Though Heaven Bar the Way

by FlyingFish15

Erica Schwarz's past comes back to haunt her, seeking revenge and intending to collect the blood she owes for betraying the Thule Occult Society at Trondham Abbey in October 1944. Kroenen/Erica/Abe. Sequel to A Shadow To A Heart. Story is complete.

21. A Nest of Vipers

Chapter 21: A Nest of Vipers

Disclaimer: You know the drill: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz and the plot that isn't from the movie are mine.

Author's Notes: Hello again! Thank you for your reviews! Long time no update…well, to make up for it, this chapter is extra long. So sit back and hold on, because it's going to be a bumpy ride.

"There are things that we don't want to happen but have to accept, things we don't want to know but have to learn, and people we can't live without but have to let go. "—Author Unknown

"Courage is being scared to death—but saddling up anyway."—John Wayne

"I cannot tell

The hound's intent

Till he has sprung

At my bare hand

With teeth or tongue.

Meanwhile I stand

And wait the event."—Robert Francis, "The Hound"

Moscow

Sebastian Plackba #16

Rasputin's Mausoleum

Day

Thickening blood glistened like carelessly scattered rubies.

It steamed in the frigid air. On the floor, on the walls, on motionless bodies.

It dripped down the smooth surface of a gasmask.

A trickle rolled over one of the mask's glass eyepieces. The Nazi assassin tracked its unhurried course with his lidless blue eyes.

Crimson red. Beautiful.

Too bad that he did not have the proper amount of time to savor it.

The Russian men strewn about so haphazardly, their bodies fallen in mangled, horribly twisted attitudes of death, had been hired to transport some heavy cargo. One crate had contained the black stone block retrieved from the ruins of the mansion in Germany. Inside the other was Grigory Rasputin's most recent acquisition:

The fleshy Russian General gestured at the open mouth of the cargo container. Many historical treasures surrounded it, piled unsystematically inside the military base's warehouse—Old Master paintings, tanks, gilded furniture, sculpted busts, ornate carriages—but Rasputin had eyes only for the towering object before him: a massive stone monolith of polished white marble.

Florescent lights set into the walls of the cargo container hummed and buzzed as they flickered into life.

The General's dark-green military coat swished around his knees as he approached the container; he stepped inside, passing the soldiers who stood smartly at attention holding the doors open. Grigory, Ilsa, and Kroenen followed; their footsteps and Ilsa's high heels just barely warped the metal beneath their feet, making a loud metallic sound in the enclosed space.

"Twenty tons of stone," General Lapikov told them. His voice was strongly accented by his native tongue. "This thing fell from the sky into Tungaska forest."

"June 30th, 1908," Grigory replied, standing before the stone. He spoke quickly, reciting from memory. Reflections flashed across his rectangular wrap-around sunglasses as he examined the marble. "It burned hundreds of square miles of forest. The Romanovs took possession of it immediately. The Czar guarded it jealousy. I have wanted it for ages."

Grigory's bare fingers brushed over the monolith's smooth, perfect surface, lingering beside two circular imprints at its center. Imprints, Kroenen knew, that matched the shape of Anung-un-Rama's four-fingered stone hand.

"Now, finally, it is mine."

There was a popping noise as Ilsa opened the latches of the chrome box she held.

"You are aware, of course, there's no way you will get it out of Russian territory," Lapikov cautioned.

Out of his peripheral vision Kroenen saw the red blur of a fur coat as Ilsa stepped forward. "He is aware," she said curtly. She swung the box's lid open, revealing stacks of tiny gold bars neatly arranged in gleaming ranks nestled among black packing foam. Each bar was stamped with a swastika. "Our guests are coming in."

The General just barely restrained himself from snatching the box from her hands. He snapped the latches closed and held the box possessively against his chest.

"It's a pleasure doing business with you. Perhaps you have other interests?" he added eagerly, his voice a naked display of avarice.

"Enjoy the bright metal you've earned. There will be no further transactions." Slowly, as though drawn across his face with a scalpel, Grigory's lips split into an ironic, curling smile. "Only closure."

"We will, however, require some men to transport our purchase to an undisclosed location," Ilsa announced. She held up a small clear plastic bag, dangling it temptingly within Lapikov's reach. A generous quantity of gold bars clinked inside it. "No questions asked, of course."

General Lapikov smiled knowingly as he accepted the bag. He tilted his head forward in a slight bow. "Of course."

The men had delivered the stone blocks to the cemetery and set them in place inside the mausoleum with the help of some mechanical devices. True to Lapikov's word the men said nothing but what was absolutely necessary, though their eyes had betrayed their curiosity. When they had completed their task Kroenen had simply killed them. Routine. Swift. Boring. No time to explore the nuances of the assassin's art joined in unholy union to the surgeon's skill and meticulousness.

But then, such things were better saved for more deserving victims. The General's men had been bought with gold like the greedy pigs they were and had died slaughtered like swine. But instead of their butchered meat going to market, it would go no further.

Kroenen watched with detached interest as a Sammael slowly materialized from the shadows and started to eat one of the bodies, pinning it down with one huge, gnarled, three-fingered hand as it ripped off chunks with its teeth and messily gulped them down. Shreds of flesh and tendons trailed from its mouth.

This was a graveyard. If the Sammaels did not finish devouring them the remains of eight more men would make no discernable addition to the thousands that already rotted beneath the ground. Doubtlessly several more corpses would join them before Rasputin's second attempt to release the Seven Gods of Chaos was complete.

Kroenen was determined that his Angel of Death would not be among them.

He tilted his head back and gazed skyward past the drying blood on his mask's lenses and the edges of the broken dome above him. Heavy grey clouds the color of Erica's eyes massed overhead. It looked like snow.

No matter; he knew it would not stop the BPRD from coming.

So far everything was going smoothly. Just like clockwork.

XXXXX

The BPRD

Noon

They were late.

Communication issues had resulted in problems with obtaining clearance and equipment, a predicament that had set them back by more than a few hours. Manning had spent them yelling into the phone at various people until, as he had put it, "stuff had gotten done".

Bureaucratic red tape aside, Hellboy and his complete lack of packing skills were not exactly helping the situation.

Scheiße!Crap! Owch!

Erica sprinted through the deserted hallways of the BPRD. For what felt like the umpteenth time over the course of her run the heavy steel case she was carrying swung on its handle and smacked her painfully in the knee.

Damn it! How the hell could HB possibly forget the Samaritan? she thought in exasperation, referring to Hellboy's huge custom-made handgun. We're going on a fate-of-the-world determining mission against a mad monk and replicating Hell Hounds, not a trip to the candy store—!

Honestly, she didn't know how Agent Clay, God rest his soul, had done it. Not that Myers was doing a bad job; he just had some really big shoes to fill.

She quickly crossed the empty expanse of the aircraft hangar. Everyone else was either already onboard the airplane or had gone back to their desks and cups of watered down coffee. Erica shoved the small side door open and stepped out onto the tarmac, squinting against the bright light as she breathed heavily, inhaling the cool, crisp autumn air that made her lungs tingle and her throat raw.

Glancing around to orient herself she took a running step towards the airplane with the BPRD symbol stenciled on its side—and came to an abrupt halt as she detected an odd tickle in the back of her head like a feather inside her skull.

Kroenen? Erica thought instinctively, coming instantly alert.

But to her surprise instead of seeing the clockwork assassin appear in her mind's eye she felt the strange, ghostly sensation of a pair of damp, finned arms wrapping around her in an embrace accompanied by the press of another body against her front. A body that was not present; the sensations were only in her mind.

"You didn't come to say goodbye," Abe said softly, the rise and fall of his voice reminding her of the cool caress of water. His voice started off warm, almost touching, but ended with a gentle heaviness that was distinctly sad.

"Oh… ja… I'm sorry," Erica thought back. She genuinely was. For so many things.

She had pretended to be too caught up in making preparations to leave so she could avoid visiting Abe this morning, if only in a futile attempt to prevent him from knowing about her conversation with Kroenen last night. Or more specifically, to save him the pain of knowing that shortly after impaling Broom's murderer she had hugged him instead; had let Kroenen touch her and enjoyed it. But since she knew, now Abe did too. There was a waver in his thought-presence; a ripple of uncertainty and sadness. Oddly, it also felt like Abe had expected this in some way.

The fish-man did not ask her to explain her actions and Erica made no attempt to justify them—he could see her memories, after all. He knew the truth. Knew that she had told Kroenen she could still love him despite what he had done.

