Chapter 19: The Devil's In the Details
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 read and enjoyed the last chapter, and another big thank you to everyone who reviewed! A belated Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all! My next update will probably be somewhere around spring break.
A few replies to those that had questions or comments that needed answers:
houseXofXnight: Thank you for your long review! Don't worry, I will finish this story; I'm estimating another four chapters before it's finished, and I am vaguely playing with the idea of a sequel following along the lines of The Golden Army if I can come up with a complex and intricate enough plotline.
DarkCloudRider: I think the reason the autopsy room scene seemed a bit rushed is because the last chapter and this chapter were originally together—the scenes from the last chapter continue in here. In retrospect I probably should have posted them together. Thank you for the dreaming idea; it inspired me to add something similar but a little different (a flashback) that I think really adds a lot to this chapter.
vauderenz: I have thought of getting this published, but unfortunately I have a feeling that violates several copyright laws. That aside, I am simply happy to know that many people on are enjoying my story.
cylersial: I speak English, and try rather haphazardly to teach myself to read German. I can only pray that I'm not butchering it; I do my best.
"'Come hither, Son,' I heard Death say; 'I did not will a grave should end thy pilgrimage today, but I, too, am a slave!'"—Thomas Hardy, "The Subalterns"
"Courage doesn't always roar."—Mary Anne Radmacher
"You will reach your goals only with the help of others."—George Shinn
The BPRD
Erica's Room
Night
Erica lay on her bed, toying listlessly with a loose thread on the red sheets. She hadn't left her room since she had gotten back. She had simply collapsed on her bed, boots and all, and been there ever since.
She was exhausted, but couldn't sleep. She was hungry, but couldn't muster up the will to move from her bed. Her mind was in a sort of grey misty limbo where thoughts occasionally drifted through but for the most part there was just an empty aching blankness and a heaviness in her chest that made it an effort to breathe.
Her attempt to pretend the rest of the world didn't exist outside the cocoon of her bedroom had been momentarily disturbed an hour or so ago—she wasn't really aware of the passage of time anymore—by an announcement over the loudspeaker system that had something to do with Hellboy missing again, but she couldn't find it in herself to care.
Erica rolled over and winced as she ran into the corner of the tissue box lying next to her. She had been crying off and on, with the result that a pile of balled up tissues had formed on the floor. She kicked the tissue box off the bed to join them and ran her fingers through her hair, closing her eyes to blot out the sight of her room; she had never realized how much it reminded her of Kroenen. It was the little things: the music box sitting in pieces on her desk, the chess set on the table, her baton swords lying on the floor where she had abandoned them.
Kroenen. Even with her eyes closed she still saw him; his dead body laid out on the cold steel table. She still saw his blue eyes rolled back in his head, blank and staring. She still heard the silence where there should have been the whirr and tick of clockwork. She wanted to hear it again. She wanted to embrace him and tell him she loved him.
For a moment she considered going back to the autopsy room. But the thought of sitting there with his corpse for company was painful. She knew if she did she wouldn't stop crying. Not that she wasn't crying now…
There was a huge, fraying hole in her soul where Kroenen and that part of her life had been ripped out. Kroenen was dead: no one was left that would ever completely understand what she had been, why she had been—what she and Kroenenhad been. What they could have become. He had lived it with her. And now Kroenen, like that life, like that possible future, was just a memory she could only share with herself.
Erica wiped uselessly at her tears and wrapped her arms around her shoulders in a hug. The back of her hand brushed against her neck—she opened her eyes and reached up to touch her throat again. Something thin was wrapped around it like a string or maybe a ribbon; something she hadn't put there, and yet it was familiar. Her fingertips touched a neat bow; she pulled and the ribbon came away in her hand. It was her Iron Cross.
She closed her hand around it tightly and held it to her chest. She knew Kroenen had tied it around her neck, probably only moments before Clay had killed him. With a pang she wondered if Kroenen had died immediately, or if he had lingered, clinging to life. What thoughts had passed through the assassin's mind in his final moments—Had he wished she was there by his side? She hoped he had died instantly; it hurt to think of him lying there in the dark and silence, dying alone…
That thought brought on more tears. Erica drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her pillow. She felt so empty and lonely, but she didn't have the energy to visit Brittany, Luke, and Abe in the hospital wing—Check that. She didn't want to see Abe, she didn't even want to think about him. How was she going to explain to him what had happened in the subway tunnels, let alone kissing Kroenen now that he was dead? Erica groaned and buried her face in her red pillow. She felt awful.
Maybe a shower will help, she thought. The idea of steaming hot water and fluffy towels and clean clothes seemed appealing, so she got up from her bed and kicked off her boots as she walked into the bathroom attached to her bedroom.
Just peeling off her dirty, sweat-soaked clothes felt good. She left them in a heap on the floor and slid back the shower's frosted glass door. Cold water gushed out of the showerhead as she turned the knob so she pushed it over to hot and stood beside the shower waiting for the water to warm up.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and raised her head to get a better look. Erica frowned. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying and the skin around them was puffy and red. Her eyes dropped lower, taking in what a lifetime of combat had done to her body. Her most recently acquired bruises and injuries aside, the pale skin over her muscles was blanketed with a network of scars: bullet wounds from an assassin, a jagged rip from a set of claws, vertical gashes on her stomach and back from squeezing through an underwater hole to escape a giant eel. And then there were other scars, permanent reminders of Kroenen on her body: the stab wound over her heart, the T-shaped lines on her cheek, the countless cuts received while training with him, the lines of tiny dots on either side of them from the stitches Kroenen had used to repeatedly pull her skin back together…
That was an old memory.
