Saint Hellboy

Tom Piccirilli

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Father Tommy Guerra hung his head in shame while his grandmother

levitated at the top of the stairs. She twirled with her black dress

flowing about her, the rosary beads swinging around her waist. She

screamed in Italian and continued stirring a pot of pasta and red sauce

that spattered onto the carpet.

Hellboy, still wet from the rain outside, stared and asked, "Should we

try to get her down?"

"No," Tommy said, "it'll only encourage her."

"Please tell me I'm not going to have to punch out an old lady."

"I'm really hoping we can avoid that."

Hellboy wasn't so sure. The situation appeared just ridiculous enough

to have some serious malevolence at work. These kinds of cases started

off looking silly and ended with fire and a lot of blood. Usually his.

The elderly woman floated down the steps and, moaning at a fierce

inhuman pitch, began kicking Father Tommy in the head. "Grandma Lucia,

stop!"

Hellboy reached up to grab at her feet, and she stomped down on him

hard with her heels. He flailed backwards and nearly fell into a

life-size statue of St. Francis of Assisi. "Those are pediatric pumps.

They hurt!"

He felt the sudden rage brewing inside and stepped away. He watched Tom

leap and struggle with the crazed woman, whose eyes showed white as she

wailed. Hellboy clenched his massive stone right hand and put it behind

his back. He really didn't want to get into a fight with a priest's

eighty-two-year-old grandmother, even if she was possessed.

He'd known Father Tommy Guerra for almost ten years. They'd been side

by side in Jerusalem in '97 when the Whore of Babylon slithered out of

the olive trees at the Garden of Gethsemane. They'd worked together

well in South America against the death squads of Itzpaplotl, and most

recently had teamed in Japan eighteen months ago, where they'd faced

Aragami, the fury of wild violence, the God of Battle, slayer of 872

men. He wasn't so tough.

Now, after all that, Tommy had dragged him home to Brooklyn.

Grandma Lucia flipped upside down without spilling any pasta and

drifted back up the stairway into the dark recesses of the mansion. Her

mewling laments echoed for another half minute and then ended with an

unholy cry.

The storm kicked up another notch and the lightning skewered the

surrounding woodlands of Prospect Park, thunder bellowing out over the

lake. Don Pietro Guerra's men ran around on the estate checking for

intruders. There were occasional shouts and the squealing of tires as

their Jeeps buzzed around the various driveways and paths.

"They tell me it started slow," Father Tom said. "She became reclusive,

acting unlike herself. She's gregarious, really tough where it counts,

and she's held the family together through more than one rough patch.

When she took to her room they thought it might be her arthritis. Small

things happened around the house. Weird voices, milk and meat spoiling

in minutes."

"Pretty standard," Hellboy said.

"My grandfather called my cousin and me back home — we're the only

close relatives he has left. We both got in this morning. I thought I'd

call you, just in case — "

"In case something drastic had to be done and you didn't want to do

it?"

The priest met his eyes. "Frankly, yes."

"It's all right, Tommy." He tried to sound sympathetic, but it came off

bitter, and he didn't know why.

"I never told you much about my family, did I?"

"Not that they floated, anyway." Hellboy knew Tom had always held back

on his past, but everyone who ever operated with the Bureau did. You

either kept your secrets or the secrets kept you. Hellboy still wasn't

certain which way it was going for him.

"She usually doesn't."

"Yeah."

"Let's go inside and talk with my grandfather. I'll give you a quick

rundown."

They walked through corridors past glass cases and shelves containing

Renaissance artwork, statuary, and shrines of Catholic significance.

Family photos took up most of the remaining space on the shelves. Lots

of dour-faced people standing around frowning at the camera.

"They wear a lot of black," Hellboy whispered.

"A lot of them have died violent deaths. Six in the last couple of

years. There's been some in-fighting among the New York families. Plus,

Catholics like to mourn."

"You've had it rough."

"It's the name. Guerra means war. There's a power in names."

"Sure," said Hellboy, also known as Anung Un Rama, who wears the Crown

of the Apocalypse.

