Chapter 20: The Truth Will Out
Disclaimer: You know the drill: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz, Luke, Brittany, and the plot that isn't from the movie are mine.
Author's Notes: Hello all! Thank you for the reviews and comments, they did worlds to encourage me while I worked and reworked and then rewrote this chapter. I hope you enjoy the results!
"The deep pain that is felt at the death of every friendly soul arises from the feeling that there is in every individual something which is inexpressible, peculiar to him alone, and is, therefore, absolutely and irretrievably lost."—Arthur Schopenhauer
"You can't undo anything you've already done, but you can face up to it. You can tell the truth."—Unknown
"There is always some madness in love. But there is also some reason in madness."—Oscar Wilde
Day After Broom's Death
Germany
Ruins of a Mansion
Noon
Black on white. Charred remnants of wooden beams titled crazily, jutting up from the snow covered field like jagged teeth. Beyond their border the earth dropped abruptly into a giant sinkhole filled with the burnt remains of the elaborate mansion that had long ago collapsed into its vast labyrinthine basement of rooms.
Wearing a red coat and fur hat, the gash marring her pale face healed by Grigory's magic, Ilsa wandered among the skeletal ruins, stopping to run a finger along the fire-scarred remnants of a shattered stained-glass window. She traced the design with her eyes, remembering; though the Nazi swastika in its claws had been smashed out the blood-red Ragnarok dragon was still identifiable.
"To think, we lived here once…" she murmured, turning to face Grigory. His long black coat fluttered slightly in the cold whistling wind; standing perfectly still among the blackened ruins he resembled a phantom more than a man.
"Not so long ago, was it?" There was an edge of darkness and humor in his smile that matched her own.
Nearby shouts disturbed the silence followed by the rattle and clink of chains.
"They've found it," Grigory breathed.
A short walk brought them to an area of the sinkhole surrounded by old, dully painted decommissioned military trucks. A crew of laborers crowded the edge of the pit and swarmed over the debris littered area below, their feet churning the snow into pockets of ash-streaked mud.
The activity centered on a small crane and an object now positioned directly below it. Workers grouped around it, wrapping it with chains and securing them to the hook dangling from the crane. A shout went up and the crane motor roared to life, slowly but steadily hoisting its load into the air.
It was a smooth rectangular block of stone, blacker than obsidian and so dark that it was like a frigid hole in the fabric of the universe. A heavily rusted chain dangled ominously from one side. It ended in a shackle.
Though Grigory's eyes were completely hidden by the rectangular wrap-around sunglasses he wore, the wicked, terrible smile below them was more than enough to express his satisfaction.
"Have them load it onto the truck," he said to Ilsa.
Behind him, in the gloom and darkness cast by the ruins of a brick wall, a shadow stirred from its vigilant watch.
Grigory turned his head, speaking over his shoulder to the assassin. His accented voice dripped with serene brutality. "Once it is on our plane, get rid of them."
The light flickered across the eye pieces of the Nazi's mask as he nodded once. Blades gleamed subtly in the darkness as Kroenen stepped back into the shadows, waiting with all the patience of death.
XXXXX
Two Days After Broom's Death
The BPRD
Professor Broom's Study
Day
Liz's feet made a hushed sound against the carpet in the silent room. The green glass lamps still glowed softly; the tank along one wall still diffused its blue light over the bookstands in front of it. The heaps of parchment and books and curiosities were still in their places, the warm scent of age and dust and old paper hovering around them.
And yet it felt so empty.
The phonograph that had always played old records gently in the background was silent. There was no whisper of water moving in the tank, no crackle of the fire that had long since burned itself into soft ashes.
It was these absences, things that had always been present, that told Liz that Professor Broom was not going to walk around a corner leaning on his cane and beaming at her, a cup of tea in his hand. That told her she was not going to walk around a statue and find him reading in his favorite chair, his glasses perched on his nose.
That told her he was gone.
Liz paused in front of the bronze fireplace dish, just before the steps. All the forensic equipment and markers were gone. Even the bloodstained carpet had disappeared, replaced as soon as the forensics team had finished collecting evidence. Without the path worn into its thick pile by the Professor's feet the rectangular area of red carpet was blank and bare, a painful reminder of his absence.
She had come back to the BPRD just in time to see him. Just in time for one last hug and welcoming smile from the man that had been like a father to her. To Hellboy. To them all.
Liz shook her head slowly, her eyes closed, and sank down to sit on the stairs. The pyrokinetic's pale fingers knotted themselves together, twisting helplessly.
No one had been in this room—his room—since that night. They couldn't bear it. With the Professor gone something disquieting lingered here. Perhaps because they all knew that standing here they would wonder what had happened. As yet no one had asked Abe to look, and the fish-man had not brought up the subject.
Liz wasn't sure she wanted to know, or even wonder about it. And so she, like everyone else, had avoided going into the Professor's study. But after hours of aimlessly wandering the hallways and finding herself again and again standing before the gleaming metal doors she had summoned the courage to touch the door handle, to walk inside, to disturb the silence.
She felt like she had come in here looking for something. She didn't know what. She didn't know what she had expected to find.
Maybe a note, a hint, some clue about what to do next. Where to go next.
Liz looked around. It was a big room and she had no idea what she was looking for.
A cold glow caught her eye…that light…what was it? Maybe the computer screen to the side of the desk? Curious, she went over to it, glancing briefly at two shreds of paper under the scanner. On the screen was a program that did computer enhancement; it had filled in the two scraps of paper on the scanner. Liz peered at the image. Writing. Russian. Other than the number sixteen she couldn't read it.
But Professor Broom must have, Liz thought, her heartbeat speeding up. He must have researched it. Her dark eyes darted over to his desk and she rifled through the papers on it, then opened every drawer and rummaged through them. Nothing.
