The Mouth on Charming Hill:
Chapter One
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Mid-July, 2000.
Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense
Newark, NJ.
It was the same room it had always been, plain and white, with a few pictures held to the wall by a frame of thumbtacks she had managed to force in. They were normal photographs – at least chemically – from an old and rather beat-up Polaroid she'd been meaning to replace; the Polaroid itself, with its independence from a dark room, was needed because of the far from normal nature of the actual images. One, of an elderly, well-groomed gentleman who could have passed for her grandfather, was normal enough. Beside it, though, were two other, distinctly abnormal photos: one for each of the other two members in her awkward and strange surrogate family.
Now, with her clammy palms pressed nervously to the layered cotton of her black slacks, Liz carefully peeled one of those two from the wall. The solemn face of Abe Sapien was framed by the curling white edges of the Polaroid. For a moment she only stood there, in the bareness of her room, focusing on her friend's green face as if to will his implacable calm into her limbs.
They were like good luck charms, in a way, the photographs: looking to Broom's for the ability to know and understand; Abe's for his calm and insight; H.B.'s, she thought as she looked at the surly (but relatively relaxed) face of the last picture, for courage and what?
"Bad temper?" she murmured to her empty room. She bit her lower lip to keep the private smile down. Leaning forward, she tucked Abe's photo back into its regular place.
Liz rubbed her palms together, then hurriedly along her pant's leg in an anxious gesture. "Guess I'll have to keep it together on my own, huh, Abe?" she asked the picture; she knew she couldn't really capture the calm in the photograph. There probably were others who could do that sort of thing, but she was not one of them.
You've done enough on your own anyway, she thought before flinching.
She stood, motionless, for another moment before impulsively picking all three pictures from the wall. Tapping the edges lightly against her wrist, she hesitated, and then tucked the three into the inner pocket of her uniformly black jacket. She rested her hand over the pocket, trying to gather her nerves together under her usual cool, fidgety exterior.
When a light, playful knock came at the door, Liz nearly screamed at the sudden noise. As it was, she jumped slightly and fisted her hand in the jacket as her throat tightened. Two quick knocks, as light as the first, and the door swung open at the hands of a wetsuit-clad "fish" man.
"Jesus, Abe," she sighed, relaxing her fisted hand. "I think you might've scared me half to death." Patting her jacket absently, she lifted her hand and ran it nervously through her black hair.
"Oh," he blinked. A pale film covered his bright, almond-shaped eyes, and slid back down, clearing his gaze again. "Then I apologize, Liz – I hadn't meant to frighten you."
She waved her hand in aimless dismissal, tilting her head so her dark hair half-obscured her face. "Nah, it's okay. I've just been a little edgy today, is all. It's sort of – strange-feeling right now."
Abe nodded in that poised way of his. "Being back, you mean?" he suggested politely. "Or the fact that you've stayed for an entire run of five months as of tomorrow?"
She shot him a sharp look.
He sighed in return, a string of bubbles burbling in the glass chambers of his sustaining collar. "There, see," he said almost ruefully, more sadly. "I went and said it without thinking at all. Liz," he hesitated, "you know I did not mean it to be an accusation. I merely meant – well, I do know, somewhat, what you're feeling."
It was Liz who sighed now, reaching a hand up to toy habitually with the gold crucifix at her throat. "Abe," she started. "I don't plan on leaving again. I mean, I promised the professor I'd be staying." She tried to smile reassuringly, failed to do so. "It'd be too much hassle trying to get away from here with a badge and that guilt on my shoulders."
"Liz," said Abe gently, tilting his sleek head to the side. "Tomorrow you will have stayed here, with us, for five months straight. That will have been the longest amount of time since you turned twenty and decided three years here had been long enough." His voice was still gentle, soft enough to take the sting from the words; he blinked again, that pale film sliding up and receding. "I won't ask why you are not happy staying, but I would ask that you explain to the Professor if you should leave again."
