Lately, the visions had been, if anything, even grimmer than the reality in which The Peregrine found himself. He saw humanity being completely snuffed out, devoured by the mad god Azathoth as the ancient entity descended from the stars to end this reality once and for all. He sometimes saw himself as a puppet of these dark creatures, existing in other places and times. Like Darhoth, his body would be perverted for their evil purposes.
Hearing approaching footsteps, Max stood up and made himself ready. It was hours before his execution time but he wouldn’t put it past the Nazis to want to get in some old-fashioned torture beforehand.
He wished he had something besides his fists with which to defend himself. The Knife of Elohim was in Hitler’s possession now, another artifact in the madman’s growing collection of occult relics. He’d hoped to drive the blade deep into the little man’s black heart but that looked like a false dream.
The figure who emerged from the darkness to stand before his cell was the living embodiment of lunacy. In some ways, he perfectly embodied the current world: darkly impressive in his fashion but also full of corruption. He was Mr. Death and he gave a gallant bow before addressing his captured foe.
“Tonight’s the night, Mr. Davies. Are you as excited as I am?”
“Shaking with anticipation,” The Peregrine replied. He looked away, not feeling like playing the kinds of games that Mr. Death enjoyed. The skull-faced man liked to taunt his prey with reminders of his dead family and friends. “Are you going to be there watching or will you be too busy on your knees servicing The Füehrer?”
“Tut-tut,” Mr. Death cautioned. “That’s not nice at all.”
“What’s the point of manners when I’m going to be killed in less than 24 hours?”
Mr. Death stepped close to the bars and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m bored.”
The Peregrine glanced up, a frown on his face. “Stay tuned. It’s going to get more interesting, I’d wager.”
“The war’s over, hero. You lost. My side won. Now there’s going to be a Thousand Year Reich, during which the rest of the Old Ones will restore their power. And then… poof! They’re going to snuff us all out.”
“That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? Pure chaos.”
“This isn’t chaos. It’s the opposite. Hitler rules humanity with an iron fist while the masters pull his strings. There’s no resistance left, aside from Lazarus and Gravedigger.”
“They’re still alive?” The Peregrine asked, unable to hide his curiosity.
“Oh, yes… but there’s just the two of them. It won’t be long before they’re dead, along with all the rest. Hell, even if you were to escape somehow, there’s not much the three of you could do. Not without help.”
Max slowly rose to his feet and approached the cell. Was he really hearing this? Was Mr. Death truly so deranged that he’d turn on his own side just to make things… interesting? “If I were to reunite with them,” he began, “we might not be able to win but we’d sure rattle some chains before we went down. Especially if, like you say, we had some inside help.”
Mr. Death chuckled. “Now don’t go thinking you and I are buddies, okay? This is just to further my own sick little ends, get it?”
“I get it.”
Mr. Death reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled free an emerald-colored glove along with Max’s favorite weapon — The Knife of Elohim. The blade glowed brightly in Mr. Death’s grip and it sizzled, burning the villain as it made contact with his evil form. The madman seemed to either ignore the pain or, even worse, to enjoy it.
The Peregrine recognized the glove immediately as having belonged to Andre. “Here’s your knife back and this is pretty much all that’s left of that little Negro,” Mr. Death said as he held up the glove, his words causing Max’s gut to churn with distaste. “But according to just about everybody, it still holds of his mystic juice.”
“And what would I do with that?” The Peregrine asked.
“Come on, do I have to do everything here?” Mr. Death asked in mock annoyance. “Look, all I ask is that you wait to use it when I’m not around. There are going to be enough questions about how you got your hands on it without me being present. Wait until I’m gone. Give me at least fifteen minutes.”
The Peregrine accepted the glove and his holy weapon and said nothing as Mr. Death spun on his heels and scurried away, much like the rat that Max thought of him as. There was no denying that this glove contained power. It coursed through Max’s fingers and touched something deep inside his soul. Given his own connection to the other side, it wasn’t completely surprising to Max when he heard Andre’s distinctive voice in his head:
Hello there, mon ami. I would say that I hope you are well but I think it is safe to say that you are not.
“Any recommendations?” Max whispered, moving back into the shadowy recesses of his cell.
There is only enough magic left in the glove for one good burst, I am afraid. You should make it count.
The Peregrine stared at the back wall of his prison, knowing that on the other side was freedom. Should he use it now, to blast his way out? Or would it be best for everyone to wait until his supposed execution, when he might be able to take out Hitler and his cronies, even if it meant his own death?
Keep in mind how we got to this point, Andre whispered inside his head. That’s the last bit of advice I can give you.
Max paused, feeling the connection to Andre’s spirit slowly being severed. Whatever afterlife awaited the former Catalyst, Max knew that it was now irrevocably calling. “Know peace,” Max said. “You’ve earned it.”
CHAPTER XIII
The Death of The Peregrine
“Why the long face, Herr Himmler? You are the hero of the people, are you not?”
The tone in Josef Goebbels’ voice carried only the slightest trace of resentment but Himmler picked up on it easily enough. The Reich’s Propaganda Minister was jealous of Himmler’s new position in things but that wasn’t the full extent of it. Like so many others who had initially basked in the Reich’s sudden victory, they were beginning to have second thoughts about a world in which monsters strode the earth eating the unwary… and more and more of them were beginning to cast aspersions at the man given credit for so much of it. Heinrich Himmler and his OFP had been trumpeted loudly for their role in the rise of Darhoth and her ilk and now everyone knew who to thank — or blame — for the result.
Himmler adjusted the medals he wore on his uniform and tried to maintain a brave face. Truth be told, he was beginning to wonder at his role in things, as well. For the Reich to be victorious was wonderful, of course. And the Jewish problem was simply no more. The last of the full-blooded sub-humans had been thrown into the pits last week, leaving the world free of their ilk. Those of one-half Jewish blood or less were left alive to serve in menial positions but there would come a day when they, too, would be purged to feed the hungers of the Reich’s new alien masters.
And that was the unspoken truth of it, wasn’t it? Hitler was Füehrer in name but it was the Mother of Pus and all her kind who truly ruled over all.
Himmler had damned the human race.
“Just feeling a bit melancholy,” he said, glancing over at Goebbels. The two men were walking down a long tunnel that led to the site of The Peregrine’s execution. The entire area had been heavily modified since the Nazis had captured Sovereign, mostly for the protection of the government’s elite. While The Füehrer spent the vast majority of his time in Germany, he made occasional forays to the United States and his other holdings, splitting time between Washington, New York and Sovereign when in North America. Before Goebbels could speak again, he continued, “Once The Peregrine is dead, there will only be Gravedigger and Lazarus Gray left behind.”