The Peregrine Omnibus, Volume Two
THE PEREGRINE OMNIBUS
VOLUME 2
by Barry Reese
Published by Pro Se Press
Part of the Reese Unlimited imprint
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.
Copyright © 2015 Barry Reese
All rights reserved.
The character of Jenny Everywhere is available for use by anyone, with only one condition. This paragraph must be included in any publication involving Jenny Everywhere, in order that others may use this property as they wish. All rights reversed.
CONTENTS
Darkness, Spreading Its Wings of Black
THE PHANTOM VESSEL
An Adventure Starring the Peregrine
Written by Barry Reese
CHAPTER I
Voyage of the Damned
1641—Cape of Good Hope
Henry Freeman stifled at yawn as he was roused from his bunk and led to the deck of the ship. He had a small crew on board and they were all good men, though prone to drink. Normally, Henry refrained from the intake of spirits, but on this night the memory of his wife at home had proven to be too painful and he’d indulged, overly so. His head now pounded as swiftly and powerfully as the waves against the bow of the ship.
Freeman peered into the foggy gloom that surrounded the cape, his first officer—a steadfast man named Coulton—at his side. “Are you sure you saw something?” he asked, though he knew that Coulton wouldn’t have wakened him at such an hour without good cause.
“Briggins was the first to spot her,” Coulton replied, staring into the mist. “Glowed red like something straight out of hell… a massive vessel, it was. I counted at least a dozen men on its decks.”
Freeman sighed, running a hand through hair slick with sweat. They’d drawn the unwanted duty of playing guardian of the cape after reports of a plague ship had reached the port. Supposedly, there was a vessel containing men afflicted with some horrible pox that was going from port to port seeking shelter. The various rumors were conflicting and often downright bizarre—Freeman himself had heard that he plague ship had lain waste to towns that refused them peaceful entry—but they were enough to send the town leaders into a frenzy. Send out a ship to patrol the waters, they said, to warn away such a vessel if it came too close.
For nearly a week, there had been no traffic into the cape save for those ships that were well known to Freeman, but now, it seemed, the truth of the rumors would be coming to light.
“There! Through the fog.” Coulton pointed off the starboard bow and Freeman gasped as a ship emerged, floating so close that the men on each deck could see each other clearly. The crew of the damned vessel were covered with open, seeping sores, and several of them moved with a lumbering gait. The obvious captain was a tall fellow, wearing an oversized coat adorned by various medals and patches. His long black beard shone with a fine sheen and his face, which had once perhaps been handsome enough, was now marred by several open sores.
The captain of the ship bellowed across the open air, his voice carrying loud and true. “We come seeking passage. Will ye admit us?”
Freeman exchanged a brief glance with his shipmate. He moved to the edge of the railing and cleared his throat before speaking. “I am Captain Freeman, and we’ve been tasked with informing all incoming vessels that the port is closed for the time being. I am sorry.”
“All incoming vessels?” the captain asked with a knowing shake of his head. “Then why did I see a schooner let through just a few hours ago?”
“Her captain was well known to us.”
“Then the port is closed only to strangers, then?”
Freeman wrinkled his nose. Something sickly sweet was on the wind—the smell of rotting flesh. “Yes. That is so. Please turn around and seek refuge elsewhere.”
The captain laughed then and it was a chilling sound, full of merciless anger. “If it be strangers that you fear, then let us not be strangers any longer… my name be Captain Hendrik van der Decken, and this be my ship,
The Lucky Seven.
So now that you know me by name, what say you let us into port for a night or two? My men are tired and thirsty, with coin aplenty to spend!”
Freeman felt a trickle of sweat run down the base of his spine. “Captain van der Decken, you know I cannot do that. Your men are cursed with the plague. My heart goes out to you and I swear by all that is holy that I wish you nothing but the best for you and your suffering men, but I will not allow you to pass into the port.”
The captain looked away, his right hand drifting down to rest on the hilt of his sword, scabbarded at his hip. “That be sad news indeed. Are you willing to lay down your lives to keep us from the solace we deserve? Are you willing to die so that we accursed folk can suffer at sea, without food or drink to keep us from going mad?”
And there it is,
Freeman thought to himself. The horrible possibility of raising arms against men whose only crime was to be afflicted with an awful death-dealing sickness… “Go and wake everyone. Quickly!” Freeman whispered to Coulter, who sprang into action immediately. To the captain of
The Lucky Seven
, he said “We stand ready and willing to defend our families, yes. I ask you to reconsider this course of action, Captain. Leave here and seek shelter elsewhere.”
“We will not do that,” van der Decken replied, drawing his sword. A dozen or more crewmembers stepped into view behind their captain, each with their weapons on display. “You are a brave man, Captain Freeman, but soon you will be a dead one.”
Freeman saw a flash of light as one of the red-tinged ship’s cannons was fired. A bloodbath had begun.
