Chapter 17: A Running Leap into the Dark
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: Hello all! Thanks again to my reviewers! And so the many twists and turns continue: Kroenen and Erica have their own issues to deal with, the werewolves provide some humor, and I've thrown in some dark romance and a plot twist—an unexpected meeting that's been far too long in the making. Enjoy the chapter!
Note: In the interest of posting this chapter as soon as I could, I'm going to skip replying to everyone that reviewed. Again, I thank you all for reviewing!
"Hate cannot run out hate, only love can do that."—Martin Luther King
"He who forgives ends the quarrel."—African Proverb
"Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight of their objects than love."—George Eliot
Abandoned Subway Area
Orphanage Basement
"This is not good," Luke said to no one in particular. The blond woman, whom he assumed must be the same one Erica and Abe had referred to as Ilsa, still had the gun pressed against the slack side of his face.
"Really, now?" Ilsa asked sarcastically.
"Hey, it's just an observation," he said, shrugging. Ilsa smiled cruelly at him and pushed the muzzle of the gun against his cheekbone so hard he was sure it would leave a perfect, circular bruise. The woman was clearly enjoying the power she was holding over him.
And then Brittany lunged for her.
BAM!
The sound of gunfire reverberated through the underground, followed by the thud of bodies hitting the floor. Luke, every muscle in his body tense, waited for the explosion of pain in his skull, but it didn't come— instead there was a high-pitched whistle as the bullet sped past his ear. Instantly his eyes flew open and were met by the sight of Brittany wrestling with Ilsa, rolling over and over the floor. Blood was already streaking the ground: Brittany had sunk her claw-like nails deep into Ilsa's right wrist in an effort to force the muzzle of the gun away from herself. Luke thrust the handgun he was holding into his jacket pocket and then threw himself into the fray with an animalistic snarl, his claws reaching to tear out Ilsa's throat.
They rolled over and over and over, the world spinning around them until Luke was completely disoriented, but it didn't matter because he was fighting for his life, his entire being focused on wresting the gun from Ilsa's grasp. Beside him Brittany shrieked as their tumbling ran her into the corner of the rotten wooden stairs; a moment later Ilsa directed a vicious kick at Brittany and the girl went flying.
Luke redoubled his efforts; he grabbed Ilsa's right arm and one of her shoulders and tried to pin her to the floor. To his surprise it didn't work; the woman was unnaturally strong for her size—he yelped sharply and leapt back as Ilsa drove something sharp into the outside of his thigh. Kneeling on all fours, he looked down and saw a long, jagged cut. Nearby Ilsa scrambled to her feet holding a bloody dagger in her left hand. She smiled with sadistic pleasure as she raised the gun again—
BAM!
Luke ducked and scrambled to the side; behind him he heard the bullet smash into the tile floor and ricochet. Angry now, Luke leapt for the wall and, digging his claws into the plaster, he scaled it.
BAM!
A bullet blew an enormous hole in the plaster where his shoulder had been the moment before; razor-sharp pieces of rubble hit Luke in the face and white dust clouded the air. Luke coughed violently, choking as he inhaled the dust, and kicked a hole in the plaster to form a secure foothold before he thrust his hand into his pocket and withdrew the handgun; he turned to look over his shoulder and returned fire. Ilsa ducked and Luke shoved the gun into his belt and climbed higher, his heart thundering, dreading that he would hear another gunshot at any moment. Instead Ilsa's furious shout came from below him.
"OW! You little BITCH!"
Luke glanced down. Brittany, her face set with determination, was gripping a long, broken metal pole she had found among the debris littering the room. The broken end of the pole was jagged—and covered in blood. Across from Brittany stood Ilsa, a shaking hand held to a deep gash that ran from her ear to her chin.
"Hey, nice one!" Luke called approvingly to Brittany; she smiled slightly, encouraged.
Ilsa's face contorted with rage and she raised the gun again—Brittany slammed the metal pole against Ilsa's knuckles with a sharp CRACK! The gun spun away to land in a corner of the room.
"Run, Brittany!" Luke yelled. He was now hanging from the exposed beams and pipes of the ceiling, his feet planted firmly against the wall he had just climbed. "Run NOW!"
Brittany's head jerked up to look at him—
"Look out!" shouted Luke.
Metal shrieked as Ilsa's bloody dagger scraped against Brittany's pole, heading straight for the girl's hands. Brittany hurriedly stepped back and without thinking she swung the pole, whipping it into Ilsa's stomach with a sound like a hammer hitting a side of meat. Ilsa stumbled, gasping as Brittany ran for the tunnel exit to the room and Luke tensed, his muscles coiling to spring—he pushed off the wall, propelling himself through the air. He slammed violently into Ilsa, bowling her over so hard they both crashed into the far wall. Stars burst before Luke's eyes but he threw himself at the blond woman—and screamed as something cold and sharp stabbed into his side, slicing through skin and sliding between bone. He staggered back in shock, his hands gripping the dagger protruding from his ribs.
Ilsa laughed. Stood there and laughed at him, her blue eyes as cold as ice as she gazed at him, her perfect lips curled into a cruel smile.
Brittany stood in the tunnel entrance, her mouth hanging open as she stared at Luke with horror.
"Hey, it's not that bad," Luke lied, forcing a toothy smile to cover up his grimace. "Honestly! It doesn't even hurt!"
Brittany eyed him uncertainly. Ilsa was now staring at him with disbelief.
"You are either insane or very stupid," Ilsa said with obvious revulsion.
"Some of both, I think," Luke admitted, wincing as he pulled the dagger from his ribs and threw it aside. "For instance, I probably should have had a doctor do that. But you don't appear to have hit anything important—better luck next time." And he winked cockily at her.
Brittany grinned. This is one of the many reasons I love him, she thought, smiling.
