The Peregrine Omnibus, Volume Two

by Barry Reese

  Jimmy Imada stood behind the three criminal masterminds who had put the world at the brink of disaster. He had been surprised when the Warlike Manchu had invited him off the boat and into the city, but soon realized that he was going to serve the role of pack mule, hefting the four mystic treasures and carrying them for the others, who were too important to be bothered. The naked girl that Satan had toyed with en route had been sacrificed on the yacht, part of the elaborate ritual that had led to the sunken city’s rising.

  Jimmy stared with mute horror at the sight before them. He thought he saw fear—or at least healthy respect—on the faces of both the Warlike Manchu and Professor Moriarty. Only Doctor Satan looked unfazed by his surroundings, and that was probably attributable to the man’s insanity.

  A slumbering beast lay against the far wall, its body a dull green in color. Its oversized flabby claws and awful squid-like head would have been enough to induce terror in any sane reasoning individual, but there was yet more to unnerve Jimmy. The thing smelled like nothing Jimmy had ever encountered: it was fetid and vaguely like moist earth or rotting vegetation. But there was the underlying coppery scent of blood, as well. It was, in short, the smell of hell on Earth.

  The Warlike Manchu took a step forward, his robes rustling against his legs. He was the oldest one here, even older than decrepit Moriarty, but his own age paled before Cthulhu’s, who was older than humanity itself. “O Great Cthulhu,” he said, raising his voice so that it echoed throughout the great chamber, “the time has come! We stand before you, acolytes in your dark ways! We ask that you give us your dark blessings and allow us to help pave the way for your kind!”

  The mighty Cthulhu stirred, but his eyes remained tightly shut.

  “Perhaps you should let me try,” Satan muttered. He ignored the look of disdain that the Manchu gave him, instead keeping his own gaze upon that of the Great Old One. “I am the one who has worshipped you for many long years, making sacrifices in your name and in the name of your brethren.”

  “Do not overstate yourself,” the Manchu warned, sensing that Doctor Satan might be setting himself up for the majority of the “reward” to come.

  Satan did not respond. He thought he detected movement from Cthulhu’s eyelids, and a second later, this was confirmed. There was a fluttering there!

  Jimmy noticed that Moriarty was reaching for something inside his well-tailored coat, and he knew he had to spring into action. He hadn’t heard from Max and the weird energies around the place made him doubt his radio would work regardless, but he knew he had to do something before that monster woke up.

  Again his eyes darted to the Mask of Nyarlathotep. Despite its name, he couldn’t fathom that it was a weapon of evil… it felt too good for that. Girding himself for what was to come, he started to creep forward, intending on grabbing the Mask. He wasn’t sure what he would do then—would simply putting it on his face give him some sort of powers? At the very least, maybe stealing the mask would somehow disrupt the awakening of Cthulhu…

  And at that very moment, Professor Moriarty did something that Jimmy never would have expected: he drew forth a pistol and pointed it directly at the Warlike Manchu’s head. “I think that’s quite enough, gentleman,” Moriarty said, only this time his voice sounded somewhat different. It was almost like he was speaking with someone else’s voice.

  Both the Manchu and Satan turned to face their erstwhile ally. They had both anticipated an act of betrayal at some point, but Moriarty being the first one to do so was a bit of a surprise, as each of them had considered the other to be their chief concern.

  “What are you trying to do, Professor?” the Manchu asked, showing no fear whatsoever. “Of the three of us, you have by far the least knowledge of the occult. Killing us now would only doom yourself when the Great Old Ones awaken. You would have no idea how to interact with them.”

  “I don’t plan to interact with them. I plan to stop this madness from reaching completion. The only reason I haven’t acted before now was that I planned to destroy R’leyh and needed to be as close to Cthulhu as possible in order to do it.”

  Doctor Satan stared at him like Moriarty had suddenly sprouted a second head. “You plan to… stop us? First of all, why? And second,”—this last bit was added with a cruel laugh—“how do you plan to do that?”

