Chapter 4: Riposte

Disclaimer: Hellboy characters do not belong to me. However, Erica Schwarz is mine.

Author's Notes: In which Kroenen has drugged Erica, and it results in an unexpected outcome. German to English translations: "Danke sehr" is "Thank you very much."

"Erica!" a male voice, harsh but familiar, cut through her daze. Sweet relief flooded through her as Kroenen's mask appeared above her. He was dressed like a wealthy surgeon in a white collared shirt, grey waistcoat, and dark short jacket with lapels. A gloved hand touched her elbow reassuringly; the other seized her right hand and firmly pushed the palm down, wiping out the half-formed symbol she had been painting above the cut on her arm. "You are safe. You are in the mansion."

He made a quick, dismissive gesture to the air behind him. Instantly the power in the room careened toward the far wall, scatting papers and shattering laboratory glassware. Stones cracked but held firm as the wave of power struck the wall and heedlessly hurtled onward underground, venting itself on the earth. Like a freight train the rumble of destruction rolled on, fading into the distance.

Suddenly bereft of the dark power that had strengthened her, the aches and pains and exhaustion rushed back into Erica's body with a vengeance—and they were all the more severe for their brief absence. An anguished moan tore from her throat.

Kroenen stroked her hair soothingly. Blinking rapidly to hold back tears, Erica tilted her head into his touch, seeking the comfort of his presence. He did not smell like old blood as he usually did, instead the odor of disinfecting iodine mixed with his familiar scents of leather and boot polish. Erica's scalp tingled slightly beneath his hand; the cold prickle of the assassin's magic trickled through her veins and vanished when it reached her toes. Mercifully some of the pain went with it.

"Shhh…shhh…" his sibilant hiss was like a lullaby. "Breathe slowly. I know it hurts." He glanced the length of her body, automatically assessing her condition before turning his attention to her latest wound. He held up her bleeding forearm, examining it. Though he tried to keep it light, a stern tone crept into his voice. "Tsk tsk. Tell me, Erica, did you bother to assess the extent of your injuries before trying a blood summons? While I commend your resourcefulness, you are far too weak to maintain control of such power, or the beast you intended to call. You are fortunate I sensed your distress and arrived when I did—but perhaps I am too harsh. Your disorientation is likely due to the sedatives and aftereffects of anesthesia …"

"Anesthesia?"

She glanced down at herself. The sheet had slipped to her hips during her efforts at escape; she was naked. Ominously dark purple and black contusions were in full blossom across her chest, their centers punctuated by neat lines of thick black suture thread. Further down a compression wrap obscured the lower half of her ribcage. And beyond…with a start she recognized the steel operating table and the precise, efficiently arranged medical equipment: she was in Kroenen's lab. It was better than an enemy's interrogation room, but just barely. Kroenen had taught her many things but she had not acquired his taste for drawn-out medical torture. He knew the place disturbed her. For him to bring her here meant she had been badly hurt. Maybe even—?

"Kroenen," she whispered, staring in dismay at her damaged body, "was I…dying?"

"Ja."

His blunt, honest confirmation only increased her alarm. She, the Angel of Death, had almost died? She? Her nightmare about drowning—it had been a twisted reflection of her body's fight to live. But she could not remember how any of this had happened—

Sensing her shock Kroenen reached to pull the sheet up, but Erica caught his wrist with shaking fingers.

"Nein. Please let me up. I want these things off me." She tugged meaningfully at the straps that held her to the table.

The clockwork man moved as though to comply, then hesitated, his fingers resting on the fastenings. It only fueled her agitation. She had seen corpses chained to this table, the remains of people who had been very much alive when they entered the lab but had not survived Kroenen's experiments with biology and magic. As long as Erica did not witness what grotesqueries the surgeon-scientist made of his victims she could tolerate his pastime. But now she was strapped down on the same operating table, like one of his test subjects—!

"Off, now!" she insisted. It came out sharply, more a demand than a request. Erica instantly regretted it. She had not meant to snap at him; this table just made her skin crawl. She trusted him, she really did. Surely he had a good reason for his hesitation? Surely, knowing how she felt about his lab, he was not teasing her?