"It has to be close by…" She spotted a bookstand in front of the bronze dish that served as a fireplace. She hurried towards it. "Maybe…a book…"
A dusty volume was open on the stand. Her eyes flicked over a woodcut of Grigory Rasputin, then scanned the page.
"Sixteen…sixteen…where are you," Liz murmured. Then she saw it. "His mausoleum is at Sebastian Plackba number sixteen." Liz smiled, her eyes prickling with tears. "Thank you," she whispered, looking upwards.
She knew where to go now.
XXXXX
The BPRD
Evening
It was unusually quiet in the BPRD. No one seemed to speak above a whisper. Even footsteps were subdued, seemed not to echo as loudly as they used to. The hallways and rooms felt cold and empty, somehow dimmer and greyer, the life that had warmed them sucked off into the ether in the blink of an eye.
From one of the underground levels of the building came a soft, repetitive noise. Metal on concrete.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
CLANK.
The bolt on the metal furnace door locked into place. Fingers gently tapped a button on the control panel and turned a dial to the extreme of its upper limits. There was a hiss as tongues of flame spouted from nozzles in the side of the furnace.
WOOSH.
Erica gazed through the small window in the furnace door, watching without emotion as the heap of globular Sammael eggs inside were engulfed by an inferno. The layers of the egg cases peeled away under the onslaught and the embryos inside twisted and convulsed in agony before exploding. The sides of the furnace blackened with a thick layer of carbon as the eggs quickly dissolved into ash.
A large team of heavily armed agents had been sent back to the subway tunnels to collect the eggs. They had found no trace of the Hell Hounds or their masters except for enormous piles of the subtly glowing Sammael spawn. Erica had watched the agents go; she had known instinctively that the tunnels would be empty. There was no reason for Grigory Rasputin and the others to linger.
They had done what they had come to do.
No.
Kroenen had done it.
Blinking back angry tears Erica picked up a shovel and viciously stabbed the blade of it into an open crate of eggs, ignoring the resulting wet pops and the squirt of thick, foul smelling goo.
Karl. Ruprecht. Kroenen.
Her wrist was raw and bleeding. She had wrenched it from the rope that bound her to her bed, unwilling to wait for the agent to finish cutting through it. He had broken in the door to get to her and roughly shaken her awake, babbling words that made little sense but spelled disaster.
And here she was again in the autopsy room, her heart racing and muscles burning from the frantic run she didn't remember.
She was horrified.
Professor Broom's body had replaced Kroenen's on the table; there was a pool of scarlet beneath the soft snowy white hair. His head was turned away from her. In shock, blinking through tears, her eyes trailed downwards, were pulled inexorably down to his neck, somehow knowing what she would see and dreading to see it—
She reeled as she recognized the wound. Surgically precise. Clean. Quick.
Kroenen.
She backed away, sobbing brokenly. No—no—he wouldn't—why would he—he wouldn't—
But he had. Kroenen had killed Professor Broom. Her friend. Her family.
She should have raised the alarm the second she had found the clockwork assassin in her room. She should have known that he was following Rasputin's orders. She should have fought him until she broke every bone in his body or in her own.
…She shouldn't have kissed him…
With a snarl she brutally threw a shovelful of eggs into the next open furnace. The shovel descended on the crate of hellspawn again and the tiny embryos wriggled in vain inside their organic cages as she drove it unmercifully into their sticky mass like an avenging metal stake.
God I want to kill him!
Erica's fingers were clenched around the tool's shaft, white-knuckled with tension. Disposing of the eggs wasn't something she had to do; she had chosen to do it. The physical exertion was a poor focus for her restless, rage-born energy in comparison to the violent revenge she hungered for, but it was still an outlet. Her body automatically went through the motions, doing what had to be done, while her brain, which would have ideally remained focused and unthinking, was instead working on overdrive, thinking and calculating and considering. Invariably it brought her back to her grief and then to anger—which started the whole vicious cycle over again.
She paused for a moment and leaned on the shovel, closing her eyes and willing her anger to dissipate. She pushed it down with difficulty, imagined forcing it down her arms and legs; imagined it leaving through her toes. Long experience had reinforced again and again that revenge was best when one was calm enough to plan and enjoy it.
And rage was never a fitting partner for grief, for finding closure…
Closure. Professor Broom's funeral had yet to take place—it was scheduled for tomorrow morning. And once it was over she and the other Special Agents would have little time for mourning. Rasputin and the Ogdru Jahad would not wait for them.
The BPRD had a fight to win and they couldn't afford any distractions.
To that end a few agents had taken Brittany and Luke home yesterday morning. They had both been awakened the night before when the alarms in the medical bay, and then the entire building, started screaming. Even for non-agents that night had been hell. The two werewolves were quiet and tired looking when she met them to say goodbye. Little had passed between them: Luke's expression of sympathy, Brittany's muttered plan involving a stay at a friend's and a skateboarding accident to explain her absence and injuries to her parents, a brief hug or two, and then the car pulled away.
They would both be safer away from the BPRD.
Away from her.
Abe had not been so lucky.
Because of the events between her and the assassin in the subway tunnels and then in her room, Erica had not dared to go see the fish-man yet, but she had heard about his fight with Kroenen that had destroyed Abe's healing tank and demolished an entire section of the medical bay. Amazingly, the assassin hadn't hurt Abe; all of the fish-man's injuries had simply been reopened wounds from the day's mission underground. It was very strange. Erica wondered what had taken place between them; obviously Abe had sensed that Kroenen had murdered Professor Broom, but beyond that… no one knew. Abe had remained silent, even in the face of Manning demanding to know what had happened.
Abe's silence disturbed her. She wondered if it was to protect her, and if so, from what.
She tilted the shovel and a mound of Sammael eggs slid off with a squelching sound to join the others in the furnace. That was the last of them.