The fire crackled and sparked, throwing shadows over the walls of Kroenen's study. Erica sat a still as possible on a stool, biting her lower lip to keep herself quiet. Her trench coat and bloodied shirt lay abandoned on the floor beside her.
Kroenen was seated behind her. She felt his fingers skim over the bare skin of her back as he pushed the edges of a wound together and drew a curved needle through them. Erica hissed softly as she felt the tug of the thread passing through her flesh. There were several more tugs as the assassin tied off the thread, and then his left arm appeared in her peripheral vision as he reached for a pair of scissors on the desk. His hand and arm were bare and his scars glimmered silver in the flickering firelight.
The assassin paused, his fingertips just barely brushing the handle of the scissors. He had noticed she was watching him.
"Don't worry; I am more careful with you than I am with myself," he said. There was a snip behind her and then a soft clatter as the scissors were replaced on the desk. "You will have a few thin lines as souvenirs." Skilled fingers traced paths beside the sutured gashes and then slowly ran down her spine. Kroenen leaned forward and she felt his breath brush her ear and the side of her face. "But continue ripping out your stitches at this rate and you will look no better than I... And that would be such a pity."
Her eyes followed, entranced, as his scarred fingers ran the length of her upper arm and then gently wrapped around her elbow.
"As often as you are in here, I'm beginning to think you enjoy this."
She shook herself out of her daze and reluctantly pulled her eyes away from his hand. "I—I enjoy it no more than you do."
"Really." There was doubt in his whisper, as though he had caught the stammer in her voice and was musing over it. "And are you so sure Idon't enjoy it?"
She felt a shift as the fingers wrapped around her elbow flexed and uncurled, stretching out, their tips brushing the smooth skin near her waist—
"Angel, are you paying attention to me?"
She was, and raptly, but not in the way he meant. Or perhaps he did mean something besides listening to him; he was unusually perceptive and she seemed to be so easy for him to read. But no, he couldn't; her own out-of-bounds curiosity was influencing her perceptions and she would have to rein it in immediately. But still…she wondered as his fingers skimmed over her skin… Regardless, her answer was the same.
"Yes."
There was a soft noise behind her head as Kroenen sighed. She wasn't sure if it was longing or exasperation that colored the sound.
"Promise me you will be more careful?"
"Ja. Of course," she replied.
"Good. Put your trench coat on while I find a clean shirt for you; you'll get cold sitting there like that…"
The mirror was fogging up. Or was it just her eyes? Erica turned away and stepped inside the shower, sliding the glass door closed behind her. The hot water hit her and her muscles relaxed. It was so soothing…
XXXXX
The BPRD Medical Bay
Autopsy Room
Night
X-rays hung all around the room, their ghostly images displaying the clockwork assassin's metal-reinforced bones. A shot of his pelvis, a steel rod inserted into the bone to replace vertebrae crushed by the explosion of the portal generator. A view of his chest cavity, blurred, the space between his ribs occupied by clockwork that was still rotating and ticking away, heedless of its creator's death.
Professor Broom stood over a cart that held Kroenen's clothes and belongings. There wasn't much, and most of it consisted of a variety of blades and other edged implements. There was also an odd looking metal syringe that had been in a pouch on the assassin's belt; Broom had been careful not to prick himself with the needle, having no idea what fluid it contained. He opened another pouch. A slip of paper? He turned it over. It was a photograph. Broom smiled, recognizing Erica from her WWII days with Ilsa and Kroenen beside her.
He started to set the belt down and an envelope fell out of the pouch. There were two ragged pieces of paper inside; Broom's brow furrowed as he peered at them through his glasses. They were stained with age and each piece had ink on one side; perhaps writing…? Examining them would take better lighting and equipment that he only had in his study. Lost in thought he retrieved his cane and left with the two pieces of paper in his hand.
The room was now utterly lifeless.
Silent.
Click.
The sound was nearly imperceptible, as was the following whisper of gears sliding into place and reengaging; the sigh of tightly coiled springs beginning to slowly unwind, driving cogs and clockwork into motion deep inside the assassin's body.
…Whirr…Tick…
Kroenen's chest began to rise and fall, his breathing disturbing the clear plastic sheet the Professor had laid over him. Rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and—the assassin abruptly sat up. He immediately slid his legs over the edge of the metal table and lightly hopped down; the blue cloth over his waist fell away, taking the light plastic sheeting with it. He ignored it; the sight of his own body unveiled in all of its naked nightmarish glory did not disturb him. The floor was cold beneath his feet as he strode across the room to the cart that held his belongings.
His mechanical hand clicked as he pushed it onto its metal dock and he twisted it, latching it securely in place. There was a metallic sound of coiling and stretching springs as the assassin flexed his fingers; he watched as the gears on the back of his hand sped up.
In the space of a few moments he dressed and strapped on his chest-plate and weapons. The mechanical key that drove his clockwork heart slid into the hole in his chest and clicked into place; a few turns and he felt springs wind and tighten inside him, ready for action.
Tick…tick…tick…
His baton sword made the air sing as he whirled it around, limbering up. Kroenen had missed nothing while he feigned death.
He had work to do.
