by Tim Lebbon
“So many memories of this place,” she said quietly, and Hellboy was silent, giving her room to welcome them in.
—
Amalfi dripped with history. While Franca weaved the car through streets that looked too narrow to negotiate on foot, let alone drive along, Hellboy soaked it all in. The buildings exuded age, and when they passed the cathedral on their right, its impressive steps rising thirty feet to the main doors, he could imagine that the city was built on ghosts. He sensed depths to this place: new foundations built on old; and old, on ancient. The city had been here for more than a millennium, and anywhere that old had a thousand buried secrets and long-forgotten hollows filled with age. He closed his eyes and could smell Amalfi’s stories on the air. Some were good, some were bad. A few stung his senses, and he opened his eyes to allow in color and bustle once again. Sometimes, he thought that everywhere he went he could find work.
“It’s a beautiful place,” he said.
“It has its moments.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
“You’re seeing it for the first time. I grew up here, remember. It’s all memories for me. Don’t you remember where you were born?”
“Not exactly. But I remember where I grew up. Military base in New Mexico.”
“Oh. Sounds interesting.”
“It had its moments.”
The street wound steadily upward from the sea, into the hills and towards the dramatic cliffs inland. Franca took a left between two buildings that almost seemed to lean in to touch each other, then right, and Hellboy noticed an instant change in atmosphere. Gone were the pizza restaurants and seafood places, the cafes and the souvenir shops, and doorways became blank wooden shutters in shadowy recesses, several of them apparently guarded by old women dressed entirely in black. Washing was strung on lines between buildings to dry, and even that seemed leached of color. It was like driving back in time a hundred years.
“Don’t the tourists come back this far?” he asked.
“Some do. The more adventurous ones, those who like to take a path and see where it leads. But most are happy staying where they feel they belong.” She eased the car around an incredibly tight corner, the wing mirror passing through a wound worn in the cornerstone over time. In the narrow street beyond, she stopped. “Almost there.”
Franca took out her mobile phone and dialed a number.
“On foot from here?” Hellboy asked.
“I’ll park around the corner, then yes, on foot. Sorry the car’s so small.”
“No problem,” he said, thinking that perhaps his knees had seized up at last.
After several seconds Franca disconnected. “Hope she heard that,” she muttered. She pointed from the window. “Past that overhanging roof, you can just see one end of La Casa Fredda.”
“Up there on the hillside?”
“That’s it. Surrounded by lemon groves. The views from up there are astonishing.”
“You miss the place,” Hellboy said.
Franca did not reply, and that was answer enough.
She drove another thirty yards and then parked the car tight against a wall. She had to crawl across the seats and climb out Hellboy’s door, and they stood together looking up at the Esposito family home.
“It’s a steep climb,” she said. “Narrow paths, worn steps, and then the door will hopefully be open.”
“You’re sure about this?” Hellboy asked. The woman was nervous; there was a quaver in her voice, and he could see beads of sweat on her nose and upper lip.
“Sure. I promised Carlotta. And I need her to tell you what she told me.”
“Then lead the way.”
Hellboy followed the woman up a narrow set of steps, then onto a path that curved into shadow behind and between buildings, more steps, and eventually past a garden that spilled luscious branches heavy with sweet-smelling blooms he could not identify. They crossed a wider path, Franca glancing both ways first, then started up an even narrower set of steps. These twisted and turned, and in several places the steps had crumbled away. They had to stride up three or four risers at a time, and once when Franca slipped Hellboy automatically reached out to hold her up. She grasped onto his heavy right hand, running her fingers across its surface and glancing back at him, wide-eyed.
After fifteen minutes of climbing, they faced a high boundary wall topped with heavy orange tiles. There was a doorway set into the ancient stonework, almost completely hidden away by the bougainvillea that tumbled over the head of the wall. Franca shouldered her way through the hanging plants and tried the heavy iron handle.
“Shit!” she hissed.
“She hasn’t opened it?”
“It’s a side door to the house Carlotta is leaving open for us. This is just a garden gate, I don’t remember it ever being locked. I don’t think it even had a lock on it.”
“Let me try,” Hellboy said. He pushed through the plants and rested his hand on the old oak, close to the handle. He shoved gently and heard the grate of metal on metal.
“We could go around and—”
He shoved harder, and something snapped. “No need.” He eased the gate open, pleased that the plants on the other side seemed to be even thicker. They’d hopefully camouflage their entry.
“Let me go first,” Franca said. Her voice had dropped, and Hellboy perceived a nervous tension in her shoulders and legs as she squeezed past him and through the gate. “It’s okay,” she whispered without turning around, and for a moment he thought she was talking to someone inside.
He followed her through into La Casa Fredda’s garden. It was a wild, lush place, given over mainly to a dozen species of rose, some quite small and contained, others having grown into huge bushes with stems as thick as his wrist. It reminded Hellboy of the fairy tale of the sleeping princess, and how even as a kid he’d always thought that some sleeping things were best left alone. Many times over the years, he’d come to recognize the truth in that idea.
