The Peregrine Omnibus Volume One (43 page)

THE END

BLITZKRIEG

An adventure starring the Peregrine

By Barry Reese

CHAPTER I

Birth of the Demon

Winter, 1908—Grafenwöhr, Germany

Hans Merkel knelt on the ground, marveling at how red the blood looked when splattered across the white covering of snow. The young man was barely past his eighth birthday but he had the eyes of a much older person. His mother had frequently found herself frightened by the coldness that her little boy displayed, as he always seemed to be watching the world with secret amusement. He’d never played or run with other boys, preferring instead to go off for long periods by himself.

The discovery of several bloodied animal corpses had brought about a long line of questioning from his father and several nights of harshly whispered conversations between his parents in their bedroom. Hans had eavesdropped on as many of those talks as possible, ear pressed against their door, but the full details were still lost to him. He knew that his father had come to some decision about what must be done and that his mother, though not fully backing his plan, did not dissuade him.

Hans and his father, a wealthy landowner named Lars, had set out on a morning hike through the snowy mountains near their home. They had not talked much though his father had made vague inquiries about whether or not Hans knew anything about the animal mutilations.

“You think I killed them,” Hans had said, keeping his eyes cast downwards. He watched his feet as they rose and fell through the snow, enjoying the sight.

His father had stopped him with a hand placed on his shoulder, turning him about to face him. “Tell me the truth, now.” Hans had stared into his father’s troubled eyes and recognized the fatal weakness that seemed to rule most men and women in the world. Only a few, like Hans, were strong enough to overcome it and embrace the world for what it truly was.

“I killed them,” Hans had answered, his voice still carrying the haunting inflection of youth. That he was able to look so placid while admitting to such heinous crimes seemed to unsettle the boy’s father even more. “What does it matter?”

“Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because I wanted to see them suffer. I wanted to know what it felt like to do it.”

“It was wrong!”

“I don’t think so.” Hans had started to turn away but his father had held him firmly.

“Your mother and I are both worried about you. There’s something evil inside you. Something unnatural.”

Hans had laughed but there had been nothing warm in the sound, which seemed to echo wildly in the snow-covered hills. “You’re a limp old man. Mother takes other men to her bed when you’re away at work.”

Hans had been struck hard across the mouth then, his father shaking with rage.

“You are of the devil,” his father had whispered. “May God forgive me for what I must now do.” The man had reached into his heavy coat and retrieved a small pistol. Hans had stared at it with interest, curious to see if his father could actually work up the nerve to try and kill him.

Hans had stood his ground as his father raised the gun and put the barrel straight to his son’s forehead. When it became obvious that his father actually intended to go through with the act, Hans had moved with astonishing quickness, knocking his father’s hand away and biting his wrist until blood was drawn and the gun fell to the snow.

As his father had staggered back in shock, Hans had picked up the gun and fired. Three shots rang out, sending birds out from the trees and killing the man who’d helped bring the boy into the world.

Hans had watched the man bleed out, thinking of the story that would need to be told. He pictured it quite clearly, now—“Three men rushed at us from the woods. They looked and smelled awful. They wanted money from us and father was going to give it to them but then they saw me and… my father wouldn’t let them touch me. He fought them off but one of the men had panicked and shot the protective parent before fleeing back into the countryside.

If he played it correctly, this day could buy him years worth of free passes for his behavior. After all, watching your own father gunned down before your eyes by criminals of the worst sort could unsettle anyone…

Hans slowly rose to his feet, closing his eyes tightly until he had forced crocodile tears from his eyes to run down his cheeks. He then ripped his shirt and smeared some of his father’s blood on his torso.

As he was doing this last thing, his father’s head jerked back suddenly and he stared at his son with undisguised hate.

Hans did not look away. He waited until his father’s eyes glazed over and death came upon him. Then he kicked the man’s face once with all his might and turned to walk back towards his home.

CHAPTER II

The Scorpion Lord

January 22, 1940
12:30 AM
Paris, France

Max Davies, aka the Peregrine, had not been back to Paris since the summer of ’27. The memory of the city’s beauty had only grown in his recollections but at present he was hard pressed to find anything about Paris that he liked. The streets were too narrow and strangely laid out and even at this late hour—half past midnight—there were far too many people out and about. He was forced to weave in and out of the crowds, many of whom gawked at the trench coated man with the bird-like beak mask. In the Peregrine’s right hand he clutched the Knife of Elohim, a glowing dagger of mystical origins. On his back was strapped a cloth package containing one of the infamous Books of Agony, each of which was capable of unleashing horrific evil upon the world.

The sound of a man’s voice, shouting in French, reached his ears and spurred Max on to greater exertion. A sudden gust of wind accompanied the noise of helicopter rotors above and the Peregrine looked up to see an experimental one-man ’copter flying into view. The pilot was wearing all black with a full face mask, emblazoned with the symbol of a crimson scorpion on it.

The Peregrine skidded to a stop next to a large fountain, ignoring the men and women who were gawking at the odd scene. He sheathed the Knife of Elohim and drew two pistols, each specially modified to hold dozens of tiny but highly explosive shells. He stood his ground as the helicopter swung around and began to bore down upon him, opening fire with mounted machine guns. The bullets ripped into the pavement at the Peregrine’s feet but he refused to move, calling upon the mental powers he possessed to subtly throw off the gunman’s aim. When the moment was right, the Peregrine opened fire himself, his bullets striking home, tearing a long gash down the side of the helicopter’s fuel tank. In seconds, the copter began to spin out of control, finally exploding in a fiery ball of heat and light.

