Chapter 15: An Epiphany and an Incubus
Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Luke, Brittany, and the plot that isn't from the movie belong to me.
Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I was shocked that I got so many so soon after posting the last chapter—all in all, an excellent birthday present (I turned 18 on May 21)! I am also pleased to note that chapter 14 received the most reviews of any chapter (14, oddly enough!), and that this story has now passed 100 reviews. Thank you all! And, before some of you read into my chapter title and are hoping my story rating is about to be raised to M, I'm not using 'incubus' with its conventional mythological meaning; I'm using the literary meaning: a cause of mental distress, or something that causes a lot of worry or anxiety, especially a nightmare or obsession. I picked it because it connects to several of the characters, as well as a certain event about to occur. Now, with that out of the way, prepare for Kroenen angst, some cute Erica and Abe fluffiness, lots of foreshadowing, and another revealing confrontation! Here are the German to English translations: 'Ja' is yes, and 'Nein' is no. Enjoy the chapter!
Psycho Llama: Just wanted to say again how much I love your story Red Herring, and I encourage everyone else to read it! And as for consistency, that's one of the reasons it takes me so long to write a chapter; with all the plot twists I have to be really careful to make sure I don't screw anything up!
Psycho Clowns: Yes, I brought her sister back in because, among many reasons, I thought it would be weird not to address her family; logically she should miss them.
Sincerely in Blood: Thank you, graduation was wonderful!
Syraka: Yes he is! He really is a more complex character than just a psychotic murderer.
Cosmic Imaginer 2: Sorry about the long wait, hope this chapter makes it worth it!
cd2185(Aquas98): I think I will be pulling Erica's sister in again in the future because I want to explore her character a bit more. And thanks again for the artwork; I still have it proudly displayed on my bulletin board!
DarkCloudRider: Yep, Abe's certainly going to be in trouble with Kroenen.
musicamode: Yes, there's going to be a lot of conflict between Abe and Kroenen, especially in the subway tunnels in the next chapter or so. I also will find it hard to choose a side!
Schemergirl: Glad you enjoyed both chapters! And you're not the only reviewer who has compared the 'love triangle' to the Phantom of the Opera (which I happen to love!).
Elena-Unduli: Your birthday? Great to know you enjoyed your 'gift'! And I must thank you for inspiring the dream Erica has later on in this chapter, so thanks once again!
whitefang4ever: Thanks for reviewing! I'm happy to know you enjoyed!
amyltrer: Luckily enough, since I and others like them so much, I am trying to squeeze the werewolves into the plot more.
wolf-in-the-blood: You read both? WOW. And I must say that is a massive review…I also love the Kroenen and Abe webcomic; it's so good to meet fellow readers of like minds! Woot for Kroenen/Abe fans! And I'm extremely flattered that you enjoy my story so much you have software to read it to you! That is awesome! Thank you so much!
Julz: Thank you! And yes, there aren't many stories out there about Kroenen, and very few bother to explore the complex possibilities offered by his character.
"I became insane with long intervals of horrible sanity."—Edgar Allen Poe
"There is a voice inside of you that whispers all day long, 'I feel that this is right for me, I know that this is wrong.' No teacher, preacher, parent, friend or wise man can decide what's right for you—just listen to the voice that speaks inside."—Shel Silverstein
"The heart has reasons which reason cannot understand."—Blaise Pascal
Abandoned Subway Area
Shower Room
Halloween Night
Ilsa felt Kroenen returning long before he appeared—his anger had slammed into her brain a while ago, transmitted to her through their blood bond in all its rushing, consuming storm of red. Needless to say, his anger had been a bit helpful tonight when, after the events at the Machen Library, she had been dealing with the warden of a medical supplies and prosthetics warehouse: she had barely given a second thought to the extra aggression flooding her veins, and spurred on by the thrill of it, she had violently smashed the dozing warden's ribcage and skull with her sledgehammer, then rifled through his pockets for his keys and his inventory list. Once she had located the glass eyes—blue, of course, to replace Grigory's eyes, which had been ripped out by the portal generator—she had left, her prize carefully stowed in her pocket, leaving a gory mess behind her for the New York CSI unit to deal with in the morning.
But now Ilsa stared off into space, oblivious to the cracked, dirty tiles and dim, bluish light of the underground room as she focused on Kroenen's increasing rage. What could possibly have happened? she wondered. She winced and inhaled sharply as a particularly vicious bolt of Kroenen's fury exploded in her bloodstream; her tense fingers twitched and sent her long, blood-red fingernails ripping through the flimsy pages of the newspaper she had been reading. She glanced down at the torn pages, pulled her nails free, and tossed the paper aside in irritation; it fluttered to the floor awkwardly, like a butterfly with shredded wings. Ilsa flinched again as another spurt of the assassin's anger made her head start throbbing at the base of her skull, pounding in time with her pulse.
"Damn it!" she muttered through gritted teeth. "I'm going to kill him for this!"
She rested her head on her hand, pinching the bridge of her nose between her pale fingers as her headache faded and intensified by turns. At least I have the consolation that Erica is feeling the same pain, she thought viciously.
That was when she heard it: the heavy, oppressive fall of jackboots drawing nearer, followed moments later by the appearance of the clockwork assassin himself. An invisible tempest, crackling ominously with energy, seemed to follow him as he stormed into the room, his jackboots striking the water-stained tiles so hard it seemed they were certain to shatter under his heel. Kroenen did not speak, he did not glance in her direction; he headed straight towards the other doorway as if she wasn't there.
Ilsa was tired of being ignored. And she was more than a little irate about the headache she had, so she overlooked the warning signs surrounding the clockwork man.
"Well?" she asked sharply, glaring at him.
Kroenen stopped but didn't turn to face her. "Well WHAT?" he grated out from between clenched teeth.
Ilsa, stunned by the intensity of the fury in his voice, stared at Kroenen's rigid back. She had seen Kroenen's temper tantrums before—and they were unpleasant in the extreme—but this one looked ready to out do all those before it. She hesitated to answer him, unwilling to become a target for his raging temper, but as the seconds ticked by and Kroenen's rasping breathing became harsher with irritation, she realized that keeping mute might be even worse.
Finally, she said, very quietly, "Did you torture Erica?"
Kroenen whirled around. "TORTURE?! HER?!" he snarled.
Ilsa flinched and recoiled from him so fast that the back of her chair dug sharply into her shoulder blades. Kroenen's mask glared frighteningly as he towered over her, and Ilsa was sure that if his mask was off, that she would see his eyes bulging so much they would be threatening to drop out of his skull.
"THAT—THAT—SHE—DAMNED WOMAN!" Kroenen abruptly turned on his heel; his jackboots crashed into the floor with each of his steps; he slammed the doors behind him so hard that the rotted and worm-eaten wood shuddered violently and the rusty hinges groaned. And in spite of the closed doors, Ilsa could hear Kroenen ranting and raving and cursing as he traveled deeper into the network of tunnels:
"THE DEVIL TAKE HER!"
