The Peregrine Omnibus Volume One (27 page)

But here he was now, having walked through the back of the church before leaving again, making sure that Max had seen him.

Nyarlathotep was crossing the street and Max followed, keeping pace even when the Dark Man entered an alley and began ascending a fire escape. When Max joined the villain on the rooftop facing the church, he yelled “Is this going to be the end? Because I’m sick and tired of chasing you and your pawns across the globe!”

Nyarlathotep smiled coldly. “Yes. This is an ending… of a sort. You see, there are cycles to all things. For the past few years, the barriers between the worlds of life and death have been thinning… I tried to take advantage of this so that my masters might rise again. But now I see that there is something at work here… something empowering the champions of humanity. There are too many of you now, too many fighting against the encroachment of darkness.”

“So you’re just giving up?”

“Our agents will always be present, Mr. Davies.” The swarthy-faced man smiled coldly, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth. “Rest assured you will have plenty to keep you busy. But as for myself… no, the time has come for me to rest.”

Just like my father
, Max thought.
Some of the spiritual powers are going into hibernation… but for how long?

“You will live a long time, my friend. My gift to you will make sure of that.” Nyarlathotep gestured towards the Peregrine’s hand. “You will outlive everyone you love… and you will see the rise of a darkness that you will scarcely comprehend.”

“Sounds like a lot of talk to me.” The Peregrine reached into his suit jacket and retrieved his golden dagger. It gleamed in the afternoon sun. “I assume we’re going to fight?”

“Oh, yes.” Nyarlathotep laughed heartily. “One last tussle between us… before I go to sleep. And when I awaken, I’ll hunt down your heirs and kill them, one by one. I curse you and your line, Mr. Davies. You shall know only madness and despair.”

The Peregrine didn’t bother replying. He moved forward, slashing and cutting with the blade, while his opponent parried with his claws. Blood ran freely from both combatants, as each moved so quickly that they appeared to each other as blurs.

When Nyarlathotep tried to rip open the Peregrine’s stomach, the vigilante spun out of the way and struck home with his golden dagger. The blade dug deep into the villain’s neck, sending a red gush of fluid into the air. Nyarlathotep put a hand over the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, but to no avail. He stumbled backwards a few steps, trying to speak, but his words were lost in the burbling of fluid.

The Peregrine paused before performing the final stroke. Was there truth to the words of this monster? Would his family really be cursed from here on?
Doesn’t matter
, he thought to himself.
I can’t worry about what might come down the line. All I can concentrate on is doing the right thing when I can.

A burst of clarity came to him, then… and he wondered if his father had felt the same way, when he’d made the decision to transform Max into what would eventually become the Peregrine.
Don’t worry about the future… Worry about what’s right and wrong—right now.

Carrying those thoughts in his head, the Peregrine struck again and again, each blow of his blade leaving behind more wet red flesh in the body of Nyarlathotep. When the messenger of the chaos gods finally collapsed, the Peregrine crouched over him, panting hard. The demon stared up into the Peregrine’s eyes and his lips, stained red with his life’s blood, mouthed words that seemed to sear themselves straight into the Peregrine’s brain. Though they seemed to make little sense to him, they would never be forgotten:
When the good is swallowed by the dark, there the Peregrine shall plant his Mark!”

A sudden hissing sound made the Peregrine fall back from the corpse. Heat was rising from the dead man’s heart and before Max’s frightened eyes, the clothing covering the skin there blackened and burned away. Pushing up from beneath the flesh was a lump of metal, one shaped like the Peregrine silhouette that Max used on his trademark playing cards. Max reached out tentatively, plucking it up with careful fingers. It was small enough to be set atop a ring, making it an excellent stamp or brand. An idea ran through Max’s head then… a way of harshly punishing criminals without killing them as he once had. And it fit very well with whatever nonsense Nyarlathotep had said at the very end…
Plenty of time to think about that
, he mused. He rose to a standing position, casting one last glance at the entity before him.

“Whenever you come back,” Max whispered, “I’ll be waiting for you.”

* * *

That evening Max and Evelyn sat side-by-side in a private train car, heading back towards Atlanta. Saying goodbye to the Moon Man and his new bride had been somewhat bittersweet, but Max felt certain that Great City was being left in good hands.

Evelyn sat staring out the window, her lips drawn tight.

“Something bothering you?” Max asked, wincing as he moved his left shoulder. Nyarlathotep had scratched him badly there and the wound was seemingly prone to infection.

“You didn’t even bother asking me to finish what I’d started telling you back at the church.”

“Oh.” Max leaned back in his seat, waiting for Evelyn to turn and face him. When she didn’t, he asked softly “What were you going to tell me?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Max didn’t speak for a moment, lost as he was in the full meaning of her words. When at last he found his voice, he said “I’m going to spoil that child rotten.”

Evelyn turned then, her eyes alight.

The Peregrine’s Nest was about to get a bit more crowded.

THE END

THE BLACK MASS

An adventure starring the Peregrine

By Barry Reese

—::—

They called it the Black Mass Barrier. No one really knew where the name came from or what it truly meant… but the media seemed to agree that it fit. The Barrier was a cloud of darkness that enveloped the Earth, casting it into eternal twilight and giving the daylight skies an odd pink cast. Even worse were the changes you couldn’t see right away: the spreading of magic, subtle and dangerous, into every corner of humanity. Creatures from myth appeared in full bloom, walking side by side with the citizens of the world. 2006 was the dawn of a new age, one that had become almost commonplace only a few years later… when heroes were reawakened.