He listened as Tom laid it out on the line with a hint of remorse,

talking about his Mafia family, touching on some of the dealings his

relations had been involved with going back to the last century. Tommy

looked at him once, trying to gauge his reaction, but Hellboy wasn't

about to act shocked over extortion and cigarette smuggling after

fighting resurrected Nazis and a couple of fallen angels. Tom was too

close to the matter to realize he had nothing to sound guilty about.

They stepped into a broad living area that was dark with cherry

paneling and burgundy carpeting, waves of rain slashing at the bay

windows. A deep sense of anguished expectation spun in the air. Three

men stood surrounding a fourth in his wheelchair. You could tell he was

the one who gave the orders, made the big decisions.

Hellboy looked at the players and decided that all this trouble was

probably coming from one of them. He didn't try to figure out which

because, no matter who he chose, he'd be wrong and the grief would hit

him broadside from another direction. He was best off just waiting for

it.

Father Tommy made rapid introductions all around, starting with the low

man and working up.

Joey Fresco, Don Pietro Guerra's capo, was the guy in charge of the

dirty work. He ran the legbreakers and the hitters, and clearly enjoyed

his work. Joey had a smug smile and overconfident eyes that danced with

a kind of mischievous light. He was thin, but his jacket bulged with

hardware, and his leather holsters creaked and rasped when he moved.

The consigliere was Angelo Del Mare, the Don's right-hand man, an

attorney who managed to make everything look legal when the Feds and

the IRS came knocking. Runty and soft, with bland eyes and a rugged

complexion like he'd taken a lot of knocks when he was a kid. Del Mare

said, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Boy," and moved forward as if to shake

hands. Hellboy held out his right fist. Del Mare's face crumpled and he

slid back uncomfortably, suddenly fascinated with the knot of his tie.

Hellboy put his hand down.

Tom's cousin, Dante, wore the shadows like a shroud. Fresh out of a

Sicilian monastery, he assumed the guise of a man who'd drawn away from

the world and didn't like being pulled back into it. He had on a monk's

robes and cowl so that his face remained half-hidden in darkness.

Hellboy smelled blood on him and leaned in closer. It took him a second

to realize that Dante's order was made up of ascetics, the extreme

penitents and hardcore flagellants, and that Dante had sewn thistles

and broken bits of pottery into his frock.

The head honcho, Don Pietro Guerra, still seemed powerful even crippled

in his wheelchair, with the years worn into him like desert sandstorms

cutting into rock. Weakness threaded his features, and his teeth were

gritted against pain. He must've been one rough, intimidating bastard

back in his prime.

It was a little jarring, Hellboy thought, to learn that the mob had

been in business less than a mile from Trevor Bruttenholm's mansion.

He'd been fighting Nazis, dragons, and insane sorcerers for so long

that he'd never quite noticed this common sphere of crime.

The Don nodded and said, "My grandson Tommaso speaks highly of you.

Thank you for coming. I hope you can help us." His voice had a lot of

strength left in it.

"So do I," Hellboy said. "This is a big place. These the only people

here? Besides the old lady?"

"I sent everyone else away. There are guards who patrol the estate, but

they board in a converted guest house. I ordered them to stay outside

no matter what they might hear."

"Smart."

"My wife Lucia has never harmed anyone." Don Pietro trembled with

emotion, and the cool appearance of murder spread itself across his

face and formed an indignant scowl. "She is a good woman, devout and

loving. She does not deserve this ordeal. It began three days ago, this

outright madness. I believe one of my enemies, in this world or the

next, is tormenting her as a means to destroy me."

"Maybe," Hellboy told him.

He glanced around the place now and wondered when the troubles were

going to get kicking into high gear. His presence alone was generally

enough to stir things up.

"What do you suggest we do first?" the Don asked.

"I don't know. What exactly does your wife do? You know, besides fly

around."

The Don started to answer but couldn't quite get the words out. He gave

a small bark of confusion, anger, and something else. It sounded like

laughter. Del Mare answered for him. "She cooks."

"Say again?"

"Grandma Lucia cooks all day long, when she's not... ah ... hovering.

She can't seem to stop herself and shrieks for more food and

ingredients. It's all that seems to call her down. We've kept the

corner grocer quite busy this week."

A cooking demon? Hellboy stepped over to the huge windows at the back

of the room, watching as the streaming water lashed the glass, and the

lightning gouged and ruptured the sky.

