Goebbels was an intelligent man, however. He pursed his lips together thoughtfully, tossing a quick salute to a soldier they passed. When he spoke, it was in measured tones that told Himmler that the thin man was in agreement with him. “This is not the Reich that I envisioned. Nor, I imagine, is it the one that The Füehrer imagined. But we have to deal with the cards we are dealt, do we not?” Lowering his voice even further, he said, “And our unearthly allies may not always be with us. They were defeated once, long ago and I think that perhaps your OFP could find a way to replicate that? For the good of the Reich, of course.”
Himmler smiled slightly. It would be dangerous to go against Darhoth and the others but, as Goebbels pointed out, they were not unbeatable. “Yes,” he said in reply. “For the good of the Reich.”
* * *
“They plot against us and think we’re incapable of hearing them.”
Darhoth sat at her dining room table, hearing the chiming of the bells in the distance. It was time to kill The Peregrine but she wasn’t finished with her evening’s meal. They would wait for her to arrive. To do otherwise was to invite her wrath and no one wanted that.
Most of her beauty was gone now, having been ravaged by the foulness that lurked within her human flesh. She was cadaverous, the skin hanging loosely off her bones. Even though she ate constantly, the weight loss continued. She shoveled eyeballs, tongues and other body parts claimed from slaves and prisoners into her mouth, crunching them loudly and letting bits of blood and gore drip down her chin.
Dieter Schneider could scarcely bear to look at her. He had long ago stopped thinking of her as Sonya but it still pained him to look into the once-gorgeous face of his daughter. She insisted on keeping him close by, forcing him to dine with her and listen to her paranoid ranting. He had wondered for a time if some part of his daughter still lay within and desired the company of her father. Lately, he had come to think it was simply more cruelty on the part of Darhoth. She wanted to torture him by watching as his daughter’s body fell to ruin.
“Are you listening to me?” she demanded to know.
“Of course,” he replied. “It’s just impossible for me to believe that anyone would dare to conspire against you.”
“Humans are nothing if not predictable… and stupid. Their lives are so short that it’s impossible for them to have a true view of the consequences of their actions.”
Dieter remained silent, not sure how to respond without angering her. He was quite relieved when a servant entered the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Dieter had noticed the fellow several times in recent days but didn’t know the man’s name. With a somewhat hawk-shaped nose and severely swept-back hair, the servant was quite striking, though Dieter thought it was the man’s eyes that were most remarkable. They were narrowed and focused, like those of a hunting cat. The servant spoke with fluent German but Dieter thought that perhaps he was an American who had lived abroad at some point.
“The execution is set to begin soon,” the servant said.
The Mother of Pus shoved her plate away and stood up, not caring about the mess she had made on the floor and table. “Another hero dies,” she said with relish. “Perhaps this will be the night that humanity’s spirit is well and truly crushed.”
Dieter rose to follow the thing that had once been his daughter but he caught a subtle gleam in the servant’s eyes, as if he’d taken umbrage to The Mother of Pus’s words. Suddenly, Dieter realized where he had seen this man before. It had been in various newspapers over the years! A wealthy man-about-town named Harold Grant, who had become well-known for traveling the globe and taking part in safaris, mountain climbing and the like.
Dieter sighed and looked away. He wasn’t the only one, it seemed, whose life had taken a severe turn for the worse.
* * *
The man that Dieter recognized as Harold Grant actually had far more in common with The Mother of Pus than might be first realized. In many ways, both of them wore the skin of another but they were hardly what they appeared to be. The real Harold Grant lay buried in an unmarked grave in the mountains of Tibet. It was Dexter Welles, famed World War I flying ace, who now occupied Grant’s identity. The two of them had crossed paths during one of Dexter’s many self-destructive journeys but in the end, Grant’s demise had in turn helped lead to Dexter’s own transformative resurrection.
Welles had been a pilot in the Great War, quite possibly the greatest who had ever lived. But once the war was over, he had been left purposeless and without direction. In wartime, his ability to kill had made him a hero but in the “peaceful” world that followed, he had run the risk of becoming something far, far worse. And so he’d traveled the globe, drinking and fighting, seeking something to fill the void in his soul.
