“I did,” a man said in response. Gallagher turned in his chair to see an imposing figure half-shrouded by darkness. Cloaked in a long coat and a well-tailored suit, the Peregrine’s face was partially hidden by a small domino mask adorned with a bird’s beak. The vigilante was an attractive, well-built man with olive complexioned skin and wavy hair, giving strong evidence to a Mediterranean heritage. “You should have been a private detective,” the Peregrine continued, standing so still that Gallagher felt a sense of amazement. The man’s lips barely seemed to move when he spoke and yet his voice was commanding and firm.
Gallagher cleared his throat, finding it difficult to speak in the presence of such an imposing figure. “So… is it all true? Did I piece it all together correctly?”
The Peregrine stared into him for a long moment and Gallagher wondered if he’d overstepped his bounds. Would the vigilante kill him? Or would he simply brand him with that signet ring of his, reciting the words that now struck fear into the underworld:
When the good is swallowed by the dark, there the Peregrine shall plant his Mark!
“You mentioned in the papers you sent me that you wouldn’t reveal my identity… if I agreed to answer a few questions for you. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
Then Peregrine leaned closer, putting his impressive bulk imposingly in front of the journalist. “Then ask your questions.”
Gallagher nodded, averting his eyes. He let himself calm down for a moment, returning to the curiosity that had driven him down this path. When he’d first started pursuing the truth about the Peregrine, it had been with greed in his heart. Who was this masked man who stalked the streets of Atlanta, occasionally taking his fight against evil to other cities and even other nations from time to time? What fueled his actions? Gallagher had felt certain that he’d either get a blockbuster story out of it or at the least he’d be able to blackmail the Peregrine into paying him whatever he’d demanded. But along the way, things had gotten a bit murkier…
“Your father,” he began, “died when you were eight. Your mother was by all accounts a shell of herself afterwards. She lost her will to live, slowly withering away until she finally passed on in her sleep just days after your fourteenth birthday.”
“Those aren’t questions,” the Peregrine said menacingly, giving warning that he lacked the patience for games.
Gallagher ignored him, still trying to set up exactly what it was he wanted to know. “I know that your uncle became your guardian—Reginald Davies. He was away a lot of the time and frequently left you in the care of his butler. You were still living in Boston but you’d gained a private tutor, dropping out of the private school you’d been attending because you were described as morose and borderline psychotic. I’ve read some of the papers they put in your files… they said you sometimes screamed out in class, claimed to have phantom pains in your skull… and that you heard voices. If you hadn’t been so well off financially, they would have recommended that you be committed.”
Gallagher paused long enough to light another cigarette. His eyes remained away from the vigilante, staring off into the past. “As soon as you were old enough to take control of your fortune, you left your uncle’s care and began traveling the world, spending years in Tibet and throughout Europe. By the time you’d returned to Boston, you’d studied under virtually every martial arts master in the world, including the infamous Warlike Manchu, and became a brilliant scientist. You used those skills to fashion the identity of the Peregrine, operating first in Boston and then later in Atlanta… but all of these are simply
facts
. They don’t explain the
why
. Is it simply because you want to punish criminals like the ones who hurt your father? Are you trying to protect other little boys like you were? Why do this thing?”
The Peregrine had maintained his silence during this spiel, acutely aware that Gallagher was deeply troubled by his inability to understand. “The world’s not black and white for you, is it?” he asked. “Everything’s dirty shades of gray.”
“There has to be some angle that I’m not getting!” Gallagher exclaimed. “You burn off your fortune creating these gadgets of yours… and for what? What are you getting out of it?”
“There are things you couldn’t know from digging through the scraps of my past,” the Peregrine whispered. “But I can show you. I can make you understand… if you truly want to.”
“I… do.” Gallagher glanced back into the Peregrine’s eyes, wondering if this man before him was simply insane. That was the easiest explanation for everything but somehow he couldn’t quite believe it.