They all waited like that until Joey Fresco decided to tighten the

tension a little and flex his attitude. He walked up and said, "You

just wasting time here or are you gonna help us take care of this

situation?"

"Settle down, Shorty."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll hammer you into the floor like a carpet tack."

He never had been much good at hurling threats.

Joey gave a grin, and the stink of blood grew stronger in the room.

Someone shouted outside, and his words were lost in the thunder. Then

the house thrummed, and it sounded like a '57 Chevy was being driven

through the east side of the house. A clamor of metal striking metal

erupted, and the wild hissing of steam surged. Whatever it was, it was

coming out of the pipes and starting to rattle the pots and pans

together.

"The kitchen," Father Tom said.

"Everybody stay here, I'll check it out."

Joey Fresco didn't take orders from anyone but Don Pietro Guerra, so he

bolted down the hall and made it to the kitchen way ahead of Hellboy.

Three shots went off instantly followed by heinous squeals of delight.

Hellboy recognized the sounds.

He got to the swinging kitchen door, braced his shoulder against it,

and accidentally burst the wood into splinters.

"Goddamn," Joey said. "The hell's the matter with you?"

"Sorry."

He took a quick look around. About twenty knee-high creatures ran

around the large kitchen savagely tearing at the drawers and cabinets,

clambering over the counter tops and ripping at jars and the sugar and

flour bins, wriggling into the refrigerator. They scratched and chewed

at each other as well, pulling at one another's tails, fighting for

room inside the freezer and meat locker.

They were still pouring out from the broken sink, and hot water

continued funnelling out in a gushing arc striking against the ceiling.

Hairless, fanged, and hungry, the creatures savagely screeched and ate

everything they could. It didn't take long before they were gnawing on

the linoleum and swallowing the cheap silverware. The good stuff

would've liquified them on the spot.

"What are these things?"

"You've got imps," Hellboy said.

"I tried shooting them. I splattered their brains, but they just put

them back in and keep on eating."

"Let me try." He drew his pistol and aimed at the closest imp. The

beastie chittered at him and started nibbling on his ankle. He pulled

the trigger and nothing happened. When you threw a punch it was natural

— everything else was a pain. He always forgot about the safety. He

snapped it off but the pistol still wouldn't fire. "Aww, crap!" He

hadn't loaded it. He stuffed in four shells but the breach wouldn't

close. "I hate guns!"

"I like 'em. Gimme that." Joey took the powerful sidearm and smoothly

loaded, aimed, and fired four times in rapid succession. The imps he'd

shot vanished in a haze of blue blood and gristle. The rest screeched

and escaped back down the drain.

"I need to get one of these!" Joey Fresco showed off his white teeth in

a brutal leer of pride, holding the pistol up before his eyes and

snickering. "What the hell kind of gun is it?"

"I don't know."

"Those ugly little critters dissolved. What kind of ammo does it take?"

"I'm not sure."

Sealing his lips into a bloodless line, Joey Fresco thrust the pistol

back into Hellboy's hands. "You good for anything around here?"

"A bad day just keeps getting worse. This sort of occult flare-up

invites other breeds of magic. These imps are only here because this

family's problem somehow deals with food."

"So we all like a good plate of pasta! That's not the occult, that's

just being Sicilian."

Okay, Hellboy thought, so me and the hitman aren't going to have many

intellectual conversations this evening. "Turn the water off under the

sink and let's go. I want to talk to the old lady."

"Show some respect to Donna Lucia."

"Come on, already."

They returned to the living room, and the oppressive weight of the

storm had driven the men into a silent huddle. Dante stooped at his

grandfather's knee as if in prayer, speaking quiet words to the Don. He

stood when Hellboy entered, and drifted from the shadows again as the

lightning backlit him in a brazen silver. "It appears your presence is

making matters worse."

"Usually does."

"Perhaps you should go then."

"No."

A regular guy would've sighed or thrown out his chest, but the monk

remained tranquil and moved in an odd fashion beneath his robes.

Hellboy frowned. Dante slithered inside his vestments, scraping himself

against the barbs, opening new wounds.

"Can you do any good against these forces?" the monk asked.

