping it shut again.
Heavy, squelching footsteps on the ramp of the truck. She lifted her head.
"Lost it," said Hellboy. He tossed his trenchcoat, wadded up, dripping, stinking of smoke and cold sewage, hard enough to shake the displays. He pivoted around on his heel, scratching at his neck, bowed. His tail thrashed.
"How the hell are we supposed to find this thing?" he said.
Liz closed the lighter with a soft click.
"I have an idea," she said.
He dropped his hand. Hellboy shifted, turning to her. At his belt a charm swung, the thin chain ringing against his buckle.
"Yeah?" he said.
"You're not going to like it," she said.
Hellboy eyed her. His mouth compressed.
She flicked the lighter open. The small flame shimmied, thinning.
"The salamander seeks out fire," she said, echoing Abe.
Hellboy watched her, his face still, unreadable, his tail lashing.
She held her hand out to the flame, which shivered once, then vanished. Heat pooled in her palm, then that, too, vanished. Liz clicked the lighter shut.
"So we give it fire," she said.
"This is a bad idea," said Hellboy.
"We don't have a lot of time left," said Liz.
"This is a really bad idea," he said. A muscle in his jaw tick-ticked away. His teeth flashed. "You were right. I don't like it."
"Red," she said. She touched his arm.
"I'm gonna check on the sprinklers," he muttered. He stalked off, his tail whipping behind him.
Liz scrubbed at her face, hard. She took in a deep breath, then let it out through her teeth. She dropped her hands to her thighs.
The foundry was empty and dark, long abandoned and forgotten at the edge of the city. In the weak and uncertain light of the early pre-dawn morning the building was filled with strange shadows: old equipment, fallen beams, the skeletal system of an industry that had faded from this city years before.
Liz cupped her hands over her mouth and breathed out again, then again, then again, until the bitter morning chill left her. Between her fingers, sparks showed.
"Sprinklers are ready," said Mallow. She came around behind Liz. She smiled. "Are you?"
Liz flexed her fingers. Like webbing, delicate flames spread between them.
"Yeah," she said.
Mallow's eyes crinkled. "Good," she said. "I'll let the big red guy know."
Liz closed her hands into fists, then opened them again. Pale green flames hummed across her skin, following the creases in her palms, the spiderweb of lines inside each knuckle. At the heart of the foundry, alone, she knelt in the dust. She held her hands before her.
"The fire is yours," Father Petrovich had told her. "It is inside you. It is of you, and it is yours. It is not your enemy. Do not think of it as such. It is your friend. Your sister."
My friend. My sister. She mouthed the words. The fire rolled over her fingers, her hands, her wrists, but it spread no further.
She heard Hellboy's tread, the steady pound, the slight swagger. He stopped beside her, his belt jingling.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," she said.
He crouched in the dust, his massive shoulder even with her chin. She lifted her eyes. He was near to her, so near, and she felt the heat of him like another flame, burning beside her. He looked away. She studied the square corner of his jaw, the sharp point of his ear.
"So listen," he said. "When Sally gets here, we hit the sprinklers, douse it with a hundred some gallons of flame retardant foam and a couple hundred gallons of water."
"And I'll keep it here," she said.
His tail trailed through the dirt, whispering.
"You gonna be okay?" he said.
She smiled at him. Dryly she said, "I'll try not to get burned."
"You and me both." He felt in his pocket. "Ha," he said. He held up a cigar, slightly crumpled. "Mind lending me a light?"
She considered the cigar. Liz pursed her lips.
"What?" he said. He rolled it between his fingers, then fitted it to the corner of his mouth. "It's a special occasion. First case together in, what, six months?"
"And extra," she said.
He smiled, careless. "Who's counting?"
Liz stretched her hand out to him, the fire guttering between her fingers. She pinched her thumb and forefinger together, offering a tendril of green glame. Hellboy shifted the cigar between his teeth and bent over her hand, his shoulder firm against her arm. Through the fire his breath puffed, cool. Smoke curled through her fingers. He straightened.
"Torch it up," he said. He thumped her shoulder.
Liz swallowed a breath: chill air, wet in her throat. She exhaled fire.