“Then relax… because you’re in for a strange trip.” The Peregrine reached out and brushed his gloved fingers over Gallagher’s forehead, linking their minds via the strange telepathic powers he possessed. He rarely attempted this sort of thing, for it was an oddly intimate sensation, but in this case it seemed to be called for.
Gallagher gasped aloud as his mind filled with not just images but emotions as well…
* * *
Max Davies had begun to suffer from terrifying visions within weeks of his father’s death. They would come suddenly and without warning, sometimes so powerful that they would drive him to his knees in agony. The first of them had taken place while Max and his mother were visiting friends of hers in the countryside. She had hoped the fresh air would do them both some good and she simply couldn’t abide being in the house any longer—there were far too many reminders of Warren to be found there.
Max had wandered out of the house while his mother and her friend had tea. The home was an expansive one, with stables and enough ground for several horses to roam about in. Max could barely enjoy his surroundings, however, for he missed his father horribly. It angered him to think that the killer known as Death’s Head was wandering about freely while Warren Davies lay in a grave.
As Max approached the stables, a pain suddenly made him cry out. It felt just like someone had taken a railroad spike and begun driving it heartily into Max’s skull. His vision swam and he saw very clearly a well-muscled man with blond hair and blue eyes stepping into the country home belonging to his mother’s friend. Seconds later there were screams and his mother’s friend came running from the house, her dress torn. The man chased after her, tackling her to the ground and proceeding to launch a vile attack on her modesty.
Max had come to his senses, lying face down on the ground, drool falling from his open mouth. He heard someone shaking him, asking if he was okay… and when he looked up, he was staring into the face of the man from his dreams.
Max had kept silent about what he’d seen, even after he’d learned several days later that his mother’s friend had been violently assaulted by her farmhand.
It was only the first such occurrence. Wracked with guilt over having done nothing to help that poor woman, Max began taking action. This sometimes led to fights, absence from school and more. It only further drove his mother into depression as she felt her son growing distant from her. When she died, Max was left alone with his visions and the sense that he had to do something—that the world needed him. His uncle had been kind but uninterested in being a surrogate father. This left Max time to prowl the city streets. His lack of training left him vulnerable, however, and several times he barely escaped conflicts with his life intact.
Realizing that he had to better himself, Max had taken off as soon as he’d turned eighteen. He’d spent time in Kyoto, in Tibet and in France, amongst a dozen other places. He’d become a master in various sciences and in the killing arts… and the painful visions had kept coming.
Max had fashioned the Peregrine identity to keep his friends and lovers safe from harm. Let the denizens of the dark fear the masked vigilante known as the Peregrine, allowing Max to have some semblance of a normal life.
After years of travel, Max returned to the United States and became a member of the Nova Alliance, an adventurer’s guild based out of Boston. The Peregrine became a prominent figure in the city, reports of his nocturnal exploits dominating the headlines. But Max had become sloppy in protecting his identity and whispers became to circulate that the son of Warren Davies might be more than he appeared to be. When the Peregrine had made an appearance at a New Year’s Eve bash in Max’s own penthouse, police commissioner Croft had seen enough—he wanted answers.
Max evaded the questions as best he could and took off to Colorado, where he was once again prompted by painful visions to take action against a local killer. Max fled one more time, this time settling in an old plantation house outside Atlanta… and the sense that his world was slowly crumbling began to overwhelm him.
Max became more and more self-destructive, as if secretly wanting to be discovered… but a series of incidents involving occult killers named Felix Darkholme and Jacob Trench helped solidify Max’s sense of purpose. He met and fell in love with young actress Evelyn Gould… and he discovered the truth behind his visions: they were coming from an outside source.
They were coming from his father beyond the grave.
