The Ice Wolves (6 page)

“Yes, I have. Knowing where you are is as important as knowing where you come from. Without those two things, you can't find your way forward.”

William trailed through other rooms hung deep in shadow, the décor and furniture speaking of a time long gone. There was a kitchen and a scullery, a cold conservatory, a study, and then upstairs a range of bedrooms, a nursery, bathrooms where the pipes clanked unremittingly when the taps were turned, and finally an attic room with windows that provided a view over all of Boston. The lights of the cityscape looked a world away, as though they were being observed through a telescope. The blizzard had dropped once again, but the fierce black clouds still churned over the entire area. Heavy snow blanketed the city as far as the eye could see.

“Once he had constructed his fortress, Abraham Grant continued with the next phase of his work,” William continued. “On a handsome retainer, he employed many agents in many cities. Telegrams were dispatched, and he set them to work scouring the globe.”

“What for?” Brad was distracted by the view. His old neighborhood was framed in the panes, away on the other side of the city, the memories still haunting.

“Anything which had the whiff of the supernatural about it. Crystal balls, haunted skulls, magic mirrors, hands of glory, potions and powders, swords and knives, scrolls, books, and maps. Within a short time the neighbors reported deliveries to this house, often under cover of the night. Mysterious black carriages, men struggling with heavy, coffin-shaped boxes. The items exchanged hands quickly, and the delivery men were paid for their silence. You know how people like to talk.”

“Where are all these strange objects?” Lisa asked.

“Most of them are stored in the subcellars out of harm's way. Out of the way of doing harm. You have passed some. They merge in quite nicely with mundane items, if you don't know the history.”

“So Abraham Grant turned this place into a storehouse of the world's magical artifacts,” Hellboy mused.

“And that was when the hauntings started.”

Hellboy's attention was drawn by a row of five old portraits on the wall opposite the windows. “Who are these?”

William indicated the painting of a girl of about ten in the center. “That's Abraham's daughter, Sarah. The others are all descendants.”

Hellboy studied them for a moment. “Portraits always creep me out. It's the eyes.”

Beckoning for them to follow him out of the attic, William went first down the gloomy, creaking stairs.

“Abraham's granddaughter, Eliza Grant, suffered the night fears terribly as a child. So much so, that her mother and father took her to see a doctor. She was convinced someone hid in the wardrobe in her bedroom and peeked out at her during the night, whispering terrible things. Eventually she had to be sedated. The nightmares calmed when she reached puberty, but she was always described as a strange woman, who'd sit for hours on end in that attic room, looking out over the city with a small pair of opera glasses.”

“Spying on the neighbors?” Lisa suggested.

“More like keeping watch. Searching for something that might be coming.”

“Kids having nightmares,” Brad said. “Nothing out of the ordinary in that.”

“She stayed in the house as an adult, never marrying,” William continued. “One evening her brother was coming to visit after a business trip in Vermont. As he approached the house, he saw Eliza fleeing from room to room, her terrified face illuminated by the gas lamps. All he could say was that there was ‘a shadow' pursuing her. He found Eliza dead, strangled, her face blue, her throat crushed, on the floor of the hall where she'd raced to get to the front door. The door, inaccessible before, had opened with her passing. The brother had heard her sickening cries as he tried to get inside. There was no sign of her attacker. Every other door and window was locked from the inside.”

“You tell a good story, Mr. Lynch.” Lisa flashed a grin at Brad, but his expression remained grave.

“That sounds pretty solid for a ghost,” Hellboy said.

“Ghosts have been reported across the years, in the room with the stuffed animals, in the cellar, the nursery, the attic room—in fact, that's where Eliza's ghost was sighted, looking out over the city as she did when she was alive. But other presences have been reported here too. Demonic ones. Even beasts, like the ones that chased you here.”

Hellboy perked up at this information. “A werewolf? Inside the house?”

“There's always been talk of some strange connection between this house and the wolves, from the earliest days,” William replied.

