Hellboy: Odd Jobs Read online

  The gray orb swelled into the socket and gradually moistened and glowed with the same baleful gold of the other eye.

  It promised him more, and more. It needed so little.

  "Feed me," it begged, "and I will make of you a king."

  As it whispered, Guy nestled the head into the crook of his arm. It wanted such a trifle, and promised him so

  much. What could it hurt to try?

  Guy unbuttoned his shirt, and lifted the head toward his chest. He tilted his own head back as he felt the desiccated lips slide over his nipple and begin to suck.

  He felt weak as he stepped off at the Richard'lenoir. The Metro had nearly rocked him to sleep, and he felt tired, so tired. He stepped off the train and had to hold onto the pillar as the doors slid shut and the train raced on to its next destination. Fumbling with his buttons, his wrist accidentally brushed against his chest and a bolt of agony cleared his mind for a moment.

  His nipples were sore, terribly sore. He dared a peek at the pinkish stains on his undershirt. He peeled one side back to wince at the raw blotchy skin beneath. Band-Aids, he needed two Band-Aids.

  Suddenly aware of his surroundings again, Guy buttoned up his shirt and made his way off the platform and up the stairs to the boulevard. The morning air was crisp and helped him to focus. Above, the dawn breeze stirred the leaves of the trees. Guy took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The soft wind felt good, and the rustling leaves were soothing. He would make it to the appartemente, and he would be all right. Guy's head lolled, bringing his gaze to rest on the sidewalk.

  There, amid the fallen leaves, was a twenty-franc note.

  Guy chuckled, and bent to pick it up. Twenty francs! He stood up and admired it for a moment before folding it with care and tucking it into his shirt pocket. He patted the pocket and moved on. His step was a little surer now, and he was smiling.

  As the dawn light asserted itself, something else caught Guy's eye on the sidewalk. Another note another

  twenty-franc note. And another.

  He nervously looked up the boulevard. Surely, there was some mistake. Finding one note was an occasion, but three was unlikely. He strained to see if someone were walking up ahead, someone the notes belonged to.

  Or a bank car, with its back doors swinging open. But there was no one, nothing.

  Guy furtively bent down to pick up the notes. He inspected them carefully, held them up to be sure of what he was seeing. One was indeed a twenty-franc note, but the other was fifty francs. Perhaps he could take Francine out for coffee this morning, if he could stay awake, if she had time.

  Further up the street, at the base of the stairway to their appartement, Guy found another fifty, and a one-hundred-franc note. His stride assured, he bound up the steps two at a time and made his way to bed, deciding not to disturb Francine's slumber.

  Tomorrow. He would share the good news tomorrow.

  "Moro

  his name was Moro," Kate began. "Some sources link his name with a series of ominous events recorded in two illustrated broadsheets published here in Paris around 1650."

  One slide followed another, each woodcut image executed with a primitive vigor. Hellboy stroked his sideburns, drinking in the spectacle.

  "Grave robbing, necrophilia, cannibalism," Kate continued, "but no evidence of the authorities capturing or executing him, though as you can see in this second one, his accomplices were broken on La Roue, beheaded, and their remains were burned."

  "Bummer," Hellboy whispered. "The Wheel."

  Kate held the slide on screen, bringing up the room lights. Abraham was already combing through the papers she had laid on the table, thankful for the diversion from the countless hours of quarantine.

  "The thread picks up in a number of Dutch texts," she said, pointing to the documents in Abe's webbed hands. "The Dutch were particularly infuriated by the Catholic persecution of the Protestants which drove a group referred to as 'the Waldenses' from the south of France to seek sanctuary in the Alps, into the valleys of Piemont which were later renamed Vaudois. Repeated attempts to exterminate this group over quite a span of time culminated in the massacre of an entire village in the mid-seventeenth century."

