by Barry Reese
The vampire jerked out with a hand, ripping a small hunk of flesh off Kaslov’s exposed chest. He then followed with a headbutt that shattered the hero’s nose. Kaslov refused to bow down before the undead creature, however, raising a booted foot and driving it hard into Dracula’s knee. The attack would have shattered the kneecap of a normal man, but Dracula merely staggered back and then resumed his attack.
From off to the side the Knife of Elohim came hurtling towards Dracula, catching him in the shoulder. The mystic weapon hissed and burned as it touched the vampire’s evil skin, and Dracula cried out in shocked pain.
Dracula recovered quickly, pulling hold of Kaslov and bending close enough to take a bite of the man’s neck. Kaslov grunted in shock and began delivering one powerful punch to the vampire’s midsection after another. Dracula continued to draw out the man’s blood and probably would have killed the Russian had not Jenny returned to the fray just then. She had moved close enough to place the barrel of her gun against the side of the vampire’s head. She pulled the trigger, and much of Dracula’s skull was blown away as he toppled away, a gaping hole in the side of his head.
Dracula lay on the ground, still and cold, as the heroes gathered above him.
“Is that it?” Jenny asked.
“The only sure way to kill him is to stake him, cut off his head, and burn the ashes,” the Peregrine said. “But before we do that, we need to get the Spear of Destiny away from him.”
Max knelt at the vampire’s side and reached for the Spear, but Dracula surprised everyone by raising the spear and jabbing it forward. The blade passed through the Peregrine’s stomach and protruded out the other side.
Kaslov roared like a bull elephant and slammed his foot into the vampire’s head. His boot sank into the softened tissue and shattered the remaining bones. Dracula hissed like a cat but grew still once more, his hands losing their grip on the Spear.
The Peregrine staggered back, impaled on the holy lance, and he fell to his knees. He heard the voices of his friends as if from far away, and he knew that they were trying to rouse Catalyst so that he might heal Max’s wounds—but the Peregrine could sense that he was closer to death than ever before. He wondered if he’d jump into the light if he saw it, or if he’d choose to remain in the Void so that he might interact with the living on occasion, as his father had. Would he haunt his own children? No, he quickly decided. I won’t do that.
“You certainly won’t,” a strangely familiar voice said from beside him. Max looked around and realized that he was in the Void, the same misty field of the dead where he usually saw his father.
Only this time it was not his father who was standing there, but rather a black-skinned man wearing a somewhat flamboyant suit. The man held a walking stick in one hand and was regarding Max with an expression of pure hatred.
“Who are you?” Max asked, rising to his feet. He was in his astral body now, which meant that the Spear of Destiny was not protruding through him any longer. This was his idealized self, which meant that his flesh-and-blood form was still dying back in the real world.
“I’m hurt, Mr. Davies, that you don’t remember me.” The man reached up and removed his hat, tossing it into the mists, where it was promptly enveloped. “I’m known by many names: Scratch, Old Hob, Azazel. Take your pick.”
“You’re saying you’re the devil?”
“No, not at all. I’m saying I’m a servant, an aspect, a pale reflection. The devil is far more than the human mind can comprehend—even ones as unique as yours. The devil wears more guises than you could name, and I am but one of them. In another existence, I was known as Nyarlathotep, and in that form you and I had several dealings.” Scratch gestured towards the Peregrine’s right hand, upon which a glowing red signet ring lay, hidden beneath his glove. “That stone you wear—the one you use to brand your symbol into the foreheads of the guilty—it was forged of Nyarlathotep’s heart. My heart.”
The Peregrine looked down and realized that on the astral plane he had no weapons—none save the natural abilities he’d cultivated over the years. He could only hope that they would be enough if Nyarlathotep attacked.
“You’re quite a bit of work, Mr. Davies. You’re near death, only a relatively few moments after destroying your dead father’s spirit, and still you stand ready to fight.” Scratch tossed aside his hat and his cane, clapping his hands together in appreciation. “Bravo.”
