by Tim Lebbon
“After that, can you and I—”
“In the morning, if you will. I can’t talk to you now. I can barely look at you.”
Hellboy felt a flush of anger, but then the atmosphere of the house gave him pause. This old, beautiful place was stilled by grief tonight. He could give the old man a night to cry his pain away, at least.
“In the morning, then,” he said in acknowledgement. “But if it’s all right with you, and pretty much also if it isn’t all right, I’ll patrol the grounds tonight.”
Adamo waved a hand above his shoulder, a dismissive gesture.
Hellboy took it as a yes. He had grave doubts about whether he’d be able to sleep. And as night fell, the taint of fire left the garden, and the scent of roses on the air was fine.
—
The pain should have kept her awake, but the doctor had given her ointment for the burns and painkillers to fend off the discomfort. So she slept, insisting that she stay in Carlotta’s ruined room—her parents had come to see her at last, and they had made the offer to move her elsewhere—and as she drifted away she heard the familiar sounds of Amalfi coming through the polyethylene windows. Dropping into sleep, she was a girl once more, and La Casa Fredda was her home and always would be. That young girl could never imagine living anywhere else. With her family around her, everything felt safe.
In her dreams she walked the darkened corridors of the house while everyone slept. She seemed to know where each creaking floorboard was positioned, because even she could not hear her footfalls. There was a tension to the air, as if it was thicker than usual. She had to push through. It pressed against her, caressing her skin and compacting her ears.
Downstairs, she turned around the staircase and approached the metal door leading down into the basement. She expected it to be locked, as always, but the door hung open, and through the crack she saw the dancing flicker of flames.
She was afraid but fascinated, and she thought, I have seen you before.
Opening the door, she saw a small room, much smaller than the tunnels and basements she had expected to find. It contained nothing but a table, and upon the table sat a book, open to the last page. Above the book, blazing like the hottest fire, bright as the sun, floated the familiar fire demon.
She went to step back, but her legs took her forward instead.
The fire demon eased back from the book, displaying what it had been writing with one burning claw, letters and words scored in carbon on the slightly scorched paper. As she viewed the book, the room around her shook, and the only sound to be heard in her dream was a subtle, distant roar.
She knew what she would see, and she prepared herself for that sadness once again.
But it was not Carlotta’s name marked on that final page.
It was her own.
—
The cool night air soothed his burns. The doctor had offered to take a look at his wounds, but Hellboy had declined; he figured paranoia was now a healthy option. He’d heal soon enough, and for now they gave him some physical sign of the fire wolf. As he walked, he dwelled upon just what that thing could be.
If everything that Carlotta had claimed was right—and the Esposito family was under some strange, ancient curse—then it could surely not have been a fire wolf responsible for every disappearance. It would have been seen down through the centuries, and noted somewhere in family history or whispers. So, that meant that the threat had changed, or who- or what-ever was taking the girls had altered its tactics. A demon or a wraith, the creature had certainly been real enough, both affecting this world and being affected by it.
If and when he met it again, at least he would know that water worked against it.
He passed around the garden, one of the guard dogs walking several steps behind him. The Doberman had taken an interest in him, and though it had yet to come close enough to be stroked, Hellboy quite liked its company.
“So did you see it, dog?” he asked, pausing and turning around. “Did you smell it?” The dog stopped and cocked its head. “Carlotta and Franca saw it. Stands to reason others in the family must have as well.” He’d spoken with some of the others that evening—Franca’s parents, Carlotta’s older brother, a few others who spoke good English—but grief was a heavy weight upon every Esposito, and few of them had welcomed his questions. Rumor had already spread that his arrival here had initiated the events, and Hellboy had an unsettling suspicion that could have been the case. The fire wolf had come for Franca when there were others around to witness it, but perhaps only because it knew of Hellboy’s presence. If Franca had not called the B.P.R.D.—if she’d put her cousin’s fears down to teenaged delusions—the creature, or something connected with it, would have come unseen.
Carlotta would still be dead, but not of her own will.
“Damn it!” he snapped, startling the Doberman into the bushes. His frustration and grief at what she had done could not transpose into anger, much as he felt it should. He’d fought the thing and saved her life, but still she had done that.
Terrified that the thing might return, perhaps.
Or certain that it would.
Hellboy walked the gardens that whole night, and saw no sign of the fire wolf. By the time dawn peered over the hilltops, a much more benevolent fire, the Doberman was walking by his side, sniffing at his big right hand and letting him pet its head.
And Hellboy had questions for Adamo.
—
When she opened her eyes there was fire at the window. She tried to scream, but her throat and mouth were so dry that she could utter no sound, so she thrashed her hands and knocked a glass from the bedside table before she realized she was seeing the sunrise.
Franca’s heart fluttered in her chest, and she sat up in bed against the instruction of her pain. Lie still, it said, or you will hurt even more. But at least the pain told her that she was alive. Every time she blinked she saw Carlotta lying dead below this very window, blood spreading beneath her pretty head. And between each blink was only the sunlight, a mocking heat. Neither gave her any respite.
Even her dreams had been bad, though right now all that she remembered was her name in a book.
