of them standing well back from this screaming thing thrashing about on the road. I wonder if they'd still stand back if he was only a man, Abby thought, and the answers she came up with scared her. All that blood. .. all that gore ... She thought of the deer they gave her at the BPRD, delicate, shy creatures that barely had the sense to run when she went to tear out their throats. Their blood, pumping into her mouth. Their flesh, raw and rich and yet tasting so wrong.
She swayed on her feet, looked up at the sun, and went down on her knees.
"What's happened to his face?" someone said, sick fascination in his voice. "What's it done to his legs?"
Abby grabbed the .45 tightly in her right hand and opened her eyes.
The werewolf was up on his arms and legs. He was still screeching, and fluid and chunks of gore dripped from his ruined head. His tongue lolled from his mouth, longer than it should have been. His fingers stretched, and nails dug into the road surface. Clothing ripped, and his back seemed to expand, as if he had taken in the final, largest breath of his life. But Abby knew that was not the case.
"Down!" she said, aiming the pistol. The crowd gasped, but the werewolf uttered something that could have been a laugh. Blood slopped from his mouth as teeth gashed gums and lips.
"You think so?" he growled. Abby heard the words, but the crowd stepped back, as if they had just heard the first threatening snarl of a wild animal.
"I know so," she said, and jumped at him.
He knew what she was, and somehow he knew whom she worked for, but he was unprepared for her attack Perhaps his wounds were just too much. She kicked out at his face and sent him sprawling, landed astride his chest, pressed the pistol muzzle into his right eye. He growled, then howled in anticipation of the silver bullet entering his brain.
"I will do it," Abby said, "I will !"
"What do you want?"
"Are you from Blake? Did he send you? Did he make you?"
"Huh?" The werewolf, fatal injuries bringing on his change, stopped squirming and ceased screeching. He lay still beneath her, left eye wide in surprise. And in that red eye, a glimmer of realization.
That was enough for Abby. She sat back, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger.
The crowd scattered. The creature beneath her bucked once and then lay still. Abby walked away.
----
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil — 1997
"T HAT IS ONE BIG WORM. " Hellboy had always wanted to take a trip to Rio, but not under these circumstances.
"Weird how people get used to things," Amelia Francis said. She was a lecturer in Mythology in History at the local university and a BPRD adviser in South America. She had met Hellboy at the airport less than two hours ago. Now they were standing beside the road, staring up at the dragon that perched on the outstretched left arm of Christ the Redeemer. "Ask most people now, and they'll shake their heads and smile and say it's a joke."
"Even though that thing turned half of Copacabana beach into a sheet of glass?"
"People can't believe, so they choose not to."
"Huh." Hellboy rolled his unlit cigarette across his lips. He'd already searched through his jacket pockets for some matches and drawn a blank. He wished Liz were there with him. "What about them?" He pointed up the mountain at the colorful specks climbing its slopes. From here they looked like insects.
Amelia sighed. "They're not the first. The police are doing their best to deter the journalists, sensation seekers, and souvenir hunters, but it's a big place. They can't seal it off totally."
"Huh," Hellboy said again. He stared up at the dragon. "Souvenirs?"
"From ... from what I know about dragons, it's ... " She trailed off, staring up past Hellboy. "That's a dragon !"
"Sure looks like it." He glanced at the woman, looked away, back again. She'd hardly raised an eyebrow when he arrived at the airport; not the usual response he engendered. His lobster-red skin, horn stumps, and waving tail usually attracted some sort of
She swayed on her feet, looked up at the sun, and went down on her knees.
"What's happened to his face?" someone said, sick fascination in his voice. "What's it done to his legs?"
Abby grabbed the .45 tightly in her right hand and opened her eyes.
The werewolf was up on his arms and legs. He was still screeching, and fluid and chunks of gore dripped from his ruined head. His tongue lolled from his mouth, longer than it should have been. His fingers stretched, and nails dug into the road surface. Clothing ripped, and his back seemed to expand, as if he had taken in the final, largest breath of his life. But Abby knew that was not the case.
"Down!" she said, aiming the pistol. The crowd gasped, but the werewolf uttered something that could have been a laugh. Blood slopped from his mouth as teeth gashed gums and lips.
"You think so?" he growled. Abby heard the words, but the crowd stepped back, as if they had just heard the first threatening snarl of a wild animal.
"I know so," she said, and jumped at him.
He knew what she was, and somehow he knew whom she worked for, but he was unprepared for her attack Perhaps his wounds were just too much. She kicked out at his face and sent him sprawling, landed astride his chest, pressed the pistol muzzle into his right eye. He growled, then howled in anticipation of the silver bullet entering his brain.
"I will do it," Abby said, "I will !"
"What do you want?"
"Are you from Blake? Did he send you? Did he make you?"
"Huh?" The werewolf, fatal injuries bringing on his change, stopped squirming and ceased screeching. He lay still beneath her, left eye wide in surprise. And in that red eye, a glimmer of realization.
That was enough for Abby. She sat back, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger.
The crowd scattered. The creature beneath her bucked once and then lay still. Abby walked away.
----
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil — 1997
"T HAT IS ONE BIG WORM. " Hellboy had always wanted to take a trip to Rio, but not under these circumstances.
"Weird how people get used to things," Amelia Francis said. She was a lecturer in Mythology in History at the local university and a BPRD adviser in South America. She had met Hellboy at the airport less than two hours ago. Now they were standing beside the road, staring up at the dragon that perched on the outstretched left arm of Christ the Redeemer. "Ask most people now, and they'll shake their heads and smile and say it's a joke."
"Even though that thing turned half of Copacabana beach into a sheet of glass?"
"People can't believe, so they choose not to."
"Huh." Hellboy rolled his unlit cigarette across his lips. He'd already searched through his jacket pockets for some matches and drawn a blank. He wished Liz were there with him. "What about them?" He pointed up the mountain at the colorful specks climbing its slopes. From here they looked like insects.
Amelia sighed. "They're not the first. The police are doing their best to deter the journalists, sensation seekers, and souvenir hunters, but it's a big place. They can't seal it off totally."
"Huh," Hellboy said again. He stared up at the dragon. "Souvenirs?"
"From ... from what I know about dragons, it's ... " She trailed off, staring up past Hellboy. "That's a dragon !"
"Sure looks like it." He glanced at the woman, looked away, back again. She'd hardly raised an eyebrow when he arrived at the airport; not the usual response he engendered. His lobster-red skin, horn stumps, and waving tail usually attracted some sort of
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