Chapter 6: Back at the BPRD
Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. I also do not own 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Mozart, or The Phantom of the Opera (despite the fact that I would like to. Erik is awesome!). However, Erica Schwarz, Volker Maynard the vampire, Razvan Arcos the guide, and the plot that isn't from the movie is mine.
Author's Notes: Thanks so much for all the reviews, the number of responses was overwhelming! They really encouraged me to embellish this chapter. Reviewers, you all are awesome! So, chapter six…some humor at Erica's expense as she attempts cooking, and the first hint that Professor Broom is sick (it's in there, you just have to read carefully). Also, a bit of hinted at romance. As always here are the German to English translations: 'Mein Gott' is My God, 'Fräulein' is Miss, and 'Danke' is thank you. Enjoy the chapter!
iluvrocknroll: Wow, TWO reviews from you! Thanks! Yeah, fight scenes are absolute hell to write. I'm actually surprised I do so well with it…Kroenen x Ilsa. Hehe. That little plot bunny has been gnawing at my brain for a while. As for if Grigory will find out or not—he seems to be fairly all knowing, but who knows? I'll have to see what happens.
amyltrer: Don't worry, Erica and Kroenen are going to meet sooner than you might think, probably around chapter eight. I like your idea about the rose…I think I'll use it! And Rasputin should be in chapter eight as well.
Sincerely in Blood: All I can say is WOW! Thanks for your dedication to my story! I'm glad to have restored your faith in fanfiction, there are good stories out there if you can find them! And I do put a lot of time into keeping the plot and characters realistic, it's great to know it shows. Thanks for telling me I occasionally have too much detail, hopefully I'll be aware of that and fix it in the future. Thanks again! You're awesome!
Gestalt: You liked the fight and Kroenen x Ilsa too? Cool! There's another flashback in here, since everyone likes them so much. Hehehe, that line was pretty funny! I think it's my favorite from that chapter. Angry Kroenen! Pokes Kroenen too
The Common Wind Deity: There's another Kroenen and Ilsa viewpoint in here, since you said you liked it so much! Tiddlywinks—haha. Yeah, I think they must have gotten either really bored, or really drunk one night. Or both…
vihnanime: Another new reviewer! You rock! Glad you loved chapter five!
"The heart has reasons which reason cannot understand."—Blaise Pascal
October, Present Day
The BPRD's Kitchen
Late Morning
The industrial sized kitchen at the BPRD showed every sign of an enormous breakfast being prepared for the BPRD's inhabitants. The counters were heaped with dirty bowls, spoons, measuring cups, and other dishes. Scattered haphazardly among the dirty crockery were several cartons of eggs, empty gallon jugs of milk, and a couple half empty bags of flour. Eggshells and a heavy dusting of flour over all the horizontal surfaces gave away the presence of a cook that was very hard at work.
"Whoops. I burned the pancakes again." Erica said, staring down at the charred, lumpy mass in the bottom of the cast iron skillet sitting on the industrial sized gas stove. "But that's not really much of a surprise."
Professor Broom sighed loudly and closed his eyes, praying for patience. Attempting to teach Erica to cook was not an easy task. And 'attempting' was certainly the key word. "What did you do?" he asked.
"I have no idea. I just have to go near food and poof! It gets burned." Erica said. She gestured at the pan on the stove to emphasize her point. As if on cue, the burned remains of the pancakes burst into flames.
"Whoa!" Erica shouted, jumping away from the stove. Instinctively she grabbed the closest container of liquid and upended it on the flames. The flames instantly went out and the cast iron skillet sizzled and hissed like embers in a fire as the cold milk spread across the pan and overflowed onto the stove top—effectively drowning one of the two electric blue gas flames under the pan. Thick smoke billowed up from the scorched lumps in the pan and Erica started coughing as she tried to wave it away.
"Turn on the fan," Broom said, coughing.
"The what?" Erica asked, sounding confused.
"The fan! Hurry or you'll set the smoke alarms off!"
"Where's the switch?" Erica asked, hunting high and low for it.
The Professor sighed, and with his eyes watering from the smoke, reached out and flipped the switch to turn on the fan over the stove. The fan instantly went to work, sucking the smoke out of the kitchen. The Professor turned and looked at Erica, who was still holding the dripping container of milk. She smiled at him sheepishly.
"Um, oops?" she said.
"Erica, I fail to understand how you still haven't learned to cook, despite all of my efforts." Professor Broom said.
Erica shrugged and set down the plastic milk carton. "I guess I just wasn't meant to. I have talents in other areas."
"Clearly," Broom replied, gazing at the slightly smoking mess on the stove.
"Well, so much for making breakfast for everyone" Erica said. She removed the pan from the stove and scraped its contents into a nearby trashcan before dumping the heavy cast iron skillet in the sink.
CRASH!
Professor Broom winced at the sound of breaking dishes and looked at Erica, who was frozen in place, her back to the sink.
"Mein Gott, what did I do now?" she asked.
"From the sound of it you just broke all the dishes I put in the sink."
"I'm not even going to look."
Professor Broom sighed in exasperation and sank into a nearby chair, shaking his head. Dear Lord, whatever will I do with her? he thought, watching as Erica brushed the flour off of her black T-shirt and tan corduroy pants. She pushed a strand of hair out of her face, effectively and inadvertently streaking flour across her cheek and into her hair.
Suddenly, the double doors of the kitchen swung open and Hellboy and Agent Clay walked in. Hellboy was scowling and Professor Broom could hear his son's stomach rumbling with hunger. Clay followed close behind the tall red demon, looking irritated. He's probably wondering why breakfast is late, Broom thought. Clay was one of those people who had a schedule and stuck to it, come hell or high water. And right now his schedule was being disrupted by breakfast being more than an hour late.
Hellboy glanced around the chaos reigning over the kitchen and his golden gaze fell on Erica. He immediately froze in place, with the result that Clay ran into his back and stepped on his tail, only irritating the hungry demon even more.