XXXX
The BPRD
Erica's Room
Water glistened on the bathroom floor; Erica shivered as she accidentally put her bare foot down in a puddle.
One of these days I'll remember to get a rug to put in here, she thought.
It was amazing how much better the shower had made her feel. Erica finished drying her long brown hair and ran a brush through it before she hung up her towels. As usual she was wearing a clean black tank top and a pair of black pants.
Her stomach grumbled with hunger. But she still wasn't ready to deal with other people.
Maybe I'll just sneak down to the kitchens and see if there's anything in the fridge, she thought. She opened the bathroom door—
Her heart stopped.
Kroenen was sitting at her desk with his boots propped up on its edge, idly flipping a dagger into the air and catching it again.
Erica stared, shocked beyond all belief. "You're not dead!"
"Your powers of observation are astounding," Kroenen said, sounding amused. He turned to face her; the blank eyes of his mask glinted. "Thank you for telling me; I would never have guessed."
Adrenaline was shooting through her body and making her heart slam against her ribcage. Shock still had her frozen but her mind was racing. How did he get here without being seen? And just how long has he been here?! She hadn't heard the door to her room open, and with the noise of the water running and the glass door of the shower fogged up he could have been standing right there and she would never have known it. Erica's skin crawled at the thought and then she felt fury rising in her, and not just because of the sense of violation. He had lain there and pretended to be dead while she had shaken him, begging him to show some sign of life. He had lain there and remained silent while she sobbed grief-stricken on the floor. Why had he done that to her? For what reason had he put her through all of that pain? Erica's teeth clenched with anger and behind her back she closed her fist around the knife on her belt.
Kroenen seemed to have interpreted her silence as surprise. He flipped his dagger into the air again; he caught the hypnotically spinning blur of silver without looking at it.
"That was one of my best performances, I think." The assassin tilted his head at her. "You have no idea how hard it was to stay still with everything you were doing to me, Angel." The hint of a smile crept into his voice. "Even I didn't expect you to kiss me."
"You—you—you fucking bastard!" she yelled. Before she knew what she was doing or why she launched herself at him, her knife drawn. A fraction of a second before she collided with him the assassin stabbed his dagger into the top of her desk and spread his arms in some strange parody of an embrace, welcoming her attack—she slammed into him and the chair toppled backwards, crashing to the floor and spilling both of them onto the carpet. They tumbled over the floor, a tangle of limbs and a flash of lethal silver—the skin on her elbow burned as it was dragged over the carpet—the assassin was getting the upper hand and she kicked out, turning them over again—Kroenen's breath was rasping in her ear, and he was laughing at her—
"There's my Angel of Death!" he crowed. A few seconds later the side of his hand chopped down on her wrist, knocking the blade from her hand, and he quickly pinned her beneath him. Erica was panting, her chest heaving; with her chestnut hair spilled over the floor she looked beautiful. Kroenen chuckled at her and ran his fingers down the side of her face.
"Determined to make my deception real? You cannot kill an undead man, Erica," he admonished her. "You should know that now, just as you should have known that a few hours ago." She glared at him, her angry grey eyes blazing; he ignored it. "Besides, I thought you would be pleased to see me again. Or so that touching 'I love you' seemed to suggest."
Her anger faded into irritation. "I thought you were dead. I was grieving. I'm not responsible for anything I did or said."
"Not responsible…? Oh, I think you will find you're dead wrong about that." His gloved fingers were tracing the curve of her ear. "Your Professor Broom is very perceptive. You admitted it to him, so do not lie to me."
Erica was silent.
"Come now; it is unwise to play hard to get with an assassin. It just makes me more determined."
She sighed and closed her eyes. "Why don't you let me up first?"
Kroenen tilted his head at her. "Agreed."
He climbed off of her and, deep in thought, Erica stood and moved over to the table. She distractedly ran a hand through her hair and stared down at the glass chess-set in front of her.
"Alright…" She took a deep breath. Behind her she heard the rustle of cloth as Kroenen shifted; waiting. "This is so confusing…I said I love you, and I meant it. I still do. But I…I still haven't made up my mind about Abe—"
Kroenen's arms suddenly slid around her waist from behind, pulling her back against his body.
"What are y—?"
She stopped at the alien sensation of something wet, cold, and hard closing gently on the side of her neck. For a fraction of a second she was confused. Then it hit her: teeth. Kroenen's teeth.
Her stomach tightened and she froze, shocked. And then he did it again; harder. Erica involuntarily gasped, her eyes wide, and found herself turning her head to the side and baring more of her neck to him. Behind her Kroenen laughed softly; a deep sound that came from his chest. Erica felt heat rise in her as she flushed crimson.
The assassin's chest-plate pressed against her as he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that to you." His thick German accent sent not-so-unpleasant shivers rippling down her spine. "I would kiss you, but seeing as that is an impossibility…"
His tongue flicked across the edge of her ear. Erica's breath caught in her throat. The assassin heard it and responded by tightening his grip on her waist; pulling her closer and sliding his tongue the length of her ear and then down her neck. Erica whimpered and closed her eyes, realizing in a rather confused way that she had completely relaxed into his embrace; that she was enjoying what he was doing to her; that she wanted him to…
His mechanical hand had snuck under the edge of her tank top and his fingers were resting on her stomach, tracing spiraling patterns over her flesh with slick metal fingertips. Erica tentatively dared to move; her left hand found his right on her hip and her fingers wandered over his leather glove, hovering there for a moment before hesitantly pushing under the edge of his sleeve. His skin was still cold from being in the autopsy room, and she could feel ridges as her fingers drifted over deep scars and lines of stitches, following them up his arm. She had no idea what she was doing, but Kroenen seemed to like it; his teeth and tongue were pulling and licking insistently at the skin on her neck and shoulder as he slid the strap of her tank top down her arm.