  “Let me answer part of the second concern first, shall I?” Moriarty said in his very proper British accent. He pulled the trigger, firing a bullet straight at the Manchu’s skull. The Oriental mastermind started, hoping to jump out of the way, but the close range made such a move impossible. The bullet tore through the Manchu’s skull, opening a hole between his eyes that passed all the way through. Bone and brain splattered the walls behind him, and the Manchu swayed for a moment, spinning about somewhat comically before crashing to the floor.

  “There,” Moriarty stated calmly. “I have stopped one of you already.”

  “Bullets won’t do much against me,” Satan warned. He reached into his crimson cloak and withdrew one of the Knives of Elohim, a sister blade to the one carried by the Peregrine. During an affair that had been dubbed “The Bleeding Hells” by those who took part in it, Satan had ended up in possession of two of the four Elohim blades. While normally the blades caused great harm to those of evil inclination, Satan’s knives had been tainted by their association with him, and he could handle them without fear of harming himself.

  Moriarty responded with astonishing speed for one of his advanced age. As Satan struck with his blade, Moriarty brought up his walking stick, catching the attack with the hardened wood. The Knife of Elohim still sliced through it easily, but Moriarty had avoided taking the wound himself. It was now clear that Moriarty’s earlier limp had been faked, for he now moved with the grace of a dancer, nimbly avoiding further swipes of the blade.

  The professor swept out a foot, catching Satan behind the heel and knocking him off-balance. Moriarty then raised his pistol again and fired, the bullet passing harmlessly through the villain’s shoulder.

  “I told you,” Satan sneered, “bullets won’t stop me.”

  “Then I shall have to use other methods,” Moriarty said. He deftly reached into his coat and pulled forth a small silver cross. It gleamed in the dim lighting, and Satan screamed at the sight of the thing. “I present to you a cross specially treated by a friend of mine, Friar Gabriele Maria Berardi. He is an expert in exorcisms, and has assured me that the wards on this holy symbol will do you quite a bit of pain.”

  Satan screamed as Moriarty slammed the cross against his face. It sizzled and hissed upon contact, and the villain backed away in a panic, a cross-shaped imprint burned onto his skin.

  As Doctor Satan clutched his wounded face, he glared at Moriarty. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “You are correct in surmising that I am not the so-called Napoleon of Crime. Professor Moriarty met his end four years ago in Manchester, the victim of a heart attack. I was present at the time and elected to fake my own death, taking his identity for my own purposes.”

  Satan blinked, suddenly realizing that he and the Warlike Manchu had been thoroughly duped—duped by a man whose skill as an actor was exceeded only by his prodigious talents as a detective. “You’re Holmes, aren’t you?”

  “A brilliant deduction—and though I am normally loath to take a human life, I feel it is expedient to remove dangerous scoundrels like you and the Warlike Manchu from the scene as rapidly as possible.” Holmes sprang forward with astonishing quickness, holding the cross like a dagger, the sharpened bottom edge catching the light and shining. Holmes slammed the cross down in Satan’s neck, blood spraying across the detective’s face. While Satan’s magic protected him from most natural weaponry, this particular cross had been specially treated to strike him down, and it did its job very well.

  Sherlock Holmes stood over the fallen forms of both the Warlike Manchu and Doctor Satan. He was panting a bit, having overexerted his aged frame. A bit of motion from his right caused him
to turn his head in Jimmy’s direction. The young Asian man was holding the Mask of Nyarlathotep in his hands.

  “Are you… really Mr. Holmes?” Jimmy asked.

  “I am. And I commend you for taking action. I presume you were planning to use that artifact in an attempt to stop this travesty?”

  “…Yes.”

  “Then may I suggest that you go ahead and don the mask.”

  “But… why? They’re both dead.” Jimmy motioned towards the fallen men. “And you said you had a way to destroy the city…”

  “I do. I have in my possession an experimental prototype of an explosive device capable of sinking R’leyh once more. Both sides in the great war are working on much larger models, ones that they think can bring victory to themselves. But the one I hold in my pocket right now is more than enough to splinter this foul city back beneath the waves.”

