Lines of Shadow: Sequel to Somewhere Between

Genre: Hellboy

Warning: Yaoi or Slash, if you don't know what the word means, then you need to leave…

Pairing: Hellboy/John Myers

Rating: M- For lots of man on man sex, violence, language, the works.

Feedback: Yes please! The more feedback I get, the faster I usually work because I get inspired.

So, HB and John return for the final chapter. I just recently realized that my paragraph breaks don't show up on , so I'm going to try a different tactic this time and go back to edit the others. Changes in perspective will still be marked in the same manner.

Forewarning, the final chapter in the Somewhere Between trilogy will probably be a good deal longer than the other two. I'm still planning and I haven't found the end yet (I know what it's going to be, it's just a matter of getting there) so be patient and I'll try not to disappoint!

And, finally, I march through a number of different religions and myths, using them as story fodder. If you think you might be offended, then don't read it.

- HB

The only thing more exciting than hunting ghosts is watching paint dry. Well, it might be slightly more exciting than the paint, but only just. We've been doin' this for a couple years now. Every once in a while, we get an interesting case like a homicidal ghost, but mostly it's just 'my coffee cup moves' or 'I see him walking in the halls' and most of those cases are bunk.

I know 'Scout is trying to keep me from being bored by finding these little cases to handle, it's just not even close to what we used to do. I've saved the world before… we both have in a way, so it seems a little like a demotion to ghost buster.

John's sitting in the living room with the widow of our current case and I'm upstairs in the bedroom, sweeping an EMF detector over their stuff. Naturally, I don't deal with our clients face to face, that's John's thing. I usually just sneak in through a window he opens for me and do some leg work while he interviews the witnesses. I've heard enough of their conversation to know that her dead husband is probably not the one haunting this place. She seems convinced though. Apparently the ghost keeps making the dead guy's favorite recliner move.

Through my ear bud, I listen to her yammering away, "I really wouldn't have called you, but he's starting to scare our grandchildren. Bob was such a nice man when he was alive, I don't know why he would be acting this way." This is followed by the annoyingly loud sound of her blowing her nose.

I roll my eyes. I don't get how 'Scout can listen to these people with a straight face. A ghost is not your loved one. A ghost is a ghost. Granted most people don't understand that, but very few souls that stick around are there for a good reason.

The EMF isn't giving me shit, so I drop it into my jacket pocket. I'm pretty sure the ghost didn't attach itself to one of the several dozen porcelain dog statues that are staring at me from every corner of the room. Those seem like they're probably more of her thing than his anyway. If I were a ghost, I'd be flinging those ugly, buggy-eyed pieces of glass across the room. It's no wonder he came back to haunt her ass (if it is him after all) 'cause every room in the house looks like this one. It's all flowers and dogs… The only thing that actually seems to be his in the whole damn house is the leather recliner that keeps moving on its own.

Hell, maybe it is him.

'Scout's moving through his questioning into convincing her to leave the house so we can get some real work done. Like all of our customers, she's suspicious of the request at first, but John can talk a mouse in a room full of cats into thinking that it's safe. It's the soothing 'I'm such a nice guy so you can believe anything I say' voice that he takes with them.

While I wait for him to walk her to her car, I pick up one of the dog figurines and flip it over a few times in my flesh hand. The curly tail catches on my belt and snaps off.

"Crap," I mumble.

"Hey Red, did you get any readings upstairs?" Boy Scout yells from somewhere in the depths of the house.

Quickly sticking the broken pieces back onto the dresser, I leave the bedroom before he can come upstairs. "Uh, no. There's a hell of a lot of nothing going on up here. It's about a psychically active as a jar of mayonnaise."

I come out of the hall to find him standing at the base of the stairwell, one hand propped on the banister and his left foot on the first stair. His not coming up, just paused there as he looks around the living room with a puzzled expression.

"But he died upstairs. There shouldn't be anything down here tying him to the house," he muses, more to himself than me.

I lean on the banister and joke, "Maybe there's a rat living in the fucking chair and that's why it keeps moving. I'm not getting any EMF here, 'Scout." Actually, it's more fact than joke.

I trot down to join him on the landing, surveying the living room for the first time. No surprise here, but there are more of those stupid dogs on every conceivable surface. I swear, this lady has some kind of undiagnosed hoarding issue. I mean, holy fuck. Who needs so many little dog statues?