"Yes, whatever they are."

"Your hubris may be your ultimate downfall."

"Screw that."

Sorrow marked the monk's presence like a brand. "Perhaps there are

evils you cannot overcome."

"I can always give it a whirl. Why are you here, Dante?"

"My family asked that I return home, so I came. We do what we can to

share one another's burden."

Hellboy thought he should call the Bureau, ask a couple of questions,

and get them to do some research for him. "Are the phones out yet?"

Del Mare crossed the room with stooped shoulders, like he was trying to

stay out of the way of something coming up behind him. He picked up the

receiver. "It's not working." With a worried snort he held his cell

phone against his ear and immediately drew it away "There's a strange

kind of static. It sounds like ... I'm not sure."

"Like what?" the Don asked.

"Sniffling ... like several children sniffling ... sobbing."

"Children? Are they being drawn into this now?"

Tommy drew up beside Hellboy. "Figured we wouldn't be able to call out,

huh?"

"I wanted to ask somebody at the Bureau a question. Whenever I want to

contact them, the phones die." Lightning lacerated the landscape even

worse, the thunder battering at the glass. It should've given way by

now. "That bulletproof?"

Father Tom nodded. "And Dante's right. Things have turned up a notch

since you walked in."

"Since you came in, too."

"Huh." Tom kind of froze at that. The thought hadn't crossed his mind

before, and it struck him off-kilter. His eyes widened at the idea that

he might be shaking the energies up in the house. "Maybe we should go

find her."

Sweat stood out on Don Pietro's ashen face, and he raised a hand to

motion them to him. "Do not hurt her. No matter the cost, do not harm

my Lucia. She is not at fault."

"No one will harm Grandma," Tom said without a trace of uncertainty.

Hellboy kept silent.

A new noise pervaded the home, spiralling closer and closer. It took

shape and became an echo of the old woman's cries, but not the sound

itself. As if she was howling from long ago, or a time yet to come. Del

Mare grabbed a bottle of pills off the antique oak sideboard. "Your

medication, Pietro."

"I'm fine, I just need to rest a while," the Don said. A moment later

he slumped in his seat and passed out.

Clutching a pair of .45s, Joey stood torn between protecting the boss

and going out after the action. The nervous exertion made him do a tap

dance against the slate border on the floor, his heels clicking as he

fidgeted in place. Hellboy didn't want a shooter like that running

around the house in case there were any more outbreaks of black magic.

It might be better to have this guy close by where he could keep an eye

on him.

"Okay," he said, "let's go find Donna Lucia."

He could feel it now much stronger than before.

The brunt and strain of colliding energies. They parted and swarmed as

he moved through the dim mansion that reminded him so much of where

Trevor Bruttenholm had died. That gentle, warming draw of his rage

tugged at him once more.

The old woman started screaming upstairs, the bellowing growing louder

until the ceiling creaked with her anguish, and the framed paintings

clattered on the walls.

"She's sure pissed off about something," Joey said.

"It's a sin what's happening to her." Father Tom was at the border of

finally giving in to his own frustration and worry. "Someone has to

pay. No one should have to stand for it." He had plenty of faith, and

it always proved to be his greatest strength, but an attack like this

could wear at your nerves, your conviction, and your hope.

Hellboy stopped at the shelves of statuary. "I don't recognize most of

these saints."

"Some of them are from La Vecchia Religione, the Old Religion. We're

all pagans under the skin. When the Roman Empire collapsed, it took

centuries for the Sicilians to absorb Christian tenets. St.

Apollinarius presides over the healing ways of Apollo."

"I never heard a priest talk that way before," Joey the killer said

with an edge of disapproval.

"You wouldn't in Brooklyn," Tommy said. "But you should hear them down

in South America when they've got Aztec death gods going after their

kids."

The shooter just shrugged and let it go at that. He stared up the

stairwell as Grandma Lucia let out another shriek. "Someone's moving up

there."

Down here too. Hellboy watched several of the plastic and stone saints

grow animated and fall to their plastic knees. More magic overspill.

They turned to glare at him and their tiny mouths moved without sound.

Tom spotted the figures as well while Joey proceeded up the first step,

guns thrust before him. The priest said, "I can read their lips.

