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Authors: Christopher Golden
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where gentle hills rose up into slopes that might have been confused for mountains if not for the snowcapped peaks in the distance.
Five years since he had seen Anastasia. He tried to figure how old she'd be now, but time didn't mean as much to him as it did to other people, and it took him a moment to work it out. Forty-one, he figured. Maybe forty-two.
The tents of the expedition's camp were ghosts on the shore of the lake. Lights burned against the moonlit stone face of the hillside, marking out the boundaries of the archaeological dig. Gray figures milled about the camp, drawn out by the sound of the helicopter. Hellboy wasn't sure of the local time, but he figured it had to be going on 11:00 P . M . A lot of people weren't sleeping. Not that he blamed them. If there were monsters lurking around their camp, sleep wouldn't come easy.
As Redfield circled in search of a likely landing spot, Hellboy couldn't help searching the upturned faces in the moonlight below. He caught a glimpse of a figure that might have been Anastasia, hair pulled back into a ponytail, then the copter swung around, and he couldn't see the expedition members anymore. The pilot set the craft down a hundred yards or so from the camp on a broad, flat stretch of lakeshore, and only when Redfield killed the engines and the noise of the rotors chopping air began to subside did Hellbody realize how grateful he'd be for the quiet. The hum and whine of aircraft engines had been his near-constant companion for three days.
In the back, Neil and Sarah were up immediately, sliding a door open. Neil jumped down and stretched, muscles popping. Tough as nails, but he looked like death warmed over with his twenty-four-o'clock shadow and dark circles under his eyes. Hellboy wondered how Stasia would look after five years.
He blinked. "Oh, crap," he whispered. Maybe she'd be wondering how he looked, and if he looked anything like Neil after this trip, the answer wasn't a happy one.
With a sigh, he ran his left hand over his stubbly chin, then the leathery pate of his head. The stumps of his horns probably could use filing--he hadn't done it in forever--but he wasn't some giggling schoolgirl preening before a date. Still, he ran his tongue over his teeth and cupped his hand in front of his mouth, trying to smell his own breath. He reached back and tightened the knot of hair at the base of his skull.
"Moron," he whispered to himself.
Beside him, Redfield had just removed his comm. unit.
"What's that?"
Hellboy shook his head. "Not you, pal."
He popped his door and climbed down from the helicopter. The brick wall, Meaney, was still up in the chopper, handing gear and travel bags out to Sarah and Neil, who piled them on the ground a few feet away.
"There he is," Neil said by way of greeting, as though Hellboy'd just shown up for a meeting. "What's the plan, boss? Where do you want us to set up camp?"
A group of perhaps a dozen people from the archaeologists' camp were making their way along the shore toward the helicopter. Hellboy felt his attention pulled toward those gray figures, but he turned to Neil.
"The professor's got command of this op. You know that."
Neil smiled, his face almost indigo in the darkness of night. "'Course. But Professor Bruttenholm's still kippin' in the back."
Lithe, tiny Sarah did not smile, just stared at him expectantly, even as she caught a duffel that Meaney chucked to her from within the helicopter. Hellboy looked at her, then back at Neil.
"You want me to give orders? Fine. Wake Professor Bruttenholm. That's an order. After that, it's up to him. I'm a grunt on this op, no different from you."
"Whatever you say, mate."
Hellboy left them to it. The archaeologists arrived, along with a little weasel of a guy in a dark suit who could only be some kind of government representative. In Tibet, that meant Chinese government. No way was Beijing going to allow representatives of the government of the United Kingdom to spend any time
Five years since he had seen Anastasia. He tried to figure how old she'd be now, but time didn't mean as much to him as it did to other people, and it took him a moment to work it out. Forty-one, he figured. Maybe forty-two.
The tents of the expedition's camp were ghosts on the shore of the lake. Lights burned against the moonlit stone face of the hillside, marking out the boundaries of the archaeological dig. Gray figures milled about the camp, drawn out by the sound of the helicopter. Hellboy wasn't sure of the local time, but he figured it had to be going on 11:00 P . M . A lot of people weren't sleeping. Not that he blamed them. If there were monsters lurking around their camp, sleep wouldn't come easy.
As Redfield circled in search of a likely landing spot, Hellboy couldn't help searching the upturned faces in the moonlight below. He caught a glimpse of a figure that might have been Anastasia, hair pulled back into a ponytail, then the copter swung around, and he couldn't see the expedition members anymore. The pilot set the craft down a hundred yards or so from the camp on a broad, flat stretch of lakeshore, and only when Redfield killed the engines and the noise of the rotors chopping air began to subside did Hellbody realize how grateful he'd be for the quiet. The hum and whine of aircraft engines had been his near-constant companion for three days.
In the back, Neil and Sarah were up immediately, sliding a door open. Neil jumped down and stretched, muscles popping. Tough as nails, but he looked like death warmed over with his twenty-four-o'clock shadow and dark circles under his eyes. Hellboy wondered how Stasia would look after five years.
He blinked. "Oh, crap," he whispered. Maybe she'd be wondering how he looked, and if he looked anything like Neil after this trip, the answer wasn't a happy one.
With a sigh, he ran his left hand over his stubbly chin, then the leathery pate of his head. The stumps of his horns probably could use filing--he hadn't done it in forever--but he wasn't some giggling schoolgirl preening before a date. Still, he ran his tongue over his teeth and cupped his hand in front of his mouth, trying to smell his own breath. He reached back and tightened the knot of hair at the base of his skull.
"Moron," he whispered to himself.
Beside him, Redfield had just removed his comm. unit.
"What's that?"
Hellboy shook his head. "Not you, pal."
He popped his door and climbed down from the helicopter. The brick wall, Meaney, was still up in the chopper, handing gear and travel bags out to Sarah and Neil, who piled them on the ground a few feet away.
"There he is," Neil said by way of greeting, as though Hellboy'd just shown up for a meeting. "What's the plan, boss? Where do you want us to set up camp?"
A group of perhaps a dozen people from the archaeologists' camp were making their way along the shore toward the helicopter. Hellboy felt his attention pulled toward those gray figures, but he turned to Neil.
"The professor's got command of this op. You know that."
Neil smiled, his face almost indigo in the darkness of night. "'Course. But Professor Bruttenholm's still kippin' in the back."
Lithe, tiny Sarah did not smile, just stared at him expectantly, even as she caught a duffel that Meaney chucked to her from within the helicopter. Hellboy looked at her, then back at Neil.
"You want me to give orders? Fine. Wake Professor Bruttenholm. That's an order. After that, it's up to him. I'm a grunt on this op, no different from you."
"Whatever you say, mate."
Hellboy left them to it. The archaeologists arrived, along with a little weasel of a guy in a dark suit who could only be some kind of government representative. In Tibet, that meant Chinese government. No way was Beijing going to allow representatives of the government of the United Kingdom to spend any time
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