The assassin tilted his head at her reproachfully and Erica was suddenly and acutely aware that his left hand still held her bleeding forearm. Her link with Kroenen was strongest when in close proximity; physical contact allowed them to speak directly into the other's thoughts. He always requested permission before intruding on her mind, as he did to see her visions, but reading her emotions was another matter. Since Kroenen was touching her it was unavoidable that he had sensed her irrational fear. Erica internally cringed and tentatively reached out to the clockwork man through their link. He felt resigned; as though he had anticipated her reaction and was disappointed it had proven true. Then he released her arm and the impression faded.

Nimble fingers effortlessly undid the clasps and the leather cuffs fell away. "Angel…they were never locked."

Now she was deeply embarrassed. Why had she not checked the damn things? Under the pretext of getting more comfortable Erica shifted a bit and turned her face away; a useless attempt to hide the flush of shame spreading across her cheeks. Kroenen simply stood and watched her, the ticking of his clockwork heart seeming loud in the silence. As always his mask's unfathomable dark lenses revealed nothing and missed nothing.

"They were for your own safety," he elaborated. "To prevent you from moving too much in your sleep and tearing out your stitches."

"I—I am sorry," Erica murmured. "They frightened me when I woke up. I thought I had been captured. And I feel like I was hit by a truck." Wondering what the rest of her looked like she started to sit up, her fingertips stretching towards the edge of the sheet. Kroenen stopped her, his hand hovering over her bruised chest.

"What did I just say?" he admonished. "You had broken ribs, among other things, and they were difficult and time consuming to fix. Stay still."

Broken ribs—? Abruptly her memories came flooding back: the motorcade, the explosions! Easing back onto the table, Erica eyed her wounds again, comparing them with what she remembered. "Did I get shot?"

The assassin made a derisive noise that was made harsher by his mask. "Twice."

He gestured to a nearby table. Among a heap of tattered black fabric and leather which Erica recognized as the remains of her clothing, was her armored breastplate. It was warped. The distortions centered around two holes punched through the metal, one at the shoulder and the other just off to the side of mid-chest.

"Scheisse," she breathed, the blood draining from her face. "How the hell did I survive that?"

Broken glass, the remains of the shattered laboratory glassware, crunched under Kroenen's boots as he retrieved a chair and settled into it. "You nearly did not. But the sniper's aim was poor. And you had a talented surgeon."

"Exceptional, you mean—the very best," she said, flashing him a tight but sincere smile. "Danke sehr."

He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, pleased by her praise. "It was my pleasure. Though I am truly sorry my skills were called for at all. I cannot help but feel at fault for giving you defective armor."

"It may not have been invincible, but surely it was of some use? More than if I had not worn it?"

"That is correct," he agreed, though somewhat grudgingly. "I will have to go back to the drawing board with that one. Along with some other things I am redesigning…"

Kroenen's gaze fell on her and lingered longer and more intensely than was polite, but Erica was not certain he was actually seeing her. He appeared lost in thoughts of whatever he was engineering. The moment stretched on, marked by the steady ticking of his clockwork heart. Just as Erica was about to call him back to the present the assassin shook himself out of his reverie. "In addition to the gunshot wounds, broken ribs, and blood loss, you have also sustained numerous contusions and a broken nose. And in spite of you falling face first into the ground, I personally assure you when the swelling is gone and the bruising fades that you will be as lovely as before."

Erica sensed he was taunting her and shot a slight glare in his direction. His laughter confirmed it.

"So it was not my lungs? I thought the bullets might have punctured one of them—there was a lot of blood. That was right before I blacked out. I heard a scream, too. Was it the man that shot me?"

The assassin nodded. "The sniper was captured. He begged for forgiveness, then mercy. I did not grant either. Healing your injuries required every bit of power I could wring from his body." Kroenen laughed again; this time the sound was heavy with cruelty and dark humor. The glare on one of his mask's lenses tilted crazily, like a peculiar wink. "You might say I got to know him rather thoroughly…inside and out?"

Erica was thankful the sniper's mutilated remains were not in the lab. They were probably in one of the basement cells where Kroenen could work without having to stifle his victim's screams. Or clean up.