He’d found it in Tibet. Near death after Grant’s own demise, Welles had been found by a monk who had taught him certain peculiar skills of the mind and body. He had returned to America, armed with this ancient knowledge, and assumed Grant’s life and fortune. He had used both to build a career as a vigilante, as well—The Darkling, a scourge against all who preyed upon the innocent. His violent abilities were now honed to their utmost and turned against the criminal element. He became feared throughout the underworld and both clashed and worked alongside Lazarus Gray on several occasions.
Unfortunately, the recent rise of darkness had been more than The Darkling could combat. Like everyone else, he had seen friends and agents die. Now he wondered if the world would ever be the same. It had taken months to ingratiate himself inside the Nazi leadership and what he’d discovered had been enough to chill even his cold-hearted blood. These were forces of evil far beyond anything he had ever dealt with before.
Slipping down the hall, he discarded the plates and their bits of foul food into a trash bin before ducking into a small room. It had a window that led out to a fire escape and, eventually, to the alley below. He had secreted some clothing in this room earlier and he donned it now, knowing that if he was going to save The Peregrine’s life, he only had moments to do so. A white face mask covered his face, a skull-like image emblazoned upon the front. A hat and heavy coat were then donned over his suit, successfully completing his transformation into The Darkling. It was said that while most men and women could only guess at the horrors that lay within men’s souls, The Darkling knew them intimately.
On this day, he felt certain that truism would be put to the test.
* * *
Mr. Death sat at the back of the large wooden box that had been constructed in front of City Hall. It held seats for twenty people and with The Mother of Pus finally taking hers, it was now filled to capacity. The Füehrer, along with Goebbels and Himmler, was seated in the very front row, affording him the best possible view of The Peregrine’s demise.
The vigilante had been permitted to wear his trademark mask and heroic attire, all the better for the many cameras to capture his final moments in dramatic detail. The photos would be dispersed far and wide, making sure that any remaining pockets of resistance that were out there would see what happened to those who opposed the new world order.
Nimrod, the so-called “mask killer”, was also nearby, trying in vain to keep his face neutral. The man had been tasked with hunting down and killing vigilantes in the early days but now his work was nearly at his end—and his usefulness with it. Mr. Death was sure that Nimrod was already plotting his escape but it wouldn’t do him any good. In fact, Nimrod’s death had already been arranged. By the morning, he’d be dead, a victim of the slow-acting poison he’d ingested at dinner.
Mr. Death had no silly notions that his own value was any higher than Nimrod’s, not that such things had played a role in his decision to help The Peregrine. He was, as he’d intimated, simply bored with the new world in which he’d found himself. Victories were only as sweet as the effort put forth to achieve them and with their unholy allies, The Reich had steamrolled over any and all who had opposed them.
And now what? The slow destruction of humanity? Oh, sure, there might be a few ghoulish chuckles to be had along the way but Mr. Death craved more. He wanted adventure, intrigue and spicy encounters. All three were going to be increasingly rare as The Mother of Pus and her ilk increased their control.
A ripple went through the crowd as the condemned appeared, being led out by a squadron of SS soldiers. Military music blared and Mr. Death looked closely at The Peregrine, wondering if the man was as calm as he appeared. If Max Davies was trembling at the thought of his demise, he gave no sign of it. Outwardly, he remained defiant, looking at the faces of his captors as if marking each of them for eventual vengeance.
Mr. Death knew no one had bothered to search the prisoner. Why should they, after all? He’d been searched multiple times in recent days and there was no way for him to have gotten anything new. The glove was, no doubt, secreted away in the hero’s jacket. How he’d utilize it, Mr. Death wasn’t sure, since the man’s hands were bound behind his back, but he was sure that The Peregrine wouldn’t go quietly into this good night.
He hoped not, anyway.
The Peregrine was brought before the assembled crowd and held in place for a moment while a litany of his crimes were read aloud. The Füehrer and his advisors were smiling and savoring the moment but Mr. Death hoped that their good humor would be fouled soon enough.
