The Peregrine Omnibus Volume One

by Barry Reese

  With gun in hand, the Peregrine peered in through the window. He wore his customary garb—long trenchcoat, domino style mask with a small birdlike “beak” and low-brimmed hat. Inside the room he saw Reed Barrows, pacing about like an expectant father. There was no sign of Camilla, but Barrows was talking to himself, rubbing the palms of his hands together anxiously.

  Max reached into his coat and retrieved a small listening device, which he pressed against the glass. A small wire led from the device to an earpiece, which he put into place. Immediately, Barrows sounded as clear as if Max were in the same room with him:

  “It’s dangerous. Too dangerous. We shouldn’t… we should let it go. Just let it go.”

  When the words only continued to repeat for close to a minute, the Peregrine removed the listening device and moved on. Something was obviously agitating Barrows, but there didn’t appear to be any clue to be found from the man himself—and Max wasn’t yet ready to break in and begin questioning him. Not without making sure that Camilla wasn’t about…

  He suddenly wished that Evelyn had been able to come with him, but at the same time he was glad she wasn’t. He feared for her safety on nights like this, but she also had a way of making his mission seem not nearly so lonely.

  Around the back of the house, he found an open storm cellar. The door lay thrown back and Max heard hushed voices down below. He crouched, catching bits and pieces of a conversation between a man and a woman.

  “Aye, I know who has the book. He’s had folks translatin’ it for ‘im into other tongues. Plans to spread it the ‘ole world wide. When he has enough people to help ‘im, he’s going to raise the sunken city.”

  “I don’t care what his plans are. I want the book for myself,” the woman replied. Her accent was European in origin and she sounded quite lovely. Camilla, he realized. A part of him wanted to rush in with guns blazing, but from the sound of things, Camilla had failed in her attempt to get the Necronomicon. If it was in the possession of another, Max wanted to know who it was.

  “It won’t be cheap,” the man replied with a laugh.

  “Money is no object, Guthrie, “ she answered. “Kill him, destroy all the copies he has made and bring me the original.”

  There was a sound of paper exchanging hands before Guthrie spoke again. “We’ll do as you say. But there’ll be a bonus for every man we lose. Our kind are slow to develop and I can’t afford to lose even one.” He cleared his throat. “Truth be told, I’m a bit surprised you’d even want our help. You types usually look down on the hard workin’ sorts like me.”

  “I have only recently risen. I have not yet returned to the peak of my power… eventually men like Klempt will pose no threat to me.”

  “But until then, you want me and my kind to die for you. Real kindly of you.” The man began to walk up and out of the storm cellar. The Peregrine pressed himself flat against the side of the house, staying out of sight. Guthrie was emaciated-looking, dressed in a green turtleneck sweater with black coat and pants. He wore a small derby atop his head and a growth of red hair peeked out from beneath. A spray of freckles covered a mean face. “I’ll be in touch,” he shouted behind him.

  The Peregrine waited for him to get a small distance away and then began following him. In a small grouping of trees about a mile down the way, a car waited with two other men within. Each of them looked just as dangerous.

  “Did she pay you?” one of them asked the approaching Guthrie.

  “Aye. And she’s a pretty one,” he answered. “Wouldn’t mind playin’ a bit with her when the work is done.”

  “Like she’d let your muzzle come anywhere near her body,” the other man retorted.

  The Peregrine had heard enough. He sprang from the darkness, landing atop a startled Guthrie. A stout blow to the back of Guthrie’s head sent him toppling over, while the Peregrine drew his revolver and pointed it at the others. “Stay where you are. Hands up.”

  The men glanced at one another before responding. Slowly, they raised their hands, though Max wondered at the amusement he saw in their faces. “Sure, mister… no need for gunplay,” the third man said.

  “I have questions that need answering,” the Peregrine continued. “This man… Klempt… where is he?”

  “He’s gonna be in hell soon enough. Why don’t you go on ahead and wait for ‘im?” Guthrie laughed from below.

