"Stay behind me, son," Bruttenholm ordered, though he knew it was futile. Hellboy was built for this.
They descended into the cellar, past the ruined wine racks, to the breach in the foundation. A cool, azure light spilled from the crack. It wasn't the light of the mortal world; it was the luminescence of the faerie realm.
Suddenly, the floorboards vibrated. A rhythmic, metallic thrum shook the teacups on the table. Clack. Clack. Clack.
The red boy lunged. He wasn't the seasoned warrior yet; he was clumsy, angry, and powerful. He tackled a golden soldier, the impact ringing like a church bell. The construct was heavy, immovable, but Hellboy was the Anung Un Rama, the Beast of the Apocalypse. Even at eight years old, his right hand—the Hand of Doom—was a weapon of legend.
"Hellboy," Bruttenholm said, his voice cutting through the downpour. "Look sharp. We are guests, though I suspect our host wishes we were anything but."
"Stay behind me, son," Bruttenholm ordered, though he knew it was futile. Hellboy was built for this.
They descended into the cellar, past the ruined wine racks, to the breach in the foundation. A cool, azure light spilled from the crack. It wasn't the light of the mortal world; it was the luminescence of the faerie realm.
Suddenly, the floorboards vibrated. A rhythmic, metallic thrum shook the teacups on the table. Clack. Clack. Clack.
The red boy lunged. He wasn't the seasoned warrior yet; he was clumsy, angry, and powerful. He tackled a golden soldier, the impact ringing like a church bell. The construct was heavy, immovable, but Hellboy was the Anung Un Rama, the Beast of the Apocalypse. Even at eight years old, his right hand—the Hand of Doom—was a weapon of legend.
"Hellboy," Bruttenholm said, his voice cutting through the downpour. "Look sharp. We are guests, though I suspect our host wishes we were anything but."
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