The Peregrine chose not to stand back and allow the conversation to go any further. Nothing positive could come out of a conversation with the devil, and he wanted to go down fighting if he was indeed about to die. With thoughts of Evelyn and his children fresh in his mind, he threw himself against Scratch, slamming the demon’s physical avatar with a backhanded punch that sent the man reeling. Max remembered all the training he’d gained over the years, at the hands of the Warlike Manchu and many others, and he used every bit of that now, kicking and punching with all his skill. Scratch tried to fight back but couldn’t, eventually falling to his knees in the mist, his face a bloodied mess.
The Peregrine stood over him, pulling off the glove that covered his signet ring. He held it aloft, reciting the phrase that had become infamous among criminals everywhere: “When the good is swallowed by the dark, there the Peregrine will leave his mark.” He bent low and pressed the signet ring against Scratch’s forehead, the stench of burning flesh filling his nostrils. The ring’s cursed nature meant that it burned when pressed the skin of those whom it considered evil, leaving behind an imprint of a black bird in flight.
The Peregrine stepped back, panting. He was feeling lightheaded now, and he wondered what was happening back in the real world. Was he dying? Were his injuries so severe that Catalyst couldn’t heal him?
Scratch looked up at him, blood dripping from numerous wounds, his forehead scarred and smoking. “We can make a deal,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
“I don’t make deals with the devil.”
Scratch laughed, wincing as the action caused him pain. Since these forms were psychic manifestations, their wounds were reflections of the damage being done to their spirits. It was very possible to be killed in the Void, as both men knew. “If you die here, you won’t ever see your son or daughter grow up. You’ll never hold your wife’s hand in your old age. But take my hand…” Scratch held out a shaking, blood-soaked arm. “And I’ll swear to you that your family will live to ripe old ages, free from any and all harm. You’ll be kept out of all our plans and schemes, and if any of my people dare betray this edict, I will personally rip them apart!”
Max stared at Scratch’s outstretched hand for a long moment before he finally brushed it aside with his own. “Even if I believed you’d keep your word, I wouldn’t take a deal like that. My father died rather than bow down before the criminals who were destroying our town. And I’ve seen good friends who chose to die rather than betray their principals. I’m proud to do the same, if need be.”
Scratch stared at him, a slow smile appearing on his ragged lips. “This whole affair, from the Stickman to Dracula’s alliance with Hitler, has been arranged by me. And you still don’t have a clue as to why, do you?”
The Peregrine shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling a cold chill run down his spine. “No,” he admitted.
“I’ve been keeping you busy. I’ve been keeping you away from home.” Scratch sat back on his heels and pointed at the Peregrine, laughing so hard that his entire body shook. “I made sure that Dracula didn’t just send out the command to raise the dead in Paris, but around your home, as well.”
“You arranged all this… just to strike at my family?”
“You roll the dice, Mr. Davies. If Dracula succeeds, all the chaos and horror it brings is a big win for my side—and if he fails, you’re not at home to stop the murder of your wife and kids. Either way, I win.”
“This isn’t some damned game, you sick son of a bitch!” The Peregrine growled in anger, raising a foot and bringing it c
rashing down into Scratch’s face. He repeated the action three times more and then stopped when he felt his body begin to fall away from the Void. He was coming back to the real world, his soul sinking once more into the warm flesh-and-blood embrace of his body.
Max opened his eyes, staring up into the morning sky. Jenny was at his side, holding his hand and smiling at him with such honest emotion that Max momentarily forgot the danger to his family and grinned in return. Then he sat up with such haste that Jenny pulled her hands back in alarm. He looked around at Catalyst and Kaslov, both of whom were watching him with concern. “Where’s the Spear of Destiny?”
Catalyst raised a hand, a swirl of fire appearing in his palm. Within the flames an image appeared, showing the Spear inside the Aerie, the well-secured headquarters where the Claws of the Peregrine lived. “I figured it was best if we kept permanent tabs on it. Don’t worry, though. Before we sent it back home, we used it to send the dead back to their graves.”