"What the HELL are you doin' in the kitchen?" Hellboy exclaimed at Erica.
"Burning your breakfast." she replied, undaunted by the demon's gruff manner.
"Really? That's a surprise," Hellboy said sarcastically.
"What're you making?" Clay asked, looking around at the ingredients spread across the countertops.
"Pancakes. If you want any, you can scrape them out of the trashcan." Erica said dryly. She wiped her flour covered hands on a dishtowel and then absentmindedly threw the dishrag over her shoulder and onto the stove top. Unbeknownst to her, it landed on the one burner the milk hadn't drowned. The dishtowel instantly went up in flames.
"Erica!" Clay shouted, pointing at the stove behind her.
"What?" she asked, unconcerned.
"The dishtowel's on fire!"
Erica spun around to face the two foot high flames on the stove. "Oh man!" she yelled as she grabbed a spoon and flicked the burning towel onto the floor. The violently smoking cloth slid across the linoleum and landed at Clay's feet. The Agent promptly stomped on it until the flames went out.
As the smell of burned cloth and singed linoleum filled the air, Broom dropped his head into his hands in despair. Never, never again, the Professor thought, Not ever!
Clay and Hellboy stared at Erica.
"See what a hazard I am? This is why I don't cook!" she said. She paused and then continued, a half smile on her face. "At least it wasn't too bad this time."
Just then, the smoke alarm decided to "rain on her parade" so to speak, and went off, triggering the sprinkler system.
"Hey!" shouted Hellboy, jumping as the jets of cold water hit him in the face.
"Come on Red," Clay said, running towards the doors of the kitchen. He didn't have to say it twice. In less than a second the doors swished closed behind the fleeing demon and agent.
Erica, half blinded by the falling water, ran over to a small control panel on the wall and fumbled, trying to figure out how to turn off the sprinkler system.
Broom stood up and limped towards her to help—when the lights went out. Now it was dark and the Professor was being sprayed with water.
"Erica!"
"Sorry! Wrong button!"
There were more sounds of fumbling in the darkness and Broom limped towards them—
BANG!
"Ow," muttered Broom as he backed away from the counter he had walked into.
Suddenly the lights flicked back on and the sprinklers went off. Only a few more drops of water fell from the ceiling and then it was over, leaving the room drenched and the Professor and Erica soaked to the skin.
Professor Broom gazed resignedly at Erica through the fog of water droplets on his glasses.
"Does this mean I can leave now?" Erica asked hopefully. She reached behind her and squeezed some of the water out of her ponytail.
The Professor sighed and rung out the edge of his coat. "Yes, but please remember to turn off the gas next time."
"Hopefully there won't be a next time," Erica said, "I can't cook to save my life."
"Sadly, I think I'm forced to agree with you."
"I hope this means you're giving up on teaching me to cook."
"Until the end of time," Broom assured her, smiling, "Go change your clothes, I'll call a cleaning crew up here and call the cooks back so they can make brunch."
XXXXX
The BPRD
Professor Broom's Study
Evening
Professor Broom's study was a cheerful, slightly untidy jumble of strange objects, piles of books, and bizarre artifacts. Clippings of newspaper articles and magazines peeked out of desk drawers stuffed full to overflowing. Bookshelves stood against the walls, and all of the shelves were packed with books or scrolls. In fact, books were everywhere: they were stacked on the red carpet at the base of the huge golden statue of an angel defeating a demon, some sat on the iron spiral staircase that led to the medical rooms above the study, others covered the Professor's desk, and still more were piled beside the railing around the edge of the second floor of the study. A fire crackled cheerfully in a metal dish over in a corner and the wooden furniture glowed warmly in its light.
Professor Broom sat at his desk reading. The beads of the rosary wrapped around his wrist gently clacked together as he turned the page of the book. Without taking his eyes from the page he picked up his teacup and drank the steaming liquid it contained. He set it down again and pushed his glasses up to rest on the bridge of his nose so he could get a better look at the words on the page he was reading. He shifted slightly in his chair to get comfortable and instead had the opposite effect: his knee twinged painfully. The Professor winced and glanced down at his knee and the cane leaning against the desk. Unlike most people, he truly had aged gracefully, with the exception, perhaps of his knee. But he couldn't help that—there was nothing he could have done to prevent Karl Ruprecht Kroenen from shooting him. The war wound continued to plague him, along with the two people he had picked up the same night.
They're not a plague, he corrected himself sternly, we all have our bad moments. Hellboy's just happen to be very loud. And it's not Erica's fault she incinerates everything she cooks. If anything, it's our idiosyncrasies that bind our strange little family together.
Family. It was something he might never have had if he hadn't gone to Scotland sixty years ago. The Professor smiled warmly, remembering holding the baby demon in his arms for the first time. That night had truly changed his life forever, in so many ways. And he could remember every moment like it had happened only a few hours ago…
The ship rolled and rocked on the storm swept waves as it chugged its way across the ocean towards America. Professor Broom sat quietly in a dimly lit room below deck, his wounded knee throbbing painfully with every heartbeat. The small room that served as a makeshift hospital was crammed with soldiers that had been wounded in the battle at Trondham Abbey, and the overcrowded room stank sickeningly of blood and disinfectant. The Professor closed his eyes as another wave of nausea washed over him, no doubt due to sea sickness. At Trondham Abbey the storm had broken by morning, but apparently the remnants of it had simply moved out to sea, and they were now sailing through it. The Professor turned away from the wounded soldiers in a vain effort to block out what was happening in the room. His heavily bandaged knee protested slightly at the movement, but that pain was nothing compared to the pain of being shot. Or the pain of the ship's doctor removing the bullet.
"Professor Broom?"
Broom opened his eyes and gazed up into the pale face of the ship's stressed looking doctor—the same man that had removed the bullet from his knee a few minutes ago.
"I'm sorry it took me so long to get back to you, but—" the man gestured behind him at the wounded soldiers and then continued. "Your prognosis is good. You'll be able to walk, but you'll probably have a limp for the rest of your life."