"My Angel…my Angel of Death…" Kroenen murmured. He pushed the arm on her hip forward, up her stomach, and his sleeve slid up past his elbow; her fingertips followed it, exploring up his arm, and without thinking she started to turn her head to the side—
"Wait," he said. His mechanical hand was held against her face, gently preventing her from turning around with metal fingertips that radiated the heat they had stolen from her skin. Erica held still and behind her she heard him adjusting his mask, sliding it back down over his face. His hand found her cheek again and Erica turned around— and impulsively pressed her lips to Kroenen's mask.
The metal was not cold as she had expected; instead it was warm, heated by the assassin's breath rushing rapidly in and out. As she kissed him one of his hands moved up to caress the side of her face; his fingers slipped around her ear to twine in her hair.
After a wonderful eternity Erica pulled back. Kroenen would have smiled in triumph if he still had lips: the pupils of her grey eyes were huge, dilated as far as they would go, their depths filled with passion and curiosity.
"You tempt me… unfortunately we have neither the time, nor is this the place," the assassin said.
Erica looked at him quizzically. Behind his words something wasn't right.
Neither the time? Why? Shouldn't he have as long as he wants? she wondered. I mean, unless someone notices his body missing from the autopsy room…
Then the logical part of her brain surfaced from beneath the intoxicated waters clouding her judgment. Kroenen had obviously been playing dead for a reason and she suddenly doubted it was solely to visit her. They were still officially on opposite sides since he had yet to reveal to his master that he had no intention of sacrificing her to the Ogdru Jahad—which meant he was still following Rasputin's orders; was probably here on his orders.
An icy needle of fear stabbed at her stomach. What are they planning to do? Erica thought. But she knew it didn't matter; regardless, she would have to stop Kroenen—or at least delay him, which was the more likely outcome.
She glanced out of the corner of her eyes at the dagger Kroenen had abandoned on her desk, and then over at her knife on the carpet and her baton swords laying by the door, quickly gauging that the assassin's dagger was the closest. Kroenen's arms tightened subtly around her waist; the sensation of his steely muscles tensing was clear even through her clothing. Erica swallowed thickly, her heart hammering now with an entirely different emotion, and shifted her gaze back up to his mask. He had seen her look; he knew what she was planning to do: the eyes of his mask glinted a dual warning and a challenge.
Erica smiled disarmingly at him and leaned in, tilting her head back as she moved in as though to kiss him again—instead she violently thrust her arms out against his chest and sprinted towards her desk—an iron grip seized her ankle, bringing her to a halt so abruptly that her chin slammed into the floor and wild stars burst before her eyes. She tried to move but her limbs responded as though encased in frozen mud; the impact had stunned her.
A shadow fell over her. Two glass circles glinted within the silhouette. "You are fast, but not fast enough!"
Kroenen easily flipped her over on her back and dragged her across the room towards her four-poster bed, her wrist clenched in his mechanical left fist as tightly as though closed in a vise. Instinctively panicking, Erica struggled and lashed out at him, twisting her body around and kicking him as hard as she could in the legs. Her bare toes and heels slammed into his impervious jackboots and she nearly howled at the pain but she kept kicking. It had absolutely no effect and a moment later Kroenen hauled her off the floor and threw her down on the bed. Erica instantly twisted to the side and her fingers scrabbled among the books on her bedside table, knocking them to the floor. She touched cold metal and grabbed the knife that had been hidden by the books—Kroenen reached for her and she plunged the blade into his chest. Unphased, the assassin slammed his knee painfully into her guts, knocking the air from her lungs and pinning her to the bed.
Kroenen leaned his bodyweight on his knee and felt it dig into her ribcage. Beneath him Erica gasped like a fish out of water, her grey eyes wide and staring, but her thrashing lessened as she struggled to breathe.
The ghost of a satisfied smile crossed Kroenen's mutilated features and he seized the opportunity to pull a short length of thick rope from his belt and tie one end of it securely around Erica's wrist. The other end was quickly fastened to a post of her canopy bed and then, seeing that his Angel was starting to breathe again, he stood back out of her reach.
She sat up, fury blazing in her eyes. "What the hell?!"
"I believe I should be the one making such a statement; you were the one who pretended to kiss me and then attacked me," Kroenen said smoothly. He plucked the knife from his chest and discarded it. "Such behavior from one who was complaining only hours ago that I was being violent."
Erica ignored his comment and looked down at the rope; there was less than six inches between her wrist and the bedpost. I do not like where this is going, she thought. She yanked experimentally at the rope, testing its strength, but the knots and the bedpost were very sturdy. For the first time in her life Erica deeply regretted having a canopy bed and she vowed vehemently to get rid of it in the future, providing there was one.
"Why did you tie me up?" she demanded.
"There are many reasons, liebchen. Unfortunately I do not have the time for several of the more entertaining ones," Kroenen said. Erica stared at him as she caught the hint of suggestiveness in his voice. He laughed. "It's a pity. I truly regret having to settle for this." He drew a nasty looking metal syringe from his belt.