Thud.
She pushed the heavy steel door closed and turned the wheel to bolt it shut. Erica pressed a button on the control panel and then turned away. She was done here. For a second as the explosive nova of fire flooded the furnace her silhouette was thrown up against the concrete wall in front of her.
Erica sighed. Calm once more and with her task complete she suddenly felt weary and drained, sadness again weighing heavily on her shoulders. She shook her head; as much as she wanted to curl up somewhere and not think about anything she was going to get cleaned up, and then she had something to do.
For the first time since the subway mission she was going to see Abe.
XXXXX
The BPRD
Medical Bay
Night
Abe tilted his feet slightly, adjusting his position in the water. The new healing tank was just as small as the last one and he periodically drifted into the walls, jarring the cybernetic healing unit wrapped around his chest.
The fish-man sighed heavily. He was alone. Not even Hellboy had come to see him since Professor Broom had been found murdered in his library. The demon blamed himself for his father's death and those of Agent Clay and the other men that had been lost underground, and he had locked himself in his room and refused to speak to anyone for the past two days. As for the other Special Agents, they had all quietly disappeared to some forgotten corner of the building.
For lack of anything else to do Abe watched as occasional bubbles floated upwards around him, their glass-like spheres dyed blue and red and green as they passed between him and the colored lights on the medical equipment outside the tank. The fish-man followed the bubbles' leisurely path with his eyes; they reached the surface and, one by one, silently popped out of existence.
As he continued to watch the stream of bubbles a quiet presence edged gradually into his awareness, followed soon after by an equally quiet voice.
"Hey."
It was Erica. Abe blinked, barely able to see her. She was standing in the shadow of a concrete column, almost one with the darkness created by the dim lighting. Slowly, Erica moved away from it and came towards him. Her grey eyes were sad.
"How are you feeling?" she asked. She sat down on the small black stool in front of his tank.
Abe gave her a weak smile, instinctively happy to have company at the same time a gloomy shadow settled over his heart at seeing her. The knowledge that Kroenen really, truly loved Erica was not nearly as devastating as the fact that she had accepted the assassin's advances. An unbidden image appeared, seared into his mind's eye: Erica in Kroenen's arms. For just a moment the fish-man felt her fingers run over thick scars he had never had on pale skin that was not his own. Abe's stomach heaved nauseously and he pushed the vision away, forcing himself to focus on her question.
"All things considered, fairly good," he lied.
Erica seemed to believe him. She glanced down at her lap, fumbling with a small object in her hands. "I…I brought something for you." She held up the object. It was his Rubik's cube.
"Oh! Thank you."
"I thought you might get bored in there… I could always bring some of your books, too… if you want…" she trailed off, her eyes now focused on a point somewhere between her boots. An awkward silence fell; unspoken words hovered in the air. Abe's stomach twisted. He knew what was coming even without reaching out to Erica's mind: the reason she had avoided him for days; the reason she could not bring herself to look at him now.
Erica sighed. "Abe…there's…there's something I need to tell you."
Abe decided to interrupt. There was no point in her telling him what he had already seen and felt against his will. "I already know," he said heavily.
"What?" she said, startled.
"Kroenen showed me everything that happened between you in your room," Abe said quietly. "And I was present in the furnace room long enough to guess at what I did not see."
Erica's grey eyes went wide with shock and dismay. She stared at Abe and swallowed thickly. As if to torment her further, ghost sensations of Kroenen's fingers ran through her hair; she seemed to hear his whisper, feel his breath caress her cheek, feel his tongue slide over her neck. Erica shuddered, suddenly drenched in cold as goosebumps raced over her flesh. Mein Gott, she thought. Abe saw all of that?
"Yes," he said softly, breaking in on her thoughts. Erica heard the pain in his voice and immediately felt lower than dirt. She wished she could take back what she had done. She wanted desperately to fix this; to erase that mournful expression from his dark eyes that cut her to her core.
"I… Abe… I'm so sorry."
Abe nodded. He could feel remorse radiating off of her in waves. Erica looked up at him with a pained expression. The fish-man knew she hadn't meant to hurt him; that it was tearing her up inside to know that she had. "I know," was all he could think to say.
"I wouldn't have—I wouldn't have—" she refused to say 'kiss'; it didn't matter that Abe already knew, "if I knew he was planning to— I had no idea he was going to kill—" she stopped abruptly, squeezing her eyes shut to hold back tears. One escaped and trickled slowly down her pale face. When her eyes opened again there was a dangerous spark flickering in their depths. She clenched her jaw, distorting the T-shaped scar on her cheek. On her lap her hands balled into white-knuckled fists. "I'm going to kill him," she vowed through gritted teeth, her voice harsh and thick from a combination of rage and holding back tears. "I don't know how, but I will find a way. I will kill him!"
"Even though you love him?"
The quiet question caught her off-guard. Her eyes flew to Abe's face; he looked absolutely miserable. Guilt lanced through her chest as painfully as though she was being stabbed, followed by boiling anger at the clockwork man who had abused her trust—tricked her.
"He murdered Professor Broom! I HATE him!" she yelled. Her voice was raw with fury.
Abe sighed; a few bubbles floated up from his mouth and gills. It hurt to tell her this, to admit it himself, but… The fish-man caught her gaze with his own. "Erica, you love him. There is no point in lying to me; beneath your anger you still care. Even if you refuse to admit it."
The fire in Erica's eyes flared as she prepared to argue, and then abruptly guttered. Her gaze turned inwards as though she was checking text written on her heart.
"And Kroenen loves you. As much as I do," Abe said. The words felt like they were tearing his heart out; as hard as he tried he could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. "And it is only because of this and a mutual concern for your safety that I will honor his request."
Erica glanced up sharply. "Request? Kroenen asked you for something?"