* * *

London, England—2009

Ian Morris sat in the back of the club, nursing his second pint of the evening. He wanted to keep his head clear and alert, but it was hard not to drink a bit when you were surrounded by creatures out of myth. A topless girl with pointed ears and Elfin features was dancing in a cage not too far away from Ian’s table, her gyrations greatly exciting a group of goblins seated beneath her. They chattered away loudly, occasionally tossing their drinks up into the air. Each drop that landed on the girl’s body sent her into a frenzy, grinding to the heavy industrial music that filled the air.

Ian couldn’t help but wonder if he’d stumbled into a dream.

He’d been in London’s East End when the Black Mass Barrier had gone up. He’d felt a chill in his bones and the hair on the back of his neck had stood on end. Even as he stared up into the pink-tinged sky, he’d known that his entire world had just been turned upside down.

He didn’t sleep for 46 hours following the Barrier’s emergence. Like most everyone else in the world, he’d been taken by surprise. Who could have foreseen a magical cloud blanketing the Earth, raising the dead by the thousands and infusing everyday life with the stuff of fairy tales?
Sure as hell wasn’t me
, he mused.

Since then, his condition had stabilized a bit, but he was still diagnosed as Hyperactive. He was typically awake 23 hours out of the day, constantly filled with energy. Perhaps it was the Barrier, perhaps not. He didn’t really care, for being awake that often had certainly helped his career. He was a documentarian, having won numerous awards for his films on British radio dramas of the Fifties; the plight of the homeless in London; and the rise in mystic-related hate crimes since the rise of the Barrier.

“Heya, pal. You buyin’ the drinks?”

Ian wrinkled his nose before he even saw who had spoken. The smell was awful, like rotting meat left out in the sun. He glanced up into the putrid features of a brown-skinned man named Tommy. He was one of London’s newest residents—the undead. “Sit down and start talking,” Ian said, covering his nose with one hand. “I’m paying you plenty without giving you any drinks.”

“That’s not very nice,” Tommy replied. He was dressed in a ratty t-shirt whose faded image of Kylie Minogue was barely recognizable. His jeans were several sizes too large for him, cinched tightly with a frayed leather belt. A cap was pulled over his forehead, hiding everything above his yellowed eyes.

Tommy’s appearance was in stark contrast to the handsome Morris, who wore a casual, open-necked button-up shirt, blazer and slacks. He was a handsome, vibrant man with dark hair and a penetrating gaze. The living dead seemed to sense the difference in their natures, slouching back in his seat. “And here I thought we were going to be pals—I mean, since I’m so valuable to your research and all.”

“You’re not that valuable—there are dozens more just like you out there. I have my pick.” Ian leaned forward, passing over several shiny DVDs. “Hardcore stuff here, Tommy. Just like you wanted.”

The corpse lifted the discs and stared at them hungrily, almost as if he could view the information through sheer force of will. “They good lookin’ birds?”

Ian sipped his drink in distaste. The Barrier had given rise to a number of new black market enterprises, not the least of which was mystically-oriented pornography. It was stunning how far human depravity could go… These particular DVDs featured the popular “Sex with the Dead” series, in which living women allowed themselves to be degraded by the dead. Ian had only watched a few minutes of one scene before he’d come to the conclusion that this was not his cup of tea. “I think you’ll be pleased.” He reached into his jacket and removed a small digital camera. “Let me see the brand.”

Tommy sighed, but did as he was asked. He removed his cap, revealing a deep mark burned into his forehead. It was a curious shape, looking a bit like the head of a raven.

Ian stared as if transfixed. He snapped off several pictures, asking “How did it feel?”

“How did it
feel
?” Tommy asked, laughing. “It hurt like hell… but it was more than just pain. It was like I was being judged or somethin’.” He played with the discs in his hand, caressing them absentmindedly. “And that voice of his. God…”

“Tell me what he said,” Ian prompted, though he knew very well what the man had said. He’d heard these words before, dating back to the days of Ian’s childhood, when this vigilante was merely a fictional hero on the radio and in pulp novels. But he was real… had always been real… and now he was out in the public eye in a way that he’d never been before. Acting desperate, like a man on the edge…

Tommy’s voice sounded far away, as if his mind was replaying the events of his death all too clearly. “
When the good is swallowed by the dark, there the Peregrine shall plant his Mark!
”

Ian grinned. He loved those words.

* * *

Later that night, Ian entered his flat and tossed his jacket carelessly over a chair. He’d gotten some good material from Tommy—the audio might not be too clear at the moment, but Sally at the Beeb might be able to filter out the background noise. At this rate, Ian’s documentary on the Peregrine would be finished within the week—

He stopped dead in his tracks, halfway to his refrigerator. He’d meant to pour himself a glass of unicorn milk (the stuff was majorly addicting, in a good way), but the sight of a silhouetted figure seated at the table had brought him up short. Ian thought about the large walking stick in the living room—it could deliver a good, sound crack to the head of a burglar… and Ian himself was the athletic type, burning off his excess energy through boxing, tae kwon do and swimming. “Who’s there?”

The voice that replied sounded raspy, like someone who had spent too long with a cigarette between their lips. “You should know, Mr. Morris. You’ve spent enough time and energy trying to find me.”

A chill went down Ian’s spine… for that voice was so familiar to him. It had tantalized him on old recordings for so very long. “The Peregrine,” he whispered, scarcely believing that this moment in time was actually occurring. He thought about turning on the recorder in his pocket, but thought better of it. This man was known for not enjoying celebrity, after all. “You know about the documentary I’m doing?”

“I’d have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to know. You’re sloppy. That kind of thing could get you killed.”

“Are you threatening me?”

The Peregrine rose from his chair, moving to join Ian at the refrigerator. He reached out and pulled open the door, partially illuminating the two of them. The Peregrine was shorter than Ian, but stockier. He had the look of a middleweight boxer about him and an air of danger. Pistols were strapped across his chest and his face was hidden behind a peculiar bird-like mask. “You were getting yourself a drink, Mr. Morris?”