by Tim Lebbon
He let go, wiping his right hand across his face and pressing it to his eyes.
The fire wolf fell to the floor and darted across the room. Before Franca could blink, the creature had passed into the narrow tunnel beyond, the roar of its flames even louder as it was channelled from there. It moved quickly away, the glare diminishing, noise lessening, and as it reached the end of that tunnel and the caves beyond, a surge of cool air blew back up.
“Damn it!” Hellboy said.
“You fought it off!” Franca said.
He shook his head, and flickers of flame came off like loose hair. “Too easy,” he said. “Didn’t put up a fight.”
“Maybe because it had just changed from . . .” She could not even mutter the name.
“Adamo,” Hellboy said, sneering. “That son of a bitch.”
Franca could barely comprehend what she had just seen, and trying to understand what it meant to her family as a whole . . . that was way beyond her, for now. It was a land she had no wish to visit, so she did her best to concentrate on the here and now.
“Are we going to chase it?”
“Not we, no. I am. I told you, Franca, it let me grab it too easily, let go too gently. I could feel the strength there, but it didn’t use any of it. It wants me to follow, and maybe it wants you to follow as well.”
“Me?”
“Don’t forget what this is about.” He came closer, pulling a clump of burnt hair from his goatee. “Sacrifice,” he breathed. “Carlotta escaped Adamo, so maybe he’s turned his attention on you.”
“But he’s not even human!” she said, feeling a note of panic entering her voice.
“Which is another reason for you to go back up into the house. That’s Adamo, who just went through there. Can’t pretend to understand it all just yet . . . but I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
“Back into the house?”
“And beyond. Franca, I hate to part ways with you. I think you’re safer with me . . . but not here and now. He’s luring me down there, for some reason, and knowing that gives him the advantage. You go back up. Find Mario and those others, tell them what’s happened. Tell them to hide.”
“What if he can sniff them out?” she asked, and the panic was really taking hold now, raising her voice and galloping away with her heart.
“I won’t let him,” Hellboy said, and he came even closer. “I’ve got a plan. Now . . . you go.” He looked into her eyes, just a little too close and for a little too long.
Franca blinked and broke the contact. She could smell burning and fear, but beneath that was the scent that she only now identified as Hellboy’s own. She had a terrible idea that she would never smell that again.
“Be careful,” she said.
“Hey. If I had a last name, ‘careful’ would be my middle one.” He checked his gun, smoothed his sideburns, and gave Franca a grin that lit her up. “See you soon.”
“You will,” she said, false confidence belying the terrible sense of doom that enveloped her. And before she could say any more, Hellboy had crawled into the tunnel mouth and was pushing his way inside.
She remained in that small room for a minute, listening to the sounds of Hellboy’s scrabbling hooves, the scrape of his big hand pulling him through. And when she heard no more she turned and left.
La Casa Fredda was silent, and smelled of the dead.
—
So where are you leading me? Hellboy thought. Something to show me? Or just a trap?
Hellboy had the little flashlight out again, playing it around the cavern he had seen before. He clicked it off every few seconds to check whether the glow of the fire wolf would give it away, but he was in complete darkness.
Of course, now the rules had changed. For all he knew the thing could revert to Adamo in the blink of an eye. Damn thing wasn’t only a fire wolf, it was a were-fire wolf.
The bats hung across the roof of the cavern, pinprick eyes flickering in the flashlight beam, the stink of their crap filling his nostrils and scouring his throat. They seemed calmed and relaxed, and he could hardly believe that a flaming creature had stormed through this cavern only minutes before. But just as he had seen a hundred places like this, so bats were known to Hellboy. Strange creatures, gentle and usually quiet, they often used unsettling silence to drive unwelcome visitors from their domains. Almost as if they knew the minds of people.
“Hi,” he said, and his voice barely echoed against the layers of soft bodies swathing the ceiling.
Something moved. He froze, breathing out softly to see if he could feel it again. A subtle vibration came up through the ground, like a silent groan felt in his chest, and Hellboy heard the mutter of dust and grit falling across the cavern. He shone the flashlight around again but there was nothing to see. Even the bats were unmoved. Vesuvius, he thought, and feeling it from this far away could only be bad news.
The dark mouths of several tunnels tempted him on. He could not make out whether they were naturally formed, and there was no clue as to where they led. If his plan had any merit at all, he’d have to find out which one led all the way down to the sea.
He pulled his gun, aimed at the far wall and pulled the trigger. The explosion was immense, and he winced as the echoes roared back at him. A blink later the bats took flight, weaving and swerving around Hellboy’s head. He stood motionless, knowing that none of them would collide with him, shining his light up at an angle so that the beam picked out the tornado of creatures. A few seconds later, they swirled down one of the tunnels, and in half a minute they were gone.
“Echo,” Hellboy said, and this time his voice came back at him from the bare walls and ceiling.
He headed for the tunnel. Its mouth was quite small, and he had to squeeze inside, but once through it opened up into something resembling a corridor. This one was definitely man-made—he could see tool marks on the walls, and a power cable ran along the floor—though its entrance was disguised to look natural from the cavern. An escape route, for sure. But then what of the power cable?
