The Peregrine Omnibus, Volume Two (15 page)

As he stood in Catalyst’s warehouse home, surrounded by dust, debris, and the occasional tiny Fairy, flitting about on gossamer wings, Ian couldn’t help but think about Fiona. She’d wanted to be with him for this, but he’d convinced her to stay with her family. She’d be a distraction for him at this moment and he couldn’t risk that. Not if he wanted to live to see tomorrow.

The Peregrine stood before a large pentagram that Catalyst had drawn on the floor, the white chalk standing out starkly against the concrete. In Ian’s hands was the Mayan tablet, a product of both the future and the past, through some bizarre time paradox.

“Are you ready?” Catalyst asked, his long hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“For the death and rebirth of the world?” Ian asked. “No, not really.”

“Good. I’d be worried about you if you said you were.” Catalyst gestured for Ian to step into the center of the pentagram. “The stars will be properly aligned in just a couple of minutes. When you see me begin the spell, the tablet you’re holding will begin to glow. That’s when you need to focus your willpower—try to shape the world around you when it becomes malleable. Don’t go overboard with changes. Every slight detail you alter makes the entire affair more difficult.”

Ian nodded, understanding all of this perfectly. They’d spent months working on it. “All I’m going to focus on is ensuring the world survives and continues… past this point.”

Catalyst clasped Ian by the shoulders, giving him a brotherly pat. “I believe in you, Ian. The Peregrine can do this.”

Ian didn’t answer immediately. He kept his attention centered on what he had to do and how he was going to do it. When Catalyst stepped away, Ian was lost in his thoughts for several moments… until something electric seemed to happen to the air. Ian could feel the hairs on his arms rising up and he thought for a moment that he caught sight of sparks all around him, like a billion fireflies had suddenly appeared in the room. And then the tablet began to glow, an orange-red hue that was blinding in its intensity.

Catalyst’s chanting voice faded into the background as the blood rushed in Ian’s ears,
whoosh-whoosh
ing steadily. Ian focused on the tablet, reciting the ancient Mayan words that had been carved on its surface. He visualized the world in all its glory and its darkness, every detail that he could remember… and he saw Fiona’s face, lovely and smiling, through the haze.

And then came a burning pain in his soul, a jab like hot needles sinking straight to his core. He felt his thoughts begin to scatter as his body began to separate into small bursts of energy—he was literally being reduced to the fundamental chemicals that gave him life.

Focus,
he told himself. A soundless scream came from him, and even as he called upon every ounce of training Catalyst had given him, he knew that he was going to fail. He couldn’t do this alone. He was only one man, heir to a legacy of tremendous heroism… he wasn’t a superman. He wasn’t capable of saving the world through sheer willpower…

“You don’t have to do it alone,” a familiar voice said from his left.

Through the haze that had begun to surround him, he saw Max Davies step forth. The original Peregrine looked like he was in his thirties, and wore the famous mask, suit, and coat that had struck fear into criminals for over fifty years.

“You’re dead,” Ian managed to say, though his words were simultaneously shrieking and whispered. All of time was being distorted now and reality itself was about to fold in on itself, the loop about to re-connected. In nanoseconds, all would be reborn…

“You’ve crossed over,” Max answered. “You’re in the void between the living world and the dead. This is where my father used to stay, when he’d appear to me with warnings of future events.”

Ian remembered those stories, of how Warren Davies had haunted his son in the early years of the Peregrine’s legacy. “I’m sorry, Max. I failed. Again.”

“No, you haven’t,” Max said forcefully. “You’ve done us proud. All of us. But every time we reach this point, you begin to doubt yourself. You begin to doubt in us. Believe in who and what you are, Ian.”

Ian stared at the man before him, wondering at his words. “I don’t understand…”

Two more figures emerged, to stand at Max’s side. It was William and Emma, each wearing their Peregrine garb. William flashed Ian a peace sign while Emma merely smiled, her eyes twinkling from behind her mask.

“It’s not your fault, Ian. It’s your guilt that keeps you holding back.”