She heard him and knew what he meant was not if, but when. She smiled anyway, tiredly, as she cupped her thin hands together. "I will," she promised. "I mean, I can't just keep running out on him and expect him to welcome me back, emotional baggage and all." Her smile turned sad and a little empty.
"Prodigal son," Abe murmured sagely, before blinking thoughtfully. "Or, rather, the prodigal daughter. You know," he changed tacks a bit, in the smooth way that was his alone, "you're a bit like Hellboy in that sense. Neither of you are particularly easy to keep in place."
Liz wrinkled her eyebrows and laughed, once. "H.B.?" she asked, still grinning slightly. "I don't know about that. He likes those cats of his too much to leave." She touched a hand absently to her jacket, over the inner pocket; she could picture the image of the big red guy in her mind, slouched on the couch in his room with an oversized bowl of ice cream and two pleased tabbies tucked in his strong arms.
"No," she repeated. "He's really not the wandering type."
"How odd," Abe replied. "I've always thought the two of you were looking for something. Perhaps I haven't been paying enough attention.
"I came to wish you luck and fortitude on this next field job of yours," he shifted conversation again, before she could respond.
She chose to ignore his earlier comment, and offered instead another small smile. "Second in command on this case," she announced, with just an underlying note of wryness. "Not that that means much. H.B. and I'll be checking into some weird events in a small town down south, with Agent Sand. Professor Broom said some CIA guy named Markham has family there; he's the one who called in about it."
"Hm. And where is this town, exactly?" Abe grazed a finger over the bubbling collar about his neck.
"Hallisburg, Virginia," Liz answered, and glanced at the watch on her wrist.
Abe caught her shoulder as she moved to leave, late for the final check. The aquatic man looked solemnly into her eyes, the limited musculature in his face twitching into a small smile – a broad grin by Abe's standards. "Do keep in touch while you're gone," he said softly. "You and the red monkey both."
Liz smiled slightly one last time, resting a hand on his over her shoulder.
"Don't worry," she told him. "I'll take care of him."
-
"Son of a bitch," Hellboy grunted, heaving the largest, and last, of the crates into the back of the brightly decorated milk truck. As the crate thudded and slid a few inches, he flexed his left arm. "Crap," he muttered when a sore muscle twinged near his shoulder. "Crab-boy must've gotten a better shot than I thought."
There was a pointed satisfaction in the recent memory of having unceremoniously beaten that particular murderous beast into a pulp.
With one last critical glance at the contents of the milk truck – soon to include himself – he grasped the handle of the back hatch in his stony right hand and casually picked a cigar from his pocket with his left. The hatch came down, the cigar was effortlessly tucked between his lips, and entirely pleased with himself, he turned about, ready to swagger away from the truck.
"Hellboy," said Father resignedly, and he almost choked on the cigar. Professor Trevor Bruttenholm – Father, Professor, and residential Lawmaker – stood perhaps two feet away, his face shadowed with just the slightest hint of disapproval. "If you don't plan on setting off the fire alarm at this moment, I'd like to see you in my study."
It was the perfect blend of subtle parental warning and polite distance, and Hellboy was deeply reminded of a childhood incident involving a bucket of ice cream and Father's shoes. This memory wasn't half as satisfying as the earlier one and as Father slowly made his way off, the far larger man shifted his weight guiltily. Pocketing the unlit cigar, he made a mental note to pay more attention to whether or not Father was near at inopportune moments and followed.
The walk to the study, and Abe's room, was done in silence, the professor apparently mulling over what it was he needed to say; his massive red son's silence was equal parts stubborn pride and guilt, courtesy of the professor's own lack of words. Fortunately for Hellboy, who was on the verge of muttering a sullen rebuttal or a mumbled apology, the walk was not a long one.
"Now?" came a familiar voice through the door, female and muffled, though still recognizable.
Hellboy straightened his back and attempted to look less like a belligerent child (as Father might say).
"Yes, if you wouldn't mind," was Abe's reply, projected from the speakers and clearer when Broom pushed the door open gently.