  Kate clicked the remote on the slide projector, bringing a new image into view. The illustration was of its time, not as crude as the woodcuts they'd been looking at a moment ago. These were more accomplished drawings, still vivid with an uncanny sense of immediacy. A clutch of women and children clinging to their belongings were crowded to the left of the panel, as two soldiers brandishing swords dominated the center, directing the hapless innocents out of the frame.

  "This is one of many Dutch broadsheets depicting the atrocities. Apparently the Jesuits turned up the heat, coercing village children into the Catholic fold. The alleged murder of a Catholic priest at Fenile and unspecified insults to Catholic rituals in Torre prompted more heat, with dissenters being forced out of their homes in January of 1655. When the Church authorities were informed that the exiled Waldenses had returned to their homes, orders were given and the villages were purged in April of that same year."

  Abe set aside the papers to share Hellboy's careful scrutiny of the horrific images. Rape and plunder gave way to more monstrous extremes: women and children put to the sword; nude bodies roasting over raging fires with soldiers at rest alongside, eating the flesh; infants thrown onto rocks as their mothers were split with axes; children split asunder, their bodies stuffed with gunpowder; steaming objects and liquids poured into every bodily orifice; a grisly bowling match played with tiny heads before a wailing parent, bound hand and foot.

  "The soldiers were a ragtag pack of mercenaries from all over Europe. French, Hungarians, Bavarians, Irish, and Spanish. Catholics one and all, promised indulgence for their efforts."

  Hellboy's unflinching gaze drank it all in. "Okay, but what's Moro got to do with all this?"

  "A local priest named Jean Leger survived and escaped," Kate explained, "and he was the primary source for news of the atrocities. He carefully gathered evidence from any and all eyewitnesses and survivors he could find, including prisoners released after the Treaty of Pignerol and soldiers stupid enough to boast of their crimes. The documentation is impressive, drawn from statements sworn before public notaries of the time.

  His work bore fruit, firing up the Dutch and Cromwell's England. John Milton wrote a passionate poem protesting the outrage ... "

  Abe read from a page of Kate's papers. His flinty, flat voice lent a strange weight to the text. " 'Avenge O

  Lord thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold ... ' "

  Hellboy turned to Kate. "And Moro?"

  "Leger's diary chronicles his search for Moro. Leger claimed Moro was an alchemist, though his use of the term is tainted. I'm sure Moro was into something far, far more extreme. Leger wrote that it was Moro who had methodically conspired against the Catholics to perform blood rituals. Leger maintained Moro had murdered the Catholic priest at Fenile, and it was one of Moro's foul rituals that had sullied the Catholic church in Torre, though he could find nothing to document his claims."

  Abe droned on. " 'Forget not: in thy book record their groanes ... ' "

  Hellboy turned from Kate to stare again at the horrors on the screen.

  " ' ... Who were thy Sheep and in their ancient Fold, Slayn by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd Mother with Infant down the rocks ... ' "

  A soldier pulled a fetus from a woman's womb, while two other mercenaries slid their blades down the stomachs of two other infants.

  "Later entries assert that Moro conspired with the Jesuits," Kate continued, "and in fact had a hand in the hiring of the mercenaries involved in these crimes. Leger believed Moro orchestrated the atrocities that

  the atrocities were rituals in and of themselves, requiring the blood of infants in vast quantities."

  Abe had dropped his voice, but continued reading the Milton poem. Neither Kate or Hellboy stopped him.

>   " ' ... Their moans The Vales redoubled to the Hills, and they to Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields where still doth sway the triple Tyrant ... ' "

  "Blood, ashes, fire," Hellboy murmured. "Moro was up to something."

  " ' ... that from these may grow A hunder'd fold, who having learnt thy way ... ' "

  "Leger's diary is inconclusive," Kate said. "I found a trio of Dutch texts that claimed Moro was ultimately brought to justice on French soil under peculiar circumstances."

  Abe dropped his voice even lower. " ' ... Early may fly the Babylonian wo'."

