The Peregrine Omnibus Volume One (80 page)

The Peregrine felt a sudden prickling of his skin as the hair on the nape of his neck began to stand on end. It was a sensation he’d experienced numerous times before. It was an innate danger sense, a split-second warning that had saved his life on many occasions. “Get down!” the Peregrine yelled, leaping forward to land atop the startled professor. He knocked Mitchell-Hedges to the floor, the crystal skull skittering away from the man’s hands. It slid across the floor before bumping against the leg of a chair.

At that same time, several gunshots tore through the large window in the room. A second later, several men threw themselves through the weakened glass, sending shards flying. One of them embedded in the floor less than an inch away from the Peregrine’s left arm.

The Peregrine spun about to see four dark-garbed strangers in skull masks, each wearing a red band emblazoned with the swastika. But it was the gentleman who stepped through the shattered remains of the window behind them that caught the Peregrine’s attention. He was tall and wore a black cloak with a raised hood. From beneath the shadowy interior Max could see a bone white facemask. In the Grim Reaper’s hands was gripped a razor-sharp scythe.

The Peregrine drew his pistols, unleashing a hail of bullets that immediately struck two of the men in their chests. The vigilante then shoved the professor under the table and rolled away from him, narrowly avoiding several bullets that were sent in answer to his own attack.

The Grim Reaper seemed to take a brief glance at the Peregrine before dismissing him. The killer strode towards the second skull and knelt to retrieve it. His hand suddenly jerked away as a dagger, glowing with a golden halo around it, flew past the skull. The Reaper looked up to see the Peregrine had thrown the blade and was now grappling with another of the gunmen, spinning the man around so that he functioned as a human shield against the other.

As the fourth Nazi hesitated, unwilling to shoot his companion, the Peregrine threw the man at the other. They slammed together, falling to the floor in a heap. Max moved quickly, shooting both in the arms and legs, leaving them alive but incapable of continuing in battle.

While the gunmen moaned and thrashed about, the Peregrine turned back to face the Grim Reaper, who was now standing with skull in hand. Before Max could do anything, the Reaper had dropped the skull within the folds of his robe, where it seemingly disappeared entirely.

“Why are you here?” the Reaper asked in a thick German accent.

“Because you’re a murderer who needs to be brought to justice.”

“I am a patriot and a soldier,” the Reaper answered. “Are your own soldiers murderers for killing the enemies of your nation?”

The Peregrine pointed both pistols at the Grim Reaper, ready to let the bullets fly. “Hand over the skulls, Richter.”

“Ah. You know who I am then…”

“Yes.”

The Grim Reaper pointed a gloved hand at the Peregrine. “And I think I know you as well. The birdlike mask and the glowing dagger… you are the Peregrine. You’ve interfered with the Fuehrer’s plans before. You brainwashed the Iron Maiden.”

“No brainwashing was needed, friend. She just finally realized what a lunatic she was working for.” The Peregrine gestured with the pistols. “Now, hand over the skulls or I’ll start shooting.”

“Go ahead,” the Reaper replied. He moved forward with blinding speed, whipping the scythe through the air, aiming its blade directly at the Peregrine’s neck. Max barely managed to duck under the blow, opening fire as he did so. The bullets all hit home but each of them seemed to disappear within the voluminous folds of the Nazi’s robes.

Max was forced to roll quickly as the Reaper continued to press his assault. The scythe’s blade narrowly missed catching the Peregrine in the shoulder. It embedded in the floor, giving the Peregrine the chance to drive an elbow into the killer’s stomach, staggering him. The blade pulled free but there was no time for the Reaper to raise it for another attack before the Peregrine was back upright. Max shoved the barrel of the gun against the Reaper’s head and discharged the weapon, hoping to end the conflict as quickly as possible.

To Max’s shock and horror, the Grim Reaper let out a roar of anger—but not of pain. He threw out a fist that connected with Max’s cheek. The punch was enough to send the Peregrine back on his heels and he was unable to dodge the Reaper’s next swipe of his blade: the scythe cut a deep gash in left shoulder, sending a warm wave of pain through the hero.

The Peregrine jumped away, trying to ignore the throbbing in his shoulder. “
What
are you?” he asked, knowing that by all rights the Grim Reaper should be dead by now.

