it," Hellboy muttered, "They're just dreams
"
"Of your head being methodically flayed and sectioned."
As he placed his book in his lap, Abraham's amphibian gaze betrayed none of the concern that resonated in his voice.
"I'll call the Bureau for you," Abe offered. "Could you make out anything more this time?"
Hellboy sat up in the bed, dropping his hooves to the floor. He fumbled for the phone, pushing aside the torn lamp shade to retrieve the receiver. He busied himself for a moment tidying up the mess, twisting the bulb of the righted lamp and grunting with pleasure when the light flickered on. Turning his attention to the shattered headboard, he traced the center of impact with a blackened fingernail.
The silence hung between them, eased only by the wet suction of Abraham's breathing.
"I still can almost make out the symbols on his robe," Hellboy whispered. "But there's too much blood obscuring things. They're alchemical in nature, I'm sure. And
"
Abe's sticky breath: In. Out.
Hellboy reached down to pick up the hotel stationery pad. The ornate masthead of the Hotel de la Cathédrale graced the top of each sheet of paper, framed with leering gargoyles.
Hellboy paused a moment, pen poised at the thatch of hair under his lip, then drew the symbol he recalled from the gown in the dream: an arc, within a square, split by a single sword, point down. The blade was curved, disrupting the crucifixion symbol of most European inverted swords: this was not a cross. He handed it to Abe and walked to the window.
Outside, the gargoyles of the Notre Dame Cathedral met his gaze.
"There was something else. He spoke to me this time. German."
The gargoyles' eyes expressed nothing, just as Abe's lidless glare betrayed nothing.
"Big promises about ... my father."
Abe looked away, as if pondering the curtains or the bidet.
"We're about done with the Cocteau manifestation. Manning said there was something else here in Paris,"
Abe stated flatly, "but he said nothing about its link to you. You're picking up more and more information, the closer we get to the source."
"There's nothing psychic about it," Hellboy grumbled. "What a pain in the ass ... "
"Liz disagrees. So does Manning."
Hellboy glared at Abe. "And you?"
That fishy grin, betraying nothing. "Anything else you can recall?"
Hellboy touched his face again, unconsciously tracing the line of his jaw with his fingers.
"A bonesaw, the bastard had a bonesaw. Was going to take my jaw off this time."
"Watch some television," Abe said soothingly. "I'll call the BPRD once you've settled down. I'll scan and fax your drawing over, too."
Hellboy abandoned the window and moved to the bed. Kicking off the blankets, he leaned back into his pillow, his jaw clenched.
"Yeah, great, French TV," he muttered. "TF1, FR2, M6, Le Cinque nothing but mindless variétés this time
of night. The novelty has worn off. You know, I miss the British news programs Liz had us watching last weekend. They had an amusing attitude about the French."
"Until we wrap up loose ends on the Cocteau visitation, we're stuck here," Abe reminded him. "The locale has intensified your nightmares, too, which has given the Bureau reason to drag their feet a bit longer. Better start learning French, or find some SECAM videos."
"Ducky. Go soak in the tub, would you?"
"There's always the music videos I picked up in London," Abe grinned. "This Magnetoscope plays PAL as well as SECAM."
"Spare me," Hellboy muttered. Reaching for the remote, he punched the play button and resumed watching the SECAM conversions Liz had sent along of the medical channel from the satellite at home. A retinal operation, by the look of things, filmed with clinical detachment. The blessedly English-speaking narrator purred professionally, her explanations lost on Hellboy.
"Suit yourself," Abe grunted, returning to his book.
Hellboy packed his pillows against the ruined headboard and leaned back, awash in the cool light of the
"
"Of your head being methodically flayed and sectioned."
As he placed his book in his lap, Abraham's amphibian gaze betrayed none of the concern that resonated in his voice.
"I'll call the Bureau for you," Abe offered. "Could you make out anything more this time?"
Hellboy sat up in the bed, dropping his hooves to the floor. He fumbled for the phone, pushing aside the torn lamp shade to retrieve the receiver. He busied himself for a moment tidying up the mess, twisting the bulb of the righted lamp and grunting with pleasure when the light flickered on. Turning his attention to the shattered headboard, he traced the center of impact with a blackened fingernail.
The silence hung between them, eased only by the wet suction of Abraham's breathing.
"I still can almost make out the symbols on his robe," Hellboy whispered. "But there's too much blood obscuring things. They're alchemical in nature, I'm sure. And
"
Abe's sticky breath: In. Out.
Hellboy reached down to pick up the hotel stationery pad. The ornate masthead of the Hotel de la Cathédrale graced the top of each sheet of paper, framed with leering gargoyles.
Hellboy paused a moment, pen poised at the thatch of hair under his lip, then drew the symbol he recalled from the gown in the dream: an arc, within a square, split by a single sword, point down. The blade was curved, disrupting the crucifixion symbol of most European inverted swords: this was not a cross. He handed it to Abe and walked to the window.
Outside, the gargoyles of the Notre Dame Cathedral met his gaze.
"There was something else. He spoke to me this time. German."
The gargoyles' eyes expressed nothing, just as Abe's lidless glare betrayed nothing.
"Big promises about ... my father."
Abe looked away, as if pondering the curtains or the bidet.
"We're about done with the Cocteau manifestation. Manning said there was something else here in Paris,"
Abe stated flatly, "but he said nothing about its link to you. You're picking up more and more information, the closer we get to the source."
"There's nothing psychic about it," Hellboy grumbled. "What a pain in the ass ... "
"Liz disagrees. So does Manning."
Hellboy glared at Abe. "And you?"
That fishy grin, betraying nothing. "Anything else you can recall?"
Hellboy touched his face again, unconsciously tracing the line of his jaw with his fingers.
"A bonesaw, the bastard had a bonesaw. Was going to take my jaw off this time."
"Watch some television," Abe said soothingly. "I'll call the BPRD once you've settled down. I'll scan and fax your drawing over, too."
Hellboy abandoned the window and moved to the bed. Kicking off the blankets, he leaned back into his pillow, his jaw clenched.
"Yeah, great, French TV," he muttered. "TF1, FR2, M6, Le Cinque nothing but mindless variétés this time
of night. The novelty has worn off. You know, I miss the British news programs Liz had us watching last weekend. They had an amusing attitude about the French."
"Until we wrap up loose ends on the Cocteau visitation, we're stuck here," Abe reminded him. "The locale has intensified your nightmares, too, which has given the Bureau reason to drag their feet a bit longer. Better start learning French, or find some SECAM videos."
"Ducky. Go soak in the tub, would you?"
"There's always the music videos I picked up in London," Abe grinned. "This Magnetoscope plays PAL as well as SECAM."
"Spare me," Hellboy muttered. Reaching for the remote, he punched the play button and resumed watching the SECAM conversions Liz had sent along of the medical channel from the satellite at home. A retinal operation, by the look of things, filmed with clinical detachment. The blessedly English-speaking narrator purred professionally, her explanations lost on Hellboy.
"Suit yourself," Abe grunted, returning to his book.
Hellboy packed his pillows against the ruined headboard and leaned back, awash in the cool light of the
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