Inside, a small fire burned. The object was oval, more than a foot long, and it burned with red-and-yellow flames that somehow raged there without consuming the object itself. Hellboy stared a moment, thinking that if this thing still burned, the Dragon King couldn't truly be dead, no matter how much damage they did to it. This thing--this was what made it immortal, this eternal fire.
Then he knew what it was. The Dragon King's heart. It all made sense to him now. Dwenjue had been trying to reach the heart, to kill his ancient enemy once and for all.
Hellboy raised the sword. Its yellow glow became so bright he had to squint. He felt none of the deep satisfaction he would have imagined in killing this thing. It had to be stopped, but there were too few ancient things, too few legends still in the world, and there was a bitterness in its destruction.
"All over, now," he muttered.
He brought the sword down...but stopped himself before the blade could strike the burning heart of the dragon. Hellboy glanced back at Dwenjue, taking in the ruins of the warrior's face. The dwarf's body had been ravaged; he was dying.
This isn't how it's supposed to be, he thought. This legend isn't mine.
Grimly, Hellboy strode back to Dwenjue, reached down, and picked the diminutive monk up under his arm. He carried the ancient warrior back to the place where he had revealed the dragon's heart and set him down as gently as he could.
"Dwenjue," Hellboy said.
The monk blinked, gaze clearing a moment before he started to drift again. Hellboy shouted his name, and this time, the dwarf's eyes went wide, and his nostrils flared with anger or surprise.
Hellboy took his hands and closed them around the grip of the mystic sword that had rested with him in the ground for so many centuries. The glow diminished slightly, but as it did, Dwenjue's eyes took on their former yellow gleam.
"Up," Hellboy said, gripping him under the arms. He lifted the monk bodily and set him on his feet.
Dwenjue stumbled, nearly collapsed, but Hellboy caught him.
The sword pulsed with light and magic. Dwenjue stood up a bit straighter, still swaying but not about to fall. His back went rigid as he stared down at the burning heart of the dragon.
The sword fell. It flared yellow the instant it struck the Dragon King's heart. The fire went out of the worm's core, and it cleaved in half.
Dwenjue collapsed, sliding to the ground, then tumbling over onto his back. As he stared up at the night sky, the illumination went out of his eyes, and they turned black once more. A single, shuddering breath came from the warrior, and he fell still.
The ancient enemies lay dead, side by side.
Hellboy sat down beside Dwenjue, leaning against the dead Dragon King. He glanced at the sword still clutched in the monk's hand, but did not attempt to retrieve it. That blade belonged with Dwenjue and would return with him to his grave.
A strange satisfaction filled Hellboy, mixed with profound envy. He'd helped Dwenjue fulfill his destiny, and now the warrior could rest.
Rest.
The word tasted bittersweet, even in his thoughts.
Epilogue
Upon the death of the Dragon King, those few of his dragonlings that had not already been killed simply ceased, the fire snuffed out within them. Their flesh became brittle, and within hours, had begun to decompose.
Now, the cleanup was under way.
Redfield had been medevacked to Lhasa along with other wounded. The last of Dr. Bransfield's team had been retrieved from the monastery on the eastern hill. Only three members of her original expedition had agreed to stay on with her at the site of the temple of the Dragon King. The British Museum would organize a new team. To everyone's surprise, Professor Kyichu had been on the first helicopter headed for Lhasa, determined to reunited with his daughter even as he nursed a dark bruise on his face.
According to the digger, Gibson, Dr. Bransfield had knocked some sense into him.
Meanwhile, Anastasia would see to it that the Chinese government would do nothing to hide or damage the dig site or attempt to deny the events that had transpired here.
Abe thought it evident that Lao would have liked to do just that, but there had been too many killed and too many international observers on the ground and in the air during the event. Barring the possibility of secrecy, however, Abe figured they would be working far more closely with the British Museum's efforts than they had before. Anastasia and Mr. Lao were going to be spending a great deal of time together. The BPRD would also be keeping a small team on-site for the duration of the archaeological efforts, in case anything else unusual came up and also as an impartial observer.
Crews would have to be brought in to remove the wreckage of the downed choppers. Someone would have to decide what to do with the corpse of the Dragon King. But those were all issues to be examined over the days ahead.
At the moment, only one issue remained on Abe's mind.