"Obviously it didn't go well," Ilsa murmured, staring at the still quivering doors.
XXXXX
Abandoned Subway Area
Night
Kroenen's screams of incoherent rage echoed back into his ears, the sounds twisted and distorted by the many passages. He let loose a stream of ancient curses and the arcane sounds bounced back as if a chorus of demons had joined in, hissing in their hellish tongue. He slammed his left fist into the stone wall of some forgotten building's foundation and received no pleasure on seeing the old stones crack and break from the impact. He turned away and violently shoved open the rusty metal doors to his lair; the metal shrieked in protest, sending rats scurrying frantically in their efforts to hide.
Inside the room the hellish glow of the furnace's raging inferno threw swirling, flickering shadows over the walls and floor. The clockwork assassin was so livid he was shaking; his thoughts boiled under his skin, leaving scars; his lingering hatreds from WWII had produced such a strong passion for revenge that it was driving him mad now that it was clashing with this new refusal to harm Erica, brought on by his memories and her assertion that she did not hate him. He wanted to embrace her, kill her, forgive her all at once—and he hated himself for it. His hands worked uncontrollably. He wanted to destroy something—no, someone.
"ABE," he snarled, gnashing his teeth. "EMBRACING HER! KISSING MY ANGEL!"
His mechanical hand latched onto a flimsy metal railing; the rusted-through metal crumbled under his fingers and he threw it aside, imagining it was the fish creature that crashed into the wall and broke, instead of the rusted metal.
Kroenen violently paced the room, his mind a purgatory of self-loathing, a hurricane of fury thundering inside him and his toxic emotions clawing at his guts as he raged against everything that came to mind: Erica's treachery, his failure to kill her, Erica's eyes and what he had seen in them tonight, his weakness, Erica's words, himself—for not taking revenge, Erica—for making him feel like this, himself, Erica, that fish-man, Erica, and that GOD-DAMN FISH CREATURE!
Suddenly, Kroenen stopped walking. Just stopped. A curious stillness and calm descended over him. "Ah…" he murmured. Then, "You fool." He chuckled a little, then louder. "You fool," he repeated. "You fool!"
Kroenen had gotten beyond his rage, now. He laughed—for no reason he could comprehend—and his laughter got louder and louder until it was the very voice of insanity. In a part of his mind he knew he was hysterical, that his mind was breaking because of emotional stress, that he needed to calm down. But he didn't want to. He had reason to be hysterical. Erica, Erica, Erica. My Angel, he thought, my cause of suffering as much as I am.
His laughter faded away, leaving nothing but that odd calm and a silence broken only by the muted roar of the furnace flames. He saw everything now, as if it had been drawn out for him, and he faced it now with a stoicism that surprised him. The facts were these: He loved Erica. He loved her. He saw it now; that was why he couldn't hurt her, why she effected him so much, why he was jealous—and yes, he even admitted that he was—of the fish creature that had so freely kissed her. Kroenen loved her. He had never allowed himself to admit it before; it would have interfered with his Great Work on Project Ragnarok, and, after that, when the portal generator was ruined and Erica had betrayed them all, he had been too blinded by rage—at Erica and himself—to see the truth. He had been unwilling to see it.
A small part of him rebelled and wondered at this revelation, this sudden love and jealousy. He hated himself right now, it told him, he hated his heart—however nonexistent and clockwork it might be—for doing this to him. He hated her. He hated her more than he could hate anything. He loathed her, despised her. Yet, he loved her. How could it be true? He was a murderer, an assassin; his heart was as cold and unfeeling as the blades he wielded! But no. He knew better; he knew the truth when he saw it.
Love. It explained everything. Everything. The only question now was this: what on earth was he going to do?
He couldn't go through with murdering her. This knowledge broke over him as smoothly as the last, followed by another thought, and one that was far more disturbing: He was a traitor. As of that moment, he was guilty of treason; by indulging his weakness, by knowing he couldn't—WOULDN'T—sacrifice Erica, he was disobeying Rasputin and the Ogdru Jahad.
Imagine that. It had come to this: he, the Head of the Thule Occult Society, had just betrayed his own Society—or what was left of it. The irony. Kroenen snorted derisively. He had never had the intention of following her road. If only he had killed off the last scrap of sympathy and kindness in his soul—And while I'm on the subject, I might as well wish I'd never seen the girl, for all the good it would do me, Kroenen thought. Then the calm settled back over him. That was it, then.
It was strange, he reflected, that he didn't feel any different—with the exception of this strange calm, of course. Was this how Erica had felt when she decided to betray the Thule Occult Society? He doubted it; he had nothing to hold him back: Rasputin had abandoned him, and Ilsa had unfortunately done much the same at her supposedly loving Master's bidding.
But Erica—she had ME, Kroenen thought.
He understood now, could empathize with her, with the emotional battle she must have fought all the way to the moment the portal generator exploded, and, very probably, was fighting to this very moment. He understood now that Erica's treachery had not been a personal strike against him and their friendship, as he had thought; he had just been unavoidably wound up with the unfolding events. She couldn't have avoided the confrontation if she had tried. He understood now, he truly did. He knew why she had betrayed them: it just felt right. Just like his treachery did, now.
It was strange—all trace of his former anger and hate was gone, now that he understood.
Kroenen absentmindedly sank into a chair, then slipped his hand into the pocket of his trench coat that was draped across the desk. He found what he was looking for and leaned back in his chair, gazing at the black and white photograph he was holding. Or more specifically, gazing at Erica—Ilsa's image and his own were not what captured his attention in this moment.
Erica. Tonight had proven that his Angel of Death still existed. She had not vanished that night, running out with Erica's blood as she lay in the mud and he held her in his arms. No, she was still there! He had seen it in her eyes, on her face. It had been heartbreaking, purpose shattering to discover that his beloved Angel was still there, sharing body and soul with the treacherous young woman of the present. It didn't trouble him, though, now that he understood her treachery. And besides that, how could he hate her for it? He would be a hypocrite!
I wouldn't do this for anyone but you, Angel, he thought as he gently ran his fingers over the photograph. No one but you…
What would happen to him now, he didn't know. Nor did he know what would happen to Erica. But he would do something. Oh, yes indeed.
Kroenen laughed; it rose, high and thin, eerily rebounding off the furnace room walls. He wondered, not for the first time that night, if he was insane. But of course he was; only a madman would betray the Ogdru Jahad and expect to snatch their intended victim out from under their noses—did they even have noses? No matter. His laughter faded into a dark chuckle.
"My Angel, I had a feeling it would be you who finally drove me crazy," he said, speaking to the photograph.
The clockwork assassin carefully propped the photo up against the row of metal masks lined up on his desk, then gazed beyond it, into the dancing flames of the furnace, as he tried to decide what he should do. He knew plotting against Grigory and the Ogdru Jahad would not be easy; he had to plan carefully. If he was caught—well, Rasputin would not leave it to someone else to kill him, not after what had happened with Kroenen and Erica at Trondham Abbey. No, it would be instant death, and of the sort only Grigory could contrive for an undead man. And that would leave Erica to fall into the trap that awaited her and the BPRD in Russia. He couldn't allow that to happen.
