by Tim Lebbon
At least he knows his priorities, she thought.
They needed somewhere safe. Once Franca knew that they were shut away out of sight, she would take Mario back up the hillside to their family home, and there they would discover the full extent of what had happened.
And Hellboy? she wondered. Will he be back by then? Will he have defeated Adamo? She guessed not. She had little idea of what he had planned, but she was sure that at least part of it involved a trip back to the volcano. She could not help feeling that it would be too little, too late.
A rush of hatred came over her then. Her face hardened, and she looked at the children’s backs before her, wondering how many of those they knew and loved were now dead. Adamo . . . that bastard! He had duped their family, nurturing them as a line of sacrificial victims to save his own . . . skin? No, not skin. He might have looked human for as long as she’d known him, but he was something far less, something more basic. Whatever arcane means he had employed to dress himself in human guise had been melted away by Hellboy’s presence, and now he was naked once again. The fire wolf. The fire demon, as the shrivelled corpse of the ancient demon hunter in Pompeii had called him. Franca only hoped that what had begun two thousand years ago could be ended today.
Mario crossed the square before the cathedral and passed along one of the narrow walkways beside the wide, impressive steps. There were several small shops and a café down here, and Mario paused to talk to an incredibly old man sitting and smoking at one of the café tables. The others kept a respectful few steps away, and Franca also held back, struck by a shattering sense of nostalgia.
Here was old Orso, the man who had allegedly owned this café for sixty years. Franca had sat at the pavement tables many times with her friends, drinking espresso and smoking illicit cigarettes, eyeing the boys as they sped through the square on their scooters and sometimes edged their way towards the cafe, only to be chased away by Orso. The stench of their exhaust fumes spoiled his coffee, he would say, constant cigarette hanging from his lips. Even when Franca was a child, his face had been a mask of leather, browned and grizzled by the sun and cigarette smoke. But Orso had always borne a worn-in smile, and he had long been a friend to the true inhabitants of Amalfi. He charged tourists high so that he could charge people he knew low, and his café was a favorite among locals.
Mario spoke to him now, and Franca could perceive the deference in her cousin’s manner. He never touched the old man, but his hands hovered close, expressing much of whatever he was saying with lively gesticulations. Orso nodded, expression unchanging, and halfway through Mario’s talk, he lit a new cigarette.
Once, Mario looked down at the ground and held one hand across his mouth, obviously trying to compose himself. Orso glanced across at Franca, giving nothing away.
At last the young man smiled and nodded his thanks, grasping one of Orso’s hands in both of his and shaking once. Then he turned back to the children and adults who had been waiting behind him. He spoke quickly to the adults, and as each child passed him by and entered into Orso’s café, he touched their heads and whispered something encouraging.
But little encouragement was needed. “Ice cream!” Orso said, and his rugged laughter accompanied the children’s excited chatter.
Mario came back to Franca. “It’ll be safe here,” he said.
“You’re suggesting I stay?” Franca frowned.
“I don’t think La Casa Fredda—”
“You have no idea what I’ve seen today,” she said quietly, feeling Orso’s eyes upon her. “You have no idea because you won’t let me tell you, and now you want me to hide away while you put yourself in danger?”
“I believe you about the house. It looked wrong, lifeless, and I have to go and—”
“And you believed me about Adamo?”
Mario stared at Franca for a very long time. He blinked slowly, never taking his eyes from hers, and what scared her the most was that she could not read him. He was appraising her, but she had no idea what he saw.
“Orso has known Adamo forever,” Mario said.
“That means nothing.”
“Doesn’t it?”
Franca frowned, because nothing was making sense.
“Franca, I’m sorry, but I need to get back to the house, and I don’t want you with me.”
“I don’t give a shit what you want, Mario,” she said, louder this time. Looking over her cousin’s shoulder, she swore she could see a glitter of amusement in Orso’s gaze. “I’m coming with you. I already know what you’ll find at the house, but I need to know what happened with Hellboy.”
“Why? That demon comes and—”
“I need to know because if he loses to Adamo, I’ll be the next to die.”
Mario sighed in frustration. “What is Hellboy to you?”
Franca did not answer, because truly, she did not know.
“Come on then,” her cousin said. “But without the kids, I’m running. Make sure you keep up.”
“I might just surprise you,” Franca said, and Mario’s slight smile lit her up inside.
—
Surprise him she did. In her years at university in Sorrento, Franca had been an enthusiastic member of the long distance running team. She’d already completed the Rome marathon, and she’d had plans to travel further afield—London, perhaps, or maybe even New York. Mario was fit as well, and by the time they were back across the square and climbing once again, she detected a definite air of competition in their energetic jog. It should have been vaguely amusing, but she could not find it in herself to smile.
There was almost a carnival atmosphere in Amalfi. Fifteen miles to the north, Vesuvius was venting, boiling steam and gases billowing miles into the sky. The eruption was not quite visible from here yet, but the promise of evacuees had the town buzzing. There would be people to accommodate, and more importantly, to feed and water. Restaurants were drafting in extra staff. Nobody expected the worst.