'Scout walks around the couch and pushes the recliner back so he can look at the workings underneath. While he's occupied, I pick up a metal Dalmatian and prop it on top of some kind of fluffy dog so he's humping him. Childish? Probably. Funny as hell? Abso-fuckin-lutly. I smile to myself and pull my hand away as John sits up.

"Well, I can't see anything, but we might ought to give it a quick once over with the…" he trails off, giving me the hairy eyeball. We've been living together WAY too long for anything I do to slip past him.

"What?"

His eyes narrow a little farther, "What did you do?"

"Nothin'."

Before he can really start grilling me, the EMF detector goes nuts in my pocket. I dig it out and 'Scout jumps up to see what the readout says. He leans in close enough that I can see his blonde roots. John can't stand being blonde. I told him I didn't give a shit what color his hair is, but he still dyes it brown every two weeks. Getting close to time again.

"That's a massive frequency. Why is only just now going off, shouldn't it have been reading this kind of activity all along?"

"Yeah, it should've been. I don't think we're dealing with some lingering old guy," I tell him, pulling the EMF away so I can swing it around the room. The signal is strong no matter what direction I move it in. This thing isn't trapped in one object, it's almost like it's in the walls.

'Scout and I aren't very well received by spirits. Between me being a demon and him being an angel, we're liable to piss them off no matter what afterlife they're supposed to be headed towards. What'll really be telling is who it throws shit at first. If it's me, then it's just some lost soul that needs a little guidance. If it's John, it's an evil bastard that's going to be tough to put down.

A picture frame rattles loose from the wall and makes a kamikaze dive at 'Scout's head. He ducks and exchanges a knowing look with me. It's an evil fucker then. I dig through my pockets for Dad's rosary.

It hasn't been long enough for the dead husband to twist into an evil soul, so my bet is that it's not a ghost. Whatever it is, it's smart enough to mimic him by touching his favorite objects and keep the widow calm about its presence. Damn thing is probably feeding off of her. Unfortunately, that doesn't narrow things down too much. There's still a couple hundred of different creatures it could be and they have a lot of different disposal methods.

I wind the rosary around my hand, putting the cross in my palm. It settles almost perfectly into the scar from Russia. "Alright, come on out," I whisper, dropping the EMF onto the coffee table. It continues to screech loudly for a few seconds before going dead.

"What does that mean?" 'Scout asks.

Honestly, I've got no clue.

In the far corner of the room, a small storm radio clicks on, hissing with static. Through the crackle, I can faintly hear a voice. The static clears a little at a time until we can understand it, "Slayer of Lucifer, leader of the armies of hell, Anung un Rama. Behold your kingdom is the kingdom of man…"

Not this bullshit again.

'Scout walks over and fiddles with the dials, but nothing happens. "Do you think it's some kind of demon?" he asks and turns to look at me.

"Don't know yet," is the best answer I can give him. "It knows my real name, so that can't be good."

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the air in the middle of the room start to move, almost like when you can see the heat coming off asphalt. Two burning points appear in the air first, followed by the rest of the manifestation. The points become its eyes as its body swims into focus. It takes the shape of a little girl, but it's doubtful that this is its real form.

It's still talking through the radio, "Your kingdom will be built of their flesh and bone. Your fountains will run with their blood. Your keep will be held up by the backs of mortal men and the mortal woman will lay naked at your feet…"

This really isn't the same bullshit I've heard before; this is more about me being some kind of replacement Satan. So I've been upgraded from the guy who opens the door to the guy that sits on the throne? Since when? I think people need to start getting all these prophecies straight before they start preaching them at me.

I hold the cross out in front of me and the spirit flickers and shrinks back, its dark, heavy hair writhing like a nest of snakes. As I reach for the vial of holy water on my belt, the manifestation hisses and vanishes. The radio goes silent the moment she's gone.

"Well, that could've been worse," John croaks out a small laugh, his breath misting as it hits the air.

Frost crawls up the windows as the temperature drops at a rapid rate. It's another solid ghost sign, but there's no way this thing's been hiding in this house since the old couple moved in without them knowing about it. There's just no way. The glass in one of the picture frames fractures as the cold reaches it. The family photo disappears beneath a layer of ice crystals.

"Red?" 'Scout draws out my name, clearly getting uneasy. He's got his gun drawn, but I don't think it's going to do us any good.

The spirit reforms to John's left, hissing at him. I have to resist the urge to try and grab the thing to yank it away from him. 'Scout's plenty agile enough to keep himself safe. He throws a handful of salt at the manifestation and darts to the side, taking cover behind the couch. Using salt is a bit like throwing water onto a wasp's nest. It'll slow them down a little, but it pisses them off more than anything.

