unsteadily.
He breathed deeply, straightening up, and kept one hand on the wall as he left the bathroom, mirror fragments crunching under his hooves. In the living room, he paused a moment and glanced around. The world hadn't turned gray...the day had turned to evening. Dusk had arrived.
"Stasia?" he whispered, glancing around. The suitcases lay on the huge king-size bed, just as he'd left them, open but still packed.
A frisson of fear went through him, not for himself, but for her. For them. He spun and looked out through the curtains at the balcony. The dusk had a rosy glow--not long at all since the sun had gone down. Moments, really. In that glow, he saw the silhouette standing out on the balcony, and relief flooded through him.
"Damn, you gave me a scare," he said. He strode toward the balcony doors.
The silhouette shifted and became clear.
It was not Anastasia.
Fists clenching, Hellboy froze just inside the doors and stared at the man on the balcony. The first thing he noticed was the glowing orange tip of the cigarette the man held down at his side, nearly cupped in his palm. A trail of smoke curled upward, though Hellboy felt sure the cigarette had not been there a moment before.
He had olive skin and raven black hair, but his features might have been Middle Eastern or Egyptian or Greek. His large pupils glowed with the same heat as the tip of his cigarette. He dressed with casual elegance, in a beige linen suit and a cotton shirt, open at the neck.
Hellboy spent his days and nights trying to ignore the reaction most people had to his presence. There were positives and negatives to his infamy, but perhaps the best thing about being a public figure was that, more often than not, people knew whom they were seeing when they encountered him for the first time. The ones who'd never heard of him--they were the ones that troubled him the most.
They reminded him, every day. He didn't have to look in a mirror to see that he wasn't like most people, that he could be terrifying to behold. All he needed was the looks on the faces of the people he encountered. And when they realized he and Anastasia were together--together--it was that much worse.
Not this guy. He smiled and nodded a silent greeting. He stood in front of the seven-foot, four-hundred-pound, red-skinned guy with the sawed-off horns and the hooves and tail--and the ugly disposition--and he was cool . Not just acting cool. Hellboy could see it in his body language, in the bright intelligence of his eyes.
He had never wanted to kill anyone so badly.
"Where is she?"
The man leaned against the balcony railing with the island sunset behind him and Mount Ida on the horizon, and he lifted his cigarette and took a drag.
"The Obsidian Danse has decided that you have ruined enough of our plans," the visitor began.
Hellboy narrowed his eyes. "The what? Obsidian what?"
The man's composure slipped. A tic of anger twitched at one corner of his left eye.
"Honestly, with your lady friend vanishing, I wouldn't have expected such obstinacy."
Hellboy's right hand was not made of stone, but that ancient substance had the texture and weight of stone, and it often felt heavy to him. Just then it had no weight at all. It seemed to float upward. All Hellboy had to do was give himself over to the urge, and he'd be snapping the guy's bones in a heartbeat.
But not until he knew where Anastasia was and that she was safe.
"You've plagued us these past few years, Hellboy," the elegant man with the ember eyes said. "The Obsidian Danse has lost talented operatives, dozens of invaluable artifacts, alliances with gods and monsters, and several opportunities for apocalypse because of you."
"Good for me," Hellboy muttered. He wanted to add, still never heard of you, but thought of Anastasia and kept silent.
"Now you're here. We're on the verge of returning to this world three of the most powerful supernatural creatures ever to walk the earth, and here you are to thwart us again.
He breathed deeply, straightening up, and kept one hand on the wall as he left the bathroom, mirror fragments crunching under his hooves. In the living room, he paused a moment and glanced around. The world hadn't turned gray...the day had turned to evening. Dusk had arrived.
"Stasia?" he whispered, glancing around. The suitcases lay on the huge king-size bed, just as he'd left them, open but still packed.
A frisson of fear went through him, not for himself, but for her. For them. He spun and looked out through the curtains at the balcony. The dusk had a rosy glow--not long at all since the sun had gone down. Moments, really. In that glow, he saw the silhouette standing out on the balcony, and relief flooded through him.
"Damn, you gave me a scare," he said. He strode toward the balcony doors.
The silhouette shifted and became clear.
It was not Anastasia.
Fists clenching, Hellboy froze just inside the doors and stared at the man on the balcony. The first thing he noticed was the glowing orange tip of the cigarette the man held down at his side, nearly cupped in his palm. A trail of smoke curled upward, though Hellboy felt sure the cigarette had not been there a moment before.
He had olive skin and raven black hair, but his features might have been Middle Eastern or Egyptian or Greek. His large pupils glowed with the same heat as the tip of his cigarette. He dressed with casual elegance, in a beige linen suit and a cotton shirt, open at the neck.
Hellboy spent his days and nights trying to ignore the reaction most people had to his presence. There were positives and negatives to his infamy, but perhaps the best thing about being a public figure was that, more often than not, people knew whom they were seeing when they encountered him for the first time. The ones who'd never heard of him--they were the ones that troubled him the most.
They reminded him, every day. He didn't have to look in a mirror to see that he wasn't like most people, that he could be terrifying to behold. All he needed was the looks on the faces of the people he encountered. And when they realized he and Anastasia were together--together--it was that much worse.
Not this guy. He smiled and nodded a silent greeting. He stood in front of the seven-foot, four-hundred-pound, red-skinned guy with the sawed-off horns and the hooves and tail--and the ugly disposition--and he was cool . Not just acting cool. Hellboy could see it in his body language, in the bright intelligence of his eyes.
He had never wanted to kill anyone so badly.
"Where is she?"
The man leaned against the balcony railing with the island sunset behind him and Mount Ida on the horizon, and he lifted his cigarette and took a drag.
"The Obsidian Danse has decided that you have ruined enough of our plans," the visitor began.
Hellboy narrowed his eyes. "The what? Obsidian what?"
The man's composure slipped. A tic of anger twitched at one corner of his left eye.
"Honestly, with your lady friend vanishing, I wouldn't have expected such obstinacy."
Hellboy's right hand was not made of stone, but that ancient substance had the texture and weight of stone, and it often felt heavy to him. Just then it had no weight at all. It seemed to float upward. All Hellboy had to do was give himself over to the urge, and he'd be snapping the guy's bones in a heartbeat.
But not until he knew where Anastasia was and that she was safe.
"You've plagued us these past few years, Hellboy," the elegant man with the ember eyes said. "The Obsidian Danse has lost talented operatives, dozens of invaluable artifacts, alliances with gods and monsters, and several opportunities for apocalypse because of you."
"Good for me," Hellboy muttered. He wanted to add, still never heard of you, but thought of Anastasia and kept silent.
"Now you're here. We're on the verge of returning to this world three of the most powerful supernatural creatures ever to walk the earth, and here you are to thwart us again.
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