by Tim Lebbon
“How can you be sure?” His eyes bore into her with a stark intelligence.
“Well . . .” Carlotta took the sheet from him and folded it away. “I can’t. Not for certain.”
“Show him what else you have,” Franca said. She was still sitting in the chair, head resting back and eyes closed.
Carlotta sorted through some of the file contents, looking for a particular piece of paper. She was aware of the loaded silence in the room, waiting for her theories to fill it. Now her ideas should start to seem ridiculous, presented to someone else, their tenuous threads and links stretched and snapped by a second opinion. But she found the account she was looking for, and she felt more certain that ever.
“In 1743, Emilia Esposito was kidnapped, raped and murdered by sea bandits who were raiding all the coastlines of south-western Italy at the time. She was taken on her eighteenth birthday as she swam in the sea at the foot of the old Saracen watchtower. She’d gone swimming on her own, against her family’s express orders, and her body was never found.”
Hellboy nodded, expecting more. But Carlotta had no more to give him . . . and therein lay the proof.
“So, the bandits were caught and punished?” he asked.
“No one was ever held accountable.”
“So how do they know she was kidnapped, raped and murdered?”
Carlotta shrugged. She watched the big man’s eyes glaze as he looked into some middle distance, one finger scratching the bristly tuft that grew on his chin.
“Could have drowned,” he said. “Could have run away with a lover, been eaten by a shark, or been kidnapped by slave traders.”
“Or she could have been taken by sea bandits, raped and murdered,” Carlotta said, holding out the paper to him. Hellboy shook his head and nodded at the file. More.
Carlotta started pulling papers out at random. There were copies from the book—which she would tell him more about soon, when his doubt needed one final push to be expunged forever—some old newspaper clippings, printouts from the Internet, and a couple of official forms she’d requested from the registrar of births, marriages and deaths. They each told a story of someone else, another unfortunate member of the Esposito family victim of a freakish accident or something terrible. They all happened on or close to the victims’ eighteenth birthdays.
And they were all women.
After another few minutes, and four more accounts, Hellboy held up his hand.
“Okay, let’s think about this,” he said. “Old friend of mine said you have to interrogate things from every angle to urge the truth to show. When I was young, I’d interrogate with my fists, but I’m a little older now. Maybe even a little wiser. So, this occurs to me: you’ve given me accounts from a five hundred year period, and in that time, there must have been plenty of male Espositos subject to strange accidents and disappearances as well.”
Carlotta smiled weakly. “Of course. And I’ve thought about that, too. But the only ones mentioned in the book are the girls. All missing. No bodies found, Hellboy. Ever. And all so close to their eighteenth birthdays. Interrogate that.”
“Book?” he asked. “What book?”
Carlotta glanced at Franca. Her older cousin was watching her now, eyes glittering with concern and something that might have been anger.
“I found it in the basements,” Carlotta said. “I went . . . exploring. It was deep down, in a room that looked like it had been used hundreds of years ago. There was an old table, a chair with three legs, some rotten tapestries on the walls. I thought maybe a monk had hidden down there long ago, or someone else trying to escape something. I was fascinated. I rooted around a little, trying not to disturb too much, but then I found the book. It wasn’t as dusty as everything else. And the last entry was 1945.”
Hellboy raised his eyebrows. “Huh. A good year.”
“It’s like a register,” Carlotta said. “A family account of Esposito girls gone missing. Sometimes there’s ten years between disappearances, sometimes fifty. And it’s long overdue to happen again.”
“So what in particular makes you think it’ll be you?”
Carlotta glanced at Franca, a flush of guilt making her feel sick. “Only that Franca escaped it.”
Franca snorted. “That’s no reason—”
“I can’t help it,” Carlotta said. “It started before I even went and found the book, Franca! I felt watched, all the time, whatever I was doing. I’d walk around the city and feel eyes on me at every moment.”
“You’re a pretty girl,” Hellboy said.
