The Peregrine Omnibus, Volume Two (29 page)

“It’s best for the world to not know of me, to not know that I truly exist. If they did know, there would be no peace for me… the only peace I have ever known was during my sleep here, in the ice.”

“You’ve been in suspended animation,” Satan said, his eyes glittering with possibilities. “The year is now 1943. There is a world war going on, and men like you and I can seize the day if we’re brave enough to do so.”

“We have nothing in common,” the monster declared. “You dress like an escapee from a circus. And I… I am… a beast. Animated from dead flesh, given new life.” The Creature lashed out with an oversized fist, smashing a wooden table to tiny splinters.

“Victor Frankenstein may have given you an awful visage,” Satan began, “but that’s nothing I can’t repair. I am a sorcerer of no small repute, and my garments are a badge of office, of sorts. I can easily create a spell that make you look like a normal—though somewhat large—man.”

The Creature stared at him, trying to will himself into not giving in to the hope that surged through him. But he couldn’t quite keep the excitement from his voice. “What would you want from me in return?”

“After the death of your creator, you made plans to head northwards and eventually kill yourself… obviously, your plans were set aside or failed. According to my esoteric readings, you briefly found solace in a hidden land.”

The Creature straightened as much as he could, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t want to go there. It seems like paradise, but there is a horrible secret to that place.”

Satan laughed. “Let me worry about that. Can you tell me how to reach Vorium?”

“Vorium lies within the earth. It can be accessed by only a few points around the world. One of them is not far from here.”

“Where?”

The Creature smiled and showed a set of perfectly aligned white teeth. “The spell first, if you please.”

Doctor Satan nodded, admiring the Creature for keeping his own interests at the forefront. The red-garbed villain moved forward, holding up his gloved hands, still dripping with blood. The monster saw the blood but did not pull away. “Let me touch your face,” Satan said. “And within minutes your visage will be much more attractive.”

The Creature leaned forward, letting Satan run his fingers over his cheeks and forehead. He felt something almost immediately, a tingling that started deep in the muscles of his face. Satan’s whispering lent the whole affair another level of horror, for he was speaking a dead language, one that hinted of sins committed long ago.

For nearly five minutes, the process continued, until at last Satan pulled away, looking tired from his exertions. “Look in the remaining chunks of ice, my friend, and let me know what you think of my work.”

Frankenstein’s monster moved forward, finding his reflection in a patch of melting ice. He reached and touched his chin, marveling in what he saw. He resembled Victor Frankenstein now, though he retained his longish hair and extreme height. “Astonishing,” he whispered. “You have no idea what this means to me. Finally I can find a mate… I can have friends… I can be a
man
.”

Doctor Satan watched the monster with satisfaction. The spell was nothing more than a glamour, one that would wear off in several hours. Of course, there was no reason to share that with the Creature, especially not when he was obviously in such a good mood.

“Now,” Satan prompted. “I need to know where the entrance to Vorium lies.”

The monster sighed and turned back to face his benefactor. “Please believe me. You don’t want to go there.”

Satan fought to keep his annoyance from showing. “Vorium was founded by survivors from the lost continent of Atlantis. Their scientific and mystical knowledge far surpasses anything we possess in the outside world. If I had just a small sample of the power they allegedly possess, I’d take revenge on all the people of this world, everyone who has ever scorned men like you and me.”

The Creature stared deep into the eyes of Satan and shivered. The monster had killed and mutilated, but he had never considered himself truly evil. He was merely striking back at a world that had condemned him from birth… but he knew, despite his aiding of the monster’s visage, that the man before him was rotten at the core. “If you wish to go forth and suffer for your insatiable lust for power, I will not stand in your way.”

Satan watched as the Creature retrieved an ancient piece of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink. After dipping the quill into the ink, the Creature began to draw a small map leading to an ice cave not far away.

