The Peregrine Omnibus, Volume Two (63 page)

“You make it sound like you’re doing a wonderful thing. You hurt me when you do this.”

“I know. And I’m sorry, but it’s not easy to speak you from beyond the grave. There have been times when the veil is easier to pierce and times when I couldn’t reach you even if I wanted to. But there’s a terrible evil looming, son, and you have to be warned. It’s coming from Reed Barrows’s home… I can’t quite see it, but it’s old and it’s powerful. And it won’t stop until it’s gotten what it wants.”

“Barrows is dead.”

“Yes, but the evil he was harboring isn’t.”

“I’m a little busy with Stickman to go back and check through Reed’s house.”

Warren nodded sympathetically. “If you manage to stop Stickman, just keep your eyes and ears open. I’ll try to help when I can. You know how hard it is to send you specific images. I can only manage to give you vague warnings of what’s to come.”

“So you’re back to being painful and not useful? Wonderful.” The Peregrine pointed a finger accusingly at his father. “Every time I think I should forgive you, you come back and act like a bastard. You made me into what I am… now leave me alone.”

Warren looked away, his form growing more indistinct. “Just be careful, son. I’ll try to help out however I can, whether you recognize that or not.”

Max felt himself being pulled back to reality and he felt an immediate surge of guilt. It was always the same: seeing his father brought on a fury that was impossible to contain. And then in the aftermath, Max wished he had reached out to the man he’d lost far too early.

Max suddenly came to and realized that Zadak was on his feet, leaning over Max’s body and straining to try and right the falling plane.

“Back off!” Max yelled, and Zadak did so with eagerness. The Peregrine managed to pull the ship’s nose back into an upward direction, but the entire plane rattled at the abrupt change. Max could see that they were dangerously close to the water, and as the plane finally broke free of gravity and began to ascend once more, the tail of the plane briefly connected with the top of the ocean.

“What happened?” Zadak demanded, taking his seat again. “Were you having a seizure?”

“My dead father wanted to have a conversation with me.”

Zadak stared at him for a moment before finally shrugging and turning away. “Fine,” he muttered under his breath. “If you don’t want to talk about it, just say so.”

Despite the tension, the Peregrine couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

CHAPTER VIII

The Scholomance

In the mountains of Romania, south of the city known as Hermannstadt and oft-times Sibiu, lay a legendary school of black magic. The men and women who taught at this school answered to only one begin: the devil himself. From far and wide came the bold and foolhardy few who were willing to trade their souls for a taste of power. Only ten scholars were admitted at a time, and when the course of learning had come to an end, nine of them would be released to return to their homes, where most would utilize their newfound powers for the debasement of others. But the tenth scholar was refused his or her release—they were detained by the devil as payment for services rendered.

Mounted on an Ismeju, or dragon, this tenth mage would become the devil’s aide-de-camp, assisting him in brewing up storms both literal and figurative. Beneath the waters of a nearby lake, the dragon would slumber until his dark masters called for him.

The long and lean figure who stood outside the stone gates of the Scholomance had been a pupil here, in the days of his youth, before he had warred against the Turks. He regarded this school with something akin to fondness, though he had suffered much at the hands of his professors. They had sought to break his spirit and his mind, but he has been too strong for them. He had triumphed and, in the end, emerged as a master of alchemy and black magic.

He wore a dark suit and a long opera-style cape that flapped in the breeze. His features were aquiline, with a high bridge to his thin nose and arched nostrils. His hair had grown into a widow’s peak and was a startling black, though tinged here and there with patches of cotton white. He bore a cruel mouth that was barely visible beneath a thick moustache, and when he parted his lips, his sharp white teeth seemed to gleam in the moonlight. He had pointed ears, a broad chin, and a pale, milky-white complexion.

The gates slowly opened, lowered by invisible hands, and a man emerged from within the school. It was Scratch, and his black features were fixed in a knowing smile. “Welcome back, Count. I hope that your return means that you are at long last ready to grasp hold of your destiny.”