Boy Scout pulls out his chant cheat book. It's a collection of old spells and powerful chants I helped him put together so he'd have a better idea of what he could use against the angry undead. Without knowing exactly what this thing is though, there's no way he can just pick a chant at random and have it work. Besides, I've told him a hundred times that stopping in the middle of a fight to look at that thing is going to get him killed.

"Damn it, 'Scout! You still don't have that thing memorized yet?" I yell. I meant to sound a bit angrier, but it somehow ends up coming out like I'm teasing him.

"Shut up!"

The spirit starts chunking everything at the couch that's not bolted down. A few things bounce over, but most of it sails harmlessly over John's head and crashes into the far wall. For a minute or two, he'll be safe back there.

I survey the room quickly for options. What I really need to do is trap this thing until we can figure out what it is and how we can kill it. There's a thick shag rug underneath the coffee table. It would soak up holy water very nicely. No matter what this thing is, if it's from hell, holy water will ruin its day.

I unscrew the lid on my vial of holy water and very carefully dump a bag of salt into it. A little extra insurance can't hurt. Kicking the coffee table aside, I start drawing symbols on the rug with the concoction. I encircle the entire mess with the remnants of my salt and wipe my hands off on my pants. In order for the sealing circle to work, I have to get the manifestation into the middle of it. That could be difficult.

John sticks his head out from behind cover and get's beamed by a glass poodle. As much as that sucks, it gives me an idea. I haul John to his feet by his shirt collar. He's too busy clutching his head wound and cussing to be bothered by me manhandling him. I drag him to the far side of the seal from the spirit and watch her closely.

For a few seconds, objects stop flying while she glares at us. Her hair falls flat, draping across her face in a heavy curtain. What the hell is she doing? She keeps eyeing us, not moving or attacking… almost like she's waiting for something.

I slide my left arm around 'Scout's waist and take another step backwards.

"What's going on?" he mumbles, finally coherent again.

Blood is running down the side of his face from a nasty gash in his scalp. It's matting his hair into dark clumps and soaking into his shirt. I wish he could take damage like he used to, then I wouldn't have to worry so much. He might actually need stitches this go round.

"We're trying to get the bitch to move towards us about two feet so we can put her ass to rest."

Boy Scout stumbles back against me and groans, "Did I get hit by a poodle?"

I have to resist the urge to laugh. I know that's terrible, but really, how often does someone get attacked by a poodle, ceramic or otherwise? "Yeah, you did."

The apparition flickers and I'm thinking we're going to lose her again when her voice blares from the TV speakers, "Son of the witch king, take up your mantel. Kill the foundling of the Archangel Michael before he can raise arms against your worthy cause! Kill him!"

I brush my lips against the shell of John's ear as I ask him, "You plannin' on building an army against me?"

"Only if you don't stop drinking straight out of the orange juice jug," he laughs softly.

I straighten up and yell at her, "You want him so bad, come and get him!" Yeah, sure I joke about it, but these prophecies have never included John before and that worries me a hell of a lot more than crazy ghost bitches who inflict head wounds.

'Scout reaches back, his fingers brushing my hip as he wraps his hand around my gun. I've got it loaded with my specialty bullets so she'll definitely be sent screaming if she gets shot with one… I'm just not sure that it'll kill her. 'Scout's taking the precaution since my hands are full holdin' him up. It's unlikely that she'll get past my holy water/salt ring, but there's always that slim chance when you're dealing with an entity that's not solid. There's always something that can go wrong.

The spirit's hair returns to its snake-nest mode so I brace 'Scout a little tighter against me. "You ready for this?" I ask.

He tenses slightly but doesn't get a chance to answer. The spirit comes hurdling towards us. I take in a breath and hold it, getting ready to move 'Scout out of the way if I need to. John pulls my gun.

The manifestation slams into the holding circle like it's an invisible wall. It scrabbles against the edges with its fingers, screeching loud enough to break glass. Literally. Fractures race across the picture frames and windows and the TV screen explodes in a shower of fragments. The sound is so loud that 'Scout and I have to cover our ears.

"How do we make it stop?" John yells, but I can barely make out his words.

I grab the gun from him and empty every round into the bitch. Her screech gets a little sharper and I'm seriously considering gouging out my eardrums when she suddenly goes quiet.

"Oh thank god," 'Scout mumbles and drops his hands from his ears. There's a little blood crawling down his earlobe. I'm fairly certain it's not from his head wound.