“It wasn’t like that. I know what that feels like. This was . . . predatory. I’d come home, sit in my room reading, bathe, and it always felt as if I was the center of someone’s attention. Even at dinner, or out with friends when there were so many other people around, I felt singled out. And then I found the book, and it all began to come together.”
“Or you put it together,” Hellboy said. But he sounded distracted, and Carlotta could see the concentration on his face as he pored over some of the other copies from the file. “You managed to steal the book?”
“Only for a morning. I copied as much as I could.”
“And it’s back there now? Down in the basements?”
“Yes. Hellboy, I don’t want to end up a new entry on one of its blank pages.”
“You won’t,” he said, and he sounded very firm.
“You’ll help me? Protect me?”
“I’ll stay until I find out for sure.” And though that answer still entertained doubt, Carlotta felt a surge of relief.
“Thank you,” she said, and the tears she had been holding back began to flow. She shuddered, desperate not to appear weak or scared, but unable to prevent either. Hellboy put his arm awkwardly around her shoulders, but then Franca came across and sat on her other side, and Carlotta leaned into her. “Thanks for coming,” she said. “You came back here because of me, and I can’t thank you enough for that.”
“It’s not a problem,” Franca said, and Carlotta could sense that her cousin was not lying. “I’ve sort of enjoyed coming back here.”
“Those basements,” Hellboy said. He’d been quiet, and Carlotta thought it was in deference to her teary outburst. But maybe not. She glanced up, and he was still frowning, looking down at his feet—
Hooves, she thought, he has hooves!
—and concentrating.
“Who has access to them?”
“Only the staff, I assume,” Franca said. “I’ve been down there once or twice. I think most Esposito kids have, just to explore. It’s dusty and dirty, though, and most children aren’t much interested in wine cellars.”
Hellboy looked up at them both, and Carlotta saw how dangerous he could be. It wasn’t his red skin, or his build, or that heavy right hand he rested in his lap. The danger was entirely in his eyes.
“The book’s been down there for a long time,” he said. “Girls been disappearing for a long time. Damn it, I don’t like the sound of this at all. I need to speak to the old guy.”
“Adamo?” Carlotta asked.
“Yeah, him. This time without his goons around.”
“You don’t think he can have anything to do with this?” Franca asked.
“Someone in your family does.”
“The book doesn’t prove anything. It’s a family account, and—”
“Then why keep it hidden away?” Hellboy asked. He stood and paced the room, his hooves making a strange sound on the floorboards. “How well hidden is it down there?”
“Anyone can see it, if they go down far enough.”
“Maybe . . .” Carlotta said, and she felt Franca tense. “Maybe Adamo and the Elders do know what’s happening, and they’re ashamed. Or scared.”
“If they know, then someone’s told them.”
“Who?”
Hellboy stood by the window and looked out, his expression grim. “That’s what I have to find out.”
—
Basements, he thought. Why is it always baseme
nts, or caves, or old temples buried for thousands of years? Why can’t the bad guys ever live in nice condos, or airy apartments with all-round glazing and views of the sea? The moment he’d seen those metal doors down behind the big main staircase, something had tingled inside. Not a warning, not another sense, but just . . . recognition. He’d gone through doors like that before, and more often than not he hadn’t liked what was on the other side.
And it hadn’t liked him.
The view from the window was stunning; the city of Amalfi clung to the hillsides below La Casa Fredda, all the way down to the deep blue sea. The chaotic arrangement of orange-tiled roofs surrounded the dominant cathedral, and in the streets and alleys in between, people moved like colored ants. Speed boats and sailing craft cut white lines in the water, and further out, a small cruise ship drifted close by so people could get some nice pictures of the coastline. It all looked so peaceful. He took in a deep breath and smelled the scent of roses. And hidden somewhere behind that smell, a weaker hint of lilies.
In the garden below him, he sensed movement.
“Oh,” he said, looking down. “So there are the dogs.”
“They’re out?” Carlotta asked, panicked. She stood from the bed and looked around, as if searching for something long-lost.