He stood with Koh and Tenzin in the scorched ruins of what had once been the archaeologists' camp. The sun had begun to rise, and it shone brightly up on the ridge where the preparatory chamber had twice been opened, and where digging would soon commence once more.
Not a trace of the dragon could be seen in Koh. They had all agreed it would be safer that way. He seemed like just an ordinary man, now.
Together, the three of them watched the argument going on between Professor Bruttenholm and Mr. Lao in the shadow of one of the black military helicopters that the man from Beijing had summoned. The normally emotionless Lao appeared angry. Bruttenholm, on the other hand, had fallen back on his English reserve. He kept his face expressionless, his chin slightly lifted, gazing at Lao with all the moral authority he could muster.
When Lao took a breath, the professor spoke calmly.
Lao stared at him for several long seconds, then threw up his hand and turned on one foot to march over to the helicopter and lift himself into the cockpit. He glared at Bruttenholm again as he slid on the communications headset, apparently needing to conference with his superiors, then slammed the door closed.
Professor Bruttenholm walked away as though the scene had not troubled him at all. He strode over to where Abe, Koh, and Tenzin awaited him.
"What did he say?" Abe asked.
The professor stroked his white goatee a moment in thought, then gave the smallest of shrugs. "He said that what happens to the people of Nakchu village is not our concern, that they are being detained while the question of whether or not they present a danger to humanity is evaluated."
Tenzin quickly translated this to Koh. Fire flickered in the dragon-man's eyes, and he sneered something in anger, jaw clenched.
Abe held up a hand to calm him, even as Tenzin put a hand on Koh's arm and spoke some words of comfort.
"And what was your reply?" Abe asked the professor.
Bruttenholm's eyes brightened and he arched an eyebrow. "I patiently explained that the people of Nakchu village have suffered a terrible loss and should be allowed to mourn, then left alone. Given their unique nature, I told Mister Lao that the villagers are most certainly the concern of the BPRD, and that if he disagreed, he could feel free to take it up with our United Nations sponsors. I told him that the BPRD agents who remain here with Dr. Bransfield will be visiting Nakchu several times a week and making regular reports, and that any attempt to interfere with those visits would be frowned upon by the world community."
As he spoke, Tenzin rattled off the translation to Koh, who began to smile. The dragon-man grabbed Professor Bruttenholm's hand and clasped it in gratitude.
"You're pretty good at this stuff," Abe told the old man.
Bruttenholm waved a hand. "The wisdom of age. And the bludgeon of diplomacy." The professor studied Tenzin and Koh a moment. "Have you had that conversation with Koh that we discussed?"
Abe nodded. "I have."
"And?"
"He hasn't given me an answer."
Professor Bruttenholm studied the dragon-man. "Right, then. What do you thin
k, Koh? Could I convince you to return to the States with us and work with our organization?"
Tenzin smiled and asked the question.
Koh stood up a bit straighter and replied with profound dignity.
"I'm sorry, Professor," Tenzin said. "Koh cannot leave the plateau. With his father dead, he knows that his people will need someone to lead them, to care for them. And he wishes to offer Dr. Bransfield as much help as he can in her efforts here at the temple."
Abe put out a hand, and Koh shook it, after the fashion he had observed among the other Westerners. "I'm sorry you won't be joining us," Abe said. "I'm honored to have met you, and I owe you one for saving my bacon down there."
Koh nodded, smiling.
"Ah, well," Professor Bruttenholm said. "All is as it should be, I suppose."
Hellboy and Anastasia stood on the stone island surrounding the temple of the Dragon King, bathed in the glow of the rising sun. Their hands were clasped between them, and he gazed at her with a terrible longing and a strange nostalgia. He knew he shouldn't feel nostalgic for someone who stood right in front of him, but could not help it. They'd come to the end of things, and yet it felt to him so much like a new beginning.
The aftermath unfolded all around them. Soldiers and BPRD agents worked inside the temple, careful not to damage the structure itself even as they checked to be certain all of the dragons were dead. Helicopters buzzed overhead. Not far away, Corriveau and Gibson, two of Stasia's team who'd agreed to stay with her in the interim, were taking photographs of the facade of the temple.
"Going to get busy around here," Stasia said.
"Get busy?" Hellboy asked, eyebrows raised.