Broom nodded at the man's words. Honestly, at this point he didn't care if he was going to limp, so long as he could walk. The doctor hurried away to tend to a soldier that needed stitches, and Broom carefully slid out of his chair and got to his feet, leaning precariously on a wooden crutch. Slowly and carefully he maneuvered his way out of the room and through the claustrophobically tight, metal walled corridor outside. The floor pitched and swayed as the ship was rocked by waves, but he eventually made his way through the maze of hallways to his quarters—
"Scheiße!" Erica yelled from inside the room.
Startled, the Professor came to a sudden stop in the doorway. As soon as he realized what was going on, he had to struggle to prevent himself from laughing out loud at what he saw. Just inside the doorway, Erica Schwarz was sitting on a bench and cursing vehemently in German as a frightened and clumsy young doctor attempted to change the bandages on her wounds. The doctor's hands were shaking severely—probably a combination of nervousness at being untried in the field and an intense fear of the fierce young German woman sitting in front of him, scowling. The man's eyes widened with shock and fear as another stream of angry curses rapidly tumbled from Erica's lips—he had pulled too hard on the bandages that were stuck to the stab wound on her left shoulder.
"Ahem," Broom cleared his throat to get their attention. They turned towards him and the Professor shot a reproachful look at Erica. "Fräulein, you shouldn't use that kind of language in front of a baby."
Erica glared at him and then glanced across the small room at the newly christened Hellboy. The baby demon was curled up in a dark green blanket on the bottom bunk bed and watching her with wide eyed curiosity. Erica's expression softened a little and she shut her mouth. She stayed quiet as the nervous young doctor finished re-bandaging her shoulder, though if looks could kill, her angry grey eyes would have made the doctor drop dead. Professor Broom watched from the doorway as the anxious young man packed up and hastily exited the room, tripping over himself in his hurry to get out.
"I hate it when stitches get stuck to bandages," she muttered fiercely.
Broom saw her pull up the shoulder of her shirt as he gingerly sat down on the edge of the bottom bunk bed. Hellboy chirped happily and immediately crawled into Broom's lap where he sat smiling and contentedly twitching his tail like a pleased cat.
"I'd almost rather have Kroenen here taking care of me than that babbling incompetent idiot," Erica added angrily.
Broom raised an eyebrow at her words. Considering Kroenen tried to kill her less than twelve hours ago, one would think she'd want nothing to do with him, he thought, But then again, they were close friends. He pulled his deck of Tarot cards out of his coat pocket and began absentmindedly shuffling them while Hellboy watched with intense interest. "That doctor wasn't an idiot. He, like the rest of the crew that didn't go ashore, is convinced that you're going to murder them all in their beds. "
She snorted derisively and crossed her arms. "Not in this condition I won't." Erica paused for a moment and studied him with her grey eyes. "And I swore to you that I wouldn't hurt anyone. You kept your end of the deal by helping me, and I'll keep mine."
"I believe you, but it's hard for everyone else to trust you. The only thing the Allied Forces ever heard about you was that you were a bloodthirsty murderer. Give them time. Patience is a virtue—"
"No it's not," she interrupted.
The Professor raised his eyebrows at her. "Who said it wasn't?"
"Kroenen," she answered. Then a look of doubt crossed her face, "But he may have been wrong, since he was the one encouraging me to kill people the second they got in my way." Then her doubt disappeared. "Who are you to say what a virtue is and what is not?"
Broom studied her for a moment, absentmindedly letting Hellboy bat at the rosary dangling from his wrist. He really didn't feel like arguing or discussing theology with her at the moment, whichever she was interested in. Isn't it strange? A day ago, if someone had told me I'd be having a friendly conversation with Erica Schwarz and holding a baby demon, I'd have said they were crazy. Of course, in this profession, strange things happen all the time. That's why it's called the paranormal. He realized Erica was looking expectantly at him, waiting for him to answer her. "You have to decide for yourself what to believe. That's why it's called 'faith'."
"Deciding what to believe is what got me in trouble in the first place," she muttered, looking at the floor.
Broom wondered what she meant but decided he would figure it out eventually, since they would be working together for the rest of their foreseeable lives. Right now, despite his wounded knee and the fact that he was sitting in a room with a murderous Nazi—Or should that be ex-Nazi? he mused— he felt strangely at peace. It was an exhausted, weary peace, but a contented peace nonetheless. He looked down into the golden, red-flecked eyes of his adopted son and he knew why he was happy.
"You know, for a demon that's probably going to grow up to destroy the world for Rasputin, he's pretty cute."
The Professor glanced up and saw Erica watching Hellboy. She was smiling crookedly because of the 'T' shaped cut on her left cheek, but the smile was a genuine one. Broom smiled back at her. "I knew you'd warm up to him. But he's not going to grow up to be a demon. I'm going to raise him to be a man. Actually, I should say we are going to raise him. Who better to help me then someone that studied demons and other dark creatures?"
As quick as that, Erica's smile disappeared. She rolled her eyes and sighed. "If you insist. I can't imagine I'll have anything better to do with my time."
The Professor laughed, knowing there would be plenty of paranormal occurrences to keep her busy…
Broom opened his eyes and looked down at his desk and the book he had been reading. Beside his book, his teacup was still half full. He picked it up and took a sip, and then grimaced slightly. His tea had gotten cold while he'd been reminiscing.
He set the cup down and glanced towards the left wall of his study. Most of it was an enormous aquarium for another member of his unique little family: Abe Sapien. The fish man was slowly swimming in place, his large dark eyes focused on the book sitting on a stand in the study. He was reading.
He'll ask me to turn the pages for him soon, Broom thought, pushing his glasses up his nose with a practiced gesture. He grasped his cane and slowly stood up.
Abe looked up as he finished the last sentence of the page he was reading. Professor Broom was already limping over to turn the pages for him.
"Thank you." the fish man said politely as the Professor reached the first book.
