"Yeah? Where was it this time?"
"London."
Eubie nodded thoughtfully. "Always did fancy seeing the world. As it was, never got much out of my backyard."
They went up a flight of rickety stairs to a cluttered office. Old black-and-white photos of famous and forgotten musicians lined three of the walls. On the fourth was an enormous protective sigil, etched in blood.
Hellboy inspected it. "Human?"
"We didn't take every last drop," Eubie said sheepishly. "What are you gonna do about it? We're zombies. Besides, gotta look after my club."
"And yourself. You're supposed to know everything there is to know. That's got to be a threat to those mighty important people, too."
Eubie poured himself a shot and slumped into his chair. "I've been around a long time, in this place and the world. Can't help but pick up information if you keep your ears and eyes open."
He pointed to the most faded photo, a band posing with their instruments, faces serious but hats pushed back in the same jaunty angle that Eubie still wore his.
"Yeah, that's me," he said. "I played horn with Kid Ory's Original Creole Jazz Band for a while. That would be back in '21, when they were on their way The first black jazz band to make a recording." He shrugged. "Dropped out before they made their place in history — story of my life. After that, I played with a lot of bands, some jazz, some blues, traveling up and down the Delta, hopping trains, thumbing a ride. Different night, different town, same beautiful sounds from my magic horn." He eyed the instrument, which gleamed in a glass case on a shelf.
"Yow!" Hellboy snatched his hand back from the case as a flash of power crackled out from the horn.
"Yeah, ain't that the thing," Eubie said. "In our lives, we all carry round somethin' special, somethin' we hold in our hearts. And at the moment of our passing, those things soak up a deal of power. The stranger the passing, the bigger the power."
"That's what happened to the shoes?"
"Yeah, 'cept the shoes got a double dose. You see, you're thinking shoes, right? They're, like, nothing, like a newspaper you leave on a park bench, or a comb, or a toothpick. Use 'em up and throw 'em away. But back in those days, shoes meant something, for my brothers and sisters. A lot of us didn't have shoes, and if you did, you were on the way somewhere! You earned those shoes, and you showed them off, and you'd walk right up to hell's door in them!"
The clock on the wall struck a quarter to one. "Time's running out. Are you going to help me?"
Eubie weighed Hellboy's words, then asked, "Tell me about this girl and her wedding."
"Her name's Clarice Masterson. She's one of the immortals."
"Yeah, I heard of those dudes. The immortals and the dead, we got a lot in common. Time on our hands, for one."
"You hit the nail on the head. Clarice got herself wrapped up in an arranged marriage, with one of your guys — Malecula?"
Eubie rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah. The Favored One."
"It's a symbolic thing. Bring the two families together, peace in our time. No more trouble between the immortals and the dead, like the one I got caught up in over in Capetown in '59. But if it doesn't happen there's going to be a big war, and hell to pay for the rest of us caught in the crossfire."
" 'Cept it's also a risk, right? The rules say 'no immortal and no dead shall ever wed.' It's an alchemy thing, or like pouring gasoline on a blaze. But the shoes ... the power in 'em, anyway ... will stop the whole fire raining from the heavens and judgment from on high thing?"
Hellboy nodded. "The ceremony starts at dawn. And I want cake."
Eubie sighed. "Big stakes. I can see why you've got yourself so worked up."
"That's not all. If the shoes don't arrive on time, they're going to press on with the wedding anyway. And if that happens, Clarice dies."
"That's crazy. She's an immortal."
"When the rules are broken, everything changes. She dies, just like everyone else." Downstairs the band kicked into a song that Hellboy recognized. " 'I Got My Mojo Working.' That's our cue. Lets go."
Hellboy followed Eubie out of Brodie's and into the maze of streets until they found a blues and soul club called Green Onions, all skinny ties and porkpie hats on the men, and tight, colorful dresses on the women. The dead danced exuberantly, but always in silence, and never blinking, their staring eyes alive with the colors of the flashing lights.
"You know we were followed from your club?" Hellboy said.
Eubie sucked on what remained of his lower lip. "Not left that place in fifty years or more. People tend to notice when routines like that get broken."