Franca darted across the garden to the wall of the house, and Hellboy followed in her wake. Nobody shouted out, no alarms were raised, and no guard dogs came slavering and growling after them. That was the one thing he’d been worried about, because dogs usually reacted to him in two ways: unsettled, or savage.
“Yes!” Franca hissed. “Carlotta’s an angel.” She pushed the door open and beckoned Hellboy in behind her.
“Terrified is what she is,” he replied. “The old man knows she let us in here, I’m guessing she’ll be punished.”
“Maybe,” Franca said, clicking the door shut without elaborating. She turned around, breathing in deeply and sighing as she exhaled again. “Home. It always smells the same.”
“Smells of garlic to me,” Hellboy said.
“Yeah. Come on, this way.”
They were inside. Hellboy was excited and alert. Officially, he supposed, he was on a job, though so far he’d encountered nothing more dangerous than Italian drivers. That didn’t mean he could get slack. The girl Franca had brought him here to meet was obviously serious about this curse thing, and he had to keep his eyes and ears open.
He rested his hand on the gun holster’s flap and popped the clip. He’d keep that open, too.
“More narrow stairs,” he said, and he had to turn sideways as they ascended, taking care not to let his right hand knock or scrape against the wall. The staircase was lit by a couple of small windows higher up, but they were dirty, and the air was gloomy and thick.
“Like I said, servants’ entrance. Small room up here they used to use for storage, then we’re into the first of the house’s main corridors.”
“So how many people live here?”
Franca paused at the head of the staircase and pressed her ear to the door. “Lots,” she said. “If you follow me, and keep quiet, I’m hoping Carlotta is the only one we’ll meet.”
Hellboy grinned. A hard taskmaster. Yeah, he liked strong women a lot.
—
They worked their way up through t
he house, Hellboy staying alert to sounds or other signs of threat to their covert entry. He wondered at a house so large that had no alarms or other signs of defense, but Adamo had been very old, and he knew that sometimes older people trusted technology least.
The place was filled with old stuff, too. He was no expert, but Hellboy figured there was a fortune in antiques and collectibles here, including one long cabinet in a first floor corridor containing a whole range of chipped, reconstructed earthenware. He wondered whether Franca had been responsible for some of this before leaving, or whether her choice of career had been prompted by being raised here. But the time to ask her that would be later.
Following her deeper into her childhood home, he realized that she was taking a big risk in coming here. This was a place that she’d done her best to distance herself from, an outmoded idea of family that this modern, sassy woman had eschewed in favor of a career and independence. Coming back, effectively breaking in and bringing an intruder with her, could be regarded as foolhardy in the extreme. It could also, he acknowledged, be one more way for her to flick her family the bird.
At the end of the first floor corridor, they came to a large hallway, floor lined with ancient marble, a set of main doors at one end, and a large skylight giving the space a bright, airy feel. There was a wide staircase leading up to a landing, balustrades intricately carved as spiral serpents. At each side of the hallway stood three heavy timber doors, and beyond the staircase, at the end of the narrow space on either side, Hellboy could see steel shutters. They were bolted shut and padlocked, and their appearance seemed incongruous against the rest of the well-appointed space.
He nudged Franca and pointed them out.
“Basements,” she whispered. “Wine cellar, storage. There’s a way into some old caves down there, too, though it’s difficult to crawl through.”
Hellboy nodded grimly. Old caves. There you go.
“We need to go up,” Franca whispered, and the front doors opened.
Hellboy grabbed her and backed up the way they’d come, leaving the doors at the end of the corridor open and hunkering down behind the display cabinet. The corridor here was poorly lit, and he hoped that whoever appeared in the bright hallway would not be able to see too far along.
“Oh,” Franca said, and she buried her face in her hands.
“What is it?” Hellboy asked. She only shook her head.
And then he heard the old man’s voice, and the voices of others. All old. So these must be the family Elders the old guy had mentioned at the airport.
Adamo came into view in the hallway, pausing at the bottom of the staircase and turning to the others. Several men and women milled around him, chatting and laughing, but Hellboy’s Italian wasn’t good enough for him to understand more than one word in five. Wine, he heard, and delight, and garden. And someone—an old crone with more skin hanging from her neck than covering her face—growled something about shame and party.
Adamo laughed at that, and the others seemed to fall into a respectful silence.
Franca looked up slowly, and when she saw her old family members she slumped back against Hellboy, seeming to seek comfort against his heavy body. He put his left arm across her chest and hugged her softly.
“I’ve let them down,” she whispered.
“No,” he said, but he didn’t know what else to say.
The Esposito Elders parted company, some of them climbing the stairs, others disappearing into a doorway out of view. When the hall was silent again, Hellboy stood, pulling Franca up after him.
“Let’s get to Carlotta’s room,” he said. “I’m relying on you, you know that. Leave me to my own devices, I’m liable to—” He shrugged, and his right hand struck the display cabinet, setting an ancient vase swaying dangerously close to the edge of its shelf. Hellboy’s reaction was lightning fast; he stilled the vase, and released his held breath. Crap! he thought. Didn’t even do that on purpose.
