Hellboy: Odd Jobs (7 page)

Again, the breath, unmistakable.

Guy began to tremble. He rubbed his face and eyes, then steeled himself for the worst. Hesitantly, he shuffled to the cardboard and carefully set it aside. He bent down, sobbing, and forced himself to reach into the darkness beneath the desk.

It was still there, beneath the filthy wrap. Guy tenderly picked the bits of dust and dirt away, and slowly peeled back the rag. Its lone eye fixed him, a reservoir of unspeakable sorrow.

Is this all he had feared?

He held it just so for a long, long time. Gradually, his breathing steadied, and he continued to unwrap the thing.

Guy cradled the head in his arms, studying its features. It was handsome, in its way, he thought. There was a coppery burnish to the skin that made it seem strong, ageless.

The eye held its gaze, and Guy met it, now unafraid.

This time, when it spoke, he did not drop it or flee.

He listened.

It promised him much he'd never had, many things he'd always wanted.

It promised him things he'd never dreamed of. Never. Ever.

It wanted so little in exchange.

As if in a dream, Guy reached for the unlabeled manila envelope he had hidden away with the object that fateful night of discovery. He reached inside, and as the head whispered to him, Guy methodically coaxed each one of the remaining gray pieces into place. As he felt the round gray piece shift into position in the socket opposite the single eye, sliding between calloused lids with a satisfying pop, he looked down with pride on his work.

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."