Hellboy realized how vulnerable Eubie now was away from his sigils, and that made his motivations even harder to understand. Why risk so much, so quickly? There was no point asking; the dead kept their secrets close to them, and any hidden agenda would be buried deep.
"Any idea who it is?" Hellboy pressed.
"Somebody we don't want to meet too quick, so lets keep moving." As Bob and Earl sang "Harlem Shuffle" over the sound system, Eubie pushed through the dancing bodies until they came to an extremely overweight woman sitting at her own table not far from the stage. Her hair hung in greasy dreads and the skulls of various small animals lay amid a mass of beads, amulets, and other charms around her neck. As Hellboy neared he could see her eyes were all white and her face was strangely implacable.
She shrieked when Eubie stood before her, though her lips didn't move and she showed as little animation as a regular corpse.
Eubie greeted her with a slight bow of his head. "Mama Secordia."
"Lord! You're out! Here!" Her lips and face remained still. The voice appeared to be coming from the fat jowls that hung around her throat. "You got a death wish, boy? You had enough of not-living?" A deep chuckle rolled out from some secret part of her.
"I'm looking for the shoes, Mama."
Silence for a moment, then: "After all these years? And with all that it's going to bring down on your head?"
"We don't need to talk about that. Just point me in the direction of Willie Davis."
"Not so fast, Master Parkhouse. You got it?"
Eubie weighed his response, then said, "Yeah, I got it."
"Show me." When Eubie didn't move, Mama Secordia pressed, "You think I'm just going to set you in the direction of one of the most powerful things we got round these parts 'cause you say so? You show me, Eubie Parkhouse, or you're heading back to your club and all your big risk has been for nothin'."
"You know what Willie's got is no good on its own, Mama."
"Never you mind that. Show me."
Reluctantly, Eubie pulled a leather thong from inside his pristine white shirt. Hanging from it was a small piece of flat, carved bone.
"Woooo," Mama Secordia whistled. "Robert Johnson's plectrum."
"Carved from the skull of a man who tried to kill him." Eubie quickly tucked away the artifact.
"Half the key — you do have it." She released — from somewhere — a tremulous sigh of awe. "With that and Willies piece you can get Johnsons shoes. After all these years."
"They're Robert Johnson's shoes?" Hellboy exclaimed.
"Who's this you brought before me, Eubie? Who's this?" Mama Secordia shrieked, seemingly shocked that Eubie was not alone.
"Name's Hellboy, Mama. You might have heard of him. Had some dealings with our kind."
"I don't like it, Eubie. I don't like it at all."
Hellboy was shocked to hear another voice emanate from Mama Secordia. "Hush. Don't rile him," it hissed.
"Hey! What's going on?" Hellboy asked.
"Let me tell you about Robert Johnson," Mama Secordia said to Hellboy in a now-oily voice. "When he was a boy he dreamed of being the greatest blues-man there ever was or would be. Dreams like that don't just happen. You make 'em happen through force of will ... and a little help here and there. And so he asked around, and begged and pleaded and cajoled, and eventually he was told to take his ol' guitar down to the crossroads near Dockery's plantation. And the Devil came to him there — yes sir, ol' Scratch hisself — and Johnson was trembling mightily but he kept his nerve. And the Devil took his guitar and tuned it so he could play anything he wanted. All he had to pay was his soul."
"I told you those shoes got a double dose," Eubie said. "One blast then, when Old Nick did his work, and another when Mr. Johnson passed over on August 16 in '38. They're fueled with the heavenly, God-given magic of the music he was born with, and the Hellfire super-charge that took him into eternity. Why, with those shoes I reckon you could do anything."
"So why didn't you get hold of them before?" Hellboy asked.
"I got no use for them. There's only one thing I want, and the shoes ain't no use there." He turned back to Mama Secordia. "Come on now, Mama. Where's Willie been all these years?"
"Someplace safe."
"We had us an agreement, Mama."
"Let me see the half-key again."
"Back off." Hellboy could see something was wrong with Mama Secordia: ripples ran through the fat encasing her body, though no body movement appeared to be generating them.
