“And…?”
“Once all our enemies are vanquished, we have to move on to the truly hard work: governing in our paradise.” Himmler hoped that his true feelings didn’t come through. If this was a paradise, then he hoped to never see Hell.
Goebbels was an intelligent man, however. He pursed his lips together thoughtfully, tossing a quick salute to a soldier they passed. When he spoke, it was in measured tones that told Himmler that the thin man was in agreement with him. “This is not the Reich that I envisioned. Nor, I imagine, is it the one that The Füehrer imagined. But we have to deal with the cards we are dealt, do we not?” Lowering his voice even further, he said, “And our unearthly allies may not always be with us. They were defeated once, long ago and I think that perhaps your OFP could find a way to replicate that? For the good of the Reich, of course.”
Himmler smiled slightly. It would be dangerous to go against Darhoth and the others but, as Goebbels pointed out, they were not unbeatable. “Yes,” he said in reply. “For the good of the Reich.”
“They plot against us and think we’re incapable of hearing them.”
Darhoth sat at her dining room table, hearing the chiming of the bells in the distance. It was time to kill The Peregrine but she wasn’t finished with her evening’s meal. They would wait for her to arrive. To do otherwise was to invite her wrath and no one wanted that.
Most of her beauty was gone now, having been ravaged by the foulness that lurked within her human flesh. She was cadaverous, the skin hanging loosely off her bones. Even though she ate constantly, the weight loss continued. She shoveled eyeballs, tongues and other body parts claimed from slaves and prisoners into her mouth, crunching them loudly and letting bits of blood and gore drip down her chin.
Dieter Schneider could scarcely bear to look at her. He had long ago stopped thinking of her as Sonya but it still pained him to look into the once-gorgeous face of his daughter. She insisted on keeping him close by, forcing him to dine with her and listen to her paranoid ranting. He had wondered for a time if some part of his daughter still lay within and desired the company of her father. Lately, he had come to think it was simply more cruelty on the part of Darhoth. She wanted to torture him by watching as his daughter’s body fell to ruin.
“Are you listening to me?” she demanded to know.
“Of course,” he replied. “It’s just impossible for me to believe that anyone would dare to conspire against you.”
“Humans are nothing if not predictable… and stupid. Their lives are so short that it’s impossible for them to have a true view of the consequences of their actions.”
Dieter remained silent, not sure how to respond without angering her. He was quite relieved when a servant entered the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Dieter had noticed the fellow several times in recent days but didn’t know the man’s name. With a somewhat hawk-shaped nose and severely swept-back hair, the servant was quite striking, though Dieter thought it was the man’s eyes that were most remarkable. They were narrowed and focused, like those of a hunting cat. The servant spoke with fluent German but Dieter thought that perhaps he was an American who had lived abroad at some point.
“The execution is set to begin soon,” the servant said.
The Mother of Pus shoved her plate away and stood up, not caring about the mess she had made on the floor and table. “Another hero dies,” she said with relish. “Perhaps this will be the night that humanity’s spirit is well and truly crushed.”
Dieter rose to follow the thing that had once been his daughter but he caught a subtle gleam in the servant’s eyes, as if he’d taken umbrage to The Mother of Pus’s words. Suddenly, Dieter realized where he had seen this man before. It had been in various newspapers over the years! A wealthy man-about-town named Harold Grant, who had become well-known for traveling the globe and taking part in safaris, mountain climbing and the like.
Dieter sighed and looked away. He wasn’t the only one, it seemed, whose life had taken a severe turn for the worse.
The man that Dieter recognized as Harold Grant actually had far more in common with The Mother of Pus than might be first realized. In many ways, both of them wore the skin of another but they were hardly what they appeared to be. The real Harold Grant lay buried in an unmarked grave in the mountains of Tibet. It was Dexter Welles, famed World War I flying ace, who now occupied Grant’s identity. The two of them had crossed paths during one of Dexter’s many self-destructive journeys but in the end, Grant’s demise had in turn helped lead to Dexter’s own transformative resurrection.
Welles had been a pilot in the Great War, quite possibly the greatest who had ever lived. But once the war was over, he had been left purposeless and without direction. In wartime, his ability to kill had made him a hero but in the “peaceful” world that followed, he had run the risk of becoming something far, far worse. And so he’d traveled the globe, drinking and fighting, seeking something to fill the void in his soul.
He’d found it in Tibet. Near death after Grant’s own demise, Welles had been found by a monk who had taught him certain peculiar skills of the mind and body. He had returned to America, armed with this ancient knowledge, and assumed Grant’s life and fortune. He had used both to build a career as a vigilante, as well — The Darkling, a scourge against all who preyed upon the innocent. His violent abilities were now honed to their utmost and turned against the criminal element. He became feared throughout the underworld and both clashed and worked alongside Lazarus Gray on several occasions.
Unfortunately, the recent rise of darkness had been more than The Darkling could combat. Like everyone else, he had seen friends and agents die. Now he wondered if the world would ever be the same. It had taken months to ingratiate himself inside the Nazi leadership and what he’d discovered had been enough to chill even his cold-hearted blood. These were forces of evil far beyond anything he had ever dealt with before.
Slipping down the hall, he discarded the plates and their bits of foul food into a trash bin before ducking into a small room. It had a window that led out to a fire escape and, eventually, to the alley below. He had secreted some clothing in this room earlier and he donned it now, knowing that if he was going to save The Peregrine’s life, he only had moments to do so. A white face mask covered his face, a skull-like image emblazoned upon the front. A hat and heavy coat were then donned over his suit, successfully completing his transformation into The Darkling. It was said that while most men and women could only guess at the horrors that lay within men’s souls, The Darkling knew them intimately.
On this day, he felt certain that truism would be put to the test.
Mr. Death sat at the back of the large wooden box that had been constructed in front of City Hall. It held seats for twenty people and with The Mother of Pus finally taking hers, it was now filled to capacity. The Füehrer, along with Goebbels and Himmler, was seated in the very front row, affording him the best possible view of The Peregrine’s demise.
The vigilante had been permitted to wear his trademark mask and heroic attire, all the better for the many cameras to capture his final moments in dramatic detail. The photos would be dispersed far and wide, making sure that any remaining pockets of resistance that were out there would see what happened to those who opposed the new world order.