The Ice Wolves

by Mark Chadbourn

  The girl directed Hellboy into the depths of the dark maze, where wood smoke from fires and the smell of cooking food hung in the air. Occasional blasts of icy wind swirled past them, but the claustrophobic nature of the jumble of routes turned what would have been unsettling and gloomy at any other time into a cozy protection against the weather.

  In some houses, the door lay open invitingly for any neighbors who wanted to drop in. Hellboy caught sight of groups of black servants from the big houses laughing and joking and eating around stoves. Others were filled with steam and the aroma of soap as the women worked hard with the washing they had taken in. Every now and then they would pass pale, thin men in too-large overcoats, long hair framing faces that contained the bloom of both intelligence and hard liquor, their fingers stained with ink or paint. To a person, they nodded politely to Hellboy as he passed. So maybe they do see me like a regular guy from this time, he thought. He could only guess it was some weird byproduct of the time-warping effect that made him fit the picture they expected.

  Finally, the girl guided Hellboy up a cobbled walkway to a dark, secluded inn. Beneath a creaking wooden sign, the Admiral Perry was less than inviting, its windows small and dark, its door so low Hellboy had to stoop to get in. But once across the threshold, it was surprisingly inviting. On one side of the room, a fire blazed in a large grate, fed with logs from a fragrant pile at one side. Sawdust was scattered over the stone flags amid heavy wooden tables scarred with years of knife cuts and spilled beer. The ceiling was low and beamed, and beyond the bar a warren of tiny rooms sprawled so it was impossible to tell at a glance who was present. Hellboy guessed that was one of the attractions for the men who huddled in small groups, smoking and whispering as they haggled, casting quick glances toward the door at every new arrival. Many of the drinkers were sailors from ships moored on the Charles River at the foot of Beacon Hill and some appeared to be showing around samples of various items, cloth and food, that they had perhaps stolen or smuggled.

  “You sure this is where you want to be?” Hellboy asked. “Doesn’t look like a place for little girls.”

  “Yes. My father is here, conducting business. I need to see him.”

  She jumped down and weaved a familiar path among the tables and drinkers into the back rooms. Concerned for her safety, Hellboy followed until he could be sure she had met her father.

  The furthest room from the entrance was windowless and sunken a couple of feet below street level. It was gloomy, with only a small fire and a gas lamp for light. Two men were hunched around a table with glasses of beer before them. One was a sailor with a drooping moustache white with froth above his lip, his eyes hooded, still wearing his hat pulled low. The other, Hellboy recognized with surprise, was Abraham Grant, his eyes not quite as sad as in his portrait, but clearly hunted. Anxiously, he tugged at his shirtsleeve as he spoke in hushed tones.

  Hellboy hung back, aware that this was more than a coincidence. The girl paused just before the small doorway, hiding half behind the jamb as if afraid to go in at the top of the three steps down. The men’s conversation was so intense that neither was aware of her.

  “Do you have it?” Abraham’s whisper carried clearly in the peculiar acoustics of the low-ceilinged rooms.

  The sailor eyed him coldly. “You knew what this was when you requested it? You knew what it could do?”

  “I knew of its reputation,” Abraham replied hesitantly.

  “Ten men have died to bring this foul thing here. Four of my own good men.”

  Abraham swallowed. “I am sorry—”

  “Your words are poor payment.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “The reports you received from your agents in Europe were correct.”

  “So. Paris.” Abraham beamed.

  “I traveled along the Seine under cover of the night, and moored on one of the islands in the river, near the great cathedral of Notre Dame. The agent you had arranged to meet me, Monsieur LeClerc, waited pale and shaking . . . with excitement, I thought at first. It was only later I realized he was filled with terror, and had spent most of the day praying in the cathedral. He led me back across the river and into the city proper, which was quiet at that time of night, apart from a few sailors and soldiers making their way along the red lights on the embankment. He would tell me little, except that he had located your mysterious artifact.”