The Peregrine nodded, standing up and brushing himself off. The place where the Spear had pierced his midsection was tender, and there was a tattered hole in his shirt, but otherwise he was as good as new. He flashed a quick glance at Nathaniel, who seemed pale from the exertion of having healed him. “I don’t imagine you can teleport me back home, could you?”
“No—not even at full power could I do that.” Catalyst saw the way his friend’s jaw clenched. “What’s going on?”
“My family… they’re in danger.”
Jenny touched Max’s arm. “If he can’t help, I can. I can get anyplace, anytime, if I try hard enough. Especially if it’s a place I’ve been to before. I just have to picture your wife in my head and we’ll go straight to her. That’s how we got the Spear back to the Aerie. I took it.”
The Peregrine turned towards her gratefully, and he caught sight of a man standing twenty feet away, a camera held in his hand. The man took a quick picture of the famed American vigilante and Jenny standing arm in arm and then bolted off, eager to try and sell his picture to the press.
Max shook his head and focused his attention back on Jenny. “Thank you.”
Jenny grinned. “No problem, Max.” She glanced around at Kaslov and Nathaniel. “I have trouble taking more than one person with me. It gets to be a strain.”
“We need to collect our injured friends,” Kaslov reminded her. “You two go ahead, and we’ll take the Claws plane back to the States.”
The Peregrine was touched by the fact that none of them were questioning how he knew his family was in danger; they simply accepted his words at face value, having long ago learned to trust him.
Jenny’s grip tightened on his arms, and Max felt a momentary sense of nausea wash over him. Then he and his time-displaced companion were no longer in Paris…
* * *
Jenny and Max appeared out of thin air, standing in the middle of the Davies’ living room. Evelyn lay on the floor in a ripped blouse and slacks, her beautiful auburn hair streaked with blood. Max knelt to check on her, noticing that a wicked gash was running along the side of her head. He felt for a pulse and sighed audibly when he found it, beating strong.
“She’s going to be okay. Can you check on the children, please? Upstairs.”
Jenny nodded and bolted for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Max watched her go and then gently placed his wife’s head on the floor. He rose slowly, drawing one of his pistols and checking to make he was fully loaded. “You can come out of the shadows,” he murmured.
The Stickman moved into view, his bark-covered face parted in a grin. “Welcome home,” the inhuman monster said.
“I thought you were dead.”
“Oh, yes, you left me in quite the predicament. I thought I’d won. I’d gotten my heart’s dream… and then I crumbled to a pile of sticks and splinters.” Stickman waved a bone-thin arm through the air. “But I’m hard to kill.”
“Did Dracula revive you with the Spear?”
“Oh no! He revived her.”
The Peregrine followed Klee’s gaze and saw Nettie, still wearing her funeral dress, lying facedown behind the couch. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. He couldn’t fathom why his existence was this tortured—even in death, his friends were tormented because of their association with him.
Stickman took a step closer, his voice dripping with amusement. “She burst into the house and put quite the fright into the household. Nearly killed your wife and sent the kids screaming to the closet upstairs. Your pet Negro Josh went with them. I have to admit, he was a very brave man. Can’t be easy seeing the woman who raised you come back from the grave, wanting to snack on your brains.” Stickman shrugged his shoulders. “I only wish Belladonna and her brother had been here. They left about twenty minutes before all the fun began. They went away with your friend—what did they call him? Mr. Benson? Said he had a place for them in the Shadow Sanction, whatever that is. I’ve been watching this house all day, Max. Your wife is so lovely. I couldn’t help but tear open that blouse and take a little peek…”
The Peregrine raised his gun and pointed it at Stickman’s face. “Just because you came back from the dead once doesn’t mean you’ll do it every time. I’m a clever man. I can find ways to put you down for good.”
“Possibly… but it wouldn’t really matter. I’ve already succeeded in what I came here to do.”
