The Peregrine Omnibus Volume One

by Barry Reese

  But something nagged at White, making him wonder at that scenario. The island had originally been colonized in 1585 but relations with nearby tribes had not gone well and supplies were scarce. In 1586, a relief fleet arrived to find that the colony was abandoned. A small detachment remained in place to protect the English presence and a new group of 121 colonists, led by White, were dispatched in 1587 to re-start the settlement. When they arrived, White set out to locate the 15 men left behind to protect the English claim on the land… but they, too, were now missing. White managed to find the bones of a single man but no trace of the other 14.

  Three groups of people had now vanished in Roanoke… Was there more to this than simply warring Indian tribes and harsh living conditions?

  A wind blew suddenly, sending a shiver down White’s spine. There seemed to be voices carried on the breeze, tiny whispers that sounded frightened.

  And as they passed by his ears, he heard the singular word: “CROATOAN.”

  * * *

  White’s attempts to discover the truth were stymied at every turn. He organized a search with assistance from the privateering vessel but could not find his missing friends and family. Some ninety men, seventeen women and eleven children had, from all appearances, simply vanished. There was no sign of a struggle or a battle of any kind and the houses were dismantled. There were two skeletons found, buried near what had been the heart of the colony… but there was no clue as to their identities. Aside from the word “Croatoan” carved in the tree, there was only one other clue—the first three letters of the word (Cro) had been carved into another tree, not far from the first.

  As the storm began to rage, the crew of the vessel refused to press on to Croatoan Island, fearful that their own return would be delayed further.

  John White had stood on the deck of the ship, watching helplessly as they left Roanoke Island. The mystery of what had happened would consume him for the rest of his life.

  In the end, he was lucky that the privateer captain had refused his request to continue the search. If they had gone further in search of those who had been lost, they would have ended up in the same state as the former residents of Roanoke…

  Each and every one of them would have been dead.

  CHAPTER II

  Flames of Portent

  November 22, 1942—Atlanta, Georgia

  Bullets whizzed past the Peregrine’s head as he dove down the flight of stairs, landing in a rolling ball on the carpeted floor. Max Davies righted himself and stared back up, guns pointed in the direction of any would-be pursuers. For the moment, none of the criminals above were presenting themselves and this gave Max a moment to collect his thoughts.

  The heat in the building was nearly overwhelming and the fumes from the surrounding blaze made the Peregrine’s head swim. The entire structure was about to go up like a bundle of matchsticks and the Peregrine had no desire to be within the building when the roof gave way and collapsed inwards.

  A tingling along the base of his spine alerted Max to a new danger and he barely managed to jump aside as a large fist collided with the back of his skull. The blow would have taken his head off if his innate combat sense hadn’t warned him—as it was, it was still enough to make bells ring inside his skull.

  The Peregrine turned about to see an armored figure moving through the flames. It was Doctor Blight, a criminal genius who had managed to create a steam-powered armored contraption which gave him the strength of five stout men. It also—thankfully for the Peregrine—slowed his movements somewhat, making him a cumbersome foe, and gave him the overall appearance of a demonic version of the Tin Man.

  “Give it up, Blight!” the Peregrine shouted, noting that parts of the ceiling were now falling in flaming tendrils. From down the stairs came the last of Blight’s henchmen, bags of loot and weapons slung over their shoulders. The Peregrine opened fire on them, aiming to wound rather than kill. Three well-placed bullets took down all three men, who fell amidst groans of pain and shock.

  Doctor Blight roared beneath his metallic mask and stumbled forward, fists clenched. He raised an arm and brought it down hard against the Peregrine’s shoulder, causing Max to scream in agony. “You ruined everything,” the villain yelled, oblivious to the fact that all of them would die if they did not flee the scene. “I never wanted to fight you,” the doctor continued, drawing back a fist for another blow. “I only wanted what was coming to me!”