Erica's eyes widened with fear and she backed away from him as far as the rope tether would allow. Kroenen simply grabbed her arm and pushed her down on the bed and held her there despite her attempts to fight back. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his free arm move in a blur and then she felt a sharp pain in her neck followed by the nauseating sensation of a foreign liquid being injected into her veins, displacing and interrupting the flow of blood. Almost instantaneously her limbs stopped obeying her and went limp.
As soon as her muscles relaxed Kroenen moved off of her and sat beside her on the bed. His outline appeared indistinct to her eyes; her vision was quickly fuzzing out and blurring into a mix of colors and shadows and indistinct shapes. She had a feeling of vertigo as the assassin slid his arms beneath her and rearranged her on the bed so the pillows were under her head. His hand brushed over her cheek as he tenderly smoothed the hair out of her face.
"Emergency sedative," he explained. "Sleep well…"
Her vision blacked out. Erica heard Kroenen moving around the room, and then the quiet click of the door as it shut behind him.
Damn you, she thought. This is the second time you've knocked me out—
And the next moment, there was no next moment.
XXXXX
Building Rooftop
The plate of oversized sugar cookies was deliciously warm in the boy's hands as he carefully balanced it with two glasses of milk. His mother had been on the phone and hadn't noticed him sneaking into the kitchen and then back out again far from empty handed.
Hellboy eyed the plate of cookies as the boy set it down on the concrete roof parapet.
"My Mom baked 'em," the boy said. He handed Hellboy a glass of milk that was dwarfed by the demon's huge red hand and then sat down beside him. The boy followed Hellboy's gaze to the chatting and laughing man and woman below on the park bench.
"She's laughing."
"Huh?"
"She's sitting on a park bench, and she's laughing. That's it: I'm done," Hellboy sighed. He grabbed a cookie off the plate and started scarfing it down. Damn, he was hungry. He hadn't had a real lunch since Erica's half-pint sister had cheated him out of most of it. Mmmm. The sugar cookie was good and warm, just the way he liked them. Hot out of the oven.
The pigeons fluttered as a few crumbs fell and scattered across the rooftop. Hellboy didn't notice; his amber eyes were once more locked on Liz and Myers below.
"They don't look like spies," the boy said.
Hellboy snorted. "Are you kidding me? Look at this guy, those shady little eyes, that—phony grin…!!" he said and gestured at Myers with his stone hand. Hellboy spotted the last cookie, rapidly cooling in the crisp autumn air. "Hey, you gonna eat that?"
XXXXX
The BPRD
Professor Broom's Study
With the help of a micro-scanner and computer enhancement the missing areas of the two pieces of paper from Kroenen's belt were filled in. The completed Cyrillic letters read Sebastian Plackba #16.
Moscow.
Professor Broom's aged fingers scanned the text of an old dusty book, finding Grigory Rasputin's date of birth, date of death. His fingers paused at a particular line: His mausoleum is at Sebastian Plackba #16.
This was all too convenient.
A chill came over the Professor. The pieces of paper had been placed for him to find; it had to have been done on purpose—from what Erica had told him about Kroenen it couldn't have been a mistake. Rasputin wanted Hellboy in Moscow. Which meant it wasn't just chance that the BPRD had found Kroenen.
Which means he's probably not dead, Professor Broom realized. Erica was right.
Adrenaline shot dizzyingly through his old veins and his stomach felt as though it had turned into a solid lump of lead, sitting cold and heavy with dread in his guts. Years of experience allowed him to resist the urge to panic and instead he thought out his course of action logically as he reached for his cane. I'll have to alert security and get Hellboy and Erica down here—
The sound of careful, unfamiliar footsteps on the metal spiral staircase reached his ears. Broom looked up. Above him Kroenen was delicately descending the staircase, blade drawn. He was too late.
Whirrr…tick…tick…tick…
Kroenen continued to descend, sparing only a glance at the old man below him.
Nearby, a record was rotating on a phonograph, filling the large library with the gentle strains of music and a woman's soft singing voice. A fire crackled in a metal basin, throwing its warm glow over leather books, antique furniture, and yellowed paper left in heaps with a cheerful sense of disorganization.
Among the library's warm inviting tones Rasputin's black robes stood out like a rotting blight on the flesh of a ripe autumn fruit.
The clockwork man had made quick work of disabling the BPRD's wards. It had been relatively simple given the organization's otherwise expert handling of paranormal defense issues; he assumed it was because they had never expected a threat to come from inside the building. As it was, the most time consuming part of it had involved swiftly killing the agent on guard duty with a knife precisely angled to puncture his lungs so the man couldn't cry out and raise the alarm. The second the wards dropped Rasputin had appeared in the room and given Kroenen his instructions.
Now the assassin had a task to complete. It was one he had performed countless times, but now he had no desire to go through with it.
Grigory Rasputin had ordered him to kill Professor Broom.
The murderous act itself would be simple, betraying nothing of the terrible dilemma it presented: Erica would never forgive him. She would want revenge; she would not trust him. And Kroenen needed her trust or he would have little chance of saving her in Russia.
But if he didn't kill the Professor, he would have no chance of saving her at all. Rasputin would see to that.
And when it came down to Erica's life or another's, Kroenen knew without a doubt whose he would choose.
"Every time I died and crossed over, a little more of the Master came back with me." Grigory spoke in a dark whisper thick with the nameless horrors of the abyss. The flesh of his arm heaved and twitched as tentacles writhed beneath it, playing over his tendons and muscles. "He disclosed to me the child's true name… would you like to know it?"