Max narrowed his eyes. “And what was that?”
“I killed your children.”
The Peregrine was only dimly aware of Jenny screaming upstairs, and of Stickman laughing at the sound. He pulled the trigger of his gun, blowing apart Klee’s head. The shards of wood flew backwards, and the villain’s body toppled over. In that moment, the psychic powers that the Peregrine had once possessed came back to the fore, overwhelming the spell that had been placed over them. They exploded outwards in a burst of such overwhelming mental force that the Stickman was obliterated, his entire body disintegrating.
With the blood pounding in his ears, the Peregrine turned to see Jenny coming back down the stairs, looking stunned. There was blood on her hands, falling in crimson droplets to the carpet.
Max saw little William and baby Emma in his mind’s eye, their happy smiles now wiped clean forever. There had been a time in his life when he hadn’t been sure of what kind of father he could be. He’d always felt awkward around children… but when he’d first held William, he’d felt a sense of connection that was almost overwhelming. That baby had needed him so badly, and he’d relished the role of protector and teacher that had ensued.
And now they had been ripped from him.
Jenny looked up at him, her chest rising and falling. The Peregrine knew she was saying something, but he couldn’t focus on it. He was wracked with guilt, knowing that it was his actions that had brought this upon his family. Nyarlathotep had warned him years ago that he’d outlive everyone he loved, but he hadn’t expected to lose his children so soon…
Max was so distraught that he didn’t even notice when Jenny vanished, nor when she reappeared, holding the Spear of Destiny in her hands. It was only when she had stepped in front of him, offering him the holy lance, that he could focus on his surroundings.
“Max, take it.”
“They’re dead?”
Jenny avoided looking at him, but she did nod. “Yes… and your friend, too. But they don’t have to stay that way.”
Max looked down at the Spear and realized what she was implying. The Spear could revive the dead, and though it could be used as Dracula had done, to bind the will of the revived to someone in life, it could also be used simply to resurrect with no strings attached. The resurrected could be a ravenous beast or a whole person given a near lease on life—such was the power and majesty of the Spear.
The Peregrine took it from her and marveled at how light the weapon felt in his hand. It was so perfectly forged that Max found himself staring at its smooth lines and delicate design. But even more impressive than the craftsmanship was the sense of p
ower that came from the lance; an almost palpable sense of invulnerability took hold of Max, and he could easily see how someone who held it could accomplish great things without even tapping into its power. It made you feel like you were God’s right hand on Earth.
Max caught sight of Evelyn beginning to stir, and he knew he had to act quickly. With the Spear in hand, his mental powers were so much more precise: he could see what had happened here, he could hear the screams and feel the terror. Nettie had knocked out Evelyn, before the kids had been attacked. She didn’t know what happened to them—and if Max had his way, she never would.
The Peregrine visualized his children and called upon the power of the Spear. He felt an immediate connection to something far greater and more powerful than anything he’d ever felt before. This was Creation itself, and it was a neutral force, but some people could tap into it, either on their own or with the aid of things like the Spear. Good or evil was literally in the eyes of the beholder.
Upstairs, the prone forms of Emma and William began to stir. He wiped their minds clean of the events surrounding their deaths and helped them taste new life. Their eyes fluttered open, and the first thing they saw was the unconscious form of Josh, lying nearby.
Max realized that there was no reason to stop here—he could accomplish so much with the Spear at his side. Nettie could be reborn, Vincent could be revived, his father and mother could return to life… He could resurrect good men and women who had perished along the way… he could reach out and return to life the mad geniuses who could have helped the world in so many ways, had their hearts not been so full of corruption.
The Peregrine could save the world from itself… and all it would need was a firm guiding hand.
His hand.
Max shook his head, trying to ignore the sounds of angels singing in his ears. The temptation was so strong, to become the judge and jury for the world. With the Spear, he could protect his family from all harm and bring about a utopia. He could feel that the Spear wanted him, desired him to use it. It trusted him to do the right things.
