just me, and ... well, I don't really like talking about me."
"I've always known about you, but in the flesh you're amazing."
"Hmph. I wish all the girls thought that way." Hellboy nodded his thanks and opened his door.
"Hellboy?" He looked back at Amelia. "That's a dragon," she said. "And that's impossible. A dragon ... it's myth. A story. They don't really exist."
At that moment the dragon roared and let fly a breath of fire at a helicopter that had strayed too close. The aircraft veered away, paint blistered and rubber door seals smoking from the heat. The creature flapped its wings, stretched its neck, then settled back onto its roost.
"I think he'd disagree with you, Amelia," Hellboy said. "Hey, do me a favor? Wait here for me. I don't plan on being long."
She nodded. "Be careful."
"If I had a last name ... 'Careful' would be my middle one."
----
On his way up the mountain in the deserted train, Hellboy called in to HQ. He asked to speak to Kate Corrigan, the BPRD's adviser on the paranormal, but she was busy somewhere else. So was Tom Manning, the director now that Professor Bruttenholm was dead. "Is there anyone there I can talk to?" Hellboy shouted, but the guy on the other end said something about being busy, having lots going on, and the world going to hell.
"Yeah, right," Hellboy muttered. He clicked off his satellite phone and tried to enjoy the trip.
The train clunked up the well-used tracks, taking him to a place where millions of people had previously journeyed to worship or admire or just to enjoy the view. He would be doing none of that. He flexed the fingers of his left hand, tapped the fingers of his right hand against the metal railing. They made a musical sound; if only he could identify the tune. And if he knew the tune, if only it had lyrics that would tell him more. Then he could sing along and learn the truth.
He had been called a dragon once. A Catholic priest in Ecuador had fallen to his knees when he saw Hellboy, clutching his rosary beads and prattling on in Spanish, shouting and screaming and generally acting upset. Hellboy was used to causing such a reaction, and he had smiled and shrugged and generally tried to exude benevolence. But even while he was being dragged away, the priest had raged, and the only word Hellboy had been able to make out had been dragon. That had offended him at the time, but later, sitting alone in the remains of a ruined church, he had looked at himself in a puddle of rainwater, and the offense had turned to sadness.
"Come on, dammit!" He thumped the side of the train car and left it dented. He shook his head. He hated these moments of calm before the storm, because they gave him time to muse upon his own nature. But then, he supposed that was good. Thinking such thoughts always got him in the mood for a fight.
----
Walking across the concrete esplanade, Hellboy was struck by the size of the statue of Christ. It was a magnificent effigy, beautiful, and he could only marvel at the builders who had constructed it so long ago.
Right now it was marred by the fire-breathing bastard sitting on its left arm. And below it, still steaming, dragon crap stained the hem of Christ's robes.
"Now that's just disrespectful," Hellboy said. "Hey! You!"
The dragon twisted on its perch and looked down at Hellboy. It was sleek and strong, its hide gray-green with shades of red on its throat, chest, and back. It moved without making a noise, and that unsettled him. Something so big and bulky should be clumsy, not graceful. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from this creature.
"We need to talk," he said. And for a second he thought that might suffice. The dragon put its head to one side, as if ready to listen. It dropped quietly from its perch, wings out for balance, and stepped daintily toward Hellboy, as if ready to parley.
And then it opened its jaws and sent a fireball his way.
Even as Hellboy rolled to the side, he was aware of the press helicopters homing in on this
"I've always known about you, but in the flesh you're amazing."
"Hmph. I wish all the girls thought that way." Hellboy nodded his thanks and opened his door.
"Hellboy?" He looked back at Amelia. "That's a dragon," she said. "And that's impossible. A dragon ... it's myth. A story. They don't really exist."
At that moment the dragon roared and let fly a breath of fire at a helicopter that had strayed too close. The aircraft veered away, paint blistered and rubber door seals smoking from the heat. The creature flapped its wings, stretched its neck, then settled back onto its roost.
"I think he'd disagree with you, Amelia," Hellboy said. "Hey, do me a favor? Wait here for me. I don't plan on being long."
She nodded. "Be careful."
"If I had a last name ... 'Careful' would be my middle one."
----
On his way up the mountain in the deserted train, Hellboy called in to HQ. He asked to speak to Kate Corrigan, the BPRD's adviser on the paranormal, but she was busy somewhere else. So was Tom Manning, the director now that Professor Bruttenholm was dead. "Is there anyone there I can talk to?" Hellboy shouted, but the guy on the other end said something about being busy, having lots going on, and the world going to hell.
"Yeah, right," Hellboy muttered. He clicked off his satellite phone and tried to enjoy the trip.
The train clunked up the well-used tracks, taking him to a place where millions of people had previously journeyed to worship or admire or just to enjoy the view. He would be doing none of that. He flexed the fingers of his left hand, tapped the fingers of his right hand against the metal railing. They made a musical sound; if only he could identify the tune. And if he knew the tune, if only it had lyrics that would tell him more. Then he could sing along and learn the truth.
He had been called a dragon once. A Catholic priest in Ecuador had fallen to his knees when he saw Hellboy, clutching his rosary beads and prattling on in Spanish, shouting and screaming and generally acting upset. Hellboy was used to causing such a reaction, and he had smiled and shrugged and generally tried to exude benevolence. But even while he was being dragged away, the priest had raged, and the only word Hellboy had been able to make out had been dragon. That had offended him at the time, but later, sitting alone in the remains of a ruined church, he had looked at himself in a puddle of rainwater, and the offense had turned to sadness.
"Come on, dammit!" He thumped the side of the train car and left it dented. He shook his head. He hated these moments of calm before the storm, because they gave him time to muse upon his own nature. But then, he supposed that was good. Thinking such thoughts always got him in the mood for a fight.
----
Walking across the concrete esplanade, Hellboy was struck by the size of the statue of Christ. It was a magnificent effigy, beautiful, and he could only marvel at the builders who had constructed it so long ago.
Right now it was marred by the fire-breathing bastard sitting on its left arm. And below it, still steaming, dragon crap stained the hem of Christ's robes.
"Now that's just disrespectful," Hellboy said. "Hey! You!"
The dragon twisted on its perch and looked down at Hellboy. It was sleek and strong, its hide gray-green with shades of red on its throat, chest, and back. It moved without making a noise, and that unsettled him. Something so big and bulky should be clumsy, not graceful. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from this creature.
"We need to talk," he said. And for a second he thought that might suffice. The dragon put its head to one side, as if ready to listen. It dropped quietly from its perch, wings out for balance, and stepped daintily toward Hellboy, as if ready to parley.
And then it opened its jaws and sent a fireball his way.
Even as Hellboy rolled to the side, he was aware of the press helicopters homing in on this
Similar Books
Mac's Angels: The Last Dance: A Loveswept Classic Romance
Sandra Chastain
Cougar's First Christmas
Jessie Donovan
Anarchist Book 4: (An MC Serial Novel) Book 4
Jordan Silver
Legends of Marithia: Book 3 - Talonsphere
Peter Koevari
DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS
Mallory Kane
Starting from Scratch
Marie Ferrarella
Red Sky in the Morning
Margaret Dickinson
Loaded Dice
James Swain
The Mahabharata
R. K. Narayan
Mistakenly Mated
Sonnet O'Dell