Hellboy: Odd Jobs by Christopher Golden, Mike Mignola Read Free Book Online

us. Private salon."
    "Bonjour," Abe managed between the coils of his scarf. The flustered maître d' gazed for only a moment, as if to penetrate the opaque shielding of Abe's mirror shades; he had no way of knowing the opacity of the lidless eyes beneath the lenses. If anything, the starched guardian of the restaurant's sanctuary seemed more disturbed by Abraham's guise in such muggy weather than he had been by Hellboy's trench-coated stature.
    They cut a mean rug, he and Abe, no doubt about it.
    "Yes, of course," the maître d' chirped, regaining his composure. "Your private salon is right this way we
    wouldn't want to disrupt the clientele. Dr. Corrigan had requested special attention be given, and I apologize we weren't quicker to recognize your arrival."
    "Lead on," Hellboy gestured, sorry he couldn't milk their entrance for a little more juice.
    Abe kept his gloved hand to his face as they were led into a separate dining chamber. Kate stood to greet them, brow cocked at the maître d'.
    "What's the soup de jour ?" Hellboy asked.
    "I've ordered for us," Kate replied. "The food and wine is already here."
    "Thank you, madam. If I could be of any more service
    "
    The evident relief on his face coaxed a smile from Hellboy, who turned to close the salon door behind the efficient clicking of the maître d's polished shoes. Abe gasped as he slung the scarf away from his neck, quick to exchange greetings with Corrigan as he finished stripping away his disguise. Hellboy claimed his seat and managed a sip of wine before Abe was ready to join them.
    "You're looking good, Kate," Hellboy cooed. He rarely saw Corrigan dressed up for dinner, every dirty-blond hair brushed into place.
    Kate smiled at Hellboy and turned to Abraham. "Room comfortable at the Hotel de la Cathédrale ?"
    Abe nodded. "Your choice? Very nice. Like the big bathtub. Good color, too."
    "Matches his eyes," Hellboy snorted. "Thanks for getting us out of there tonight."
    "Let's get to it, shall we?" Kate began. "Was this the symbol you saw in your dream?"

    "Yeah, huh," Hellboy grunted, cradling his wine goblet in his left hand. "Told you I wasn't much of an artist."
    "On the contrary," Kate whispered, "I found it with nary a blind alley."
    The rough arc, within a square, split by a single sword, point down: but the arc was, in the old woodcut reproductions, a serpent, split by the curving blade.
    "I've traced this back to a group of alchemists who made their mark in Southern France during the late sixteenth, early seventeenth century. I need more to go on, but it's a start, and you seem to be suffering more vivid dreams the closer you've come to the source: vague memories in Connecticut, more vivid dreams en route to the U.K. and in London, a narrative pattern to the dreams and increasing specifics now that you're in Paris."
    Hellboy shifted his glare to Abe. "Tattle-tale."
    Abe shrugged, sipping his bottled water. Kate leaned across the table toward Hellboy, gingerly placing her pale hand on his rough stone fingers.
    "You've had more nightmares since you've been here, haven't you?"
    Abe looked away as Hellboy cleared his throat, turning his slitted eyes from the amphibian's averted gaze to Kate's open, imploring look. He swished his wine thoughtfully and then swallowed it down in a single gulp.
    Bad form. No matter.
    "You both know how I hate this psychic stuff," he muttered. "It's worse when it's scrambling your own noggin."
    Kate closed her other hand over his massive paw.
    "Tell her about the head," Abe insisted.
    "I thought it was happening to you
    "
    "Yeah," he managed. "I've been completely sliced and diced and brazed. But now there's more. I can hear rug-rats wailing, men chanting. Latin, French, Spanish, Italian. I see babies cut from throat to crotch. I smell blood."
    Kate pulled a notebook from her bag and began writing.
    "I can see something else," Hellboy concluded. "A head, not mine, but jig-sawed, like what they've done to me there in the dream. It's