"It's no trouble, Abe," Broom assured him. The old man walked down the line of bookstands, turning the pages. Abe effortlessly pushed himself through the water to the first book and was about to start reading again when he sensed the Professor was still standing there. Abe looked up at him and blinked, his triple set of eyelids quickly clearing his vision.
"You were thinking about Hellboy again." Abe stated, reading his friend's thoughts easily.
"Yes," Broom smiled, a hint of amusement in his voice, "I do that a lot. He's my son."
"And about Erica?"
"I'm worried about her. And Hellboy."
"Because of the news we brought back from Transylvania?" Abe asked.
"Yes." Broom sat down in an overstuffed armchair facing the aquarium. Worried about that, among other things out of my control, Broom thought.
Abe heard the Professor's thoughts and attempted to investigate what he meant, but to his surprise Broom had put up mental shields to keep him out. Abe backed out of Broom's mind, respecting his wish for privacy. It would have been easy for Abe to break through the shields, but he wouldn't trespass where his friend didn't want him to go.
The fish man watched as Professor Broom leaned his cane against the arm of the chair.
"About the news you brought back," Broom said, the expression on his face extremely grave, "Are you sure the Thule Occult Society was involved with Volker Maynard?"
Abe nodded as he drifted in the crystal clear waters of his tank. "During the flight back Erica let me look at her memories of the event so I could see what happened. Volker told her he was hired by the Thule Society for the sole purpose of bringing her to them alive. Fortunately the vampire's own desire for revenge got in the way."
"So they're still out there," Broom said quietly, more to himself then to the fish man in front of him.
"So it would seem. Though one must wonder why the remaining members chose now of all times to confirm their existence by their sudden interest in Erica."
"One thing is certain, they had a reason. Having her dead must have been to their advantage somehow. Which suggests that they're going to make a move soon."
Abe put his palm against the glass to steady himself in the water. "The warning Volker gave Erica did suggest that. He said: 'The dead and the undead travel fast, and sometimes you'll find that things you thought long dead are very much alive'. The dead could mean Grigory, and the undead could be Karl Kroenen, based on Erica's description of his…unusual state of being."
"And Erica still doesn't know where the remaining members are or who they are?"
The fish man shook his head. "No. The Ogdru Jahad are still blocking her visions on that subject. But she did speculate that the remaining members might be in Norway. That was where Volker was headed when we left Transylvania because of your call about a werewolf in the area."
Broom sighed. "Numerous sightings of werewolves were reported while you were in Transylvania, all in the city," the Professor said, absentmindedly toying with the top of his cane, "Two people have been killed and another man was severely injured. Fortunately he wasn't bitten. The plan is for us to wait until the next sighting is reported, then to follow the werewolf or werewolves and deal with them accordingly."
"Werewolves? So you came to the same conclusion I did when you saw the information?" Abe asked, his gills fluttering slightly as he breathed.
"Yes. The timing of some of the sightings is too close together for it to be only one werewolf."
"What about Agent Clay going in for his hair implant surgery this afternoon? He won't be able to accompany Hellboy if there's a mission tonight." Abe pointed out.
"I've assigned Agent Moss to temporarily fill in for Agent Clay. Agent Moss has worked with Hellboy before, there shouldn't be any problems. Relatively speaking, werewolves are fairly easy to deal with."
Abe watched the Professor slowly get to his feet, leaning a little more heavily on his cane than normal, and start towards the door of the study.
"Tonight will be busy. I'll have the agents start making preparations for nightfall."
The polished wooden doors swung shut quietly after the Professor, leaving the study silent except for the crackle of the flames in the metal dish. Abe was alone with his thoughts. The fish man idly did a back flip in the water and then glided over to the glass and gazed out at the four books sitting on the stands in front of his tank. He was reading 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, a copy of The Phantom of the Opera written in French, a German history book, and a biography about Mozart. He briefly considered reading, but there was no one to turn the pages for him. He glanced down at a space beside the last bookstand where a small square table with a chessboard built into the top of it was standing with one side pressed against the glass of his tank. All the pieces were standing neatly side by side like ranks of ebony and ivory soldiers facing off across a checkerboard field. The chair at the table sat directly opposite the glass. Sadly it was empty, waiting for a player.
Abe sighed, an action that made his gills flutter and small bubbles stream up through the water. Since the start of October he, Hellboy, Erica, and the other Agents hadn't had much down time to relax. This in turn meant that he hadn't had a really good, challenging chess match against anyone in over a month.
Actually, he thought, I haven't had any chess matches at all, let alone a good one.
At one time he had enjoyed playing chess against a computer when his friends weren't available. With a computer there was the added challenge of not being able to read its thoughts about strategy, like he could with people. On the down side, he couldn't have a good conversation with a computer, and he had begun to see patterns in the games. Software and programming was predictable and hardwired, people were creative and spontaneous.
Obviously the computer lost when compared to people, Abe thought.
He still couldn't help but feel he was losing out a little, though. Normally he played against Professor Broom or Erica, because everyone else had gotten tired of him winning ten moves into a game. But they were busy at the moment, which meant he was alone. Which meant he couldn't play chess.
Which also means you can't stare at Erica's eyes for hours, a voice said in the back of his head.
Shut up, Abe thought in the mental equivalent of a mutter, It's not like she even knows I…supposing I even do…
The fish man blinked a few times, his mind momentarily full of confusion. He gently pushed it aside and then swam down to the bottom of his tank to retrieve his Rubik's Cube. He let himself drift and tumble through the water as he turned the colored blocks and attempted to get closer to the puzzle's solution that had evaded him for two decades. Suddenly he stopped working and glanced up from his sideways position in the water.
Hellboy's on his way here, he thought, mentally feeling the red demon approaching.
A moment later one of the highly polished double doors quickly swung open, pushed by Hellboy's stone right hand. The demon looked around and then his gold eyes focused on Abe drifting sideways through the water of his tank.
"Hey, Blue. Have you seen Pop?" Hellboy asked, walking further into the room and glancing at the chairs to see if any of them were occupied.