“I am a loyal German, one who was given the opportunity to serve the Fatherland in a way that most men could never do.” The Grim Reaper held up his scythe, soaked in the Peregrine’s blood. “My blade can cut through nearly anything and my cloak is far from a normal bit of cloth.”

“I’ll make you the same offer we made to the Iron Maiden, Werner. Renounce the Nazi ideology and I’ll do everything I can to help you settle in here in America. If you don’t accept, I’ll find a way to get a bullet under that hood of yours—and you’re going to burn in Hell.”

“Spoken like a Western fool,” the Reaper retorted. “If anyone should renounce their ways, it is you. Turn your back on the Zionists who control your economy and the mongrels who walk your streets… and you might find a place in the coming world order.”

Max wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Well, thanks for that well put together sales pitch. Pardon me for sticking with my mongrel friends, though.”

The Peregrine readied himself for another attack but the Grim Reaper suddenly took a step back. A thick fog seemed to arise from nowhere, rising steadily past the Peregrine’s ankles, then his knees, all the way past his waist, until it clung to him like a thick cloud from the neck down. Into this mist the Grim Reaper had disappeared, though his voice echoed in a taunting manner before fading:

“My goal isn’t to kill. It’s to accumulate objects that the Fuehrer can use. Take your life and learn a valuable lesson: stay out of my way.”

The Peregrine ran forward, trying to make contact with the Grim Reaper but finding only empty air in the villain’s stead. Cursing under his breath, the Peregrine turned back to check on the Nazi gunmen. Each of them was still and quiet, prompting Max to examine them quickly. The wounded were now dead, having taken their own lives via cyanide capsules.

“Did he escape with the skull?”

The Peregrine glanced over to see Mitchell-Hedges climbing from under his table, coughing as the mist began to dissipate.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“You’re bleeding,” Mitchell-Hedges said. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”

“No thank you. Just call the police. These men are dead. I have to get to work finding that last skull.”

Mitchell-Hedges nodded, though he stared at the dripping blood from the Peregrine’s wound with obvious concern. “If I had any clue about where it might be hidden, I’d tell you. Those three skulls can’t be brought together… I’ve seen enough to assure me that their power is real enough to pose a threat to the entire world.”

The Peregrine’s face was set in a grim expression. “I believe you. But I’m lucky enough to have a friend who might be able to tell me where the final skull is located… and what the origins of those damned things really are.”

CHAPTER IV

The Russian Superman

January 14, 1942—New York City

The tall man was of Russian descent, with close-cropped silver-blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore a well-tailored black suit, a white handkerchief perched dashingly out of his breast pocket and a golden ring set with a pale red stone shone on the little finger of his right hand. His teeth were shockingly white and very straight, helping give the impression of a man who came from impressive stock.

Leonid Kaslov moved through the crowded streets of New York City, eyes never wavering from his goal: a small office set in between two large clothing distributors, each of whom had a steady stream of affluent-looking clientele coming and going from within. The office seemed to blend into the background and none of the women in their high hats or the men in their fashionable suits even seemed to take notice of it.

It was a cold day, with a harsh wind that made the already bustling New York pedestrians hurry all the more. Kaslov barely noticed the strong gusts, however. He had spent more than a few years in the desolation that was Siberia, where the average yearly temperature was only 32 degrees Fahrenheit. Compared to those harsh environs, a wintry day in Manhattan was almost like a vacation to the handsome Russian.

Kaslov attracted a few stares from passerby as he moved through the streets, for his was a famous face, frequently seen on major newspapers and magazines. For many of the women whose gaze lingered upon him, it was for more sensual reasons than his mere celebrity that they took notice of him. Kaslov was a handsome man, who cut an athletic, muscular figure and bore remarkable grace, making him an easy target for the wandering eyes of women. For most of his existence, Kaslov had spurned the attentions of the gentler sex, for his life was based upon only two things: the eradication of evil and the betterment of mankind.

In pursuit of those two goals, Kaslov had spent years honing his body into physical perfection and had mastered numerous sciences.
Newsworld
magazine had named him Man of the Year twice in the last decade, making him one of the most famous men in the nation. Given America’s sudden entry into the global war that was threatening to spin out of control, Kaslov’s importance was growing ever more paramount. The previous night Kaslov had worked well past the midnight hour on a draft of a letter advising the President on what new weapons could be developed within the next six months.