  “You’re a thief,” Max replied, dodging the slow arriving attack and throwing himself against Blight. The impact knocked the armored man onto his back, which gave him the sudden appearance of a turtle, awkwardly rocking back and forth in a vain attempt at standing upright again. Max knelt on the man’s chest plate, reaching down to yank the helmet off. Blight’s face came into view, pasty complexioned with unkempt brown hair. “You’re smart enough to make a suit like this… and you waste it all robbing banks. You disgust me.”

  “Get off me,” Blight yelled, trying to grab hold of the vigilante with his armored limbs.

  Max managed to avoid the powerful hands while tossing away his right glove. His shoulder ached from the blow he’d received but it still functioned well. On his ring finger he wore a signet ring adorned by a red jewel, upon which the image of a bird in flight could be seen. The Peregrine drove this jewel against Blight’s forehead, the strange properties of the ring burning the man’s skin, forevermore marking him as a criminal. The Peregrine’s words were similarly blazed into Blight’s memory: “When the good is swallowed by the dark, there the Peregrine shall plant his Mark!”

  Blight’s eyes opened wide before rolling up into his skull. The Peregrine stood away from him after a moment, surveying the gruesome image now branded onto his enemy’s skin.

  “You’d better hurry up, son, or else you’ll be joining me on the Other Side.”

  The Peregrine whirled about, holding up one hand to shield his eyes from the heat and smoke. The ghostly, ethereal image of his father Warren Davies appeared before him, looking the same as he had over thirty years ago, when he’d been gunned down in front of his son’s eyes. “Dad? What are you doing here? My powers aren’t supposed to work anymore…”

  Unconsciously, the Peregrine raised a hand to touch the side of his head. Only weeks before, the madman known as Doctor Satan had cast a spell that blocked off all access to Max’s telepathic abilities. Though it might have seemed like a curse to the villain, Max had seen it as a blessing: he would be free of his father’s ghostly influence, for the first time since his father’s death.

  The elder Davies had helped mold him into the Peregrine, after all, driving his son to become a living weapon against the kind of evil that had killed him.

  “I’m not appearing to you via your telepathic powers, Max. I’m manifesting physically this time. It’s an incredible strain. You need to find a way to cure yourself and—”

  “Forget it,” Max warned, knowing that if he had his druthers, he would never again be plagued by those damned powers.

  “Max,” his father said, abandoning his earlier line of conversation. “I have to warn you. There’s an ancient evil that’s loose again. It’s coming. So many people are going to die… and it won’t be pleasant.”

  The Peregrine seemed to forget the fire raging about him. He could no longer hear the crackling of the flames or feel the heat that surrounded him. All he saw or heard was his father, speaking from beyond the void. “Don’t be so damned vague,” he barked. “Give me specifics!”

  “Croatoan,” Warren Davies answered, his image growing more faint. “Find someone who can tell you about it, Max! Look to the past for clues… I won’t be able to help you again. Not until you free your mind from Satan’s spell.”

  “Dad! Wait!” Max reached for his father, but his fingertips came away with only empty air. Abruptly, the raging inferno returned him to his senses, causing him to cough. He bent down to move Blight but jerked his hands away when he realized that the heat had made the man’s armor too wa
rm to touch.

  The Peregrine moved over to the three gunmen, pulling them towards the door. Once outside, he rushed to his waiting car and retrieved a pair of heat-resistant gloves, which he donned in place of his usual pair. He then returned to rescue the villain, dragging him to safety seconds before the building collapsed inwards.

  The Peregrine could hear sirens in the distance but he bolted as soon as he was sure the criminals were safe from the flames. The strange word his father had uttered—Croatoan—echoed in his mind. It sounded oddly familiar, like something from a distant memory. Max had a hunch that it might be an occult term, though he knew he could be making an erroneous assumption based upon his father’s ghostly appearance.

  Still, when it came to matters of the occult, only one individual could be counted upon to know the full details of anything supernatural:

  Ascott Keane, occult investigator.