"Now, Ilsa, you've made a very bad mistake," Luke said patronizingly, taking a few slow, measured steps towards the blond woman. She held her ground, her icy eyes boring into his honey brown ones. Luke continued, "It's two against one, and you've lost all your weapons." He grinned widely at her, showing off his rows of sharp, wolf-like teeth. Brittany had to admit the effect was certainly unnerving. But perhaps what was even more unnerving was that Ilsa looked completely unfazed.
Not good, Brittany decided, her smile fading fast as she noticed that Ilsa's fingers were subtly reaching for something behind her, hanging from her belt. "Luke—!" she yelled in warning.
But Ilsa had already whipped out the sledgehammer and whirled its heavy square head at Luke's injured side with what would have been bone-crushing force had the werewolf not jumped backwards in the nick of time. Instead the hammer crashed into the floor, splintering the tile and sending porcelain shrapnel in all directions. Ilsa snarled in frustration and started to swing the hammer again—
THUD.
Luke's hands connected with the long shaft and wrapped around it, holding it still. He tugged sharply, trying to pull it away, but Ilsa had anticipated the move and held on all the tighter with her unnatural strength. Seeing there was no way he would succeed in pulling it from her grasp, Luke instead tightened his grip and then swung the hammer, turning as fast as he could. The hammer's momentum dragged Ilsa off balance and she smashed into the rotten wooden stairs, which promptly collapsed on top of her.
"I think this is our cue to get out of here," Luke observed as Ilsa's enraged shrieks issued from the pile of splintered debris. Brittany nodded in agreement and they ran into the tunnel and kept running, spurred on by the sounds of crashing wood and curses as Ilsa extricated herself from the ruins of the stairs.
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Abandoned Subway Area
Furnace Room
"Decided to forgo the attack?" the clockwork assassin asked.
"For now," Erica replied tersely, the warning clear in her voice.
"Good." A satisfied grin ghosted across Kroenen's scarred features. "Now that I have your undivided attention…"
The assassin reached down and heaved the rusty metal lockers off of Erica, shifted them to the side, and then let them fall to the floor again with a crash. Eyeing him warily, Erica stood and backed away until she felt there was a relatively safe distance between them. Her hands twitched at her sides and she cast a longing glance at the locked desk drawer; clearly she wanted her weapons.
"You may have them back once I'm finished," Kroenen said. "Otherwise I think they would prove to be a distraction; you cannot truly be listening to me if your focus is on gutting me. And you already know you have no hope of overpowering me if you try fighting me hand to hand, so I suggest you resign yourself to sitting still. "
He gestured to the chair beside his desk. Erica's grey eyes flicked to it and then back to him. She knew his suggestion had really been a command thinly veiled in politeness. Keeping both eyes focused on him she cautiously walked past him and, after inspecting the chair, gingerly sat down on the edge of it as if such an action would allow her to spring upright faster at the first sign of danger. For lack of anything else to do with her hands she gripped at her knees, her knuckles white.
Kroenen moved so he was standing directly across from her, though he made sure to stop his approach when he saw her body tense. His back was to the furnace; his black shadow stretched across the floor in front of him and ended just before Erica's boots.
"Where should I begin?" Kroenen murmured, more to himself than to his unwilling guest.
"The beginning?" Erica suggested tensely. There was defiance and anger in her voice. "What this is all about? Why you've supposedly taken a break from making my life a living hell?"
Kroenen smiled at her insolence and nodded slowly. "Ja, ja. The beginning it is then…all the way back…" He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. "As you are well aware, as a traitor, you have a debt to me."
"And what debt is that?" she asked, feigning ignorance. Her eyes had narrowed.
"I have been told you owe me blood—your life. But I do not agree."
"No?"
"No," he repeated quietly. "I would be most satisfied…with your forgiveness."
Erica stared at him.
"What?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
"My conduct has been inexcusable," Kroenen explained. "It was not until last night that I realized what I was doing: because of my anger and hate, I was on the brink of destroying the only person I've ever cared about."
She gaped at him, shocked. Then doubt began to enter her eyes and Kroenen quickly continued before she could question him, "After October 9, 1944, I wanted revenge as badly as I wanted the Ogdru Jahad to be released, perhaps even more so. In my rage I wanted nothing more than to kill you the moment I found you….at least until recently, when I realized it was now actually possible that it would happen—when I realized that my Angel still exists…" He paused for emphasis, gazing at her, and then continued, his voice softer, confiding. "It was so much easier to hate you when you were far away," he admitted, "when the closest visual of you was my memories, clouded by anger and pain, and an unchanging, faded photograph. But when we were in the alleys last night and I saw your face as you were fighting for your life, and you told me you did not hate me…I knew I could not kill you, would never be able to…I knew you had not become a traitor just to hurt me…I understand…I forgive you…I want to give you a chance…I want to give us both a chance, even if I must become a traitor to do so…."
He trailed off. There was a stunned silence as they both took in this sudden outpouring of his inner thoughts. Kroenen felt strangely empty, but in a good, unburdened way; the tension was gone and it was a relief. He had never been so sincere in his life and was pleased to see that Erica had realized this, had felt it through their blood bond: all the defiance and fear was gone from her face. Her expression had softened. There was sympathy in her eyes.
They had finally reached an understanding.
The furnace flames roared dully in the background. Kroenen took a few steps forward; this time Erica made no move to escape.
"My attempts to kill you are unforgivable, and yet, knowing this, I still ask it of you," Kroenen said quietly into the hushed silence. "Can you? No, of course you can…but will you? Will you?"
Erica watched him; her grey eyes glinted more than usual at the corners, as if she was holding back tears. But she did not look sad or frightened.
"Yes," she whispered, "Yes. I forgive you."
A wave of happy warmth surged through the assassin and, buoyed up by it, he approached Erica slowly, gracefully, not wanting to destroy the moment, the perfect, indescribable emotion that hung in the air between them so that nothing seemed to move and the walls themselves seemed to hold their breath. Erica's eyes were an intense shade of grey he had never seen before; he could see his reflection in them, backed by flames. Slowly, he stopped in front of her chair, and then, just as slowly, he bent at the waist, making an elegant bow.