Kroenen could feel the metaphorical gears turning in his mind as he sought out a plan of action. Unsurprisingly, several ideas came to him, and even less surprisingly, some were far less feasible than others. His idealistic plan as he first imagined it was akin to something from a fairytale: he would rescue Erica and run away with her, as far as they could get from Grigory Rasputin, leaving the more than capable BPRD to sort out the problem of Grigory unleashing Hell on Earth.
However, the assassin instantly dismissed the idea, knowing it would never work in reality. First of all, there was no way in hell Erica would let him near her, let alone rescue her in that fashion—not after what had happened tonight in the alleys. Kroenen felt a tug of guilt as he remembered what he had done to her. No, it wouldn't work; she had been afraid of him before, but now she was sure to be terrified. And secondly, even if she were to agree to being rescued, Erica always finished what she started; there was no way she would abandon her friends and leave it up to them to defeat Rasputin. No, she would want to be involved; she had a personal vendetta against the mad monk for deceiving and using her.
Perhaps simply kidnapping her would be a better option, he thought, I could always explain myself on the way. But after briefly considering it, he decided he didn't relish the idea of trying to drag a struggling, fighting Erica somewhere, even if it was for her own safety.
Slowly, it began to dawn on Kroenen that he would have to stay with Grigory and Ilsa through to Russia—all the while keeping his treachery a secret—in order to save Erica, who didn't trust him and who didn't know he was trying to save her, and, as a result, would probably try to decapitate him the first chance she got. Being headless was not a promising state for a would-be rescuer.
If only he wasn't handicapped by her unwillingness to trust him—
No. Wait. In the alleys Erica had said, "I don't hate you."
Unwilling? he thought, cocking his head to one side. Perhaps not entirely.
She had said she didn't hate him; this in itself was an astounding revelation. Maybe there was a chance he could restore her trust, convince her that he had only good intentions. He would show her he had had a change of heart, that he understood now, that he had forgiven her. Maybe there was a chance he could regain her friendship, that they could work together, even if that meant hiding his treachery until the inevitable climax of conflict in Russia. Maybe, just maybe, he could get her back.
And he wanted her back. She was his companion, his partner, his friend. His Angel of Death. She was as murderous, as deviously intelligent, and as incredibly dangerous as himself. She was his perfect ally. He wanted her back. And this want was only amplified by the shocking scene Kroenen had witnessed at the library: that nasty, impudent fish creature, dripping all over Erica, embracing her and KISSING her!
The act in itself was bad enough, but what was even worse, what really hurt, was that Erica had smiled at Abe in a way she had never smiled at Kroenen…that she had hugged that fish creature in a way she had never embraced him…
The fish man will have to die for loving her, Kroenen decided, already heatedly contemplating how many ways he could messily do away with Abe. There was a time I would murder men for simply touching her, but this...! Yes, the fish man will die. I wonder if he would dry out like an amphibian if I locked him in a room somewhere, the assassin thought, seriously entertaining the idea. That would leave the body intact if I decided to dissect him later…
Then his heart fell. No. Murdering Abe did not match what the assassin wanted to show Erica: that he had had a change of heart. Gutting Abe like the fish he was would only drive Erica away, make her hate him, destroying Kroenen's chances of getting her back. No, he couldn't have any of that. He would control himself, he decided, unless the fish-man interfered. And in the back of his head, a part of him was sadistically hoping that Abe would. All Kroenen needed was an excuse, any excuse…
With that issue taken care of, Kroenen turned to other matters. He needed to talk to Erica, test her, see if some deeply buried part of her was still receptive to their friendship. He needed to coax his Angel out into the open.
A test.
His lipless grin widened; he had the perfect idea. It will begin tonight, he decided. In her dreams.
In the meantime, however, he had more immediate concerns. Such as suturing the gashes his beloved Angel had given him in the course of their battle. He picked up a needle and thick, black thread from where they lay on his desk among the papers, gears, and other unidentifiable pieces of dismembered machinery. With effortlessness born of long experience, he threaded the needle, then unbuckled his intricate chest plate and pulled off his skintight black shirt. Immediately, a stream of white sand poured from the deep gash in his stomach, then slackened and faded to a trickle of only a few grains. Kroenen surveyed the damage with the keen eye of a skilled surgeon; the wound on his stomach was deep: red muscle could bee seen through the pale, ragged flesh. His gaze traveled to the cut on his arm, the one he had received for staring at Erica and failing to keep his eyes on her weapons; gleaming metal and white bone shone eerily through the slashed skin.
Ah, Erica, fierce and opportunistic as always, he thought proudly.
The assassin set to work, his curved needle flashing in the hellish light as he made quick, tiny stitches with the ease of someone all too familiar with his task.
"Angel…"
XXXXX
The BPRD
Medical Bay
Night
"And then your sister left?" Abe asked.
Erica nodded. She was seated on the edge of an examination table, holding an icepack to the bump on the back of her head. She was wearing a clean black tank top and matching pajama pants; the pants were rolled up above her knees, which Abe had just finished bandaging. She felt much better, now: her crippling headache, caused by Kroenen's rage streaming through their blood bond, was gone. Apparently Kroenen had calmed down. Erica had no idea what could have calmed the assassin so suddenly, but she certainly wasn't complaining about it.
Abe reached for another pad of gauze and started gently wiping away the dried blood from the cuts on her face. A careful inspection of her wounds had revealed them to be superficial, though Abe had definitely come to the conclusion that he wouldn't want to have the clockwork assassin hunting him down for any reason.
"At least something good came out of tonight," Abe said. It was truly astounding that Erica had met up with her sister; time travel certainly had its bizarre idiosyncrasies.
The doors of the medical bay opened and Professor Broom limped into the room, leaning on his cane, followed by Myers and a blood covered and chastised looking Hellboy. Hellboy stopped just inside the doorway and looked at Erica apologetically, his red-flecked gold eyes sweeping over the blood and bruises on her face.
"God, E, I'm sorry," he muttered.
"It's okay. Kroenen would have found some way to get me when I was alone. It just happened to be tonight."
"I still shouldn't have snuck off," Hellboy said, swaying slightly. Erica noticed with some alarm that a pool of blood was forming around Hellboy's feet.
"Sit down before you fall down," Broom said, sternly but fondly.
Hellboy obediently flopped down on one of the examination tables; it groaned slightly in protest. Abe glanced at Hellboy's wounds and then back at Erica.
"I'll be fine," she said, in answer to his unspoken question. "I can finish the rest."
Abe nodded and went to tend to his friend, who was casting slightly envious glances at the fish-man and Erica.
