"You dare harm me!" Witch Heart Demon rasped, his shattered head barely forming words, voice frail.
Hellboy glanced at Matthew, locked in a brutal clash with Ghost Rider, then hammered Witch Heart Demon's shoulder with relentless fists. The demon's resilience demanded extra blows to deliver deep, unforgettable "care."
His strikes fell like a steady press, unyielding.
"Pfft!" Hellboy spat sulfur-tinged saliva at Witch Heart Demon's ruined head.
The demon went berserk. "Not even my father spat on me!"
"So Mephisto did beat you," Hellboy taunted, fists still falling. Mephisto, a demon of theatrics, wouldn't stoop to spitting. Since Mephisto thrashed Witch Heart Demon, and Hellboy was doing the same, Hellboy figured he was dishing out some "paternal" love.
His next punch, heavier with intent, cratered the floor. Witch Heart Demon had sunk into it like water.
"Another lowlife demon?" Hellboy stood, drawing his revolver. Two custom rounds remained—enough.
"Your impure blood can't defeat me!" Witch Heart Demon's voice boomed as a towering demon rose halfway from the ground.
"Pfft!" Bang! Hellboy's spit and shot rang out together. The emerging demon froze, dumbfounded. Demons mocked brains as useless, once tricking ancients into lobotomies for headaches. Effective, since the dead don't ache. Headless, this demon turned to stone, a permanent statue.
"Pure or not, demons die," Hellboy said, kicking the sculpture to rubble and reloading his revolver.
"Try killing me!" Witch Heart Demon's furious voice enveloped Hellboy in black mist. Aided by the fallen earth demon, he'd shifted form to avoid another pummeling. Being ground to paste wasn't an experience he cared to repeat.
"Boring!" Hellboy holstered his loaded revolver, pulling a chocolate bar—mistaking it for a cigar. Melting it with his lighter, he realized his error.
Behind him, the vampires lay annihilated by Ghost Rider. Matthew, wielding a half-melted nail hammer, tried jamming it into the Rider's skull. "This cost me a month's pay!"
His axe cleaved Ghost Rider's bald head with a crisp, watermelon-like crack, lodging in the bone.
"Argh!" Ghost Rider's scream, though raw, was unmistakably pained. His flames barely clung to his cracked skull.
Outside, Gabriel had vanished, leaving Constantine grinning roguishly—prison-charmer style.
Coulson, post-call, looked grim. Fury promised aid, but S.H.I.E.L.D. was stretched thin. Hawkeye was their best fighter available.
"Fury's seeking an outsider, but I'm not optimistic," Coulson said, his bitter smiles outnumbering his hairline worries.
"Rumlow?" Melinda scoffed, her faith in Fury plummeting. Even after screwing Rumlow over, Fury would exploit him. She considered quitting, knowing Fury would still rope her into messes.
"Now what?" Steve asked, clutching "Laura's" door handle—the only piece left after the impact. "Laura" still had three doors, plus trunk and hood: six potential shields.
"Rest, Captain," Constantine said, sprawled on the ground. Matthew's arrival signaled the fight was no longer their concern. Like when Bulkatho throttled Satan, the barbarian wouldn't let demons run amok. The Ancient One's presence further assured Constantine's ease.
John Wick, silent, eyed Constantine's contract, pondering deeper collaboration—a chance to revive his wife.
Hawkeye, gripping his throwing knife, felt his weakness. "Should I learn magic? Does S.H.I.E.L.D. have anti-demon weapons?" His mind bubbled with ideas.
(Chapter End)
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