* * *
Max uncovered the truth during the affair involving Lucifer’s Cage, a device which contained the essence of a demon believed to be the biblical devil. The Peregrine’s investigations had led to his near death, during which he’d been transported to another plane of reality… where he’d found his father waiting for him. Their conversation remained fresh in Max’s mind for the rest of his life:
Warren Davies had looked the exact same as he had the day he’d died. His voice had been strong and sure, just as Max had always remembered. “You’ve always been gifted, Max… even when you were a little boy. That’s the reason I was able to guide you over the years. Make myself heard. But with the walls between the living and the dead becoming so weak these days…” Max’s father had opened his arms, as if to welcome his son into his embrace. “Well, you can see that I’m capable of a lot more now.”
“You’re telling me that the voice in my head… the source of my visions and the headaches… is my own dead father?” Max’s voice had dripped with disbelief. “This is a trick.”
“No. It’s not.”
Max then paused, letting the implications sink in. “Why would you do this to me? Make me become a vigilante?”
“I didn’t
make
you do anything. I merely offered certain paths to you and you chose to take them.”
“Or else suffer those headaches of yours! Not a fair choice, from where I’m standing!”
“You sound like a little boy, Max. Stop. Listen.”
Max had done exactly that and, in time, the two of them had forged a relationship of sorts, though it was always one fraught with tension. Max was torn between love for his father and fury that he’d been manipulated.
Max had gone on to clash with a variety of deadly threats, most notably the Kingdom of Blood, Professor Lycos, Rasputin, the Shinigami and the Shambling Ones… and always Warren Davies lurked in the background, sometimes appearing out of the ether, other times content to observe his son from afar.
* * *
Gallagher swallowed hard, finding his throat suddenly dry. “Your… dad… he forces you to do this?”
“Not quite. He certainly did in the beginning… but it’s a part of me now. Even without the visions—and sometimes I go weeks or months without them these days—I still put on the mask and do what I can to help.” The Peregrine gestured to the paper sticking out of the journalist’s typewriter. “You haven’t written the end yet, have you?”
“I wasn’t sure what to say…”
The Peregrine moved past him, his long jacket rustling as he walked. He stared out the window, leaving Gallagher to watch his back. “I’ve done some research on you, too, Philip. I know that your career’s in the toilet and your personal life is a wreck. You want something to believe in. You
need
something to believe in.”
“I figured you had some kind of angle,” Gallagher whispered. “You know… skimming money off the crooks or something.”
“There are people who huddle in the shadows, fearful that their next breath might be their last. I’ve seen men, women and children butchered by monsters who defy description.” The Peregrine looked over his shoulder, projecting images into Gallagher’s head through their still lingering mental link. The journalist saw vampires, werewolves and worst of all… the all-too human killers and rapists who prowled the streets. “I risk my life so that others can sleep easier.”
Gallagher suddenly felt ashamed. “I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t be. You should be agreeing to help me.”
That brought Gallagher’s eyes up in surprise. “Me? But I can’t do anything…”
“You’re a reporter, with sources you can call upon for information. I have friends and associates who aid me in my work. The police chief… stool pigeons… other vigilantes… all of them play an integral role in making sure the bad guys are punished. You can have a part in this.”
Gallagher stood up and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I… don’t know what to say.”
“Yes. You do. I think you were hoping I’d give you an offer like this. In fact, I
know
you were.”
Gallagher looked at him in amazement, a smile touching his lips as the Peregrine tapped the side of his own head. “That thing you did… where I could see your memories. You read my mind when you did that.”
“You’re a smart man, Philip. Too smart to waste your life like this. Let me help you clean yourself up… you’ll be doing something vital and important, for maybe the first time in your life.”
“I…” Gallagher hesitated a moment and then laughed. The first real laugh he’d had in a long, long time. “One condition,” he said at last.
The Peregrine put his crossed arms over his chest, nodding. “Name it.”
“Did you ever track down the man who killed your father? Death’s Head?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
* * *
1932
The Peregrine crouched atop the roof of a small shack, across the street from Grossett’s home. The assassin had retired some years back, the victim of advancing age. Death’s Head now possessed a tremor that made it impossible to hold a gun. The killer had retreated to a small village in Asia, living off the ill-gotten gains of a hundred murders.