"Give it to me!"
Mama Secordia tore open from chin to crotch, pivoting wide like the jaws of a venus flytrap. In the sticky interior, five small figures squirmed before suddenly launching themselves at Eubie. He went over backward under the force of the attack.
"Gahhh! Zombie babies!" Hellboy exclaimed.
Snapping and snarling, the babies swarmed over Eubie, trying to get at the plectrum. One by one, Hellboy grasped them by the backs of their necks and tore them free. With a flick of the wrist, he hurled them across the room where they bounced off walls and dancers before renewing their attack with an even greater frenzy. This time they went for Hellboy, tearing all over his body like cats. When he went for one, it was already somewhere else, sinking needle-sharp milk teeth into Hellboy's flesh. And when he did grab hold of a baby, it was back as quickly as he could throw it away.
"Get off!" Hellboy hated the way their baby skins felt, not soft, but dry as a bundle of sticks.
"They won't let up!" Eubie called. "Mama Secordia's brood always gets what it wants!"
"We'll see about that."
Hellboy caught the ankle of the biggest of the babies, the one he was sure had been the spokes-baby for the Secordia clan. He hauled it over and slapped it on the bar, snatching a bottle of bourbon from the bemused barman and dousing the baby in it. Cursing as the other babies tore at his arms and back with their teeth and talons, Hellboy marched to one of the blazing wall torches and dangled the biggest baby next to it.
It shrieked and cried, "Stop! Have mercy!"
"Yeah, that's what I thought. You'd go up like a kindling. Now tell him what you know."
The baby protested wildly, but the other four had dropped off Hellboy and scurried under the table where they clung on to the still-splayed-open Mama Secordia's ankles.
"Last chance," Hellboy said as he moved the biggest baby closer to the flame.
"Wait, wait! I'll tell all! Willie Davis is in the basement of the Blue Note."
"For fifty years?" Eubie said contemptuously.
"We walled him up to keep him safe!"
"Yeah, safe for you to come back to when you'd found the other half-key."
Eubie plucked his hat from the floor and replaced it on the back of his head. "I thought you were smarter. No good's going to come from getting ahold of those shoes."
"Okay, I'm pretending you didn't say that." Hellboy threw the baby into the slimy insides of Mama Secordia. The other four scurried inside and the carcass closed up around them.
"You're a fool to do this now, Eubie Parkhouse," she said. "You're gonna lose everything you fought for."
"Ain't that the story of the blues?" Eubie adjusted his tie and took a lurching step toward the door as the speakers blared out "I'm Gonna Tear Your Playhouse Down."
The Blue Note was darker than the other two clubs, with an unpleasant air of threat hanging oppressively in the cramped space. It was standing room only, men and women in dark suits pressed tightly together, swaying gently to the rhythm of the music. Their faces were turned toward the floor, and they kneaded their hands incessantly. Hellboy could feel the palpable waves of despair coming off the lone musician on the stage at the far end of the room. He sat on a stool, head bowed intently, his fingers flying across the fretboard, his voice a low growl of misery.
"The Blue Note's a real thing," Eubie noted. "Played right, it can tear your heart out. Literally."
"Ever thought about listening to something uplifting? Like the Funeral March?"
"This is our music, Hellboy. It speaks to us about the truth, that life's a long road of pain, and it don't get any better once you've passed on."
"Okay, I can see how most of your kind would think that. But you look like you've got a pretty good deal. Nice club, drinks, music round the clock."
"The trick is making the best of the hand fate's dealt you." Eubie paused to watch the blues-man on stage deftly move into another heartbreaking song.
"How'd you end up ... you know ... dead?"
"Stupidity. A smart mouth. Wanting something so bad you'll do anything to get it. The usual. I met Johnson in May '31, just after he got married. The word was out all over Mississippi about this guitarist who could make heaven and earth move. And the stories ... he wasn't human ... some kind of thing sent out to tempt poor souls off the path of righteousness ... guitar playin' that could turn even a preacher bad. And the other story, the one that really got me goin' — that he'd sold his soul to Old Nick to get his heart's desire."
"It always amazes me how people keep falling for that."
