CHAPTER IX
Blood on the Sands
The Peregrine checked his weaponry as Atwill began his approach. He could have shot the man at any point but given the way that Atwill had vanished earlier, he didn’t want to risk sending the man into a panic and losing him again. Given Atwill’s vanity, he’d gambled that the villain would choose to face him man-to-man.
“Can you hear me?” Max said, speaking into a small device clipped to the collar of his coat.
“Loud and clear,” Evelyn said. She was several hundred feet away, safely out of sight but close enough that she could lend a hand if the battle began to get away from her husband. “How confident are you that this plan of yours is going to work?”
“If it doesn’t,” the Peregrine joked, “Just promise that you’ll leave my statue in some attractive corner of the living room.”
Evelyn laughed in reply but Max could hear the strain behind the good humor. She dreaded seeing him risk his life like this, especially having joined him on several adventures: she knew first-hand how dangerous all this was.
Atwill brought his boat in close, leaping gracefully onto the beach. His robes whipped about in the cold wind that had begun to blow and the Peregrine could hear thunder overhead. A single drop of rain struck his shoulder, followed by another and another still. By the time Atwill was close enough for the two men to stand and talk, the storm that had been brewing was going in full force.
“This is your opportunity to surrender,” the Peregrine said, taking the initiative. He kept his head slightly turned away from Atwill, not locking eyes with the other man.
“Or what?” Atwill taunted, “You’re going to hold me down and brand me with that ring of yours?”
“That won’t stop you,” Max answered. “I know that. So I’ll have to deal with you the way I’d deal with a rabid dog. I’m going to put you down.”
Atwill snarled in response, sounding every bit the killer animal that the Peregrine had compared him to. He lunged for the Peregrine, slamming into him before the hero could move out of the way.
They tumbled down to the muddy surface of the beach, Atwill slamming his fists down against the Peregrine’s ribs and stomach. Most of the blows were harmless enough, blocked as they were by the body armor the vigilante wore beneath his clothing.
Max twisted his body so that his ankles wrapped about his attacker’s shoulders. With a grunt of exertion, the Peregrine managed to dislodge Atwill, who rolled away and recovered quickly.
“After you’re dead,” Atwill hissed, “No one will stop me. No one!”
“There are plenty more out there who would stand against you,” the Peregrine warned. “And I’m not even sure you know what your plans really are. When you’ve killed all your old friends, then what? Are you going to conquer the world? Sell your services to the Axis powers?”
“There’s an idea,” Atwill laughed. “Thanks for the suggestion!”
The Peregrine grabbed hold of his golden dagger and threw it, catching Atwill in his injured hand when the villain threw his hand up in defense.
While his opponent screamed in pain, the Peregrine moved forward, coming close enough to grapple Atwill. The villain wrapped his arms around the vigilante, all too glad to come to close quarters again.
“You made a mistake, Peregrine. A tragic one.”
Atwill tossed his head back quickly, dislodging his mask. It fell to the beach, water landing in large droplets on the villain’s mangled features. He brought his face close to the Peregrine’s struggling to turn the vigilante’s head towards his own.
“Look at me,” Atwill hissed.
The Peregrine complied, his eyes locking with those of Atwill. “I’m sorry, Kevin,” he whispered. “I gave you the chance to surrender.”
Atwill blinked in surprise. Something about the Peregrine’s eyes was all wrong—they shone again in the moonlight and reflected back at him his own face. Somehow the Peregrine’s eyes were covered with a mirrored surface!
Atwill pulled away but it was too late… he felt the prickling of the mineral coating sliding across his skin and knew that he was about to be frozen in place forever. “How…?” he cried, wondering at the trickery of his enemy.
The Peregrine reached up and removed one of his contact lenses, one that had been specially treated so that his enemy’s power could not work on him. “Gives me better than 20/20 vision,” he murmured. “And turns your hateful ability back upon its owner. Not a bad little invention.”
Atwill had already lost the ability to speak. He was encased in the black material, silenced for all eternity. Max could look at him safely now, seeing that his face was not truly all that hideous—what was truly frightening was the depth of evil and loneliness that shone through the man’s eyes.