They're hungry and begging to be fed."

Hellboy nodded.

"If you can save my grandmother — "

"We will."

"Then she'll build you a shrine."

"I'm telling you now, I'm not going to put on a black suit."

Joey Fresco was nearly at the top of the stairway and called down, "You

two coming? Or you gonna leave me to handle this by myself?"

Father Tommy took the steps two at a time and Hellboy followed, staring

up at the rafters and waiting for an old lady to come flying down at

him. The place rumbled all around them, the storm settling right above,

and Donna Lucia's bizarre, timeless cries circled the corridors. When

they got to the second floor, the lights flickered as if in fearful

expectation.

Joey Fresco had one gun aimed toward the far end of the dark hallway,

the other at Hellboy's chest. His chin was tilted into a mocking grin.

Bringing him along had been a bad idea after all. "You don't want to

point that at me," Hellboy told him, and drew his Right Hand of Doom

into a fist.

"Shut up, you big red mook. You got a statue of St. Anthony crawling up

your coat. It looks like it's trying to chew on you. You want me to

ping him off or not?"

Hellboy yanked the figure off him and tossed it over his shoulder. This

whole situation was starting to get more annoying than anything.

He'd taken his eyes off the ceiling for a minute, and Grandma came

swooping down out of nowhere, kicking at him with those shoes again.

Her features had folded into a mask of heartache and regret, the white

hair coming undone from the tight black net. She kept shouting the same

words in Italian over and over. Some sauce dripped down on him and,

despite himself, his stomach growled. He hadn't had any good home

cooking in months.

"My God." Tom crossed himself and held his hands up in a gesture of

pity. "Is she still stirring sauce? She's been doing that for two solid

days now."

"The bowl's almost empty."

Even the hitman appeared humbled. "The Don had us go out and get more

for her. We left it at the top of the stairs, and she'd take it away.

There was plenty more in the kitchen before, but those little squealing

creeps ate everything."

Hellboy really didn't want to slug her. There was a power in names, all

right, and though he'd never been much good at the subtle approach, he

decided to talk to the old lady instead of punch her through a wall.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Donna Lucia cocked her head and swooped in low. Smoke rose from the

dish and wafted up into her face, split by her heaving breaths. The

rosary swayed in time with her stirring. She whipped the pasta so fast

that the food steamed from the heat.

She calmed for an instant, peered into his eyes and said, "Did you take

my bowl?"

"You have one."

"Not this. The one that feeds! Did you take my bowl!"

"No."

"Bugiardo! Bastardo!"

"Hey now," Hellboy said, genuinely offended. "Grandma, that's just

mean!"

A searing flare of golden-white light spiked down and exploded in an

insane roaring blast. Deafening thunder rocked the room, and a ball of

fire broke wide, hurling heaps of flame. Everyone was thrown off his

feet and cried out, even Hellboy. The bolt had climbed through one of

the bedroom windows and hurtled through the hall to crash directly at

Grandma's feet. The blast tore the hardwood floor up into charred

smashed planks. Coiling billows of smoke heaved around them.

"Tommy, are you all right!"

The priest had splashes of blood on his face but his expression was

determined. "Yes — look what's happening to her."

The old woman had begun to transmogrify. They always transmogrified. No

matter what you were dealing with, before you were done, it changed

into something else, usually much uglier than before. It got

predictable, but there it was.

Echoes clustered, converged, and then flowed off. Donna Lucia had

altered into an even more ancient woman, a creature millennia old but

still with a glint of youth and devotion in her gaze. Tight gray flesh

and yards of brittle colorless hair covered it, the fingernails dried

and long and cracked. The ladle she'd been stirring with snapped in her

wizened claw.

Groggy and coughing, Joey held his guns up directly in front of Donna

Lucia's face and then suddenly realized what he was about to do.

"Jeez!"

" The children, I will protect the children, even if I must blight you

all!"

"Listen up, lady, whoever you are. I lived through three hits from

Benny the Penny Castigliano, and I survived Catholic school. You ain't

got the brass to take me out!"

The bowl dropped and shattered. She turned on Tom, and the madness

clouded her eyes. Hellboy understood he had to make a move, or his

friend was going to get wrecked.