William nodded in agreement. “You found the spell, designed by a Mayan sorcerer long ago—a spell that would allow you remake the word, with tiny corrections. Fiona had died. You were sick with grief and gave in to despair. You tried to bring her back but lost control of it. The world was remade, but a loop had begun. You were a prisoner of it, Ian… you didn’t even realize the truth at first. But after a few times around, the Looking Glass in your helmet began to give you visions of what was to come—of what happened before. So you ended working with Catalyst, again and again, but you always reach this point and give in to your doubts. But this time… this time you’re going to work with
us
.”

Ian suddenly saw it all in his mind’s eye: the death of Fiona, his mad rush to undo it—and his success, though at what a cost? She lived again, but the entire world was trapped, unknowingly repeating actions again and again. William was right: the guilt he felt was immense, and for a moment it threatened to overwhelm him.

Emma gripped his hand, holding it firmly. “We’re Peregrines. Every one of us. We weren’t perfect, Ian. That’s what Nathaniel wanted you to see. All of us made mistakes, but we kept fighting, we kept trying.”

Max and William touched Ian’s shoulders, combining their own spiritual energy with his own. Their willpower seized hold of the raging turmoil around them and began to shape it, like a potter handling clay. The whole of human history was slowly restored as it was, all the way up through the end of the twentieth century. Images floated past them, of life rising from the primordial ooze, of the discovery and mastery of fire, the rise and fall of empires, on through more familiar sights: the various World Wars and the rise of an interconnected technological world.

In the midst of this, Ian felt his body begin to dissipate, having expended too much of his energy before the arrival of the Peregrines.

“We have time for one last change, Ian. Tell us what you want to do.” Max held Ian’s gaze for a moment and he received the information in one brief glimpse. “It’s done,” Max said, with a smile. “You did a great job, Ian. You were one of the best Peregrines.”

“Certainly not the worst,” William said with a laugh.

And then the power of creation washed over all of them… and the world surged forward into December 22, 2012.

* * *

Six Months Later

Fiona Grace stood at Ian’s gravesite, Nathaniel at her side. The wind was blowing hard on an overcast London afternoon, making her jacket whip about her. Her left hand was placed atop her swollen belly. Beneath her touch, Ian’s unborn child kicked strongly. “I miss you, Ian,” she said. “I wish you could be here to see what you’ve done. The skies have cleared up… the monsters and the magic are gone. You cleansed the world. You did it.”

Catalyst stood silently behind her, hands clasped behind his back. When the dust had finally settled and he’d realized that Ian had successfully saved the world, Nathaniel had sensed something was different, something was fundamentally different. Ian had changed something… but what, he had wondered? When Fiona’s pregnancy was revealed, Nathaniel had assumed that perhaps that was it—that in that last moment, Ian had wished for a part of him to live on in his lover.

But it turned out that Ian had made a very different sort of wish, one that had surprised Nathaniel, even though he had known that Ian’s life had been dedicated to the preservation of knowledge about various pulp-era heroes. When the time had come for him to actually meet one of them, he’d jumped at the chance to become a hero himself.

A man moved up beside Catalyst, standing straight and tall. He had an olive complexion and dark wavy hair, evidence of a Mediterranean heritage. He wore a well-tailored suit and appeared to be in his late twenties. “I’m not quite sure what to do with myself,” Max Davies admitted.

“Enjoy the new life he gave you,” Catalyst responded. “But don’t forget why he brought you back… he wants the Peregrine to live on. The
real
one.”

The Peregrine smiled, looking up into the setting sun. He’d lived a long and wonderful life… and now he’d been given a second chance at it. “He was a great Peregrine,” he said under his breath, and Nathaniel could only nod.

The Peregrine was dead. Long live the Peregrine.

THE END

SPOOK

An Adventure Starring the Peregrine

Written by Barry Reese

CHAPTER I

Warnings From Beyond the Grave

October 1943—Atlanta, Georgia

Once upon a time, Max had been a young boy who had worshipped his father, a crusading philanthropist named Warren Davies. When the elder Davies had made enemies of the wrong people, he was gunned down, right in front of his young son. Max had been severely traumatized by the incident, but it had fostered something within him: An unerring belief that no matter how difficult it might be, one always fought for what was right. This belief was solidified by a series of painful visions of the future that began to assault him several years after his father’s murder. These psychic projections warned him of crimes about to be committed and drove him to become an avenger of the night, a man who could right the wrongs of the world. He’d traveled the globe, mastering every known fighting art known to man, and in the end, he’d become more than human. He’d become the Peregrine, a man driven to protect the innocent by his father, who was eventually revealed as the source of his visions.