Kaslov pushed into the small office, the smell of sweet perfume hanging heavy in the air. Several words were etched onto the establishment’s door:

KASLOV AND ASSOCIATES

By appointment only

Elizabeth “Libby” Raines was seated behind the desk in the lobby, her blonde curls hanging in ringlets around her shoulders. She looked up with a smile, her blue eyes twinkling as she took him in. Her black dress was cinched tightly at her trim waist and as she leaned over the desk, an ample amount of cleavage was put on display.

A fairly recent change in their relationship had taken place, as Kaslov had at long last relented and given in to the attraction they shared. It had taken several extreme events to alter his opinion that romance would interfere with his ability to work: he had forged a friendship with Max Davies, who had remained a vital weapon against evil despite his marriage; and Libby had entertained a brief infatuation with an employee of Kaslov’s named Benjamin Flynn. That last event had spurred enough jealousy in the Russian’s heart to override his fears.

“Hello, Leo,” Libby said, flashing a stunning smile.

Kaslov inclined his head, reaching into the inside pocket of his coat to bring forth a glass rose, its petals painted a beautiful red. “Good afternoon, Libby. I saw this in one of the shops and thought you would enjoy it.”

“Oh, Leo,” his secretary gushed, taking the flower and staring at it with a smile on her face. “That’s so sweet. I love it.”

Kaslov’s normally stern lips twitched a bit, as close as he generally came to a grin. “Good. And you don’t have to worry about it dying, since I know you’re always going on about your inability to keep a plant alive.”

Libby chuckled and set the flower to the side of her typewriter. “Leo, there’s a visitor for you. I went ahead and let him into your lab.”

That news brought a sudden narrowing of the eyes to the Russian. His lab was off-limits to all but a select few. “Who is it?”

“Max. He looked pretty serious so I went ahead and showed him inside.”

Leonid stepped down the hallway towards a red door marked in black letters: PRIVATE. He stepped inside and scanned the crowded interior. His laboratory was home to numerous pieces of equipment, ranging from experimental thinking devices to weapons of mass destruction. He found Max standing near a microscope, peering through the device at one of the many slides that Leonid kept nearby.

“Excellent work you’ve been doing,” Max was saying. Leonid noticed that Max was in a nicely tailored suit but there was a thick bandage underneath his shirt on the left shoulder. “Are you really working on a cure for polio?”

“I think I’m somewhat close to a breakthrough,” Leo said. When Max straightened up and the two men looked at each other, neither could hide their delight at being reunited. They clasped each other warmly, patting each other’s backs. “What brings you to New York?”

Max stepped back and ran a hand through his wavy hair. He looked a little bit different than the last time Kaslov had seen him, during the affair in which the Warlike Manchu had been destroyed. Max had confided in him during that time about a horrific vision of the future he’d received as a curse from an entity known as Nyarlathotep: that Max would outlive everyone he loved, surviving well into the 21st century before finally expiring. The knowledge that he would live to see his son and wife pass on before him had haunted him for months but it seemed that Max had moved past it. He looked vital and confident, moreso than ever before.

“I need your help in tracking down the last of the so-called Greater Skulls. They’re crystal—”

“I’m familiar with them,” Leo cut in. “Why in the world would you be tracking those things down? Bring them all together and the danger level would be immense!”

“It’s not a matter of me trying to do it… I’m trying to stop someone else. A Nazi agent named Werner Richter. He’s already managed to get two of the damned things. I need to find the third before he does.”

“Is he the one who gave you that wound?”

“Yes. He wields a scythe and dresses like the Grim Reaper.”

“We never seem to face the well-dressed gangsters, do we?” Kaslov replied with a shake of his head. The powerfully built Russian moved over to a large box-shaped device that took up most of the far wall. A series of flashing blue and green lights flickered across its surface and Kaslov reached up to a box of punch cards located above the unit. He retrieved one after ruffling through several and inserted it into a small slot near the middle of the machine. The action caused an immediate response as the lights began flickering madly in a new sequence.