No one cares about Carlotta or my mother, Franca thought, a random idea that saddened her as she ran. Most people here probably weren’t even aware that Carlotta was dead.
And after all this, when it was over one way or another, what would Amalfi make of the slaughter at La Casa Fredda? She had no wish to muse upon that. It was too horrible to contemplate, and until it was over the possible outcomes all felt bad.
She let Mario lead the way. The higher they went, and the closer they drew to the house, the more nervous Franca became. Her heart thumped from the exertion, but there was something else controlling her heartbeat, she knew. Fear. She had no idea what she would find upon arriving at the house, nor who or what would be waiting there for her.
Was she betraying Hellboy’s trust by returning here now? He had sent her away to lead the others to safety, but she knew that he’d had her own safety at the forefront of his mind as well. Adamo was seeking another Esposito to sacrifice, and she was in grave danger—
—(her dream, the book, and remembering it now it was Adamo burning her name onto the final page)—
—but she could not just stand by and let things happen, hiding in that café with the others. She had seen and heard things that made no sense, and she had a duty to herself to discover what those things meant. Besides, she had left Amalfi and the Espositos years ago. She was her own woman.
“Mario!” she called. They were up out of the town now, skirting past the less frequent buildings on the steep hillside upon which La Casa Fredda had stood for many centuries. They were almost there, and she had to make one last attempt to persuade Mario to turn back. He would know about the horrors in the house soon enough; the dead aunties, the burnt relatives. But danger might still stalk those silent rooms and corridors.
He paused, leaning on his knees and breathing in heavily. “What is it?”
“Go back,” she said.
But Mario laughed, and she knew that he was strong.
“If you won’t, then at least let me go first. And if you see anything . . . stra
nge, promise me then you’ll go back.”
“I’ve always loved you, Franca,” he said. “Even when you left I still loved you, like any good cousin loves another. But I won’t listen to you now. If it’s as bad as you say . . .” He trailed off and looked across Amalfi, the beautiful town that had been their home forever.
“It’s worse than you can imagine,” she said. “I saw—”
“Then I can’t help blaming you,” Mario cut in. “Come on.” And he turned and continued running up the path.
Franca ran hard. Their vaguely competitive run became a race, and whenever she thought she was gaining on Mario, he put on a burst of speed, or blocked the narrow paths so that she could not squeeze past. By the time they reached La Casa Fredda’s front gates they were both panting hard and sweating freely, and it was only the sight of the deserted house that brought them to a halt. They stood between the two gate columns, the heavy cast iron gates standing open as usual, and stared at the façade before them.
The garden was silent but for the occasional swish of a breeze from the sea. The house was still, other than the gently billowing curtains dancing in several open windows and doors. There was no one there.
Franca was desperate to see the telltale flash of red as Hellboy emerged from the house, but there was nothing.
“Are you coming in with me?” Mario asked. He looked at Franca sidelong. She could see for the first time just how scared he was, and she was glad. His shirt was plastered to his skin with sweat, heavy black hair pasted down across his forehead, and his eyes were wide and wary.
“If we see Adamo—” she began.
“Then I have questions for him myself!” Mario said harshly. But there was little belief in his eyes for anything Franca had said.
She ran. With the surprise lead on Mario, she was the first to reach the house’s main doors. They were ajar, and as she pushed one of them all the way open, Mario cried out behind her, and she realized her mistake.
A trap! she thought, and spinning around she saw the three flaming shapes streaking towards them across the garden.
Three?
Mario caught her eyes. He was terrified.
“Run!” she shouted. “Get away from here!” And then she entered the house and sprinted for the staircase.
Mario screamed, and then the burning things crashed through the doors behind her.
Halfway up the wide staircase Franca looked up, and fire touched her eyes.
—
Hellboy swam. With his right hand fisted into the flesh of Adamo Esposito, he could only use his left to pull at the water, kicking hard with his booted hooves. So pull and kick he did, with the flashlight clenched once again in his teeth and providing minimal illumination against the murky water ahead. A few fish darted before him, and one or two floated dead, shoved down below the land by the vagaries of the tide. Seaweed drifted by, sometimes settling across his face like some gentle, insistent hand. He wiped it away and went on.
Adamo bobbed behind him, apparently lifeless. Hellboy knew he was still alive, however, because every now and then his fingers burned, and bubbles rose from the gray body. Naked and withered, the old man looked decidedly unthreatening. His skin was blistered here and there, his hair drifted around his head like the tendrils of rotting seaweed, and his eyes were open and sightless. But there was that intermittent heat, and the knowledge that he was something far more than a drifting, old corpse.
If and when we make it out of here and climb from the sea . . . But Hellboy cast the thought adrift. Whatever happened then, he’d deal with then. For now he had to swim, hold his breath, and stay alive.
The currents in the water grew stronger, and he angled his head upwards. The light splayed across foaming water, and Hellboy rose carefully, breaking surface in a small cavern barely higher than his head. He took in a few deep breaths, then ducked and started swimming again.