  As Abe returned the paper to the desk, Hellboy turned back to face Kate. The room's air conditioner came on as a fan in the slide projector whirred. The screen caught the subtle breezes, and the bisected infants on screen seemed to wriggle.

  "How peculiar?" Hellboy asked.

  Kate changed the slide, motioning to the screen. "The Catholic church apparently conspired with some unusual bedfellows, a group of alchemists associated with this symbol."

  There, on the screen, was the serpent within a square, split by a crescent sword, point down.

  "The Church had Moro drawn and quartered in a public place, but his head would not bum. One of the texts claimed it still lived, and spoke, promising earthly gain for any who would salvage it."

  Hellboy and Abe exchanged glances and grunted.

  "Moro's head was turned over to the alchemists, who apparently sectioned the head and transmuted the elements to stone before the Church tidied up by burning the alchemists alive for heresy and scattering the pieces of the head to the four corners of France."

  Hellboy mustered a grim smile. "Ah, the benevolent gratitude of the Church."

  Abe read Kate's features. "There's more, I see."

  "Yes. Ragna Rok."

  Hellboy flinched for the first time. "Great. Another kraut spook squad."

  "No. The spook squad. World War II, Pre-Ragna Rok, our old circle of friends in the service of der Fuehrer: Klaus Werner Von Krupt, Kurtz, Haupstein

  and two others who never made the cut to the big time. They

  believed Moro's head was an arcane artifact of great power."

  "Huh. More kraut head cheese, like Von Klempt."

  "Two contemporary scholars claim the Third Reich sought and found the sections of the transmuted head during the Occupation. Reportedly, Von Krupt and company converged here in Paris to collect the pieces, intent on reassembling it when the French Resistance inadvertently broke up the operation."

  "Hmph," Hellboy grunted. "Probably had no idea what kind of party they crashed. Probably for the better."

  Kate shut off the slide projector, shook her head, and closed her eyes, tired of talking. "There are no further records to work from yet, but I've only begun to check the local bibliothèques. But your dreams suggest

  "

  "What?" Hellboy grumbled. "We've still seen no manifestation outside of my nightmares. Nothing to put our hands on."

  "Seems fair to assume something is still here," Abe concluded.

  Hellboy tapped his finger to his temple. "Or here."

  The head spoke to him even in his sleep now. Gone were the dreams of dissection, babies howling, and blood; the head was bathed in an ethereal light, as if it were the vision at Fatima. It spoke slowly, eloquently, of all that Guy would have and do. And as it spoke, he felt a deepening calm wash over him.

  He would have no more need of money, of mortal love, of flesh. Gone forever was hunger, pain, want, work.

  As he listened, he heard the new truth; as he watched, its lips spoke the words, but they began to form other thoughts, other things.

  Though his sleep had been restless, Guy had not touched her all morning. As Francine leaned over him tenderly and brought her hand up to his chest, he flinched. Taken aback, she rolled away from him, and slowly pulled the sheets up, careful not to wake him.

  The white gauze bandages were wrapped double-layer around his chest and back. There was no tape at the back, as a doctor would do it. The wrap was uneven, favoring his right side. She could smell no disinfectant, none of the odors of a doctor's office. What had he done to himself? She felt hot tears build and spill from the corners of her eyes, slipping down into her pillow. She brought her hand to her mouth to suppress a sob, and Guy stirred and rolled over onto his back.

  As she saw the blood stains, soaking into the gauze from beneath, she bit her hand.

  Outside, the Sunday morning stirrings of Boulevard Richard'lenoir began.

  He woke and left without comment. The more she had pressed him about his injuries, the more sullen and withdrawn he had become. He lied about having seen a doctor, claiming the Faculté doctor on duty for the night shift was drunk and had done a poor job of bandaging him up. When she asked the doctor's name, he pulled a clean pair of pants from the armoire drawers, put them on, and dashed out of the appartement without another word.

  Francine sat at the edge of the bed

  their bed

  and fought back the tears. She busied herself with making

  the bed, gathering their clothes for the laundry

  anything

  to keep the tears at bay, though the ache inside

  grew more and more unbearable.