"Danke, Angel," he breathed. He offered her his hand.
Erica hesitated for a moment, and then slid her hand into his. Her pale skin was a sharp contrast against his black leather glove. He gently pulled her to her feet. She gazed up at him, directly into the lenses of his mask, and, at long last, there was no trace of fear in her eyes.
Understanding. How perfectly, flawlessly wonderful it was.
XXXXX
Abandoned Subway Area
"Where exactly are we going?" Brittany asked as she and Luke raced through a tunnel, splashing through water and tripping over fallen bricks and chunks of masonry. Steam gushed from a pipe set into the floor. "Back to the shower room?"
"I haven't thought that far ahead, to be honest," Luke replied. His long black hair had fallen out of his loose ponytail over the course of the fight and roughly half of it was wet and hanging in long, dripping strands. He and Brittany were bruised and bleeding: Luke's face was covered in cuts from the pieces of shrapnel created when Ilsa's bullet had slammed into the wall, and Brittany's arms, neck, and cheek were covered in long red scratches from the woman's fingernails.
Their running brought them to a point where the tunnels intersected and they stopped to catch their breath, their chests heaving. Luke winced and grabbed at his injured side as he took a particularly deep breath; his hand came away stained with blood.
"Damn it," he hissed, gazing at the stab wound. "Deeper than I thought it was. So, where are we?"
Brittany looked around, trying to find a landmark she could recognize; they had been running with no consideration for direction, and the last thing she wanted to do was become lost in the labyrinth of passages under New York. At first she saw nothing familiar, but then, as she peered into the darkness, her hopes rose: at the far end of one tunnel she could see the black and white tile floor of the room beside the shower room. She gestured at the tunnel, pointing it out to Luke, who was taking the opportunity to squeeze the excess water out of his hair.
"Maybe we should try to find the others," Brittany suggested, emboldened by her success at fighting Ilsa.
"That would be a good idea if there weren't Hell Hounds prowling around, not to mention an assassin," Luke pointed out, swinging his hair back over his shoulder. "We've had enough trouble with Ilsa, and there are two of us."
BAM!
A bullet buried itself in the wall mere inches from Brittany's head. She spun around, her heart hammering in her throat at the near miss. Ilsa, covered in splinters and with her cheek still bleeding, materialized from the shadows of a sheltered side passage; clearly she knew her way through the tunnels. She looked absolutely livid that she had just missed such an easy target.
Apparently she found her gun, Brittany thought.
"What is it with this woman?!" Luke exclaimed as he pulled the gun from his belt and shot back. The shot went wide and the bullet plowed into the dirty water near Ilsa's feet, drenching her. She let out a stream of vehement curses as she clawed at her eyes, trying to clear them, but Luke and Brittany didn't hear her—they were already gone, running as fast as they could. Hoping to throw Ilsa off they turned right, then left, then right and kept running straight. Brittany was just thinking that the passage looked oddly familiar when they stumbled out of the tunnel and right into a dead end.
They were back in the basement of the orphanage. And with the stairs gone the only entrance was the one they had just come through.
"Okay, now would be a really good time to have a plan!" Brittany said. Because of her werewolf enhanced hearing she could already hear Ilsa's approaching footsteps.
"I'm thinking, I'm thinking!" said Luke. "I could always shoot at her. She has to come straight down that tunnel, and there isn't any cover…and she probably only has two bullets left in her gun…"
"What do you mean 'probably'?"
"If it only had six; she's shot at us four times. But then again, it could have had eight, in which case she has four…but I only have four shots left, and I don't exactly have such a great aim since I don't have consistent muscular control over my one eye…" he gestured to the slack side of his face.
"We could try climbing," said Brittany, pointing to the hole in the ceiling that the stairs had led to. Broken boards that had been sturdier than the rest of the stairs were still jutting down from it at odd angles, the rusty nails stubbornly holding on.
Luke looked doubtful. "Judging by the stairs it'll be a miracle if the floor above us holds. And Ilsa is too close now for both of us to make it; the ceiling's at least ten feet high…"
With Ilsa's footsteps now echoing in the tunnel beyond, Brittany knew they had only a matter of minutes before she appeared. They had to come up with something now—Brittany had no desire to find out what it would be like to be struck by a silver bullet—but her growing panic seemed to be obstructing any ideas. In a gesture of frustration Brittany slammed her arms down against her sides—and her hand hit a slight bulge in the pocket of her jeans. The Greek fire!
The beginning of an idea forming, she scanned the room for anything else that could be of help and spotted a manhole cover. She bent down to inspect it; the sound of water came from below.
"Luke! Help me move this! Quick!"
"Wha—?"
"Just do it!"
With a questioning look on his face, Luke stood opposite Brittany and set his claws around the edge of the cover.
"On the count of three…one, two, three!"
They heaved, but even their combined strength, enhanced by their lycanthropy, was not enough to move it more than an inch to the side. A draft of cold, moist air breathed up through the crack as though to tease her.
"We need something…a crowbar…" Brittany muttered. The boards from the collapsed stairs? No, they were all rotten…She spotted the metal pole she had hit Ilsa with and then dropped the last time they had run from the room. Seizing it, she pushed one end into the dark crack between the cover and the circular rim of the hole. Luke moved in beside her and they pushed down on the pole together. The cover slid to the side with a rough metallic sound as the underside grated against the floor.
XXXXX
Abandoned Subway Area
Ilsa stalked down the tunnel, her steps slow and measured, her gun raised. The orphanage basement ahead seemed empty, but she knew better; the werewolves had to have come this way, inadvertently trapping themselves. How convenient, she thought. She had two bullets left, and judging by the male's incompetence with his own firearm she would have no trouble killing them both.
She hovered cautiously at the entrance to the basement, her gaze sweeping the room. She didn't see either of the werewolves, but she could hear them panting from their run. Perhaps they were hiding, cowering behind the pile of boards from the collapsed stairs. Ilsa smiled cruelly. What a delicious idea.