"He was also eager to share some information, which we can discuss when you are feeling better."

She frowned, realizing something. "You had time to do all of that? Just how long have I been in your lab stark naked and unconscious?"

Not nearly long enough, breathed a voice in the recesses of her mind. Erica shivered, uncertain if the voice was some bizarre thought of her own passing through, or if it belonged to Kroenen. The clockwork man was not touching her but his recent contact with her blood had likely intensified their link. If so, the effects would lessen with time—which was just as well. She did not want to overhear his private thoughts, or vice versa. Without context or explanation the half-heard fragments would make little sense. It would be best if she ignored them.

"You have been here as long as was necessary," Kroenen replied cryptically. He nodded at the white fabric pooled loosely about her waist, perilously close to slipping off completely. "And there is a sheet. Not that you seem to care to make use of it."

A thought that was definitely not her own floated unbidden through Erica's mind: And not that I mind, either…

Erica attempted a shrug and stopped, wincing. Her nakedness did not make her uncomfortable. "Why should I? You are my physician."

"I am also a man. And if you are going to casually display yourself in such a fashion…a man could get the wrong idea."

His tone was teasing, with just an edge of real rebuke behind it. Erica resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. "Kroenen, I have never seen you with a woman."

"Oh?" Kroenen leaned back in the chair and propped up his boots on the support struts beneath the operating table. "So you think that just because you do not see it, it does not occur? I occasionally do things of which even you are not aware, Erica."

"But—if you—"

"If I what?" he asked serenely.

Erica blushed furiously. Afraid she would lose her nerve, she spoke quickly. "If you had taken a woman to your bed I would have sensed it."

Kroenen tilted his head slightly; the body language equivalent of a puzzled expression. "Whatever gives you that idea?"

"I sense Ilsa's…trysts…with Grigory."

"Really." The assassin's voice was suddenly flat and vaguely foreboding. His posture stiffened and Erica was certain that if he could, he would have frowned.

She did not understand why her words had provoked such a reaction. Not sure what else to do, Erica decided to elaborate. "My connection with Ilsa is weak, which is fortunate—I am able to shield myself from the intrusion when it occurs. But if you engaged in such passions…I doubt I would be able to block it. I would be forced to endure it, like some reluctant voyeur." A doubt entered her mind. "Do you not have the same issue with Ilsa?"

"It seems I need to have a talk with Miss Haupstien," Kroenen muttered, more to himself than to Erica. "And in answer to your question: ja, I did. But it was years ago. After his resurrection Grigory Rasputin put an end to it, along with other things between Ilsa and myself. He is a jealous man. Ilsa's tie to me is severely lessened as a result." The dark lenses settled on Erica. "As for your assumption that you would know if I took a lover—did it ever occur to you that perhaps I am simply more discrete than Ilsa? When I conduct surgery on myself I prevent both the pain and the pleasure of it from transferring to you. Why would I not do the same with my more carnal rendezvous? You should not assume, Angel."

So perhaps Kroenen had a point—or several. Their conversation had long since diverged from the topic of medical treatment; it really was not appropriate for her to just lie there topless. Erica's heartbeat quickened as it suddenly occurred to her: had the clockwork man just been teasing her, or…was she beautiful to him? Even bruised and battered as she was? Was he looking at her as a woman, and not just as a patient? Did he find her body attractive? Tempting, even?

It was a new idea that she could have power over someone simply by being alluring. Erica had never really had the opportunity to try it; her infamous reputation cleared paths at the Thule Occult Society's social gatherings, and flattery was only offered to her by sycophants and the politically ambitious. Well, that was not entirely true. Though Kroenen had taunted her about how her nose had been broken, there was no trace of mockery when he said she was lovely. And the stray thoughts she had overheard about her state of undress suggested he liked what he saw.

Curiosity seized her. It had always seemed like the assassin was just being courteous, but had he been subtly making advances all along? What would happen if she dared to tempt fate—no—if she dared to tempt Kroenen? To flirt with danger and death personified? Just a little…

"You should not assume either," Erica said softly. She deliberately met the assassin's gaze and turned her body slightly towards him. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I want a man to get the wrong idea? That perhaps the wrong idea is actually the right one?"