  His clothes stank of the Faculté labs. They smelled old, dry, dead. It smelled like Thomas had that morning that they'd found him, so still in his bed. Guy had smelled like that, too, ever since that night. The tears spilled anew.

  She folded his work shirt over her arm. As she picked up his work pants off the floor, something drifted from his pocket and settled onto the carpet.

  A leaf, neatly folded.

  She picked up the leaf and turned it over curiously. It was creased and folded like a franc note, and even felt like one. Francine sat back down on the edge of the bed and set Guy's work pants in her lap. His pockets were bulging; she had to empty them to do the wash anyway.

  She gingerly reached into each pocket and pulled out leaf after leaf, carefully folded. She set them down beside her on the bed, and fought the urge to count them.

  "I found them this morning on the boulevard," Guy explained. "I've been finding them all week, every night."

  Startled, she jumped, dropping his pants and shirt to the floor. When had he come in?

  "They were everywhere on the boulevard," Guy stammered, "a-and I made sure they belonged to no one.

  They're mine. Ours."

  She couldn't bear to look at him. Her own shame at being caught mingled with her confusion and growing dread.

  "They're ours. I thought I could treat us to dinner tonight, before my shift begins," he continued.

  Her eyes drifted to the floor

  anywhere to avoid looking at his face, his imploring eyes

  and settled on his

  shirt pocket. Five or six carefully folded leaves jutted up from the pocket.

  He had his hand out now, with another leaf on his palm.

  "See, there are still a few outside," Guy exclaimed. "I just found another, as I was going. I brought it back for you."

  She absentmindedly plucked it from his hand, like the gift it was meant to be, and placed it on the bed with the others. And she began to laugh.

  Now she understood: it was a joke, to make up for their moods. She began to laugh, looking to his eyes for the shared twinkle, and the laugh caught in her throat when she saw the pain and rage on his reddened face.

  His words came like a torrent, slapping her time and again.

  And then he was gone, leaving her alone once more.

  He had hidden the head in the library. With the new attention being given to the archives since he had begun

  the cleanup, he was terrified someone would find his treasure, his savior. That someone would take it from him.

  There were so many places to hide things in the library. Places only he went.

  He unwrapped it lovingly. No more rags: he had wrapped it in one of his own shirts, his white shirt,
his Sunday shirt.

  As always, the eyes lolled in his direction, the mouth gaped like a fish gasping out of water. It spoke to him, showered him with promises, with predictions, with kisses. It suckled at his breast thankfully, he could feel

  nothing any longer

  but today it wriggled like an unhappy infant.

  Guy pulled it away from his withered nipple. The skin was forever raw, but it bled no longer. The head smacked its lips, and looked up at Guy with hunger.

  It spoke to him, slowly. At first, its words sickened him, he began to feel the way he had that first night. But the drone of its words, its wisdom, centered him anew, and Guy complied with its wishes. He took off his shirt and unbuttoned his trousers.

  Again, it began to suckle. He guided it slowly down, down, lower ...

  The head glowered at him, and began to rise. And as it rose, the babies howled and the crows shrieked and the sky darkened. The head rose from a lake of unborn children, barely formed fetal shapes that writhed like maggots in the dirt.

  From beneath the head's ragged, abbreviated throat, veins and nerves extended themselves with startling speed. They spiralled around one another like string, intertwining and swelling into rope-like limbs. The ridged protrusion of the esophagus distended itself at the center of this tapestry of extremities, thrusting down like some obscene caterpillar until the webbing of nerves, veins, and soft cartilage orchestrated itself into two arms and two legs jutting from the virgin trunk of the body.

  As he managed to back away from the looming growth, one of the tendrils rippled out from the fetal torso and seized him. He struggled, but already the veins had swollen into powerful talons, digging into his red flesh. He raised his right hand to smash the grip, but another tendril entangled that arm, and another had his left.