The Peregrine Omnibus, Volume Two (89 page)

“I don’t die so easily,” Max said, stabbing with the Knife of Elohim. The golden blade dug deep into Cairncross’s belly and the villain was forced to cry out in pain.

Cairncross realized that he was close to losing this battle and that was something he simply could not allow. In a frenzy of motion, he managed to drive his right arm into the Peregrine’s crotch. It was not an honorable attack, but desperation overruled all else. Max gasped loudly and Cairncross chose that moment to invoke the better part of valor: he turned and ran, as fast as his athletic body could carry him.

The Peregrine recovered slowly, knowing that he’d lost sight of his foe. Cairncross was still free, and was obviously even deadlier than Max had surmised.

“Did he get away?”

Max turned to see the Flame approaching, his fire-projecting gun held in hand. “Yes. Did you capture the others?”

“All three of them. Even Garibaldi. Miss Masque stopped him from trying to put a bullet into his own head.”

Max nodded. He knew he should see this as a victory… after all, Garibaldi’s schemes had been foiled, and the Ivory Machine was in ruins. What’s more, the Claws of the Peregrine were stronger than ever.

But Cairncross’s words haunted him. If they meant what he thought they did…

Heaven help the world.

Turning back towards the tunnel, the Peregrine reached out and leaned on the Flame’s shoulder. “Do you mind?” he asked.

“Not at all, Max. What are friends for?”

* * *

Cairncross sat down heavily, clutching his stomach. He’d nearly bled to death after escaping the Peregrine, and it had taken pure chance to save his life. He’d made it to a pay phone and called Eva, gambling that she’d come and pick him up, even after how he had dismissed her. He’d been right.

The German woman was outside now, enjoying the fine cuisine that lay onboard the yacht. They were pulling free of the marina now, having driven all the way to the Georgia coast.

In the darkness of the cabin, the rustle of fabric made Cairncross pause. “Did you kill him?” came a voice from the shadows. “Did you prove yourself worthy?”

Cairncross knew he could not lie. “The Peregrine still lives. But I proved myself his equal.”

“And does he know that I still live?”

“Yes, Sensei. I spoke too much.”

The Warlike Manchu leaned forward and for a moment his face was visible in the passing lights of the marina. His skin was disfigured from terrible burns he’d received, and his eyes were a pale yellow. His long drooping moustache was caked with blood and dirt. Surviving the fall of R’lyeh had not been easy ordeal. It had left him changed, slightly less than human. No matter how many times he bathed, the stench of the tomb still clung to him. And the blood that oozed from his nostrils, catching in his moustache, seemed to be never-ending.

“Then we must be ever vigilant,” the Manchu said, a note of madness in his words. “Because the Peregrine will be coming for us.”

“I’ll be ready,” Cairncross promised.

The Warlike Manchu laughed, the strident tones echoing throughout the ship and over the waters. “Good. Because so will he. So will he!”

THE END

THE SCORCHED GOD

an Adventure Starring the Peregrine

by Barry Reese

Trouble is a friend
But trouble is a foe
Oh, oh

And no matter
What I feed him
He always seems to grow
Oh, oh

—“Trouble Is A Friend” by Lenka

CHAPTER I

The Man of Destiny

April, 1942—Off the Coast of New Zealand

The zeppelin moved through the stormy skies with an almost majestic grace. The winds were powerful enough to buffet the ship slightly off its chosen course but the German engineers who ran them pushed the mighty engines within its belly to their limits.

The commander of the vessel, Wilhelm Mueller, stood on the command deck. His posture was ramrod straight and he kept his gloved fingers clasped tightly together behind his back. He wore a monocle over his right eye, a well-pressed German military uniform, gleaming black boots, dark gloves and a long coat that brushed against the metal surface beneath his feet. He was forty-seven years old and a firm believer in Hitler’s government. Before the rise of The Fuehrer, Mueller had feared that Germany was growing soft, having been whipped like a dog after the Great War. But Hitler had revived a sense of national pride in his people and once again men and women were proud to be Aryan.

