by Barry Reese
Bella took one step closer and the creature whipped its head around, examining her. “Welcome to Earth,” she said, feeling amazingly stupid as she said it. “My name’s Bella. The walking bonsai over there is called Stickman.”
The alien said nothing for a moment and then began speaking. The words sounded odd coming from it, as if it were testing them out. “You are speaking… English. We have mastered this tongue. I am Osh, servant of the Seez.”
“Why were you kept in that canister?” Stickman asked. He was still keeping his distance from the alien. “Were you a prisoner? Or were you considered too dangerous to be allowed freedom to move?”
Osh lowered his head and his body seemed to shimmer. When he glanced back up, he was no longer composed of wisps of smoke—he had become fully corporeal. “My people are slaves to the Seez. I was trained from birth to be one of their drop soldiers. My people exist in two states of being, one of which is the gaseous form that is housed in the canister. When the Seez seek to invade a world, they sometimes seed it with canisters containing our people. When they transmit a signal to activate us, we are freed and then go on our killing sprees. Enemies of the Seez shot down the vessel I was being carried on. I alone survived the trip through your atmosphere.”
Bella crossed her arms over her chest and looked thoughtful. “And… so now you’re supposed to go on a killing spree?”
“That is what I am trained to do, yes.”
“And do you hate these aliens who imprisoned you?”
“Oh yes.”
“Enough to go off and do your own thing, maybe taking orders from Stickman instead of the Seez?”
Osh made a rasping sound that Bella took to be laughter. “If Osh betrayed the Seez, they would kill Osh’s entire clutch clan. No. Osh must do what Osh was trained to do. Osh must kill all non-Seez in the area.”
Bella sighed. “Too bad for you.” The petite girl suddenly lunged forward, punching out with her right hand. She moved too quickly for Osh to revert to his gaseous form, and her fingertips slammed hard into his chest. Almost immediately, the alien began to emit loud squeals of pain, and as Stickman moved forward, he saw tiny bits of frost began to appear on Osh’s body. Within seconds, he was a gigantic block of ice, frozen from the inside out.
“Why did you do that?” Stickman demanded.
“Because the last thing we need is some stupid alien blasting up your quiet little neighborhood and attracting the wrong kind of attention.” Belladonna wiped off her fingertips on her skirt, leaving behind a thin trail of melting ice.
“We might could have converted him to our cause.”
“No. We couldn’t have. Weren’t you listening?” Bella took a few steps back and then sprinted towards Osh, kicking him with all her might. The impact caused his body to shatter into hundred pieces. “You’d better get a bucket or something. When he starts to melt… this isn’t going to be pretty.”
Stickman whirled away, muttering under his breath. The bitch was too confident, but he knew that her ability to freeze the blood in one’s veins was very dangerous, even to an entity like him. Bullets and knives were things he could recover from, but fire and frost were deadly to trees, even living ones.
Bella watched as the tree man returned to the room a few minutes later with a mop and pail. She took the mop from him and tossed it aside—leave it to a man to bring a mop to a carpeted floor. Instead, she started picking up chunks of Osh and tossing them into the pail, where they shattered further.
“You should have called yourself Killer Frost or something,” Stickman said.
“I like Belladonna. Sounds more dangerous—and I don’t want to tip everyone off to what I can do. Call yourself Killer Frost and people might pick up on the fact I can freeze things.”
“And where did you get that ability?” Stickman wondered aloud.
Bella stopped what she was doing and looked up at Stickman. “You’re a business associate, not a friend. So leave me and my past alone.”
Stickman nodded, though he felt oddly pleased to have seen Bella so disturbed by something. Normally the girl’s glacial cool was matched only by her frigid touch. There was obviously a sore spot there—perhaps a painful past? You never knew when such information might come in handy…
* * *
Harriet could still remember the way the leather straps had bitten into her flesh. She had been a little girl when the fiend had captured her, stolen her right off the streets. She’d been drugged, awakening to find herself in a cell with nearly a half-dozen other young boys and girls. The man who’d held them was a German, with a thick accent and horn-rimmed glasses. He had never given his name, preferring instead to have everyone simply call him “Doctor.”
The doctor had performed awful experiments on them, injecting some of the children with strange chemicals that stopped their hearts. A set of twins were given painful treatments to see if the other would feel their sibling’s pain, and Harriet was given some awful fluid that ran through her veins and made her feel like she were turning into a human popsicle. In the end, after all the screaming and all the pain, she had survived—survived enough to withstand temperatures well below freezing without any damage to her skin. She was also able to freeze the blood of others, a feat she learned when she finally got the opportunity to strike out at her captor.
She’d fled into the night, leaving behind all the others. It wasn’t that she wanted them to starve—it was that she was so afraid and so desperate for escape that she couldn’t stop long enough to think about them. And later on, she was unable to find the house of horrors again.
She’d only been missing for two weeks, but her entire outlook on life had been changed. Harriet was dead and gone, frozen beneath a snowy blanket of pain.
Only Belladonna remained.
The girl who’d been birthed in that awful house was one who craved danger and excitement, for in those moments of near terror, she felt alive. The rest of her days, she was numb. It was only when the adrenaline rushed through her body that she was reminded that she was still alive.