"Empty your mind," said Father Petrovich. "Clear your thoughts. Think of the fire. Reach out to it. Take it into yourself. This is your friend, whom you love. You must not fear it. You must embrace it."
The fire rolled off her skin in thickening waves, brighter now, stronger. She held her hands to her chest: drawing it close, keeping it there. Her palms itched. Her flesh crawled. The fire sang in her gut; it called out.
She thought of the monastery, of standing at the top of the mountain, where the air was so cold, the air so thin. She hadn't been afraid there.
"Do not fear the fire," said Father Petrovich.
"I do not fear the fire," Liz whispered. She breathed out and the fire breathed with her.
"Jesus shit!" shouted Mallow. Her voice echoed through the foundry: a sudden call, splitting the silence.
Liz opened her eyes.
Into the foundry, out of the cold, it poured: the salamander, blazing like a small sun. The dust hissed beneath it; the metal beams of the floor above moaned, weakening. So much fire: the salamander towered over her; it surrounded her; it swallowed her. In the flames she saw strange shapes, a creature like a dog, a serpent, a horrible thing with wings and teeth like needles, bared.
I do not fear the fire, she thought.
She reached out to the salamander, her hands so pale against the shifting colors, and she took that bit of fire inside her. The salamander screamed.
"Now," she shouted. "The sprinklers."
The salamander writhed, spiraling closer, now tearing away. She held on to it, dragging it nearer, pulling more of it into herself as it snapped at her, flames biting at her skin, which did not burn. She heard a distant hissing and she didn't know if it was the sprinklers turning on at last, or something else: the salamander weeping.
It bucked around her, red flames, yellow flames, a broad plume of orange that trembled before her. She swallowed more of it. When she blinked, fire trailed across her eyes; it dripped from her lashes, more blue now than green. She shuddered. In her ear the fire whispered. On her tongue, it sighed.
The salamander drew around her: it circled her, like a dog. It was smaller now, she thought. Fire dripped down upon her, hot, red tears that slithered down her face.
She heard shouting, somewhere. Voices raised.
Liz turned. Through a haze she saw them: Mallow, a tall, dark line, and Dolo small beside her. Hellboy stretching his stone hand out to her, the joints glowing. The fire whipped through her hair.
"All right, Liz," said Hellboy, "you got the bastard. Turn it off."
She held her hands out and opened her mouth, and off her tongue, blue fire rolled. She shook her head once, then again, as he shouted, "Turn it off, Liz!"
"I can't," she said. "I can't."
The salamander screamed, its voice like warping steel, twisting in fire. It convulsed around her, a serpent wrapping its coils tighter around her. An eye flashed at her in the fire, a lizard's eye, then vanished once more into the roiling flames.
"You can!" Hellboy shouted at her, through the roar of the fire. "You can do this, Liz. Turn it off. Turn it off!"
The salamander screamed again. Fire, everything was fire: within her, without her. She could not see but for the flames; she could not hear but for the crackling, the shrieking, the sound of her own breath like a bellows in her ear. Her heart trembled and the fire pulsed, burning brighter, burning hotter, burning farther.
"Liz!" shouted Hellboy. "Goddammit! Liz!"
She looked up, up. Through the flames she saw Hellboy, like a shadow in the light, snarling as he batted at the fire, pushing through to reach out to her. His fingers unfurled, open to her.
The salamander undulated, twining closer around her. Inside her, the fire sang; it rolled through her gut, her chest, her mouth, her skull.
"Run," she said.
The fire spilled out of her.
Someone touched her face, not gently.
"Hey. Liz. Come on. Upsy-daisy."
She opened her eyes. Hellboy leaned over her, red against the grey sky. Her skin prickled, chilled. She frowned.
"Oh, Red," she said. "You're bleeding."
"Just a scratch," he said.
In sleep she heard Hellboy's voice, rumbling. She felt his hand, hot on her cheek, and wished he would stay.
She woke to the sound of paper, rustling. A lamp shone in a near corner, where the professor sat at a small table, a book opened before him. His rosary dangled from his wrist, the cross gleaming in the light. Grief bowed his shoulders, already so bowed.
"Oh," said Professor Bruttenholm, "my dear Elizabeth."
She turned away.
Four agents dead, he told her. Dolo. Mallow. Feldspar. Trent, with whom she had never spoken.
