The Peregrine Omnibus Volume One (65 page)

And then there was the matter of retrieving the fourth and final Elohim knife.

“Ah, yes,” Arias agreed. “It is about that time, isn’t it?”

Marlon stared at him blankly. “Time for what?”

“To launch our assault against the Black Bat, of course.”

CHAPTER II

The Bat

Tony Quinn’s life was defined a great and powerful lie. The attorney’s face had been badly scarred by a criminal, leaving him with horrific scratches across both eyes, as if a large jungle cat had taken a swipe at him. In the aftermath of this, the suddenly blind Quinn thought his pursuit of justice would come to an end… until a secret operation changed everything. Receiving a double eye transplant from a murdered police officer, Quinn found that not only had his normal vision been restored but he now possessed perfect night vision. His other senses had been enhanced as well, giving him uncanny hearing, pinpoint accurate smell and acute touch.

With those talents added to his brilliant mind, Tony Quinn adopted a double life. During the day, he pretended to be blind, operating as best he could within the legal system. But at night, he donned a black bodysuit equipped with crepe-sole shoes and thin nylon gloves with rubber tips for better gripping ability. Strapped in holsters under his armpits were two large .45 automatics and around his waist was a utility belt containing a wide variety of tools and gasses. A black hood hid identity, though his strangely penetrating eyes remained visible.

Aided by a gorgeous blonde named Carol Baldwin, whose father had donated his eyes to Tony; a former con man named ‘Silk’ Kirby; and the hulking Butch O’Leary, the Black Bat had become one of the most feared entities in New York City. His battles with the criminal element had become the stuff of legend, though he was often pursued by the police for his blatant disregard for the law.

A confident smile played across the Black Bat’s lips as his mind ran through all of that. He often gave pause to reflect on the many strange paths his life had taken, having long ago decided that only by studying the past could one forge a new future.

Studying the past actions of a thug like Moses Smith had allowed the Black Bat to predict that upon receiving his freedom from the state pen, the goon would head straight into the shadowy underworld of New York City, looking for work. That had proven to be the case and Moses had spent the last two weeks ingratiating himself back into the mob.

Moses now stood in a darkened alleyway behind a nightclub called Lucy’s, from which the sounds of debauchery and music drifted into the night. Moses lit a smoke and leaned against the brick wall, enjoying himself immensely. As soon as that busty brunette, Mindy or Miranda, whatever her name was, got off shift as a dancer, Moses was going to ask her to have a drink and maybe head back to his place. She’d been making doe-eyes at him all night so he thought he had a good chance to score with her.

A cold, deadly voice came down from above, making Moses freeze in place. He knew that voice, for it had kept him awake nights at the state pen. It was the voice of the man who had put him away. “Back to your old habits, I see.”

Moses swallowed hard, tossing away his cigarette. He looked upwards but could see nothing save for the twinkling of stars. And then there was the briefest of movements, the rustle of a cape, and the Black Bat had dropped from the rooftop to stand in front of Moses.

The vigilante’s right hand shot out, his fingers gripping Moses around the throat. The Black Bat lifted Moses off the ground, his face impassive and cold.

“I ain’t done anything wrong,” the criminal gasped, trying to pull the Bat’s hand away so he could breathe.

“You were involved in that heist at Davidson’s Jewelers,” the Black Bat hissed. “Don’t deny it. The other boys have already fingered you.”

The crook’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets as he realized he faced another trip down the river.

“I might be willing to forget that information if you can help me.”

Offers of a deal made Moses relax at once. He nodded enthusiastically. “Sure, sure! Whatever you want!”

“I’ve heard rumors about a pair of masterminds who are making ripples in the underworld. You know about them?”

“Yeah, I know about ’em. A longhaired guy, kind of prissy-like. He’s called Arias or somethin’. And the other guy is Marlon Woodson. Me and him go way back. He’s a tough guy.”

“You have any idea what they’re after?”

“I heard they’re looking for magic stuff… you know, magic, voodoo, the whole thing. Marlon used to be a straight shooter but I guess he’s gotten into all this mystical mumbo-jumbo.” Moses licked his lips in anticipation. “You want me to find out more for you?”