* * *
Stickman was gazing at his collection, his mind wandering over the items contained there. The Onyx Goddess was a potent device, but it wasn’t enough… it was never enough. Stickman was cursed with a terrible hunger of the spirit. No matter what he had, it was never satisfying for him. Even before his transformation and his descent into the occult, it had been this way. When he’d date a pretty girl, he wanted someone more beautiful. When he’d achieve a success, he wanted something bigger and more impressive. And now that he traded in human lives, he still craved more power over the world around him.
He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice the arrival of Belladonna at his side. He caught a whiff of her perfume and glanced over at her, not hiding the fact that he was still angered by her actions with Osh.
“I’m surprised you’re still here,” he said. “You’ve gotten your money.”
Bella smiled softly, adopting a girl-next-door air that was at odds with everything Stickman knew about her. “I like to leave my customers happy. That way, they hire me again the next time they need someone like me. Since I destroyed your alien weapon, how about I help you get a new prize? Free of charge, of course.”
Stickman regarded her and tried to avoid looking pleased. “Tell me more.”
“Are you familiar with rongorongo?”
“Yes. They’re a system of glyphs found on objects on Easter Island. No one’s been able to translate them. But I don’t see their importance to my collection.”
Bella began pacing a bit, moving her hands as she talked. “Exactly. All the writing is in the form of carvings on wooden objects. It’s one of the three or four independent inventions of writing in human history. Two dozen wooden objects bearing rongorongo inscriptions, some heavily weathered, burned, or otherwise damaged, were collected in the late nineteenth century and are now scattered in museums and private collections. None remain on Easter Island. The obj
ects are mostly tablets shaped from irregular pieces of wood, sometimes driftwood, but include a chieftain’s staff, a bird-man statuette, and two reimiro - a decorative crescent-shaped pectoral ornament once worn by the women of Easter Island. There are also a few petroglyphs which may include short rongorongo inscriptions. Oral history suggests that only a few elite were ever literate, and that the tablets were sacred. Authentic rongorongo texts are written in alternating directions, a system called reverse boustrophedon.”
Stickman sighed loudly. “Is there a point to this lecture?”
“I know where the rongorongo Rosetta stone can be found. And I know the basics of what’s contained on those samples. It’s not just a calendar—it’s not a list of kings and rulers… it’s the key to Heaven itself.”
CHAPTER IV
Friends and Enemies
“Do you ever miss it?” Evelyn stood in Kirsten McKenzie’s study, looking at a set of armor that hung in a glass display case. The suit had been designed by Hitler’s Occult Forces Project, which had focused on harnessing the power of various mystic artifacts and using them to empower enhanced soldiers of the Reich. Kirsten had been dubbed the Iron Maiden and had served loyally until her exploits caused her to cross the paths of Will McKenzie and the Peregrine. Along the way, she’d fallen in love with Will and turned her back on the Aryan supremacy beliefs that she’d grown up with.
Kirsten sat nearby, holding Emma on her lap. The little girl was playing with a doll, carefully brushing the toy’s golden hair. Kirsten looked like a living representation of the doll herself, with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and a svelte figure. She and Will had been trying for a child of their own, though without success so far. “Not really. I’ve had a few opportunities to help Max, so it’s not like I haven’t put it on since I left Germany.”
“Yes, but it’s hardly the same, is it? You’ve gone from being a commander of men to someone who, at best, is treated like a sidekick.”
Kirsten looked up Evelyn and smiled knowingly. “It’s kind of like going from being a star actress to being a sideline player.”
Evleyn flushed and looked away from the armor. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“Nor did I.”
Evelyn stepped over and sat down near her daughter and friend. “I just feel like I’m getting old.”
“Having someone close to you die always makes you think about your own mortality.” Kirsten shook her head and ran a hand over Emma’s back. “But I know what you mean. A few years ago, I felt like I could have conquered the world. But it seems like so much has changed… the war is over, I have a family, there are parts of me that ache after a long day that I didn’t know I had a few years ago.”
Evelyn laughed. “You’re right. I’m just feeling out of sorts because of poor Nettie. But there is something else… have you noticed that Max doesn’t seem to have aged a day since you’ve known him? I’ve been with him for over ten years now, and he might look like he’s a year older than when I first met him.”
“He’s been exposed to a lot of magic,” Kirsten said, knowing where this was going.
“Yes… but I’ve certainly aged. What if that continues? What if twenty years from now, I’m an old hag, and he’s still looking fit and trim?”
“Max loves you,” Kirsten said sharply. “And if you’re worried about losing your husband, nothing will drive him away faster than you whining about getting old.”
Evelyn frowned, and for a moment she was prepared to respond in a tart manner. But then she remembered who it was she was talking to. Kirsten was not known for her warm and embracing manner. She was a tough woman, forged into tempered steel by a hostile childhood environment. When in doubt, Kirsten would use tough love rather than sympathetic words.
Besides, she mused, Kirsten was one hundred percent correct.
“Point taken,” Evelyn said. “I’ll try to just enjoy having such a handsome and youthful-looking husband.”