He led them back into the library, where he carefully selected a volume off the shelves; the leather was fraying and silverfish fled from among the pages. He flicked it open until he found a pen-and-ink illustration of a wolf pack sitting in a half-moon outside a house resembling the Grant Mansion. “Local folktales talk about the night the wolves came to Beacon Hill. It was about a year after the house was completed, when Abraham was in the middle of his desperate search for occult artifacts. Under the full moon, the wolves were supposed to have visited the house and kept their vigil all night, and for the two nights after that. It was reported by several reliable witnesses.”

Unsettled by the eerie mood, they considered William's stories for a while, until Brad pressed, “All right, Dad, you've played to the audience and got your kicks. Can we find what we came for and get out of here?”

“No, wait. I want to hear about this,” Hellboy said. “It might be important. What other wolfy connections have you got?”

William considered Hellboy's request and appeared to reach some kind of decision. “At the turn of the nineteenth century, Jackson Grant, a local businessman known in the restaurants of Beacon Hill as Piggly Grant because of his great girth, claimed one night when he was drunk that whenever he looked in a mirror in the house, he saw a wolf's head looking back. Not his reflection, mind you. He told everyone in the bar it was as though the wolf was somewhere else, but there too. A few days later he tore out his own eyes. He survived, but he would never say what drove him to it.”

Hellboy considered this for a moment, and then asked, “What happened to old Abraham Grant?”

“Good question. The stories say he fled from the house one night as if the Devil was after him, and raced on to the north slope of the hill. In the nineteenth century, the south slope was the socially desirable area, and the north slope was known as Black Beacon Hill. Slaves lived there, along with sailors, poets, and a number of criminals, and what the rich families called “malcontents.” Unlike the south side with its fine architecture, the north slope was a sprawling, cluttered mess of small houses, lean-tos, alleys, and narrow winding lanes. Abraham Grant disappeared into that maze and, so the tales say, was never seen again.”

“Or else he just died in his bed.” Brad shook his head. “This is getting us nowhere.”

“No. Clearly not. Perhaps you should go.” William continued down the stairs.

Lisa caught hold of Brad's arm. “Okay. Wolf outside,” she reminded quietly. “Don't you think you should try to be a little friendly with Dad? At least till the sun comes up.”

Brad sighed. “I told you what it was like.”

“You're not giving him a chance, Brad. You've been at his throat ever since we got here.”

Brad made to answer back angrily, but caught himself and then trailed down the stairs after his father. Lisa rolled her eyes at Hellboy. “Like father, like son, right?”

William waited for them on the first-floor landing.

“None of the things you've been telling me make this joint a great buy. So what made you throw your millions on the table?” Hellboy asked.

“The house has stayed within the Grant family ever since Abraham built it. No visitor has been across the threshold since that time. And then, a year ago, the last Grant died and the house came up for auction. I'd decided to sell the business, which meant I had a lot of cash on my hands . . . a lot . . . and I wanted something to excite me again. You run a big company like I did, it takes over your life, your thoughts. And when it's gone you feel kind of empty. I was intrigued by the house's history. I mean, everyone in Boston had heard some stories about the Grant Mansion. Who could resist owning it?”

“Oh, just about everyone,” Lisa said.

“It's only going to go up in value. If I get bored here, I can always put it back on the market.”

Brad had been watching his father intently. “You're lying.”

William waved a dismissive hand. “Think what you want.”

“I always know when you're lying,” Brad pressed. Anger flared briefly in his face. “Like right after Mom disappeared, when you said you loved her.”

William cast one cold glance Brad's way and then set off down the final flight of stairs. In that moment of friction, Hellboy saw a hint of the cause of the tension between Brad and his father, but the emotions appeared too raw, too personal, for him to question. Lisa too appeared taken aback by this revelation. She flashed Hellboy an unsettled glance, and as Brad went after William, Lisa caught his arm and dragged him back.

“I wouldn't ever go out like that,” she said.