  Lost to his troubled memories, the sailor sipped his beer. Hellboy noticed the knuckles on both hands were torn and scabbed.

  “Paris is an old city,” he continued. “Ancient, not like our new American cities that smell of paint and new stone. There are places and things that have been there longer than we can imagine, lying in the shadows waiting to be rediscovered. The city itself is built on an abyss. Running underneath it is an extensive network of mines—the carrières de Paris—long, silent tunnels that have been quarried for five hundred years or more, they say. Much of it now lies empty and dark.

  “In a trembling voice, in stumbling English, Monsieur LeClerc told me how the local people are refused entry to the mines on peril of their own lives. I know what you think. These old tunnels could collapse. There are pits hidden in the dark. Gases waiting to be ignited by an unshielded lantern flame. Yes, all of this is true. But Monsieur LeClerc told how the miners once broke through to another system of tunnels, ones much older, dating back to before the flood, when the world was young. Things live there that should never see the light of day.” He paused, began to say more, then caught himself. “Many parts of the mines allow entry to these older tunnels. Monsieur LeClerc believes they go down to the depths of hell. I do not know. I am not an educated man, but I know I would not venture into those mines again.”

  Abraham Grant was barely listening to what the sailor was saying. His eager gaze continually ranged over his companion, until it eventually alighted on a small chest the sailor had tucked away on the floor beside him. Abraham chewed his lip as if he could barely contain himself from snatching the chest and racing from the inn.

  “I was alone, as your orders. Monsieur LeClerc collected three other men from a tavern—rough, dangerous types with dead eyes and cold hearts—and then we crossed the river once more and made our way to the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. In the bowels

  of that building, there is a door that leads into the mine workings. LeClerc had an old map that he would let no one else see. I presume it was the one your agent located in Krakow, yes?”

  Abraham nodded. “This artifact led me on a trail across most of Europe. When it was first hidden, certain measures were taken to ensure it would not be found. One of these was the scattering across an entire continent of the signs that would point to its location, so that only someone very rich, very knowledgeable, and extremely determined would have the resources to uncover it.”

  “And these steps were taken because it is so dangerous?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you have brought it back into the world, where it can threaten humankind?” The sailor leveled a hateful glare at Abraham.

  Unable to respond, Abraham looked away.

  The sailor returned to his beer for a long moment, and then said, “The mines were dark and cold, and filled with ghosts, so that even those hard men were afraid. LeClerc told me it was my own errant thoughts making shapes out of the dark, but I have seen things at sea that would make most men quake, and I know the difference between dreams and the real world. After a while, we broke through into those older tunnels. Drawings lined the walls, beasts and things worse than beasts. There was a smell of the grave everywhere. Those hard men from the tavern wanted to turn back. Their eyes were wide and they clung together like girls. When the sounds of digging reached us, of fingernails scrabbling through the hard earth, one fell to his knees and called on God to deliver him. But we pressed on,” he spat, “LeClerc because he wanted the damnable thing off his conscience, I for the small fortune you had promised me.”

  “And I have it here,�
� Abraham said encouragingly, tapping the breast of his jacket.

  The sailor shook his head as if it no longer mattered. “There was a place along these old tunnels where some new excavations had taken place. LeClerc’s work, I suppose. He had exposed some ancient stonework that surrounded a well so deep that when I dropped a stone in it, there was no sound of it hitting the bottom. LeClerc said the artifact was hidden in the wall of the well, six feet below the surface. The men from the tavern had brought ropes and tools with them. They argued in French for many minutes about who would be the one to venture into the well, and then the poor soul was finally cajoled into accepting with the promise of more money.” The sailor spat again. “As we braced ourselves and lowered him into the dark, I thought that he might faint from the fear. For fifteen minutes or more, all we heard was the cold rhythm of his pick upon the stone lining the well, and then there was a sound of falling rubble and a cry of exultation, signaling that he had broken through into the hiding place. And then . . . and then . . . ”

  Wide-eyed, the sailor chewed on his knuckle with such force, blood spattered across the table; Hellboy could now see how he had developed such wounds across his hands. Abraham tried to rest a comforting hand on the sailor’s shoulder, but the sailor threw him off roughly and gave a murderous glare. Abraham retreated into his chair uneasily.