“Once you find the cave,” the Creature said, “you just walk inside. It will be very dark and the path seems long, leading into the Earth. Eventually, you will come to a side passage—take it. After another mile or so, you will notice a light beginning to take shape. It’s the artificial sun that illuminates the inner world of Vorium.”

Satan took the map, holding it as if it were made of some extremely rare and valuable material. “If you would like to accompany me, I would be more than willing to let you take part in what is to come. I need the aid of strong-backed men like yourself. My former associates are lost to me, and you have an agile mind to go with your brutish power.”

The Creature pondered the offer. He knew there was the possibility of gaining great wealth by following Satan, and with wealth would come women and power. In the end, though, the Creature had vowed never again to be a servant. He was his own man, in form now as well as in nature. “Go,” he said, gesturing for Satan to leave. “Let our paths not cross again. I will return to civilization to begin my life anew. And you… you will find what you deserve in Vorium.”

If Satan caught the hidden meanings in the Creature’s words, he gave no sign. Instead, he turned quickly, his cape swirling behind him, and left in pursuit of his newest goal.

CHAPTER V

The Devil’s Lair

The Peregrine slammed his knuckles into the brute’s face, feeling the shattering of bone as the man’s nose shattered. The nightclub was a whir of activity as men and women hurried for the exits, while the braver—or dumber—of them closed in on the vigilante. It was almost noon in midtown Manhattan, but the seedy bar had been close to capacity when the Peregrine had burst in, demanding information on the whereabouts of Doctor Satan. After a few moments of backtalk from the assembled scum, the Peregrine had made his full intentions known by slamming the head of the establishment’s bouncer into a brick wall. He’d just finished branding the man’s forehead with his trademark bird-in-flight signet ring when the guy’s friends had decided to attack the Peregrine en masse.

A bottle whizzed past the Peregrine’s head and he ducked to avoid it. When he stood back up, a black-skinned man with a shaved head was closing in on him, brass knuckles clearly in place on his right hand.

The Peregrine caught his attacker’s fist in his palm and spun the man around, slamming him hard into another of his attackers, a pudgy brute brandishing a small dagger. The two men went down in a clutter and the Peregrine drew his own edged weapon, the enchanted Knife of Elohim. The mystic blade glowed brightly in the dimly-lit tavern, and the Peregrine spotted the most dangerous of his remaining opponents. Max hurled the blade, which caught the man in shoulder, pinning him against the wall.

“I’ll ask again,” the Peregrine hissed between clenched teeth. “Who here knows where I can find Doctor Satan?”

“He’s dead!” the pinned man wailed, trying to pull the knife from his flesh. Every time he touched the blade’s hilt, he jerked his fingers away quickly. Evil men had trouble handling the Knife of Elohim, which had once been soaked in the blood of Christ. “Don’t you read the papers?!”

The Peregrine strode over to the man and yanked the knife out of the wall. “He’s not dead. I know that, and so do you. I also know that this place used to be a front for his cult’s activities, and I know that almost every man and woman here has sworn allegiance to him.”

“Then surely you know that you’re wasting your time,” a man said from behind the Peregrine. Max spared a glance over his shoulder, noting that a figure sat in the rear corner, hidden mostly by shadow. The man had one leg crossed over the other, a glass of something in one hand. Though Max couldn’t see the stranger’s face, there was the air of disaffected royalty about him. “These cretins would rather die than betray their lord and master,” the man continued before downing the last of his drink.

The Peregrine looked back at the man he was holding. He punched the fellow in the stomach and then shoved him back against the wall. A few seconds later found the man screaming anew as the Peregrine pressed his signet ring against the man’s forehead, burning the image of the Peregrine into his skin. “Everyone will know you for what you are now,” he whispered in the criminal’s ear. “Now get out of here.”

The shaking man staggered away, collecting his friends as he did so. They exited the bar, muttering curses under their breath.

“And who are you?” the Peregrine asked, turning his full attention to the shadowed man.