  The Peregrine glanced down and gasped. Before his startled gaze, Guthrie’s body began to change. Hair sprouted from every pore and his face began to distend with a horrible popping sound. The clothes he wore ripped and tore, leaving him naked and covered in fur. His ears lengthened and came to tapered points.

  A werewolf!

  The Peregrine whirled about, confirming his worst fears. The men in the car were moving out now, also shifting into horrible half-man/half-wolf monstrosities.

  Guthrie rose to his full height, snapping at the air with razor-sharp teeth. Saliva dripped from his maw as he turned yellow eyes on the Peregrine. “Questions, you say? Ask away, masked man… and perhaps I’ll answer them before we feast on your belly!”

  The Peregrine refused to take the bait. The creatures before him were only toying with him, hoping to distract him while they spread out and flanked him on three sides. He pointed his pistol at one, using his free hand to draw forth a golden dagger… it was a trophy from a previous case involving a mad geneticist named Felix Darkholme. The dagger was possessed of unknown properties, but it had proved essential in his victories over Christian Rosenkreuz and Jacob Trench.

  Guthrie hung back as his men lunged forward. Max blew the head off one of them, startling the two remaining werewolves. The Peregrine’s guns rarely ran out of ammunition and were capable of piercing the strongest armored tanks in the world.

  Before the second attacking werewolf could react, the Peregrine threw the dagger with unerring accuracy. It bit deep into the beast’s throat, sending a spray of blood into the air. The creature fell to the ground, writing in agony. He attempted to pluck the dagger out, but he howled in pain whenever he tried to touch it.

  The Peregrine felt something slam into him and he fell to the ground with Guthrie atop him, snapping and biting. Max threw his hands up, locking them around Guthrie’s throat. He barely held the werewolf in check, keeping his mouth from locking down around his own face.

  “Those were my brothers, ya damned murderer!” the werewolf howled, spraying spittle with every word.

  The Peregrine grunted, feeling the thick muscles beneath the monster’s flesh. He wouldn’t be able to hold him off for long…

  Max forced himself to calm as much as possible. When he’d fought Trench’s demon in Germany, he’d learned to make contact with minds around him. It wasn’t something he was very well practiced at, but he tried it now. At first there was nothing, not even a trace of Guthrie’s consciousness. But then, feral and wild, it emerged into the Peregrine’s mental vision.

  The Peregrine had no time for anything fancy, so he projected a single thought with all his might.

  Guthrie backed away, looking around in confusion. He’d been positive that his brother Luscious—the first to be killed this night—had called his name in desperate need. But there lay the corpse of his brother…

  In that moment of distraction, Guthrie fell prey to the Peregrine. Max jumped from his back, smacking the werewolf on the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. He did it repeatedly, until his weapon was bloodied and Guthrie had fallen to the ground, silent forevermore.

  Panting, the Peregrine fell to his knees, heart hammering. After a moment, he noticed that the three men had begun to revert to their human forms, leaving behind no trace of their lycanthrope natures. The Peregrine staggered over to the remains of Guthrie’s clothing, rummaging through until he came upon a white slip of paper with a name and address written on it.

  Gerhard Klempt was in Milledgeville, Georgia.

  CHAPTER VII

  The Mad Doctor

  “Milledgev
ille? Where is that?”

  “You’re showing your Yankee upbringing again, Evelyn.” Max sat in the basement beneath his house, surrounded by the weapons and inventions that aided him as the Peregrine. He was clad only in slacks, having removed his shirt so that Evelyn could doctor a few bruises and scratches he’d received. Luckily, none of them seemed likely to carry the werewolf plague. “Milledgeville,” he continued, using that lecturing tone that so annoyed his wife, “is the former capital of Georgia. It wasn’t moved to Atlanta until after the War Between the States. It’s a quaint little town, renowned these days because of the insane asylum located there.”

  “Sounds simply divine,” Evelyn murmured. She was in her bedclothes, having rushed downstairs when she’d heard her husband returning from his scouting mission. “And why are you going there again?”