Kroenen went very still. Then, like a cobra uncoiling, he kicked his feet free of the table struts and leaned forward, watching her with intense scrutiny. A strange excitement coursed through Erica's veins; a dark, delicious thrill at sensing him so focused on her.

"Are you quite certain, Angel?" His voice was low and smooth as silk. Doubtlessly he had caught her tantalizingly unclear turn of phrase; she could be referring to himself or to some other male entirely. "That can be a dangerous game to play…however pleasurable."

Erica felt dizzy, giddy. Maybe it was the drugs? Kroenen had said something about sedatives. Or was it the heady adrenaline rush of risk? An outrageous idea came into her mind: what if she threw the sheet to the floor? If she arched her back like one of those pin-up girl drawings the soldiers seemed to like?

She grasped the edge of the fabric—then her stomach clenched. What if she was wrong? What if Kroenen looked at her coldly and then left the room, calling some stinging reprimand over his shoulder as he went? Or, just as bad, what if she had guessed his intentions correctly and the situation spiraled out of her control? It was possible he would go further than her curiosity was prepared for.

All that aside, in her current condition she would be lucky to sit up; there was no way she would ever be able to get into that ridiculous pose. And what the hell was she thinking anyway, flirting—toying—whatever it was—with her mentor like this? Kroenen was right; this was a dangerous game. It was far more than she could handle right now. She could contemplate these ideas later, when objects were not flickering at the edges of her vision.

She pulled the sheet up, covering herself.

"This has nothing to do with what you said. It is cold in here and I am freezing," she muttered, evasively staring at the fabric bunched in her hands. It was partially the truth. The metal operating table was frigid.

"Hmmm…I endeavor to be a gentleman where you are concerned. But if you were to do this in the presence of others, they may do something untoward."

"Others?!" Erica gaped at him in shock, "You think I would—I am not an exhibitionist! Or a whore!"

"Certainly not the latter, but your assertion about the former is somewhat in doubt at the moment," he replied amiably. "Your usage of the word 'man' was rather vague. What else am I to think?"

Kroenen's unspoken insinuation hung between them: Me, then?

Her head reeling, Erica closed her eyes in consternation. It did not improve things. In the darkness behind her eyelids it felt as though she was spinning through space. She quickly reopened her eyes, silently swearing that the next time she decided to match wits with the assassin it would not be while drugged and recovering from life-threatening wounds. Provoking someone that could give back as good as they got had its consequences.

"I was only joking, Kroenen," she grumbled.

"Then it is my prerogative to return the favor."

"I am not feeling up to games." Erica's peripheral vision was blurring again, dancing like heat waves on a summer day.

His tone was light but held a touch of steel. "You should not start what you cannot finish."

"I will finish it!" Erica shot back heatedly, and then bit her tongue when she realized what that could imply. "Argh…you are not listening."

"I assure you, I am listening intently."

"Of course you are," she muttered. She was tired and aching and—a sudden wave of nausea hit her and Erica swallowed hard, managing to force down the bile rising in her throat despite her mouth suddenly being as dry as a desert. "Dear gods…what exactly did you drug me with, Kroenen?"

"Morphine. I did not expect you to wake so soon; it is likely your body is still metabolizing it. You may experience some side effects."

"I am experiencing, you mean."

He nodded once. "It is probable. But please, do continue. I believe you were going to explain how you are not an exhibitionist? Despite evidence to the contrary? We can ignore your choice of audience for the time being."

Too drained to invent some sharp retort, Erica glared at him in aggravation before relenting with an exhausted sigh. She considered the answer, the real answer to Kroenen's question, struggling to put words to ill-defined thoughts and emotions. Finally, she held out her left hand to him.

Kroenen tilted his head at her in question, confirming her intentions. When she nodded her consent, he took her hand. He had no eyelids to close against the laboratory lights, but that did not matter; he focused and the world faded until he was only dimly aware of his body seated in the chair.