The figure rose and moved into view, revealing a thin, handsome face with a full beard. His eyes were somewhat glassy, evidence of the large amount of drink he’d consumed. His clothes were expensively tailored, and Max recognized the man’s features just as the stranger gave his name.

“Trevor Kirkman at your service,” the man said with a bow. “And yes, my father was Jeremiah Kirkman. It’s amazing how many people recognize me from those photos that ran in the papers.”

Max hid his surprise, calling up the details of Kirkman’s past. Jeremiah Kirkman had been a successful banker, a respectable member of the community—until evidence of his fondness for opium and little girls came to light. Faced with a multitude of charges, the elder Kirkman had taken his own life, leaving his son to inherit a fortune. Trevor Kirkman had quickly established several philanthropic enterprises, designed to erase the stain upon the family name. He’d been quite successful overall, but people would always remember his father’s sins.

“Why are you here, Mr. Kirkman? It’s the kind of place I would have expected to find your father in, not you.”

Kirkman laughed at that, but there was no mirth in the action. He was responding in what he obviously thought was an appropriate fashion, even though he found no humor in the comment. “You’re a bit out of your usual stomping grounds, aren’t you? I thought you were a Southern boy these days.”

“I started out in Boston. I like to visit the Northeast from time to time. See if the old haunts are still as full of scum as they used to be.” The Peregrine moved closer to Kirkman. “Now tell me: Why are you here?”

“My father’s sins weren’t limited to narcotics and underage flesh,” Kirkman said, shaking his head in disgust. “He also dabbled in the occult. He was one of Doctor Satan’s flunkies, passing money through various accounts so it wouldn’t be traced back to Satan’s operation.”

The Peregrine nodded, being well aware that Satan’s criminal empire was a multi-leveled affair, using many men and women exactly like Kirkman’s father—people whose lusts and greed made them easy prey for Doctor Satan.

“Not long ago, I found a cache of my father’s papers,” Kirkman continued, staring off into space. “They detailed his involvement in Satan’s schemes. You’d think after all this time, nothing my father had done could surprise me… but I was still taken aback. My father had been the go-between for Satan and a man named Felix Cole, who specialized in rare books. My father had bought several sets of papers and then passed them on to Satan, but not before he’d read them and taken notes. They seemed like madness when I read them, but I believe them to be true, every damned word of them.”

“What did they say?” the Peregrine asked, his voice taking on a more gentle tone. He was becoming convinced that Trevor Kirkman was not a villain—he was just a man caught up in a greater web of intrigue than he could handle.

“One of them was supposedly the true story of the whole Frankenstein’s monster affair. It claimed that there really was a Victor Frankenstein, and he really did create new life out of the body parts of corpses! And it told where the Creature had been when last seen—and the second was an account of a group of survivors from Atlantis who took their knowledge and their technology with them to a hidden land within the Earth. A place called Vorium. According to the text, only a few people from the outside have ever managed to find the hidden entrances to Vorium… and one of them was the monster.”

“And why are you here?”

“Because I don’t believe Doctor Satan is dead either. And I think he needs to be.” Kirkman reached into a pocket and pulled out a small pistol. “I was going to shoot him in the head if he was here, but he wasn’t. My family’s damned because of him. I carry the guilt of my father inside me. And it’s all because no one’s managed to kill that bastard yet.”

The Peregrine reached out and carefully took the gun from Kirkman. “You’re just going to get yourself killed doing things like this. Go home. Keep doing what you’re doing. Your foundations are making differences in a lot of people’s lives. Leave Doctor Satan to me.”

“He’s going after the monster,” Kirkman said, staring into the Peregrine’s eyes. He looked increasingly desperate. “I know he is. Earlier today those papers I’d found went missing, stolen from my very home! Satan knows I had them! He’s going to come back and kill me after he’s gotten whatever it is he wants from the creature and from that Vorium place. That’s why I have to kill him first!”