Abe was not surprised. He had been the one to point out to her that she still loved the assassin. But she could tell without a doubt that the fact she had told Kroenen this had hurt the fish-man deeply; here where their thoughts and emotions were completely naked to each other his pain came across to her as a throbbing, aching wound.

The sharp, stomach-twisting guilt Erica felt for having caused Abe yet more emotional pain was felt by them both. Apologizing again just felt uselessly redundant.

Especially when they both knew that she only regretted hurting Abe—not what she had done.

"You will… you will come back, won't you?" Abe sounded tentative, almost strained.

Erica thought it was an odd question; it wasn't like she was going to let Grigory Rasputin kill her.

"Of course I will," she assured him. Sensing that the conversation was drawing to a close, Erica started to tell him goodbye and unthinkingly said, "Auf Wiedersehen."

She felt Abe pause.

There was a fleeting moment where she sensed his furrowed brow and frown of confusion that she had accidentally responded to him the way she normally would to Kroenen. Erica's stomach twisted wrenchingly at the mistake, but it was too late to say something different; the words hung there in the space between her thoughts and Abe's, an immaterial and flimsy barrier that did more to separate them than any real obstacle ever could. It was as though those simple words had drawn a line in the sand between their feet that was as insurmountable as an abyss.

Faltering and unsure how to fix what she had done, Erica decided that under the circumstances she should go before she inadvertently managed to do even more damage.

"Erica."

In the act of withdrawing her connection to his mind, she halted, waiting.

"I will always love you."

The simple declaration caught her completely off guard. She couldn't breathe; her chest suddenly felt too tight.

"Whatever you choose for your life—whomever you choose to spend it with—I will support it… I just want you to be happy," Abe murmured. There was something raw in his voice that tore at Erica's soul. Even though she knew the fish-man would argue the impossibility of a marine creature expressing emotion in such a way, she could not help but picture Abe's dark, almond shaped eyes brimming with tears. That thought alone was enough to make her want to cry. She could feel her eyes prickling, threatening to flood with hot salty water that would overflow and spill down her cheeks. Her lips twisted uncontrollably as she fought to keep some measure of composure, knowing she was standing in broad daylight on the BPRD's airstrip where anyone could see the Angel of Death weeping for what would seem to be no reason.

Blinking rapidly, she sniffled and took a deep breath to try to calm herself. It didn't do her much good. Knowing that Abe was still there in her mind, waiting for some sort of reply, she nodded, sniffled again, and then swallowed thickly before saying a quiet, hoarse, "Okay."

There was a delicate butterfly-wing-like flutter of gills against her throat as the fish-man briefly tightened his arms around her in a hug, and then his arms and presence withdrew, leaving her feeling drained and overwhelmed by a kaleidoscope of emotions that roiled crazily just beneath the surface of her face, cracking the composed mask she was trying so hard to keep intact.

"Hey! Hey you!" Manning yelled.

Erica was rudely jerked back to reality. She stared somewhat stupidly across the airfield at the BPRD's Head of Special Operations standing at the top of the loading ramp, his bald head gleaming merrily in the sunlight as he waved his arm back and forth to get her attention in what he probably imagined to be a dignified manner. Contrary to his intentions, the effect was completely ridiculous and somewhat akin to a wildly flailing marionette with stiff joints.

Seeing her looking in his direction Manning yelled again, clearly irritated. "Yes, YOU! Come on—plane's leaving!"

Suddenly Erica became aware again of the weight of the metal container dangling from her hand.

Oh, right, she thought, remembering her errand. Hellboy's gun.

With her heart hanging heavy in her chest, she walked towards the airplane.

XXXXX

The BPRD

Medical Bay

Day

Abe opened his eyes and was met by the boring pale blue confines of his healing tank. The melancholy color did nothing to dispel the sadness weighing heavily on his heart.

His talk with Erica had not gone as planned. When he had told her to trust Kroenen he had not meant, had not even thought, that she would reaffirm her love for the assassin.

Beyond that, entirely too much had been revealed, and the fish-man was more than a bit saddened by what he had discovered. Not that what he had found in Erica's memories was completely unexpected, but her attitude had been. She was sorry, yes, but she had seemed so…so distant from him, somehow.

Perhaps it was the way she did not regret what she had done, only that she had hurt him by doing it. Or more accurately by his finding out about it.

And the knowledge of her questionable social interactions with the clockwork man did hurt. A part of Abe was willing to forgive her—after all, Erica really could not help what Kroenen decided to do to her, he told himself.

She could always have pushed him away, muttered a tiny voice in the back of his head. And she did not. That counts as a choice, too.

Abe felt like he was slowly drifting out on the tide, the gulf between him and Erica steadily widening until, finally, it would be impossible for him to swim back. One fact was becoming rapidly apparent: he was losing her. Every meeting with Kroenen resulted in a little bit more of her drawing away from him.

Part of Abe told him to go after her, fight for her, fight to keep her.

But here he was, stuck in a tank. Helpless and unable to do most things for himself, let alone go gallivanting off on a mission to Russia while simultaneously trying to win the heart of his fairy princess.

Abe's thin lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile. You've been reading too many fiction novels lately, he thought. Whatever Erica might be, she was not in any way a "fairy princess". Not even close. And this was no fairytale, where the white knight rode in to rescue the princess from a fire-breathing monster. No, this was life, bizarre and unfair, where the one who would do the rescuing was a monster himself, and he as well as all the other players were shades of gray.

And while one part of Abe was telling him to fight for her, another told him that if Erica did not want him then he should respect her wishes—and just quietly let her go.

Yes, that was probably in his best interest, and in hers. Just… quietly… let… her… go…

But he did not want to. Abe was afraid that if he let go completely that Erica would never come back. He was worried that she would never return from Russia; that she would vanish with Kroenen, never to be seen again.

That, however, was assuming she survived. There was so much that could go wrong; Erica was walking a perilous razor's edge as she played both sides of the board in the hope that the combination would avert disaster. Abe just hoped that all the secrets he and Erica were hiding from the BPRD would not mass together and, like an onrushing avalanche, come hurtling down on their heads, pulling the world down into destruction after them.

XXXXX

Russian Airspace

Cargo Plane

Night

The humming drone of the plane's engines was a loud roar even inside the cabin. Bundled up against the cold, the BPRD agents were grouped in the cargo section in a small space they had cleared among their boxed up equipment. Hellboy was sitting, slowly drumming the fingers of his red stone hand on the crate in front of him that was serving as a makeshift table. The wood beneath his huge hand already had four deep, finger-tip shaped dents in its surface. The demon's golden eyes were locked on the medieval woodcut illustration of Sammael he had found in Kroenen's lair in the subways, scrutinizing every inch of it.

Towards the back of the plane Myers handed a large sticker to Agent Lime and watched him apply it to a huge wooden crate. Lime smoothed the sticker down with his hand and Myers caught a glimpse of the lettering: LIVE CARGO. The crate was for Hellboy; once the plane landed they would use it to smuggle him unnoticed to Volokolamsk fields, fifty miles from Moscow.

Myers glanced over at the demon and saw him glaring at the crate with an intensity that could have put twin eye-shaped holes right through the sturdy wooden boards. Obviously he's traveled that way before, Myers thought, picking up a tray of mugs. Must not be very comfortable. He turned sideways to pass through the narrow corridor between the piles of containers and made his way back to the other agents clustered in the center of the cargo hold.

Manning was standing at the end of the corridor with his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, gazing intently in one direction from under the scant cover offered by the brim of the flat cap that shadowed his eyes. He didn't notice Myers. The plane tilted slightly and Myers glanced down at the tray he held, correcting its balance so the steaming liquid in the mugs wouldn't spill. When he looked up again Manning was still blocking his path.

Curious, Myers peered around him and followed his gaze across the cabin. Erica. She was sitting on a crate and using the taller one beside it as a backrest, leaning there with her black leather trench coat spread out around her like the wings of a giant bat. Her left sleeve was rolled to the elbow, revealing the sturdy metal and leather wrist blade sheath strapped to the outside of her arm. Erica peered closely at the mechanism's springs and then abruptly snapped her elbow.

TCHKKK!

There was a flash of silver as the lethal steel blade shot out of the sheath, extending more than a foot from her wrist. Erica regarded its performance critically and, seeming dissatisfied, picked up a small plastic bottle from the equipment repair box beside her and began to oil the retracting apparatus.

Manning watched all of this, frowning.

Trying to be discreet, Myers leaned over to his superior. "Uh, Sir?" he whispered.