He walked for a few minutes. The tunnel erred downwards, and here and there very rough stone steps dropped it a long way in a short distance. There was no sign of the bats, nor any indication that the fire wolf had even come this way. But when he breathed in deeply he could smell seawater, and there was a constant breeze running up through the tunnel.
This is the way I’ll need to go, he thought. And then he turned around and retraced his steps.
Back in the larger cavern, Hellboy climbed around the wall and examined the mouths of the other three tunnels leading off. None of them gave any clues, but he chose the middle one. It was the smallest, and therefore the most likely to be used as an emergency hiding place.
As he crawled, flashlight gripped between his teeth, he untied the binding knot on the leather thong once more.
Ahhh, the spirit gasped.
“It’s in the form of a human,” Hellboy said.
Yes . . .
“Did it do that before?”
I never knew his name, the spirit said. A young man, quite beautiful. The fire wolf entered him, became him, but it was naïve in the ways of our world, and inexperienced in the use of its own powers. I saw the man burn up before my eyes, melting, bubbling, and then the fire wolf was free, and—
“Old guy it’s in now, I saw it burn out of him. But he’s fine. And it’s done it many times before.”
Then over the years, it has perfected its talent to disguise.
“But water hurts it.”
In my time I saw it subdued by water, but never for long.
“Great,” Hellboy said. “Anything else?”
Only that I doubt your ability to defeat it. And the girl, Hellboy . . . I sensed her mind, and knew her grief. If one sacrifice failed, there is another that can be made.
“I won’t let that damn thing near her, ever again.”
I was not talking of the fire wolf. Vesuvius rumbles, and you can sate it simply by—
“Okay,
night-night time again.” He started tying, wondering why he’d been fool enough to bring this deceitful old thing with him in the first place.
She is of the same blood, and—
“Can it.” He pulled the knot tight, and his mind was all his own again.
You can sate it, she had said.
“No way,” Hellboy muttered, and his words echoed back to haunt him.
Why had the fire wolf’s failure to sacrifice Carlotta to Vesuvius driven it to do what it had done? The possibility existed that it was because Hellboy had come and unearthed some of the truth, but he abhorred that idea. That put blame onto him, however passive and indirect, and he remembered the kids he’d seen up in the house, all those burnt people . . .
“Bastard!” he growled, voice muffled in the low, narrow tunnel.
From ahead came an echo that sounded like nothing he had said.
Hellboy paused, striving for silence though he had been making noise before. He tilted his head slightly so that the torch shone straight along the tunnel. It curved slightly ahead of him, and the shadows around the corner seemed darker than they should.
Just his imagination.
He moved on, trying to shift more quietly than before. He debated whether to draw the gun, but favored keeping both hands free; it had not proved effective against the fire wolf up to now.
Rounding the corner, the tunnel opened up into a wide, short corridor that reminded him, for some reason, of a prison. There was a door set in each wall, both closed. And outside one door, footprints in the dust.
“Well I’ll be . . .” he muttered. A hidey-hole for the Espositos? Maybe Adamo hadn’t killed as many as he’d first feared.
As Hellboy took one step towards the door it opened, and a frightened, old face peered out. He recognized one of the Elders he’d tried talking to back in the house, and she obviously recognized him. Though her eyes went wide for a beat, she soon sighed and dipped back through the door, leaving it open in invitation.
Hellboy unholstered his gun. No need to take any unnecessary chances. Then he stepped forward and glanced through the doorway, finding a scene he never have anticipated.
The room was twenty feet square, and carved out of the rock by hand. It was beautifully furnished: hanging carpets; oil paintings; sofas and easy chairs. Several electric lights hung from cables suspended back and forth across the ceiling. The thick carpet was ridged here and there where the floorboards beneath showed through, and on a large table along the right wall sat several open bottles of wine, and an array of food on silver platters. Cold meats, cheeses and breads set Hellboy’s stomach rumbling, and he tried to recall the last time he’d eaten. Pizza with Franca?
“Morning,” he said. “Lovely day.”
The Elders were all staring at him, and none of them were surprised. They seemed sad, if anything, and he wondered whether they knew exactly what had occurred up at the house this morning. It looked like they’d been down here for a while.
“Don’t worry,” he said, then frowned. Only the Elders?
“Worry?” one of the men asked.
“Yeah. I’ll look after you.” He glanced around quickly, but he’d been right the first time; there was no one here who looked younger than eighty.
The old man cackled, a wet sound like damp wood burning. “Thank you, truly, but . . .” And he pointed to the far corner of the room.
What Hellboy had taken to be a glass-faced cabinet was actually a hole in the wall.
And what he’d assumed to be lamp-light reflected from glass was actually the steady glow of fire.
—
Franca moved cautiously through the large hallway of La Casa Fredda. She could smell death on the air, and was desperate to leave. But there was something she needed to know. There had been a sensation just now that she did not like, and which she could not bear to associate with the thing Hellboy was pursuing deeper.