  “From the depths of the well, a terrible sound echoed loudly that made all our blood run cold. Our companion in the well shrieked in fear and urged us in his native tongue to raise him to the surface rapidly. LeClerc insisted he bring the artifact or he would be left to his fate. Sobbing, the man located the artifact as that awful sound began to rise up the well. As we hauled him up, the sounds grew wilder, as if whatever was down there could smell our scents and had grown incensed with hunger. Like a madman, LeClerc continued to insist and urge. Eventually a hand emerged from the dark of the well with an artifact. LeClerc snatched it and instantly thrust it into his bag. We continued to raise our companion until we met a sudden, concerted resistance. For the briefest moment, I saw his face illuminated by the lamplight, and I will live with that sight to my grave, however soon that may be. The hope of rescue faded as he realized hell had caught up with him, and there was an instant of terrible acceptance that what was to come was worse than anything he could imagine. Tears sparkled in his eyes and then he was wrenched back down amid a hideous cacophony of animal sounds, and our companion’s final shrieks and cries. The ropes burned through our hands. So sudden was the attack, we stood rooted for several seconds, and then a mist of blood and bone rose up.”

  Abraham bowed his head as they sat in silence for a moment. His guilt was clear, Hellboy thought. They were both so engrossed in their conversation the outside world might as well not have existed.

  “We ran as if hell was at our heels,” the sailor eventually continued, his voice barely more than a whisper. “And in a way, it was. One of the men from the tavern fell amid a rending and tearing as if of a wild beast, and before we reached the end of the mine tunnels, the other had gone too. I did not look back. I always thought I was a brave man, but I did nothing to help those poor souls. I ran to save my own. But in all of it, I did not forget what was coming to me back here in Boston.” He laughed bitterly. “I caught LeClerc and made him hand me the artifact as we ran, promising his recompense once we were safe. Glad to be rid of it, he passed it to me wrapped in an oily rag, and I tucked it into my jacket. And then, when we were almost at the church, he fell. I did not help him. I burst through into the crypt and locked the door behind me. I heard LeClerc’s cries and the feeding through the heavy oak. Pausing briefly at the altar, to pray for my soul, I made my way back toward the mooring. I could feel the damnable thing under my coat, even through the cloth, as cold as winter, as cold as my heart at that moment.”

  “But you survived! You are here! And all those things are behind you—”

  “Are they?” the sailor snapped. “In that place beneath the city, there were two things. A guardian in the well, which stayed within those old tunnels, and something else . . . something which had been waiting for the artifact to be brought to light. I am as sure of this as I am my own name. It was that which had made the sounds of digging we heard earlier, and when it realized we had the artifact, it hunted us down to get it. Did you know this would happen? Did you?” the sailor asked furiously.

  “No,” Abraham lied.

  “Something followed me back to the river. I heard the sounds and searched the shadows all around, but saw nothing, and then I caught a glimpse of it moving across the rooftops of Paris, silhouetted against the full moon. A beast that moved at times on two feet. It moved quickly, leaping the gaps between houses, crossing streets with ease, and however much I ran, I could not leave it behind. As I neared the boat, I heard it scramble down to the cobbles. I thought my heart might burst with the strain of my exertions, and I vowed never again to serve you, Mr. Grant, and that vow holds true today.”

  “I appreciate your sacrifices. There . . . there will be a little more for you if you return with me to my house.”