Manning jumped a little. "Huh?" he asked, turning to face the agent.

"You're staring."

"What?" Manning asked. He reflexively looked over at Erica again and then quickly away as he accidentally met her steel grey eyes from across the cabin. "Oh, uh, didn't realize it. Spacing out, you know," he muttered unconvincingly. Manning glanced down at the tray and pointed at one of the mugs. "Is that coffee?"

Myers nodded.

Manning picked up a mug and then leaned in on the pretext of reaching for the creamer. "Hey," he whispered, glancing right and left, "when you get a chance, check her bags."

Now Myers was the one staring. "W—what for—?"

But Manning was already walking away.

Damn it, Myers thought. He pressed his lips together in frustration.

Across the cabin Liz straightened up from going through a duffle bag and pushed her arm into a sleeve of the winter coat she had dug out. She adjusted the coat around herself, pulling it up onto her shoulders as she maneuvered her other arm into the other sleeve. Beside her she noticed Erica taking a break from working on her wrist blade to blow on her bare hands and rub them together.

"Not the warmest way to travel, is it?" Liz said, reaching back and pulling her long black hair from where it was caught inside her coat.

"You could always turn up the heat," Erica suggested, smiling slightly.

The pyrokinetic smiled back but shook her head. "I don't think the pilot would like that. Or Manning. You want gloves? There's some spares," Liz said, pointing over her shoulder with her thumb at the duffle bag.

"No thanks; I brought my leather ones. Anything bulkier impedes my flexibility. I have to maintain a high level of dexterity to use my baton swords." Erica gestured at the long blades strapped to her thighs.

"Yeah, well, just don't get frostbite. If your fingers fall off it'll be a lot harder then," the pyrokinetic said jokingly as she turned and walked over to Hellboy, pulling on a knit hat as she went.

Erica flexed her fingers to get the blood flowing. They really were too cold to keep working.

Oh well, she thought, it's not like my blades actually needed the attention. I just wanted something to do. And something to distract me from feeling Manning's eyes on the back of my neck. Honestly, what's with him?

She retracted the blade and rolled her sleeve down before shoving her hands into the pockets of her trench coat in search of her gloves. For this mission she had traded in her usual t-shirt for a black long sleeved shirt worn over a tank top, and retrieved her leather gloves from her WWII storage container. Erica pulled the tight black gloves on; they were in perfect condition, and butter soft. Wearing them again reminded her of her dream last night where she and Kroenen had been dressed in full SS uniform. They also reminded her of the last time she had worn them: on the cold, rainy night when she had stared death in the face as Kroenen tried to kill her for her treachery.

Once more she was fighting Rasputin and heading towards her near-certain death, but this time the clockwork assassin would be on her side. Something about that was incredibly comforting.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the loud rustle and crunch of cellophane as Hellboy tore into a bag of nacho chips and grabbed a handful. He shoved them into his mouth.

"Hmm…needs cheese," the demon mused, his voice muffled by food. He held another handful out to Liz. "Hey kiddo, want some?"

"Sure."

Hellboy saw Erica glance at the bag. "Grab some," he offered and pushed it closer to her, scattering crumbs everywhere in the process.

She shook her head as she stood; the heavy length of her trench coat fell into place at her sides with a whoosh of displaced air. "I brought a bag of lox in my luggage."

Hellboy frowned and raised an eyebrow at her retreating back. "Do I need to tell you just how wrong that is?" he muttered. "You're dating Blue!"

Erica's head tilted to one side, giving Hellboy the impression she was rolling her eyes. "I don't care. It's one of my favorite foods," she said over her shoulder as she kept walking. Her voice suddenly turned darker. "Besides, I don't know if I would call what Abe and I have 'dating'." She turned sideways to maneuver around Myers and his tray and then continued down the corridor between the walls of crates and cargo containers.

"Yeah, well, don't let Abe catch you with some other fish in your mouth," the demon mumbled. Despite his lowered voice Erica apparently heard the innuendo: from somewhere in the back of the plane came a snarl followed a fraction of a second later by a well aimed bucket that soared over the heaps of crates and struck Hellboy squarely in the jaw.

"Ow! That hurt!" the demon complained, rubbing his chin.

Myers was only vaguely aware of the comments and resulting scuffle. After Erica had breezed by him he reflexively looked over at Manning. He was only a little surprised to see Manning gesturing at him, holding his fist at chest level and pointing to one side with his thumb.

Myers looked right. Nothing. He looked back at Manning. He was still pointing.

'What?' Myers mouthed.

Manning pointed vehemently down the corridor after Erica. 'Follow her!' he mouthed back, looking supremely irritated.

Sighing, Myers set the tray down and went after her, being careful to walk quietly.

By the time he edged his way past most of the crates he was starting to feel tense. And by the time he reached the end, where he knew the special agents' luggage was located, he was definitely nervous. For a moment Myers stood with his back pressed against the side of a container, trying to calm his nerves. He took a deep breath. In. Out. He glanced at the edge of the container.

Okay, he thought, on the count of three. One… two… three!

He peeked around the corner.

No one there. That was odd. Where was she? Baffled, Myers retraced his steps, searching among the various piles and stacks. Nothing. It was only when he had almost reached the middle of the cargo space again that he noticed the little sign on the handle of the tiny bathroom: occupied.

That clears that mystery up, he thought.

He glanced towards the back of the airplane again. If there was ever a perfect opportunity for him to go through her bags, this was it. With his ears straining for the slightest sound that would indicate the bathroom door opening, Myers found himself in front of Erica's luggage before his brain had caught up with him. When it did it immediately started in on a lecture about what a bad idea this was, complete with some very graphic sequences of just what Erica could do to him if she caught him. Most of it consisted of things with sharp edges and lots of blood. Myers shuddered.

Nazi assassin, monster hunter, clairvoyant, possible double agent, he thought, breaking out in a sweat as he pictured her wrist blade and how efficiently she had extended it, and you're going through her bags. Smart. Real smart. She is so going to kill me.

Still, an order was an order. And he doubted he would get another chance like this. Fumbling a little out of nerves, he grabbed the zipper pull on her small suitcase and opened it.

Myers looked down at the neatly folded contents and instantly felt like a complete creep. Guilt dropped into the bottom of his stomach like a large chunk of lead. He didn't really know why he was doing this. He honestly liked Erica. She was nice. Helpful. And yet here he was. A thought crossed his mind that he wanted to deny, but he realized it was probably true: perhaps, in the end, it was his own curiosity that was ultimately driving him.

Fortunately for him Erica was a light packer. He saw nothing out of the ordinary in either of her bags—though the discovery of a pair of pajama pants with tiny cartoon carnivorous sheep gleefully munching on a very distressed man-in-the-moon and frolicking across the fabric had caused him to blink. He had not expected her to own anything so humorous, and could only conclude that someone had given them to her as a gift.

Whatever, he thought in exasperation. He had no clue what he was supposed to be looking for anyway. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Relieved that his unpleasant task was done Myers started to zip the bags closed again, hoping he had put everything back close enough to the way he had found it that Erica wouldn't notice her belongings had been rifled through.

Halfway around the backpack the zipper abruptly stopped, bringing his arm to a jerking halt. Myers looked down. The end of something long and slender and black had slipped out a little and was protruding from the bag. He looked closer, pulling the zipper back so he could open the bag further to investigate.

It was a sheathed baton sword. Just the one; its twin was missing. That plus the fact that Erica already had one set of the blades strapped to her legs gave Myers a sneaking suspicion that this baton sword was the one from the Machen library; the one Manning had security camera footage of Erica stealing.

Only one way to know for sure, Myers thought. He glanced behind him, then left and right. Still no one. He felt a little silly for behaving like his overly suspicious superior, but not much—he could understand Manning's paranoia about Erica now that he was kneeling here on the floor in constant danger of her discovering him. He could be caught red-handed at any moment.

Or more accurately sweaty-handed, Myers thought. He wiped his damp palms on his pants legs and gripped the sheath in one hand and the odd, perpendicular hilt in the other. He braced himself and then yanked. The blade slid free with much less effort than he had anticipated; as it was he struggled awkwardly and more than a little frantically to keep the last few inches of it in the leather case so it wouldn't go crashing to the floor. Once he was sure it wasn't going anywhere Myers studied the blade, turning it so light hit its polished surface, revealing the elegant lines of engraved script he had suspected would be there.

Alles für Deutschland.