"God, you two are lucky," Hellboy muttered. "Liz…" But he stopped short, falling silent as his father came over to stand beside him. Hellboy glanced sideways at him, trying to gauge if his father was still upset with him for sneaking off to see Liz. But Broom smiled slightly, and suddenly it was as if nothing had happened between them, as if Hellboy hadn't been grounded at all, or slipped away again tonight. Hellboy returned the smile; they had both forgiven each other for what had happened, and now seemed to have a better understanding of each other: Hellboy was going to visit Liz, no matter what, and Broom seemed to have accepted this to some degree. At any rate, there was no longer any hostility between them, for which the demon was thankful: truly, no matter how he behaved outwardly, deep in his heart he couldn't bear for his father to be disappointed with him. His thoughts were interrupted, however, by Erica.
"What happened to you?" she asked, gazing at the deep gash on his arm. Off to the side Myers was hovering uncertainly in the background, looking more than a little sickened by all the blood on Hellboy and the floor.
"Stinky left me a present," Hellboy said. Then, in explanation, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slimy thing with a big black stinger; he tossed it onto a nearby table where it flopped and jerked oddly, heading for the edge. Myers darted forward, seized a pair of forceps, and roughly grabbed the thing before it could get any further; the stinger-thing thrashed wildly in protest.
Erica grimaced and watched as Abe peered through a magnifier at Hellboy's wounded arm.
"You were burned by some organic acid," Abe said, prodding the gash with a set of medical implements.
"I'm lucky that way," Hellboy replied. Broom rolled his eyes and then watched as Abe inspected the wound. Suddenly Hellboy twitched. "Ow!"
"Sorry," Abe said.
The fish-man reached for a tray of medical implements and selected a scalpel. Erica's eyes were drawn to the sharp metal blade; instantly a wave of nausea hit her as vivid, gruesome memories of Kroenen's 'hobbies' assaulted her mind's eye, triggered by her most recent encounter with Kroenen and the medical atmosphere of the room. Don't be so stupid, she scolded herself. It's just a knife, nothing else. Kroenen isn't here; I'm safe. I won't let him effect me like this. She forced herself to open her eyes—just in time to see Abe probing the gash on Hellboy's arm with the scalpel. Erica's stomach heaved and she quickly turned her head away, a memory of her WWII years engulfing her vision…
Cut open flesh—metal—horribly white bone—blood—twisted wires—she stood in the doorway, staring openly at the scene in front of her and particularly at the unidentifiable mass of flesh fused to wires and metal that sat oozing fluids all over the top of the stainless steel operating table.
"You should put a sign on the door when you're experimenting," she said softly, nearly unable to find her voice.
Kroenen turned his head to face her. A single drop of crimson blood was slowly making its way down the side of his smooth metal mask. He held a bloodstained scalpel in one hand. "Do you need something?" he asked calmly. Erica shuddered; his serene tone was disturbing considering the gory scene.
"You told me to come and get a book you had for me," she said quickly, already backing out of the doorway and pulling the door closed, "but you're obviously busy, so I'll come back later—"
A hand closed on her wrist. It slipped at little, wet with—no, she didn't even want to think about it. She turned to look at him.
"You can stay if you want," he offered. "I could use another pair of hands. And you can see the prototype for the alteration I could make to improve your reflexes."
She gazed beyond him at the mess of flesh riddled with clockwork; she grimaced. Not only did the mess in the room make her want to throw up, but she especially felt sick at the suggestion of him doing—whatever it was he was doing to that thing—to her.
"There is no way in hell I'm letting you do that to me. I already told you no."
Kroenen watched her for a moment, silently contemplating her through the dark voids that hid his eyes. Abruptly he released her and walked over to a metal cart; he returned with a book and held it out to her. She grasped it in one hand, but he didn't let go of the book.
"You can still stay," he said.
She quickly shook her head. He sighed and released his grip on the book. Erica wasted no time in exiting the charnel house that passed for his lab; once the door was closed and she had rounded the corner of the hall, she looked down at the book she was holding. Its cover was stained with a bloody handprint from Kroenen's gloves—
"Erica?"
Erica blinked and gazed up through the haze of her fading memory at a very concerned Professor Broom. Only then did she realize that her heart was racing and her breathing was shallow and irregular.
"I'm fine…I'm fine…I just…need to get some rest," she said. Her eyes involuntarily wandered over to Hellboy's arm and she gagged as she saw Abe watching her, frozen in the act of suturing the wound closed, drawing Hellboy's red flesh back together. She knew how that felt, the stomach turning sensation of thick, black thread tugging sickeningly as it was pulled through skin—
Erica pressed her hand to her lips as she felt the tell-tale sensation of bubbles in her stomach accompanied by the bitter, hot taste of acid rising in her throat. She swallowed thickly, forcing it back down—
"Are you sure you—?" Broom asked, worry in every wrinkle on his face.
"Ja. Ja. I need…rest. That's all."
She dropped the icepack on the table and practically fled from the room.
XXXXX
Abandoned Subway Area
Furnace Room
Night
"Tell me what happened," Ilsa said from her place in the doorway.
Kroenen paused in his work, stopping so suddenly and with such control that his arm stopped in mid-stitch, his curved needle held in midair above the wound he was suturing. Slowly, he looked up, his mask's eye pieces glinting eerily in the flickering light cast by the furnace. When he spoke his voice was soft and even, with no trace of its former anger.
"What do you want to know?"
Ilsa was wary. She had had no idea what she would find when she entered the assassin's lair, and though Kroenen appeared to have calmed himself, she knew his anger could still be smoldering beneath his tranquil exterior. Other than his garbled words about Erica, she had no idea what had made him so infuriated. And now she wanted to know; she needed to know how it would impact their plans.
"I want to know why you came back raving mad and screaming at the top of your lungs about Erica," she said, moving a step farther into the room so she could lean against the rusting metal doors. She crossed her arms and waited for his reply.
Kroenen didn't speak immediately; he turned his head away and resumed stitching up the wound on his arm. Ilsa idly watched him in a distant macabre fascination.
"We fought," he said at last, his voice harsh and raspy, distorted even more by his mask. "In the alleys. She was alone. She wounded me and then ran; I trapped her in a dead end. She continued to fight, but just as she became too exhausted to resist me, a pack of werewolves arrived and attacked me. I made a tactical retreat," he said bitterly.
"Werewolves?" Ilsa asked, somewhat surprised.
The clockwork man nodded. "Her allies," he said. There was a slight growl to his voice as he spoke.
The Aryan woman scowled and snorted in frustration. "Scheiße. She has a nasty habit of surviving."
"Ja. But not unscathed," the assassin murmured. He skillfully tied off the thick suturing thread and cut off the excess before adding, "Her face is a wreck."
Ilsa smiled, pleased by the news. "I look forward to seeing the damage. Now, these werewolves. Will they interfere?"
"Nein. They are powerless during the day, as mortal as other humans. Should they try to assist our enemies…" he trailed off, having made his point. His fingers glided over the many blades laid out on his desk.
"Good," Ilsa said curtly. A heavy silence fell between them, during which Kroenen neatened the pile of medical tools on his desk and Ilsa studied the assassin, assessing his most recent wounds. From the look of them, the fight had been fierce and violent. Pity he was interrupted, she thought.