"He asked me to pass on a message to you. To tell you that whatever he may have done, however he may act, or things may appear, that you musttrust him."
"Ja, there's a good chance of that happening now," she said sarcastically.
"Erica, listen to me," Abe said, desperate to convince her. "Kroenen said he and I would have only one chance to save your life. I will not even try to speculate at the entire meaning behind his message, but…he was very sincere. It must be very important for him to have come to me. It is so important that he did not harm me when I attacked him. I…I think you should do as he said. Please."
Erica's heart softened a little as she met Abe's pleading eyes. If it's to save me, and Kroenen was being sincere, and Abe's sure about this…
"I—I'll think about it, Abe," she said at last. "He killed Professor Broom—I can never forgive him for that. I just—I don't know."
"…Do you love me?" Abe asked. The tentativeness in his voice yanked at her soul and she moved closer, pressing her fingertips to the cool glass that prevented her hand from touching his cheek.
"Yes. Yes I do."
"Then do what it takes to come back alive. Even if that means trusting Kroenen for a little while." Abe paused, then added, "You can get back to killing him afterwards if you're still so inclined."
Erica smiled slightly at that. "We'll see."
"So what now?"
She looked up at him, confused by the question. "What do you mean?"
"What do you want me to tell everyone?"
"You mean you're not going to…?"
"Not if you don't want me to. Why do you think I didn't tell Manning anything until I could consult with you?" Abe asked. "This is just between us. I think it should stay that way. I don't exactly think this is something either of us wants on record."
Erica smiled wryly. "That's the truth." She paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts. Only Abe and I can know what really happened.
"We should tell them…"
XXXXX
Three Days After Broom's Death
The BPRD
Offices
Day
Manning threw a sheaf of paper down on his desk.
"I'm not buying it," he announced.
Myers looked up from his desk where he was dealing with paperwork on everything from repairing the hole Hellboy had knocked in the wall of his room the last time he had broken out to ordering litter for the demon's cats. 'Clumping, no sand!' was written in bold across the top of the letterhead in Hellboy's rough handwriting. Myers sighed. "What's that, sir?"
"I said I'm not buying it."
"Buying what?"
Manning gestured at the papers. "These reports Erica handed in!"
"What's wrong with them?" With the devastating recent events Myers couldn't blame the agent if she hadn't filled out the forms thoroughly. His hair was still wet from the rain at the funeral that morning.
"What's wrong with them? What's wrong with them? Just listen to this!" Manning snatched up the top report. "This one's for the subway incident. 'After becoming separated from Agent Clay and Hellboy I was pursued by and fought with Kroenen. Hearing Agent Clay approaching he knocked me unconscious and then attacked him.'" Manning grabbed another, glancing meaningfully at Myers. "On the events surrounding the Professor's death: 'Kroenen surprised and attacked me in my room; eventually he injected me with an emergency sedative. Apparently this was to prevent me from intervening in his plan to murder Professor Broom.'" Manning slammed both papers down and leaned forward on his desk. "Like I said. Not. Buying. It."
Myers blinked.
"Don't you see?"
The agent shook his head, shrugging. "Not really."
"It's inconsistent! I'm a government bureaucrat; I know consistent. She was like, what? Half dead after the thing with the Machen Library? Lost her ear phone, lost her utility belt and all the gear and weapons on it, damaged her locator—" Manning ticked them off on his fingers, "—all of which were expensive to replace— Now take these new ones: no loss or damage to equipment, escaped with minor injuries—have you seen these reports?!" Manning demanded, now pacing around the office, papers in hand.
"Um, briefly, but—"
"Then what's with the knocking out thing, huh? Isn't this the guy that wants her dead? Why bother with the, uh," Manning glanced down at the reports for reference, "The 'emergency sedative' if he could just kill her?"
"I don't know," Myers replied, silently praying for patience and deliverance from Manning's obnoxious voice and demeanor.
"Well I'll tell you what, I'm on to her little—her little game." Manning held a styrofoam cup under the dispenser on the espresso machine. He pushed a button and coffee slowly drizzled out of the machine like water from a sporadically leaky faucet. "She thinks I'm stupid…Uh uh. That's where she screwed up. I pay attention. Her little, uh, Nazi buddies show up again and suddenly everything goes straight to hell." He shook his head, blowing at the steam wafting off his watery coffee. "And you know why?" Manning looked left and right, and then glanced behind him. Seeing no one, he bent over Myers's desk and gestured for him to come closer.
With a barely disguised grimace Myers leaned forward. Still glancing left and right, Manning said in a lowered, conspiratorial voice, "Because Erica's helping them."
"What—!" Myers sputtered in disbelief.
"Once a traitor, always a traitor. We show up some place—Poof! The bad guys are there every time. Bunch of people get killed. I have to explain it all away."
Manning strode over to a television screen mounted on the wall and fiddled with a remote. "She's been tampering with evidence too. That knife thing from the Machen library? It's gone. Her access code opened the door. And then there's this." The television screen flickered and then steadied, displaying awkwardly filmed black and white security camera footage of a storage room. A figure that was unmistakably Erica skillfully picked the lock on the bulletproof glass case and then removed the blade inside. Manning paused the tape and pointed. "See…? Right there. Explain that away. If she was doing something legal why didn't she ask for the keys?"
Maybe because it's faster than wasting a half hour waiting for a security guard to get around to opening the case, Myers thought.
Manning mused for a few moments, tapping his fingers against his chin, and then seemed to come to a decision. "I have a special assignment for you."
Myers was half-afraid to hear it. "And what would that be? Sir?"
"To watch her of course! She does anything weird, suspicious—you report back to me." Manning paused and then nodded fervently for emphasis; clearly he was already mentally basking in the idea of the accolades he would receive for heading an operation to catch a double agent. "Only me. None of this gets out to anyone else. Got it?"