Her mother had been with her on and off through the night, but now she was gone. Franca had vague memories of the woman sitting upright beside her bed, and exuding from her had been a confusion of concern and blame. It wasn’t me, Franca had wanted to say, and perhaps in her sleep she had spoken those words. But now her mother was gone, and her absence from the bedside of her wounded daughter spoke volumes.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, stepping gingerly onto the floor. The burn around her ankle and lower leg stung, but it was not as bad as she had expected.
I’ve seen that thing before, she thought absently, sending the idea away in the hope that she would chance upon the truth via a casual approach.
She walked to the shattered door and moved aside the curtain that had been hung in its place. The police had urged against remaining in the room, cautioning that officers would wish to examine the window and door. But the Espositos were an old, respected family. And Franca had no doubt that money had changed hands. A suicide was an embarrassment, but nowhere near as scandalous as a murder.
She left the room and the stink of burned carpet behind. How did they explain that? she wondered. But that was something for later. Now, she had to find Hellboy and speak to him about what had happened.
I’ve seen that thing, she would tell him. Perhaps his questions would prompt her to remember where.
—
He met Franca in the downstairs hallway. She was limping slightly, and she looked tired and drawn, but he was glad to see her up and on her feet.
“Hey,” he said, “how’re you feeling?”
“I’m fine. You?”
Hellboy shrugged his shoulders, cricked his neck. “Bit sore this morning.” There was plenty he wanted to say about Carlotta, but right now did not seem the time.
“Shall we break
fast?” Franca asked. “Some of the younger family members seemed pleased to see me, at least.”
“You go ahead,” Hellboy said. “I’m going to visit Adamo, if I can find him.”
“He’ll likely be in his rooms on the third floor. He always breakfasts alone. At least, he did when I lived here.”
“You did a brave thing, you know,” he said. Franca looked away, but he touched her chin and turned her to face him again. “Coming back. That took guts, and I know Carlotta appreciated it.”
Her eyes watered at the sound of her dead cousin’s name. “Did we do this?” she asked.
“What?”
“By coming here, did we cause this?”
“You’re smarter than that, Franca,” he said.
She blinked quickly for a couple of seconds, banishing her tears for a better time. “Then that thing knew we were here,” she said, “and it came early.”
“That’s what I figure. That’s one of the things I’ll be talking about with the old man.”
Franca actually managed a smile. It was dazzling, and it touched Hellboy’s heart. “Best of luck,” she said. She nodded at a door across the hall from them. “I’ll be in there. Breakfast room. If they haven’t tarred and feathered me by the time you come back.”
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “Go. Eat. I’ll see you later.”
“Hellboy . . .” she said, her smile wiped by an instant frown.
He waited for a few seconds, giving her time.
“Never mind.” Franca shook her head, but the frown was still there. “Later.”
“You sure?” he asked.
Franca nodded. “Bad dreams.”
“That happens.”
She surprised him by giving him a brief, strong hug. Then she headed for the breakfast room door, glancing back with a soft smile. He watched her through the door and heard a few welcome greetings from some of those inside. From others, he sensed silence.
He started up the staircase, and by the time he reached the third floor—and the house took on the air of an old, deserted place—he knew he should have pressed Franca to say what she had been thinking. But there was always later.
Two of the Elders were standing on the third floor landing, talking in hushed tones. One of them, a man, offered him a curt nod. The woman simply stared at him, the piercing eyes in her wrinkled face wet and full of malice.
“I did my best to save Carlotta,” he said, but neither Elder responded. Maybe they couldn’t speak English. “Adamo?” he asked, pointing along the corridor one way, and then the other.
Again, the woman only stared at him, perhaps manufacturing a dozen suitable tortures for this red-skinned man in her old woman’s mind. The man pointed to the corridor behind them, and as Hellboy moved on, he maintained eye contact until they were behind him.
A door opened and he paused, waiting to see if Adamo emerged. But it was another of the Elders, a woman so withered and twisted that she reminded Hellboy of an ancient tree.
“Hellboy,” the woman said in heavily accented English, “the man who is not.”
“I am what I am,” he said, immediately on the defensive. She smiled, showing crooked teeth and a constantly shifting tongue, like a snake in its hole.
“Come here to help, and brought something with him.”
“Lady, that thing was here before me, believe me.”
“The fire demon?” she said, shrugging. “Maybe. But you brought something else, Hellboy. Death. I smell it on you.” She pecked her head forward in a mine of sniffing. “I see it on you, in every red crease.”
“I’m here to see Adamo,” he said. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, lady. Carlotta was a brave girl.”
“Carlotta,” the woman said, and something seemed to fade from her eyes. She looked past Hellboy into a distance he could not view. “A great loss, yes. To all of us.” Her eyes snapped back to Hellboy. “Be gone.”
“Not yet, lady.” No one tells me to be gone, he thought, bristling with awkward anger. These people were grieving, he had to remember that, but he had something to do here. A hundred questions had been asked, and now was the time to start answering them.
He walked on, aware of the woman’s gaze burning into the back of his neck. When he reached the next door he glanced back, but she was gone, along with the other two Elders. Down for breakfast, he supposed. He only hoped they were kinder to Franca than they were to him.