She took one step into the room, then another, and another, walking silently. She reached the center of the room and, intent on the pile of debris concealing her targets, obliviously stepped over a manhole cover lying on the floor. Then a small pebble dropped from the ceiling and hit her shoulder.
A pebble? Ilsa thought. She glanced up. And her jaw dropped. The male werewolf was clinging to the ceiling, facing her, his hands wrapped around one of the many rusty pipes.
"Hello," he said, winking. And then he swung down, kicking his feet out at her; they collided with her torso and Ilsa screamed as she toppled backwards, her feet slipping on the wet tile floor, which vanished suddenly from beneath her. She screamed louder as she plunged downwards and into shockingly cold water, her momentum carrying her deeper. Ilsa frantically clawed her way upwards and as her head broke the surface she gasped for air. Quickly she latched onto the rim of the hole and glared across the room at her enemies, who were now standing on the floor and grinning at her.
"I'd be getting out of there, if I were you," the girl said smugly.
Ilsa snarled and began to pull herself out of the water—the girl hurled something that looked like a smooth black grenade and it skittered across the tiles, stopping a few feet from the hole. Ilsa's stomach clenched and for a moment she was frozen by horror.
"RUN!" the girl shouted, grabbing the arm of her companion and dragging him into the tunnel.
Her words moved Ilsa into action; she ducked back into the water and swam downwards—
BOOM!
The sound of the explosion was muffled by the water, but it still left her ears ringing painfully. Strangely, no chunks of the floor—now her ceiling—fell down into the water as she had expected. Needing to breathe, Ilsa cautiously surfaced, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes. The sight that met her was bizarre: instead of blowing everything to bits the grenade had hurled fire and some sort of thick fluid all over the place. The flames were already very tall, and, oddly, seemed to be burning brightest and hottest where they came in contact with things that were wet, like the collapsed staircase and a book of nursery rhymes. Ilsa pulled herself from the water, struggling out onto the floor and coughing violently as she inhaled smoke. When she looked up again she saw that the flames had become an inferno; they were blocking the only exit and were following the water that streaked the floor.
"What the hell?!" She quickly scrambled to her feet.
It was true; the flames flared brighter and hotter as they hit the water—and she was drenched and standing in a spreading puddle.
Scheiße, she thought, her eyes wide.
XXXXX
Abandoned Subway Area
Underwater Chamber
Abe's back was pressed up against the rough concrete walls protecting him from the Sammaels, his webbed hands clutched over the wounds torn into his chest by the Hell Hounds' raking claws. His dark blue blood hovered in the water like smoke. The gashes were deep and throbbed painfully, burning and stinging as the filthy water hit his exposed flesh.
He knew he had to get out of there. He was losing blood, and fast. If he waited much longer, he wouldn't have the strength to swim to the surface. Cautiously, Abe pushed away from the wall and began to swim to the entrance of his hiding spot. He gasped in pain; as he moved his arms to pull himself through the water the wounds on his chest sent white-hot screaming bolts of agony through him in protest. It felt like he was being stabbed in the chest with every stroke he swam.
Slowly, painfully, he made it to the end. He peered out, his eyes scanning in all directions, including above and below. It was clear; the Sammaels were nowhere in sight.
As quickly as he could he kicked away and swam for the surface, propelling himself with his legs as much as he could to prevent moving his arms more than was absolutely necessary. His gaze locked on the circle of light above him that marked the hole in the floor of the shower room and hope and energy surged through him—he was almost there!
He was no more than a few yards from the surface when he felt a rolling sonic shock run through the water.
An explosion, Abe thought, pausing for the briefest of seconds. Though the sonic shock had been faint, muted by its travels through the walls and the density of the water, he knew its source was relatively close. Were the werewolves or members of the BPRD team nearby, fighting the Sammaels?
His thoughts were interrupted by a pressure wave of water, coming up from below him. Abe's blood turned to ice as he looked down, past his blue webbed feet. Two more Sammaels had hatched—one of the Hell Hounds had been killed. The two dime-sized monsters were rapidly increasing in size; they were already the size of large dogs and getting bigger as they spiraled up through the water, their tentacles twitching and their eyes rolling crazily as they swam up—right towards him.
Terrified, Abe swam through the water as fast as he could, ignoring the pain that seared through his chest. Before it had registered in his brain that he had reached the surface his hands had grasped the rim and he had pulled himself out of the water and collapsed on the tiles.
To his dismay he found the room devoid of any of his team members, but mercifully it was empty of Sammaels.
Not for long, Abe thought. Behind him the water bubbled ominously, pushed up as the Hell Hounds neared the surface. He struggled onto his knees and half crawled, half dragged himself over the floor, leaving dark blue smears of blood on the dirty tiles. He curled up inside a rust-streaked shower stall, flatting himself against the wall and praying he would not be seen as the pair of monsters emerged from the cistern, splashing water in all directions as they shook themselves off like giant dogs.
Trembling with exhaustion, Abe pushed the blue light on his locator with an unsteady hand. He hoped the other agents weren't out of range; he couldn't hear anyone nearby over the noise of the two Sammaels. Where had everyone gone? Where were Erica and her sister?
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Abandoned Subway Area
Furnace Room
Erica gazed up at Kroenen's black metal mask; instead of inspiring terror in her, now she felt only wonder. How could it be that the man that had threatened to cut off her hand last night was now the man standing before her, holding her hand so gently in his own? There was nothing about the clockwork assassin that so much as hinted at danger, and as he gazed down at her everything about him implored "trust me, believe me…please".
And she did. She couldn't help it: Kroenen's confession was a surprise beyond comprehension, but she knew it was the truth. She could feel it; because of their blood bond she felt it intensely—there was nothing of lies or deceit in what he had told her. One couldn't say those things with that emotion and lie.