“The island has been sighted below,” a man said from Mueller’s side. Horst was a good man and had been with Mueller through one posting after another for over twelve years.

“The coordinates are exact?”

“They are. It’s just as the Jew said: the island is virtually invisible except when sighted from directly above.”

Mueller knew the coordinates of this place by heart: 34°57′S 150°30′W. The island was 2,500 km east of New Zealand and was a cliff-bound, volcanic location that seemed to defy all rational description. Ships and planes passed it by on a regular basis, never noticing the inhospitable strip of land.

“Shall we ready a landing party, Sir?”

Mueller’s eyes flickered. Normally, he would lead such a mission himself. He was a man of action, prone to taking the most dangerous tasks for himself. Such instincts had led to numerous scars all over his body and more aches than he could count, but it wasn’t something he would ever hope to change. His men admired him for his bravery and willingness to put his own life on the line.

“Inform the Furies that we have arrived,” Mueller said dryly. Horst could see the disappointment in his commander’s expression but he merely clicked his heels together and spun about to do as he was ordered.

Horst moved through the interior of the zeppelin, the almost overwhelming noise from the engines no longer causing him the stress they had when he’d first joined the crew. Some of the men wore earplugs but others—like Horst—merely welcomed the loss of hearing that made the job bearable. The engines were growing quieter now, as they were used primarily for forward thrust. Now that the ship had reached its goal, there was little need for them except to prevent the vessel from being knocked out of the sky by the winds.

The Furies were an extension of the Fuehrer’s Geheimnisvolles Kraft-Projekt, which translated as the Occult Forces Project in English. The OFP was dedicated to utilizing super-science and magic in the name of The Reich. They had successfully created a number of powerful agents, though as of late several of them had fallen in battle against Allied warriors. Just a few months prior, The Grim Reaper, one of the most feared products of the OFP, had been defeated in Atlanta, Georgia by the masked vigilante known as The Peregrine. Horst had been stunned by the news. How could a pureblooded product of Nazi science lose against a mongrel like The Peregrine?

The Furies were created as a gesture of goodwill from Germany to its major Axis allies: Japan and Italy. A woman from each land was chosen, based on a wide variety of specifications, to become something more than human. They were all lovely enough to cause even the most stern of men to lose their breath in their company but these were no mere seductresses. They were as deadly as any man and were so ruthless than even Horst, a veteran of numerous interrogations and murders, balked at their actions.

Horst knocked on the door that led to the Furies’ shared quarters. The three women seemed to do everything together and Horst was not alone in wondering about the women’s sexual preferences. Were they lovers? He had no idea but the thought had proved a titillating one.

The door opened before Horst could knock a second time. The Asian member of the trio stared back at him, wearing a light kimono that did little to hide the curves of her body. She was aware of his gaze but did not shrink from it. Like the other Furies, she regarded her sexuality as just one more weapon in her arsenal. Her name was Akemi, which Horst had been told translated as “red beauty.” It was a fitting name, for she had dyed the front of her hair a crimson color. The red stripes stood out in stark contrast to the rest of her midnight black hair.

All three women spoke multiple languages flawlessly so Horst was not surprised to hear her answer in German. “What do you want?” she asked, showing him absolutely no respect. This attitude was common with Akemi and had not worn her any fans amongst the zeppelin’s crew, who believed that a proper woman should know her place.

“We have arrived at the island. Captain Mueller wished me to inform you of this.”

Akemi opened the door further and Horst looked in to see the other two Furies in states of mid-dress. The German member of the contingent was wearing black leather, a riding crop strapped to her hip. She was Käthe and name meant “pure.” Given the highly sexualized nature of her clothing and manner, Horst found that to be an ironic moniker. The third woman was the Italian named Imelda. Her name meant “warrior” and she lived up to it. Like Käthe, she wore a slightly sexualized version of her country’s traditional military uniform. Her blonde hair was cut in an inverted bob, emphasizing the perfectly aligned features of her face.