Franca sighed and came to stand beside Hellboy. “Inevitable, really,” she said. “They know we’re here.”
“Makes what comes next a little easier, I guess,” he said.
“Adamo?”
“Just a chat. Maybe he’ll offer me some coffee.”
“You don’t know Adamo,” she said.
“Time to get acquainted. Will you lead the way?”
Franca stepped away from Hellboy and stood beside her worried cousin again. They hugged, chatted in Italian, and Carlotta looked at Hellboy across Franca’s shoulder for the second time. This time she looked a little less scared. But just a little.
“Hey,” he said. “I’ll speak to the old man. Offer my help. I’d be happy to stay here for a while, at least until your birthday. Anyone tries something on you, they have to come through me, first.”
Carlotta managed a smile. “And that wouldn’t be easy, right?”
“Many have tried.”
“Well, you can suggest it to him,” Franca said without turning around. “But I think I’ll know exactly what he’ll say.”
“Then I’ll do my best to persuade him,” Hellboy said. “Besides, I wouldn’t mind a look around those basements. Who knows? Maybe that’s where Hercules buried Amalfi.”
Franca turned and offered him a weak, worried smile.
Hellboy sighed. He wasn’t sure what he’d find when he spoke to Adamo, but one thing already seemed certain: this was family business.
—
Maybe he was too relaxed, and he ignored the senses that had saved him many times before. Perhaps he was tired from Iceland and the flight down here, and the details Franca and her scared cousin had told him were still circling in his mind, threatening to coalesce into something sinister. Whatever the reason Hellboy had let down his guard, he did not acknowledge the feeling that something was wrong. The temperature rose around him, and he put it down to some strange atmospherics Amalfi might experience now and then: a breeze from the sea, a breath from the hills. A soft hiss increased in volume somewhere beyond the room, and perhaps it was the ocean, or the sound of an aircraft floating low above the attractive, rugged coastline.
“It’s so hot,” Franca said, concerned, and as Hellboy reached for the door, he glanced back over his shoulder at the two women.
The metal door handle scorched his hand.
“Back!” he managed to shout, and then the heavy wooden door burst inward.
Hellboy closed his eyes and brought his hands up as fire and splintered wood erupted around him. He staggered back, trying to keep his footing, but he tripped on a rug and fell, left hand going for his gun.
Explosion? he thought, but he’d heard only the impact of something heavy on the door.
Carlotta was screaming, and Franca was shouting something in rapid-fire Italian that Hellboy could not understand.
He rolled and stood, bringing the gun up to bear on the ragged door opening. Wood was burning, and smoke rose from the old carpets. Fire filled the doorway, roaring so loud that it hurt his ears, shifting this way and that as a breeze blew through—
But there was no breeze.
And as fiery fingers curved around the doorframe and pulled the thing through, Hellboy realized that that Carlotta’s fears were well-founded.
There was nothing to shoot at—bullets couldn’t hurt flames—but he fired anyway, and the roar of the gun provoked the reaction he’d been hoping for. The fire-thing came through the door and paused, its touch igniting the doorframe, raising itself to its full seven-foot height and turning its strange head in Hellboy’s direction.
“What is that?” Franca said, her voice misleadingly calm.
Seen some things in my time, Hellboy thought, shifting the gun so that it aimed at the fire-thing’s head. It was vaguely humanoid in shape—two arms, two legs, a torso—but its head was elongated, with white-hot burning stars where its eyes should have been. Inside its mouth, behind fire teeth and the flickering, wavering flame that was its tongue, there was a black hole leading down, down into whatever passed for its insides. Such blackness, such void, should surely not exist within a fire of this intensity. It had a wide chest, and long shifting flames on its fire-hands in place of claws; oranges and yellows glimmered across its body like fur in a breeze. Seen some things, but nothing like this.
He’d fought werewolves in the Balkans, and this thing . . . it looked like a werewolf made of flames.