“What?”

“With idiot all over you. Will you give it a rest with your dad? Okay, there's bad blood between you, I get it. But seeing the two of you like this is about as uncomfortable as watching your parents kiss. Right, Hellboy?”

“Urm . . . ”

“Yeah, he's just too polite to speak up. Pull yourself together.”

“If you knew what had happened between us—”

“Then talk to me about it. That's what friends do. But you've had this hanging over you ever since we met and you keep it all bolted down inside. Even that time in Baghdad when we both thought we were going to die.”

Hurt stung her eyes and Brad looked away, uncomfortably. “I'm sorry. I do trust you, Lisa, it's just—”

The noise of a solid object falling made them all jump.

“That came from this floor,” Hellboy said. At the foot of the stairs, William returned to investigate the noise.

“It was just . . . just . . . ” Lisa searched for a rational explanation, but found nothing.

Hellboy pushed past them. “It was in the nursery.”

Swinging open the door, Hellboy stepped onto the bare boards of the darkened room, the light from the landing illuminating a few abandoned toys from decades past. Against the far wall, a rocking horse moved gently backward and forward, its momentum slowly diminishing. Hellboy, Brad, and Lisa watched until it came to a halt.

In the silence that followed, Lisa's gaze fell on an out-of-place object resting in the center of the floor. “That must be what fell, but . . . ” She looked around, but there was no obvious place from which it could have fallen.

Lisa plucked up the cool metal object and allowed it to rest in her palm. “Opera glasses.” A shadow crossed her face as she glanced uneasily toward Hellboy and Brad.

William had appeared in the doorway. “It's started,” he said flatly.

 
CHAPTER 5

­—

“Does it mean anything?” Lisa asked once they were back in the sitting room.

Hellboy watched her wrestle with yet another thing that shouldn't exist as the ghostly imprint of fear rose up in her features. “Apart from the fact that Eliza Grant is restless? I hope not,” he replied.

“This is great. Werewolves on the outside, ghosts on the inside. Where do we turn?” Unnerved, Lisa wrapped her arms around herself. Her hands were shaking, Hellboy saw.

“Could be worse. At least you're not alone,” Hellboy added, trying to raise her spirits.

“After Iraq, I thought I was ready for anything,” she said in a quiet voice.

Hellboy's heart went out to her. Nothing ever prepared civilians for the bad stuff that lurked just beyond the skin of the real world.

“So . . . ghosts?” she said with a wan smile.

“Yeah, they're real too.”

“Do we need to . . . exorcise her . . . or whatever you do?” She made a fist in frustration at her failure to get a grip on what was happening.

“If she's a threat, maybe. Sometimes it's best just to let them be.”

At the window, Brad appeared untouched by the experience. Everything about him remained locked down, and Hellboy had started to wonder if he believed he'd fall apart if he ever reflected on how he felt. He was rooted by the intensity of the snowstorm, which made the panes shake as if someone was trying to break in. “If this weather keeps up, we're not going to be able to leave even if we want to. It must be over two foot deep out there already. All that time in Iraq with the heat and the sand, dreaming of somewhere cooler, and now this.”

“Be careful what you wish for.” Hellboy joined Brad at the window. Visibility was only a few feet. For all he knew, the square could have been swarming with werewolves.

With an armful of logs, William came in and stoked the fire. Soon the flames were leaping high and a rosy warmth spread through the room.

“I need to see those artifacts. Time's short,” Hellboy said.

“It might help if you actually explained what you're doing.” William brushed the dirt from his hands.

“There's something called the Kiss of Winter—”

“You're wasting your time,” William interrupted sharply. “The Kiss of Winter isn't here.”

“You've heard of it?”

“Rumors, that's all.” William warmed his hands in front of the fire, but his body language was defensive. “I've inspected all the occult items stored in the subcellars, as well as the minor ones scattered around the house. The Kiss of Winter is not among them.”