Professor Broom met Rasputin's gaze in defiance. "I know… what to call him. Nothing you can do or say can change that. And I call him… son."
Broom stood before a bookstand; the old volume propped up on it was open. The beads of the old man's rosary clacked and rattled as he placed it on the page, marking the final clue for the last part of the journey awaiting Anung-un-Rama.
The Professor gave Kroenen and the blade in the assassin's hand only the briefest of glances, then held his head high and stood as straight as his old age would allow him. An air of quiet dignity surrounded the doomed man. "I am ready," he said softly.
"It will be quick." Rasputin laid a falsely comforting hand over Broom's, and then with a hint of an unpleasant, triumphant smile he pulled away—and vanished abruptly, leaving Kroenen to complete his task.
Professor Broom stiffly regarded his soon to be executioner. For the second time that night he met the blank gaze of Kroenen's mask. This time he saw death gazing back at him. Broom faced it with calm and acceptance. For a man who had spent a lifetime fighting the dark forces in the world, no death could be more fitting. He had a feeling he had known all along that it was not his fate to die as other mortals did; that it would not be cancer's wasting, lingering death that ultimately claimed his life. It felt strangely appropriate, too, that it was Kroenen who would kill him, finishing what he had begun sixty years ago in the storm swept ruins of Trondham Abbey.
Broom had no fear for himself, but for his son… he worried. It was a dangerous experiment he had begun six decades ago, raising a demon to be a man—to be his son. But if he were offered the opportunity to reverse what had been done, he would not take it. He knew there would be a choice waiting for Hellboy in Moscow, and one that could have terrible consequences. But Hellboy would do the right thing. Broom knew he would. His son would make him proud.
Silently, Kroenen settled in behind him.
Broom closed his eyes and waited for death.
Tick…tick…tick…tick….
Kroenen's raspy breathing neared his ear, the rough rhythmical exhales loud and harsh as the assassin leaned in.
"I do this unwillingly," Kroenen whispered. His voice was a nearly inaudible but unexpectedly gentle hiss hinted with bitterness. "Your death is needless. I do this only so my intentions are not suspected; so I can save someone both of us hold very dear."
Professor Broom opened his eyes. A faint smile briefly crossed his aged features. "I understand," Broom murmured. "You heard our conversation in the autopsy room?"
Behind him he heard the soft rustle of fabric as Kroenen nodded. "Ja."
"Do what you can to help her. You have my blessing." Professor Broom paused, and then added, "Best of luck."
Kroenen bowed his head silently, humbled by the noble Professor. Once they had been enemies; now circumstances made them odd allies. They really were not that different—they only wanted to protect the ones they loved.
And he would protect Erica. Even if it meant she would hate him. If only he could explain to her…
But now was not the time for remorse. Now was not the time for respect or admiration. Kroenen raised his blade to the back of the Professor's neck, his steely muscles coiled and tensed for the killing blow. The music rose.
"Forgive me," Kroenen whispered.
The blade slid in.
It was over in a fraction of a second.
XXXXX
The BPRD Medical Bay
Hospital Wing
Abe drifted in and out of consciousness, his mind caught in a pain-killer induced fog. He was vaguely aware of his body bobbing gently back and forth within the water-filled healing chamber. He was also aware that the medical staff had retired for the evening; their shadows had ceased to cross his glass tube hours ago.
Which made the silhouette that had just appeared in front of him very odd.
Abe blinked and his second set of filmy eyelids slid over his dark eyes. Yes, someone was standing there, but his vision was still blurred, making it impossible to identify who it was. The person was wearing black, so maybe it was Erica? Abe eagerly leaned forward in the water—
Karl Ruprecht Kroenen's mask stared back at him.
Bubbles streamed from Abe's mouth in shock. Finding himself so unexpectedly close to the Nazi assassin, Abe's first instinct was to flee; he kicked out at the water with his powerful legs and instantly his spine slammed into the back of the small tank. The hard impact sent lightning bolts of pain through his chest and Abe doubled up, gasping. The fish-man struggled to regain control of himself, painfully aware of his weakened condition and that his tank's tight confines offered little protection. If the assassin had murder on his mind, Abe was a proverbial sitting duck.
But as the moments passed, measured out by the steady ticking of Kroenen's internal clockwork, the assassin made no move toward the blades strapped to his legs. By now Abe had recovered; his heart was hammering but he had managed to uncurl his body. He blinked at the man on the other side of the glass and shifted nervously, his gills fluttering. He could detect nothing of the clockwork man's thoughts and the dark, empty eye sockets of Kroenen's mask were unnerving; they were both fixed on him, staring. Like he was some specimen on display…
Kroenen took a step forward and Abe recoiled from the glass; slowly this time. The clockwork man instantly stopped his approach and stood still.
"Good evening," the assassin said courteously, and nodded at him.
Abe stared. A greeting was the last thing he had expected from Kroenen. As though he had read his thoughts, the assassin continued.
"I didn't come here to kill you, fish-man."
Kroenen assumed a more casual stance, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. Abe couldn't help but think of the "at-ease" pose of Nazi soldiers he had seen in photographs.
"Then what do you want?" Abe asked. He truly was curious, but warily so, particularly given the surrealism of the situation.
"Direct and to the point, I like that," Kroenen replied, nodding his approval. "I came here…to ask a favor."