Instead he was surrounded by darkness. And in that absence of light he was utterly engulfed in the swirl of Erica's thoughts. Minds are by nature cluttered places, but he found Erica's chaos to be fascinating: like salt and dark chocolate, lightning and cinnamon, shadow and silver. She was sharply bittersweet. It was intoxicating.

But today the effects of morphine hung heavily in her mind, manifesting itself as a thick grey muffling fog. Erica's thoughts were so jumbled, so scattered and dissolving that Kroenen began to draw away from her mind, concerned that she was on the brink of losing consciousness. Abruptly there was a determined surge that coalesced into clear, coherent speech.

You are my closest friend. Nein—more than that. Closer than friends, closer than siblings. In some ways more intimate than lovers. We are bound to each other, intrinsically part of one another. We feel each other's suffering and joy and anger. My thoughts are yours, and yours are mine… It is not strange to be naked before you. Because…in a way…I always am.

Kroenen was taken aback by her sincerity. The clockwork man immediately regretted harassing her, however enjoyable it had been—and it was a sentiment Erica also shared.

My apologies, Angel, Kroenen thought to her.

And mine as well, she thought back.

Utterly at peace, Erica withdrew and the connection was broken.

The assassin released her hand and settled back into his chair. All trace of his former joviality was gone, replaced by a quiet thoughtfulness.

"I think that is enough excitement. You need to rest…and I need to get this cleaned up," he gestured vaguely at the scattered papers and shards of glass. "I will move you somewhere more comfortable."

With painstaking care Kroenen slid his arms beneath her and picked her up, sheet and all, and carried her through the mansion. She snuggled sleepily into his chest; though cooler than usual, her body was pleasantly warm against him. Erica was dozing by the time they reached her bedroom, and she was asleep only moments after he had carefully settled her into bed.

Kroenen stood there for a moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of the comforter as she breathed, musing over her odd behavior. Erica's sudden advances intrigued him. There was the age difference—but perhaps that did not matter, since the assassin did not care what others might say. And his undead body did not age. Regardless, Erica sometimes did things that could be misconstrued, and since the assassin was curious, he occasionally did things that were equally ambiguous, testing to see if Erica's actions were innocent or driven by a curiosity that matched his own. The clear interest she had shown in his lab was not unwelcome.

Or at least it would not have been if Kroenen could be certain that his apprentice was fully aware of her actions. Though he had caught snippets of what was going on in her thoughts, he would not have accepted her consent if things had gotten more heated. How much of what Erica had done and said was to be attributed to a massive dose of morphine? Potential side effects included confusion and mood changes, both of which could conceivably lead to lowered inhibitions.

It cannot supply desires one does not already possess, he thought. Lust is genuine, cannot lie…but perhaps in this case the object of its focus was merely incidental?

Then again, Erica had appeared lucid; enough to attempt to match wits with him. What was he to think? He could not be certain. Only time would reveal if there was something more to what had happed than just the side effects of morphine.

Actually, considering the strength of the link he shared with Erica, it was surprising that something like this had not occurred sooner. It had taken mere days for Ilsa to end up in bed with him after their connection had been sealed in blood. He still bore the scars of their passionate encounters; on more than one occasion Ilsa had cut his flesh to the bone. Intensified by their bond and the power of spilled blood, the ecstasy of it had been like no other.

When Erica had joined them she had been an adolescent, barely more than a child. They had taught her that the magic the Ogdru Jahad had given her could be increased through violence; anything else would have been inappropriate. But she was a child no longer, had not been for some time. Soon it would be necessary to instruct her in the other side of her magic. And its dangers.

Strange that she had shown no signs before this. No sneaking off for illicit rendezvous, no tumbles with the servants. Kroenen knew for certain she had no experience in the matter. When she came into that part of her power it would run as white-hot as lightning through the bond they shared.

It was possible their blood bond was the very reason that she had not shown such interests sooner. Why look for companionship elsewhere, physical or not, when it was unlikely anyone could compete with the depth of intimacy she already shared with him? There was just no need.

Unaware of his thoughts, Erica slept on peacefully. There was nothing more to be done here, and the clockwork man had other things to attend to.

"Gute Nacht, Angel," he whispered. "Pleasant dreams."