  CHAPTER III

  Keane’s Tale

  Ascott Keane was a tall, slender wisp of a man but there was a definite strength to him that made even the bravest of opponents hesitate before striking. His eyes radiated an intelligence that spoke of long years of study and there were traces of worry lines about his mouth and eyes, as if he carried a great weight upon his shoulders.

  For many years, Keane had used his knowledge of the occult to wage a war against a villain the likes of which the world had rarely seen: a red-garbed devil who called himself Doctor Satan. Their battles had become legendary in those circles that concerned themselves with spiritual matters, forging a reputation for Keane that was as enigmatic and daunting as the villain himself.

  Beatrice Dale sat across from him now, noting how the shadows cast by the flickering candle made him appear both older and younger than he truly was. Keane’s secretary loved him with all her heart, admiring his tenacity above all else. But she also knew that he still believed his war with crime was too important to sacrifice for a relationship and so she held back a bit, waiting for him to come to her in that special way.

  The two of them had taken part in adventures that would have sold a million pulp magazines, though few of them had ever made it into the public eye.

  Keane now sat with eyes closed, head tilted back. His lips moved silently, mouthing words that were old when Atlantis sank beneath the seas.

  When he finally relaxed and opened his eyes to see Beatrice, a faint smile appeared on his lips. “Could you make us some tea, Beatrice? With lemon, please. Max prefers his that way.”

  Beatrice blinked in surprise. Ascott had begun his meditations nearly twenty minutes ago, seeking some clue about Doctor Satan’s current whereabouts. The mention of Max Davies—if indeed that was the Max Ascott meant—was a stunning change in subject matter for her. “I don’t understand,” she said, when a knock at the front door of Ascott’s apartment made her jump.

  Keane rose and smoothed down the front of his dapper looking jacket. “Please tell Max I’ll be waiting for him in the study. I believe I have exactly what it is he’s looking for.”

  Beatrice Dale hurried to the front door, her heart fluttering. To her astonishment, standing there on the other side of the door was Max Davies, just as Keane had predicted.

  “You look like you just saw a ghost,” Max muttered good-naturedly, though the smile he wore didn’t seem to reach his eyes. Beatrice found Max very attractive, with brooding eyes and dark curly hair. His skin was somewhat olive complexioned, giving him a Mediterranean look that she found appealing.

  Realizing that she was staring, Beatrice stepped back and invited Max inside. Regaining her bearings, she grinned and said “Ascott is waiting for you in the study. He says he has just what you’re looking for.”

  This time, it was Beatrice who got to enjoy the look of surprise on another’s face.

  Max took off his overcoat and set it on the back of a plush chair. Keane’s study was filled with books, many of which looked so old that they would likely crumble if actually opened.

  “So how are Evelyn and little William?” Keane inquired, his back to Max as he scanned the shelves for one volume in particular.

  “They’re both fine. Evelyn sends her love.” Max laughed as Keane turned to face him, a leather-bound volume in hand. “So… how did you know I was coming? A vision in a dream? Some sign in your tea leaves this morning?”

  “Neither. I was casting my mind about on an astral search for Doctor Satan when I spotted you parking your roadster outside.”

  “Okay… but how do you know what I’m looking for?”

  Keane motioned for Max to sit down, pulling his own chair closer so that the two men could look at the book together. “Ah. Well, after I saw you approaching, I allowed myself to skim your thoughts.”

  “I didn’t know you could do that,” Max said, stunned at his friend’s power.

  “Normally I can’t. But in my astral form, I exist as pure thought energy… and when you’re upset, your thoughts tend to leak out like water from a faucet. You’re one of the most formidable psychics I’ve ever met, Max. You really should force yourself into several disciplines that could teach you how to harness such things. I could help you… or I have a friend named Jethro Dumont who could do the same. I was actually surprised at how easily I was able to read your mind… it was almost as if you’d deliberately let your natural defenses down.”