  “Then… why not set it up and let us flee?”

  Holmes gestured once more for Jimmy to don the mask. “Because we have greater concerns at the present.”

  Jimmy felt the floor shift beneath his feet, and he looked up to see that great Cthulhu was unfolding his massive limbs and opening his eyes.

  CHAPTER XI

  The Final Battle

  The two groups of heroes converged upon the tomb of Cthulhu. When they came together, it was immediately obvious that neither had come to this site easily. All were weary and covered with blood, much of it an inhuman color. Rachel and Nathaniel rushed into each other’s arms while the remaining friends exchanged nods and brief words of greeting.

  The Peregrine felt the ground rumbling first and glanced at Professor Stone. “Seaquake?”

  “No… something more localized, I think.” Stone reached out and pushed the stone door that blocked their path. “I think we just felt the movement of something very large.”

  “We might have some help,” Esper said, moving to join the two men. The others looked at her in surprise, but she kept talking before they could ask her any questions. “Back on Unknown Island, I ran into Professor Moriarty. I felt his mind when I was scanning for any sign of others on the island.” She glanced at Nathaniel and shrugged her shoulders. “What I saw there convinced me to keep his secret. He’s not who he seems to be. He’s really Sherlock Holmes—he felt me touch his mind and asked me to help him. He wanted one of the Demon’s Eggs so they could raise R’lyeh, and then he could destroy it.”

  “You should have told us,” the Peregrine said. “I was wondering how they managed to raise the city without the egg.”

  Revenant spoke up in Rachel’s defense, which surprised almost everyone, since their relationship had always been frosty. “Esper did what she thought was best. We have to trust her. If she says this was the way it had to be, then it was.”

  Vincent, as always, concurred with Sally. “I agree. Let’s just focus on stopping the rest of these monsters from waking up.”

  The Peregrine and Stone were about to lead the way into the tomb when the roof of the building suddenly shattered, sending chunks of rock flying into the air. As the dust settled, the heroes coughed and blinked in hopes of restoring their eyesight. What they saw as they looked upwards froze the blood in their veins: Cthulhu was awake and looking about him. A strange sound came from the Great Old One, and it was answered from a half dozen other places throughout the great city.

  “He’s calling to the others,” Stone murmured. “He’s waking them up.”

  Cthulhu stepped from the tomb, his massive feet passing over the heads of the Claws team. He stood nearby, continuing his bizarre calling noises, which were now being answered by several more entities.

  Catalyst and Esper both lifted off the ground, propelled by magic and telekinesis. Revenant and the Peregrine both moved back a bit, drawing their pistols and opening fire at Cthulhu’s legs and feet. Vincent and Stone both began pummeling the great monster’s ankles, though it was like striking a brick wall.

  Up above, Catalyst was flying directly into the visual path of Cthulhu. More than anyone else, he knew how perilously close humanity stood to the edge of disaster. Cthulhu alone was powerful enough to wipe out entire nations—if his evil brood was reawakened alongside him, civilization could be doomed.

  Despite the fact his powers were somewhat restricted in this chaos-rich environment, Catalyst summoned what power he could and unleashed it in a frontal assault. The magical energy slammed full force into Cthulhu’s face, and the tentacled features recoiled in shock.

  Esper pressed the assault, but was too afraid to use her telepathy on the beast. One brush against Cthulhu’s mind would have driven her far past the edge of sanity. Instead, she used her telekinesis to punch the Great Old One with all the mental force she could muster.

  Cthulhu turned his gaze upon Catalyst and opened his cavernous mouth, which peeked into view behind the tentacles that drooped downwards from his nose and over his chin. A dark green cloud rushed forward from the depths of his gullet and enveloped Nathaniel. Catalyst screamed in agony, and his pain was so great that it surged through the mental link he had with his wife, causing her to lose control of her own body. She flailed in the air before suddenly dropping like a stone.