"I imagine you will be haunting her in her dreams tonight, then. Finishing what you started. With no disruptions."
"Ja. I will give her a taste of the insanity and madness she has driven me to," he said, his voice a quiet but bitter snarl dripping with venom. He drove the scalpel clenched in his fist deep into the surface of his desk and twisted, splintering a section of the wood.
Ilsa gazed at him, his cadaverous, scarred torso backed by the hellish furnace flames, thinking his words couldn't ring truer. She had doubted the assassin's sanity for decades. Of course, she wasn't exactly one to talk.
Having received the information she had come for, and now having no reason to remain in the room, Ilsa moved towards the door, stepping out into the shadows of the underground corridor. "Grigory is visiting the pyrokinetic. Remember, we have only seven more days until the eclipse. The BPRD should be back in the morning to pursue Sammael and locate the eggs. You know what to do."
"Ja," he replied. Grigory had given him his orders and told him how to infiltrate the BPRD; the wards on the building prevented Rasputin from entering, and Kroenen would have to disable them. Other than that, he knew nothing of why Grigory wanted to enter the building; the monk was still ignoring him, other then to convey what absolutely had to be known. Further instructions would be given to Kroenen once he was inside.
Fading footsteps marked Ilsa's exit. Then there was silence.
Erica will be here, come morning, Kroenen thought. He would have to decide how best to turn the situation to his advantage.
He glanced over at his desk and felt a cold needle of alarm as he realized the black and white photograph was still lovingly propped up against the metal masks. He picked it up and was, for a moment, angry with himself; the act of sentimental nostalgia—of weakness—could have cost him everything. It was further proof that an assassin could not afford to be weak in any way, and though he knew this, he also chose to ignore it: he was long past the ability to restrain the emotions he directed towards his former student. Kroenen shook his head at himself and quickly stowed the photograph in a pouch that hung from his belt; fortunately Ilsa had not seen it.
Though she probably would not have thought anything of it if she had. Although, I have been acting oddly tonight…I will have to be more cautious in the future.
Ilsa had believed him without question. Another fortunate turn of events. Though, really, she had no reason to question him. Not yet, anyway. And it wasn't as if he had lied. He had simply left out certain details to serve his purposes.
He could still hardly believe it. Him, a traitor! I must secretly love making trouble for myself, he thought.
The assassin glanced down at his work; the stitches on his arm and stomach were tiny and evenly spaced. Perfect. Now he had one last wound to attend to. He reached down and removed his boot. The stab wound on his foot was surrounded by ragged skin; Erica's dagger had pierced his foot from the top clear through to the arch. Other than the skin, though, he knew there wasn't much damage: his feet were full of metal reinforcements and others of his inventions.
He threaded his curved suturing needle for the third time that night and bent to his task, his bare, pale foot propped up on his knee. Shadows from the furnace danced across his exposed skin, tingeing it orange and leaving the interior of the wound in darkness, save for the occasional glint of metal from its depths. His intricately decorated mechanical hand nimbly pulled the needle through his flesh, drawing it back together.
As soon as he was finished, he knew, he could turn his attention to the beacon he had placed in Erica's mind. He wondered what she was dreaming tonight, if she was sleeping now. Did nightmares grapple with her in her fitful sleep? Or was it dreamless, because of her exhaustion? He would know soon enough.
Maybe if I whisper, in just the right way, you will hear it, though I am far away. When you fall asleep, listen for me, Angel. I'm thinking of you. Promise. I'll see you in your dreams…
XXXXX
The BPRD
Professor Broom's Study
Night
Erica leaned heavily on the white marble countertop of the bathroom; it was connected to the Professor's study, which was fortunate, because the study was a lot closer than her room was to the Medical Bay. She was exhausted.
But at least my nausea has subsided, she thought, lifting her head just enough so she could see her haggard reflection in the huge mirror over the sink.
She had no idea what had come over her in the Medical Bay; she wasn't one to be squeamish—her past had seen to that. It was true she hated stitches, but they had never bothered her unless she had been watching her own flesh being sutured, or—
Kroenen.
She felt her face go very white as she realized. Yes, that made sense. She had wounded the assassin during their fight, and it was logical that he would have to repair himself. And their blood bond had been especially active this evening.
That's what happened, she realized. He must have been repairing himself and his emotions and thoughts were partially projected to me.
A sound outside in the study distracted her and she glanced out into the room through the half-open bathroom door. Professor Broom, Abe, and Myers had just come in, talking. Carefully, Erica nudged the bathroom door closed except for a tiny crack. She had no desire to intrude on their private conversation any more than she wanted them to intrude on her privacy. But still, before the dark, polished wood door swung into place, she heard one word: Hellboy.
I imagine it's because he left to see Liz tonight. Poor Myers. He must feel like he's responsible, and he's not. It's not his fault. The Professor and Abe will straighten it out for him, though. Make him feel better.
She faced the mirror again. Below the dark circles under her eyes, the 'T' shaped scar on her cheek stuck out like a brand, even among the dark, dried blood clinging to her pale skin. Erica grimaced and gently ran a finger over the cuts on her lips, then over the red, puffy mark on her cheek where Kroenen had hit her. The mark was almost a welt.
Well, I can't do anything about that, but I can at least get the blood and dirt off my face, she thought. She pulled her hair back and turned the water on, then cupped her hands under the cold running water and splashed it onto her face. Dried blood flaked off and fell into the white marble sink like red snow, dyeing the water with swirls of translucent red as it was swept down the drain.
The sound of the running water drowned out the indistinct buzz of voices in the study, so she didn't notice when they finally ceased.
Outside in the study, Abe, now minus his breathing apparatus, was alone; the Professor and Myers had retired for the evening. The fish-man stood at the bookstands in front of his tank, turning the pages of the books; then, finished, he shifted his gaze to the door of the small bathroom that was adjacent to the study. He had noticed the door was open when he first came in, but hadn't mentioned it; he knew Erica was far too occupied with her own thoughts to overhear the conversation. He continued gazing at the door; a thin line of bright, warm light poured out from the crack between the door and the jam and spilled across the red carpet. He heard the sink running, accompanied by the sound of splashing water, and wondered if he should knock and ask if she was alright. He was worried about her, and it certainly didn't help that he had half experienced the memory that had made her flee the Medical Bay, or that he could now hear her tumultuous thoughts.
Then he heard the water stop, and after a brief rustling, Erica emerged, her face pale and drawn, but clean. She didn't say anything, just hugged him and buried her face in his chest. Abe held her, all too aware of the stress and nervous tension that were taking their toll on her. She needs to relax, he thought. She's so exhausted…
"You can cry if you want," he murmured, stroking her hair soothingly. "If you think it would help.'
"Nein," she muttered, voice muffled; he felt her lips brush his chest as she spoke. "It wouldn't."
Abe guided her over to the sofa and they curled up together; he would have held Erica tighter, but the massive bruises on her ribs from her encounter with Kroenen made him cautious.