Actually, as she thought about it, there was something in his strength of emotion that faintly disturbed her, like there was something he was keeping from her, something he wasn't admitting; the reason behind his sudden change of heart.
His words from last night echoed in her mind: "All I want is to talk to you. You made me realize something wonderful. An epiphany, if you like."
What was it he had realized? What thought was powerful enough to stop an enraged, murderous Kroenen in his tracks? She was half afraid to know what it was; she had the feeling that once she knew something would change, and there would be no undoing it.
She gazed up at Kroenen, at the ghostly reflection of the furnace flames and her own face in his mask's black, polished surface. The silence of the room was thick with unnamable emotion and tension, as though it, like her, was hesitating on the brink of something that she wasn't sure she wanted to discover.
"Why?" Erica whispered. "Why can't you kill me, Kroenen? It's not just because we were—are—friends, is it?"
The assassin was silent for a while, clearly contemplating his answer. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet. "I wanted to destroy you, thinking it would end my pain. But I know now that it would only prolong it. In destroying you, I would destroy myself."Erica studied him, wondering at the emotion in his voice. What was it? And why did it remind her of Abe, and yet, was nothing like the fish-man could ever express, having far too dark and forceful a quality to it?
"Why would it destroy you?"
The assassin didn't answer immediately; he raised his free hand and cupped her cheek with it, just barely touching her skin. "Because… you…are…my…Angel," he replied softly.
Erica stared at him, her lips parted in shock. There was so much more passion behind those words than she had ever heard from him— or anyone— before and it was both thrilling and frightening her. He couldn't possibly mean what he seemed to be telling her, because if what she thought he meant was true—! Yes, in the past, they had been close friends, he had been insanely dedicated to her in his teaching, had murdered men in fits of jealous rage, and his attachment to her had been well within the realm of obsession, but this…!
She wasn't sure how to respond: to embrace him, or doubt him, or smile, or cry in fear or joy or just because she didn't know what else to do. Instead she looked away, gazing unseeingly at the floor.
"No…" she said softly, her voice barely audible. She wasn't even conscious of what she had said, or why.
"Yes," he murmured, drawing out the word as though it were a lullaby. He wrapped his arms around her in an embrace; that she was too confused to pull away or return it did not deter him, and if anything seemed to encourage him. "Yes, I'm telling the truth. Is it so hard to believe?" Kroenen asked, turning her face back to him with a gentle finger.
"That you…?" she stopped, hesitating, as though afraid to be the one to say it, to make it true.
"Ja," he said, and, pulling her closer, he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I…love…you."
Erica gazed at him with astonishment, her beautiful grey eyes wide, but her expression was all too quickly replaced by uncertainty and turmoil as emotions warred across her face. Kroenen felt a surge of hope; there was a chance, then, that she might accept, might want him in return; uncertainty was a far cry from outright rejection.
"You may doubt me, I understand. I doubted it myself. I have denied it for more than sixty years. But no longer….no longer…I love you, Angel," he said, slowly trailing a hand down her face, tracing the scar on her cheek with his thumb. "If only you knew how much…"
He trailed off, dropping his hand from her face and moving away, turning his back to her as he went over to the phonograph and dropped the pin onto the record. There was a brief scratching, static sound from the contraption and then music was pouring from it, echoing hauntingly off the walls.
"Do you remember when I first taught you to dance?" he asked, turning back to her.
"Ja," she said softly. Her response was more automatic than anything that had real thought behind it.
"Good," he said, pleased. He approached her and made a melodramatic, elegant bow and then extended a hand to her. "May I have this dance, Angel?"
A hesitant, unconscious smile crossed her face, no doubt spurred by his antics. "I don't know, should I let you?"
"I would say you have no choice," the assassin replied, smiling; and though he knew she could not see it, he knew she could hear it in his voice. He took her hand and pulled her close to him, sliding an arm around her waist and holding her for a few moments, taking pleasure in being so close to her. And then, following the music, he gracefully spun her around the room, her leather trench coat flaring out around her legs as they whirled around.
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Abandoned Subway Area
Shower Room
Abe was losing hope of being found almost as fast as he was losing blood. No one had responded to his locator belt's distress signal; no one had answered his attempts to radio the BPRD's agents.
Everyone must be out of range, Abe thought. Or dead, muttered an unpleasant voice in the back of his head. He ignored it. There was no way it could be true, no way…
At least the Sammaels had left, so he wasn't in any immediate danger of being eaten alive. But he was very worried about his injuries; he pressed a webbed hand to the painful, throbbing gashes on his chest to stem the slow but steady ooze of blood. His heart was working overtime, struggling to pump what blood remained in his veins, and that blood was slowly becoming less and less. He needed to get to a hospital, or, barring that, someone that had at least some medical knowledge and a first aid kit. But none of the agents were answering, and he had no hope of dragging himself to safety in his weakened state.
He fumbled with the earphone, holding it in his free hand so he could try it once more. Nothing. Only static. Still out of range.
"Damn," Abe cursed quietly, dropping his hand to his lap. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the tile wall, resting. He sat in silence for several moments, his gills fluttering as he breathed.
Maybe the agents are still close enough that I can call to them mentally, he thought. Yes, that should work. They couldn't have gone too far; it's just that our radio signals are scrambled by something down here…
He concentrated, opening his mind, reaching farther, farther, out into the passageways and hidden rooms, mentally calling his friends' names as loud as he could.
Hellboy…Erica…Clay…Anybody there? Can you hear me? Erica? Hellb—
Abe paused, feeling a slight, far away response. Well, not a response—the agent hadn't answered, wasn't aware of him yet—but a presence. And from the feel of it, it was Erica.
Abe smiled. Now he was getting somewhere. Mentally he reached out, following Erica's vague, elusive mental presence. Slowly it strengthened, until he was almost sure she would hear him this time. But just to make sure, he broadcast his thoughts to a wider, more generalized area around where he thought she was.
