by Barry Reese
Shaking his head to clear it of the somber thoughts that had begun to envelop him, the Peregrine closed his eyes and settled into a deep, if somewhat restless, slumber.
CHAPTER III
Enemies United
January 22, 1940
12:50 AM
Atlanta, Georgia
“Tell me what you see,” Hans insisted, clenching his fingers into a fist. In the palm of his hand he held a black stone with a single blood-red splash of color in its center. The stone was a Ghost Rock, a mystical talisman that allowed its owner to control the spirits of the dead.
Lars Merkel stared at the monster who was his son with undisguised hatred. The ghostly spirit of a man long dead, Lars had been summoned from his peaceful existence in the afterlife by his son shortly after the boy had reached adulthood. Since then, he had been forced to work as a sort of undead lapdog, going to and fro as an invisible spy for his son. There was precious little trace of the little boy that Hans had once been. The years had not been kind to him, transforming him into something cold as ice and twice and hard. He had a magnificently sculpted body and a handsome face, though it was marred by the ugliness of his spirit. “It is difficult to see him,” Lars replied, keeping his voice neutral. “There are mists that surround him. He is watched over by another spirit who seeks to thwart me.”
“His father,” Hans murmured. “But you said you hadn’t been detected.”
Lars took a moment before answering. They were in a darkened hotel room just outside Atlanta, the entire top floor of which had been rented out by the Warlike Manchu. Hans himself was seated before a lit brazier, the scent of incense filling the room. Hans, now nearly forty years of age, wore loose fitting Oriental pants of an emerald hue and a golden sash around his waist. His torso and feet were both bare. “I believe that his father might sense me but he isn’t sure who or what I am. There are a number of spirits and demons who have hatred for Max Davies. He probably assumes I am related to one of those.”
“Try harder,” his son directed and Lars vanished from sight, glad to be free for the moment. Hans forced himself to calmness, trying to reign in the violent anger that he felt. As a child, he’d seemed emotionless and cold… but as he’d grown older, his temper had become evident. He now flew into murderous rages when his desires were not being met—a trait that had proven vexing to his mentor.
The Warlike Manchu glided like a wraith into the room, his yellow complexion and long moustache matching perfectly with the red and yellow robes he wore. The image of a rampant dragon flowed across the cloth, a bold statement about the man who wore it. “Did your father find out anything of note?” he asked, obviously expecting the answer to be in the negative. The Manchu believed that one’s greatest weapon should be one’s own mind, not some sort of mystic talisman.
“The Peregrine is still overseas,” Hans replied. His accent was almost impossible to pin down, leaving little trace of his German heritage. He was proud of the Fatherland, however, especially with the rising tide of Fascism sweeping through his people. He rarely spoke in gushing terms about the Fuhrer, knowing the Manchu’s disdain for the man but the facts were undeniable that the Aryan race would one day win out. Even someone as useful as the Warlike Manchu was nothing more than a tool to be used. “We should strike now. I could take his woman. Cripple his policeman friend.”
The Warlike Manchu reached up with slender fingers and stroked his elongated moustache. He was painfully thin with high cheekbones and cat-like eyes. “You are too eager.”
“We have waited for so long! I am ready!”
“Max Davies would defeat you.”
Hans swore in German. “What do you want from me? I have done everything you’ve asked! I’ve made myself into a living weapon for you! And still you refuse to let me destroy this man… why does he frighten you so?”
“I do not urge you to caution out of fear but out of respect for my former student. I thought him weak and incapable of standing against me… but when the day came, he emerged victorious. He is the closest thing to a son I have ever had.”
“I will be your son,” Hans answered. “Let me kill him and prove my superiority.”
“Before we strike at his family and close friends, we should remove those who would come to his aid.” The Warlike Manchu reached into the voluminous folds of his robes and withdrew a rolled magazine. He held it out to Hans, who unrolled it, staring at the man on the cover. The tall man depicted in the photograph was of Russian descent, with close-cropped silver-blond hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore a well-tailored black suit, a white handkerchief perched dashingly out of his breast pocket and a golden ring set with a pale red stone shone on the little finger of his right hand. His teeth were shocking white and very regular, helping give the impression of a man who came from impressive stock.
“I recognize him,” Hans whispered, his excitement coming to the fore. This was finally a challenge. “Leonid Kazlov. Son of the brilliant Russian inventor Nikola Kaslov. They say that Leonid is a physical and mental marvel.”
“He is all those things and more besides. When you visited the Davies’ farm and left your warning for the Peregrine, Kaslov was there with his allies, a young woman named Libby Raines and a gentleman named Benjamin Flynn.” When he said this, the Warlike Manchu stared hard into his pupil’s eyes. The bloodied trail of birds that had so unnerved Max had not been an authorized act on the part of Hans. The Warlike Manchu had been furious upon discovering that Hans had come so close to tipping their hand.
“I remember now. He was very far away, so I didn’t know who he was at the time.”
“My sources say that he is currently en route to the Himalayas, attempting to reach a monastic order located on the side of Mount Everest.”