A wave of cold washed over Myers that had nothing to do with the temperature inside the cargo plane. This was the blade Kroenen had left at the Machen library. According to the information Myers had read in Erica's file it couldn't be anything else; only the blades Kroenen had forged bore these words, and Erica only had one pair of her original blades—all of the others were blank copies.

So what was it doing here? Why had she brought it? Was it a spare? Or if she was a double agent could it be that the clockwork assassin had asked her to return it? Or did it have some darker purpose, something connected to the imminent release of the Ogdru Jahad?

Myers had no idea, but he knew that it was definitely odd that Erica had taken the blade and then brought it on the mission. Certainly not conclusive evidence by any means, but enough to make him suspicious when combined with the inconsistencies in her reports. Still, he would reserve judgment until he had something more solid to go on; this could all just be coincidence.

But he would definitely be watching her now.

He put the blade inside her backpack and closed it before exiting the area as quickly and covertly as possible. Once he was a little distance away he let himself relax a bit. He had gotten in and out without getting caught. He actually felt a little proud of himself—

An odd rustling noise came from among the crates off to his right.

Still edgy from before, Myers startled. With his heart hammering he turned to investigate, peering anxiously into the shadows. Nothing but containers and a few parcels with their straps swaying from the motion of the airplane.

Probably just some of the freight shifting around—

"Why are you following me?" a voice demanded from his left.

Myers nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around and almost had a heart attack when he saw who had spoken. Erica was looming above him, leaning against a stack of crates with her arms crossed, her flinty grey eyes studying him with hawk-like intensity. In the half-darkness of the back of the airplane her already odd eyes glinted eerily and made Myers afraid in some primal, deep-rooted way, bringing up mental images of jagged teeth and wide open jaws. He broke out in a hot, sticky sweat.

"I'm—I'm not. Just—just wanted to use the bathroom," Myers stuttered in a feverish flash of inspiration.

Erica continued to stare at him while he stood there and sweated. She didn't look like she believed him. After what felt like an eternity her eyes turned away. "It's back there. You passed it." Her tone was flat, but not unfriendly. Myers wasn't sure what to make of this but he didn't stick around to find out.

"Uh, thanks," he said as he all but ran to the closet-sized room, feeling her eyes burning into his back the whole way. He didn't relax completely until the door was closed and he heard her footsteps move away down the length of the plane, heading in the direction he had just come from.

Slumped against a wall, Myers faced himself in the tiny mirror. His reflection stared back at him, its face very white. Feeling embarrassed and incredibly self-conscious Myers straightened his black winter jacket and pulled at his turtleneck collar. He did not consider himself a coward—his specialty was hostage negotiations, and beyond that he had emptied an entire clip into a Sammael the first time he saw one and then stuck around to help Hellboy—but clearly he did not have what it took to play spy against Erica in assassin mode. He doubted anyone did. Myers glanced at his pale reflection again and thought ruefully that one look at his face had probably been enough to reveal everything. And judging by the direction her footsteps had taken Myers had an uncanny feeling that somewhere in the back of the plane Erica was checking her bags and knew that he had been snooping through them.

When Myers finally calmed down and got the courage to emerge from the bathroom again he found everyone grouped around Hellboy and the crate he was using as a table, having a conference. Erica was there as well, leaning over one of the demon's shoulders. Like everyone else she briefly glanced up at Myers as he approached. The emotion behind her look was inscrutable, and she returned her attention to the crate again without saying anything, but it still made Myers want to flinch.

Hellboy firmly tapped the wooden planks beside the illustration of Sammael.

"'One falls, two shall arise.' So: you pop one, two come out. You kill two, you get four. You kill four, you're in trouble," he summarized, demonstrating the math by holding up his stone fingers. He placed a cigar stump between his teeth and dug out his lighter. "We'll have to nail 'em all at once. And the eggs."

"And when we do: no mumbo-jumbo," Manning said, laying a grenade belt out on the crate. The string of metal capsules clinked dully, belying their destructive capabilities. "Double-core Vulcan-65 grenades," he explained as he sat down, taking off his flat cap and placing it on the table. "Now we've installed a handy little timer. You set it, you walk away. Cable pulls the safety pins, K-boom! Easy to clean, easy to use."

Hellboy flicked his lighter shut with a sharp metallic ping and grunted, blowing out a curling stream of cigar smoke. "I'd rather put my money on Liz," he muttered.

Manning frowned and opened his mouth but was interrupted by a staticky voice blaring from the intercom.

"Cleared for landing. I repeat: we are cleared for landing in Moscow."

The meeting broke up as everyone but Erica moved into action, stretching and making preparations for landing.

"Okay people! We unload, pack the trucks, and move out!" Manning shouted over the noise of jostling and the roar of the plane's engines as it started to descend.

Erica, who had been standing very still with her eyes unfocused as she did when she was consulting her visions, suddenly stirred. "Before we load the trucks have the agents put the snow chains on."

"There's no snow in the forecast," Manning said crossly.

"There will be. And don't ditch the truck's spare tire to make room for equipment," she said as she headed towards the back of the plane. "We're going to need it."

"I hate it when she does that," Manning muttered to himself as he shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "Hate it."

XXXXX

Moscow

Volokolamsk Fields

Sebastian Plackba #16

Day

As usual Erica's visions turned out to be completely reliable. Despite the weather report that there would be some flurries but no accumulation, the snow chains on the truck and two gleaming black vans had a hard time powering through the thick snow and ice coating the rough roads.

"'No accumulation,' huh? Yeah right—I'm looking at more than a foot of 'no accumulation'," Manning muttered grumpily as he climbed out of a van. He was in a bad mood. Because of the van bouncing around on the bumpy roads he hadn't gotten any sleep on the way there and on top of that the whole convoy had been delayed by half an hour when the truck carrying Hellboy's crate had run over something in the snow and gotten a flat tire. And it was still snowing.

Doors slammed as the rest of the agents piled out of the vehicles; the noise was painfully loud in the countryside's dead silence.

"Oh my God," Liz breathed, staring.

They all stared.

The landscape belonged solely to death. This was not simply a graveyard: it was a necropolis, and truly a city of the dead in its enormity. Beyond the rusting and torturously twisted spiked fence endless rows of crypts and tombstones poked through wild foliage and dead vines, their furthest limits obscuring the horizon and seeming to go on past it. Many of the mausoleums and monuments were of impressive scale and towered taller than the main gate. And that was just what they could see above the ground.

Awestruck, Liz said quietly, "We should let Hellboy out."

Agent Stone hurried over to the truck and pried the side off the crate with a loud crack. Hellboy blinked and squinted against the suddenly bright light

"You better come out and see," said Liz, peeking in.

There was a clap of leather and a thud as Hellboy jumped to the ground and then strode over to the rest of them gathered in front of the wide open gates. The hardware on the demon's belt clinked softly.

"Sebastian Plackba number sixteen," Hellboy said unnecessarily. He ventured in under the shadow of the gate and the others followed, adjusting their backpack straps and gun holsters.

Erica took the opportunity to pull Kroenen's baton sword out of her backpack. She lengthened the sheath's leather strap and then slung it over her head so the blade lay diagonally across her back with its hilt just above her shoulder. As she straightened up from putting her backpack on she saw Myers gazing at her. He smiled awkwardly and then waved in the direction of the cemetery.

"So… uh, how do you think this is going to go?"

She shook her head slowly as she walked past him. "Myers, at this point it's not a question of if we'll get hurt, it's a question of how bad and if we'll still be able to stop them."

Leaving a very disconcerted Myers at the back of the group Erica trailed slightly behind Hellboy as the demon led them by intuition through the labyrinthine lanes of the dead. Erica scanned the tilted grave markers and the silent faces of the nineteenth century tombs. One in particular had an unpleasant skull-like appearance and seemed to be leering at her; the frigid wind whistled around its lead eaves and with a sudden gust blasted stinging snow and strands of her long brown hair into her face. Erica turned away, pushing the pieces behind her ears. There was something about this place that made her skin itch; almost like she was being watched—other than by Manning, who kept turning back to stare at her. But there was no one around but the other agents, and though the blank stone eyes of the statues she passed were disquieting they were definitely empty. Still, her skin continued to crawl in a vague, unsettling way, like there was something writhing beneath it. Erica shuddered, thinking of the lazy tentacles that had wriggled under Rasputin's flesh the night he had been resurrected.

The feeling slowly intensified the further she got from the main gate and was joined soon after by a sense of familiarity. Erica had been waiting for that. Quickening her pace, she joined Hellboy.