“Rumors? I'm not buying that. In the occult world, the Kiss of Winter is above top secret. The biggest expert I know on this weird stuff had no idea what it was until yesterday.”

“What is the Kiss of Winter?” Lisa asked.

“All I know is, it's one of a pair.” He explained how the wolves had the other half, the Heart of Winter, and that they needed the Kiss to complete their plans, whatever they were. He wasn't happy with the vagueness in his account, and he could see they didn't find it satisfying either. “It's tied in to some ancient prophecy called the Time of the Black Sun,” he added.

“Which is?”

“No idea.”

“You don't know very much, do you?”

“That's the way it goes in this business. Secrets and mysteries. The truth is hard to come by.”

“I wish I could help—” William began.

Brad stepped in forcefully and confronted his father. “You're lying again. Why are you determined to be an obstacle? Hellboy says this is about saving lives, and I believe him.”

“Think what you will. I do not know the location of the Kiss of Winter.” With a dismissive gesture, William walked out of the room.

“He might not know exactly where it is, but it's here somewhere,” Hellboy noted.

“So we turn this place upside down till we find it,” Brad said defiantly. “And my dad better not try to stop us.”

“First things first. I'm hungry. Let's raid the kitchen,” Lisa said. “Your dad said enjoy the hospitality, right?”

While Hellboy lounged in a chair at the table and Brad stood sullenly against the window, Lisa searched the cupboards, but there were few luxuries. “Looks like it's bread and cheese all round,” she sighed. “Good thing I'm not sensitive to gluten and dairy.”

Hellboy's attention was drawn to a plain door at the back of the kitchen that was marked with a black circle.

“Hey, I've seen that before,” Hellboy said. “The Black Sun. We are on the right track.” Hellboy studied it thoughtfully: it was left in plain view so that it seemed like a warning to anyone who knew what it was.

Lisa traced her finger around the circle. “Looks like it's been there a while.”

“Maybe the Kiss of Winter came in with Abraham Grant's original stash of occult artifacts and it's been hidden away ever since,” Hellboy mused.
And maybe Abraham found out the Kiss of Winter had a dark side and carved this here himself
.

The door was fastened with a sturdy iron padlock, but it had been well oiled and was clearly in regular use.

“Don't break it,” Lisa said. “I'll see Mr. Lynch about the key. I might be able to talk him 'round.”

“Good luck with that,” Brad muttered.

When Lisa had departed, Hellboy pulled up an old wooden chair and sat on it back to front. “Have you ever seen eye to eye with your old man?”

“It wasn't so bad when I was a little kid. He was different then. He used to take me out in his boat fishing all the time. I remember him standing on the deck, laughing at some terrible joke. Then it all changed.” Lost to his memories, Brad chewed on his lip.

“What happened?”

Hellboy watched as Brad struggled to open up; whatever he felt was still raw. After a few moments he took a deep sigh and began tentatively, “When I was ten, my mom disappeared. One Saturday morning, she went out . . . ” He paused as the images came in a fast jumble. “It was hot, I remember, even though it was May. Unseasonal. I was out in the yard, reading a comic book, and Mom came out and asked if she could pick me anything up. I asked for some Reese's Pieces. Couldn't get enough of them back then. Now I can't stand them. She said she'd bring some back . . . and that was the last time I saw her.”

“Did she run out? Or . . . what?”

Brad gave a sad shrug. “Would she have asked me what I wanted if she wasn't planning to come back? I don't know. Nobody knows. When Dad got home from work and she still wasn't back, he drove around everywhere she might have been. I sat in the back, not really knowing how bad it was. Mom would be back. She always came back. Later, when I saw how white my dad looked, more worried than I'd ever seen him . . . yeah, I started to get an idea then. He called the cops, filed a missing-person report. In circumstances like that, they usually give it a couple of days before they start taking it seriously. By then, there was no trace. She might as well have been picked up by aliens.”

“That must have been pretty tough for a kid. Rough for an adult.”