When the recitation of charges was complete, The Peregrine was asked if he wished to admit to his crimes and ask for any small favors that might be permitted. It wouldn’t benefit him to plead for mercy, of course, but it was all part of the dog-and-pony show that the Nazis craved.
The Peregrine looked at the faces in the crowd and then spoke in flawless German, repeating each sentence in English so that everyone could hear him. “My only crime is in not doing more for the innocent and the weak. Unlike the Füehrer and the monsters that he serves, I believe that there is more to life than the acquisition of power and the enslavement of others. I believe in the American dream. I believe in freedom and liberty. And I believe that no matter what happens today, the human spirit cannot and will not be broken. Men and women will rise up and oppose these dictators and monsters.”
A murmuring went through the crowd and Mr. Death had to admit to himself that he felt it, too—a stirring deep down in the black pit of his soul. Max Davies was an inspiration, even to those who should have been his mortal enemy.
He wondered if that was why The Peregrine was still alive, that there was something innately different about him and his fellow survivors. Were Lazarus Gray, Gravedigger and The Peregrine cut from a different cloth, even from other vigilantes?
The world would be a darker place when they were gone.
Silence fell once more as The Füehrer rose from his seat. He opened his mouth and everyone, including Mr. Death, leaned forward, eager to hear what he would say before condemning the masked man to death.
What those words would have been, no one would ever get the chance to know.
Mr. Death would later believe that he had heard the crossbow bolt whistling through the air in the seconds before it pierced Hitler’s throat. Whether or not that was true, the fact was that one of the most evil men in history was struck down before the eyes of hundreds of people. Blood spurted from the wound, splashing straight onto Himmler’s shocked face, and screams immediately rang out into the night.
The one responsible for Hitler’s death made her presence known quickly enough. Gravedigger jumped from the shadows, her blade flashing in the floodlights as it delivered more death. Soldiers died quickly, the victims of not only her consummate skill but the terrible rage that made her movements all the more impassioned.
Mr. Death sprang to his feet and looked towards The Peregrine. If Gravedigger were here, could Lazarus Gray be far behind?
As if on cue, the broad-shouldered figure of Gray burst onto the wooden platform, knocking aside the guards who had been watching over The Peregrine.
“Do something!” hissed The Mother of Pus. She was glaring at him with a fury that spurred him to action.
“Yes, mother,” he murmured, hoping that she didn’t sense his glee.
He jumped towards Lazarus Gray and The Peregrine, his cloak billowing out behind him. When he landed, he approached cautiously and shouted, “You realize you can’t escape, don’t you? You’re so vastly outnumbered that it’s a miracle you’re not both dead already.”
Lazarus smiled grimly. “I think you’re underestimating how resourceful we can be.”
At just that moment, several nearby buildings, all of which had been retrofitted into Nazi government usage, suddenly exploded. Lazarus and Gravedigger had been hoarding as many homemade explosives as possible, knowing that at some point they would be needed. All during the day they had hidden them near this area, priming them for just the right time.
Debris rained down through the air and the screams grew louder, as panicked spectators began rushing from the scene. In the skies above, horrible bat-winged creatures began to fly into view, summoned from their perches several blocks away.
Lazarus grabbed The Peregrine and led him down a nearby alleyway, hoping that Mr. Death would be too distracted by the explosions to notice which direction they went. “We need to find a way out of here.”
The Peregrine looked at him in surprise. “You didn’t plan an escape route? That’s a pretty essential part of these things!”
“We were more focused on surviving long enough to get you out of there alive.”
“What about Charity?”
“She can handle herself,” Lazarus said, jerking back as he reached the intersection of the alley and the next street. A black sedan roared around and the corner, squealing to a stop in front of them. The driver jumped out, leaving the door open and the engine running.
Lazarus let out a gasp. “You’re alive?”
The Darkling drew his pistols, brandishing one in each hand. “Get down.”
Neither The Peregrine nor Lazarus asked why. They hit the ground, allowing The Darkling to pull the triggers on his automatics. Lazarus glanced behind him, seeing several pursuing SS soldiers felled by the volley.