Kroenen. He had done this to her. Abe traced the ring of darkening bruises on her neck with his eyes, living the moment in his mind of Erica's life and death struggle with the assassin as the man tried to choke the life from her. Even here, lying on a sofa, safe within the BPRD, Erica was afraid: she was mentally revisiting that dark alley, replaying the scenes in her mind. Abe saw them, heard them flitting by; emotions, snatches of conversation. One in particular stood out and Abe wondered what Erica's reaction would be if he were to ask her about it; he had no desire to cause her anguish. But as she was already thinking about it…
"Why did you tell him you didn't hate him?" Abe asked, breaking the silence.
Erica shifted uncomfortably. "Because it's true," she said quietly.
Abe blinked in surprise; both sets of translucent eyelids momentarily swept across his vision. "Don't you think you're being too forgiving? He's tried to kill you at least three times!"
"I am afraid of him," she admitted. "But his actions aren't entirely his fault. I betrayed him—so he thinks—without any consideration for his feelings or our friendship. And though that isn't true, I knew it would destroy him when he discovered my treachery, and I did it anyway. He was devastated. It was his duty to kill me, and it was only one he couldn't bear to do. I destroyed him. The guilt is equal on both sides. He has a right to be furious; what would you do if someone betrayed you the way I betrayed him?"
Abe had no answer to that, and he hoped he would never have cause to find one. Erica had fallen silent again, and though he held her in his arms, it was as though she were alone: her eyes were downcast, gazing at the carpet as she absentmindedly bit her lower lip, deep in thought. She was drawn in on herself, curled up both physically and mentally like a mouse trapped in a corner by a cat.
Erica's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, and she couldn't make sense of any of them. Kroenen had acted so bizarrely over the course of their battle: at first he had been threatening and murderous, but then, when he had her trapped and defenseless, the assassin had delayed killing her, had stopped and just stared at her. Oddly, he had pleaded for her to hate him, and then, enraged by her answer, attacked her again. It was as if he didn't know his own mind! Had he gone absolutely raving mad? Or, at least, more than he had been? She certainly wouldn't put it past him: dwelling obsessively on vengeance and her destruction for six decades couldn't have been beneficial to the assassin's mental health. But still, that moment when he had spoken to her, stared at her like that…
Could it be that there is still a speck of mercy in his clockwork heart? she wondered. That could explain his reaction, but, if there was, why hadn't he torn out every shred of it after Oct 9, 1944, when his mercy had cost him everything?
There were too many questions, and she had no answers. And the person that did was hiding somewhere in the darkness of the nearby city, waiting and watching…
Erica glanced up and saw Abe looking at her with his dark eyes, or, more specifically, at her hair. "I cut it—to get free," she explained. "He wouldn't let go. I thought he was going to slit my throat."
Abe couldn't help but reach out and brush away the uneven strands of hair that had fallen untidily into Erica's eyes and across her cheek. Besides being a gesture of comfort, somewhere in the back of his head Abe wondered vaguely how it was possible that the assassin could touch her for a few seconds and leave that smell behind—boot polish and leather and old blood. Abe's hand lingered on her cheek after he brushed the hair out of her face.
"I like your hair better this way," he said.
"Really?" Erica asked. She smiled slightly up at him.
"Yes. It's different. Everyone needs a little change once in a while to keep things interesting."
She laughed. "Hmmm. Here I was thinking that my hair is a wreck, and you tell me you like it. Well too bad," she said, teasingly but wearily, "I'm getting my hair trimmed so it's even again. But that will be tomorrow—well, at least sometime after the sun rises, seeing as it's past midnight."
Erica rubbed her eyes and yawned. She didn't want to move; she was very comfortable on the sofa with Abe, and had pretty much decided there was no way she was walking through the BPRD to her bedroom to spend the remainder of the night alone. She yawned again and snuggled up against Abe.
"I'm so tired…I just need to sleep," she murmured, her eyes drifting shut.
"Go ahead. I'll watch over you."
Erica smiled, but didn't open her eyes. The sofa cushions were so deep and soft, and she was so tired…
Sleep claimed her in a matter of minutes. Abe smiled drowsily down at her as he watched her; the steady rhythm of her breathing coupled with his own exhaustion was slowly lulling him to sleep. Gently, he slipped his arm out from under her and laid her down on the sofa, and then, because his gills were starting to dry out, he quietly made his way over to a door, up the stairs, and got into his tank. He peered through the water and glass at Erica's sleeping form, checking that she hadn't been awakened by his departure. She was still asleep.
Good, he thought, even as his heavy eyelids began to close of their own accord. He was sure he would know immediately if anything went wrong—not that it was likely to—let alone if she awakened. So there was no harm in resting his eyes for a few minutes…
Little did he know that there was all the harm in the world.
XXXXX
Erica knew she was dreaming.
The dreamscape was very familiar: she was standing in the middle of one of the BPRD's training rooms. Three of the concrete walls were covered in huge mirrors, except for a foot at the bottom and top, which were plain grey concrete. The door was in the fourth wall, and there were racks on either side of the doorway that were full of various types of weapons. The grey concrete floor gleamed slightly under the lights set into the ceiling.
The next thing she knew, two blue webbed hands grabbed her from behind and she was flipped over Abe's shoulder; she tumbled through the air and landed on the floor in a heap, surprised but laughing. Abe grinned down at her.
"So much for always being prepared," he said.
"You were just lucky," she said, smiling back. She arched an eyebrow at him in a playful challenge. "You might knock me down, but your problem really begins when I get up."
"Then it would be my pleasure to assist you to your feet," Abe replied, making a teasing half-bow. He reached down to help her up.
Erica took his hand—and tugged sharply, pulling him down beside her so his blue limbs were as awkwardly sprawled out across the floor as her own. Abe laughed; he got up so he was kneeling beside her, leaning over her, his hands braced against the floor on either side of her head. He looked down at her, smiling...maybe just a little mischievously, she thought.
Abe leaned down and gently, softly kissed her cheek, then pulled back; she smiled happily up at him, and he leaned down and kissed her face again and again and again…
XXXXX
It was the work of a moment for Kroenen to concentrate on the beacon he had placed in Erica, and then invade her mind. Actually, he was surprised it was so easy: he had warned her twice, and yet, here she was, sleeping. It was so uncharacteristic of his Angel to leave herself vulnerable; he had expected to be resisted, to have to force his way in through her mental kicking and screaming. It was almost too easy. Perhaps she found a way to turn my supposed advantage into a trap, he thought. He immediately dismissed it. No, through some turn or other, Erica had dropped her guard. She hadn't even noticed his presence, though he had purposefully avoided being subtle.
I will visit her dreams, then, he thought, since she has practically invited me in. With practiced ease he transferred himself from a thought-presence half concealed among Erica's unconscious activity, to a dream-form.