Abe nodded. "He left a few minutes ago to tell the Agents to get ready for tonight. Why?"
The red demon shrugged a little. "Nothin' important. I just wanted to find out if the rips in my trench coat had been fixed yet. The broken glass from that stain glass window really did a number on the leather."
Abe chuckled. Hellboy glared at him a little.
"What? It's my favorite coat," the demon said defensively, "And I'm gonna need it if we're goin' to pound some werewolf butt tonight." He turned to go.
"Red?" Abe called after him, deciding to seize his chance, "Do you want to play chess?"
"Nah. I swear you cheat—"
"I do not!" Abe said indignantly. He kicked out at the water and turned his body so he was right way up. Hellboy gazed at him, eyebrows raised at the fish man's words. Abe thought for a moment. "I don't cheat. I just…use my abilities to their full extent."
"Translation: cheatin'. Cheatin' is still cheatin', I don't care what you call it. Why don't you play against Erica? She's pretty good."
Abe turned away and sighed as Hellboy opened the door to leave.
"Hey Blue!"
Abe turned his head and saw Hellboy poking his head into the room around the door.
"You know, Erica must be really good at chess. It's amazin', sometimes she even beats you." Hellboy grinned.
Abe froze at the tone in Hellboy's voice, which clearly suggested that he was letting Erica win. Abe tried to speak but choked on his words, unable to think of a clever reply to throw back in denial. Smirking, Hellboy's face disappeared and the door closed behind him.
"Alright, maybe I do let her win sometimes," Abe muttered to himself, "But if I didn't, I wouldn't have anyone else to play against except Professor Broom. That's why none of the agents play chess against me." Abe paused and nodded, pleased with his words. Yes, that's what I should have told him, it would have been a perfect and very logical comeback, Abe thought, It wouldn't have given anything away about what I think about Erica…not that I think that about her…
The fish man looked down at the Rubik's Cube in his hand. As always, he was no closer to solving it, and sadly, it didn't look impressed by his reasoning or his comeback.
He also realized it also wasn't going to play chess against him.
He tossed the Rubik's Cube over his shoulder. It drifted down through the water and gently came to rest on the bottom of his tank with a soft 'thud' sound. Abe ignored it and swam up to the top of his tank and got out of the water. Dripping water all over the tile floor, Abe passed by the breathing equipment he used on dry land and headed for the door. He wouldn't be very long so he didn't need it.
I'll go see what Erica's doing, he thought, it's got to be more interesting than swimming in a tank and talking to myself.
XXXXX
The BPRD
Erica's Room
Late Evening
Erica entered her room and pulled off her trench coat. It feels good to get that off, she thought, wiping the sweat off her forehead. She tossed the black leather garment over the back of the chair at her desk before she flopped down on her bed. She felt pleasantly exhausted from practicing her fencing skills and just stared up at the red, gauzy canopy above her bed for a few moments while she cooled down. After a short period of time she sat up and brushed a few hairs out of her face that had escaped from her ponytail.
Unlike most of the rooms at the BPRD, the walls of her room were painted white and the floor was covered in soft tan carpet. There were three doors, one led out into the hallway, another into a closet full of her clothes, and the other led into the bathroom attached to her bedroom. Like most rooms at the BPRD there were no windows. She had a few vaguely Victorian styled furnishings made from a very dark colored wood: a desk and chair, a canopy bed with a headboard and footboard, a bedside table, and a well stocked bookshelf. There was also a small table and two chairs, and the table had a glass chess set on top of it—The Professor had given it to her shortly after he had found out it was her favorite game. The walls were decorated with posters of artwork by famous artists like Leonard da Vinci and Michelangelo. Overall her room was fairly neat, though there was a pile of books on her bedside table that were competing for space with a lamp and digital clock. The books were obviously winning the war for space, as the lamp and clock had been pushed into a corner.
The top of her desk was covered in an avalanche of paperwork that was encroaching on her flat screen computer. Next to the computer a half-disassembled music box lay in several pieces. Erica had been in the process of fixing it for one of the Agent's daughters when she had been interrupted and sent to Transylvania. The pieces were exactly where she had left them, neatly piled beside the music box along with the tools she had been using. At least I managed to turn some of the skills Kroenen taught me into something good, Erica thought, remembering how quickly she had picked up Kroenen's expertise with clockwork and gears. She wasn't quite as good as he was, but she could still fix the occasional clock someone would bring her.
Her eyes returned to the desk and the pile of paper held her gaze. The untidy heap consisted of a few half finished reports she had started on yesterday after the post-Transylvania mission meeting. The rest was various paperwork and information from other recent missions. Erica sighed as she viewed the pile.
I might as well finish those reports, she thought, though she made no move to get up from her bed, Otherwise Manning will nag me about it.
She grimaced at that thought. Saying she didn't get along with Manning was an understatement. Not that she hated him. Really, she wouldn't have such a huge problem with the man if he didn't keep referring to her as a Nazi.
Ex-Nazi, she thought firmly, I'm an EX-Nazi.
She slowly got up and slid into the chair at her desk, and reluctantly picked up a pen. Erica began where she had left off yesterday on the report: how Volker had gotten away, and why they had left Transylvania without killing him.
Erica idly tapped her pen against the top of the desk. I wonder if Volker is dead yet, she thought. Then she smiled, Only one way to find out. She quickly closed her eyes and blocked out everything around her, focusing on the empty darkness inside her mind. What happened to Volker? She asked, her words silent but still heard in the black void before her closed eyes.
