by Mike Mignola
“Who are you, his social secretary?” asked Liz.
The muscle man narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, as if trying to decide whether he was being made fun of.
The other white guy said, “Why don’t you get back in that car of yours before something bad happens?”
“Nothing bad is going to happen,” said Liz evenly.
“I think it is,” said the shaven-headed white guy.
“I know it isn’t,” said Liz.
Casually the skinhead reached into his jacket and pulled out a machete. His eyes blanked; his face tautened with viciousness. “Get out now, bitch, while you still can,” he hissed.
“Oh, you boys are so tiresome,” said Liz. She reached into her jacket and pulled out her gun. Pointing it unwaveringly between the kid’s eyes, she said, “We have important business with Mr. Olusanya, and you have wasted enough of our time. Now please be sensible and get out of our way.”
“You won’t use that,” said the muscle man, but he looked unsure.
“Yes I will,” said Liz with quiet but absolute conviction.
There was a short silence, then the chubby guy said petulantly, “Knew you were a cop.”
“I’m not a cop,” said Liz. “And you guys are so far out of your league it’s unbelievable.”
Another glance ricocheted between the four of them. They stood their ground for several more seconds, and then, as if he had grown bored with the encounter, the muscle man abruptly turned away. “Let’s go.”
He swaggered off. His three friends paused just long enough to eyeball Liz and Richard one last time, then trailed after him. Putting the machete in his pocket, the skinhead muttered, “Your card is marked, bitch.”
“Yeah,” said Liz, “whatever.”
She waited until the guys were out of sight before she reholstered her gun.
“My God,” said Richard weakly.
Liz looked at him. He was shaking. “You okay?”
“I will be.” He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead. “Would you really have shot those boys?”
She shrugged. “Wouldn’t have killed them. Winged one maybe.”
“You really do live in a different world, don’t you?”
“You make me feel as though I should apologize for it.”
They walked up to the entrance doors of Eden House and pushed them open. By rights they should have been locked, but the locks and bolts had been pried off long ago. Beyond the doors was a dingy hallway, the graffitied walls running with damp. The floor was strewn with discarded household refuse, and the stench of rot and stale urine hung heavy in the air. Liz reached out to a light switch on her left, then noticed that nothing but bare wires hung from the ceiling where lights had once been. She sighed and said, “You feeling fit?”
“I certainly don’t want to risk the lift, if that’s what you mean,” replied Richard.
They trooped up the stairs, their footsteps echoing around them. Aside from that and the steady drip of water there was no other sound.
Credo Olusanya’s flat was on the fourth floor. The door was standing ajar.
Liz produced her gun again. “Stay behind me,” she said.
She stood on the hinge side of the door and pushed it all the way open with her foot. Beyond was a narrow hallway with a dirty blue carpet. It was featureless, as if no one lived here. She crept forward, Richard behind her; she could hear him breathing hard and fast.
To her left was a door. She pushed it open. It led into a tiny bathroom, the bath and sink layered with grime, the plug holes clogged with hair. The toilet seat was down, but the room still smelled like a sewer. Liz pulled the door closed. There was only one other—at the end of the corridor—to aim for.
She turned briefly and raised her eyebrows at Richard: You okay? He nodded and they moved to the second door. It had been pulled to, but it wasn’t fully closed. Holding her gun in both hands, Liz again used her foot to push the door open.
Her eyes scanned the room as the door swung inwards. It wasn’t until it was three quarters of the way open that she saw the body.
She knew from Richard’s gasp that he had seen it a split second after she did. The room was in shadow, the thin curtains closed and admitting no more than an insipid wash of daylight. However, the violence done to the man’s body was so horrific that it instantly drew the eye, like a bloodstain on a white tablecloth.