  “Actually, thanks to your old friend Doctor Satan, I’m not a telepath at all anymore.”

  “What do you mean?” Keane inquired, his eyes narrowing.

  “He cast a spell on me that blocks my access to my telepathy, telekinesis, everything.”

  “Do you want me to—?”

  “No,” Max said hastily. “But thanks.”

  “Very well. But the offer remains there, should you change your mind.” Keane opened the book, flipping through several hundred pages until he came to the section he wanted. “Croatoan can refer to several things: an island, the tribe of Native Americans who used to call it home or the last scrawl of a lost colony.”

  Max leaned forward, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing up again. He barely noticed Beatrice enter and set a tray with two cups of tea nearby. The girl slid back to the corner of the room, where she would be unobtrusive. “Lost colony?” Max as asking. “What do you mean by that?”

  Keane quickly summarized the known facts surrounding the Roanoke colony, including the fact that three groups—the original colonists, the soldiers left behind between colonies and John White’s settlers—had all vanished from the area. When he was finished, he set the book aside and crossed his legs, reaching into a pocket to bring forth a cigarette and matches. He lit up, allowing Max to digest all that had been said.

  Max took a sip of tea, savoring it for a moment. It was green tea but with an undercurrent of something that tasted like cinnamon. Max could only assume that it was one of Keane’s little creations, something to stimulate the mind and body. “Okay. It sounds like an odd little mystery… but I’m not sure what it has to do with anything going on today.”

  Keane was about to reply when a strange chirruping sound emanated from the right pocket of Max’s slacks.

  Seeing the surprised look on Keane’s face, Max smiled and retrieved a small device. “It’s a telephonic radio. Allows me to transmit live messages across tremendous distances.”

  “Fascinating,” Keane replied, winking at Beatrice. His secretary was watching with great interest and Keane could only imagine what she would do with such a device.

  Max opened a small lid and pushed a button, holding the device up to his ear. “Yes?”

  From hundreds of miles away, the voice of Atlanta police Chief Will McKenzie came through, sounding crystal clear. “Sorry to bother you, Max… but there’s something that’s come up that I thought you might be interested in.”

  “It’s no problem, Will. What’s happened?”

  “I got a call about something weird going on in Cascade Heights. When I got there, I found out that an entire building—a townhouse f
ull of apartments—has gone missing. Every single person, Max. They all went to bed last night, according to the neighbors, and sometime between midnight and eight a.m., they all vanished.”

  Max looked over at Keane and tapped the side of his head. Ascott understood and stared hard at Max, willing some of Max’s thoughts to come into his own. Since he wasn’t in astral form, the act required Ascott to bolster his abilities with a whispered spell.

  When Max saw that Ascott had locked minds with him, as indicated by a sharp raise in one of Keane’s eyebrows, Max replied to McKenzie. “Will, I’m on my way back from New York City. Lock everything down tight. Don’t—I repeat, don’t—leave any officers inside the building. Do you understand me? Post them across the street, down the road, whatever you think is best. But don’t leave anyone inside!”

  Will sounded troubled but very self-assured. Max admired his friend’s strength of will… no matter how bizarre the things Will encountered turned out to be, he’d never come close to breaking. He was made of sterner stuff than most and it served him in good stead. Unfortunately, for Will, his good looks and natural charm had never won him the heart of the ‘right girl’… at least not until he convinced Kirsten Bauer to abandon her life of crime as the Iron Maiden and become his wife. “I’ll do it, Max. See you soon.”

  Max severed the connection and looked at Ascott. “Any suggestions?”

  “Only that those of us in the present are often prisoners to the past. If there was an awful price paid by the Roanoke colonists, it could be that there still remains blood to be exacted.”

  Max digested that and picked up his coat. “I’ll let you know if anything new turns up. Thanks for the tea.”

  When he was gone, Beatrice stepped up. Her pretty face was lined with worry. “I’m surprised you didn’t offer to go with him.”