The dark clad man said nothing for a moment. Count Dracula was not afraid of anyone or anything, not even an entity like Scratch, who had the ear of the devil himself. When he finally did speak, his words reflected his aristocratic breeding. “My human servant has died, all because one of your toys doesn’t know his place.”

Scratch shrugged as if he sympathized. “Good help is hard to find, isn’t it? You should be happy with Stickman, though. He’s keeping your potential enemies distracted. The Peregrine and Leonid Kaslov are both dangerous men—believe me, they’ve upset many a plan.”

Dracula waved a hand through the air, dismissing the threats as if they were beneath him. “The Peregrine will be inadvertently responsible for my eventual ascension to power. When Camilla began the Kingdom of Blood ritual, it resurrected me, but I was still too weak to have effectively mounted a campaign against the other ancient vampires. Thanks to the Peregrine stopping her before all of the others could be reawakened, I now have a clearer path to my goal.”

Dracula and Scratch entered the ancient and forbidding structure together. The interior buildings were carved from black stone and seemed to absorb all light. Burning braziers lighted the school, and there was a sickly sweet smell that hung over the area.

“Where are the current pupils?” Dracula asked, his eyes passing over every window and doorway. There appeared to be no life whatsoever in this place.

“We do not currently have any students,” Scratch admitted. He smiled at the shock on Dracula’s face. “We have begun spreading our lessons far and wide. We have many more adherents now than ever before. The days of hiding ourselves away in remote locations are over. The rest of this century shall belong to the denizens of the dark.”

Dracula said nothing, though his expression showed that he very much doubted that. Still, the world had changed much during his long slumber. During the ten years since his resurrection, he had studied those changes in great detail. It had been a long, slow process of acclimating himself, but it had been necessary.

“When you sent word to me that you wanted me to return to my old school, you said it was because you wished to propose an alliance between myself and someone else. I am here.” Dracula stroked his moustache. “I would like to meet this man that you think could help me.”

Scratch nodded, smiling broadly. He knew that the count wanted nothing more or less than world domination. The problem was that Dracula trusted no one—even his vampiric servants were kept weak-willed and in spiritual bondage so that they could not rise up against him. This meant that all too often Dracula stood alone against his enemies, and even someone as powerful as the count could eventually fall against superior numbers.

“The count is here,
mein Freund
! Feel free to come forth and introduce yourself!” Scratch raised his voice as he spoke, and Dracula glared at him, thinking that Scratch was an uncouth servant of the dark lord—and why the devil would cloak Scratch in the heathen form of a Negro was beyond him.

Dracula caught sight of movement from within one of the darkened passageways leading into the heart of the school. The man who emerged was short and somewhat stocky, with one hand that trembled slightly and was held stiffly against his body. His thinning hair was combed over his balding head and his small moustache was dashed with gray. He wore an old army uniform that was dirty and ripped. Dracula recognized the man immediately, though his current state was shockingly distressing.

Adolf Hitler had once been the most powerful man in the world. Under his direct supervision, millions had come to their ends, in battle and through a series of euthanasia programs. Dracula had admired many of the man’s directives, though not his foolish inability to learn from his mistakes.

“The Allies claim you are dead,” Dracula said, speaking in flawless German.

“Not the Russians,” Hitler said. “That bastard Stalin knows better.”

Dracula glanced towards Scratch, but quickly realized that the devil’s right hand was no longer there. He had vanished without a trace, leaving behind two of the world’s great evils. Turning back to Hitler, Dracula gestured towards a small outdoor table. “Let us palaver.”

Hitler moved with a shuffling gait and Dracula sniffed the air. He was attuned to the blood of others and he sensed that not all was well with the former Fuehrer. “How did you escape Berlin?”

“A double died on my behalf, in the hopes that it would fool anyone who found my bunker that I had committed suicide. I was then hurried out of the country. Many of my former comrades have taken up residence in Argentina, but I have no plans to go into hiding like some frightened animal!”

Dracula sat down across from Hitler, studying the man with interest. “And what are your plans?”