  It was Vincent who caught sight of her, looking like a gorgeous female shooting star. She was going to be killed by the fall’s impact unless something was done. The monster with the heart of a poet sprinted forward, working his strong legs as hard as he could. He jumped up and grabbed hold of an overhang on a nearby building, scaling the side of the structure with incredible speed. His fingers punched into the stone with each upwards thrust of his hands, literally pulling his bulk towards the rooftop. In all, he scaled thirty feet in the blink of an eye and was now directly underneath the falling Esper. He braced himself and caught her in his arms, cradling her as gently as he could. He gave a quick check to make sure that her neck hadn’t broken from the impact, but she seemed fine, though completely out of it. Her eyes were rolled up into her head, and a thin line of drool ran from the corner of her mouth.

  Meanwhile, Professor Stone had caught sight of Catalyst’s predicament. The mage was still wrapped up in the ebony cloud and his screams continued to echo throughout the city. Cthulhu was beginning to march once more, ignoring the pitiful attempts of the Claws team to stop him.

  “We have to do something or Nathaniel is going to die,” Stone declared.

  The Peregrine looked up and wished that his own powers, lost years before in battle with Doctor Satan, were still available to him. Like Rachel, he’d had a variety of often unreliable mental abilities, but he was a normal man at present and that meant bad things for Catalyst.

  Revenant’s voice brought both men’s attentions to something streaking through the sky. “Look at that! Is that a man?”

  Stone’s keen eyesight did indeed catch the tell-tale signs that it was a human figure, but the entity wore some sort of bizarre mask and outfit, complete with wooden wings that spread out from his mask. The wings were not flapping but they still seemed to somehow propel him through the air. As the heroes watched, the unknown figure flew through the black cloud and emerged on the other side, the limp form of Catalyst in his arms.

  “Who the hell is that?” the Peregrine wondered aloud.

  “That would be Mr. James Imada.”

  The Peregrine turned to see Holmes emerging from the tomb. The famous detective’s manner was so different now that one would have been hard-pressed to still see Moriarty in his visage.

  “Mr. Holmes?”

  Holmes nodded curtly, gesturing towards the winged figure, who was landing nearby. The Peregrine recognized the Mask of Nyarlathotep over Jimmy’s face, but the rest of the garb was unknown to him—he wore dark midnight blue pants and a chest harness with the image of a bird’s claw in the center. The wings on Jimmy’s back were delicately carved and very realistic. “And, as I said, this is your former compatriot, though he is currently calling himself Jackdaw.”

  Jackdaw set Catalyst gently to the ground
and nodded. “It’s me. I put on the mask and it gave me this… outfit.”

  “I believe it took his inner desire for heroism and created a model inspired by your own bird-like incarnation,” Holmes said to Max.

  “This is all fascinating,” Revenant said, interrupting them. “But Cthulhu isn’t alone anymore.”

  Off in the distance, another massive figure was rising from the city’s inner bowels. It was too dim for them to make out many details, but it was nearly equal to Cthulhu in size, if not in power.

  “Jackdaw, if you please,” Holmes said.

  “I’ll be right back,” Jimmy said, taking flight. He flew as quickly as he could towards the yacht, ignoring the frightened stares of the women on board as he landed. Rushing below decks, he found Holmes’s room and quickly knelt to look under the bed. There it was: a five-foot-long cylinder carved of metal. Within it was a bomb of incredible destructive ability, and Jackdaw was extra careful as he lifted the heavy object into his arms.

  Back in the heart of the risen city, the heroes were all together again. Catalyst and Rachel were being carried, by Stone and Vincent, respectively. The group was slowly making their way towards the yacht, even as Jackdaw flew back to them, landing nearby.

  Stone recognized what it was immediately, though it was still in the experimental stage. “We’ll need to get several miles away before that bomb is detonated, and even then I won’t feel comfortable about this.”

  “If Nathaniel were able to cast his spells, it wouldn’t be issue,” Vincent said. He looked over at Catalyst, who was still twitching in pain.

  Revenant touched Holmes on the arm. “Why do you think this bomb will kill them? I find it hard to believe that any manmade weapon can do that.”