The corpse was slumped, fully clothed, in a pale gray armchair, facing them. It wore a bib of dried and crusted blood. More blood, a great deal of it, was streaked and spattered across the carpet and on the fabric of the chair itself. The victim’s head and hands had been hacked off and attached to the wall like a triptych of macabre adornments. The head was in the center, the eyes staring blankly in different directions, the mouth gaping open. Something like a tent peg or a railway spike had been driven into the open mouth, through the flesh and cartilage at the base of the skull and into the masonry beyond. The hands, nailed through their centers, were positioned either side of the head, fingers pointing downwards. Blood depended in trails from the severed appendages like black streamers. Some of the blood had been used to daub the now-familiar eye symbol on the wall.
“Somehow I don’t think Credo will be in the mood for a chat today,” Liz murmured.
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wondered how Richard would take them. She was truly horrified by the sight of the dead man, and the grim humor was merely her way of dealing with it. Hellboy would have understood that, but Richard wasn’t Hellboy; to him, she probably sounded flippant, callous. She turned to look at him, perhaps even to apologize—and realized it was unlikely he had even registered her comment. He was slumped against the wall behind her, taking deep, gasping breaths. She was opening her mouth to ask if he was okay when she became peripherally aware of something bright and metallic flashing out of the darkness towards her.
She recoiled instinctively, taking a step back. The metal object missed her face by inches and clattered against the wall. It was a carving knife, and it had come from the shadows to the right of the seated corpse, presumably from the corner still concealed from her view by the edge of the door frame.
She went in low and fast, gun aimed at the spot where a potential assailant’s head would be. No one there—but there was an open doorway in the corner of the room, a black rectangle leading presumably to a narrow kitchen area which must run parallel with the right-hand wall of the entrance corridor, into which the attacker must have ducked. She circled round quickly to get a better angle of sight into the room. She expected to see shadowy movement, but there was nothing—and then something else flew at her from the gloom.
It was a tin, the kind that contained beans or tuna fish or fruit chunks in syrup. It shot at her head with such force that it would almost certainly have concussed her or worse if she hadn’t thrown herself to one side.
Her shoulder hit the floor at the same instant the tin smashed into the wall. Liz rolled and was on her feet in an instant. Using the wall as cover, she scooted along it until she reached the open doorway leading into the kitchen. Then she stepped around the edge of the frame, pointing her gun into the room beyond.
It was dark, but not completely black. Although the kitchen was an internal room, containing no windows, enough light was leaking through the thin curtains on the far side of the main room to give its contents a shadowy definition.
What was immediately apparent to Liz was that the room was empty and there was nowhere to hide. The kitchenette contained a sink, a cooker, a fridge, a set of drawers, a wall-mounted cupboard, and that was it. She looked from left to right in bewilderment. Was she missing something here? The top kitchen drawer was open, as was the cupboard, but unless her attacker was the size of a squirrel ,there was no hiding place to be found in either of these places.
She was just beginning to lower her gun when a tin fell out of the overhead cupboard, rolled along the counter and dropped to the floor. Instantly Liz snapped her gun back
up. She shook her head at her own nervousness, and was starting to relax again when the tin, which had landed on its side, gave a little shudder and flipped upright.
Liz blinked, but she had seen enough weird stuff in her life to take this in her stride. She leveled her gun at the tin and waited to see what it would do next. Without warning it suddenly flew upwards towards her head. She jerked up her gun and pulled the trigger, and the tin exploded, watery brown soup spattering in all directions.
“What’s going on?” Richard shouted from the hallway, his voice thin with fear.
“I’m okay,” Liz answered. “Just stay where you are and keep your head down.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when several objects rose from the open drawer as if lifted by invisible hands. Liz saw knives, forks, a corkscrew, even a soup ladle. They hovered in the half-light, quivering, reminding her bizarrely of birds of prey readying themselves for the killing swoop to earth. Thinking quickly, she rammed her gun back into its holster and directed her thoughts inwards, reaching down into the ferocious and untamable inferno at her core.