  “Because a man named Klempt has a dark book that Camilla covets. He’s making copies of it… everything I’ve read about this text says that it bears evil imprinted into every single word. Even viewing it drives some people mad. If it were readily available to hundreds or thousands… I can’t imagine the horrors we’d face.”

  “And do you know where we’d find this Klempt person?” she asked, putting away the rest of the spare bandages.

  “So you are going with me, then?”

  “I don’t like you leaving without me,” Evelyn commented.

  “I thought you had that script to Perils of Gwendolyn II: The Lost City to read over.”

  “It can wait. And you’re avoiding my question about Klempt.”

  Max sighed, though he was smiling as he did so. He was hoping she’d come with him. “He’s a doctor. A psychiatrist.”

  Evelyn turned to stare at him, hands on hips. “He’s not.”

  “What?”

  “He works at that asylum, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “It gets worse all the time,” she said with a shake of her head.

  “He specializes in electro-shock therapy as a means to combat mental illness.”

  “Sounds to me like he’s the mad one,” she whispered. “Or maybe it’s us for going after him.”

  Max moved behind her, kissing the back of her neck. “Just think of all the history to be found there. The city’s a mix of the old south and the new… with the old greatly outweighing the new. It’ll be like stepping back in time!”

  “They probably have a five and dime as the center of town life,” she responded, though she was beginning to warm to the idea. “I’ll go pack.”

  “Can’t we relax a bit first?” he teased, pulling her against him.

  With a laugh, she turned to kiss him. “Forget the werewolves, Max. You’re the ravenous beast!”

  * * *

  “Please restrain the patient,” Gerhard Klempt said. He was tall and handsome, with more than a passing resemblance to Errol Flynn. But there was none of the goodhearted kindness that the great actor displayed to be found in Klempt. His was a face not meant for smiling, for it was deeply etched into an expression of serious disapproval. His eyes were like cold fortresses, refusing to reveal anything of the soul within.

  The orderlies held the thrashing woman down on the table, showing no mercy as they strapped her into place. She was in her thirties and suffering from a number of mental ailments, most of which were the result of the things Klempt had done to her over the past few months. Having a hospital full of the deranged gave him great freedom to include them in his personal experiments. If they went mad or managed to tell their tales of horror to someone, they were dismissed readily enough. They were in an asylum, after all.

  “That will be all,” Klempt said. “Leave us.”

  The orderlies stepped out, having grown familiar with the fact that the German doctor liked to work alone. There were many stories about his unusual techniques but no one inquired more than was necessary. Some things it was simply best not to know.

  Klempt put on a pair of rubber gloves before smoothing down the crisp white medical gown he wore. He moved to stand next to the woman, whose eyes were wide with fright. “Miss Thomas, please. Calm down.” He patted her leg, slowly letting his fingers trace upwards until he reached her inner thigh. “It will all be over in just a few moments. And then you can return to your room and take your medication.”

  Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. She wailed against the cloth that muffled her cries.

  Klempt pushed her gown up, revealing her female parts. She wore nothing beneath the gown, which wasn’t unusual. Many of the patients soiled themselves so frequently that Klempt had begun dispensing with undergarments as an unnecessary expense. A small amount of dried blood showed around the entrance to her vagina. “Have you been keeping our little friends warm and healthy?” he asked, eliciting more cries from her. “Nurse Whitley tells me you tried to stab yourself down here. Said you seemed to want to tear out your own womb. We simply can’t have that.” He smiled coldly at her. “Not yet anyway. When the deed is done, your womb will be worthless enough that you can do with it whatever you please… but for now… no.”

  Without the use of lubrication, he began working his fingers into her. She screamed, which only made him work all the harder. He felt about inside her until he felt one of his prizes, grown fat and slippery. He tugged on it and it dug into her inner flesh, tearing at it in a futile attempt to remain nestled in its hiding place. Klempt yanked hard until it came free.