At first nothing happened, but then a pale orange glow appeared. It was a fireplace filled with a roaring fire. The stone floor in front of it was scattered with burning embers and a shadowy form. It was a body. Who is it? She wondered. But instead of getting an answer, the body became blurry and even more unidentifiable, and then she felt a horrible wrenching sensation, like someone had yanked roughly on her arm—then she saw a pair of long knives lying on a stone floor, glimmering faintly as a women's pale hand with long red nails reached for them—
"Ow!" Erica yelped as an invisible force slammed into her face, temporarily blinding her. The hand and blades disappeared and Erica reeled through the darkness from the force of the blow. This isn't supposed to happen, she thought, Something's blocking me from seeing what happened to Volker. Not that being blocked is exactly unusual now. Erica focused again and concentrated on remembering what Volker had looked like. With this picture clear in her mind, she searched for what had happened to him—
—Volker's face appeared before her, his features contorted with rage and his electric blue eyes burning with insanity—a set of metal spikes fell from a doorway—Volker screamed—a shadowy hand held a wooden stake—Volker screamed as he disintegrated, the wooden stake protruding from his chest—a shadowy form stood triumphantly over the vampire's ashes— Erica tried to focus on who the form was—
SLAM!
Something as hard and flat as a wall crashed into her body, knocking her backwards. Stunned, she could barely concentrate on her surroundings as she fell and fell and fell. The space around her was black and empty. The darkness was as cold as ice. Somewhere in the distance of the infinite darkness, she thought she heard a roaring noise.
She forced her eyes open. She was back in her room.
Well, that went well, she thought sarcastically, But at least I know Volker is dead. She picked up her pen and added the information to the report. As for who killed him, I have a good guess, even if something is preventing me from knowing for sure: Karl Kroenen and Ilsa Haupstien.
Unfortunately, there was no way for her to confirm her suspicions that Ilsa and Kroenen were responsible for the vampire's death. Ever since the night she had betrayed the Nazis she had been unable to use her visions to find out anything about Ilsa, Kroenen, or Grigory Rasputin. Whenever she tried to look into the future or the present to see what they were doing all she got was shadows or occasionally a brief glimpse of their faces. But the fact that she saw their faces was as much proof as she needed to know that Kroenen and Ilsa were still alive somewhere—but that was all she knew about them. Erica was sure, though, that somewhere in the world Kroenen and Ilsa were doing everything in their power to bring their Master back. It was like instinct, she could feel it in her blood—probably due to the bond she shared with Ilsa and Kroenen.
Either Ilsa and Kroenen have found some way to inhibit my abilities—and that's possible, since they were the ones who taught me how to use my visions in the first place—or the Ogdru Jahad are preventing me from using them, she thought. The last option was the most plausible. Erica knew the Ogdru Jahad were more than capable of it, and they had a good reason to do it. When she had betrayed the Thule Occult Society and the Nazis she had also betrayed the Seven Gods of Chaos. As a traitor she should have been sacrificed to them or at least killed—but she had escaped with her life. And because she had escaped, it was likely that the Ogdru Jahad were very interested in preventing her from spying on the activities of their remaining loyal servants. Besides that, she knew they at least had something to do with blocking her: she recognized the roaring noise she had just heard. It was the Seven Gods of Chaos. And they were furious.
Not that that was unusual. They had been angry with her ever since she'd betrayed them.
She shivered violently and tried to focus on the paperwork in front of her. As a matter of principal she tried not to think about what would happen to her if Ilsa and Kroenen ever found her, let alone Grigory Rasputin. And this was likely to happen sometime in the near future as the incident with Volker had proved.
Erica shoved that thought to the farthest corner of her mind and continued working on the report, absentmindedly toying with the silver crucifix hanging from her necklace while she wrote.
"Erica?" a cool, familiar voice suddenly broke the silence.
Erica jumped a little and turned around. Abe was standing in the doorway, one webbed hand still resting gently on the doorknob.
"Hi, Blue," she smiled warmly at him. Her smile was a bit crooked from the 'T' shaped scar on her left cheek. "Come in."
The fish man hesitated in the doorway, his gills fluttering slightly. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" he asked.
"Just heaps of paperwork," she said, indicating her desk with a gesture of mock despair, "And believe me, I'm glad to have the distraction."
Abe walked further into her room and gently pushed the door closed behind him. "Did you look at the information about the werewolf yet?" he asked.
"I glanced at it. Why?"
"You really should take a closer look at it," the fish man said as he sat down at the small table. He picked up one of the glass chess pieces and gazed at it. "I don't think any of us are going to get any sleep tonight."
"That should be fun. There's nothing like being chased through dark alleys by something that slobbers and has pointy teeth," she joked.
Abe didn't laugh. "Perhaps you should say 'things'. I reviewed the reports of the werewolf sightings and the three attacks. Based on the reported times and locations, the werewolf is either extremely fast, or there's more than one."
"What makes you think that?"
"After one of the attacks, a police officer reported seeing a man sized dog racing across the rooftops of some of the buildings in the city. The police officer saw that 'dog' on the opposite side of the city from the attack, and yet reported seeing it less than two or three minutes after the attack occurred."
"So there are two of them?" Erica asked as she turned to her computer and brought up the file on the werewolf sightings and attacks.
The fish man nodded. "Maybe more," he added, "based on the number of sightings. A pack of werewolves is more likely to be seen than one, unless of course that one werewolf simply doesn't care about being seen."
"And at least one of them is attacking people. Great." Erica said as she scrolled down the page on the werewolf attacks and came across the gory pictures of two mangled bodies. Both had huge, obviously canine, teeth marks all over the skin. She turned around to face Abe. "Perfect opportunity for Hellboy to get some target practice in. You wouldn't believe how bad his aim was when he was shooting at Volker."
"Speaking of Volker, Erica, is he—?"
"He's dead, Kroenen staked him. At least, I'm pretty sure it was Kroenen," she said, frowning slightly, "It's just so frustrating that the Ogdru Jahad are blocking me."
"But at least you know that means Kroenen and Ilsa are definitely up to something. Otherwise the Ogdru Jahad would have nothing to hide."
"True. I'm just worried about what it is they're doing." She said, biting her lip.
"Don't be. There's no point in worrying about something you have no control over. Besides, if I were you, I'd be getting ready for tonight."
"What time are we leaving?" Erica asked. She stood up and headed over to the table where Abe was sitting.