Abe blinked, incredulous and instantly suspicious. "A favor? You tried to kill me. Why should I do anything for you?"
"Because we share an interest in Erica's safety."
"And why would you be interested in her safety?" Abe asked coldly.
Kroenen didn't answer him. Instead he came closer, moving with all the elegance of a predator.
"Listen closely, fish-man. I know that we are rivals, but you must help me save her. Erica—we—will only have one chance. The favor I ask of you is this: that you tell her whatever I may have done, however I may act, no matter how things may appear…she must trust me."
"Why should I trust you?" Abe asked skeptically, his eyes narrowed. Kroenen was still blocking his thoughts and emotions from Abe and it wasn't adding to the fish-man's confidence.
"You shouldn't," Kroenen replied. "Because there is no reason I can give you except to take it on my word, and on Erica's, that I love her and that she loves me in return."
THUD.
Abe angrily slammed his palm against the glass and lowered his head so he was glaring directly into the emotionless eyes of the Nazi's mask.
"She does not love you," Abe insisted, his voice strong and clear. He might have appeared intimidating if wincing at his injuries hadn't spoiled the effect.
"You doubt me?" there was a growl in the assassin's voice. Kroenen strode forward menacingly and stopped just short of the glass. His mask's eyepieces glinted eerily. "I pity you, fish-man. You know nothing. You may think me cruel for it, but you will know the truth. And I will not spare you a morsel of it."
And with that the assassin pressed his right palm to the glass directly across from Abe's hand.
Instantly Abe's mind was assaulted by a powerful barrage of blurred images and sounds that overwhelmed his already weakened mental barriers. The whirlwind of pictures rushed in, swirling dizzyingly before his eyes—
And suddenly he found himself on top of Erica, pinning her to the floor. Her face was flushed with exertion and anger, and as he stared down at her in surprise he noticed the reflection in her eyes was not his face—it was Kroenen's mask.
Abe suddenly understood; he was seeing events through the assassin's eyes, just as he had experienced them moments ago.
"Not responsible…? Oh, I think you will find you're dead wrong about that." Kroenen said. Abe felt a flare of anger as he noticed the assassin's gloved fingers were tracing the curve of Erica's ear. "Your Professor Broom is very perceptive. You admitted it to him, so do not lie to me."
Where did she talk to the Professor that Kroenen overheard them? Abe wondered.
"Come now; it is unwise to play hard to get with an assassin. It just makes me more determined."
Erica sighed. "Why don't you let me up first?"
"Agreed." Kroenen climbed off of her and Erica walked over to the table, turning her back to him. She distractedly ran a hand through her hair as she stared down at the glass chess-set in front of her.
Watching her from behind, Kroenen reached up and silently unbuckled the straps that secured his mask. He slid the mask up and pulled away the black silk hood he wore beneath it; cool air hit the exposed raw flesh around his eyes and mouth and poured down his throat into his lungs.
Unaware of the assassin's actions, Erica was talking to him. "This is so confusing… I said I love you, and I meant it. I still do."
Abe couldn't believe it. He stared at Erica in absolute shock, his chest aching. After everything, everything that had happened, even today's events in the tunnels when she had been captured and he could have died, this was who she had chosen? This psychotic murderer?!
"But I…I still haven't made up my mind about Abe—"
Abe's heart leapt with hope and he strained to hear her next words. But whatever Erica had been about to say about him was cut off by Kroenen's arms suddenly sliding around her waist from behind as the assassin pulled her against his body.
"What are y—?" she protested.
And then Kroenen leaned down and gently closed his teeth on the side of Erica's neck. A second passed where Erica stiffened in his arms, and then he did it again and she gasped and willingly turned her head to the side, baring more of her neck to him.
Abe was horrified. And not only because of what he was seeing: he could feel exactly how much Kroenen was enjoying this; Abe felt everything the Nazi did. It was as though he were the one doing it; only he had no control over his actions. It was a nightmare, living in this monster's skin— Abe felt the warmth of Erica's body against his own; tasted the salt on her skin as the assassin's tongue slid down her ear and neck; heard her breath catch in her throat; felt her fingers run over the scars on his skin as he slid the strap of her tank top down her arm; tasted the skin on her shoulder as his tongue followed the curve of her collar bone, then her shoulder blade, her spine—
Stop it! Abe yelled. He tried to close his eyes against the images but his eyes were Kroenen's eyes, and the clockwork man had cut off his eyelids decades ago.
"My Angel…my Angel of Death…" Kroenen murmured, and Abe felt like he would choke on the tongue that pushed against teeth and gums, forming words without lips.
His vision went dark and for a moment Abe thought that Kroenen was done tormenting him, but no, the assassin slid his mask down over his face and he was looking at Erica through tinted glass lenses as she turned around—
And pressed her lips to Kroenen's mask.
"ENOUGH!" Abe roared and pushed at Kroenen's mental presence with all his strength—
Abruptly Abe was back in his tank. A few bubbles rose leisurely from the bottom and floated up past Kroenen's mask; he was still gazing at Abe from the other side of the glass. But far from looking cruelly triumphant Kroenen's mask was slightly downcast; his hand was held before the glass, his loosely curled fingers a hairsbreadth from the surface as though he had drawn back in uncertainty.
Kroenen's mental defenses were also down, allowing Abe to pick up on his thoughts. And to Abe's utter amazement, Kroenen was ashamed.