Hans frowned a bit, not enjoying the prospect of such dangerous travel. It wasn’t yet twenty years since the British climbers George Mallory and Andrew Irvine had been lost while attempting to scale the massive mountain. It remained one of mankind’s most challenging—and dangerous—obstacles. “Do you want me to strike the Russian, then?”
“Yes. But not as Hans Merkel. The time has come for you to adopt a new guise. Just as Max Davies undergoes a shift in personality and mental acumen when he abandons his civilized pretense, you will gain from a change in identity, as well. Masks can sometimes be liberating for the soul.”
“You don’t wear a mask.”
“I am sufficiently advanced as to not need it. You, however, are not at that point.” The Warlike Manchu snapped his fingers, summoning an attractive young woman with jet black hair and a slim figure. She came forward holding a box of clothing, setting it on the floor in front of Hans. With a bow, she hurried away once more.
Hans knelt and ran his hands through the folds of fabric, lifting up the small mask that his master had chosen for him. It was carved ivory, shaped like the upper half of a human skull. The uniform that accompanied it was entirely black and looked to be very form fitting. Hans could picture the way it would look upon him—he would be a wraith-like figure, one whose face warned of imminent death. He liked it. “And my name?” he asked, wondering what delicious game he was about to embark upon.
“You are now the Shinigami.”
“What does that mean?”
“It is a Japanese term, representing the personification of death.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t pick something from your Chinese heritage.” Hans put the mask over his face, staring out from the eye slits with a smile on his lips.
“The Japanese are a less worthy people than my own but they have some merits. Do you approve of your new identity?”
“Yes. Very much so.”
CHAPTER IV
Mountains of Death
January 25, 1940
2:25 PM
Mount Everest, Himalayas
Leonid Kaslov was some 22,300 feet up, trudging through the deep snows of Everest. The winds were blowing so hard that he heard Flynn nearly topple over behind him and the Russi
an slowed his movements to make sure the American didn’t lose sight of him. Both men wore steel crampons, which allowed their feet to hold purchase in the slippery ice, and one-piece goose-down suits, camouflaged in shades of white and black. Polar-fleece baklavas and snow goggles protected their faces but Flynn struggled under the weight of his backpack, ropes and other climbing apparatus.
Flynn was shorter than Kaslov, standing just over six feet tall, and was of a more slender build. He was one of Kaslov’s most trusted associates, having earned two well-deserved reputations over the years: he was brave in the face of any death-defying situation and he was capable of wooing the heart of nearly any woman alive. His handsome features were marred only by a small white scar on his right cheek.
The two men had continued their friendship even in light of the recently developing romantic rivalry they shared. Kaslov’s secretary, Libby Raines, had given in to Flynn’s charms after being rejected by the always stoic Kaslov. The brief affair had served as a wake-up call for Leonid and he’d recently begun reaching out to the girl, cautious as he was still hesitant to put anyone into danger for being too close to him, but also cognizant of the fact that he risked losing her by standing aside and doing nothing.
“How much further?” Flynn shouted over the wind. His voice reached Leonid’s keen ears and the Russian came to a stop until his companion came up beside him.
“It’s just around the bend. How are you holding up?”
“I’m exhausted and I’ve lost all feeling in my buttocks.”
Kaslov grunted, appreciating the fact that Flynn was able to maintain his good humor. “I’m certain that one of your lady friends will volunteer to help in your recovery from the frostbite.”
Flynn stared at him. “My god, Leo, I believe you just made a joke. Are you okay?”
Kaslov chose not to continue the banter, instead resuming the slow march towards the temple. As he’d explained to Flynn on the way over, he was seeking confirmation of a story told him by an acquaintance named Felix Cole. Known as The Bookbinder for his skill in transforming tattered remnants of ancient papers into modern things of beauty, Cole had visited this same area back in ’35, searching for something called the Book of Eibon. Cole claimed to have found it, along with its deadly guardians—a race of half-men, half-beasts who had inspired the myths of the Yeti. One of the things had raped and impregnated Cole’s daughter but both mother and child disappeared just before the half-breed’s birth was to have taken place. Cole had continued his work, though his eccentricities had increased dramatically.
The temple came in to view, an unusual structure with carvings of odd sigils along its walls. A statue just outside depicted a figure that was much taller than any human could be. On either side of the arched doorway were huge barrel-like lamps that were illuminated by a dozen or more burning candle wicks. They were filled with yak butter and Flynn flared his nostrils at the unique odor that came from them.
The two men approached the temple cautiously, well aware of the danger. The Yeti were known as intelligent but savage, with mercurial mood swings. Kaslov was thrilled at the prospect of encountering a race of beings so cut off from the rest of the world. What wonders might they be able to share? What startling answers to the many questions that plagued humanity?
Inside the temple, more barrel lamps blazed furiously and large prayer wheels dominated the walls, while a cinnamon-scented candle burned in front of a blood stained altar in the center of the main room. A set of stairs inset to the wall led upwards to the second floor.
“Be still,” Kaslov warned, removing his goggles.
“What’s wrong?” Flynn hissed, detecting no movement or life within the building.
“There’s the smell of death here.”