She hated having to use her power in such a confined space, and especially in a building that was likely filled with people, but if she was going to survive here she didn’t have much of a choice. As the items flashed through the air towards her, she unleashed the fire to meet them. The implements hurtling in her direction were reduced instantly to puddles of molten metal sizzling on the floor. More tins flew out of the overhead cupboard, and they too were transformed to spatters of metallic rain in a split second, their contents either charred to cinders or evaporated to mist.
Some instinct, primal and self-preservatory, compelled Liz to spin back round to face the main room. A lamp was flying at her, trailing its lead like a whiplashing tail. It too was incinerated, as was a portable CD player, a TV, a kettle, a suitcase, assorted crockery, and a fist-sized solid-glass paperweight. Beyond these items the carpet, wall, and curtains were burning now too, the carpet giving off a thick cloud of poisonous black smoke. Liz backed towards the door, head snapping right and left, fire still flowing out of her. It felt both glorious and terrible. As ever she experienced both a sense of delirious freedom and the utter terror of knowing she had unleashed a beast over which she had only minimal control.
A chair hurled itself towards her and became blazing spindles of matchwood. Liz stepped smartly back out of the main room, grabbing the door handle and pulling it shut as she did so. The plastic handle became toffee at her touch. She let it go before it could liquefy and fuse to her skin. Something heavy—some other item of furniture—hit the other side of the door with a shuddering thump. Liz shuddered too and, with a mighty effort, snapped the fire back in to herself. It came in a rippling gush, tingling her nerve endings, making her cry out. For an instant it seemed bigger than she was, too vast to contain.
And then it was gone. She blinked and placed one hand on top of the other. Her flesh was cool.
As always after using her gift, she felt alert, her senses temporarily heightened. She turned quickly. Richard was halfway along the corridor, pressed against the wall, gaping at her. Nimble as a cat, she padded towards him.
“Set off any alarms you can find while I call the fire brigade,” she said, pulling her phone out of her belt.
His eyes were wide with fear and awe. “Then what?” he asked.
“Then we do what we can to get everyone out of here before the whole damn building goes up.”
CHAPTER 8
—
The proprietor of the Bagel Palace treated Hellboy and Cassie like royalty. It helped that Cassie had phoned ahead to say they were coming. Hellboy generally found that people reacted badly when he turned up in places he wasn’t expected. Sometimes they reacted badly when he turned up in places he was expected, but that was their problem.
Luigi Spineze, however, had had a half hour to get used to the idea, and as soon as they stepped through the door, Hellboy ducking his head beneath the lintel, he bustled towards them with open arms and a wide grin. He was a jolly little beach ball of a man, his dark bushy eyebrows and bristling moustache making up for the fact that he had very little hair on his shiny dome of a head.
“Cassie, my lovely girl!” he exclaimed, his accent an odd combination of Cockney and his native Italian. He enfolded her in a fatherly bear hug, then stepped back, his hands on her shoulders. “But let me look at you! Beautiful as always! You light up my life like a lantern!”
Cassie was laughing and shaking her head as he turned to Hellboy. “And Hellboy! What an honor! I saw your picture in the paper this morning, but I never dreamed I would see you in the flesh! And in my restaurant too!”
Hellboy grinned bashfully. “Yeah,” he said. “Ain’t life strange?”
The Bagel Palace—perhaps more of a coffee shop than a restaurant, despite what Luigi had said—was around half full. As usual, Hellboy was aware of people staring at him. Out of the corner of his eye he had seen food fall out of one guy’s gaping mouth as he had stepped through the door.
“I give you my best table!” Luigi said expansively. “Over here by the window! Come! Come!”
He began to move away. Hellboy pointed to a table on the opposite side of the room.
“Actually I’d rather sit back there in the corner,” he muttered.
“But this is my best table!” Luigi reiterated.
“Yeah, it’s very nice,” said Hellboy. “It’s just a bit . . . well . . . public.”