The two women looked up at him with disdain as Akemi entered the room, dropping her kimono. She began to get dressed, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was displaying her nudity to the German officer. Horst cleared his throat and attempted to maintain his own dignity, though it was difficult.

Käthe stood up after pulling on her boots. “Go and tell the Captain that we will handle the mission ourselves from here. We will parachute down to the island and retrieve the object.”

Horst shifted uncomfortably.

“You have a problem with these orders?”

Käthe—Leader of the lovely and deadly Furies

Horst decided to not push the fact that Käthe had no military rank and thus had no authority to issue orders at all. He had a suspicion he would not live to complete those words. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “Radio communication may be affected by the lightning storm. If you were to need emergency assistance, we might not be able to respond. My suggestion would be to take a small group of soldiers with you.”

Imelda laughed coldly. She said something in Italian to Käthe, who smirked in response. Horst, who was able to speak only German, had a feeling that the words were insulting to him.

Käthe reached out and placed a gloved hand on his shoulder. She rubbed it affectionately at first but then her grip tightened considerably and it was all Horst could do to not cry out in pain. “We are not the weak-kneed women that you’re used to. Taking your men with us would only slow us down. Now go and tell the Captain what I have said. You wouldn’t want me to report to the Fuehrer that our mission was delayed because you refused to listen.”

Horst spun about and moved away, his face burning as he heard the Furies’ derisive laughter.

* * *

The wind and rain made their descent difficult. The Furies’ parachutes were caught in the updraft several times, sending them off-course, but each time the women adjusted, reacting like expert skydivers. While each had their own specialties, as a group they’d been trained in nearly fighting style and military technique known to man. Those skills coupled with their indomitable will and keen intelligence made each Fury a truly terrifying opponent.

Akemi was the first to set foot on the rocky shores. She angled her landing so that she came down near a series of large stones that led towards the open mouth of a cave. As she was disengaging from the chute, Imelda touched down, followed closely by Käthe.

“That’s it,” Akemi shouted over the rain. Her pitch-black hair was plastered to her skull and water was running down her chin as she spoke. When they were alone, the three women generally each spoke in their native tongue, challenging the others to keep up with them. There was never any problem with miscommunication.

Imelda raised a hand over her eyes, squinting towards the cave. “Are you sure? We’re good at this but it seems unlikely we’d land right in front of it. Especially with this wind.”

Akemi frowned, taking insult. She was the one who had plotted out their course. She was about to respond tartly when Käthe, ever the peacemaker in their group, spoke first. “Won’t hurt to get out of this rain and take a look. If nothing else, we can get our bearings and figure out where we need to be. But,” she added with a smile, her face illuminated by a particularly bright flash of lightning from above. “If I know Akemi, she set us down as close to our goal as possible.”

Akemi nodded, placated by the praise. She reached behind her back and withdrew a katana that was sheathed there. Taking the point position, she led her companions through the muddy ground and up onto the rocks. Far off in the distance, a massive volcano dominated the horizon, smoke trailing up from its warm interior.

The Furies made it to the cave and entered, all of them shivering from the cold rain. It was very dark inside but Imelda took out a small flare and lit it. The flames revealed something that made her wince in amazement. Glancing at Akemi, she whispered, “My apologies, sister. You were right.”

Akemi smiled triumphantly. All along the rock walls were hieroglyphics. Even without knowing the truth of what they were seeking, the Furies would have been able to glean meaning from these symbols. They showed an island populated by tall, thin beings with golden hair. Pigments had been added to the drawings to give them color, making it clear that the people of this island were Aryan in design. The images seemed to show that the sea swallowed the island, forcing a few survivors to flee to safety. But then a bronze-skinned, blond-haired, blue-eyed man fell from the sky in what was obviously modern day London. This man was shown wearing pants resembling jodhpurs, calf-high boots and a military shirt with epaulets and buttoned down pockets. He seemed the very epitome of the Aryan ideal. The next set of images were the most surprising of all: they showed the man raising the sunken land, bringing green grasses to a snowy plain and then conquering what appeared to be a world within the Earth’s interior.