Hellboy: Unnatural Selection(6)

So much for covert. He hated being the center of attention.

They followed the road around the slope of the mountain, and for a while a bulk of rock obscured the view. Hellboy sat back in his seat and chewed softly on the unlit cigarette. He wished — not for the first time — that he'd listened to Professor Bruttenholm when he had told Hellboy to spend more time learning. Maybe then he would know more about dragons, where they came from, what they wanted, what species this one was ... and most important, how he could stop it. He touched the big gun on his belt and smiled. Bad shot though he was, he couldn't miss this sucker.

"Are you really from hell?" Amelia asked.

Hellboy scowled. "What's your area of expertise again?"

"Mythology."

"I'm no myth. Drive."



* * *



Amelia was silent for the next few minutes, but when they finally reached the station she stopped the Jeep and turned to Hellboy, her face stern. "I think it may be Draconis albionensis, a British dragon usually known as the Firedrake. Big. Strong. Weird that it's here, as most dragons were commonly sighted in Europe, North Africa, China, and Asia. I'm not aware of any dragon legends from North or South America. Very strange."

"How do I kill it?"

"Put on a suit of armor, and pick up a sword. They're not immortal, you know."

Hellboy frowned for a moment, then smiled at her. She was not mocking him. Far from it; she was trying to help. She shivered even in this heat, and he patted her leg softly. "Hey, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to be gruff. That's 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.



* * *