* * *
Will McKenzie took a long sip from his bottle of beer, leaning over the front porch rail as he did so. Max was at his side, while little William played noisily with a toy fire truck behind them.
“You gonna ask the Claws team to help you with this Stickman?” Will asked, referring to the “strike force” that Max had put together in the waning days of 1944. The group was known as the Claws of the Peregrine and was led by a particularly deadly woman, codenamed Revenant.
“They’re out of the country—and this is my case, anyway. For whatever reason, Benson thought I could handle it, so I will. Besides, I need something to take my mind off poor Nettie.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Not really. There’s one address that was in that book that’s actually here in Atlanta. I’ll check that one first and then start moving on from there. Evelyn’s planning to help me with the legwork on this one.”
Will nodded and took another drink. “Sure I can’t get you one of these?”
“I appreciate it, but no. I…” Max’s words trailed off, and he suddenly leaned forward, gripping the railing so hard that his knuckles turned white.
“Jesus,” Will whispered, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t startle William. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”
Max nodded, his eyes tightly closed. When they’d first met, Max had been a haunted man—literally. His father had died with the spirit of vengeance raging within him, and it had somehow allowed him to send painful visions of future crimes into his son’s head. Max would be tormented by these nightmarish visions, and they had been one of the primary reasons he’d become the Peregrine. Max had never quite forgiven his father for turning him into his personal instrument of justice, but Max had finally been freed from his torment, ironically through the actions of one of his worst enemies, the infamous Doctor Satan. Satan had magically blocked Max’s mental abilities, preventing him from using his ghostly precognition. Satan had thought this would impair Max’s ability to pursue him, but in fact it had liberated Max and allowed him to operate as the Peregrine with free will for the first time.
Unfortunately, Max had begun to suffer visions once more—four within the last three months. He hadn’t told Evelyn or anyone besides Will. The fact they were returning frightened him, and he’d been seeking ways to deal with them. The Onyx Goddess had been one such possibility…
A deep drumming sound filled his ears, and Max felt the real world beginning to fall away from him. He was lost in a world of future danger, and the images began to assault him with the full force of a runaway train.
The Stickman was wandering through a number of statues, each of them depicting an oversized human head. Max recognized them as the ones found on Easter Island, and he noted that the villain was not alone: with him was an attractive young woman wearing a dark blouse and skirt. In the woman’s hands was held what appeared to be a piece of driftwood, though every inch was covered by strange pictograms. Max saw Stickman stop before one of the statues and begin to read from the driftwood, somehow translating the pictures into a language that Max had never heard before.
From the statues came a high-pitched sound that made the girl and Stickman draw back. But the villain continued reading and the sound continued to grow louder.
And then the images shifted, showing Stickman sitting upon a throne composed of human thrones. At his feet knelt the girl that had accompanied Stickman to Easter Island, but she was now nude, a collar fastened around her neck. A leash dangled from the collar, with the other end of it resting in Stickman’s hand. The scene seemed to pull back from its tight focus on those two, showing that Stickman’s throne was located on the front lawn of the White House and that all around them lay the dead and dying of the city.
A roar seemed to fill Max’s ears, like the growling of a jungle cat, and the Peregrine suddenly swayed on his feet, his mind returning to the real world. He felt Will’s hands on his shoulders, keeping him upright.
“You okay, buddy?” Will asked, his voice laced with concern.<
br />
Max swallowed hard and regained his composure. “I need to go round up Evelyn. I have to get started on finding Stickman.”
“What did you see?”
“A whole lot of death.”
* * *
Hayward Haley sat down at the bar, a weary expression on his face. He was in the Palomino, a Negro bar in downtown Atlanta. Once upon a time, he’d frequented the nightspot with regularity, but no one seemed to recognize him now. Maybe it was like Josh had said: something had changed about him, making him almost a different person. It was true enough that Hayward would never feel the same—no man could experience the things he had and come out unaltered.
He ordered a whiskey and glanced around furtively, always afraid that the devil’s foot soldiers would be lurking in the shadows. He had no idea how he was going to live out the rest of his life with this kind of fear in his heart, but he was going to try. If he kept on the move, he felt certain that he could remain free—maybe he’d even find a church that would take him in. If he embraced Jesus, maybe the devil wouldn’t be able to touch him.
“Hello, Hayward.”
Hayward froze in place, his fingers lightly touching the shot of whiskey that was set out in front of him. The voice wasn’t familiar to him, but the tone it had taken was unmistakable. This was a denizen of hell. He slowly glanced over his shoulder to see that someone had taken a seat on the stool next to his, a bearded black man who was so thin that he looked malnourished. He wore a striped suit that was a deep purple in color, and atop his head sat a small hat that matched the suit. He had a gold ring he wore on his right hand, sculpted to look like a lion’s head.
“Do I know you?” Hayward asked, playing out the game despite his certainty that this man was no friend.
“We have some of the same friends,” the man said with a laugh. He waved away the bartender, having not ordered a thing, and instead fixed Hayward with an appraising stare. “I’m very impressed. Not many people have the balls to try and escape hell. But you pulled it off.”