"Kroenen and Ilsa are here," she said. "I can feel them through our blood bond. I just don't know where. Close though."

Manning was just behind her and overheard. "Close? Close meaning what?" he asked anxiously, turning a circle and peering at the spaces between monuments as though expecting to be attacked. For the briefest second his eyes fell on Erica and she saw something accusatory in them, as though he was blaming her.

Erica pretended she hadn't seen the look and shrugged. "Nearby. I can't be more specific than that."

"Hmm, don't suppose you could lead us to 'em," Hellboy grunted. He stopped and craned his head back to read the family names on the mausoleums around them. None of them were Rasputin's. His tail swished at the ground.

"Nein. In a place this big I could maybe get us in the general area, but if they're deep underground I'm not going to pick up anything more specific than what I am already."

Sensing that a decision had to be made, and seeing that everyone was looking to Hellboy to make it, Manning felt a little irritated. He was the leader of this mission, not Hellboy! Manning opened his mouth to give an order but the demon jumped in.

"Then we keep walkin'. Keep your eyes peeled for trouble."

And everyone started off again with Hellboy in the lead, weaving his way among the thin paths between graves.

Glowering but knowing he would have said the same thing, Manning followed, tripping over a headstone as he went.

XXXXX

Sebastian Plackba #16

Mausoleum Section

Day

"It's practically a city. And it stinks, and it's muddy. I think we, uh, we go back, we check into the hotel, we regroup. After breakfast," Manning said. He shivered and hunched his shoulders.

They were all cold, hungry, and tired. But only Manning had the lack of grace to complain about it. Hellboy had wandered off fifteen minutes ago muttering something about asking for directions to Rasputin's mausoleum, leaving the rest of the agents to wait for him and wonder just who he thought he was going to talk to in a cemetery.

Currently the agents were huddled up against the lee side of an enormous crypt in an effort to stay out of the bitterly cold wind. Liz and Erica were on the stairs sharing Erica's package of lox with the other agents; the meat was starting to freeze and had little sparkly ice crystals clinging to its surface. Manning gave the slimy, slightly translucent strips of salmon he was offered a disgusted look and waved them away.

As she chewed, Erica glanced over at Myers. The agent stood some distance away with his back to her, keeping an eye out for Hellboy.

Erica knew Myers had gone through her luggage. She had been watching him the entire time. And it had set off warning bells in her head like crazy. She had known something was going on ever since the meeting at the BPRD when Manning had started staring at her, but Myers's actions had confirmed it. However, this wasn't just the agent's doing—Myers was far too polite to snoop through her belongings on his own initiative. Which meant Manning had ordered him to do it. It then followed that Manning did not trust her. Knowing the full extent of her own situation Erica could list any number of reasons why that might be—fraternizing with Karl Ruprecht Kroenen being at the top—but Manning's knowledge was limited. Just what had set him off? As far as she knew she and Abe had been very careful not to leave any loose ends that might make others suspicious. Not that they were doing anything criminal; just withholding information in Erica's best interests. But still, someone had caught on, and since that someone was Manning he was bound to have come to the wrong conclusion. She just wished she knew what that was.

Then again, if Manning had anything near to solid evidence against her she would probably be spending her time trying to break out of one of the BPRD's cells instead of sitting in this cemetery in Moscow.

That thought was actually little comfort. Because it meant that if she did anything to confirm Manning's suspicions, whatever they were, he might try to shoot her in the back. Or order Myers to do it.

This job certainly keeps life interesting, she thought, crumpling the plastic package the lox had come in before stuffing it into her backpack. As though Grigory Rasputin wasn't enough! But if I can fool Kroenen and live then I can certainly handle Myers and Manning.

She slid her hands into her trench coat pockets to keep them warm and waited. If Hellboy was going to be much longer she thought she might dig the full-head cold weather mask out of her backpack; she really didn't like wearing one because it limited her field of vision, but her cheeks and lips were going numb and painful with cold. All around her snow pitter-pattered softly as it added to the white blanket covering the ground, the headstones, and the agents' hats and shoulders. It was actually kind of pretty.

Then Manning started up again and Erica started to think that maybe her time would be better spent climbing the crypt behind her to watch for Hellboy coming back, if only to have an excuse to get away from Manning.

"This is ridiculous," Manning insisted in his boring, monotone voice. "I run this show. Not him. This guy's nothin' but trouble. Nothin'." He checked his watch impatiently and then spoke up yet again, so sudden and loud in the silence that Erica almost jumped. "Ten minutes we're outta here."

"Will you shut up and let him do his thing?" Liz said with an edge to her voice.

Manning quieted but it was only for a moment. "Anybody got a powerbar?"

Shaking her head, Liz rolled her eyes and groaned in exasperation.

"Hey! Hey here he is," Myers called.

Everyone surged to their feet, as eager to see Hellboy as they were to get away from Manning. They gawked as Hellboy approached carrying the top half of a desiccated cadaver on his back by the hangman's noose around the thing's throat. And the corpse was moving, staring at each of the agents with clouded dead eyes.

Hellboy's grin stretched from ear to ear. "Sixty feet further comrades," the demon said smugly in a Russian accent. He held up three fingers on his stone hand. "And three rows in."

"What the hell's that on his back?" Manning asked.

"This here is Ivan Klimentovich." Hellboy turned his head to address the corpse clinging to his back, "Say 'hi' Ivan."

Ivan croaked something in Russian that was so gravelly and hoarse that Erica, who had spent several years working for Rasputin, could barely understand the guttural speech. Hellboy, though he wrinkled his nose at the corpse's putrid breath blowing into his face, didn't seem to have any trouble, but that might have been because Ivan weakly raised a shriveled, skeletal hand and awkwardly pointed in one direction. Apparently he wanted to cut the niceties and get this over and done with as quickly as possible.

Hellboy nodded curtly. "Gotcha."

A short walk brought them before a mausoleum that was reminiscent of a miniature black castle, complete with a Russian turret and domed spire at its peak. The mass of stone was nearly obscured by the tangle of dead vines clinging to it; the name "Yefimovich" was just barely readable over the arched doorway.

The doors themselves were rusted shut or barred from the inside; no lock was visible anywhere on the grey surface, nor did the snake carvings spiraling up the center of each panel seem to be hiding a lever or switch. Since they had no idea what lay behind them Hellboy and his huge stone fist stood to the side while Agent Stone went to work prying open the stubborn steel doors with a crowbar.

Erica meanwhile was observing the area around the mausoleum. Even accounting for the foot or so of snow there was no sign that anyone had passed this way; if Kroenen, Ilsa, and Rasputin were underground they had not used these doors as their entrance. As the doors heaved and groaned under Agent Stone's determined assault Erica couldn't help but wonder if there was a reason for this: was there something lying in wait for the BPRD?

The doors gave way at last with a wrenching bang and opened inwards into blackness. Stale air breathed out bringing a musty scent of age and earth with it. Erica stared down into the darkness. There was a distant ringing noise from the depths, almost like bolts or bits of metal from the doors were pinging as they fell down a long stone staircase and bounced off each step. But knowing who this mausoleum belonged to, and who was waiting for them beneath the ground, she seriously doubted it was anything so innocent.

Everyone looked at each other. This was it.

Hellboy casually hitched Ivan a little higher on his back and started in. "Watch the stairs," the demon called back.

Liz, then Myers filed after him. Then it was Erica's turn. As soon as she stepped inside the narrow passage the incessant howling of the wind was abruptly cut off, leaving a total silence in which she could clearly hear the rapid beating of her heart.

Like walking into a lion's den, she thought, gritting her teeth as she tread carefully on the stairs. She wasn't trying to be silent so much as she was avoiding setting off traps, if there were any—which was likely considering Kroenen was involved. She went down one step, then another and another, keeping her arms at her sides so they did not brush against the walls or any hidden triggers. Every nerve in her body was on edge, tingling and ready to send her bolting should she set off some hellish clockwork device. Ahead of her the yellow-white beam of Myers's flashlight danced over the walls as he descended, revealing nothing but glimpses of stonework and a few cobwebs.

Hellboy's deep voice spoke from somewhere below, sounding miles away and somehow more demonic in the darkness. "Ivan says there's a whole network of tunnels down here. Goes on for miles."

Fortunately the stairway was much shorter. After a turn or two there was, oddly, light at the end of the stairs; Erica squinted against it as she stepped out into a round room that had several corridors branching off of it in different directions. There was a soft click as Myers turned off his flashlight; the diffused blue-grey light was daylight coming in from far above them through a hidden opening somewhere in the ceiling.

