by Barry Reese
* * *
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?”
“I prefer you’d call me Ian… and I’ll pass now. Thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” The Peregrine closed the door and the room was once more dark and foreboding. “Why have you been seeking me? Answer quickly.”
Ian swallowed, sensing that his answer was somehow important. Is he going to kill me or just destroy my videos and recordings? Or both? “When I was a kid, you were my idol. I used to dream about you swooping in at the academy and bashing little Nigel Rushford’s head in. He was a bully… Even when I got older, I always remained a fan.” He pointed into the living room, where a The Peregrine vs. the Six-Fingered Demoness poster hung on the wall. “I always wondered why you became darker as the years progressed, adopting the whole branding thing and the special saying…”
“There was a part of me that wanted to really punish criminals,” the Peregrine murmured. “I never enjoyed doing it. Made me feel dirty… but it marked them for life. If I couldn’t kill the bastards, then at least I could make sure they never forgot that they were spared by the Peregrine. I’d prefer that people didn’t dwell on that part of my career… but for that I blame the bastards who fictionalized my adventures.” The P
eregrine laughed softly. “Evelyn used to say it was cruel… but she never pushed the issue. She’d seen the horrors those people were capable of. If Benson hadn’t talked me into stopping the killing, I would have kept doing it. That’s the only way to really make the world safe—make sure the bad people can’t keep coming back. Not that death stops some of them, mind you.”
Ian thought he heard a hint of madness in his hero’s voice, but he ignored it. His heart was still pounding in his chest and he found himself eyeing the pistols that the Peregrine wore. Were they the famous ‘specially modified’ weapons that hardly ever ran out of bullets? He hoped so… “When I heard that you were active again, I started snooping around… discovered how you used to pass on some of your exploits to your friends for use in the novels and serials, like you were just saying.”
“And?”
“And I think people need to remember that there are heroes out there. People who do the dirty work that the cops wouldn’t dare touch. The whole world’s gone crazy and they need to know that there are men and women out there who’ve been fighting these kinds of horrors for years!”
The Peregrine grunted and then coughed. The cough became deeper and more frightening, wracking his entire body. Ian started to reach out to him, but stopped himself. The vigilante straightened up again, but there was something different about him now. Something more vulnerable. “I’m dying, Morris. But the world still needs a night watchman… and I don’t have time to sire another heir.” The Peregrine paused before speaking again. “I had a son and a daughter. Both did their time in the mask, Morris. Both ended up in a grave, along with every other friend I’ve ever had. That’s why I came back here… to where our honeymoon took place. Good memories… not that the visions didn’t come here, too. Ended up becoming the Peregrine again… will be the Peregrine until I die, I suppose. I used to blame my father for that. Stupid. It was bigger than him, bigger than me.” The Peregrine looked away, as if staring at something that only he could see. “Evelyn and my father are both waiting for me… on that mountain in Tibet. It’s been too long since I saw them.”
Ian hesitated, not sure where this was going. Hope began to flare in his heart. “You want to give me a last interview?”
The Peregrine’s laugh was cold as ice. “I’m giving you something better than that. It’s in your bedroom. Trust in the mask.” He moved past Ian, heading towards the door.
Ian’s hand shot out and gripped the Peregrine’s arm, but the vigilante whirled about, chopping at the unwanted touch. Ian cried out and yanked away.
Rubbing his injured hand, Ian said “Why did you do that? I was just going to ask you to stay!”
“I don’t like being touched.” He leaned close and Ian found himself unable to look away. The odd bird-like beak that adorned the man’s domino mask was inches from his nose and Ian flinched in the face of the vigilante’s gaze. “I’m about 43 minutes away from dying. I think you’re a damned idiot who has too much time on his hands, but the helmet thinks you have potential, so here we are. So get your ass into the bedroom and try it on.”
Ian didn’t make a move to stop him this time. The Peregrine disappeared with a dramatic flourish of his long coat, leaving Ian Morris standing in his kitchen feeling disconnected from reality. He looked about, noticing that the vigilante had helped himself to a plate of fish while he waited. Ian wondered at the Peregrine’s words… about dying in 43 minutes. How could he know the exact instant he would die…?
“The bedroom,” he whispered. He nearly ran to that area of the flat, flipping on the light switch as soon as he’d entered. There on the bed was a uniform of some kind, super lightweight body armor from the looks of it. It was purple and black, looking like a more modern version of the classic Peregrine attire. Resting next to the uniform was the helmet that the Peregrine had mentioned… a form-fitting device that bore a bird motif. Unlike the Peregrine’s mask, this one was a full face version. “Try it on, he said.” Ian moved over slowly, lifting the helmet in his hands. The eye lenses gleamed at him.
“Try it on.”
*Contact*
Ian rolled over onto his back, his breath coming in quick heaves. At his side, Fiona Grace lay with a contented smile on her face. They were both nude, the covers sticking to their sweating forms. Outside, the waves lapped up on the shores of a beach.
