The Peregrine Omnibus Volume One (62 page)

The Russian launched the knife like a missile and it struck home, embedding itself firmly in the left eye socket of the Shambling One. The blade was long and thin enough to pop through the deep-set eye and into the brain. Grayish-brown ooze dripped from the wound and the Shambling One twitched like a cat on a hot tin roof. Its mangled body fell to the floor, flopping about for almost a minute before falling silent and still.

Kaslov stared at it, closing his eyes momentarily. “The fear of death prompts us to great achievements,” he reasoned aloud. There was no response from the Shambling One.

* * *

The Peregrine ducked under a sword strike from Keane, his eyes narrowed. The necromancer was proving to be a deadly foe, with skill and speed in equal amounts. The Peregrine had attempted to reach into his mind with his telepathy, a tactic he employed only under the most arduous of circumstances, due to the extreme pain and difficult associated with it. But his attempts were blocked by Keane’s mental shields, which proved too hard for the Peregrine to shatter.

“Your plan is lost,” Max pointed out, jabbing his opponent with his own blade, the mystical Knife of Elohim. The weapon had opened several small gashes on Keane’s arms and one jagged cut on his chin. “Just give up and all you’ll walk away with is a prison sentence.”

“And your brand, can’t forget that, can we?” Keane taunted. “Does it make you feel like a big, strong hero to scar someone for life as you recite some sanctimonious oath?”

The Peregrine’s blade caught Keane’s in midair. “Yes. It does.”

Keane spat at him, the phlegm just missing its target. “You’re just as vile as the rest of us… chasing around in shadows, using your abilities to force your will onto others. How dare you stand in judgment?!”

“We’re nothing alike,” Max responded, catching Keane with a well-timed strike. Blood welled from a cut on the man’s cheek, burning like fire. “I protect the innocent… you abuse them. I cherish life… you squander it.”

“Squander it?” Keane asked in disbelief. He wiped at the blood on his face, succeeding only in leaving a large streak in its place. “I’m trying to better myself! I rose from nothing to where I am! I’ve always known I deserved more than God chose to give me… and by damn, I’m going to have it! If I have to carve it from the beating hearts of those around me, I’m going to have it!”

Keane let out a cry of madness and charged, swinging his sword in a series of deadly thrusts. He stabbed the Peregrine in the shoulder and again in the hip but Max refused to back away. Instead, he found the hole in the man’s defenses, one that was left open by the ferocity of his attack. The Knife of Elohim plunged threw Keane’s neck, the blade extending through one side and out the other.

Keane’s words were lost in a gurgle of surprise as his own weapon dropped to the floor with a clatter. He reached up and clawed at the wounds he possessed, eyes growing wide.

The Peregrine reached out with one hand and gave a little shove, toppling Keane to the floor. The necromancer died mere feet from his mentor and rival, Dr. Zero.

CHAPTER X

For At Least One Night: Peace on Earth

Christmas day was filled with good food and even better company. Both Max and Leonid had wounds that needed tending but Flynn had emerged unscathed, a point that he found delightfully humorous.

Near dusk, Leonid and his companions began to pack for their return trip. While Flynn and Libby spoke with a visiting McKenzie, Max pulled Leonid and Evelyn aside. Kenneth was on the floor, watching young William at play. The baby was healthy, having healed from its knife wound with astonishing speed.

“Leo and I have talked,” Max began, taking his wife’s hand. “We think that Kenneth should be taken to the Nova Alliance,” he said, referencing the adventurer’s club to whom both Leo and Max belonged. “Leopold Grace is an expert when it comes to studying dark manuscripts and he’s playing host to Felix Cole for the holidays. If anyone can figure out how to find a cure for Kenneth’s condition, it’s them.”

Evelyn bit her lip, looking uncertain. “But will they care for him? That’s the bigger concern… Will they love him and hold him? I can’t see Mr. Cole doing that.”

Leonid put a hand on her shoulder. “You might be surprised. But I know for a fact that Leopold will treat the baby well. Being a confirmed bachelor who’s now into his fifties, he’s given up hope of having a child of his own. He told Max and I that he’d like to help Kenneth and raise him as his own…”

Evelyn relaxed a bit. She liked Leopold and knew he was one of Max’s oldest and most trusted of friends. The son of noted explorer and hero Eobard Grace, Leopold also knew plenty about the macabre. If anyone could truly save Kenneth from his odd condition, it was him. Still, she hated to give the child up. She felt such pity for him.

Sensing her reluctance, Max brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “We’ll visit constantly.”

“You promise?”

“With all my heart. You’re a good woman, Evelyn. I knew it from the moment I first met you.”

Evelyn smiled and stepped over to pick up Kenneth. She gave him a squeeze, not even noticing the blood-tinged eyes anymore. He was a baby—a special one, true—but that didn’t change the fact that he needed to be loved. “I’m going to miss you,” she whispered, kissing him on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, little Kenneth.”

Max turned away from them, wondering what the New Year would bring. It was almost 1941 and the world was seemingly standing on the edge of a terrible conflagration. Already stories about the horrors in the Pacific and in Europe were reaching American ears, but thus far the American people had steadfastly maintained an isolationist bent. How much longer could that continue? And what kind of world would be left behind when all was said and done?

Max clenched a fist and closed his eyes for the moment. No matter what, the Peregrine would stand firm against the encroaching darkness, doing what he could to protect the innocents of this world.

THE END

ORIGINS

An adventure starring the Peregrine

By Barry Reese

—::—

January 1, 1941—Atlanta, Georgia

Philip Gallagher sat in front of his battered old typewriter, a half-finished bottle of whiskey set atop a pile of papers. He held a cigarette in one shaking hand, bringing it mechanically to his lips every minute or so. How long he’d sat like this, his room illuminated by the soft neon glow of the hotel sign outside his window, he could not say. Most of the city—hell, most of the world, he reasoned—was celebrating the turn of the year, basking in the affections of their loved ones.