The fish man shrugged. "We leave as soon as another report of a sighting comes in."
"Which means it'll probably be some ungodly hour of the night, if it's tonight at all," Erica muttered, crossing her arms, "October is not a good month for us to get any sleep."
"Speaking of which, how much sleep have you gotten since we've been back?" Abe asked, gazing levelly at her like he was seeing into her mind.
"A couple hours," she admitted, knowing it was pointless to lie, "Plus a few more during the flight back."
"You need your rest."
Erica smiled and rolled her eyes a little. "Abe, you sound like my mother. Why did you come in here anyway? I know it wasn't just to tell me to go to bed. Or to play with my chess pieces."
The fish man quickly put down the glass chess piece he had been idly toying with. His gills flushed to a darker orange-red color. "Oh, I just wanted to be certain you were prepared for tonight."
"I'm always prepared," Erica said. She put one foot up on the chair in front of her and pulled a long blade from inside her boot. The dagger's lethal edge glimmered in the light. She put the blade back in her boot. "I'm never unarmed."
"That's not what I meant by being prepared," Abe said. He stood up. "If you're sleep deprived it won't matter how well armed you are."
"Abe—" she started to say.
He stopped her with a raised palm. "I'll inform the others that Volker is dead. Get some sleep. I'll wake you up providing the alarms don't do it for me."
"Alright," she sighed, "I should have known it would be pointless to argue with you."
Abe smiled at her and nodded as he started for the door. "Good night." He said. A moment later the door closed silently behind him and Erica was alone.
I can't believe that just happened. I feel like a kid. But he had good intentions, and he's right, I am tired.
Erica turned off her computer screen and kicked off her boots. She changed into a pair of baggy dark blue pajama pants and then pulled off her black T-shirt. She winced as the fabric scraped along the deep scratches on her right arm, tearing off some of the scabs.
"Ow," Erica muttered, examining the scratches from Volker's long nails, "Damn vampire. Then again, I didn't exactly expect him to stand still while I burned his face."
She glanced around, trying to find the black tank top she wore with her pajama pants. Unable to find it in her room, she wandered into her bathroom and found it lying on the floor. Exactly where I left it, she thought. She picked it up and pulled it over her head. She glanced at herself in the mirror. Two silvery white scars glimmered on her skin, both of them located near her heart. One was a bullet scar from an assassin that had shot her during WWII. The other was the scar that Kroenen's blade had left sixty years ago. The long ragged wound had healed and turned into a death line in white and silver that was located unnervingly close to her heart.
Yawning, she took her hair out of her ponytail and ran her left hand through her long brown hair, glancing at the crescent shaped scar on the inside of her upper left arm—the scar that had caught Kroenen and Ilsa's attention and let them know who she was all those years ago. Who would've thought one scar could cause so much trouble? She thought. Erica quickly dismissed the thought and wandered out into her room again. She picked up a dagger and sheath sitting on her bedside table and strapped it onto her left wrist as she did every night. It never hurt to be prepared.
Still yawning, she turned off the lights and flopped down on her bed and lay there, staring up at the red canopy above her bed. I wonder if I should use my visions to see if I'll be woken up later, she mused, Nah. I'm tired, and it won't make a difference if I know anyway. If there's trouble, I'll be awakened by those sirens. But I better not be…
XXXXX
Moldavia
An Airfield
Late evening
Kroenen stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac at the airport. The sky overhead was overcast and the clouds had the strange blue-grey color to them that meant it was going to start snowing soon. A cold biting wind blew down from the towering, snow covered mountains in the west, sweeping across the open airfield and whistling sharply as it gusted between the neat rows of airplanes. The tall brown grass around the edges of the tarmac was dusted with crystalline snow, and the brown stalks bent and waved, adding to the cold, desolate mood of the place. Kroenen was pleased to see that the small airport was deserted—as had been promised them.
Despite his black leather trench coat the assassin shivered a little, enjoying the frosty feel in the air. It felt good to be somewhere other than Norway and to be looking at scenery that was different than the cold, grey sea off the coast of Norway. It feels good to simply be moving forward and to be doing something, Kroenen thought.
He heard boots tapping against the metal stairs that led down from the plane as their owner descended to the ground. A moment later Ilsa was beside him, her cold beauty and black clothing perfectly reflecting the mood of the weather.
"I hope you both enjoyed the ride," a man's voice called to them from inside the plane. A moment later, the man that had spoken—the pilot—appeared at the top of the stairs carrying the two large black backpacks that were Kroenen and Ilsa's luggage.
"Quite." Ilsa said, her words exact and clipped. Kroenen knew she wanted to get moving just as bad, if not worse, than he did.
"I suppose you're here for skiing or some other winter sport," the pilot said, obviously trying to make conversation. He walked down the steps carrying the luggage. "There's not much else to do in this part of Moldavia. Though I wouldn't recommend skiing, it looks like we're going to get some snow, and the mountains are going to be inaccessible unless you have a guide."
"We know. Do you know where we could find one?" Ilsa asked.
The pilot set down the two backpacks and scratched his head. "Erm, you could always try some of the taverns and inns close to the bottom of the mountains. A lot of the peasant type folk that know the area like to go there for drinks during the evenings."
"Danke." Ilsa smiled sweetly at the pilot and then turned away and picked up her backpack.
"What'd you say?" the pilot asked, looking confused, "You know, if you don't mind my saying, you two are certainly the strangest pair of tourists I've ever seen. I mean, how many people schedule last minute flights to Moldavia, of all places? And no offense intended of course, sir, but your mask is sorta odd. Not that I'm complaining. You paid me well enough." The pilot smiled and winked at them.
Kroenen glanced at Ilsa. He could tell that the pilot's mindless prattle was irritating her as much as it was irritating him. He turned to the pilot, who was standing very close to him.
"We don't have time for this. Besides, I don't like to leave witnesses." Kroenen said as he reached inside his trench coat. His gloved hands grasped the hilts of his baton swords.
"What—?"