* * *
In the morning, the bodies of Freeman’s crew and the remains of his ship floated back to port. There was no sign of
The Lucky Seven
or its crew, though they appeared again and again over the next few decades, each time seeking passage into town, each time being rejected… and each time striking down those who would refuse them kindness.
The phantom vessel drifted on into legend, occasionally making appearances into the nineteenth century, when the sightings came to an end.
CHAPTER II
From Hell
January 2, 1943—Atlanta, Georgia
Ronald Dempster ran until he felt like his heart was going to burst, his footsteps splashing loudly through each puddle of rain. He still held his pistol in his right hand, despite the fact that he’d fired the last of the bullets several moments before. He was the last of the gang—Tom, Bob, and Reggie had all gone down before Ronald had bolted from the scene, abandoning the nearly $10,000 worth of jewels they’d already loaded into their car. The break-in at the jewelers had gone so smoothly that Ronald was still stunned at how quickly it had started to go wrong.
Ronald whirled around the corner, realizing too late that he’d ended up in a dead-end alleyway. He started to turn around when a figure dropped from the rooftop, landing directly in front of him, blocking the only exit from the scene.
The man wore a long coat that ended past his knees with a suit and tie. A small domino-style mask adorned by a bird-like beak over the bridge of his nose helped hide his true identity, but something in his olive-complexion and wavy black hair seemed familiar to Ronald, as if he’d seen the man in the papers or around town. It was the Peregrine, a vigilante whose career had led from Boston to Atlanta over the past decade and a half, sending more than a few crooks up the river, with a bird-shaped brand emblazoned on their foreheads.
Ronald held up his hands, noticing the gun still clutched tightly in one of them. He tossed it aside quickly, smiling nervously. “Hey, we can talk about this, right? I wasn’t the one who planned that heist—I was against it! They talked me into it!”
“You shouldn’t give in to peer pressure,” the Peregrine said with the faintest hint of a smile on his face.
Max Davies had taken up arms against the forces of darkness after witnessing his own father’s brutal murder—it had spurred the young man to dedicate his life to protecting the lives of innocents. For a time, he’d been aided by a wide range of mental abilities, including telepathy and telekinesis. He was now free of those abilities, which was both a blessing and a curse. Without them, his task was much harder, but he was now spared the oftentimes painful visions of future crimes that had once compelled him to don the mask. He was his own man now and he wouldn’t trade that for the world.
“I… I can give you the names of some other crooks,” Ronald stammered. “Just don’t brand me, okay?”
The Peregrine was slowly removing one of his gloves, revealing a signet ring adorned by a bright crimson stone. The image of a bird in flight was etched in the center of the stone. Forged from the heart of a demon, the ring sometimes glowed with a mystical fire and, when pressed against the skin of a criminal, would leave an image that would brand its victims for the rest of their lives. “You really should have thought about that before you decided to commit a crime in my city,” the Peregrine said, shaking his head. “Atlanta is going to be free from the likes of you, one way or another.”
Ronald threw a punch at the vigilante, who ducked under the blow and responded with one of his own. It caught Ronald in the stomach and knocked the wind from his lungs. The Peregrine then shoved the man against the wall and placed his signet ring inches from the criminal’s forehead.
“When the good is swallowed by the dark, there the Peregrine shall plant his mark!” Max whispered through clenched teeth, pressing the ring’s stone against Ronald’s head. There was the smell of burning flesh and the sound of Ronald’s screams, but Max was ignoring both of those things. It was past nine o’clock, he realized, which meant he was nearly an hour late for the Policeman’s Ball.
The Peregrine turned away from the sobbing criminal, having already dismissed the man from his mind. The police had been notified and would find him soon enough, leaving Max to change clothes and find his wife at the ball… assuming she was waiting for him at all.
* * *
Evelyn Davies stifled a sigh, taking another sip from her glass of punch. She’d forgone any alcohol since she was several months pregnant, though few people were aware of it yet. She’d decided to hold off on any official announcements until she’d finished her current role in
The Peril from Mars
, yet another in a seemingly endless array of B-movie roles she’d assumed in her career.
“Max still isn’t here?” Kirsten McKenzie asked, stepping up beside Evelyn. The pretty blonde spoke with a thick German accent, testimony to the fact that she was still new to America. Raised as an Aryan racist, Kirsten had briefly worn the armor of the Iron Maiden in defense of Hitler’s Reich, but her love for Atlanta’s police chief, Will McKenzie, had led her to abandon her homeland. As Will’s wife, she was now a close friend to the Davies clan and was working hard to show that her former beliefs were no longer applicable.
Evelyn ran a hand through her auburn curls and forced a weary smile. She was wearing a black dress that left her shoulders bare but she looked almost matronly next to Kirsten, who bared a little more cleavage in her own dress than Evelyn found suitable for the event. “He’ll show up soon. He probably got wrapped up in work.”