The spirit flickers like she's trying to dissipate, but the circle holds her. I'm thinking that it would be a good time for 'Scout to use one of the incantations he should have memorized.

I gently maneuver 'Scout upright and let him go. Apparently the head wound doesn't have a concussion hiding underneath it, 'cause he seems stable enough. "Alright, why don't you get some practice here?"

John gives me an annoyed sidelong look that I know WAY too well, "Practice? Practice what? I think I can safely be called a veteran in my field at this point."

I shouldn't take the opportunity to get a verbal jab in, but he set himself up for it. I shouldn't, but I can't help myself, "Says the guy that got hit by a poodle 'cause he can't keep his head down."

His eyes narrow sharply. If he were still a wolf, they would've turned yellow. 'Scout points at me, clearly wanting to say something snide back but nothing good comes to him. Instead, he makes a threat that's extremely hollow, "No sex for you."

I snort. 'Scout saying he's going to deny me sex is like a kid saying he's going to hold his breath until he gets his way. I give him six hours, tops. We do it a couple times a day now if we're bored, and if we've got a good case, we screw because we get riled up. It's almost like an addiction. Before Eden, 'Scout and I had a great relationship with a healthy amount of sex. Now, it's like someone slips a Viagra into our coffee each morning.

Let's me make something very clear here, I'm NOT complaining. I'm not. What guy in his right mind would complain about too much sex? I can't think of a single exception… except maybe a eunuch. Do they count? Point is, it's like we can't get enough no matter how often we do it. The only explanation- no, it's more like a theory. The only theory I have is that angels and demons are more than just compatible, they're magnetically attracted to each other… I don't know. Like I said, I'm not complaining.

'Scout circles the trapped spirit, studying her carefully before leafing through his cheat guide. I've got a pretty good idea of which incantation to use, but he needs to figure some things out on his own. I started learning this shit in the forties, so I've got a few decades on him…

The spirit's gotten really damn quiet. It's much better than the angry screeching from before, but it makes me wonder if she's planning something. There shouldn't be a whole helluva lot she can do from inside that circle… I think.

"Shouldn't the Prayer of Solomon help her rest?" 'Scout asks without looking up from his book.

"Nah, Solomon's more for demon and possessions."

I smirk and flop down on the couch to wait. It creaks and gives way a little and my smirk turns into a wince. We've already done a shitload of damage to this lady's living room so I'd rather not add the couch to the list. Although, it is a hideous floral pattern, so I'd really be doing her a favor.

"You know, I could probably find whatever's keeping her bound to this house before you figure out what chant gets rid of her," I tease, nudging 'Scout's leg with my tail.

"But she's not a regular spirit. She's clearly been feeding off the widow, so…" His brow scrunches up while he thinks. I sorta' miss the days when he tilted his head to one side when he was trying to figure something out.

A massive cracking sound splits through the quiet. It's almost earthquake loud, like stone splitting in two.

"What the hell?" I grunt and haul myself back to my feet.

Oh shit, the bitch is smiling.

She isn't some average ghost. She's something much, much worse. I look down and realize that the cracking sound was the cement foundation fracturing. The rip runs right through my sealing circle, making it useless.

"Shit! 'Scout, get down!"

The screeching starts again the instant she's out. If it was bad before, it's ten times worse now. I can feel her voice in my bones. 'Scout and I grab our ears and 'Scout drops to one knee. The spirit lifts off the ground, her hair flying like somebody plugged her into an electrical outlet. All around us, I barely catch the sound of windows shattering.

"She's a banshee," I try to shout, but my voice doesn't make it to my ears, let alone 'Scout's.

The noise is liquefying my brain… I can't think. 'Scout curls up over his knees. His mouth is open so I know he's screaming. I've got to get him out of here. I stagger to my feet, using the couch for support. My specialty bullets make her shut up last time, but I'm out. Can't think! What can we use on her?

'Scout opens his eyes and I swear I'm seeing things. His eyes are solid white, no pupil, no iris, nothing. This iridescent white smoke drifts out of them, like he's a Halloween decoration full of dry ice. His lips start moving and the Banshee goes silent, shrinking back from him. My ears keep ringing, but I can hear him now. I can't understand it, but I can hear it. It's not any language I've ever encountered. It sounds like it's rooted in Latin… or Latin was rooted in it. Where did he learn that?