Erica, it's Abe. I'm safe, but I'm hurt. Can you hear me? I need your help…
XXXXX
Abandoned Subway Area
Furnace Room
Kroenen paused mid-step. There was a tickle in the back of his mind; from experience he knew it was the forerunner of a mental message being broadcast towards the general area. Out of habit the assassin automatically blocked it, sort of…freezing it, before whatever the message contained could fully reach him or Erica. Cautiously, he lowered some of his mental shielding and let the message through so only he could hear it—and he just barely stopped himself from snarling out loud.
It was Abe.
HOW DARE HE INTERRUPT US?! Kroenen thought furiously, clenching his teeth together so hard that it hurt. White-hot jealousy writhed and thrashed inside him, tearing at the assassin's innards; jealousy burning a million times hotter than the envy that had caused him to murder Leonard so many, many decades ago. He would destroy that fish for his impudence, rip out his guts and—!
"Kroenen?" Erica asked quietly, her brow furrowed with concern. "What's wrong?"
Only then did Kroenen notice that his hands were shaking. Quickly he forced himself to control his body and emotions, biting back the myriad of blasphemies he wanted to spew forth at the fish-man.
"Nothing, my Angel," he said softly, reassuringly. Possessively, he tightened his grip on her waist, pulling her closer so he could run his fingers through her beautiful chestnut hair, shining red in the firelight. The calming gesture appeared to soothe any doubts she might have had—though she had no reason not to believe him; Kroenen had blocked Abe's message from ever reaching her—and she relaxed, just a little, into his embrace, almost exactly the same way she had decades ago.
As the assassin held her, enjoying the moment of closeness, a cunning anger was also seething within him; calculating, planning, his thoughts turning like the record playing on the phonograph. A wicked grin ghosted across his scarred face. So the fish-man wanted to contact Erica? Was hurt and needed her help? Kroenen would make sure Abe never succeeded. The fish-man could mentally call her name as much as he wanted, but she would never hear him. And should Abe wonder why she wasn't answering, and mentally visit the furnace room, what a sight he would see: Erica, in Kroenen's arms! Let the fish-man think she was in danger of being brutally murdered! Or, even better, let the fish-man overhear every word and burn with jealousy!
Or, best of all, let him bleed to death, calling in vain for Erica to help him.
Kroenen's sadistic grin widened as he took a vicious pleasure in that thought. Yes, that was perfect. Erica would never know that he had been vaguely implicated in Abe's death. The fish-man would just fade away, and when he was found by the BPRD's agents they would naturally assume that, unable to contact any of the agents for medical attention, he had died shortly after being attacked by the Sammaels. A tragic accident, but one that Kroenen was more than happy to live with.
"No, nothing is wrong," he murmured in her ear. "Everything is…perfect."
And in the background the music rose.
Meanwhile, somewhere in the tangled labyrinth of underground passages dripping with water, Abe was slumped against a tile wall. He was deeply worried.
Erica should have answered me a long time ago, he thought. I know that's her. It couldn't be anyone else…
Perhaps he wasn't concentrating properly, was weakened more than he had thought by his injuries. He tried again, reaching out to her, knowing her mind, her presence was just beyond his grasp—Nothing. No response. He reached further, insistently. This time he got something, but it made his stomach plummet with dismay: Blackness. Emptiness. A void where Erica should have been. The kind of barren blankness found in the minds of the dead.
No, Abe thought numbly. No, she can't be dead, she can't be…
He needed to see where she was. NOW. He focused himself completely, and then, like the night before at the Machen Library, when he had used the same technique to see that Erica was running through the alleys, pursued by Kroenen, Abe was no longer in the shower room. For a brief millisecond he was mentally rocketing through a flurry of blurred, jumbled images: running along corridors, moving impossibly through walls like a ghost, ducking pipes, rushing through hissing clouds of steam—he came to an abrupt, stomach-wrenching halt in a small room, its inside alive with shadows and fire. The constant movement was bewildering and made it difficult for him to discern what he seeing; his surroundings were already distorted and blurred because he was seeing with his mind.
Where is she? Abe thought frantically, shifting his gaze as his heart pounded in his ears like thunder. And then, a movement among the shadows and he saw her, the hellish light of the furnaces playing over her pale face. Abe breathed a sigh of immense relief. Erica was okay, she was alive, she was safe—
The light shifted and he saw his relief had been premature: Erica was not alone— she was trapped in Kroenen's grasp!
ERICA! Abe mentally yelled, horrified. His horror intensified when she didn't answer, when his thoughts slammed into that blackness where her mind should have been. Why couldn't she hear him? What was happening? He had to help her; Kroenen would kill her!
But…something was wrong here…Erica looked far from terrified…conflicted, yes, but not afraid…she wasn't trying to escape…
For Erica, everything was steadily becoming more and more surreal. Her mind was on overload, frozen on one thought: Kroenen loved her. He loved her.
She was so caught up, so focused on that one shocking thought that she was only numbly aware of what was going on around her, and when the assassin took her hand again and wrapped an arm about her waist she allowed him to sweep her around the room in a graceful waltz. Kroenen loved her. He loved her. He loved her. And so did Abe. Now what in God's name was she going to do?
"What are you thinking, Angel?"
She knew it would do her no good to lie; Kroenen had always had an uncanny ability to detect falsehoods. But still, she struggled to speak, trying to find the words to express the turmoil inside her. It was difficult, so complicated… Erica closed her eyes in a futile hope that blocking out her surroundings would help her focus on her thoughts, but she could still feel her feet moving across the floor, dance step by dance step, one after the other; could feel the dizzying sensation of spinning with her eyes closed, through the darkness behind her eyelids, and on top of it was an equally dizzying succession of memories and tangled emotions:
—The Machen Library. She looked up at Abe, encircled by his arms; she felt safe for the first time since she had seen Kroenen in the alleys, perched above her on a fire escape like a nightmarish panther about to move in for the kill.