  “I do not want more. I want to be done with this thing.” He finished his beer. “At the river, two French sailors attempted to bar my way. They were drunk, they wanted money. Behind me, the thing raced on all fours, then on two legs, then all fours, howling. Howling! The French sailors cried out, ‘Loup-garou!’ but it was on them before they could run. They came apart in seconds. By then, I was in the boat and out into the flow. I kept my head down, rowing hard, but it kept apace along the banks. Back on the ship, I urged the crew to set sail immediately. What they saw in my face must have convinced them, for soon the sails were unfurled. But the beast had found its way to us! It clambered onto the upper deck, and had dispatched four of my men before sheer weight of numbers drove it back over the side and into the unforgiving waves. As we raised anchor and set sail for home, I prayed that was the last of it.”

  “And it was.”

  The sailor shook his head. “It was a clear day, and we were well into our journey, when the first mate spied a ship on the horizon. I did not recognize its colors. It had red sails marked with a black circle. What this had to do with the beast of Paris, I do not know, but I fear the worst. I fear that what we disturbed in the tunnels beneath that ancient city will not leave me alone until I am dead.” Dismally, he bowed his head until it almost touched the table.

  “Let me take it from you, then, and you shall be done with it.” Abraham tried to disguise his eagerness in deference to the sailor’s gloom.

  After a moment, the sailor reached down and picked up the chest, sliding it across the table in disgust. “Do not open it here.”

  Abraham placed a sheaf of notes on the table next to it. The sailor did not take it, didn’t even look at it.

  “I am in your debt,” Abraham said.

  Taking the chest, he made to go, and then saw the little girl standing by the door. “Sarah, why are you out of bed?” Abraham said with alarm. “You should be home, in the warm! My girl, you risk everything!”

  Sarah. Poor Sarah.

  Hellboy realized where he had seen her: in the ancient portrait in the attic room. She backed away a step as Abraham bounded from the room and took her hand. “So cold, already!”

  Sarah glanced at Hellboy and smiled. “Father, this is my friend. He brought me out of the snow and here to you.”

  “Happy to help out,” Hellboy said. He eyed the girl curiously; she appeared to know much more than she was letting on. It was also weird to be meeting Abraham in the flesh, when the last time Hellboy had seen him was as a ghost, trapped by the very thing he was now bringing into the house. He seemed like a nice guy, Hellboy thought, but he looked like he’d got the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  “I see you are a stranger to Boston, sir, but I thank you for caring for my daughter. Her health is fragile.” He tucked the chest inside his coat. “Now we must hurry home. It is perilous to stay out. For Sarah, and for me.”

/>   “What’s in the chest?” Hellboy asked.

  “Private business, sir, and none of your concern.”

  “If it’s the Kiss of Winter, it is my concern.”

  Abraham blanched. His hand went into his jacket, and Hellboy glimpsed a silver-handled revolver as the cloth folded back. “Sir, stand back.”

  “Hey, I’m not going to take it off you. I just—”

  Abraham pushed past him roughly, dragging Sarah in his wake. “I would rather die than lose this remarkable thing. Remember that,” he said, glaring back at Hellboy. Sarah flashed him a smile as they disappeared into the fog of tobacco smoke, the smell of beer, and the knot of bodies that peeled back as Abraham pushed his way through them.

  Hellboy followed; Abraham might not be so volatile once he was out in the sedate streets near his home. But as he stepped into the main bar, he saw a man rise up from a seat in the corner and follow Abraham out. The man had long brown hair, and a purple velvet frock coat in a style that was not like that of any of the locals. There was something almost regal in his bearing, although an odd air of decay surrounded him, as though he had fallen on hard times; his white shirt was frayed at the collar, and the cuffs of his coat were ragged. He moved with a lithe power on the balls of his feet, so smooth it appeared he was floating, and his face had a strange, otherworldly beauty that was counterpointed by the fierce intensity of his eyes.

  One drinker failed to get out of his way quickly enough and was thrown roughly to one side. The stranger’s action raised angry calls from those around, but he was gone before they could accost him.

  Sensing danger, Hellboy followed quickly, but the stranger had already disappeared when he stepped out into the bitter cold. He’d already lost his bearings as he stepped into the dark, stifling maze of streets, and hurried back and forth among blind alleys and narrow streets that brought him back upon himself.