Stasia laughed softly. "I mean it. We'll be thick with soldiers and archaeologists once the word of all this gets out. I only hope the museum lets me stay on to lead the dig."
"They will. They'd be idiots not to."
"And all of the people you have to answer to are Rhodes scholars, I suppose?"
Hellboy frowned. "Not quite. But they'll keep you on. They'll realize no one else is suited to the work. This is your dig. I have faith in you."
She squeezed his fingers. "I know you do. I always know it. In the hard times, it helps. I just wish you didn't have to go."
The moment she said those words, Anastasia blinked, and a tiny sound came from her lips, as though she'd surprised herself. Hellboy felt a tremor pass through him, and suddenly he didn't seem to be able to breathe right. He cursed himself inwardly for being a fool, tried not to speak his thoughts aloud, and failed.
"What if I didn't go? What if I stayed with you? The BPRD's going to assign a few agents to stick around for the duration. I could arrange to be one of them."
Her smile filled him with bittersweet tenderness. Anastasia reached up and touched his face. She rose up on her toes and pulled him down, and they shared a soft, brief kiss. Then Stasia laid her cheek against his chest. He heard her sigh.
"Do you have any idea how wonderful that sounds to me?"
"I think I've got an inkling, yeah."
Stasia hesitated, as Hellboy had known she would. They knew each other too well. Wistful, he took hold of her shoulders and moved her out to arm's length, gazing down at her.
"I feel a 'but' coming."
She nodded. "Yes. You are aware we're being watched, I presume?"
Hellboy glanced around, saw where Stasia was looking, and narrowed his eyes to focus on the lone figure standing far above them on the lake rim, staring down. His father, no doubt with brow furrowed in concern.
"He's a little overprotective, huh?" Hellboy asked.
Stasia shook her head, gaze intensely sincere. "Not at all. He loves you. He's meant to look out for you, isn't he? Your father?"
Hellboy studied her face. "So, you were about to say?"
Her smile illuminated her entire face, but her eyes were full of sadness. "We've been down this route before, love. Those who do not learn from history..."
"Are doomed to repeat it," Hellboy finished for her. The truth of it settled in. She was right. If he stayed, they would be inseparable for a time--months, maybe years--but all of the old ghosts would still be there to haunt them, and eventually Hellboy would have to withdraw from Stasia, for her sake as well as his own.
"Do you remember that day in Paris?" Stasia asked, her eyes moist and her voice cracking.
Hellboy didn't have to ask her which day. "Of course I do."
"I've never stopped feeling the way I felt that day. I don't think I ever will. It's a gift you gave me, and I cherish it."
"Even though it hurts?" Hellboy asked, trying to memorize the way she looked at that moment.
"The pain's part of it. Comes with the territory, doesn't it?"
"Yeah," he said. "I guess it does."
The sun shone on her hair, the cool autumn mountain breeze whipping it around her face. "I'm going to miss you terribly."
Hellboy traced a finger along the line of her jaw, then he shrugged.
"No worries. I'll see you in another five years."
About the Author
CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN is the award-winning, bestselling author of such novels as The Myth Hunters, Wildwood Road, The Boys Are Back in Town, The Ferryman, Strangewood, Of Saints and Shadows, and the Body of Evidence series of teen thrillers. Working with actress/writer/director Amber Benson, he cocreated and cowrote Ghosts of Albion, an animated supernatural drama for BBC online, from which they created the book series of the same name. (www.ghostsofalbion.net)
With Thomas E. Sniegoski, he is the coauthor of the dark fantasy series The Menagerie as well as the young readers fantasy series OutCast, which was recently acquired by Universal Pictures. Their comic book series Talent is also in development at Universal. Golden and Sniegoski wrote the graphic novel BPRD: Hollow Earth, a spinoff from the fan favorite comic book series Hellboy. Golden also authored the original Hellboy novels, The Lost Army and The Bones of Giants, and edited two Hellboy short story anthologies. Golden was born and raised in Massachusetts, where he still lives with his family. He graduated from Tufts University. His latest novel is The Borderkind, part two of a dark fantasy trilogy for Bantam Books entitled The Veil. Most recently, he completed work on a lavishly illustrated gothic novel entitled Baltimore, or, the Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire, a collaboration with Hellboy creator Mike Mignola. There are more than 8 million copies of his books in print. Please visit him at www.christophergolden.com
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