But for Philip Gallagher, there were no loved ones. His addiction to womanizing and drinking had driven away everyone who could have possibly been considered a friend or lover, leaving him with only his failing career as a journalist to occupy his time.

He was only 35 but he looked far older, easily passing for a man in his fifties. Life had not been kind to him, giving him leathery skin and deep-set eyes. He wore a perpetual five o’clock shadow and his clothing was wrinkled from having been slept in for far too long.

The words stared at him from the sheet of paper tucked into the typewriter and he wondered again if he should be doing this. For so long he’d been a cynic, thinking that no one and no thing in this world could truly be trusted—altruism was a lie, a cover for the actions of men and women who secretly profited from their deeds.

But the things he’d uncovered… they made him wonder.

Philip pulled the paper from the typewriter and read the words aloud, allowing himself to sink into the world he’d brought to life. Despite all the things he’d done to screw himself up in this world, the one thing that had always remained constant was his writing ability. He was certain that this was his greatest work and would be just what he needed to get back on his own two feet… if he decided to submit it to his editor.

* * *

It was a summer’s evening in 1908 when Max Davies saw his world crumble to pieces, destroyed in the blast of a gun.

Max was the only child of Warren and Margaret Davies, two of Boston’s most prominent citizens. Margaret was the heiress to a vast fortune while Warren had earned every cent of his own money, founding a publishing company that now included three newspapers, two magazines and even a line of encyclopedias. When Warren and Margaret had met by chance at a charity function, it had been love at first sight. They’d courted for just over six months before Warren had proposed to her.

Max had been born two years into their marriage, a healthy baby boy who had charmed all who knew him. His ever-present smile had brightened the spirits of his parents, who genuinely considered themselves the luckiest people alive.

But there were dangers lurking on the periphery of their happy lives. Warren had become increasingly disturbed at the graft and corruption surrounding them. Taking the editorial reigns of one of his newspapers, he’d launched a blistering series of articles detailing the problems facing the city and the manner in which elected officials had sold themselves to the mob.

Death threats and harassment did not deter Warren Davies from his pursuit of the truth and his wife adored him all the more for it.

The enemies he had made finally tired of the game, however, hiring a gang led by a cold-blooded killer named Ted Grossett to deal with the crusading Davies. Grossett had earned a terrible nickname over the years: Death’s Head. The identity was one that he enjoyed and he’d taken to carving an image of a death’s head onto the backs of his victim’s hands, a grisly calling card that played to his ego.

He studied Warren Davies for several days before finally choosing to act. Following the elder Davies and his 8-year old son Max on their errands, Death’s Head wondered about what to do with the child. Should he kill him, too? He’d offed children before but it had always left a bad taste in his mouth. Better to do the deed quickly and let the boy live, he reasoned. If he moved quick enough in the approaching twilight, little Max would never be able to recognize his father’s killer later on.

The ambush had occurred as Warren and his son had walked towards their car, which was parked just behind one of his business offices. Death’s Head had stepped from the shadows, two of his men close behind in case things got out of hand. Grossett was a massive figure, with broad shoulders and thick, bristly beard. He favored dark clothing and low-brimmed hats, the better to hide his features.

“Mr. Davies. The time’s come.”

Max had started at the sudden intrusion. He’d instinctively reached out to his father, who put a hand protectively around him. “Who are you? What’s the meaning of this?”

Death’s Head had pulled out a gun at that moment, making his intentions all too clear. “You should have learned when to stop asking so many questions. Now push your kid away unless you want to risk him taking a bullet.”

Max had clung ever tighter but Warren had pushed him away, kneeling beside him. He kept a wary eye on the gun at all times. “You’ll let him go?” he asked the gunman.

“If you hurry up. Make me keep waiting and I might lose my patience.”

“Max,” Warren had said, prying his son’s attention away from the killer. “You have to take care of your mother for me. Do you understand?”

“Why are they doing this?” Max had asked, unable to fathom why anyone would want to kill his father.

“Because sometimes people suffer for doing the right thing, son… but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth it. The most horrible thing you can be is someone so afraid of the consequences that you stand aside and let others take the fall. You stand up for what you believe. You fight against those who—”

“That’s enough!” Death’s Head had barked. With a gesture from their leader, the two goons had sprung forward, gripping Max with strong hands. They’d pulled him away from Warren, who remained staring into the eyes of his attacker.

“You tell your boss,” Warren had hissed, “that he’s going down. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually… someone’s going to come along who won’t be stopped!”

“Maybe,” Death’s Head had agreed. “But that day sure as hell ain’t today.”

Three gunshots then rang out, their booms drowning out the screams of young Max. He’d watched in stunned horror as Death’s Head then approached Warren’s still-warm corpse and carved the image of a skull onto his hand. When that deed was done, the killer had turned to stare into Max’s eyes.

“Learn from your father’s mistakes, little boy. Don’t poke into things that aren’t your affairs.”

Max had begun to shake then, filled with fury. “Someday… someone’s going to stop you. Going to stop all of you!”

Grossett covered the distance between them in two strides, smashing the butt of his pistol down on Max’s skull. As the boy fell unconscious, Death’s Head had shaken his head in disgust. “Like father like son, eh boys? Let’s hope we don’t get a call to take him out someday.”

The sounds of their taunting laughter echoed in the evening air.

* * *

Gallagher finished off the last of the booze and glanced over to the window. The flashing of the neon sign kept his attention for a moment and in that time something moved behind him. Gallagher felt the man’s presence long before he actually heard a sound. “Figured you’d show up,” the journalist said, slurring his words slightly. “You got the envelope I sent you, I take it?”