The pilot barely had time to speak before Kroenen drew his baton swords and slit the man's throat with surgical precision. The pilot's body swayed and then collapsed, his limbs splayed haphazardly across the blacktopped runway. Hot, crimson blood gushed from the gaping wound in his neck and pooled on the ground, steaming in the cold air.
Suddenly, snow started to fall.
Ilsa smiled. "Well done. We should get moving if we want to reach the mountains before nightfall. Our Master is waiting for us."
Kroenen nodded and glanced at the base of the blue-grey mountains. Already he could see the clustered, tiny yellow glows of lights shining through windows. The lights were coming from a small town.
He heard the soft click of jackboots against the asphalt and saw Ilsa striding away, heading for a long black car parked on the dirt road leading from the runway. He recognized the license plate number. That's the car she arranged for us, he thought.
A cold blast of wind swirled the falling snow against the assassin's mask. He wiped off his swords in the grass and sheathed them before shouldering his backpack and following Ilsa towards the long black car. Instead of walking around the pilot's bloody remains, he simply stepped over the dead man without a single glance in his direction.
XXXXX
Moldavia
A Tavern
Late Evening
The dimly lit, ancient wooden tavern was completely untouched by modern times. It was as if the late 1800's had come and never left. The tavern was full of the clamor of people talking and the clink of glasses and dishes as the waiters hurried back and forth to serve the customers. All the tables were full of weathered, tough looking peasants, and a group of men sat at the bar drinking and swapping stories. Two young men, cheered on by their friends, were having a drinking contest and both looked ready to pass out. A roaring fire chased away the winter chill and dispelled some of the shadows in the room that the oil lamps couldn't brighten. The row of windows along the front of the tavern was frosted with snow and condensation. Suddenly the wooden door banged open in a gust of bitterly cold wind, and someone hurried over to shut it again against the night and swirling snow.
The noise, however, did not disturb a group of people sitting in a dark corner beside the stone fireplace.
A severely weather beaten man somewhere in his forties sat on one side of the table, wrapped in a leather and fur coat and drinking a glass of vodka. His name was Razvan Arcos. He gazed at the two strange people sitting across from him. So strange, in fact, that if he didn't know better, he'd have thought he was drunk again. But he knew he wasn't. He'd barely taken a sip of the vodka he'd bought before the pair had shown up at the tavern and gone around asking people questions. And the answers must have led to him, because the two had sat down across from him. Razvan just hoped that whatever they wanted, that he wasn't in trouble.
He eyed the pair up. One was a beautiful blond haired woman dressed in black pants, boots, and a black jacket edged with black fur. Her blood red nails glittered in the firelight and her blue eyes were unusually bright and intense and had an icy coldness about them. Her haughty air showed that she was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. Her companion was just as strange, if not more enigmatic. The man—at least Razvan assumed it was a man—was dressed head to foot in black and wore a black cloak with a deep hood that hid his face completely, though an eerie glint occasionally flashed from within the depths of the hood. Razvan thought, with a shiver, that the glint resembled firelight reflecting off glass. But no, it had to be the light shining on the man's eyes. The hooded man sat in the shadows, away from the light of the tavern. Razvan could clearly hear the man's raspy breathing and a strange ticking noise, like the man was carrying a huge watch.
"What do you want?" Razvan finally asked in heavily accented English.
"We're looking for a peasant guide that knows these mountains better than anyone else." the woman said.
"If you're tourists you're in the wrong place." he said harshly, trying to get them to leave.
"We're not tourists. We're looking for a guide that knows the Old Places in the mountains."
Razvan couldn't stop his eyes from widening at the woman's words. Everyone that lived and worked at the base of the mountains knew about the Old Places—everyone had heard ghost stories about them—but very few people actually knew where the Old Places were located, high up in the mountains. Razvan happened to be one of the few. But he knew local rumors and stories never left the town, so it came as a surprise that a pair of foreigners had heard of the Old Places. "How do you know about them?"
"So you do know where they are." the woman observed.
"Yes." Razvan said hesitatingly.
"I thought so," the woman said with a knowing look, "My friend and I would like to hire you as our guide to take us to one of them."
"Hire me? You speak English. I won't take payment in American money. It's useless here." Razvan said dismissively. He took a large gulp from his glass of vodka.
"I know. That's why we're going to pay you in gold."
"In what?" Razvan exclaimed, narrowly escaping spraying alcohol across the table. Suddenly interested, he sat his glass down and leaned forward, "How much?"
The woman smiled and her ice blue eyes glinted. She gestured at her cloaked and hooded companion, who reached a gloved hand into his coat and pulled out two small gold ingots about the size of a man's thumb. "You will get your gold when we arrive at our destination." the cloaked man said, his voice stern.
"When do you want to leave?" Razvan asked eagerly.
The woman's smile widened. "Tomorrow morning, before daybreak. We must reach our destination before nightfall."
Razvan hesitated and glanced out the tavern's frosted windows at the steadily falling snow. "But what about the snow storm?"
"It will slow down." the woman said confidently, as if she thought the weather would obey her orders.
"Then we leave in the morning," Razvan agreed, "Before daybreak. But which of the Old Places do you want to go to?"
"We have a map, we just need you to guide us there," the woman said, pulling an ancient leather book from inside her coat.
"Then we have a deal!" Razvan said, smiling. He tossed back the rest of his vodka and banged his glass down on the table. He didn't care why the two strangers wanted to go to one of the Old Places, so long as they got there and he got his gold.
Little did he know that along with his gold, he would also get his death.
Author's Notes: Whew! Now that was a long chapter! I hope you all liked the flashback from Broom's POV and my solution for why Abe doesn't know that Professor Broom is sick. Did you all notice the implied romance? I was worried it wasn't clear enough, since I was trying to keep Abe in character. The next chapter will be about, you guessed it! Fighting some—very unconventional—werewolves. Also, the next chapter might have another short bit with Kroenen and Ilsa in it, providing the werewolves don't take up too much space.