If the fire wolf had the power to shake the ground like that, there was no hope for any of them.
She passed through the dining room, looking away from the dead towards the open windows and the gorgeous view across Amalfi that they framed. All seemed normal out there; boats slashed the sea, and there was no sign of panic. If only the atmosphere in here could be so rosy.
The television room appeared untouched, and for that she was glad. She dashed to the window and glanced outside, looking across the garden towards where the main gates stood closed against the world. If Mario and the others were coming back, that’s the way they would come. She would keep watch, and soon she would go and find them. Hopefully they had stayed out for breakfast, or to shop, or maybe something of what Hellboy had been trying to tell them had taken root, much as they had projected doubt.
If not, returning home this morning would be a shock for them all.
She flicked on the TV and picked up the remote control, but there was no need to channel surf. Every channel showed the same image: Vesuvius, breathing billowing white smoke at the sky. No lava flows yet, and the rumblings had been contained within the volcano’s ragged sides thus far. But the emergency evacuation was fully underway, and surrounding areas had been warned to expect an influx of evacuees.
Franca turned off the TV and took in several deep breaths. She could not help wondering what was happening far below her feet, but Hellboy had sent her back up here for a reason. She placed the remote control very gently on a small table and looked around the room. She tried to conjure memories, but none came. This is no longer the Esposito house, she thought, and the idea pursued her back out through the hallway and to the big front doors. Opening them, she welcomed in the sunlight and started for the main gates.
That was when the shakes hit. Her knees turned weak, spilling her to the ground. She smelled roses and burnt meat, and her eyes blurred, not with tears, but with dizziness. Stay away! she thought, commanding her grief to swath her with its shocked numbness once again. There would be plenty of time to mourn, if she even got out of this with her life. Now . . . now was not the time. If she gave in to her emotions—
(Mother, lying there dead, her outline burnt into the wall and it must have held her there while it)—
—then she would crumple, and that would put Mario and the others in terrible danger. If she was able to salvage something from this terror—their lives, their escape, and the potential of their futures—that would be something.
If she curled up into a ball here and now, crying for what was passed, there would be no future for any of them.
Franca bit her lip. The pain drew her up and out of herself, and she started walking. Her knees felt stronger. The sun warmed her in a pleasant way, and when it touched the burn on her ankle, the tingling pain was good. It made her realize that she was still alive.
Her mother’s pain was over.
So she walked, and the house brooded behind her. It seemed so silent, so peaceful in these gardens that she could scarcely believe what had happened inside, and what might still be happening in those caverns below. She glanced back up at Carlotta’s bedroom window, and it seemed weeks ago that she had last been in there, not days.
“What are you still doing here?” a voice called, and Franca turned back towards the main gates. Mario stood there with the others gathered behind him. They were all carrying bags of food and drink, obviously having taken advantage of their early morning meeting to do some shopping before returning home. Being away saved your lives, she thought, but the impossibility of trying to explain what had happened struck her then.
Mario glanced over her shoulder at the house, and Franca suddenly feared something much worse.
I haven’t been here for so long. What if some of them know?
“Where is he?” Mario asked.
“Mario, Hellboy came here to help, and . . .” But she could not finish. How terrible it would sound, relaying what had happened since Hellboy’s arrival in Italy. How incriminating.
Mario looked past her again at the house, and she saw the exact moment when
he perceived the change in things. His hands went limp and bags fell to the ground. He looked around briefly for the dogs, then back at La Casa Fredda.
“Franca,” he said quietly, “what has happened?”
“It’s Adamo,” she said, unable to hold back the tears. “He’s . . . changed. He’s the thing that attacked Carlotta, Mario. And now he’s changed again and gone mad, and there are—”
“Where’s Hellboy?”
“Down in the basements, chasing him.” She could see the uncertainty in Mario’s eyes, and the others around him were suddenly unsettled.
“What’s that smell?” one of the children said. “Is someone cooking breakfast?”
“We have to go,” Franca said. “We have to all turn around and leave, go back down into town and hide until Hellboy comes for us.”
“And we should believe you?” Mario asked.
“Yes! Because I love my family, and—”
“You deserted your family!”
“And because I wanted my own life, you see that as proof of my lack of love?”
Mario started walking, leaving his dropped bags behind. His uncertainty had changed to fear, but he was angry as well, and that was what drove him. Franca tried to halt him but he shrugged her off, pulling away as if she was poison.
“Mario, some of them are dead,” she said quietly, hoping that none of the children would hear. He paused beside her, looking at the house but listening.
“Who?” he asked.
“My mother,” she whispered, voice only breaking slightly. “Others. But they were dead when Hellboy and I reached here. Mario . . . they’re too badly burnt to tell.”
He did not move, did not flinch. Does he know? Franca wondered. Am I the only truly ignorant one here.
Mario looked at the house for a long time, and though there was nothing to see, the peace was unnatural, and the silence was the quiet of the dead. He turned to Franca at last, and it could have been hatred in his eyes.
“For the children,” he said. “And for the others. But I’ll be coming back as soon as I know they’re safe.”