"Yes. Got—got it."
Manning gave him an over-exaggerated wink and then took a sip of coffee as he turned and walked away. "Ow! Damn it! Hot!"
Yeah, I'll get right on that assignment, Myers thought, rolling his eyes in exasperation at the ravings of his superior. Because it's definitely a good idea to spy on someone who spends every night disemboweling huge monsters.
He turned back to his paperwork on kitty-litter. After a moment he felt his eyes drawn up to the frozen frame on the TV. Something niggled at the back of his mind as he looked at it; he hadn't trusted Erica when he had initially found out she had been a Nazi assassin, and a high-ranking one at that, to judge by what he had subsequently discovered while reading her BPRD file. And even if Manning was being overly paranoid, he was right about it being suspicious that there had been two perfect opportunities for Kroenen to kill Erica and he hadn't. That didn't necessarily mean she was a traitor…just that something odd was going on. Myers glanced at the screen again.
Then again…it couldn't hurt to keep an eye out…
XXXXX
The BPRD
Erica's Room
Night
"'I'll be in charge this time.' Who does he think he's kidding?" Erica muttered.
She was less than happy about the meeting Manning had held earlier in the evening to brief the agents for the mission to Russia. Not only did he keep staring at her when he thought she wasn't looking—and God only knew why—but Manning lead? What did he know about being in the field? The man sat in an office all day drinking coffee and reaming paperwork down his assistants' throats! At least Hellboy was still going, which meant he would be able to take over when Manning inevitably screwed up. She could only pray most of the team would survive his mistake.
Shaking her head, Erica dumped an armload of clothing and equipment onto her bed and started stuffing it into the two small pieces of luggage she was allowed; one suitcase for clothes, one backpack for field work. There wasn't really that much: just her cold weather clothes, an extra set of pants and a shirt, some standard-issue supplies, and then her weapons. It wasn't like they were planning on an extended stay in Moscow. Either they would defeat Rasputin or—well, she wouldn't need the extra clothes.
She finished packing and gazed down at the open bags, going through a mental checklist. Satisfied, she zipped them shut and hauled them over to the door. It would be an early start for them in the morning and, unlike Hellboy who always waited until the last minute to pack and invariably forgot something, she would be ready with time to spare. Maybe even enough to visit Abe again before they had to leave.
Stifling a yawn, she turned back to her bed and saw something glimmering on top of her red quilt. She had almost forgotten. Erica picked up the baton sword and gave it a few slow experimental spins, watching light flash and dance along its length and particularly over the engraved script 'Alles für Deutschland'. Perfectly balanced, but she would have expected nothing less from Kroenen. It was the blade he had left behind at the Machen library. She thought it would be nice to have an extra. One should always be prepared.
Particularly since Grigory Rasputin had not struck her dead yet. Unlike Professor Broom, she thought sadly. For a second she closed her eyes and could still see the hearse pulling away in the grey morning light. I'm the only one left from the group that stopped Rasputin last time.
Something was obviously waiting for her in Russia. Erica had no doubt that it was death, and a horrific one at that. She knew why the black stone block in the basement of the mansion had been draped in chains.
Something was waiting for Hellboy, too. Something that would lead to the release of the Ogdru Jahad, the Seven Gods of Chaos. Even now they stirred in their crystal prison in the abyss, impatiently waiting to claim Earth and burn the heavens. They would bring unimaginable destruction with them: Ragnarok, the Apocalypse.
The BPRD couldn't allow that to happen.
She abruptly flipped the baton sword forward and slashed it through the air at head height. The blade's high-pitched song as it whistled through its arc gave testament to its lethally sharp edge. Good, she thought. Clean decapitation is the key. That should take care of Ilsa and any Sammaels. Grigory Rasputin she wasn't so certain about. He should die like any other mortal man—but then again, the average mortal man didn't resurrect after being snapped in half and sucked into another dimension. As for Kroenen…
Erica sighed, remembering Abe's words. She had thought about them and realized he was right: despite her frustration with herself and her anger at Kroenen, she knew she still loved the assassin. She would not, could not kill him, but she would certainly never forgive him. And he would not escape from her unscathed, either—Kroenen would pay for his crime.
Revenge of a less permanent nature is in order, she thought, her eyes contemplatively traveling the length of the steel blade she held.
She knew harming him would do her little good—the assassin enjoyed pain, got a serious R-rated endorphin rush off of it for God's sake! Not only would he probably find her efforts amusing, but his thoughts would almost surely be the complete opposite of repentant. Erica scowled. It was practically impossible to punish someone who perceived pain as a pleasurable, desirable reward. But that didn't mean she wouldn't try. She knew wounds of enough severity would put him in agony, but since that would make him useless to her in Russia she would have to settle—at least for now—for irritating him by doing damage that would be time consuming and inconvenient for him to repair. Maybe something to his back...
Erica yawned again and blinked sleepily, then grinned wryly; messing around with knives was never a smart thing when you were tired, and since the team was already down two members because of Agent Clay's death and Abe's injuries, she was pretty sure they would want her in one piece for tomorrow.
She slid the baton sword into an extra sheath and then lay down on the bed, stretching out on her side with her arms wrapped around her pillow.
In a matter of moments she was asleep.
XXXXX
The first indication that something was wrong was that Erica knew she was sleeping. Her immaterial collection of consciousness stirred in the darkness, vaguely worried and slowly growing more awake. Lucid dreaming had never been a good thing; it always meant Grigory wanted something with her, or that disturbing Shadow Man… Erica felt an odd push at the back of her head. She groggily turned to investigate it—
Her consciousness was abruptly pitched forward into the blackness.
Erica came violently awake in her dream, fear clawing at her stomach as she tumbled and plunged downwards, plummeting out of control—
And found herself standing up.