Flynn strained to make out anything over the strong odor of the yak butter and the cinnamon candle. A shift in the wind suddenly brought it to him: the metallic smell of blood.
Kaslov was looking upwards, into the rafters filled with hanging lamps. There was a creaking of planks from above and Kaslov hurried up the stairs, motioning for Flynn to follow. The American withdrew his pistol and made haste, excitement pumping blood into his frigid fingers and toes.
The second floor was much like the first but with a number of rooms that radiated out from a central hallway like spokes on a wheel. These were where the Yeti obviously lived and slept but Flynn had doubts that there were many still living, as blood and gore lined the walls. To his left, the words “The Peregrine dies soon” had been scrawled in a dried red that Flynn recognized all too well.
Kaslov studied the words without speaking. Unlike Flynn, he held no weapons in his hands but that hardly meant he was helpless. A master in numerous fighting styles and as strong as a score of men, the Russian was far deadlier than any implement of war.
More sounds of movement reached them, leading Kaslov to a doorway at the end of the wall. He swept aside a heavy curtain and paused in disgust. A dozen or more Yeti were dead in the room, their bodies piled like cords of firewood. The severed heads of the Yeti had been aligned along one wall.
“What the hell…?” Flynn whispered.
“You wouldn’t believe the trouble I had to go through to arrive here ahead of you,” a man said. He rose from the pile of limbs, dressed in blood-stained black. A mask shaped like the upper half of a human skull hid his features, though not the leering grin that was plastered on the lower part of his face.
“Who are you?” Kaslov asked, displaying absolutely no fear. Flynn admired the way the Russian was able to maintain his composure no matter what.
“Call me Shinigami.”
“The Japanese manifestation of death. Very strange. Your accent is faint but I’d have guessed that you were of Germanic descent.”
Shinigami tilted his head to the side, surprised that Kaslov had placed his origins so quickly. “You are good, Mr. Kaslov. I commend you. Such a shame you now have to die.”
The Russian threw himself at his American ally, knocking Flynn to the floor just as Shinigami pulled forth two silver blades and flung them through the air. They whipped past the very spot where Flynn had been standing, embedding themselves in the wall behind.
Kaslov ran forward, just missing with his own blow as Shinigami ducked beneath the flailing fist and struck out with a karate chop to the big man’s knee. Kaslov stumbled but remained standing as the German rolled free of him.
Shinigami stood straight and launched a dizzying assault, kicking and punching with all the speed he could muster. Kaslov found himself unable to block all the blows and several landed heavily against his body. The Russian had seen only one other man move so quickly and gracefully… and given the message scrawled outside, it was far too much of a coincidence to consider.
“You were trained by the same man who trained the Peregrine,” Kaslov said, catching hold of Shinigami’s arm and nearly breaking it in a swift motion.
Shinigami laughed coldly, ignoring the pain in his arm. “Quite clever, comrade.”
Kaslov kicked Shinigami in the chest and was pleased to see the man go down. Flynn was back up on his feet now and had directed the barrel of his gun towards their enemy’s head.
“I’d stay right where you are, if you know what’s good for you,” the American warned.
Shinigami shook his head. “That wouldn’t be very prudent.” He gestured towards the ceiling and Kaslov followed the motion, his eyes opening wide. There was a terrifying amount of plastique arranged there…
“Flynn! Get out of here! Now!” Kaslov yelled. As he did so, Shinigami rolled over and got to his feet. He took off towards a shuttered window. Folding his arms over his head, the German threw himself through the wood, which splintered about him. Kaslov moved over to watch as the man landed in a heap in the snow.
Flynn was already halfway down the stairs, having learned long ago that it was best to listen to the Russian where matters of survival were concerned. He heard Kaslov’s heavy footsteps behind him and then the strong hands
of his friend lifted him up bodily from the ground and threw him headfirst through the still opened doorway to the temple. He landed hard, turning back to see Kaslov leaping from the building just as it exploded, showering them both in stone and wood.
Flynn lay on his back for a long moment, protecting his head with upraised arms. His entire body felt hot but he didn’t think he’d been burned…
“We need to get back to civilization,” Kaslov was saying though Flynn had trouble hearing him over the ringing in his ears.
Looking about, Flynn saw that the mysterious Shinigami was nowhere to be seen. “You think he’s going to come after us again?”
“We’re not his real targets. We never were.” Kaslov helped his friend to his feet, looking towards the burning wreckage of the Yeti temple. “He slaughtered those creatures for sport while waiting for us. And he would have done the same to you and I… just to provide a warning to his real target.” The Russian turned his piercing blue eyes upon Flynn. “We must warn the Peregrine.”
CHAPTER V
Messages in Blood
January 27, 1940
5:35 PM
Atlanta, Georgia
Max Davies stared into the eyes of his son, marveling at the bright young intelligence that his son possessed. Though less than a year old, young William was already an inquisitive little thing with a penchant for climbing into trouble at every possible opportunity. At the moment he was covered from head to toe in confectionary sugar and flour.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Davies, but the boy’s as fast as a snake!”
“It’s okay, Nettie,” Max said, reassuring the frail little black woman who served as his maid. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. He’s ruined tonight’s dessert.”