* * *
Back on the boat, Maria and her fellow warriors watched in shock as the Chosen One succumbed to his own fabled abilities.
“What should we do?” one of the girls asked, looking towards Maria.
“Pull up the anchor,” she said with a firmness that surprised even her. “We return home. And we wait for the true Chosen One. Someone who won’t be bested by the likes of the Peregrine.”
Someone
, she mused,
perhaps a bit like
me
. And then we’ll see how the Peregrine fares against someone born to wield the power of the Gorgons!
THE END
THE SHAMBLING ONES
An adventure starring the Peregrine
By Barry Reese
CHAPTER I
The Russian and the Dead Man
December 20, 1940—Heaven’s End, Massachusetts
Leonid Kaslov was a marvelous specimen of masculinity, his rock-hard body and finely chiseled features set off by the ice-blue of his eyes and the shock of white hair that adorned his head. He wore only a snug pair of black briefs, ignoring the crisp night air and the large mounds of snow that clung to the banks of the river.
Born in Russia, Kaslov considered most American winters to be things of pleasure, lacking the true killing abilities of his harsh homeland. He barely felt the ice that clung to his extremities, instead concentrating on slowing his breathing so that his prey did not detect him. He wasn’t certain the creature used human senses in the traditional fashion but he saw no reason to take chances.
Kaslov was up to his waist in brackish water, tall grasses partially hiding him from sight. About twenty yards away, a thing that had once been a normal human knelt over a dead body, tearing and slurping at a bloodied rip in the corpse’s belly. The monster that was enjoying its nocturnal supper had skin the color of a dead fish, blue veins lining the contours of its skin. It wore tattered purple slacks and the brief remains of a once-expensive shirt. Hair fell from its skull like limp strings of yarn.
Leonid watched it for several moments before moving closer. In his right hand he held a high-powered automatic, one that had been specially made for him by Max Davies. The weapon could fire nearly five dozen rounds before needing reloading and was so powerful that it could blow a hole through reinforced concrete.
A full moon hung in the sky overhead, enhancing visibility, but the thick fog that clung to the swampy water helped mask Kaslov’s movements. Even so, the ripples of the disrupted water caught the creature’s attention and it turned towards the Russian, blood and gore dripping from its chin. The fact that the creature itself was dead was evident enough—a blackened and crusted-over rip in his throat gave ample indication that this being had met the same sad fate as the corpse on the ground. Killed by a zombie and resurrected as one within minutes…
Sensing that his time was limited lest he wished to face not one but two of the killers, Kaslov took steady aim with his pistol. The undead monster rose unsteadily, swaying like a drunk on his way home for the night. Leonid wondered who it had been in life and whether or not he’d left behind a family.
Pushing such thoughts out of his head, the Russian superman pulled back on the trigger. His shot hit home perfectly, splattering the zombie’s brains all over the ground behind him. The undead fell backwards, landing atop his victim, who had begun to twitch and moan.
Kaslov rushed forward, placing the barrel of his gun directly between the reanimating body’s eyes. A second later, the deed was done and a soul was released into the afterlife.
“Leo? You okay?”
Kaslov looked towards the shore, where the boisterous Benjamin Flynn could be seen. The American was bundled up tightly but his handsome face was clear enough, revealing concern for his employer and friend. “Over here, Mr. Flynn. And I am quite well—though very disturbed by what we have found.”
Flynn joined his friend, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he stared down at the zombies. “Smells awful,” he muttered.
Kaslov knelt, nudging the bodies with his gun. “Mode of transmission appears to be the exchange of bodily fluids. Thankfully, it is not an airborne virus.”
“You really think it’s a virus?” Flynn inquired, looking away to avoid losing his lunch. He could already taste his pastrami sandwich on its way back up. “Seems to me it’s more like a magic spell of something.”
Kaslov pondered that for a moment before responding. “That’s an interesting concept, Benjamin. Do you have the Cross of Antaeus on your person?”
Flynn felt around in his pockets until he came up with the object that Kaslov had asked for. It was shaped like the Christian cross but had an image of the Greek mythological figure Antaeus carved on its surface. Flynn tossed it to his employer, who set it down in the moist earth next to the corpses.