Breathing heavily, Erica blinked and dragged her eyes away from the dark, polished wood floor beneath her feet. She stared at her surroundings. It was her study from sixty years ago; a room she knew had burned along with the rest of the mansion in Germany.
She turned a slow circle, taking in the desk, the grandfather clock by the enormous fireplace, the ceiling-high bookshelves heaped with oddities and a multitude of hourglasses and other timepieces. Even the map of the constellations was in place, tacked to the ceiling above her head.
Strangely, all the clocks in the room were silent. Their hands were unmoving; their pendulums frozen in space mid-swing. The hourglasses, too, were suspended in time; their particles of sand hovered motionlessly, paused mid-fall.
The huge gothic window across the room drew her attention next. Erica approached it, shuddering. The blood-red curtains were parted and window looked out on a thick blackness darker and more empty than night. Her breath fogged the glass as she peered outside and Erica moved slightly to the left to see around it—and paused, staring at her dim reflection in the glass which showed her wearing a familiar peaked cap with a silver skull and crossbones leering at her from its place just above the brim. Reflexively she glanced down at her clothes. Gone were her pajamas, replaced by her Nazi uniform and trench coat, down to the Iron Cross and her own peculiar configuration of belts and baton sword sheaths. Erica's skin crawled where it came in contact with the fabric and leather, disturbed by the wrongness of being back in these clothes at the same time it recognized them and yearned to relax into their comfort. She shivered again.
Behind her she detected slight movements as time began again, releasing the clocks and hourglasses from their standstill.
Tick…tick…tick…
Erica froze, the back of her neck prickling. Mixed in among the soft sounds of falling sand and swinging pendulums was the ominous ticking of very familiar clockwork.
Anger shot through her veins and her heart began to drum loudly in her chest. Instinctively Erica stood perfectly still, her eyes flicking over the surface of the glass in front of her. It was dark; the room was too weakly lit to give her a reflection of the space behind her.
Shit, Erica cursed, gritting her teeth. She stared blindly at the blackness outside the window, her attention focused hyper sensitively on the rhythmic, harsh exhales she had to strain to hear. They were somewhere behind her. Close.
Hisss…
She felt his eyes boring into her back and her stomach clenched. Precaution and pretense were useless, then; Hitler's top assassin would miss nothing. He surely knew that she had noticed his presence.
Damn it! Abe and I should have tried harder to remove that beacon that lets him into my dreams, she fumed. Erica's hands ached to wrap around the handles of her baton swords. Her nerves were on fire, her body tensed and coiled to spring; anticipation and fury were making her sick.
Whirr…tick…
She could bear it no longer. Erica whirled around, wrenching her blades from their sheaths as she turned.
Kroenen stood beside the desk, silhouetted against the fire in the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back. To compliment the setting's illusion of her study he too was wearing his black SS uniform; the leather lapels of his jacket and trench coat lay smartly flat against his chest, displaying the embroidered rank on his collar. Below the peaked hat his mask's black glass eyes were fixed on her. The lenses glinted eerily in the dim light, their edges flickering with pale reflected flames.
For a moment Erica paused and stared at him, her mind flooded with many, many memories of the six years they had spent together during the Second World War; of the odd platonic relationship they had shared that had always tantalizingly remained on, but never quite crossed, the edge of the erotic.
The memories shattered as her eyes fell on the baton swords strapped to his muscular thighs.
"Murderer," Erica hissed accusingly, her voice harsh. She gripped the cold hilts of her blades tightly and held them ready at her sides. "I thought I told you to stay the fuck out of my head!"
"Hypocrite. You are responsible for more than a few corpses," the assassin said quietly. His words stung her like a slap to the face. "And regardless of what you may have said, you have little choice in the matter. I thought it wise to talk to you." The Totenkopf skull insignia on Kroenen's peaked cap gleamed as he nodded towards her blades. "I see I made the right decision. Put those away."
She shifted, sliding her feet farther apart for better stability as she held her stance, ready to attack. "Nein!"
"Very well," he said obligingly. With deadly elegance Kroenen moved away from the desk and came towards her, unfolding from his at-ease posture like a venomous snake letting out its coils. She heard the whisper of leather as the thick folds of his long coat fell against his body and brushed together. The clockwork man cocked his head at Erica, watching as she raised her blades as he drew nearer. He instantly stopped his approach.
"Erica…" he murmured, "do you truly desire to kill me more than you wish to live?"
She quivered with suppressed anger. "No," she said at last. She lowered her baton swords a little to indicate that he was in no immediate danger. For now.
"Then what do you desire?"
His voice was like a silky caress full of alluring, dark promises. Erica involuntarily blushed at his implied offer, suddenly unable to shake the memory of his leather-clad hands roaming her body, or the sensation of his tongue playing over the tendon along her throat.
"I—I—" her voice shuddered and she mentally cursed him for it, imagining the satisfied smirk spreading across his mutilated face beneath the smooth ebony mask. He knew what he was doing to her and she had no doubt that he was enjoying it.
Erica shook her head and pulled herself together. She knew she couldn't kill Kroenen in this dream-place, and she didn't want to, but she knew he could feel pain.
And she was going to inflict as much of it on him as humanly possible. Even if the injuries would only hurt his dream-form and not his real body.
She clenched her teeth in resolve and raised her blades threateningly. "I don't want to kill you; I want to hurt you. As much as you have hurt me."
The assassin went deadly still.
"If it is a fight you want, my Angel, you will get it."
You're damn right I will.
Erica didn't give the assassin a chance to arm himself. She lunged.