Aided by prophecy and several unreliable mental powers—telepathy and telekinesis amongst them—the Peregrine became a scourge against evil. But always he dreaded the visions, which were painful and frightening. When a madman named Doctor Satan had stolen those powers from him, Max had found himself free for the first time in his adult life. He continued to fight crime, finding it somewhat more difficult as a normal man, but he also knew he was doing it now because he chose to, not because his father compelled him to do so.

Sleep, which had once been a time haunted by dreams of terror yet to come, was now a welcoming place for Max. But on this night, when the chillness of winter was knocking on the door of Atlanta, and All Hallow’s Eve lurked just around the corner, the Peregrine found himself in a position that he’d hoped to never be in again.

For tonight, the Peregrine dreamed anew.

* * *

As always, the realm of the dead was a desolate place, where a thick fog obscured visibility in all directions. The sounds of sorrowful moaning rose and fell in volume, sometimes coming so loud that Max felt like clutching his hands to his ears, and other times being so faint that he could almost pretend they weren’t there at all.

At forty-three years of age, Max was a remarkably fit man, one who could easily pass for someone almost a decade younger. His piercing green eyes meshed well with his dark wavy hair and olive complexion, all of which gave an indication of Mediterranean heritage.

He now stood in this fog-enshrouded realm in his classic Peregrine gear: a long coat over a well-tailored suit; a domino-style mask with a small bird-like beak that rested over the bridge of his nose; and two specially-modified guns holstered under his coat. A golden dagger, the Knife of Elohim, was strapped to his left leg, completing his arsenal.

“Max. I’m glad I was able to reach you.”

The Peregrine turned slowly, recognizing the voice immediately. It was his father, standing before him in the same clothes he’d worn on the day he’d died. Max always felt conflicting emotions when he saw his father this way: intense love warred equally with a dull anger at the way his father had manipulated him from beyond the grave. “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” Max said, trying to keep his voice as monotone as possible. “After Satan took my powers, I assumed you’d stay quiet.”

“I’ve appeared to you since then,” Warren pointed out. “You’ve just tried to forget about any time I help you.”

“Don’t start,” Max said, waving a hand dismissively at his father. His attempt at remaining calm was failing, as it always did where his dad was concerned. “I suppose you’re going to throw some images into my head now?”

Warren Davies let out a long sigh and looked pained. “Max, I love you. I hope you know that. I only pushed you to become the Peregrine because the world needs men like you. There are horrible things out there, lurking just outside the view of most of humanity, and it takes a special kind of man—someone like you—to defend the world from those threats.”

Max softened somewhat. He was a father of two now, and he understood the tough choices that a parent had to make. He didn’t agree with his father’s methods but there was no point in arguing over the past. “Show me why you brought me here, Father.”

Warren nodded, his eyes glowing with a blinding emerald light. The rays of light shot forth, enveloping Max and causing him to scream in pain. His brain throbbed with the sudden influx of information, words and images coming together to paint a picture of things to come:

The Peregrine saw a strange figure, one who wore an all-black bodysuit and a long ebony cloak. The man’s face was covered by a cloth mask which bore white paint in the image of a human skull. It resembled something from Mexico’s Day of the Dead. This masked man was called the Spook, though Max did not know if this was a name he had given himself or if the appellation had been applied by others.

The Spook was wandering through the remains of a great fortress, located on a ridge overlooking the Utcubama Valley in Peru. Max heard his father’s voice in his head, filling in these and other details: This is the fortress of Kuelap, associated with the Chachapoyas culture. These people were called the Warriors of the Clouds, and they were an Andean people living in the cloud forests of the Amazonas region of Peru. They were conquered by the Incas shortly before the coming of the Spanish. Pedro Cieza de Leon described the Chachapoyas as “…the whitest and most handsome of all the people that I have seen in Indes, and their wives were so beautiful that because of their gentleness, many of them deserved to be the Incas’ wives and to also be taken to the Sun Temple… The women and their husbands always dressed in woolen clothes and in their heads they wear their llautos, which are a sign they wear to be known everywhere.”