“Come on,” Franca said.
As if seeing the Elders had emboldened her, she seemed to move faster through the house; more confident, or perhaps less cautious. They climbed the staircase, crept along the landing, then went up a second, much narrower staircase to the third floor. There was a short, carpeted corridor here, with high stained glass windows at both ends bathing the hall with a spectacular splash of colored light.
Franca pointed along the corridor at the last door on the right.
Hellboy nodded, then pointed at the woman. You should go in first.
Franca stepped to the door, knocked quietly, and entered.
Hellboy heard a squeal from inside, then someone rushing across the room.
Damn! He leapt at the door, shoving it wide with one knee so that he had both hands ready to fight . . . and he felt such a fool.
The two women stood hugging each other, and over Franca’s shoulder Hellboy stared into the bright, teary, terrified eyes of Carlotta Esposito.
—
“Tell me you can help,” Carlotta said. “Tell me you know what’s happening, and can make it go away.” She was trying her hardest not to cry, she really was, but the pressures building within her these past few months were immense. Here was Franca, her cousin, long past eighteen and the time of danger, and escaped from the grip of the family home. And here was Hellboy, the strangest man Carlotta had ever seen. She’d read about him in magazines, seen him on TV, but in the flesh he was . . . intimidating. Franca said that he’d come to help, that he knew about such things as curses, and worked for an organization committed to protecting normal people against abnormal things.
“Can you?” she whispered. “Can you help?”
“I can only do my best,” Hellboy said. “First, you have to tell me everything you’ve told your cousin, and show me what you have.”
“Of course,” Carlotta said. She slipped from her bed and reached beneath, lifting the basket containing old clothes she rarely wore anymore and pulling out the file. She’d gathered it all together after showing it to Franca, making sure every single scrap of evidence she’d accumulated over the past few months was still there. Here it is, she thought. The proof that I might die in two days’ time. She took a couple of steps towards Hellboy and held it out.
“Want to talk me through it?” he asked. “You Espositos seem to speak English better than me. And I’m not the best at stuff like this.”
Carlotta nodded, amazed at the man’s red skin, his eyes, his huge, weird fist. And those things on his head . . .
“Shall we sit on the bed?” he asked, looking around her large room.
She nodded and sat, and when Hellboy sat beside her the bedsprings creaked ominously. She glanced across at Franca, but her cousin seemed lost in contemplation, her head back and eyes half closed. I asked her back here, Carlotta thought, and a pang of guilt bit through her. But she hadn’t forced her cousin to help her.
“First, I don’t want you to think I’m crazy,” she said.
“Hey, I’ve seen crazy,” Hellboy said, “and so far you seem pretty sane to me.”
“Some of this is quite . . . tenuous, really. And a lot of it is guesswork on my part. But the facts of what I’ve got in here speak for themselves, and everything else in between . . . well, even if it doesn’t add up quite the way I’ve supposed, there’s still something terrible going on.”
“A curse on your family,” he said.
“I think so, yes.”
“Caused by what?”
“What do you mean?” Carlotta asked, instantly defensive. Already he doubts me!
But Hellboy held out his hands and shook his head. “Hey, I’m only asking. Sometimes if I know the source of a curse, I might be able to read it better, or understand when the time comes to tackle it.”
“You think you can do something about this?”
“That’s what he’s trying to find out, Carlotta,” Franca said.
Carlotta nodded, and a flush of gratitude almost overwhelmed her. She gasped, tried to speak, but tears st
ole her voice. She felt like such a fool.
“Hey,” Hellboy said, and he touched the back of her shoulder. So gentle for such a giant. “Take your time.”
“I can’t,” Carlota said. “I don’t have any time.” And she took a deep breath, and began.
CHAPTER 4
—
Amalfi
—
She opened the file and wondered where to start.
“Here,” she said. “Antonia Esposito, lost at sea in 1546.” She looked at the facsimile of an old, faded painting, trying to see herself in this girl’s eyes. But she could not. Antonia looked peaceful and happy.
“Long time ago,” Hellboy said, taking the print.
“She was lost three weeks after her eighteenth birthday, so the old accounts say.” Carlotta read from another copied page, this one from the old book she’d found in the basements. She’d tell Hellboy about that soon. Everything at once might be too much, and she wanted—needed—him to believe.
“Okay,” he said, handing the picture back and obviously expecting more.
“Amalfi has always been a great seafaring port,” she said. “I assume you know a little about the place?”
“Ah . . . can’t say I had much time to research, no,” he said, glancing away as if embarrassed.
“It was once a great power,” Carlotta continued. “A long, long time ago, at least. But five hundred years ago, when Antonia was lost, much of that former glory was gone. It was a fishing port then, though war galleons were often known to dock here. A cosmopolitan place, there would be a dozen languages spoken in the town squares, and the women of the area gave birth to babies of many hues. But the Espositos were a very powerful family back then, perhaps even more so than now. And they would never have allowed such a young daughter to go to sea.”
“So you’re saying it’s a cover-up?” Hellboy asked.
“Of course.”