Hellboy knocked at the door, and a heartbeat later it opened. Adamo stood there in the doorway, chewing thoughtfully on a croissant. There was a flake of it on his top lip. He stared at Hellboy, but some of the anger from the previous night seemed to have gone. Indeed, he seemed almost friendly as he waved the big man into his room.
Weird.
“Join me for breakfast?” Adamo said. “My great-great-grandson, bless him, always brings me too much. An old man doesn’t burn as much energy as his younger descendants, alas, much as I like to think of myself as still . . . athletic.”
“You’re as old as you feel,” Hellboy said.
Adamo actually chuckled. “Then this morning, I must be the oldest man on Earth.” He ushered Hellboy over to a table placed inside a tall, wide window. Shutters had been drawn back and the windows were open, allowing in a pleasing breeze that carried the scent of the garden with it. Beneath that, the unmistakeable smell of the sea. Hellboy sat, looking out at the stunning view afforded down across Amalfi.
“Coffee?” Adamo asked.
“Please.” He watched the old man pour, then heaped three teaspoons of sugar into the cup.
“You ruin a good coffee.”
“I’m a creature of habit,” Hellboy said. He stirred and sipped, and Adamo was right, it was good coffee.
“Today, ours is a sad house,” Adamo said. “I feel the weight of grief, even up here, and I dread descending those stairs this morning. It’s a very . . . private time for us, in our loss. Do you understand?”
“Of course. And I appreciate how difficult this is. I’ve lost people close to me, and—”
“But have you ever lost family, Hellboy?” The old man stared right at him, the question loaded.
“My father was murdered,” he said.
Adamo nodded, then reached down for his coffee.
“As I was saying, I’m sorry. But I can’t simply leave.”
Adamo glanced up at him again, his welcoming manner evaporating like spit on a hot sidewalk.
“You know some of what’s been happening here, Adamo,” Hellboy said. “Carlotta found that old book down in the basements. She showed me pages from it, and—”
“She found a history of this family’s grief and sadness,” Adamo said. “It surprises you that I keep the book hidden away? It shouldn’t. It’s not exactly bedtime reading.”
“Who else knows about it?”
“The family Elders,” Adamo said, sighing. “Supposedly no one else, but I’m aware that some of the children go into the basements on occasion, against strict instruction. It’s a challenge for some, an adventure for others. And if they find the book, well, so be it. But it remains hidden away. It’s full of sad times, and it has no place in a happy family home.”
“So you keep it buried.”
“I keep it out of the way.”
Hellboy picked up a croissant and bit into it, scooping honey from a stone jar on the table and smearing it inside. It tasted good, and he had barely realized how hungry he was.
“But you or those before you continue to fill in the book,” he said. “You record the cursed deaths this family endures—”
“There is no curse!” Adamo said, almost spitting the words.
“Then what the hell was that thing that came here for Carlotta?” Hellboy asked leaning across the table. It became a ridiculous staring game, and he could not help but be impressed by the old guy’s resilience. Most people would have looked away from him long ago. He smiled and glanced down at the table, seeing if there were any pastries left.
“That, I
cannot answer,” Adamo said. “And I did not see it. No one saw it, other than you and Franca.”
“And Carlotta.”
“Ahh, sweet Carlotta. Dead, now. Unable to tell what she saw, or why she fell.”
“She jumped, because she was terrified of—”
“A fire demon?”
“Something like that.”
“Ha!” Adamo spat. “Preposterous. But then, a man like you would see demons everywhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“I made that clear before, Hellboy.”
“Well, officially, I’m as human as you.”
“And unofficially?”
“I’m just a guy doing a job.”
Adamo laughed, a bitter, hacking old man’s laugh.
“This isn’t about me,” Hellboy said. “It’s about Carlotta, and why she jumped from—”
“Jumped or was pushed. Either way, she fell.” Adamo was shifting from mockery to anger now, less able to hide it behind civilities and platitudes.
“I want to look at the book,” Hellboy said. “I want to go into the basements.”
“Impossible. You’re not family.” Adamo finished his coffee and clunked his cup down, going to stand and finish this audience as quickly as it had begun.
Hellboy poured himself some more coffee. “I’m not finished,” he said.
Adamo glared at him, half out of his chair. Then he sat back down with a groan, leaned back, and closed his eyes. A tear leaked from the corner of his left eye, and Hellboy looked away.
“Whatever visited La Casa Fredda yesterday, the Elders believe that your arrival brought it,” Adamo said. “I believe the same. The Elders believe, therefore, that you are responsible for Carlotta’s death.”
“And you?” Hellboy asked, taking a measured bite from his croissant.
“Angry as I am, I do not think that,” Adamo said. “Carlotta saw lies in every word, conspiracies in every wrinkle of history. A troubled girl, and yet not as passive in her fears as I believed. Finding the book was the worst thing for her, because it gave so much scope for those insecurities to take root. And they did, expanding and growing into terrors, fears and certainties. And in the end, the certainty that she was cursed is what killed her.”