Her first blow glanced off the back of his raised arm, the baton sword forcefully deflected by the sheathed wrist blade secured there and hidden by his coat. Kroenen's other arm snatched at her—she skillfully ducked under it, aiming to get behind him and swiping her blade at his lower ribs as she went. Steel sliced cleanly through leather and skin and then halted abruptly when it lodged in bone. The assassin grunted in pain. Triumph surged through Erica and driven by avenging bloodlust she drove the sword deeper as she spun around to face his back—and without hesitation plunged her other blade into the flesh and taut muscles beside his vertebrae. The blade was angled up; it went deep, burying its length in him.
For a moment Kroenen was caught, immobilized in an awkward hunched position, impaled on the twin steel knives that crossed over each other inside his ribcage. White sand poured in thin streams from gaps between the assassin's skin and the polished silver surface of the baton swords; the dusty rivers widened into waterfalls that cascaded down his black clothing as he inhaled raggedly and his chest expanded, enlarging the gashes. Erica could feel the vibrations of his clockwork heart resonating down the baton swords' shafts and into her hands. A satisfied, wicked smile curled the corners of her lips. She hoped he hurt. She hoped he was suffering.
That was for you, Professor Broom, she thought.
And then she tore free, yanking her blades out in a swiftly executed turn that directed the slashing razor edges across Kroenen's back once more before she retreated out of reach behind the desk.
The clockwork assassin wasted no time in coming for her.
Erica's grin broadened.
Oddly, as he ran at her Kroenen did not draw his own blades or extend the ones on his wrists. Erica didn't care. It was his mistake, and she would show him no mercy for it. Her purpose-driven fury increased her focus and seemed to heighten her senses; she saw the subtle changes in the way his legs bore his weight, the coiling of muscles to unleash a huge amount of energy, and in a split second foresaw what would come next and moved directly into his path—
—Kroenen's left hand reached out and he gripped the edge of the desk, carrying him up as he vaulted it. Erica instinctively flipped her right baton sword forward and braced herself for impact—Kroenen's weight crashed into the blade and it took him dead center in the chest. The assassin's momentum carried him forward and he slid jerkily down the baton sword; its tip came out his back below his neck and between his spine and shoulder. He came to an abrupt halt, impaled to the hilt. Erica gazed at him grimly, her arm aching from the impact and the strain of holding him there like a spider skewered in an insect collection.
Without pause Kroenen grabbed her by the throat. His other hand wrapped around her right hand in a crushing grip, holding her arm in place and pressing her fingers tightly and painfully against the hilt. In a flash, realizing that Kroenen had purposefully allowed her to run him through so he could get close to her, Erica quickly brought her other blade up to the side of his neck.
They were caught at an impasse, standing so close their chests brushed as they breathed. Erica stared defiantly back as she gazed into the cold vacuums of his lenses, that dark, unseen gaze that never left her eyes; that held her, transfixed, compelling her to back down. No chance in hell, she thought. She snarled at him and drew her free arm back to stab him in the shoulder—Kroenen drove his thumb sharply into the artery beside her windpipe, cutting off blood flow to her brain. Her body's reaction was instantaneous and crippling: her vision blacked out into grey and white static and her limbs went numb and floppy. Her free arm fell to hang by her side and her knees shook uncontrollably, only still supporting her because the assassin's grip on her neck prevented her from falling—
Kroenen removed his thumb and blood rushed into her head so fast it was painful; another wave of dizziness swept through her, buckling her knees and fuzzing out her vision again as it went.
"Uhn…" Erica moaned.
Disoriented, her slowly clearing eyes fell on the clockwork assassin's mask staring down at her in warning. His leather-clad fingers tensed threateningly around her neck. Too groggy to fight, she resentfully decided to surrender—if only for the few minutes it would take her to recover. She left her free arm hanging at her side. In return Kroenen slightly relaxed his grip on her throat; not tight enough to strangle, but tight enough to ensure she would not move.
And then he pushed back and down on her right hand, forcibly withdrawing the baton sword from his body. Little by little he moved back from her as he pushed; smoothly sliding his body off of the blade to aid in the slow process. Sand gushed from the hole just below his sternum, sending up a cloud of fine powder. All the while his gaze never left her own. Erica could feel her fingers bruising, squashed beneath his mechanical ones, but still couldn't tear away from his hypnotic gaze whose depths seemed to assure her that she would soon regret what she had done. She welcomed it. Let him fight her; he would only make her angrier, only increase her determination to hurt him—
The last inch of the blade's steel slipped free of Kroenen's chest.
She didn't even have a chance to move; the second she registered it he was on her, had seized both her wrists in a grip of iron. The world was a spinning blur and then her back crashed into the edge of a piece of furniture. Kroenen's steely grip crushed her wrists as he pinned them to the desk, holding her blades away from him. Anger made her reckless; she almost laughed at the pain and the triumph of having goaded him into giving her what she wanted. But then, nothing happened.
Kroenen simply held her still; there was nothing of menace or true violence about him.
"Allow me to rephrase that," Kroenen said sternly, leaning down so his metal mask was only inches from her face, "you will get a fight, but it will be directed at the correct people, and not at those who love you."
She glared up at the empty circles of darkness that hid his eyes. "You killed Professor Broom," she grated out.
"Grigory Rasputin killed your Professor. It was not something I planned; it was not something I wanted. I could follow orders and risk your hatred but have the smallest chance of saving your life, or I could rebel and reveal myself as a traitor, condemning you and me and Professor Bruttenholm instantly to death. Blame the mad monk and the Ogdru Jahad, not yourself or I," Kroenen said bitterly. "And if it is pain you wish to speak of, remember that I have caused you a fraction of the pain you caused me not so long ago. Remember that I have betrayed your trust like you betrayed mine. Neither of us wanted to do it, but both of us had to. We are even."