Instantly a room—Erica's current dreamscape—materialized around him: a concrete floor and three mirrored walls, all reflecting his image. Where is Erica? She should be here…He heard a giggle behind him and caught a glimpse in the mirrors of a moving form lying on the floor behind him; Kroenen turned around—and stared, frozen by shock, at Erica lying on the floor, kissing the fish creature. And what was worse, the blood bond the assassin shared with her was allowing Kroenen to know exactly how much Erica was enjoying her dream. Kroenen felt an explosion of red hot jealousy erupt inside him; he started forward to rip Abe away from Erica, then paused, realizing his actions would be pointless: it was a dream—and an infuriating one from his perspective—but still, it was a dream. There is no need for physical violence here, he thought. I am in control, now.
Blissfully unaware of the foreign presence in her dream, Erica laughed and playfully swatted at Abe as he leaned down to kiss her again—
"Angel…"a voice hissed, seething.
Erica froze and gazed up at Abe; his obsidian, almond-shaped eyes were perfect mirrors of her own: wide with surprise. But if Abe hadn't spoken, then who…? Erica's stomach clenched as she recognized the harsh breathing coming from somewhere beyond Abe: Kroenen. Too late, she remembered the clockwork assassin's parting words to her in the alley: "Watch for me in your dreams; I'll be in your head. Sleep with one eye open." In her exhaustion she had completely forgotten, despite that Kroenen had warned her twice. And now she would pay for her negligence.
Dreading what she was about to see, but unable to resist looking, Erica half rolled, half leaned over so she could see around Abe. Her heart stopped. Kroenen stood no more than a few feet away, watching her—no, them. He was looking from her to Abe, who was still leaning over her, poised to kiss her again. For some reason, embarrassment pushed aside horror, and Erica felt a flood of heat rise in her cheeks as she blushed and looked at the floor.
"Erica…" Kroenen said quietly, his voice an eerie whisper. She could hear the slow, malevolent smile in his voice. She didn't dare to look up at him. "I see you've been dreaming."
The lights went out, plunging her into complete darkness. Blind, she waited unmoving and tense in the blackness, her heart pounding, willing her eyes to adjust faster. When they had, the sight that met them was far from comforting.
Everything had changed. Abe had vanished and she was surrounded by an alien dreamscape; the sky and ground were both black and indistinguishable from each other, so the horizon, if there was one, was invisible. There was a light source somewhere behind and above her, and the light filtered out dimly across the place and gradually faded because of distance, revealing nothing—no objects, no textures. No sounds or smells. Only blackness. Her dream was under Kroenen's control.
Frightened, Erica awkwardly scrambled to her feet, her heart pounding audibly in the silence with horror and the last vestiges of Abe's kisses. She nervously scanned the landscape, her entire body tense with dread as she waited for whatever Kroenen had decided to inflict on her now. His words to her in Moldavia began spontaneously playing in her head, like the soundtrack from a horror movie: "I wouldn't miss turning your dreams into nightmares for anything." The memory of his laughter, depraved and psychotic, rang coldly though her head, seeping through her veins like ice. "I'll be the thing that keeps you awake at night, the thing that haunts your dreams…"
The back of her neck prickled eerily; he was behind her.
Shit, Erica thought. Shit, shit, SHIT!
She whirled around and there he was, the two round, faintly glinting glass circles of his mask hovering in the dark. Kroenen stood only a few feet away from her, on the far edge of the bright column of light, his outline merging seamlessly with the darkness that surrounded him. Erica tensed to defend herself, expecting him to attack her. But he didn't move; he stared at her, as if she were an apparition that had suddenly appeared to him. They stood, each watching the other, neither moving. Simply watching. The silence was driving Erica insane. What is he going to do? Why is he here? Is he here? This could be a nightmare my brain created, maybe…She didn't believe herself for a second, though. She knew the truth, horrible though it was to contemplate. Her eyes focused again on Kroenen; he still hadn't moved, hadn't done anything threatening but appear and stare at her. Finally, his inaction drove her to speak.
"Are you…really here?" she tentatively asked, desperately hoping that what she knew to be true was not.
"As real as I can be in a dream. And yes, before you ask, I am in your mind, thanks to my beacon. And your own foolishness. I gave you fair warning."
"What do you want?" she asked cautiously, eyeing him for any sign that he meant her harm.
"To talk to you," he said simply.
Erica narrowed her eyes at him, instantly suspicious of his intentions. The assassin slowly raised his arms, holding them out at his sides as if to show that he was unarmed and that his intentions were peaceful. Eerily, the gesture also seemed like an embrace. He stepped towards her—Erica didn't wait; she ran. The dreamscape changed and suddenly she was running through a maze of high, grey stone walls that disturbingly reminded her of their encounter in the alleys. Kroenen's voice followed her:
"Why are you running? I'm not hurting you, am I?"
Erica kept running; she bolted through the labyrinth of passages, completely disoriented. But what did it matter? She wasn't trying to get out; she was only trying to get away.
Abe! Abe, wake me up! She mentally yelled, trying to direct her thoughts at him. Where are you? He had said he would watch over her…
She rounded a corner—Kroenen stood waiting for her. She choked back a shriek and tried to turn away—he grabbed for her and her terror intensified as he caught hold of her and his arms wrapped possessively around her, holding her against his chest as effectively as any chains.
"Don't worry," he murmured, in a voice that was probably intended as comforting, but only increased her apprehension. "This is only a dream—or a nightmare, as you would doubtlessly call it—I cannot hurt you, and even if I could, I would not."
Erica didn't believe him for a second. "Liar!" she hissed. She struggled against him, and, having abandoned all hope that Abe would intervene, screamed at herself: "WAKE UP!"
And to her surprise, she did. Her eyes flew open—and spotted her bedside table. The green, glowing numbers of her digital clock gleamed through the darkness. She sighed in relief and closed her eyes as she started to bring her wildly beating heart under control. Her bedroom; she was safe. Actually, she was surprised she had been so successful in evicting Kroenen from her mind. I wonder if Abe would know why, she thought.
Wait. Abe. Where was Abe? He had been right next to her when she had fallen asleep on the sofa in Broom's study—
In which case, what the HELL am I doing in my bedroom?! This isn't where I went to sleep!
Her eyes flew open. Her room was dark, but it was darker than usual above her head. And then something in the darkness above her face glinted. Like glass. And metal.
Kroenen's mask!
Erica froze, surprised and terrified beyond belief. It was him; she could see his outline in the darkness, could hear the all too familiar tick of his clockwork heart, could smell the scents of old blood and leather that always clung to him, could feel the mattress of her bed tilting down in the direction of where he was kneeling over her.
He had tricked her. She was still trapped in her dream!
Erica's mouth opened and she tried to speak, tried to scream, tried to curse at him all at once, but all that came out was a strangled sound.
Kroenen leaned over her, gazing down into his Angel's grey eyes. They were beautiful, even wide with terror as they were now. He sighed heavily, and gently ran his fingers over her cheek.
"I wish you wouldn't run like that," he murmured. "All I want is to talk to you. You made me realize something wonderful. An epiphany, if you like."