The Black Bat narrowed his eyes. “Yes. You can do that for me, Moses. Try and find out what sort of objects—specifically—they’re after. I’ll come and find you when I think enough time has passed.”

Moses found himself tossed to the ground. He cursed under his breath and rose to his feet slowly. When he looked around, there was no sign of the mysterious vigilante. It was as if he had never been there at all.

* * *

When Tony Quinn returned to the heavily modified car that served as his transportation to and from his mansion estate, he found that a dapper looking fellow was waiting for him. The car was designed to look like any other on the street, so there was no reason for anyone to take a special interest in the vehicle. It was quite obvious, however, that this gentleman recognized its importance.

The Black Bat slid along the shadows, meaning to approach the man from behind, but he was shocked into halting his progress when the man looked directly at him. “No need for such stealth. I’m a friend.”

Tony lowered his voice, adopting the dangerous tones of the Black Bat. “I have precious few of those. Who do you think you are?”

“My name is Ascott Keane and I’m a criminologist. I happen to believe that you are in very grave danger.”

Tony tried to hide his surprise at hearing the man’s name. He was familiar with the literature on Keane and his tireless crusade against evil. Most notable amongst his exploits were Keane’s battles with the madman known as Doctor Satan. “If you’re planning to bring me in for questioning, you’re going to be disappointed.”

“I harbor no conceptions of doing so,” Keane replied. “I don’t believe the sensationalistic stories that paint you as some sort of dangerous killer. I believe you are a man pushed to the extremes but for whom his costumed career is an outlet of his desire to see justice delivered.”

“That sounds accurate.” The Black Bat’s gloved hands danced dangerously close to his holstered .45s. “Now tell me what you want.”

“You have in your possession a trophy from a previous case. It is something dubbed the Knife of Elohim. There are three others in existence. Recently, two of them were stolen from Dr. Satan, which has driven the villain nearly insane with rage. I have no doubt that the parties responsible will be coming for your own blade next.”

“I remember the weapon,” Quinn admitted. “A strange thing. I never used it much. I trust my guns more than magic.”

Keane nodded, knowing that many shared such a view. “If you trust me, I would like to assist you in this matter. Anything involving Doctor Satan attracts my attention and my readings on the matter of the Elohim blades indicate that anyone bringing together all four of them could unleash a terrible evil.”

The Black Bat shifted, studying the man before him. Though he had little reason to do so besides Keane’s impeccable reputation, Quinn found himself trusting what he was being told. “Suit yourself, Keane. I’d heard rumors that two men named Arias and Malone were asking questions about me, trying to find out where my lair was. I’d bet my last dime they’re the ones who are after that knife.”

Ascott pursed his lips. Arias… that name was familiar to him. “My friend,” he whispered, “I believe this affair may be much more dangerous than I’d previously believed.”

CHAPTER III

His Satanic Majesty

Doctor Satan pushed the dead man’s neck over the large bowl, letting the blood drip steadily from the massive neck wound that had ended the poor fool’s life. Once the bowl was full, he shoved the corpse away from him, letting it fall to the floor like a discarded piece of trash.

Though Satan normally relied on the apelike Girse and the legless giant Bostiff, he sometimes employed outside agents for small tasks. One such task had recently been given to the man who now lay dead at Satan’s feet. All the idiot had to do was watch over the small brownstone currently occupied by Satan and his men when they were out of town. During one such time recently, someone—or a group of someones—had managed to get past the sentry and through Satan’s mystical wards. Two ancient weapons had been taken, which was an affront to Satan’s pride.

“What do you see, boss?” Girse asked. The brute stood next to the door, ready to flee if his employer’s temper should turn on him. A rolled up newspaper lay under one armpit, having been hastily set aside when Satan began his work.

Doctor Satan leaned forward, his eyes glittering as images began to form in the blood. “I’m trying to pinpoint exactly who came through my home, so that we might repay their kindness. I see… a man… but there are spells in place to prevent his face from showing through.”

“Think it’s Keane?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” Satan moved a red gloved hand over the pool of blood, casting a second spell to enhance the power of the first. Truth be told, he didn’t think Ascott Keane had done this act of thievery, but there was no reason to share that with Girse. If Keane had located Satan’s hideout, he would have stopped at nothing to capture the criminal. Stealing two daggers was hardly the type of thing the criminologist would engage in.