"Grandma, stop!" Tommy shouted.

Hellboy let loose with a growl deep in his chest. "I knew this was

going to happen!"

He tried tapping her gently on the chin with his left fist, and the

ancient woman ignored him. So he held his breath and slapped her with

his right stone hand, letting himself go a little, fighting to hold

back the anger, and Grandma Lucia shot across the hall.

Saints and religious icons toppled and began to crawl. She returned to

normal, looking exhausted but defiant, whispered, "Tommaso," and

flopped backward onto the carpet.

Tom and Joey spent a few minutes checking her over while Hellboy used

his coat to put out the fires before they could spread. Some of the

tiny plastic figures scrambled away from the flames, waving their

miniature arms.

"She seems okay," Tommy said.

"Good." Hellboy picked up the lady, carried her to the nearest bedroom,

and put her on the bed. He turned to the hitter and told him, "Guard

her. Don't leave her alone."

"I won't. What're you two gonna be doing?"

"Finishing this."

"Okay. You want me to load your gun for you?"

"Screw you."

They left, and the saints followed for a time before finally dropping

back and running off in different directions. Hellboy had heard the

tale before but still couldn't quite get it to click into place.

Somebody at the Bureau would've known. "I remember something about a

witch with a magic bowl."

Father Tom thought about it for a minute. "That's right, an old

Sicilian legend. I should've picked up on it. That was stupid."

"Nobody expects centuries-old legends to come walking into their

houses."

"I should've. Her name is Nona Strega, but according to the folklore

she's a loving, devoted being. She has a bowl that never runs out of

pasta. She feeds the hungry village children across the countryside."

"So somebody stole her bowl. And she's scared the kids will starve."

"Apparently so. But who took it?"

That was easy enough to answer now, but Tom still couldn't see it.

"Let's go ask."

The smell of blood met Hellboy before he entered the living room.

Don Pietro remained unconscious, perhaps only sleeping, maybe hexed or

dying. The monk stood stoic, apart from the rest of the turnings of

humanity. Del Mare the consigliere wore a worried grimace and said, "We

heard a horrible commotion upstairs. Was the house actually hit by

lightning?"

"Yes," Hellboy told him. "You're going to need a good contractor."

"We've got plenty, but there's never enough insurance."

There was nothing to say to that. He figured he had a line on the

problem now and decided to play out his string, wherever it led. He

walked over to Dante and watched him squirming under his cloak again,

the stink wafting from him. Hellboy grabbed hold of the monk's

vestments and yanked them open.

The robes parted to reveal the abominable dissection wounds across

Dante's stomach and chest where the flesh had been carefully peeled

back.

Now it made some sense.

The monk stood, eviscerated, his chest cavity opened wide with the

flaps of muscle and gristle hanging open by a snapped silver thread.

Hellboy knew that the needle used to perform this ritual would be

engraved with the ten holy names of the Divine Order.

All of Dante's major organs had been carefully removed. They would be

kept in ancient pottery, probably back at his monastery in Sicily, each

vessel of terra cotta inscribed with Sumerian and Latin phrases. His

rib cage would've been sawed in half and set upon the Seal of Solomon

drawn out in silver nitrate upon stone that never saw sunlight. All his

organs would still be alive and healthy despite being extracted. The

heart beating, the lungs working as if they were still inside him.

Del Mare said, "Madonna Mary protect us," and vomited. He tried to make

it back to his feet but couldn't, so he just sat there dazed and

shaking.

Tom paled and his mouth dropped open, his voice filling with disgust

and terror. "Dante? Who ... who did this to you?"

"He did it to himself," Hellboy answered. "He removed his own organs

and replaced them with Nona Strega's bowl."

"My God, no ... Dante ..."

"It had to be done," the monk said. "I had to awaken her wrath."

"For Christ's sake, why?!"

"No, not for Christ exactly, but for the sake of the starving children.

Disease is rampant in southern Italy. You've been waging war with

infernal beasts and ghosts and goblins, Tom. You've forgotten what

happens to people when they are hungry.

You've traveled to exotic lands while I've held the sick and the dying

and been powerless to do anything to ease their suffering. My holy

order works closely with orphanages, hospitals, and even prisons.