“Yeah. If somebody dies, it tears you apart, but you get over it, eventually. But not knowing like that . . . I kept expecting her to walk back in the door, for years and years. I'd lie awake at night, praying that she'd roll in, coming up with all these elaborate fantasies about what we'd do when she was back.” He sighed. “She always used to ask me to go to the store with her, and I always found an excuse. I made a deal with myself that if she came back I'd go every time. I'd go with her anywhere.”

“I'm sorry. Your dad took it bad too?”

“That's the thing. The first night, he was running around, doing whatever he could. After that, it was like he didn't care.”

“Maybe that was just his way of coping.”

“He changed, sure. He became cold. To me. No more fishing trips. No nothing. We barely spoke. For a while, I thought he'd get over it, and I'd get my dad back. But it was like we were just sharing the same house, and there was no other connection. Imagine what that's like for a ten-year-old kid. I kept reaching out to him. He kept pushing me away. Eventually . . . I just got on with my life. Grew up. Learned to cope on my own. The way kids do when they've lost both parents. I hit my teens and we started to argue. A lot. One thing I could never get was, why didn't my dad keep looking? It was like after that first night, he gave up. I know if it was me, I'd never have stopped. I'd be out every night turning the city upside down till I tracked her down, or . . . whatever. But my dad, he just got on with his life, like he didn't care. You know what? I don't think he did, not really.”

“So that's why you two fell out.”

“First chance I could, I got out. I missed Mom so much it hurt, and every time I was with him, the only thing I saw was that he didn't care as much, and that made me feel even worse. I signed on with the
Globe
as an apprentice. Made coffee, ran errands, and they trained me up as a photographer. Pretty soon I was going out on assignments on my own. In some kind of stupid way, I thought Dad might have been proud, but it wasn't the kind of job he understood. If I was an engineer, building things, yeah, he'd have got it. But a photographer . . . no. I visited less and less . . . we had nothing to talk about . . . and then I started chasing work overseas. Anywhere with a bit of excitement or danger, something that would make me feel alive. And then . . . ” He shrugged.

“You stopped talking altogether.”

“Yeah. It was tough coming back here. I see him, I still think of my mom, that last time I saw her, smiling, waving. Then I see his face—cold, cold, cold. Throwing his money away on a big, old house like this, all those rooms and just him, kicking around on his own, happy to be by himself with the life he's made. That's my dad.”

“You should have told me about your mom.” Lisa was standing in the door with the big iron padlock key.

“It's not important now.”

She glared at him, the hurt in her eyes clear to Hellboy, but Brad appeared oblivious. Hellboy felt like sitting him down and giving him a good talking-to; couldn't he see how Lisa felt about him?

“Boy, you're going for full-grade idiot tonight,” she fumed. “You're telling me all those years of not knowing what happened to her didn't take their toll?”

Brad flushed. “All right. I'd do anything to find out. Anything,” he said, his voice breaking. “Just so I could finally get on with my damn life.”

Lisa hesitated, and then came over and gave him a hug. “See, I've got my work cut out turning you into a human being,” she said warmly. Once she broke off, she handed the key to Hellboy. “He didn't take much persuading. He doesn't think you'll find it. He's convinced it's not here.”

“Okay, you stay here . . . ” Hellboy began.

“You're kidding, right?” Lisa snapped.

“It could be dangerous down there.”

“And it's not dangerous here? And out there? And every Goddamn place in the world? I, for one, am not sitting around like some frightened little girl, being protected by the big man. I want to know what's happening, for good or bad.”

Hellboy hesitated.

“And if you say no, I'm going to follow you anyway and kick your ass when you least expect it.”

Brad shrugged. “She means it.”

“All right,” Hellboy growled. “Maybe you're better off where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Oh, thank you,” Lisa said in a rich, mocking tone.

Hellboy shook his head wearily; she was going to be trouble. “Let's see,” he said. Hellboy slipped the key into the padlock and turned.

And at that moment all the lights went off.