Whatever it is, it's effective. The Banshee backs away from 'Scout, hissing softly. His words get louder, sharper, so he's almost shouting and white light shoots out of the Banshee's eyes and mouth. The light intensifies until it looks like its skin is glowing, and then it sort of explodes in this bright flash that blinds me for a second.

I have to blink a couple times before I can even see shapes again. Vaguely, I register that 'Scout gets to his feet. "Where the fuck did that come from?" I ask him, rubbing the back of my flesh hand against my eyes.

His voice is quiet, uncertain, "I… I don't know."

Once my vision clears up, I look around at all the damage we've caused. Broken windows, frames, TV fragments and pieces of stupid ceramic dogs are scattered everywhere. There's no way we're getting paid for this. We'll be lucky if this lady doesn't sue our asses.

"Uh, 'Scout… Let's say fuck the payment and get out of here."

He gnaws his lower lip a little (an action that sends blood rushing straight to my dick, mind you) and slowly starts to nod, "Yeah, let's do that."

We pick through the minefield that used to be a living room and book it out the back door. 'Scout leaves a wad of cash on the kitchen counter on our way out. I almost pick it up, since we could use it after scrapping this job, but 'Scout's gotta feel like he made things right here. I leave it behind, cussing the fact with every step.

'Scout easily vaults the wooden fence that backs the alley where we left the truck. I wait until I hear a muffled "All clear" before I follow. The fence groans under my weight but doesn't collapse.

I land on a fucking trashcan. The plastic buckles and I fall to one side, cracking the cement with my stone hand when I throw it out to catch myself. A little WARNING would've been NICE! I start to say as much, but 'Scout's already getting in the SUV. I prop what's left of the trashcan against the fence and climb in behind the driver's seat. Our windows are tinted so dark that we look like gangsters, but I still have to ride in the back. Can't tint the windshield.

For a long time, we ride in silence. 'Scout seems agitated. Scrapping a job definitely isn't optimum considered the BPRD isn't funding us anymore, but I doubt that's what's bothering him. 'Scout makes a shitload of money contracting for private security firms. With his Quantico training and time working for the military (what BPRD labeled his time with them), everybody jumps all over him to get an opinion about their current level of security.

I reach forward and rub my flesh hand along his shoulder and arm, smiling as he leans into my touch. "What's eatin' you?" I ask.

'Scout sighs. Once we're stopped at a red light, he pulls his hands off the wheel and presses his palms against his eyes. "I don't know, just… I was finally adjusted to being a wolf and now I have this whole new slew of weirdness to get used to again," he mutters. "Like what happened in there. I don't even know what language that was, but it came to me like I was born-"

The blare of a car horn interrupts him and John steps on the gas. Guess the light turned green and we missed it.

"It came to me like I was born speaking it. It's…"

I trail my fingers up so I'm stroking his neck, supplying, "You want to know what to expect."

"Yeah," he admits with another very defeated sigh.

I don't know what to say to him. It's hard to be different, especially living out in the open like we have been, but I've always been this way. 'Scout flipping between human, and wolf, and angel has got to be harder than I can imagine… not that I'm particularly imaginative. No matter what change he makes, he's still John.

Pressing a kiss to the back of 'Scout's neck, I try to get him thinking about something else, "Remember that first day you came into my room holdin' those Baby Ruths like you could fend me off with them?"

He chuckles a little and nods, "I was trying not to stare at your abs so I ended up staring at your horns."

"Didn't know that at the time," I laugh. I'd been so pissed off with him, mostly because he was yet another agent getting shoved at me with a curt 'play nice' from the old agent who didn't want to work with me anymore… How many agents did I go through before John? I can't even remember anymore.

"How long before we get back?" I breathe against his hair, sliding my hand across his stomach and slowly edging it down.

Predictably, 'Scout snags my hand before I can get anywhere good. He lets go and answers, "Way too long for that, almost forty-five minutes. I'd take a nap if I were you."

I worm my hand under the bottom edge of his shirt and he tries to stop me without looking away from the road. He does manage to grab the rosary twisted around my wrist.

"Let me drive, Red!" 'Scout says in a voice that wants to be a warning but comes nowhere close.

I drop back into my chair anyway, not fighting the grin that breaks out. 'Scout glares at me in the rearview mirror, but it only makes my grin wider.

TBC…

This chapter is a tad shorter than I intended, most because I decided to split the chapter I'd finished down the middle. It was WAY too long without the split and just a little too short with it. I've got another chapter or two in a journal and I'm writing like crazy, so I hope to update soon.