Pulling up his collar, Brad eyed the dark clouds backing up over Boston. An unseasonably cold wind whipped off the Charles River as the temperature dropped rapidly. “It should be . . . what . . . seventy at this time of year?” Lisa shouldered her camera bag. “Weather’s been screwy for a few years now. All that global warming . . . going to get worse before it gets better. If it gets better.” Hellboy followed Brad’s gaze to the churning clouds, so heavy that dusk had started to fall an hour early. Lights were already sparking on the John Hancock Tower and Prudential Center, running in golden chains along the skyline. “I don’t know. Something about those clouds looks weird,” he said. Hellboy wasn’t the only one to think that. As the cab pulled away into the heavy flow of traffic, passersby stopped to eye the clouds uneasily, their faces filled with an inexplicable apprehension that was not wholly to do with the weather.