Hellboy's eyes lingered on the niches and gaping holes that riddled the walls; each one was filled to overflowing by yellowed skulls. "Stay close everybody," he warned as they all fanned out to inspect the room.

"You better be right about this," Manning said uneasily.

Erica cautiously made her way over to Hellboy, stepping quickly and lightly over the long drainage grates that divided the floor into quarters. Though Myers and Liz passed safely under the large circular ring of spikes protruding from the middle of the ceiling Erica avoided it like the plague; there was no way to tell if it was menacing decoration or something functional and lethal. Either way the sight of it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. And she was not the only one; Ivan was clutching at Hellboy's shoulders and making nervous muttering noises that sounded horribly like a dying jackal coughing and wheezing its last.

"We'll be alright as long as we don't separate," Hellboy said. "We don't want a repeat of what happened in the subway tunnels."

Myers nodded in agreement—

TCHKANGGG!

Huge metal walls with spikes at the top shot up from the drainage grates as though propelled by enormous springs, dividing the room into sections and slamming into the ceiling with a thud that had all the finality of a bolt sliding home. Erica had only the briefest second to see that the walls were covered in a lattice of metal strips with triangular areas between them before large spikes snapped down from the top row of spaces and then another and another, lower and lower and approaching head height. Erica threw herself flat on the cold stone floor and molded her body as close to it as possible, waiting for the horrible shriek of metal spikes as they shot from the walls with bone crushing force.

But there was only silence.

Erica cracked one eye open. Though the spikes were quivering in place it was only the resulting vibrations of flipping out of the wall; she could see they were anchored to the metal and definitely not meant to be projectiles. She warily got to her feet, taking stock of the situation as she did so. Whatever machinations were at work seemed to be finished for now, but the walls had done enough damage: Liz and Myers and Agent Stone were on the other side. And so were both grenade belts.

BANG! CLANG! BANG!

Hellboy's stone fist plowed into the metal wall, but the hand that had brought down brick walls and pulverized concrete barely made a dent. The only thing the demon was accomplishing was creating a painful cacophony that forced everyone on his side to cover their ears.

Hellboy gave up with a disgusted grunt. "It's too thick. Six inches or more. Someone's expectin' us." He flipped his radio on. "Hey! Sparky. Is there a doorway on your side?"

There was a pause and then a crackle of static as Liz's voice came through on everyone's earphones. "Yes. There's a hall; I can't see where it goes."

"Follow it. Tell everyone to turn their locator belts on. Anybody sees anythin'…"

"I'll say Marco."

"Pollo."

"Are you sure about this?" Myers asked.

"On a scale of one to ten: two. Don't worry Boy Scout; she'll take care of ya. She's a tough one."

Erica eyed the corridor on their side. Hellboy had left out some key information. On a scale of one to ten, which end of the scale is the one where we all die? she thought. She was particularly worried that she had no idea what had set those traps off. They were part of the architecture so they must have been in place since the mausoleum was built, which means they are totally mechanical. Kroenen is not somewhere behind the scenes pulling the strings. And that makes it all the more dangerous for us.

Turning to the others she noted with annoyance that Manning was on this side of the wall. She met Hellboy's golden eyes and saw he was thinking the same thing: Manning was a liability.

"For future reference: don't touch anything," Erica warned. She directed this more at Manning than Hellboy and Agent Lime. Ivan she didn't have to worry about; he was too busy holding on. "And I mean anything. No walls, no door handles, no carvings, no odd looking floor tiles. And stay alert—it's probably inevitable that we'll run into more of those."

"Then you go first," Manning ordered. There was something sharp and unpleasant in his tone that earned him a stern look from Hellboy. Manning floundered to explain. "To, uh, to check it out." The demon continued to pin him down with his gaze. "What? She knows about this stuff."

"I go first," Hellboy said in a way that made it clear the argument was closed. He entered the corridor, ignoring the human skeletons laid out in the narrow recesses on either side. "E, tell me if you see anything I should know about."

It was slow going. Manning and Agent Lime lit the way with flashlights so Erica and Hellboy had their hands free in case something happened, but the narrow beams of light made it hard for Erica to inspect the path properly—especially because she had to do so while peering around Hellboy's bulk and the living corpse on his back, who kept craning his skull around until it was almost on backwards so he could gape and grumble incomprehensibly at her. Manning was also shuffling along behind her; somehow he had gotten in front of Agent Lime. Erica bitterly wished he had not. He was out of shape and his labored breathing coupled with the fear rolling off of him was incredibly distracting. As it was Erica had a sinking feeling she would not detect the trigger wires or weight sensors until Hellboy had already passed them; she just hoped that no one set off anything she missed.

Manning was very, very unhappy. He had never told anyone, but he was claustrophobic. It usually didn't cause problems but this tight, dark, confining tunnel was making him sweat. It reminded him horribly of being buried alive, and with two of the last people on earth he would want to be trapped with. That freak—Hellboy—was coolly striding along up there like he was the person in charge. And the ex-Nazi—who knew what was going on in her head.

Actually, better drop the 'ex', Manning thought. Back in the cemetery Myers had told him that Erica had brought the stolen blade with her; now it was slung brazenly across her back beneath the small pack she carried. And with Myers split off from him Manning knew he was going to have to be his own watchdog when it came to keeping tabs on the BPRD's treacherous assassin. To that end Manning had pushed in front of Agent Lime a while ago, simultaneously deciding that it was not safe to be at the end where he could be picked off, that he could not risk having Erica out of his sight, and that Erica, despite the good possibility she was a double agent, was probably the safest person to be next to since she could see the traps or already knew where they were. And Manning had no desire to be impaled. Or crushed. He shuddered and cast a phobic glance up at the low ceiling.

To his immense relief the corridor eventually ended and let them out on a bridge that spanned a vast chamber. Rugged stone pillars and broken archways, most of them severely decayed and falling apart, rose up from the shadows concealing the chasm's distant floor.

While the stability of the bridge they stood on was one concern, Erica had another: hundreds of enormous gears the size of a house loomed out of the blue dimness. Rusting chains thicker than Hellboy's stone forearm hung from the ruined architecture, running through winches or disappearing into lead channels in the walls. She stared out at it all in alarm. It was definitely meant to do something. And if that something required gears that massive to power it she definitely did not want to set it off.

So her jaw dropped when she turned around and saw Hellboy resting his stone hand on a spindly metal railing that was tilting precariously outwards under his weight.

"Hellboy!"

Belatedly remembering Erica's warning, Hellboy quickly pulled his hand back. The metal instantly gave way and the section of railing toppled over the edge, making a tremendous din as it crashed into gears and took out an entire stone arch on its way down. Startled by the racket a flock of bats took to the air, screeching.

There was a far-off ringing as the railing finally came to rest below. Hellboy winced.

"I told you not to touch anything!" Erica hissed.

Hellboy shot her an apologetic look before directing his attention to the cadaver now visibly quaking on his back. "How you doin' up there Ivan?"

This time Erica clearly understood the rasping Russian speech: "If I had legs I'd kick your ass!"

"I couldn't agree more," she said, seething.

Hellboy wisely decided not to point out to Erica that, unlike Ivan, she did in fact have legs. Instead he shook his head and held the hangman's noose he was using to carry Ivan out to Agent Lime. "Would you mind holdin' this guy for a while? He is so negative."

KLANGGG!

The noise came from above them. Heads craned back to see two gears turning over the doorway they had come through. A steel door rapidly slid down, blocking their way back.

"Hey! HEY!" Manning yelled. He beat his fists against the door as though he thought someone had closed it as a mean joke and would open it again.

BOOM.

Somewhere massive clockwork began to move.

Manning's face was ashen. "What the hell is that?!"

Erica walked further out on the bridge. There was no point in being careful now; something was coming and nothing would stop it. The sight that met her eyes was both breathtaking and horrifying. The entire complex was starting to move. Colossal gears groaned as they shuddered and then came grinding to life, revolving slowly at first but swiftly picking up speed. Huge pistons flashed in the darkness and the cavernous space echoed with thunderous ticking.

"Something big," Hellboy said behind her. "Lime! Come with me."

The agent started forward, business-like and ready for anything. "Right."

"No, no, no… Stay put!" Manning ordered, striding angrily towards Hellboy. "Stop! Now you listen to me. Listen to me!" The demon slowed his pace and gradually turned around in a way that said his patience was running out. Manning took a deep breath and continued in a more normal tone, though his voice shook. "I'm in charge. We're gonna go back. You can take that door apart."