All Erica could do was stare helplessly up at him, into the voids of his dark lenses as the ticking of his clockwork heart filled her ears and his hand ghosted over her face. She was too frightened to be able to think straight; a million thoughts rushed through her head. Was he lying or telling the truth? He had been acting odd in the alleys, like he didn't know his own mind. But of course he was lying, his only reason for living was to torture and murder her—
"My Angel, you will drive us both to insanity," Kroenen murmured. Impulsively, he allowed his fingers to trail along her hairline, and then, finally, snake their way through her chestnut tresses.
Erica felt his cold fingers roaming through her hair and felt a sickening jolt in her stomach akin to an electrical shock. Instantly adrenaline unfroze her muscles and she lashed out at him; both of her hands collided with his chest, violently pushing him off of her and the bed.
"Get the HELL OFF me!" she yelled.
Kroenen tumbled to the floor and gracefully got to his feet; Erica scrambled off the bed, keeping her eyes locked on him as her hands groped desperately in the darkness for the dagger that always lay on her bedside table. Her search was in vain; her fingers met with nothing but the lamp and clock. But of course, this is a dream, she realized, And he's in control.
Kroenen started to reach for her again, but she jerked away as if she had been bitten by a snake. Kroenen's reaction was odd; he seemed disappointed, as though he had done nothing more but invited her to dance and been rudely rebuffed.
No longer sure of his intentions, and fueled by fear and confusion, she did the only thing she could do: she took up a fighter's stance, her feet far apart to give her stability, and her body tense, her fists raised slightly, ready for action or flight. Weaponless, she knew she didn't stand a chance.
"Don't touch me," she warned, her voice hard.
"Why? Because I'm not good enough?" he asked bitterly.
"Good enough?" she asked, now thoroughly bewildered.
"Your fish-man. You enjoyed dreaming about him, didn't you?" he said quietly, resentment and accusation in his voice.
Erica stared at him. There was no denying that the tone in the assassin's voice sounded like jealousy, of all things. But, that couldn't be, because if he was jealous, then—
"All I want is to talk to you," Kroenen continued, his voice full of a forced calm, as if to cover for what his anger had allowed to escape. "And you are making that quite difficult. Truly, the amount of trouble you have caused me is unbelievable."
"I try my best," Erica shot back.
"Impudence," he said, but strangely he did not sound angry.
Erica gazed at his motionless figure, wondering. He was acting so strange…What was he trying to do?
"What game are you playing?" she demanded.
"Life and death, Angel. Life. And death."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
Kroenen cocked his head to the side, as though studying her. It suddenly struck her just how odd the situation was: though it was a dream, here she was, standing in her bedroom, having a nearly civil conversation with the same man that had tried to kill her only hours before.
Abruptly, a ripple seemed to go through the room and its objects, as though what had appeared to be solid was actually a piece of cloth fluttering in a breeze. Kroenen instantly stiffened; his mask turned to both sides, as though he was looking for something that only he was aware of. The dreamscape wobbled again, this time more violently. The far corner of the room turned translucent and began to rapidly disintegrate, the particles swept off into the void of blackness that seemed to lie beyond the room. Kroenen gazed at it, and then the dark, soulless eyepieces turned back to her, fixing her with an invisible stare.
"I believe the next move is yours," Kroenen said.
By now the process of disintegration was rapidly encroaching on the room; already half of it was gone, as though a giant eraser was blotting it out. Unsure, Erica tried to speak, but her tongue felt like lead in her mouth. In fact, all of her limbs felt like they were encased in half-frozen mud, and time seemed to be slowing. Even the steady tick tock, tick tock, tick tock of Kroenen's clockwork heart was drawing out, the ticks growing further and further apart.
Abruptly the little of the room that remained collapsed under her feet as though made of cloth, whipping up around her as she fell, spiraling dizzily down through darkness, feeling a strange yanking sensation at the back of her brain as though something had separated from it and left—
"ERICA!"
Her eyes flew open and reality hit her like a bucket of ice water being dumped over her head. Actually, that was a more that accurate description, since it felt like water was dripping on her. But no, that couldn't be…disoriented, and unable to shake the sensation of falling, she forced her eyes to focus on the blue, moving blur above her.
Abe, his black, almond shaped eyes wide with alarm, stood over her, his blue skin shining wetly; he was dripping all over everything, including her. That, at least, explained the water.
"Erica—he's gone—are you okay?" he asked, kneeling down. Abe put his hands on either side of her head; his dark eyes searched her face, and she was sure she could feel his mental presence searching her brain for damage. "What did he—I'm sorry—I didn't realize—I felt—but it was too late. I tried to wake you—but he was already gone—"
Erica surged up from the sofa and threw her arms around him. Abe's gills rapidly brushed her cheek; he was breathing hard. She could tell he was just as afraid as she was.
"Ja, I'm fine. I'm fine. He let me go," she murmured softly. Embracing as they were, she could feel his heart thundering in his chest.
He pulled back from her; his expression of guilt and distress looked odd on his face since he was usually so composed. "I'm so sorry…by the time I woke up and got out of my tank and tried to wake you he was already gone…"
"It's alright…he didn't do anything…just frightened me…I'm okay …"
XXXXX
Bellamie Mental Hospital
Night
The embers smoldered in the cold autumn air, glowing red in the darkness; here and there some flared brighter, brought to life by a breeze that encouraged them into flames. But these tiny flames could never hope to outdo the blazing, fiery inferno that had engulfed the building only minutes before, barreling down hallways and shattering windows, showering glass onto the street below. No, these flames were tame compared to that hell.
The breeze softly sifted through the ashes, rustling through a pile of flame curled bits of paper that were all that remained of an extensive photograph collection. The dented, blackened metal remains of fire extinguishers lay half buried, the red paint seared from their exteriors. No one, least of all their owner, had ever had the opportunity to use them. A few gaunt, charred boards, twisted by the heat, were all that remained of the room's furniture and the beams that had once framed the now roofless room. The bed itself was gone; the metal frame had melted so fast it had vaporized. Its former occupant lay on what remained of the floor. In a strange contrast to the scene around her, the young woman's pale, naked body had been untouched by the fire; her long black hair cascaded unscathed over the rubble and cinder strewn floor. And despite the destruction around her, her face was peaceful.
Liz Sherman, the pyroknietic, lay unconscious among the ashes.
One of the shadows among the ruins was darker then the others; it moved, detached itself from the night, taking on what was undeniably a human form. The hem of long black robes stirred the ashes. Grigory Rasputin. He gazed down at Liz through his glass eyes; they were more for aesthetics because he did not need them to see, one such as himself did not require eyes. Under the skin of his arms there came movement, the writhing rearrangement of his muscles as something like a tentacle wriggled beneath them. Grigory smiled. He listened for a moment as distant, indistinct cries for help reached his ears, followed by the scream of sirens approaching the mental hospital.
Then he turned away, satisfied. He was finished here.
Author's Notes: Whew! Was that a huge, action packed chapter or what? No wonder it took me so long to write it…please review and tell me what you thought, or if you have any suggestions!