Discovered some years before in Libya, the Cross of Antaeus recognized the presence of the supernatural, though like its namesake, it derived all of its power from contact with the earth. The Cross began to glow a bright purple, strange wisps of ectoplasm forming in the air above it, dancing and writhing like living things.
“What’s it mean?” Flynn asked, though he had a feeling that he was about to be proven right in his suspicions about all of this.
“It means,” Kaslov said, retrieving the Cross and rising to his feet once more. “That it’s time to call in a man who has more experience with the supernatural than anyone else I know.”
Flynn grinned despite the horrible stench that surrounded them. “Fancy a trip down South, then?”
Kaslov moved past his friend, his usually stoic face featuring just the barest hint of a smile. “I do indeed,” he whispered.
CHAPTER II
Children of Blood
December 21, 1940—The English Countryside
The tiny infant suckled greedily, its lips and gums smacking as it drank the precious life-giving fluid that seeped out of the young girl’s breast. Pierced twice by long, thin needles, the girl’s nipple oozed blood, which was hungrily swallowed down by the heir to the legacy of the Wadsworth bloodline.
The woman who fed the child was only seventeen years old, but fiercely protective of the infant. She had served the Baroness well in this capacity, nurturing the vampire queen’s young child and serving as its chief source of nourishment. She had no problems with her role as a nursemaid, as she felt she was giving sustenance to the next great ruler of England—it was an honor to give what she could.
She heard the quick, anxious footsteps in the hall and rose, painfully pulling the infant away from her breast. Covering herself, she looked up just in time to see the Baroness step inside. The vampiress was followed by a handsome man with grayish-black hair and eyes that looked like they belonged to someone much older. He was not known to the girl but his handsome face made her catch her breath. The stranger regarded her with a look of amusement.
The Baroness, lovely beyond words with pale white skin and blonde curls that danced about her bare shoulders, took the child from the girl’s arms and whispered, “Take care, Gloria. There may be danger before the night is through.”
Gloria felt anxiety swell up in her belly. She couldn’t bear the thought of either the Baroness or her beloved ward being caught up in anything painful. She buttoned her blouse, well aware of her partial nudity in front of the strange man. Her clothes were fine but not nearly the equal of the Baroness’, who looked like she’d stepped straight out of a Victorian ball. “The meeting didn’t go well, m’lady?”
“It went well enough… there were vampire lords and ladies from throughout Europe present. But the gathering was broken up by the man who prevented the rise of the Kingdom of Blood”
Gloria gasped, her hand rising to cover her mouth. The Peregrine was well known in the vampiric community, a name that was whispered with as much fear as the undead could muster. Over four years ago, a female vampire named Camilla had nearly succeeded in bringing about a new golden age for the undead… but the Peregrine had slain her before this could come to pass. Many slumbering vampires had awakened during this, however, including the Baroness, which made Gloria secretly grateful to the Peregrine, though she would never say such aloud.
The Baroness turned to the man, whose steely gaze remained riveted to Gloria’s steadily rising and falling cleavage. Gloria glanced down to see the front of her dress bore a tiny red stain from her nursing wound. “Keane, are you certain that he followed us?” the Baroness asked, distracting Gloria from her interest in the man.
Keane nodded, looking unfazed by the idea that the Peregrine might be close behind them. “I’d wager my life on it,” he said with a cocky sort of grin that made Gloria weak in the knees.
“You’re doing just that,” the vampire warned, eyes flashing.
An explosion rocked the entire Keep, sending Gloria stumbling forward. Keane caught her in his strong arms, steadying her.
“Milady,” Gloria exclaimed, “Should I take the baby to his room?”
The Baroness held the baby tightly for a moment, uncertainty registering in her expression. She had long coveted a child, holding her inability to produce one as the single drawback to her undead nature. In the end, she’d stolen this child and, through supernatural means, had converted it to vampirism in such a way that it would continue to grow and mature with time. How she had managed it, Gloria could not fathom—but it mattered not. The Baroness had an heir and Gloria was lucky enough to be guardian of it.