Fear and anger make an ugly mix, Erica thought, watching Manning's face. The first drives the second and ends in panic. And that just makes you all the easier to kill.

A strange sense of calm had stolen over her. This was what she had been trained for. Made for. And it was time to move. No sense in staying put and waiting for doom.

Hellboy seemed to feel the same. "Whatever it is it's comin' for us! Now we've gotta move forward! Lime!" Hellboy barked. "Let's go!"

"STAY PUT!" Manning bellowed.

Lime hesitated but did as he was told and stood still. Perched on his back Ivan rolled his clouded dead eyes in annoyance. Erica decided that for all she cared Manning could yell until he was blue in the face—she was not going to listen. Turning smartly on her heel she headed for the door on the other side of the bridge.

"HEY! STOP!" Manning roared after her. "STOP! THIS IS MUTINY! YOU ANSWER TO ME!"

Red-hot fury shot through Erica's veins, scorching away her last shred of restraint. She kept going, but the voice that came out of her mouth was so cold and so full of poison that she barely recognized it as her own. "I answer to one man only. And you are not him!"

She knew she could be court martialed for this, especially if Manning were to learn that the man she claimed allegiance to was Kroenen, but she could not find it in herself to care. She doubted Manning was brave enough to try it. She doubted he would survive the next few moments.

Manning gave up on her and rounded on Hellboy instead, more determined than ever that the demon would obey him. "AND YOU! I AM NOT AFRAID OF YOU! I'M IN CHARGE! WE GO BACK—!"

BAMM!

Having covered little more than a few yards Erica whirled to see a gigantic metal and stone pendulum swing past, demolishing the far third of the bridge and hurling stone blocks into the air as easily as if they were made of styrofoam. It took Lime and Ivan with it. Screaming, they fell out of sight.

A deep rumbling boom rolled up from the dark abyss like a monster's belch after a satisfying meal.

All trace of his rage gone, Manning stared wide-eyed over the edge of the gaping hole in the bridge, cowering. It was inches from his feet. Unconsciously he reached out and grabbed at Hellboy's shoulder in a silent plea for rescue.

A clang and the shriek of rusty metal drew everyone's attention to the only doorway they could now reach. A metal door was shuddering inexorably downwards and would soon cut off their escape route.

"Son of a—" Hellboy roughly seized Manning by his coat lapels and hurled him. Manning let out a wail as he slid on his back across the bridge, past Erica, and neatly under the closing door.

"Go, go, GO!" Hellboy yelled at her. He didn't have to say it twice. Erica ducked in under the door and, ignoring the sniveling heap of Manning in a corner of the tiny hexagonal room, set about stopping the machinery that was sliding the door shut. At the rate it was going Hellboy would never get to it before it closed completely.

Abandoning her backpack on the floor she pressed her ear to the cold slimy wall beside the doorway, listening for the telltale grinding of gears interlocking in a hollow space in the wall. There it was. She moved left and slightly up and it was louder, closer.

"OH CRAP!" Hellboy shouted from outside.

BAMMM!

The pendulum's second impact with the bridge nearly knocked her off her feet but Erica still managed to pull the baton sword on her back free of its sheath. With a burst of strength she blindly plunged it into the soft water-decayed mortar between two stones and into the mechanism. The blade was yanked jarringly from her hands as it caught and jammed the cogs, and with an earsplitting crunch the door halted. The baton sword would not hold it open for long though; the machine in the wall strained against the obstruction and to Erica's dismay she saw the nearly indestructible metal was twisting.

The pendulum made its third assault on the bridge.

BAMMMM!

Crunch. TIINNNNGG!

The baton sword snapped in two just as Hellboy rolled under the door, which, propelled by the power that had built up to break the blade, raced for the ground. Hellboy barely snatched his tail out from under it in time.

From behind the door came the final deafening rumble as the pendulum took out the last section of the bridge. As it died away Erica heard something unexpected. Was that music? Faintly, just there; strains of Wagner? Her heart beat faster, but not with fear. She recognized that tune—knew all the words by heart—in the original German and in English. It conjured up memories of Kroenen working in his study and singing along with the music, softly at first, just under his breath, but steadily growing louder until the rafters rang with his powerful voice. He had been an opera singer, once; as a boy he had toured the capitals of Europe. And though coming of age and cutting off his lips had altered his voice and years working with the occult had darkened and roughened it, there had been no denying the absolute rapture and ecstasy in it when he sang.

She was drawn out of her reverie by Hellboy coughing to clear his throat of stone dust. The demon grunted as he heaved himself to his feet. Manning stood too, but shakily. Then they both paused. They heard it too.

"Music," Manning said, bewildered.

Hellboy motioned for silence by holding a finger to his lips. "Shhh." He pulled the Samaritan from its leather holster and held the handgun up, its barrel resting against his shoulder and its muzzle pointing skyward. He moved towards the arched stone corridor, but Erica slithered in front of him.

Her strategic move turned out to have been a good one, despite the slight wuff of an annoyed exhale from Hellboy. There at the opposite end of the narrow corridor was Kroenen. He had his back to them and was seated on a spindly Victorian chair at an equally spindly table in the center of a large hexagonal room lit by yellow-red gaslight. The clockwork man nodded attentively and tapped his gloved fingers as the phonograph in front of him filled the air with opera. The music was so loud that he had not noticed the BPRD agents' arrival.

Hellboy shifted impatiently behind her. Erica could practically taste the hatred the demon felt for the man who had murdered his father. She understood his grief but she would not allow him to injure or kill Kroenen. HB nudged her arm, encouraging her to step aside.

"Keine Weise in der Hölle," she whispered harshly. No way in hell.

Before he could protest Erica shrugged his hand off and forged on ahead, turning sideways to slowly ease past the endless rows of rusty blades that lined the walls of the corridor. The tread of her jackboots on the ground was completely silent as she carefully placed each foot precisely in front of the other. She glanced back at Hellboy; his golden eyes were narrowed and locked on the Nazi assassin. His huge gun was held at the ready. Erica felt her stomach clench. She turned forward again and the soaring music masked the metallic click and hiss as she extended the blades on her wrists. Clearly there was going to be trouble, especially where Hellboy was concerned. And she had no plan. When Kroenen had said he would save her from being sacrificed Erica didn't know what she had expected, but it hadn't included this: sneaking up on the clockwork assassin and being completely unable to warn him without revealing to the others that she and Kroenen had joined forces. Now was absolutely not the time to have that complex conversation.

She edged another step closer, desperately wishing Kroenen could hear her footsteps and knowing he could not. But maybe he didn't need to hear her: he should be able to tell that she was close through their blood bond. She could certainly feel his nearness; the skin crawling sense of familiarity had increased and plunged deeper under her flesh to squirm, but not unpleasantly, alongside her veins.

Appearances are deceiving, she thought, hearing the echo of the assassin's voice in her mind from a long ago memory. He may be more aware of us than he appears to be.

She began to form the beginnings of an idea. In her dream Kroenen had hinted that she should fight him. And fight him she would—if only as a way to prevent Hellboy from getting a clear shot at the assassin with the big bullets in his gun.

What would come after that, or how the fight would end, she had no idea.

She swallowed thickly and forced herself to breathe slowly. In. Out. Another step. In. Out. A cold trickle of sweat snaked down the side of her face. The tension increased as she passed the halfway point and the end of the passage drew gradually nearer. She tightened her fists and the leather of her gloves creaked against itself. When they reached the end she would have the smallest fraction of a second to run out and put herself directly in Hellboy's line of fire as she attacked Kroenen.

She knew she could do it: she didn't have any other choice.

Another step, and another. Her heart banged loudly in her chest. Only a few more feet from the end of the corridor now. Her leg muscles tensed.

"Ouch!"

Startled, Erica's head whipped around. Behind Hellboy's bulk Manning held up a bloody hand; he had nicked it on one of the blades sticking out of the wall.

Hellboy shot him a dirty look. 'Quiet!' he mouthed. Manning grimaced in apology.

They all looked back at the chamber ahead; Erica had a distinct feeling that she knew what they would find.

The spindly chair was empty: Kroenen was gone.

"Crap. This guy moves like a cockroach," Hellboy muttered. There was a click as he adjusted his grip on his gun.

Thank God for Manning—for once, Erica thought. Now Kroenen definitely knows we're here.

