HELLBOY LIKED fishermen. They led difficult lives, they worked hard, and they were more accepting than most people of strange things. Every fisherman he had ever had cause to speak to was full of stories about a weird catch, last week or last year. And even though most of them never managed to retain any evidence of what they had hauled up from the depths, Hellboy usually believed them. The sea hid many bizarre things — he had never forgotten that shark thing in '75 — and fishermen were witnesses to their discovery. Unlike most listeners, Hellboy was always willing to believe the story about 'the one that got away'.
Of the four Brazilian fishermen in the boat, three sat staring at him with undisguised fascination. The only reason the fourth was not staring was that he was steering them into the busy harbor, but he glanced back every few seconds, as if to make sure the big red guy was still there. They had pulled him from the bay and sat him in the corner, and he was grateful they had not bugged him since then. The staring he was used to.
The cigarette was a soggy mess in his mouth. Wet cigarette tasted terrible. But pride prevented him from spitting it out.
His chest and face still ached from the impact with the water. He'd tried to turn as he fell so that he could part the water with his hands, but he'd never been particularly graceful, and the echo of his belly flop had rung in his ears even as water rushed in behind it. The impact had dazed him for a couple of minutes, though he'd been conscious enough to swim to the surface and tread water. For a while, up was down and down was up, and he had spent a confused minute trying to work out why the dragon had been flying away upside-down. Then his senses had returned, just in time for the real pain to kick in.
His skin was redder than usual, and his belt had been scorched black in several places. One pocket had burned through, and he had placed its remaining contents elsewhere: a Peruvian life crystal on a silver chain, a concussion grenade, and a ball made of rubber bands. He'd doubtless lost something, but he had no idea what. He rarely knew what he carried in his belt, so he'd never miss it. He hoped.
One of the fishermen had been smiling at him for ten minutes, nodding his head, muttering something Hellboy could not understand. At first Hellboy had smiled back, but the guy had cringed, averted his eyes, mumble turning to shout. So Hellboy sat out the ride looking as glum as he felt, slowly working the muscles in his neck and shoulders, trying to stretch out the aches and pains that had settled there.
Damn dragon! It had whipped him, discarded him like just another turd, and that made him angry as hell. With no sign of a rematch with the dragon apparent, that anger simmered inward. His satellite phone buzzed — incredibly still working even after its immersion — but he ignored it. Let them wait. Hellboy was angry and pissed off, and whoever was on the other end would only end up getting the sharp end of his tongue. That thought took him back to the dragon, and the time he'd been called a dragon, and he had to clench his fists to prevent them from taking a swing at something.
The smiling fisherman and his friends were starting to get on his nerves, too. They may have pulled him from the sea, but that gave them only a certain amount of license to gape. That license was rapidly running out. Hellboy stood, walked to the bow without glancing at the men, and tried to make out who'd be waiting for him at the harbor. Whoever it was, they'd know that he had messed up.