In the polished, lamp-lit study, Liz was turning the pages of each of the four books on their wooden stands. She glanced up briefly to smile at them, and carefully turned a fragile page in the fourth book, a gilded antique novel with age-brittle pages. The young woman took a moment to smooth the page out, and stepped out of the way so Abe could see.
"Hey," she greeted, folding her arms in a familiar protective gesture. The lamps gave a faint gold tint to her dark hair, and it was strange seeing her dressed in the uniform black suit worn by the other BPRD agents – almost as if she were dressing up for Halloween. As she crossed the floor to stand beside Hellboy, he felt awkward in his overcoat for a second or two, before pushing that aside.
"Hey," he replied, and Father made a noise in his throat. "What?" After a moment, he thought to add a softer, "Sir?"
Father gave him what very well could have been a look of wry sarcasm, was more likely just exasperation. "Honestly," the elderly man chided. "I would have expected politer greetings between you two."
Damn – there went that irrational guilty feeling again.
"Sorry, sir," Hellboy muttered, contrite. Liz elbowed him lightly in the side to no avail.
Now the expression was one of amusement, but Father chose not to say anything. He did smile pointedly, though, and stepped quickly to his desk, flipping and sifting through the stacked papers on the surface. "Where on Earth did I -- ah, here we go." Smiling, pleased, he drew out two hefty envelopes and carefully placed the left on top of the right. "Now, these really aren't mean to be opened until you've left," he began, and then stopped to look at the two – the one brusque and intimidating, the other small and forlorn.
Oh Lord, Broom thought; how he worried about them.
"Take these," he said instead of voicing his concern. "Agent Sand is waiting outside for you both, near the gate."
There was nothing more to say, really, and so he continued to smile, shooing them away with his empty hand.
"Good-bye," said Abe in agreement, and he twirled once in the water before sweeping out of sight.
Liz opened her hand, gave a weak wave, and self-consciously curled her fingers back to her palm.
"C'mon," Hellboy grinned, breaking the somber air. He fingered the cigar he pulled from his pocket again, casually stated, "Let's get going already. I'm getting bored just standing 'round here." It was his way of reassuring Father, whether it worked or not; taking both of the envelopes, he stuck the cigar between his teeth again.
A little rebellion never hurt.
-
Unnamed back-road.Northern VA.
The truck jolted over another pothole and Hellboy grimaced. The back of the truck, he reflected, must have shrunk sometime after he entered it – he could have sworn it was far from being as tight a fit as it was now. Now, he thought grimly, he'd be lucky if Sand's driving and this road didn't knock his head clear off his neck. Bracing one large booted foot on the edge of a crated, he closed his golden eyes and did his best to ignore the headache all this slamming around was building in his already sore head.
"Think happy thoughts, damn it," he growled at the crate. Sand hit another pothole in a display of excellent ironic timing, and he clenched his jaw to keep from grinding his teeth at the ensuing jolt of his head against the side of the truck.
"Hey!" shouted Agent Sand from the driver's seat in an obnoxiously cheerful voice. "You doin' okay back there, big fella?"
He tilted his chin up, rolling his eyes skywards. "Time of my life," he drawled.
Liz twisted around in her seat, facing him through the lowered partition in the wall cutting the front seats from the cargo space. She smiled, faintly, and said calmly, "I know I'm having a great time. Passenger side-seat, leg room, room to stretch my arms--" she demonstrated, still with a straight, innocent expression "--and my head is cushioned."
Their driver gave the youngest in the trio an amused look; obscured as she was by the thin metal wall, Hellboy figured Sand was encouraging Liz's dry humor, if only by seeing the answering twinge of amusement in the pale girl's face. He reasoned this was one of those inexplicable moments of silent female communication, and felt vaguely outnumbered.
He propped the other foot beside its partner on the crate, curled his tail casually against the seat as he dug a lighter from his pocket for the cigar clenched between his teeth. "So?" he asked, and exhaled smoke.
Liz raised her eyebrow and said nothing in return, having decided she had already made her point.
It was, Hellboy thought, going to be a long trip.
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