Heaven may be growing stronger thanks to your work, but the world is

only becoming more callous and desperate. Have you forgotten Guerra

means war?"

"No," Tommy said, "I haven't forgotten."

"Nona Strega was asleep. I needed her aid so I awoke her, summoned her,

showed her what it was to live and nurture and provide again, with

grandmother's help."

The priest recovered pretty nicely, the same way he had after stumbling

over the Whore of Babylon as she slinked out of the groves of

Gethsemane. "Where did you get the bowl?"

"The monastery has had it for centuries, but the abbots considered it

only a relic. After recently discovering some texts in our library, I

stumbled onto its true power. The witch's bones lie in our cemetery.

Once she was a saint."

"Maybe she still is."

"I pray it's so."

Tom swung his head about as if hunting for a gun or any weapon that

might put an end to his powerlessness, gaping at Hellboy, turning back

to his cousin. "And after all this? After using your loved ones this

way? What'll you do now?"

"Go back and return the artifact to her. And restore myself."

Hellboy wasn't sure whether he should slap the crap out of this guy or

let it go and leave it to the family. Father Tommy Guerra seemed to be

stuck himself, still unsure of his next move. A ripple of contempt

passed over his face, and then one of charity, and then something

in-between. Sometimes this job could get to you, especially when your

own friends or relatives were involved.

"Go now," Tom said. "Don't ever speak to grandmother again, for the

rest of your life. I hate that you were willing to use her like this,

but I'll try to forgive you. Put your heart back where it belongs, and

be human enough again to feel remorse."

"I do."

"I'm not letting this go. I'll visit you in three days, to help with

the orphans."

"Thank you," the monk said, and stepped away until he faded into shadow

and vanished.

It took about an hour to get the rest of it settled, make sure Don

Pietro and Grandma Lucia were okay, get Del Mare cleaned up after his

little regurgitation display, and make sure that the imps were

completely gone.

Hellboy carried the old lady downstairs and reunited her with the Don.

She didn't remember anything about the incident except a vague memory

that the ceiling needed to be dusted. She also threw a fit when she saw

all the statues scattered all over the floor, the paintings hanging

askew, scorch marks and a hole in the floor, and the kitchen ripped to

pieces. She got out her feather duster and vacuum and started cleaning,

cursing the whole time, and kept smacking Joey in the back of the head.

"But Donna Lucia, I didn't do anything!"

"So you say!"

Dante was right, in his own way. For years Hellboy had been so busy

fighting the infernal, the dead, the undead, trolls, ogres, and dragons

that he'd forgotten there were kids without bread. He didn't know what

he should do about it, but maybe he'd work something out with the

Bureau. He had to stay hooked in to the world. It was easy to get too

caught up in paranormal events and forget about the orphanages.

Before Hellboy could leave, they opened a bottle of red wine and

insisted on him sharing a drink. He hated the taste but he sipped it

anyway, trying not to think about where the money had come from for

this estate and everything in it, doing his best not to pass judgment

on the people he'd just helped. Sometimes the job made his brain hurt.

"So it had nothing to do with her ring?" Don Pietro asked. When he got

nothing but surprised looks, he immediately realized his mistake.

"What's this?" Grandma Lucia pulled a face that made her appear much

nastier than when she was possessed. Even Joey Fresco took a step back.

"What's this!"

The Don's eyes filled with panic. "Nothing!"

"There's something wrong with my wedding ring?"

"No, no, of course not!"

Hellboy looked at the diamond. He took out an iron pentacle etched with

the names of seven archangels. The diamond clouded with a swirling

foggy pall, and a blue spark angrily shot from it.

"Insurance won't cover this," Del Mare said, and he went a touch green

again.

"My wedding ring is cursed?" Grandma started forward, fists on her

hips.

Don Pietro rolled himself away, trying hard to hold onto his composure,

keep some of his pride. It wasn't working. "Only a little."

Hellboy headed for the door, and Father Tommy Guerra put a hand on his

shoulder. "Stick around. I'll have someone run out and do some

shopping. We owe you a good meal at least."

"No thanks," Hellboy said. "I'm not hungry."

He walked into the night wanting to feel the wet wind on his face, but

it had stopped raining.