Creeping forward, she felt the menacing presence of the bladed passageway's tight confines leave her as she ventured out into the room. The wooden floorboards creaked softly under her feet as she looked left and right. Behind her Hellboy paused at the top of the stairs to also scan the room.

There was no sign of Kroenen, but that was no surprise; the stone walls were pockmarked with shadowy niches and recesses. Some of them were full of clocks of every conceivable shape and size, including at least four massive grandfather clocks that were taller than Hellboy. Broken glass panes set into the walls from floor to ceiling revealed the hellishly lit gears turning behind them. Spare cogs and other mechanisms littered the floor around the edges of the room and a tangle of deadly-looking ropes, hooks, pulleys, and heavy chains hung above them. In the center of the room the phonograph played on, masking any sound that would reveal the clockwork assassin's hiding place.

Hellboy frowned and strode over to the phonograph.

"Tristan und Isolde," Erica murmured wistfully. "Selbst dann bin ich die Welt…"

The demon's golden eyes turned on her, scowling. "English, Erica, English!"

"The music—it's an opera by Wagner. Tristan und Isolde. Act two: the love duet. 'Thou'rt my world, thine am I.'"

Hellboy gave her a scathing look that clearly said just-why-is-this-important-right-now? Erica shrugged slightly, unable to explain, and walked over to a familiar black uniform hanging neatly from a hanger. A strong sense of déjà vu washed over her: it was Kroenen's SS uniform, impeccably pressed and complete with long black coat. The distinctive peaked hat with its silver death's head emblem hung from a nearby peg. On impulse she sniffed at the fabric; added to the scent of leather and the permanently infused metallic tang of old blood was the smell of soap. Kroenen had washed his uniform, and recently—probably in preparation for tonight. Erica shuddered, picturing him wearing it in the ruins of Trondham Abbey, rain pouring off his shoulders but doing absolutely nothing to wash away the blood that stained his sleeves to the elbow.

Hellboy moved the phonograph's needle off the record. The music halted abruptly, leaving the room in an eerie quiet that amplified the clanking and grinding of the revolving gears.

"Hey." Manning said, drawing their attention. He held up his bloodied index finger. "It really went deep."

It could be worse, Erica thought darkly, her ears straining to detect the slightest rasp of the assassin's breathing. Much worse.

Hisssss…shink!

At the telltale sound of a baton sword being pulled from its sheath, Erica jerked and spun on her heel—just in time to see Kroenen step from the shadows behind Manning with his blades flipped forward in attack position. Manning turned as well, but far too slow—his face drained of color and he cried out as the assassin lashed out at him. The deadly steel whistled down just as Manning instinctively stumbled backwards and threw out his arms to protect himself. He hit the floor hard, the left sleeve of his coat slashed open to the skin.

Erica was already running towards him; Manning might not be a friend, but she didn't exactly want to see him cut to pieces either. She saw Hellboy's moving red blur in her peripheral vision and ran faster—

"Hey! Hey what's wrong with you?!" Manning yelled.

Erica had almost reached him when Kroenen went in for the kill. Helpless and sprawled on the floor, Manning yelled in terror as the assassin raised his weapon. In alarm Erica realized she wouldn't make it. The second blade came down—

And Hellboy thrust his stone fist into the blade's path, deflecting it from its intended victim. Kroenen didn't even pause; nimbly whirling his twin blades he sent the razor edges darting out at the demon. Again Hellboy used his stone arm as a shield, and as steel hit stone red fragments chipped off and went flying, narrowly missing Erica's ear as she tried to get closer to the two combatants. Fending off blows with increasingly powerful, deliberate blocks, Hellboy retreated from the assassin. Erica knew it wouldn't last; the demon's anger was growing, and it would only be so long before he got in a devastating punch.

A blade came whirling in from the side and Hellboy forcefully pushed it away, knocking Kroenen slightly off balance. As the assassin teetered the demon saw his chance; aiming for Kroenen's head he raised his stone hand—

And Erica slid into the space between them.

Hellboy stopped his fist so fast he pulled a muscle. Erica didn't seem to notice that her skull had narrowly missed being crushed to smithereens. Cursing and shaking his injured arm, Hellboy lurched backwards out of the way as Erica lunged at Kroenen.

Their blades locked with a horrendous clash of steel. Kroenen cocked his head at her, momentarily startled by the swift change of opponents. Erica's grey eyes stared back at him as her lips contorted in a snarl. Behind her the demon hauled out a huge gun and cocked it, waiting for a clear shot. In a flash Kroenen understood Erica's plan. Clever girl, he thought. Yanking a blade free he sliced at her stomach. Dance with me, Angel!

Erica barely dodged out of the way in time. She rushed at him, her twin wrist blades cutting through the air with deadly precision where he had been standing only a second before—the flat of a baton sword smashed into her arm and she gasped in pain but still managed to deflect the other blade as it rushed in to cleave open her head. A charade it might be at the bottom, but Kroenen was giving no quarter. And neither would she.

The clockwork man crossed his blades, blocking a blow that would have ripped open his shoulder had he not been swifter. Caught up by her momentum Erica bodily barreled into him and their blades locked again with a crash. She gritted her teeth and pushed back at him, and when he bore down on her with the crippling strength of his mechanical hand, trying to force her to the floor, Erica strained against him and struck him in the chest with a powerful kick that sent him staggering. Glass rained down like deadly water as he fell against one of the windows. Panting, Erica quickly closed the gap between them before Hellboy could get a shot at the assassin. Their blades grated against each other as they came together again, partners caught in a brutal dance with a whirling, vicious pace. Sweat was running down her neck and her heart raced with adrenaline as she threw herself into the fight with complete abandon. She fed off the clockwork man's ferocity and gave it right back in a hail of flashing swords. What a rush! Erica could tell Kroenen was loving every minute of it. The insane urge to laugh bubbled up inside her; she was afraid—for Kroenen, herself, the others—but this was exhilarating!

Abruptly, Kroenen kicked out at her with unnatural speed, hooking his foot around her ankle and yanking her leg out from under her. With a yell Erica hit the floor. Broken glass crunched beneath her leather trench coat as she quickly rolled to the side. A baton sword bit into the floorboard inches from her head and tugged free, flinging splinters everywhere. Backpedaling frantically, Erica rolled again, then heard the high pitched whine of an incoming blade and scrambled to get out of the way. In her haste she blundered into a heap of cogs and the pile collapsed around her with a tremendous crash of metal. Gears rolled across the floor and one smashed into her face, tearing her lip open with its saw-toothed edge. Disoriented and desperate to get off the floor, Erica scrabbled ungracefully to her feet—

With Kroenen behind her.

The second she realized her mistake the assassin's arms closed around her, clamping down on her and crushing her arms to her sides. He dragged her back against his body. Erica froze instantly as the cold edge of a baton sword found its way to her throat.

Beautiful acting, Kroenen's voice said in her head, reaching out to her mind through where their bodies touched. He sounded short of breath. But your footwork needs improvement.

Across from them Hellboy raised his huge gun. He was scared for Erica; he had already lost his father to this Nazi-zombie and he wasn't about to lose her too. The demon adjusted his aim, sighting down the barrel of the Samaritan. Half-hidden behind Erica's head, Kroenen's masked face leered at him. The demon swallowed nervously, suddenly wishing he had done more target practice; if his aim was even a hair to the side he would kill Erica instead.

"E, hold still," Hellboy grunted. "I got this."

"Nein! Don't!" she yelled, trying to sound as scared as possible. And from Hellboy's anxious, wide-eyed expression she could tell it was working. Erica's stomach twinged with guilt. But misleading him was a necessary evil; if she hadn't been in the way Kroenen would have been ripped to pieces.

The demon stepped closer. "No, I can do it, just—"

Erica choked as Kroenen pressed the flat of the blade against her throat. Hellboy stopped short, then carefully inched forward again when he saw she hadn't been hurt. Manning hovered tensely in the background.

"Come on Erica, we can do it," Hellboy coaxed.

With dread, Erica noticed the gap between them was closing. At a snail's pace, perhaps, but it was still closing. What now? she wondered.

Kroenen's voice gently grazed her thoughts. Trust me.

Hearing the question underlying his words Erica hesitated to surrender herself to his mercy. If he was asking her permission, then undeniably she was not going to like whatever came next. But she could see no other way out of this, and since Kroenen had an idea, she may as well take a running leap into the dark.

She had no doubt that he would catch her when she fell.

Alright, Erica thought back.

And Kroenen pushed the blade into her throat.

Author's Notes: Please review; I value all comments and suggestions.