Hitler laid his trembling hand atop the table, his face contorting with rage. He was incredibly ugly when he was like this, Dracula noted. “I want to see my enemies lying in pools of blood! I want to see the Reich restored! I want… I want…” Hitler’s eyes seemed to bulge, and for a moment Dracula thought the man was going to have a heart attack. But then the Fuehrer regained his composure, though he quickly issued a series of hacking coughs. “I want my health back, Count. And this Scratch claims you can do this.”

“What do you know of Scratch?” Dracula prodded, knowing of Hitler’s distaste for the “mongrel” races.

“The Negro came to me a few months ago. My bodyguard had been shot by a group of Russians who have been in pursuit of us since the fall of Berlin. I was desperate and half-starved. Then Scratch appeared, offering me sanctuary. I would not have trusted him, but I could not abide being captured, and he… had showed me a sampling of his power. I knew then that he could help me accomplish what I had been after. All during the war I accumulated artifacts that I thought would help me secure the Reich. I found the Occult Forces Project. I exhausted myself mentally and physically… but in the end, I was undone by both the frailty of my flesh and the lack of will amongst my compatriots. No more! If the Reich is to be restored, it must be my hand that guides the wheel.” Hitler raised his hand, which shook so badly that even Dracula was embarrassed for him. “Scratch says that you can cure me of these afflictions. You can make me strong—and immortal!”

Dracula laughed, a cold and mirthless sound that made Hitler draw back in anger and which echoed off the surrounding walls. “You want me to make you a vampire?”

Hitler did not seem to share the humor. “I see no other alternative. My body is betraying me. My mind remains fit, but there some days that make me feel like a prisoner inside a rotting shell! If I am to have any chance at redeeming myself, I need to be strong and vital!”

“And what would I gain from doing this?”

“What would you want? A continent or two? I could give you all of Asia—would that be enough?”

Dracula’s lips continued to twist in a mockery of a smile. “You are very confident, I grant you, but I would think I would have as much chance of conquering the world without you as with you. You have no military left to speak of. Your closest aides are either in the hands of the Allies or are deep in hiding. You are too recognizable. Everywhere we went, we would run the risk of someone seeing you. You would be a liability.”

Hitler seemed incensed by the thought that his help would be spurned, but he quickly lowered his eyes and nodded. It was a curious thing, Dracula thought, to see such a proud man having been brought so low. “You… are correct. I have nothing to offer you save for my word of honor. I always thought I was a man of destiny, that my victories were inevitable. But the past few years have shown me that my reach has exceeded my grasp. I should have died there in the bunker.”

Dracula said nothing for a moment, considering his options. All that he had said was true: there were far more reasons to refuse Hitler’s request than there were to grant it… but at the same time, Hitler had the possibility of greatness. He had risen from obscurity to become the most dangerous man in the world, through sheer charisma and force of will. But could he do that again? Or was his spirit too broken for him to once again rise to the top?

The count leaned forward, his eyes flashing. “Look at me,” he commanded. Hitler raised his gaze until it locked with Dracula’s, and the two men stared at one another for a long moment. Hitler felt as if the vampire was peering into his very soul. He refused to look away, instead choosing to stare back with all the intensity of a man who had once led the German people.

Dracula finally nodded and Hitler let his shoulders fall. The Fuehrer looked tired and drained, as if the effort of summoning this display of will had been almost too much for him. “I will turn you into a vampire,” the count said at last.

Hitler’s eyes widened, and he smiled coolly. “You shall not regret it, my friend!”

“We are not friends, nor shall we ever be,” Dracula replied tersely. “And you shall be my servant from this door forward. You must be ready to accept that!”

Hitler appeared to consider the count’s words, obviously troubled by the idea of being a slave of another, but there was no other way. Without the vampirism to make him strong and immortal, Hitler knew he would not last more than another year or two, if that long. The strains of being a wanted man weighed heavily upon him. “I shall accept that,” he said, so softly that Dracula almost couldn’t hear him.

The count bared his fangs. He threw himself upon Hitler before the smaller man could change his mind. Dracula’s weight pressed the German down to the ground and his fangs bit deep into Hitler’s neck. They clung together for several long moments, looking like lovers caught beneath the moonlight…