Read Online Hellboy, Vol. 2: The All-Seeing Eye by Mark Morris - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Morris
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in satisfaction. The warm air circulating in the car might stink of the cow dung he had waded through earlier, but that no longer mattered one bit. As far as he was concerned, everything was coming up roses.
———
Hellboy had been to London many times, but it never failed to give him that now-familiar rush. He could almost hear the vibrant echoes of its terrible, exhilarating history reverberating through the centuries, each year merely adding another skin, another layer, to an ever-expanding past. Like a kid in a sweet shop, he pressed his face to the Daimler’s tinted window, the sawn-off stumps of his horns clunking gently against the glass each time the car bumped over a patch of uneven road. In many ways the city was a mess — dirty, sprawling, congested, patched-up, a mishmash of styles and cultures — but that was also kind of what made it beautiful. It was like some impossibly old man, whose unbelievable, event-filled existence was etched into every deep groove on his gnarled and wrinkled face.
Hellboy had woken the instant they left the M25, the ever-busy motorway that encircled central London like a noose. It was as if he had a built-in sensor that informed him when the journey was about to get interesting. They approached central London from the east, bypassing Canning Town and Limehouse — once a center for shipbuilding, notorious in Victorian times for its gambling and drug dens, and a frequent haunt of Charles Dickens — and cruising through the much-renovated Isle of Dogs. Abe pointed out the glittering, rocket-like splendor of Canary Wharf, the tallest building in the UK, as it drifted by on the right, and then they were driving through Whitechapel, Jack the Ripper’s old haunt, and on from there into the city.
Their hotel, the Old Bloomsbury, was a renovated Georgian townhouse, tucked away down a quiet, leafy sidestreet close to the British Museum. After the bustle of central London, the abrupt quietude of the location was a little disorienting.
“Nice place,” said Liz, a delighted grin spreading over her face as she took in the hotel’s elegant facade. “ Really nice place.”
The satellite phone on Hellboy’s belt started to beep and he held it to his ear.
“Yep,” he said.
They all heard the tinny voice of Rachel Turner, who had been traveling in the car behind theirs all the way to London.
“This is a quiet street, but we’ll be going in round the back. The car park there is surrounded by an eight-foot-high wall. We’ve requisitioned the hotel for as long as we need it. It’ll be run by a skeleton staff, who have all signed the Official Secrets Act. Of course, your cover will be blown as soon as you hit the streets, but at least this’ll give you all a chance to get a jump-start on the investigation before the paparazzi start trailing you. For now, go up to your rooms, settle in, and relax. You’ve got a briefing at Scotland Yard at four p.m. Your car will be waiting round the back at three thirty to pick you up.”
“Got it,” Hellboy said, and stuck his phone back in his belt. Glancing at the clock mounted in the walnut dashboard of the Daimler, he saw that it was two forty-five p.m. — breakfast time back home.
“Damn briefing,” he muttered. “It’s just dead time. What can these guys tell us that we don’t already know?”
Liz shrugged. “Maybe they’ve got new information.”
“Nah, they’re just covering their asses. Then if anything happens to us they can at least claim it wasn’t due to negligence on their part.”
Liz knew there was a lot of truth in Hellboy’s words, but she still thought it useful to get the heads-up on a situation from those directly in the firing line. Different perspectives, different insights. It was all good.
“I wonder if our luggage has arrived?” Abe mused as they pulled into the car park at the rear of the hotel.
Liz knew he was thinking of his books and music.
“Does it ever?” Hellboy snorted. “Knowing
———
Hellboy had been to London many times, but it never failed to give him that now-familiar rush. He could almost hear the vibrant echoes of its terrible, exhilarating history reverberating through the centuries, each year merely adding another skin, another layer, to an ever-expanding past. Like a kid in a sweet shop, he pressed his face to the Daimler’s tinted window, the sawn-off stumps of his horns clunking gently against the glass each time the car bumped over a patch of uneven road. In many ways the city was a mess — dirty, sprawling, congested, patched-up, a mishmash of styles and cultures — but that was also kind of what made it beautiful. It was like some impossibly old man, whose unbelievable, event-filled existence was etched into every deep groove on his gnarled and wrinkled face.
Hellboy had woken the instant they left the M25, the ever-busy motorway that encircled central London like a noose. It was as if he had a built-in sensor that informed him when the journey was about to get interesting. They approached central London from the east, bypassing Canning Town and Limehouse — once a center for shipbuilding, notorious in Victorian times for its gambling and drug dens, and a frequent haunt of Charles Dickens — and cruising through the much-renovated Isle of Dogs. Abe pointed out the glittering, rocket-like splendor of Canary Wharf, the tallest building in the UK, as it drifted by on the right, and then they were driving through Whitechapel, Jack the Ripper’s old haunt, and on from there into the city.
Their hotel, the Old Bloomsbury, was a renovated Georgian townhouse, tucked away down a quiet, leafy sidestreet close to the British Museum. After the bustle of central London, the abrupt quietude of the location was a little disorienting.
“Nice place,” said Liz, a delighted grin spreading over her face as she took in the hotel’s elegant facade. “ Really nice place.”
The satellite phone on Hellboy’s belt started to beep and he held it to his ear.
“Yep,” he said.
They all heard the tinny voice of Rachel Turner, who had been traveling in the car behind theirs all the way to London.
“This is a quiet street, but we’ll be going in round the back. The car park there is surrounded by an eight-foot-high wall. We’ve requisitioned the hotel for as long as we need it. It’ll be run by a skeleton staff, who have all signed the Official Secrets Act. Of course, your cover will be blown as soon as you hit the streets, but at least this’ll give you all a chance to get a jump-start on the investigation before the paparazzi start trailing you. For now, go up to your rooms, settle in, and relax. You’ve got a briefing at Scotland Yard at four p.m. Your car will be waiting round the back at three thirty to pick you up.”
“Got it,” Hellboy said, and stuck his phone back in his belt. Glancing at the clock mounted in the walnut dashboard of the Daimler, he saw that it was two forty-five p.m. — breakfast time back home.
“Damn briefing,” he muttered. “It’s just dead time. What can these guys tell us that we don’t already know?”
Liz shrugged. “Maybe they’ve got new information.”
“Nah, they’re just covering their asses. Then if anything happens to us they can at least claim it wasn’t due to negligence on their part.”
Liz knew there was a lot of truth in Hellboy’s words, but she still thought it useful to get the heads-up on a situation from those directly in the firing line. Different perspectives, different insights. It was all good.
“I wonder if our luggage has arrived?” Abe mused as they pulled into the car park at the rear of the hotel.
Liz knew he was thinking of his books and music.
“Does it ever?” Hellboy snorted. “Knowing
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