"He's tried to kill you at least twice," the fish-man reminded her. "Whatever it seemed to be, it was a trick; he hates you. But you're safe now; I won't let anything happen to you. I love you," Abe said, and kissed her on the cheek. She laughed and smiled up at him—
—Sixty years ago,the ruins of Trondham Abbey. It was one o'clock in the morning, and it was still raining. A young Professor Broom sat across from her on a wooden crate; she was lying on the floor, her skin covered in bandages and even more bruises. The Professor wanted to inspect her necklace—a silver watch pendent—wanted to see if there was any evil clinging to it. But she wouldn't give it to him; she refused to! Kroenen had given it to her, and now that she had betrayed him and he was gone, she refused to part with it.
"Is it so precious to you, a gift from the man you betrayed?" the Professor asked.
"In a strange way, yes, it is. I don't know why…" She looked down at the watch sadly, turning it over in her fingers so that Kroenen's initials, engraved into the back, glinted in the dim light. She knew what she would say next, and, in a distant way, she was amazed that she felt so comfortable revealing it to someone that had been an enemy when she had never told Kroenen. "In a way, I love this clock and hate it, just like the man that gave it to me."
Erica felt a jolt in her stomach like she had been kicked by a horse. Sixty years ago she had outright admitted that she loved Kroenen. But had she meant more than friendship? Had it been more than a result of the pain and depression of losing everything she knew? And then there was Abe; he had told her he loved her. But she had never said it in return, wasn't sure, now, if she felt the same. Could she love Abe when she had admitted to loving Kroenen? Had she, in the last sixty years, ever stopped loving him? Or had it just been hidden from her by her fear?
She didn't know, she just didn't know!
Erica opened her eyes. Her surroundings felt more dreamlike than they had before; hellish fire and shadows all around her, whirling past in a dance, mirroring her and Kroenen.
"You said you love me…"
"And?"
It was taking an enormous effort for her to continue; she didn't know if it was words, or her own courage, that were failing her now. "I…I'm not sure if I…I can't decide if…if…"
"If you love me in return?"
"Yes," she whispered, biting at her lower lip.
Kroenen brought the dance to a gentle stop; her trench coat brushed against her legs, swishing against them now that she was standing still. The assassin gazed down at her so intensely that Erica was sure he was staring into her, seeing her soul and reading every precious thought. He leaned down so they were eye to eye, his mask mere inches from her face, his breath ghosting over her skin.
"Take as long as you like to decide," he murmured. "As long as you like. I have eternity to wait for an answer. But regardless of what you decide, I will save you. I will not let them sacrifice you. And, know this," he said, his voice so soft that had he not been a hairsbreadth away she would never have heard him, "I have become a traitor for you. I will kill for you without question. I will die for you to keep you from harm. And I will never, ever leave you, unless you wish it. You don't have to love me, but, when we have succeeded…will you return to me?"
"Return…?"
"Come away with me. It doesn't have to be for forever, just a little while. To catch up, for old time's sake?"
Mentally watching the scene from across the room, Abe was truly scared for Erica. What he had overheard…! It had to be a trap. Kroenen could not be telling the truth. He just couldn't! There was no way in hell the assassin could love Erica. Abe had no idea how Kroenen had managed to convince her—probably through exploiting her memories of their friendship—and he didn't care. What mattered was that Erica was not trying to defend herself and was standing in the embrace of the man that had repeatedly tried to murder her. She was completely at Kroenen's mercy. And the fish-man still didn't understand why she couldn't hear him, what that empty blackness between them could be, or where it was coming from.
I have to reach her, Abe thought. I have to, before it's too late.
He threw his thoughts at the empty blackness, calling her name. And this time something different happened; this time he noticed what was going on. The blackness absorbed his thoughts, siphoning them away. Now Abe knew what it was: the blackness was a shield, an extension of another's mind which was blocking his every attempt to contact Erica.
But who…? Abe wondered.
"Who do you think, fish-man?" hissed a sneering thought-voice. A man's voice with a thick German accent.
Abe knew who it was even before the blackness shifted and gained substance, the emptiness becoming infused with the assassin's personality. It was pitch black, it was cold, and above all, it was murderously angry.
"I had hoped we would meet," Kroenen snarled at him.
"Let her go!" Abe demanded.
Kroenen laughed. The cold triumph of it froze Abe to his core. "She is free to go whenever she likes. She need only ask me and I will willingly comply."
"Liar."
"Not this time. I would do anything for my Angel. I only regret that it is unlikely she will ever ask me to kill you," the assassin retorted. "A pity. I have such…ideas… You should be flattered that I've expended so much time inventing creative and astoundingly painful ways to murder you."
Abe shuddered. "You're insane."
"Ja. But there is always some madness in love."
The sudden desire to snap the assassin's neck surfaced in Abe's mind. He could practically see his webbed hands wrapping around the man's throat, feel black fabric rip as he dug his long ivory nails in—
"You DO NOT love her! Or were you showing affection by attempting to murder her?!"
"I will be showing you HATE when I kill you!" Kroenen snarled. The assassin's fury surged through the darkness, sweeping around Abe like a pounding wave of boiling water and sending him reeling madly through the gloom.
"Does it hurt?" Kroenen demanded. His voice and mental presence overflowed with cruelty.
"What?" The question had caught Abe off-guard. Instantly he thought of his injuries; he was aware, in a vague way, of his bleeding body lying on the tiles in the shower room.
"Does it hurt that she didn't reject me?" asked Kroenen, mocking him. "That she said she wasn't sure if she loved me in return? I know you were eavesdropping!"
Abe paused, a leaden feeling in his stomach. Even if all of this was false, was nothing but a trick, Erica was considering, was actually giving thought to the idea that she could possibly love this grotesque, nightmare riddled monster. How could she? The man had tried to kill her! How could she?
"Painful, isn't it? I know how agonizing jealousy can be, what terrible deeds it can drive a man to commit. I have murdered men because I felt they were getting too close to her. Now what will stop me from doing the same to you? And you doubt I love her… You know nothing! NOTHING! NOW GET OUT!"