Kroenen watched as Erica gazed at him silently, contemplating his words. No doubt she was reaching out to him through their blood bond, testing to see if what he had said was true. It was; no matter how much his Angel of Death might want to deny it. Truth, he knew, often hurt, but it could also free. Perhaps now that she knew his reasons for murder she would still let him help her…
Slowly, Erica shook her head from side to side. In disbelief? In regret? In grief for the friend he had killed to save her? Erica closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her hands flexed slightly beneath his fingers and Kroenen braced himself, expecting her to struggle. Instead she dropped her blades. They hit the wooden floorboards with a metallic clatter. Erica opened her eyes again, her expression calmer, her anger replaced by a very grudging acceptance.
"Damn you Kroenen…" she murmured. "I understand why you did what you did. But I can't forgive you. Not this time."
"I was not expecting you to," he replied. Now that the fight had gone out of Erica's eyes he released his death-grip on her wrists. "All I ask is that you trust me." Kroenen paused, and then added with a faint trace of hope. "And, if you still can, love me."
Her face was grim. "Only if you promise me two things."
"Name them."
"That you will never kill any of my friends or family so that I can live. Their lives are worth just as much as mine."
Kroenen hesitated. Beyond disliking the narrowing of options to deal with unforeseen future problems there was always the issue of the fish-boy. If it would not have further complicated things with Erica he would have gladly carved Abe into fish food the night he had been inside the BPRD. Though Erica's condition did not really apply to the jealousy-induced situation, the assassin now realized that he would not get away with murdering a second of her friends. Kroenen's self-maimed features contorted into a ghastly frown of frustration. He had come up with such interesting and imaginative ways to torture and kill the amphibious creature, too. His shoulders slumped in disappointment. Oh well, harmlessly tormenting Abe might prove to be more entertaining and more of a creative challenge. And perhaps Erica would soon tire of her other lover. After all, and he smirked, thinking of it, he had so much more to offer her than that overgrown guppy.
"Agreed," he said reluctantly. "And the other?"
"You and I are going to destroy Rasputin."
Erica's grey eyes were dark with hatred. Behind his mask, Kroenen's eternal death's head grin twisted into a grotesque, wicked smile of anticipation. It had been so long since he had seen her kill. "Believe me, I look forward to it."
"You won't have to wait long. We're leaving for Russia tomorrow."
"I was expecting as much." The clockwork assassin paused and wrapped his arms loosely around her slender waist, then inclined his head meaningfully. "And so was Grigory."
"Hmmm. That's not good." Lost in thought, Erica bit her lip and unconsciously leaned into the assassin's embrace; much to his delight. "It's never a good sign when the enemy can predict your actions." Her brow furrowed for a moment and then she turned her attention back to him. "I suppose it's too much to ask you what's going to happen. I know Hellboy is involved—"
Kroenen held a finger to her lips to quiet her. "Nein. My Master would know I had betrayed him. Besides, traitor," Kroenen said with a subtle, affectionate hiss, "You already know part of what is planned." He dropped his hand so it lay over her heart; he could just barely feel the pulse of the beating organ that lay beneath her shirt and skin.
Erica cringed. For a split second she was back in that cavern of snow and ice with the newly resurrected Grigory Rasputin standing before her, naked and coated in hot blood that steamed in the frigid air.
"I want this done properly," he said, a hungry, disturbing expression on his face as he turned his eyeless sockets on her. "Death is too good for her. The Ogdru Jahad will have their sacrifice."
They wanted to kill her and annihilate her soul in the process. No incantation or ritual, no matter how dark and depraved, could bring her back then. It would be as though she had never existed.
"Mein Gott… And how do we get around that?"
Kroenen stroked her hair comfortingly; his gloved hands snaked smoothly through her chestnut tresses. "You trust me." He laughed, but it was a mirthless, wry sound. "I am, after all, your executioner."
Erica paled and looked up at him sharply, her hands tightening on his back in nervous reflex. "You have no idea how frightening it is to be standing on the victim side of that statement," she said seriously.
The assassin laughed again, this time with real amusement. "Ja, the turnabout is interesting, is it not? You never were much of a willing victim; you were always too strong-willed for that. Whether it was combat training or clockwork modifications or chess, you were always fighting me," Kroenen mused approvingly. He trailed his thumb along the T-shaped scar on her left cheek. "And I suggest that you continue to do so."
She arched an eyebrow at him. "Is that supposed to be an incredibly vague hint about what to do in Moscow?"
"Ja…" he trailed off, sounding distracted. His body did not move but he turned his head along his shoulder, mirroring the silver eagle emblem adorning the peak of his hat. She felt his lean, powerfully built body tense in her arms like tightening steel hawsers.
"What is it?" Erica asked, concerned.
"I must go. My Master has business to conduct and preparations to complete before you and the other BPRD agents arrive."
"No more hints?"
Slick, cool leather slid along her jaw as Kroenen tilted her face up to him with a gloved finger, exactly the way he used to so long ago. Erica felt warmth spread through her as he gazed down at her with pride. "You are my Angel of Death, murderer and assassin and traitor," he murmured softly. "You bested even me once. I have no doubt in your abilities. Auf Wiedersehen."
She blinked and the dream winked out of existence.
Wide awake, her heart pounding from his lingering touch, Erica sat up in the darkness of her room and swung her legs over the edge of her bed. She stayed like that, listening to the sound of her own breathing in the silence.
After a time she glanced over at the green, glowing numbers on her digital clock.
6:59 a.m.
In a few moments the alarm would go off and it would be time to get up and prepare to leave.
She would be a fool to deny that she was afraid of what was coming. Her fear made her strong. She knew what they had lost and what they could lose, and that made her all the more determined.
Now, more than ever, she was ready.
Erica wanted this fight.
And, God help her, she was going to kick Rasputin's sorry ass back into his grave and make sure he stayed there.
Author's Notes: Please review; I value all comments and suggestions.