She licked her lips, so dry. "Civilians?" she whispered to the ceiling, where shadows pooled.
"Twenty-three," said Professor Bruttenholm.
She closed her eyes.
"Abe?"
"It will be another week or so before Abraham is well enough to walk among us once more," said the professor. "But he will be well soon."
She opened her eyes. The ceiling was still dark. At the corner, light played, a steady glow seeping into the shadows.
"And Red?" she said.
"A small cut," said the professor, "already healed."
Liz folded her hands over her chest. She felt her heart beating against her fingers, felt her chest rise and fall.
"I have to go away," she said. She looked over to the professor. "I can't stay here."
"Liz," he said.
"I can't," she said. "I can't. I have to go away."
The professor considered this in silence.
"Father Petrovich would be most happy to see you again," he said at last. "And if you tire of Russia, there is a place here, Bellamie, where you would be safe."
"Safe," she whispered. She smiled, without humor, and held her dry hand to her eyes. Her tears were hot, but they were only water.
In the morning, before she left, Liz went to see Abe. He was awake then, drifting through his tank. The room was quiet and her footsteps, light on the carpet, sounded like drums.
"Oh, hello, Liz," said Abe.
He twisted to face her. There were stitches on his side, lines dissonant with the graceful contours of his body.
"Hi, Abe," she said.
She touched her hand to the glass. He touched his hand to the glass as well, mirroring hers. His gills fluttered. He withdrew his hand.
"Oh," he said. His fingers settled opposite her palm. "Liz," he said.
"I thought I'd say good-bye this time," she said. "I didn't really get the chance last time. So."
He tipped his head. "Does Hellboy know?"
Liz looked down to the floor, the rich red of the carpet lining it. "No," she said. She fixed Abe with a hard stare. "And you can't tell him. Not until I'm gone."
The soft susurration of Abe's breath filtered through the speakers.
"We will miss you," he said, offering peace.
Liz spread her fingers wide across the glass. The water shimmered beyond both.
"I'll miss you, too," she said.
"Yes," said Abe, "I know."
She smiled. "No cheating."
At the door, her bag in hand, she turned. Abe treaded water, waiting.
"When you tell him," she said.
"I wasn't going to," said Abe.
"Abe," she said.
He bowed his head, conceding.
"What should I tell the big lug?" said Abe.
Liz pressed her back against the door. "Tell him I'm sorry," she said, then she swung around to pull the doors open.
Quietly, they closed behind her.
Outside the air was cold, the sky swollen with clouds, bearing down from the west. She thought it might snow later.
The cab waited for her outside the gates.
"Newark Liberty International?" said the driver.
She nodded.
"Need any help with your bags?"
"No," she said. "It's just the one."
He shrugged and turned back to the wheel. He pulled out, the tires crunching over gravel, then humming softly over the pavement.
Liz faced forward. Behind her, the compound receded, then vanished, lost behind the hill and the trees that rose around it. She leaned her head against the window. The glass was smooth; it numbed her skin. She closed her eyes.
This story was originally posted at livejournal on 02/19/2010. Reformatted 11/30/2010.
In the movie Liz tells John Myers she's quit the Bureau thirteen times. The short comic-book-style biography (penned and illustrated by Guillermo del Toro) from Hellboy: The Art of the Movie offers this re: the thirteenth time: "Then came the 'Pittsburgh Incident' of 2002. Six Bureau agents on assignment in an abandoned foundry. Suddenly: a mile-wide fireball of enormous devastation. The only survivors: Liz Sherman and Hellboy." (That's page 107, true believers.)
I wanted to write something about that thirteenth time in 2004, back when Hellboy had just come out, but I don't think I ever got around to it. It's for the best. I couldn't write for crap in 2004 anyway.
(Of course, after I wrote this, I rediscovered the old del Toro-penned biographies from the first movie's website, in which the Pittsburgh Incident is described in more detail. This story, uh, doesn't really jive with that more thorough description of what went down. Whoops. Oh, well, maybe next time.)
In the comics, Liz does live for some time with an order of monks in the Ural Mountains of Russia, to better understand and control her pyrokinesis. I messed around with that a bit for this story, but that's where I got it from.
Thanks for reading. :)