Kroenen's presence withdrew abruptly and once more Abe saw the assassin standing in the furnace room, embracing Erica. But there was a new smugness to the man's stance; an infuriating arrogant self-satisfaction as Kroenen held her, caressed her hair, her face, as if to say to Abe: I know you're watching me, and you're helpless to stop me. How does it feel? To watch me hold her? To watch me touch her?
"Angel…will you return to me? Just a few days?" Kroenen whispered coaxingly. "Just us, together… I only want to talk with you…That is all I ask…You know I would not be welcome at the BPRD…" The clockwork assassin leaned his forehead against hers; the smooth black metal of his mask was cool against her skin. Erica looked at the floor, biting her lip in indecision. She knew it was a loaded question, containing hints and whisperings of other actions and intentions unspoken, of murmurs in the darkness. For a moment she closed her eyes; Kroenen smelled like leather and boot polish, and far from finding the scents suffocating as she had earlier, she found them to be very appealing. But she had to focus; she had to decide…
Say no, say no, Abe silently urged her, hoping against hope that she would hear him, while knowing she could not. It was torture to be so utterly powerless.
"All it takes is a simple yes," Kroenen murmured. "You will be safe, I would never hurt you…Say it…Please, Angel?"
Erica slowly lifted her eyes to his mask, a smile turning up the corners of her lips and eyes. Why not? she thought. Why not take a running leap into the dark?
"Karl, I—" she stopped, and her eyes went to the bolted doors across the room.
Kroenen had heard it too: footsteps splashing through the water in the catacomb-like tunnels outside the furnace room. One of the BPRD's agents was very close by. Suddenly Kroenen remembered his duty: he had a task to complete for Rasputin. He needed to kill one of the agents, and one had conveniently arrived just outside his door. He should go…
He jerked slightly, sensing a determined push on the mental barriers he had erected around Erica. His stomach clenched; he had been inattentive for far too long, had been distracted—Bereft of his constant support the barriers were already crumbling before the invading presence; he concentrated, tried to shore them up. But Abe was violently forcing his way through the walls, and they were falling, collapsing—
"NO!" Kroenen snarled; he reached out with cruel mental talons to tear at his rival.
Too late. The spell was broken. Erica shuddered in his arms, blinking in confusion as if trying to clear a thick concealing fog from her eyes. Shock, confusion, and anxiety flickered in quick succession across her face. Kroenen could only imagine what Abe was telling her.
"No," Kroenen said, his voice reduced to a low moan of despair. He felt helpless, so helpless.
Erica's brow furrowed as he gave voice to his despair; the sound drew her back into the world and she looked up at him in disbelief. And then she pulled away from him.
To his credit, Kroenen did not try to hold her; his arms fell slack at his sides as he let her go, knowing it would do more harm not to release her. Erica stared at him. The confusion and hurt in her eyes tore at his soul.
She slowly shook her head. "You—you—Abe could have died—" she stammered.
"We both had things that needed to be said," Kroenen replied quietly, hoping desperately that she would understand.
"But you— how—?" Erica stopped midsentence. The agent was closer; she could tell from the voice that it was Clay.
"Red? Abe? Anybody out there? Quarry?" Clay called. He was talking into his earphone and drawing nearer by the moment.
Erica stared at the bolted doors and then shot a look at Kroenen. For a moment she hesitated; a part of her wanted nothing more than to stay and talk. There was still so much that remained unsaid between them, things a part of her desperately wanted to explore. No. I can't. Abe needs my help, she thought. I have to go!
"Give me the key," she ordered, holding out her hand.
Slowly, Kroenen pulled the key from inside his shirt sleeve. He approached her, holding the key just beyond her reach, and she stepped towards him, her eyes on the key as she stretched out her hand—
Suddenly Kroenen's free hand locked around her upper arm and he pulled her close, holding her against his chest so tightly that the intricate metal designs on his chest plate dug into her skin through her tank top. Erica stared up at him in surprise, alarm flickering in her eyes.
"I'm afraid we will have to continue our conversation later, my Angel," Kroenen said. He had stowed the key in a pouch on his belt, out of her reach. "But do not worry; we will be seeing each other again, very soon."
The clockwork assassin knocked her out with a swift blow to the back of her head. Erica slumped and he caught her and easily picked her up, cradling her against his chest the way a child holds a beloved stuffed animal, and carried her limp body over to his desk. Erica's head lolled limply as he carefully laid her out on top of the yellowed parchment and dissembled bits of machinery. Her chestnut hair cascaded over the worm-eaten surface, the soft, silky strands tinged red by the roaring furnace fires, and somehow looking as if they belonged there, snaking between the gears and spread over the pages of a demonology book like rivulets of blood.
Her face was so pale and still… Beautiful, Kroenen thought. He absentmindedly trailed his fingers over the 'T' scar on her cheek; the scar tissue was highlighted a silvery red by the fire.
Then he moved to the desk, unlocked the drawer where he had placed her weapons and belt, and laid them out on the floor where she was sure to see them. As he did so, he noticed something lying on the floor, glittering. He picked it up. It was an Iron Cross—Erica's, judging by the black ribbon it hung on. It must have fallen from her pocket when he had picked her up.
Strange that she would be carrying it around in the first place, he thought.
On an impulse he leaned over her and tied the Iron Cross around her neck where it belonged, or had, sixty years ago.
"I like this cross much better than your silver one," he whispered to her, stroking her hair. Then he drew back and unbolted the corroded metal doors of his lair.
The assassin paused in the doorway and turned back to look at her. To Kroenen's mind, the scene could not be more perfect: his Angel of Death lit by hellfire…
He left the doors standing wide open for her.
Author's Notes: Teehee! Ilsa dropped into sewer water! Somehow I just find that mental image to be amusing…I hope everyone found the scene with Erica and Kroenen to be as powerful and beautiful as I tried to make it—I rewrote it twice and the last time I tried it just flowed out of me. Please review!