He turned his head to face hers and was rewarded with a stunning megawatt smile. “You are so gorgeous,” he whispered. “
Fiona rolled onto her side and placed her head on his arm. “I love you, too… It’s amazing how quickly we’ve become inseparable, isn’t it?”
Ian nodded. “Seems like just yesterday I was visiting the Nova Alliance for the first time, learning that I wasn’t the only one carrying on a legacy. You were dating that contractor… what was his name?”
“John.” Fiona sat up a bit, looking at him. Her eyes twinkled and her long blonde hair fell about her shoulders invitingly. “Are you going to stay in bed with me tonight?”
“Probably not,” he said. “You know I’ll be awake again in an hour… and lying here staring at the ceiling isn’t very exciting.”
“Okay.” She kissed him on the nose. “Go work out, then. I’ll be here when you get back.”
Before Ian could respond, a tremendous explosion rocked them both. The wall in front of their bed shattered inwards, showering them in dust and bits of stone.
The two moved quickly, each rolling out of bed and falling into battle mode. Fiona reached under the bed and drew a gleaming sword, one that was lined with mystic runes. Ian, meanwhile, made a lunge for a helmet which rested on the nightstand. A well aimed bullet knocked it out of his grip, however, and caused him to cry out. Ian glanced towards the sizeable hole that had appeared in their bedroom wall, his heart skipping a beat as he saw the figure standing there.
“No, no! Don’t want to go and hide that pretty face away, do we, sweet Peregrine? I mean, I went to all the trouble of watching your predecessor’s face go all blue and pulpy when he died… I’d hate to miss the chance to do the same with you!”
Ian stared up into the face of pure evil. Dark skinned and flame-eyed, the being known as Nyarlathotep was a horror to behold…
*End Contact—Future Probability 68.4%*
* * *
Ian yanked the helmet off his head, tossing it across the room. It landed in a crash, knocking over a pile of videotapes. “What the hell was that?!” he screamed. It had felt so real… the feel of that woman’s flesh against his all the way to the sense of mounting terror when that Suture thing had come to him…
“Nyarlathotep. How did I know his name? And what in the hell is the Nova Alliance?”
He sat down on the bed, waiting for his pulse to slow back down. The uniform seemed to beckon to him, like a new lover. He felt an urge to try it on… He knew it would fit him perfectly.
Forcing himself to be calm, Ian thought back to the things he’d seen. Fiona Grace… he was familiar with her, if only from the television. Descended from Eobard Grace, a man who had made the trip over to the World of Shadows again and again, Fiona was the most recognizable woman on Earth these days. It was from the World of Shadows that the power behind the Black Mass Barrier had come. Fiona had appeared on CNN numerous times, trying to explain how it had happened, how the so-called Wheel of Flesh had been turned just right, plunging Earth and the Shadows into some sort of merged situation. Some folks blamed Fiona for all the current problems that faced the world, but most recognized her for what she was: a flawed but heroic woman, one who struggled hard to save as many lives as possible.
On somewhat shaky legs, Ian retrieved the helmet. One way or another, it was the key to all this. The Peregrine had said it was the reason he’d come here… that it had led him to Ian. He stared into the lenses for a long moment, making his decision.
He was ready this time.
* * *
*Contact*
Ian Morris stared at a younger version of himself. The eight-ye
ar old Ian was seated on his bed back home, earphones turned up so loud that they vibrated from the noise. His walkman cd player was lying in his lap, blaring out the sounds of a Peregrine adventure entitled The Return of Prof. Lycos. It was one of his favorites and Ian still had a re-mastered version of it sitting in his car, even today.
Downstairs, his parents were fighting again. Ian remembered this day very well, for it was the day his father had walked out on them. Over twenty years later and he’d never come back…
“You’re weaker than I thought. This is how you react to emotional heartbreak? You lose yourself in fantasy.”
Ian turned to see the Peregrine standing behind him. The young version of Ian didn’t seem to notice either his older self or his masked hero. “What the hell’s going on here, Peregrine? Why am I seeing something from the past?”
“Because it’s one of your formative memories.” The Peregrine moved through the room, stopping now and again to pick up some piece of Ian’s past. “You’re the one who shapes the Looking Glass, not the other way around. Remember that.”
“The Looking Glass…?”
“The lenses of the Peregrine mask. They’re shards of a mystic orb. I took them from a bastard who was hypnotizing young women into lives of prostitution. “
“The Case of the Stolen Maidenhead. I remember that one… the mystic was an Oriental mastermind named Lu Chang.”
The Peregrine grunted. “Yes. I’ve had it in my possession since 1953, but it took years for it to really regain its power after it was shattered. It eventually led me to you.”
“For what? I don’t understand—”
“Listen, Morris. I’m dead. But I can’t leave the night undefended… According to the helmet, you’re the perfect candidate. Driven. Athletic. Tireless.”
“You want me to be the new Peregrine…” Ian whispered, feeling a surge go through him. How many times had he dreamed of this, as a kid? Of course, he’d never imagined it would be in a world filled with wizards and the undead, but none of that mattered in the end. He was talking to the Peregrine…!