  A yellowish-red worm about three inches long and so fat it looked fit to burst was revealed. Klempt held it up to the light, marveling at its segmented body and the sharp sucker at its head, with its rows upon rows of sharp needlelike teeth. “Oh they’re coming along just fine, Miss Thomas. All our little babies are growing up, right on schedule. In another week or two your stomach will begin to bloat a bit… at that point, questions will be asked. I’ll examine you and say that you must have been a bit loose with the guards or another patient. Given that you’re not fit to be a mother, I’ll deal with the pregnancy in the usual fashion… though you and I will know that’s not quite true. Nothing about this is usual, is it?” For the first time, he laughed. It made his patient close her eyes and pray for death. Inside, she felt things wiggling about madly, hoping to avoid whatever had happened to its sibling. She sometimes thought she could hear them, singing to each other in some buzzing tongue, making her belly vibrate.

  Klempt caressed her face with his bloodied glove, making her look at him. “This one can’t go back in. It’s a shame to sacrifice one just to check on their progress. It will die… it’s not strong enough to survive for long like this, not in its immature form. But I won’t deny you at least one mother-child moment.”

  The woman began to scream as she saw Klempt begin to attach the worm to one of her nipples. It chewed in hungrily, suckling and swelling before her eyes.

  Klempt turned away, ignoring her sounds, which were almost matched by the wet sucking sounds of the worm. He opened up a small satchel, gazing down at the leather-bound book that had been coveted by so many. He had some of the other patients, the brighter ones—for now—working on translating it into other languages. They worked until their fingers bled and their eyes bulged, or their brains began to slowly turn inwards from the sheer force of the knowledge being given them.

  Klempt raised the book to his face, inhaling its scent. So much blood. So much death. All locked away in these pages.

  When the Old Ones returned, they would reward him.

  CHAPTER VIII

  A Gathering of Shadows

  Reed Barrows wiped the sweat from his brow, panting from exertion. “They’re buried, Camilla.”

  The vampire watched him without comment for a long time. She hated being out in the daylight, but with great effort she could abide the sun’s rays for a time. There were many falsehoods about her kind, most of which had been spread by the vampires themselves. They afforded them some protection from the occasional vampire hunter, who would come in armed with knowledge that was faulty at
best and ridiculous at worst.

  Camilla stood under the shade of a tall tree, beside which the werewolves’ car remained. She held an umbrella over her head, further shielding her from the sun. “Who did this, beloved? Who knows of our plans?”

  Reed shrugged. He was exhausted and his hands bore blisters from the shoveling he’d done. Hiding bodies was a new experience to him and not one he cared to repeat. But he knew that he’d probably grow used to the task… being caretaker to a vampire virtually required that he occasionally assist in the hiding of her victims. “I’m not sure. I’ve heard rumors about a vigilante in the area. Calls himself the Peregrine. They say he killed both Trench and Felix Darkholme.” Reed noticed a small piece of paper on the ground and plucked it up. It was a calling card of some kind—a white background upon which rested the silhouette of a bird.

  “Why would he involve himself in our affairs?”

  Reed struggled to find an answer. “Maybe he collects mystical artifacts, just like I do. He killed Darkholme and stole something from him. Maybe he did the same to Trench.”

  “The werewolves didn’t have anything for him to collect,” she pointed out.

  “Ah, but they did.” Reed stuck the point of the shovel back in the earth and leaned his weight against it. “They had a name and an address on them.”

  That made Camilla’s eyes flash with anger. Her bosom rose and fell in a mockery of human breathing. “The Necronomicon. This Peregrine wants it, too.”

  “That’s my guess. If he were interested in you or I, he would have struck at us. He had the opportunity to do so. But he didn’t.”

  Camilla moved towards him, the umbrella casting her features in shadow. She smiled at him, the redness of her lips standing out in stark contrast to the pale white alabaster of her skin. “You are such a clever man, my love. Destiny truly rewarded me the day you came to awaken me.”

  Reed puffed up in response to the compliment. “So now we just have to decide what to do about it.”