"I…did not know…you…" the assassin trailed off.
But Abe heard Kroenen's unspoken words. "I understand," he said softly. Just as he had felt the assassin's pleasure, Kroenen had experienced Abe's anger and pain as though they were his own—and had recognized something of himself in them. There was an image in the assassin's mind, the view as he gazed through a window of the Machen Library and saw Abe holding Erica and kissing her on the cheek, then a surge of boiling hate and white-hot jealousy…
Knowing that he had just inflicted the same excruciating emotional pain on Abe brought Kroenen no pleasure, only guilt.
"Forgive me," the assassin murmured softly.
Abe nodded numbly, not entirely sure why he was granting the request. Dazedly he registered that it was probably one of the few times Kroenen had ever asked such a thing of anyone.
A moment of awkward silence stretched between them where neither of them spoke or looked at the other. For just a moment there was a shared understanding and respect; they both knew they loved the same woman. Where that knowledge would take them now, only time would tell.
Suddenly, something occurred to Abe. If the memory Kroenen had shown him had taken place only minutes ago, where was Erica? It was odd that she hadn't followed Kroenen here; Abe knew she would never let the clockwork Nazi wander the halls of the BPRD alone.
"Where is she?"
Kroenen didn't answer.
Alarm shot through Abe at Kroenen's silence. The assassin had to know where Erica was; the only reason he could be avoiding the question was if he had done something to her.
And he had. Even as Kroenen belatedly started to raise his mental defenses Abe saw Erica unconscious on her bed, her wrist tied to a bedpost. And on the tail end of that memory—
Crimson red. Gushing scarlet. Lethal silver thrust between bone and cartilage. Flesh sliced through to nerves; a familiar presence sucked down into darkness by an invisible force so strong it threatened to seize Abe and drag him down with it. And red, fresh blood spilling, falling, dripping, still crying out its identity as it lost its heat, as it congealed and dried in spatters across Kroenen's slick leather gloves—
Abe reeled as he realized.
The Professor was dead.
Broom was dead.
"Murderer!" Abe choked out.
Kroenen stood perfectly still. And then slowly, so slowly, he nodded in confession. "Ja. Her life or his. Which would you have chosen?"
"MURDERER!"
With strength born of fury Abe kicked out with his powerful legs and dealt the glass wall of the tank a mighty blow.
CRASH!
The glass shattered outward in an explosion of crystal shards. Hundreds of gallons of water burst forth in a wave that knocked Kroenen to the floor beneath its weight. An alarm began blaring at deafening decibels and somewhere in the depths of the BPRD an answering siren went off. Abe launched himself at the assassin and felt the tubes and hoses attached to the healing unit on his chest tear loose—and then he was on Kroenen and they were tumbling over the floor, grappling. The assassin's grip on Abe's arm was crushing, but even as weak as Abe was from his injuries and blood loss he was still a formidable opponent; he had one of his webbed hands clenched so tightly around Kroenen's throat that he could feel every vertebrae. Abe wrestled to free his other arm so he could break the man's neck—Kroenen's mechanical left fist slammed into Abe's gills and stars burst in front of his eyes from the pain. He felt his grip on Kroenen's throat weaken; instantly the assassin pulled loose and headed for the exit.
Abe wasn't about to let him escape. He kicked out with his webbed feet and slid across the flooded tile; he grabbed Kroenen around his knees and wrenched his legs out from under him.
The clockwork man fell and collided with a metal cart of equipment before landing heavily on top of Abe. The cart toppled over and medical supplies rained down around them; sharp metal scalpels skittered across the floor and glass beakers hit and detonated like grenades, hurling crystalline shrapnel in all directions. Kroenen lunged at Abe; the fish-man's slick skin slipped right through the assassin's fingers and Abe rolled away from his opponent. His webbed hand came down on something flat and sharp; instinctively he grabbed it and stabbed at the assassin. The long jagged piece of glass sliced into Kroenen's bicep and snapped off in the wound; thin streams of white sand poured from the edges of the gash and down into Abe's eyes. Blinded, Abe's cry of pain was cut off by a strangled gasp as the sand stuck to his wet gills and clogged the membranes; it was like trying to breathe through powdered sugar. Choking and clawing at his stinging eyes, Abe thrashed and rolled over to press his face against the water pooled on the floor. The cool liquid instantly soothed the burning in his eyes and lungs—
A pair of hands roughly seized Abe by his shoulders and flipped him onto his back. His chest heaving from exertion and the struggle to breathe, Abe stared up through clouded eyes at the clockwork man above him. Water ran down the assassin's smooth black mask like droplets of black blood.
"The only reason you are alive and unharmed is because of Erica," Kroenen snarled. "You will give her my message…if you want her to live."
The clockwork assassin stepped back and melted into the darkness. Abe didn't have the strength to pursue him. Even with adrenaline racing through his system he could barely move. He lay on his back, gasping and spitting out particles of wet sand. His body ached; the wounds on his chest had reopened and were bleeding again.
Professor Broom is gone…
In the background the alarms wailed and flashed their red warning lights. A soft sob tore loose from Abe's throat; his entire body shuddered with it. He squeezed his eyes shut.
We're too late…
By the time a group of agents poured in through the medical bay doors, guns drawn, there was nothing they could do.
Author's Notes: To accompany this chapter I did a drawing of Erica and Kroenen; to see it visit my profile and click 'homepage'—it's the first piece of art on the left of my deviantArt page.