As the secondary spell took effect, the images in the blood pool swirled and began to clear. A man dressed in a long coat and tie shimmered into view, his face partially hidden by an odd domino mask adorned by a bird’s beak. In the man’s right hand was clutched a dagger almost identical to the ones stolen from Doctor Satan.

“Aha,” Satan whispered. “So now I know what you look like.”

Girse lumbered over and peered over his master’s shoulder. “I know who that is, boss!”

Satan turned to his attention this aide, a dangerous smile on his face. “You
know
the man who broke into my lair?”

“No, boss, it ain’t like that! I just know who he is, that’s all. I’ve heard people talk about him!”

“Go on.”

“They call ‘im the Peregrine. Say he used to hang out in Boston but he moved to Atlanta a few years back.”

Satan reached out and touched Girse on the arm. The goon’s simian-like face blanched in fear but he relaxed as his employer merely patted him like a puppy. “Very good, Girse. I’m impressed. I recognize that name now that you mention it.”

The criminal mastermind pushed past his accomplice and strode towards a shelf that bent under the weight of several large leather-bound books. He retrieved one and opened it, flipping to the center pages. There, tucked in amongst occult symbols and scribblings, were a collection of newspaper articles and letters. Satan pulled out an envelope and emptied its contents.

“Yes. The Peregrine,” he whispered. “An occult contact of mine wrote me some time back revealing that there was a vigilante with an interest in the macabre. The Peregrine is alleged to have come into contact with Nyarlathotep, the cult of the Shambling Ones and even the Bloodwerks organization. He certainly gets around, doesn’t he?”

Girse scratched his head uncertainly. “So the Peregrine broke in and took the knives?”

Doctor Satan placed the letter back in its original place, pursing his lips. Girse was an idiot but the doubt in his voice was echoed in Satan’s own heart. Something about all of this seemed… wrong, somehow. Nevertheless, the fact that the Peregrine already possessed one of the Elohim blades made it likely that perhaps he knew of the prophecy and wanted to prevent it from coming to pass. If all four blades were brought together… Satan nearly shivered at the thought, for it had long been a goal of his to someday attempt such a thing.

“I’m not certain what he had in mind when he came here,” Satan admitted. “But one thing is certain: I intend to get back what is mine and the first place to look seems to be with the Peregrine.”

“You want me and Bostiff to pack your things?”

Satan paused, thinking things through. “No,” he finally said after much deliberation. “Something tells me that our foe won’t be so away as that.” The villain cackled suddenly, snapping his fingers in the air. “In fact, given what we know of him, I suspect we can entice him into coming to a spot of our choosing.”

Girse stared at him blankly, eliciting a painful slap to the side of the head from Dr. Satan.

“We know this Peregrine fancies himself a hero and that he was once a resident of Boston,” Doctor Satan began to explain. “I happen to know that many vigilantes and adventurers frequent a club known as the Nova Alliance that’s in that city. It only makes sense that the Peregrine might have been a member as well. And if he is… then he might be interested in this man.” Satan snatched away the newspaper that still lay under Girse’s arm. There, on bottom of the front page, was a small article stating that renowned author and philanthropist Leopold Grace was in town for a speaking engagement.

“But… who’s that?” Girse asked dumbly.

“Leopold Grace is the chairman of the Nova Alliance… and he just might be the key to drawing the Peregrine out of his nest!” Doctor Satan laughed aloud at his joke, striding from the room with a flourish of his crimson cape.

CHAPTER IV

The Peregrine in Flight

The sleek black plane that cut through the air towards New York City was a specially modified one, whose passage was so silent that it was virtually undetectable. Most impressive of all was its speed and long-range flight capability, both of which outstripped most contemporary military designs.

The plane was the product of the Peregrine’s intelligent design and he felt wracked with guilt every time he took it to the air. War was coming to America, no matter how hard the United States might want to avoid getting caught up in the European or Asian conflicts. Max knew that his designs—not only for the plane but also for his pistols and his cars—could easily turn the tide. But what about when those designs were inevitably copied by the enemy? How many more might die eventually?