As it howled, Hellboy pulled the trigger again. He saw a glimmer of fire parting on the creature’s head, but the blaze closed again instantaneously. He holstered the gun.
“Okay,” he said, lifting his hands. “Let’s do this the old-fashioned way.” He took a couple of steps sideways so that he was between the fire wolf and the women, and waited for it to come.
It surged forward on its hind legs, the air around it a shimmering heat-haze. It howled again, the sound of a conflagration sucking air through a small opening, and the howl finished in a low, liquid chuckle.
“Laughing at me?” Hellboy asked.
“Hellboy!” Franca said. “You can’t fight that!”
“Watch me,” he muttered, the words meant for both the woman, and the beast. And he made the first move.
The fire wolf seemed surprised when he came at it. It even flowed back a little, leaving a scorched black area on the carpet, and then Hellboy swung his left fist around. He’d been expecting some sort of impact, but there was none, and the lack of resistance sent him off balance. As he stumbled forward and fell, he saw the monster thrash at the air for a moment, flames flashing out from where his fist had swept through it like blood and flesh spurting from a wound. But even as Hellboy hit the floor he looked up and saw the thing reforming, the fire wolf taking shape once more. And it lowered its head to look into his eyes.
The pain of the burns kicked in then, rippling across the skin of his lower arm. As he gritted his teeth, something flew over his head and erupted in flames in the guts of the fire wolf.
“Another!” Franca shouted. Hellboy glanced up and saw Carlotta handing her a pillow from the bed. Franca launched this second pillow, and it too combusted the moment it hit the thing. But it gave Hellboy precious seconds, and he took them, rolling away from the flames and back towards the two women.
“Nice moves,” he said as he stood.
“Baseball,” Franca muttered. She never took her eyes from the creature in Carlotta’s ruined doorway. “Hellboy . . .”
“Leave it to me,” he said. “This is my thing.”
He went forward again, desperately trying to hide his confusion. How do I punch something that’s all fire? How can I grab hold of it before it takes Carlotta? The fire wolf gave that gruesome howl again
, then it leaped at Hellboy.
This time he went for a hold, not a punch. He felt the flames envelope him, smelled burning hair, heard the fire sizzling in his ears, and he tasted soot and acrid steam. And grabbing with his right fist he felt . . . something. It wasn’t solid, but it was more tactile than fire, something inside.
Then the thing shrugged him off and he fell to one side, striking the wall beside the ruined doorway, chunks of plaster bursting out around him and scratching at his eyes.
From behind, someone screamed.
Only my right hand can feel its insides, Hellboy thought. He spun around and launched himself again, his vision a blur but good enough to see what he was aiming for. He dragged up a big rug as he went, swinging it around his head and towards the fire wolf like a toreador. The heavy weave dropped across the thing’s head and it fell, already scorching through the material but still forced down for a precious few seconds.
“Take her and get out!” Hellboy said, pointing at Carlotta, talking to Franca.
“Where?”
“Hide. Somewhere close to water.”
Franca grabbed Carlotta’s hand—the younger cousin was staring wide-eyed at the thrashing fire thing, sweat dripping from her brow and staining her blouse—and pulled her towards the door.
The fire wolf reached out a blazing hand and closed its flames around Franca’s ankle.
She screamed, pulling back, but Hellboy could smell scorched skin, and then burnt flesh. She kept hold of Carlotta’s hand as she fell, trying to pull the girl behind her.
Hellboy threw himself on the burning rug, hoping to trap the fire beneath and maybe even extinguish it. But it was a vain hope, and within seconds he knew that he could not win like this.
Franca was leaning back against the wall, sweating, pale, her eyes dipping shut.
“Franca!” Hellboy shouted. Then he turned his attention to the girl . . . but she was petrified, frozen in fear, and he did not even see her blink.
He punched at the rug, spluttering on burning shreds of material. His coat smoldered, and he could feel the skin of his chest and stomach blistering. The pain he could take, because he knew he’d heal and get over it.