The Peregrine was forced to turn away from the scene, his eyes burning from the sight. When he turned back around, the wreckage from the helicopter was raining down upon the city. The crowd of onlookers was in frenzy, many of the women screaming, the men ushering their partners to supposed safety. Through the throng, the Peregrine saw the man who had been pursuing him on foot: Pierre Delon, known in the occult world as the Scorpion Lord. Delon wore a long cloak, black with red trim, and heavy military style boots. A hooded mask completed the gaudy outfit, ebony black with the same crimson scorpion as the pilot had worn.

“Give me the book,” the Scorpion Lord demanded. “Or I swear that your death will be long and painful.”

“Today’s not my day to die,” the Peregrine replied, truly believing those words. He’d been told by an elder being—a servant of the dark chaotic Azathoth, who danced madly at the center of the cosmos—that he would live to be quite old and that he would outlive all those he cared about. Max hated to think of the day that would surely come, when he was an old, old man with no one left… but that knowledge did make him a bit more daring than he otherwise would be.

The Scorpion Lord, however, only thought that his opponent was mad. He reached into his robes and withdrew a red-tinted gun of an unusual design. Dubbed ‘the stinger’ the weapon was capable of transmitting an invisible wave of energy that could send the muscles of those struck by it into painful contractions. “One last chance, American. Hand it over.”

The Peregrine smiled coldly. “Make me.”

The Scorpion Lord began to squeeze the weapon’s trigger but before he ever completed the act the Peregrine was firing away. It only took two shots—for both of them struck the leader of the Scorpion cult in the midsection, knocking him onto his back. Though the Peregrine would not hesitate to kill to save his own life or that of others, he preferred to leave his opponents living… though with a permanent reminder of their sins.

The Peregrine approached his fallen foe, kneeling to pull the mask from the Scorpion Lord’s face. Without hesitation, the Peregrine then pushed the red signet ring he wore on his finger against the villain’s forehead. The sizzling of burning flesh flooded the air and the Scorpion Lord began to howl in pain as the occult-powered stone burned the image of a Peregrine in flight into his skin. “When the good is swallowed by the dark, there the Peregrine shall plant his Mark,” Max whispered, reciting what had become his mantra in recent times. When the deed was done, the Peregrine was on his feet again, disappearing into the darkness of the Parisian night. He had finished his business here in Europe and the world was once more safe from a threat that few even knew existed. It was sometimes a lonely war that the Peregrine waged, always skulking about in the shadows of the world. But it was worth it—because of his actions tonight, his wife and child would live to see another day.

And at this point, that was worth far more than any accolades that he might have deserved.

Satisfied with his victory, the Peregrine sought out the modified plane he’d left at a local airport and quickly set his sights on America. Once in the air, he activated the autopilot and relaxed, pulling off his coat and shirt to reveal numerous scars and bruises covering his torso. It was getting harder and harder to shake off the effects of battle at his age. Max was now forty years old, but he didn’t let that deter him from doing what was right. The world needed protecting from the darker things in existence and he had been chosen to do it.

Despite his age, he remained a remarkably fit and attractive man. He had something in his nature that made men want to be his friends and women desire his attentions. He had an olive complexion and wavy dark hair, which complemented his dark green eyes.

Max leaned back in the pilot’s chair, rubbing his temples. Just two months before, he’d joined forces with the Russian superman Leonid Kaslov to prevent Rasputin’s mad plan to unleash the Black Flame on the world. Disaster had been averted on that occasion but a succession of events in the following weeks had left Max on edge.

Max’s father, a ghostly spirit who had frequently guided him over the years, had warned of an old enemy returning with an ally. Shortly thereafter, a number of birds—peregrines, one and all—had been murdered and left on Max’s plantation property just outside Atlanta. Since then, there had been other oddities, including unidentified footprints around the house and the peculiar feeling that Max and his family were being watched.

The most obvious source of the danger was the Warlike Manchu, the Asian mastermind who had once tutored Max in the martial arts and who had later staged a near takeover of the Atlanta underworld. But there was no shortage of men and women who would want the Peregrine dead, meaning that it could be almost anyone.

Shaking his head to clear it of the somber thoughts that had begun to envelop him, the Peregrine closed his eyes and settled into a deep, if somewhat restless, slumber.

CHAPTER III

Enemies United

January 22, 1940
12:50 AM
Atlanta, Georgia

“Tell me what you see,” Hans insisted, clenching his fingers into a fist. In the palm of his hand he held a black stone with a single blood-red splash of color in its center. The stone was a Ghost Rock, a mystical talisman that allowed its owner to control the spirits of the dead.

Lars Merkel stared at the monster who was his son with undisguised hatred. The ghostly spirit of a man long dead, Lars had been summoned from his peaceful existence in the afterlife by his son shortly after the boy had reached adulthood. Since then, he had been forced to work as a sort of undead lapdog, going to and fro as an invisible spy for his son. There was precious little trace of the little boy that Hans had once been. The years had not been kind to him, transforming him into something cold as ice and twice and hard. He had a magnificently sculpted body and a handsome face, though it was marred by the ugliness of his spirit. “It is difficult to see him,” Lars replied, keeping his voice neutral. “There are mists that surround him. He is watched over by another spirit who seeks to thwart me.”

“His father,” Hans murmured. “But you said you hadn’t been detected.”

Lars took a moment before answering. They were in a darkened hotel room just outside Atlanta, the entire top floor of which had been rented out by the Warlike Manchu. Hans himself was seated before a lit brazier, the scent of incense filling the room. Hans, now nearly forty years of age, wore loose fitting Oriental pants of an emerald hue and a golden sash around his waist. His torso and feet were both bare. “I believe that his father might sense me but he isn’t sure who or what I am. There are a number of spirits and demons who have hatred for Max Davies. He probably assumes I am related to one of those.”