Then there was Kate's little lecture about Zahid de Lainree and the Memory. That had really set Hellboy's teeth on edge. The Memory sounded too much like places he'd been to before. And this de Lainree character, though dead a long time, must have known far too much for his own good.
Arcane knowledge sometimes scared Hellboy, because there was so much he didn't know. About himself, for instance, and where he'd come from, and why he was here. He could gloss over those questions as much as he liked, avoid their implications, but they still needed to be answered.
He walked around the aircraft, peering into the two jets, stooping to go underneath and check out the landing gear, running his fingers around the window rims, checking that the flaps were clear and the fueling points were shut and locked. He fished around in his belt while he went, fingers brushing against talismans and wards, precious stones and dust from distant deserts, until he found what he wanted. In fact, it found him, pricking his finger and drawing blood.
"Ouch!" He pulled out the demon's hair and held it at arm's length, narrowing one eye and making sure its tip was clear of blood. He didn't know whether that would affect any readings, but demons were devious creatures, and any excuse would do.
The hair clear, he rested it in the palm of his huge right hand and gently blew on it. It spun like a compass needle and nestled along a crease in his hand, like a line of dirt ground into his lifeline. "OK, here we go. Ready, demon?" There was no answer, but the hair twitched slightly. "Now, what were those damn words ... ?" Hellboy closed his eyes, concentrating on his time in Marrakech back in '71. He pictured the scene with the demon and the tea shop, the rancid pipe smoke filling the room and outlining the fiend as an invisible space of clear air. Ironic, as that demon had been as dirty as they come. The imp and Hellboy had cut a deal, and the payment was a single hair from the creature's head. Unable to lie — most couldn't with Hellboy's fist down their throats — the demon had nodded a promise, and when Hellboy let it go, it made good on its vow. Strange behavior for a demon, but he guessed he'd scared it. "Those damn words!" he muttered, frowning hard in concentration. And then a small breeze blew across the airport concrete and set the hair tickling his palm, and the words came back to him.
"Ystrad bwlch, penperlleni mynach fwnynw." The hair rose above his palm and spun in the air, a compass gone mad. "Ahh, my memory's not as bad as I thought." Hellboy smiled, the hair flopped back into his hand, and the smile slipped from his face. "Damn."
"What's up with you?" Liz called. Obviously bored with sitting in the Humvee, she'd come to investigate. He could hardly be angry with her.
"Nothing really," he said. He shook the demon hair, threw it into the air, and caught it again. It did nothing of its own volition. "The reading says the jet's all clear."
"Then why is that bad?"
"It's not, it's just that I don't trust it."
"Then why use whatever it is you re holding there in the first place?"
"Er ... " Hellboy shrugged, slipped the hair back into a belt pocket, and started inspecting the aircraft again.
Liz tapped his shoulder. "What are we looking for, exactly?"
Hellboy turned. His shoulders slumped as tension lifted — a little — and Liz's dry smile lit him up. Hellboy had a lot of friends, but they were mainly people he could call on when he needed help. Liz was someone who knew to call on him. "Well," he said, "anything that doesn't belong on a plane. Or anything that does belong but looks like it doesn't. Or something that should but looks like it shouldn't."
Liz frowned. "Oh, my God," she said. "Look! Hellboy, there!" She pointed over his shoulder.
He spun around, fisting both hands and squinting against a possible impact. "What? Where?"
"It's a wing!"
He lowered his head. Yeah, Liz was a good friend, and she knew she could get away with more than most. Hellboy turned quickly and slung her over his shoulder.