There was not a second to spare. He knew that those things would be on him as soon as they could, and as he swam he tried to imagine and time their journey. Back up through the caverns, into the basements, then the house, out through the gardens and down amongst the buildings of Amalfi, and what panic they would cause in the streets! Then to the harbor, and they would patrol the seafront and wait for him to emerge, dragging their leader with him.
His absolute priority was leaving the sea and getting out of Amalfi before the fire wolves even reached the harbor.
He kicked hard against the current, and then the sea grabbed hold of him and sucked them both out, spinning and dipping them deep so that the old man was dragged across the seabed. Hellboy did little to protect him, and a smear of blood followed them. Great White sharks in the Med, Hellboy thought, but he grinned around the torch. Even he couldn’t have such bad luck . . . could he?
Helpless in the hand of the sea, Hellboy expended what little energy he had left avoiding collisions with spurs of rock. At last he looked up and saw daylight, and his lungs burst for contact. He kicked up. For a beat he thought Adamo was holding him back—dying in the water, perhaps, and determined to drag Hellboy back down here with him, embraced in death. But when he glanced down, the old man was merely caught in a swirl of current. His eyes seemed to reflect the sun, and Hellboy knew he had to prepare himself for when they broke surface.
Once out of the water, he had no idea how long it would take before Adamo Esposito became the fire wolf once again. But as soon as he had the chance, there was someone he could ask.
He surfaced, spluttering and sucking in a wheezing breath. He pulled Adamo behind him, lifting him so that his head broke surface as well. He looked dead, but those pulses of heat still beat into Hellboy’s right hand, as if the old man had a heartbeat of fire thudding away somewhere deep within his deceptive flesh.
Looking around, trying to place exactly where those underground caverns had vented into the sea, he saw waves breaking against cliffs not a dozen feet away. The swell was carrying him very slowly in that direction, and unless he did something soon both he and the old man would be dashed against the rocks.
“Going to kick for me?” he asked, but the old man bobbing a breath away did not seem to hear. His eyes were still open, glittering with water but little else. If Adamo was still alive and conscious, then he was biding his time. “Thought not,” Hellboy said. “So here I am, doing all the work again.”
He swam them away from the cliffs, heading along the coast towards where he could see Amalfi’s harbor wall stretching out into the sea. That would be a safer place to land; it would also be a good place for an ambush. But one thing at a time. Swimming took all of his strength, hauling the waterlogged fire wolf and kicking against the tide.
When he drew close to the harbor wall he trod water for a while, scanning the shore and harbor, squinting against the sun reflecting from the sea’s surface. He was trying to discern any hints of fire anywhere across the face of Amalfi, but as far as he could make out there were none. It’ll never be that easy. They’ll hide themselves away, revert to the Elders, however the hell that works. But he was out of options. His right hand was almost frozen into place where it fisted into Adamo’s body. He had to leave the water, find Franca, and then make his way to Vesuvius.
The volcano was eagerly ejecting rock and gas from its furious body. Here in his hand, Hellboy held something that belonged back inside.
—
In the end he dragged Adamo up onto the beach beside the harbor wall. It looked safer, was easier to approach, and if the Elders sprang an ambush he’d have a better chance of fighting back. Hellboy slumped in the sand, gasping, and as he caught his breath he maintained his grip on the old man. He still felt the occasional pulse of heat, but he was reasonably certain that the old bastard was still unconscious. Maybe as humans could be destroyed by fire, perhaps Hellboy had drowned this fire wolf with water? But it seemed unlikely. Hell, it seemed too easy.
An old woman was walking her dog on the beach. It was a little, yappy thing, making up for its lack of size
and strength by barking incessantly at whoever dared invade its personal space. This dog’s personal space seemed to extend along half the beach, because as soon as it saw Hellboy and Adamo it started, yap yap yap, and Hellboy actually shifted his left hand slightly towards his holster.
Damn, I’m tired, he thought. He raised his hand instead and waved at the woman, but she was already hastily dragging the dog up towards the road. But the dog’s barking brought his attention back to Adamo, and he realized he faced another acute problem. Here he was soaked to the skin, with his huge right hand grasping a naked old man so tightly that the fingers were piercing his chest and side. There was no blood—weird—and the old man showed no exterior signs of life.
There was no way that Hellboy could let him go.
“Hmm.” He sat up and tugged Adamo closer to him, checking his forehead for heat. Still cool. The man’s eyes were open, but there was nothing even remotely human about them, nothing living. Yet Hellboy remained certain that he was not dead.
Untying the knotted thong around the bone once more, Hellboy retied it in a simpler knot and hung it around his neck again.
Thoughtful of you, the ghost said.
“It’s got nothing to do with thoughtfulness. I’ve got the damned fire wolf and it feels dead, but—”
Fool! You can’t kill it so easily. Water will temper its fire, but little more. Ahhh, I sense its mind . . . horrible, wretched! And afraid.
“Afraid?”
It is desperate. It has destroyed all that it built.
“Slaughtered. Yeah.”
It will need to build again.