Luigi looked crestfallen—perhaps he had been hoping that Hellboy’s presence would draw the crowds—but he conceded graciously. Hellboy and Cassie sat down. The table Hellboy had chosen was sandwiched between the kitchen and the toilets, but at least it was relatively private. The two of them ordered bagels and coffee (despite the huge breakfast he had eaten that morning, Hellboy ordered six bagels to Cassie’s one), and then they sat looking at each other for a moment. Hellboy tugged at his goatee a little self-consciously. “Nice place,” he muttered.
Cassie let loose a burst of soft laughter.
“What?” said Hellboy. “Did I say something funny?”
She raised a hand and wafted it between them. “No, it’s just . . . this is so weird.”
“What is?”
“This situation. Sitting here with you. I mean . . . what do I say to you? What do I say that you could possibly find interesting?”
Hellboy shrugged. He had encountered this attitude lots of times, but that didn’t mean he had ever gotten used to it. What people didn’t seem to realize about him was that on first encounter he often felt just as awkward as whoever he was with.
“Everything you’ve said has been pretty interesting so far,” he mumbled.
“But . . . I can’t imagine what your life must be like. From what I’ve read, it sounds as though you’ve done some amazing things. I mean . . . how dull must this be to you? Sitting in a café eating bagels?”
“Believe me,” said Hellboy, “when I’m doing some of the so-called amazing things you talk about, I crave stuff like this. Moments when I’m not at someone’s beck and call. Moments when I’m not getting my teeth knocked in, or freezing my buns off halfway up a mountain, or lost in some stinking catacombs somewhere. This is . . . nice. More than nice.” He smiled uncertainly. “I mean . . . nice place, great company, and hopefully good food. What’s not to like?”
Cassie smiled shyly. Now that she wasn’t having to put on a front for assholes like Reynolds she was showing her softer, more truthful side. Hellboy liked that. He liked people to be themselves around him, purely because it happened so rarely.
“I guess it’s just . . . well, you must have met so many amazing people in your time. How can anyone . . . normal compete with that?”
“Most of the people I meet are jerks,” Hellboy said. “Prissy government officials, know-it-all army types, psychos, megalomaniacs. I hardly ever get a chance to just meet real people and hang out.” He shrugged. “I’m really not that special. Tho
se magazines and TV shows, they always say I’m enigmatic, but I’m really not. Truth is, I’m not sure I even know what that means.”
“It means you don’t say much,” said Cassie. “So people think you’re deep.”
Hellboy chuckled. “I don’t say much because I haven’t got much to say. Either that or it’s because people ask me stupid questions. You know what my friend, Abe, says about me?”
“What?”
“He says I’ve got hidden shallows.”
They both laughed.
“So . . . what is going on here, Hellboy?” Cassie asked a few seconds later. “People are talking about monsters and ghosts and demons. It’s like the whole world’s going mad. And these killings
. . . is it the work of some nutter or . . .” She broke off abruptly, held her hands up. “Look, just tell me to mind my own business, okay? I don’t want to put you in an awkward position. Like you say, you have enough people asking you damn stupid questions as it is.”
Hellboy shook his head. “Nah, you’re one of the team. You have a right to know.” He started to tell her, but just then Luigi bustled up with their food, placing each plate in front of them with a flourish.
“I get your coffee!” he told them. “And if I may, Hellboy . . . a picture for my collection?”
He gestured around. Hellboy noticed that framed and signed portraits of celebrities hung on the walls. Many of the celebrities were holding up one of Luigi’s bagels and grinning into the camera—though Madonna was scowling behind a pair of shades, shoulders hunched.
“Okay,” he said, trying to conceal his sigh.
Luigi bustled happily away to fetch coffee and camera.
Cassie smiled sympathetically. “Sorry about that. Maybe this was a bad idea?”
“No, no, it’s okay,” Hellboy said. “I get this kinda thing all the time.”
“And yet you don’t seem comfortable with it.”
“Face like mine, you think I’d get used to it, wouldn’t you?” he joked. Grimacing, he continued, “Thing is, I feel like a fraud. I mean, I’m not some actor or singer. I don’t have any special skills.”