Howling in pain, Vulthar shoved back at The Peregrine with all his might. For so many centuries, he’d not felt the agony that came with human existence but now he was locked within this frail body that had once belonged to Lars Hansel and with it came all the aches and desires that plagued mortal men. Vulthar reached down to the bloody wound, intending to heal it with his dark magic but he found that his powers were unable to seal the gap. The Elohim blade was beyond that.
The Peregrine, however, was not about to end his assault. Fueled by anger over both the loss of Andre and their failure to halt the ritual, he was not about to let Vulthar escape justice.
Dodging a burst of magical power from Vulthar, The Peregrine launched himself into the air. He performed a flip that would have impressed an Olympic judge, soaring over the villain’s head and landing smoothly behind his back.
Vulthar started to whirl about but it was too late. The Peregrine had planted his mark, driving the magical weapon he wielded straight into the madman’s back. The point of the blade protruded from Vulthar’s chest, dripping gore, and The Peregrine sawed it back and forth before finally yanking it free.
Sagging to his knees, Vulthar gasped. He knew what was coming. His spirit would soon be fleeing this body and he would be summoned back to the great beyond. There, he’d face his dark masters, and he could only hope that they would approve of his actions today. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered, his voice carrying to The Peregrine’s keen ears. “They’re awake. You’ve already lost. My fierce Mother will carry the day.”
The Peregrine looked down at him, a grim expression on his face. “I’ve heard that sort of thing before, from a litany of evil bastards. Many of them served the same dark gods that you do: Doctor York, Nyarlathotep, Jacob Trench. In the end, they all lay dead at my feet. So forgive me if I doubt your words.” The Peregrine raised his blade once more and this time he buried it deep into the villain’s skull. The burning wound spread and consumed Vulthar’s flesh, causing it to peel away from the bone.
Just then, one of the windows shattered inward and both The Peregrine and Morgan prepared themselves for an incoming rush of Nazis. To their relief, they saw Samantha poke her pretty head in through the broken glass.
“C’mon, boys, there’s a fire escape we can use from here.”
Morgan shoved Dieter forward, urging him to climb up to the slightly raised window. From behind them, the guards out in the hall had begun shooting at the door, planning to weaken it enough for them to break it down. They succeeded just as The Peregrine followed his friends up and out of the window.
The vigilante turned back towards the Germans and reached into his jacket, pulling out a gas grenade. “Auf Wiedersehen,” he called out, tossing the bomb down to the floor. It detonated upon impact, filling the room with a dense cloud of smoke. The Nazis immediately began coughing, their eyes watering terribly and in that moment, the heroes were away.
But one of their number would not be going home with them. The Catalyst of the 19th Century had extended his tenure as long as possible but now it was time for another to wield the power.
Both Morgan and Max made a silent promise that his death would not be in vain.
CHAPTER X
Mr. Death Comes Calling
Nimrod’s unhappiness was almost palpable. He had arrived in gloomy, rainy Sovereign City over an hour ago. Two German goons met him at the airport and he’d been disturbed by how stereotypical they had turned out to be. With their blond crew cuts and thick accents, they seemed like they had just stepped out of a bad movie.
Together, the three of them had traveled in relative silence to the harbor. While there was a thriving shipping business in Sovereign, Nimrod had heard that there was always a plethora of abandoned warehouses which were perfect for clandestine meetings of this kind. According to the bigger of the two Nazi agents, Nimrod was to be introduced to another special agent who had also just arrived in the city.
An expert at watching people, Nimrod noticed that both men seemed very uncomfortable whenever they mentioned this other being. He wasn’t sure if they were doing that out of fear or something else but he knew that he would find out soon enough.
When they’d entered the darkened warehouse, one of the men had fumbled with the lights before finally finding the right switch. Bright bulbs that hung overhead illuminated the interior and Nimrod blinked as he looked around. The warehouse was filled with wooden crates, many of them stacked precariously on top of each other.
After a moment of quiet, Nimrod turned to one of the men and said, “Where’s this guy at? Did you pick the wrong warehouse?”
A soft rustle of fabric set off Nimrod’s internal warning system. He spun about, drawing his gun. A shadowy figure could barely be seen, lurking about in the labyrinth of crates.
“I’m here,” the fellow said with a slightly mocking tone. “You’re Dimrod?”
“Nimrod,” the mercenary replied, emphasizing the first letter of his name. He was growing tired of having his identity tweaked. Most people learned quickly to show him proper respect. Unfortunately, he’d failed to adequately instruct The Peregrine on that fact and he knew it wouldn’t be wise to anger his Nazi employers at the moment. “What about you? What are you called?”
The figure that emerged into the light was hideous enough that both of the goons with Nimrod stepped back. Even Nimrod found himself unable to speak for a moment. Dressed in an outlandish costume, complete with a small cape, was a monstrous figure whose head appeared to be nothing more than a skull. Though he knew it must be some sort of mask, the complexity of the sculpting was astonishing.
“You can call me Mr. Death,” the man said. He took a courtly bow and added, “I’m the most dangerous man in the Füehrer’s employ.”
Nimrod snorted. “Really? Look, son, if you were all that, you wouldn’t need the dramatic suit. The really scary people can terrify people without theatrics.”
“Says the man who named himself after the grandson of Noah.”
“That’s not the same thing as wearing a skull mask.”
Mr. Death suddenly reached up and seized the sides of his own head. He began yanking at it, sounding frightened as he said, “Oh, no! This mask! I can’t get it off! I put on too much glue!” He suddenly stopped and doubled over with laughter. “This handsome visage is all mine, Dimrod. Believe it or not.”
“I’ll take the not.” Nimrod put away his pistol. “Look, I’m here to kill The Peregrine. You can do whatever it is you’re supposed to do. Let’s just agree to stay out of each other’s way.”
“Plans have changed,” Mr. Death said. He moved towards Nimrod quickly, his cape billowing out behind him. “No sign of The Peregrine in town. He may have bolted back to Atlanta.”
“What? Jesus Christ!”
“You have a real thing for the Bible, don’t you?” Mr. Death placed his gloved hands on Nimrod’s shoulders, noting that the other man stiffened at his touch. “You’ll have to put your plans for the bird-man aside for now. I’m here at the direct orders of Himmler. There’s a… thing… here in town. I can sense it. I want it. I need it. You’re going to help me find it.”
Nimrod shrugged Mr. Death’s hands off of him. “Mister, I’ve never heard of you and I don’t know why you think I have to listen to you. As far as I’m concerned, we’re equals — at best. So if you have your own concerns, that’s fine. They’re your concerns. Me? I have one specific task and if The Peregrine’s isn’t in town, then there’s no need for me to be, either.”
Mr. Death stared at him in silence and Nimrod frowned. Up close, it was really amazing. He could see no seams in that mask. How was it attached? What was it made of? He’d seen human remains too many times to count so he was good at recognizing bones and he’d be damned if this didn’t look real.