by Barry Reese
The Iron Maiden was still staring at him when he looked into her eyes. “Vogelin was working on behalf of the National Socialist party. He came here to America to purchase certain items that the Fuhrer desired. When the price of those items was raised without warning, Vogelin killed the seller and made plans to flee back to the Fatherland. But you managed to track him down and arrest him before he could do that. You shot him twice, once in the face, and he barely escaped into the countryside. But you kept his relics. Do you begin to remember now?”
McKenzie saw it all in his mind’s eye, exactly as she said. And the box… the box the German had been so protective of. It had been heavy, sealed with shipping tape, the words PRIVATE and FRAGILE stamped across its surface. He’d torn open the long box, curious to see what was so important that a man would kill for it…
And the next few months were a blur.
“I need to know what you did with that box,” the Iron Maiden said. “Where is it?”
“I don’t remember,” he answered honestly.
The Iron Maiden raised the knife, preparing to drive it into the meaty part of McKenzie’s leg. “Then I suppose I shall have to give you reason to recall, ja?”
McKenzie felt burning pain and a warm, wet sensation.
It would be the longest night of his life.
CHAPTER II
The Eel
Maxwell Davies was a handsome man, though the individuals facing him at the moment would never have admitted it. With a slightly olive complexion to his skin and dark wavy hair, his Mediterranean ancestry was quite visible—but it was the broad-shouldered grace of his movements that proved most enticing to the opposite sex.
At present, he was dressed in a dark suit and tie, both partially hidden by a long overcoat. On his face rested a small domino-style mask adorned by a bird-like beak that came to a point over his nose. In his gloved hands rested two specially modified pistols, snub-nosed dealers of death that could fire several hundred rounds before needing to be reloaded.
Arrayed against him were three bo-staff wielding young women, each wearing form-fitting black jumpsuits. Each girl wore her hair tied back in long ponytails and their beautiful features were twisted in expressions of fury.
The Peregrine and his enemies were onboard a small yacht belonging to the notorious crime lord nicknamed The Eel, so dubbed because of his slippery ability to escape the law’s punishment. The Peregrine, however, was not bound by society’s restrictions and he had come to deliver the harshest form of justice: he would expose The Eel for his various crimes and then he would brand the fellow with his trademark seal: the image of a dark bird in flight. That brand would mark The Eel forevermore as a man of deceit and evil.
“Girls, there’s no need for this,” the Peregrine warned, dodging as the closest of the three struck out at his head with her staff. Max heard it whistle past his ears and responded by throwing out a foot and hooking it about her leg. He yanked then, sending her tumbling to the deck of the boat. “Just put down your weapons,” he continued, “and let me go get your boss.”
One of the women still standing, a brunette with very tan skin, smiled coldly in response. “The Three Minnows don’t back down for any man, Peregrine. You’re the one who’s in trouble here.”
The Three Minnows? Max thought with a barely suppressed chuckle. This Eel character gets more interesting all the time.
While the fallen Minnow tried to get back to her feet, the other two rushed in unison towards Max. He evaded the first blow that came his way but the second hit home, the blunt point of a staff crushing hard into his ribcage. The Peregrine dropped one of his pistols so that he could grab hold of the staff with his newly freed hand. He gave it a quick twist and pull, yanking it out of the Minnow’s grip. Hoping to avoid killing the girls if possible, Max now brandished the less lethal weapon, slapping the now risen girl across the forehead. She nearly tumbled over the edge of the deck, coming to a rest with her head hanging over the side, facing the water.
The disarmed Minnow danced in closer, hoping to get her staff back. Max gave it to her with a quick thrust, striking her between her breasts. He then followed by slamming the butt of his pistol against her head.
This left only one Minnow and she was far more cautious than her felled sisters.
“I’m giving you one last chance,” Max said, locking eyes with the young woman. He tried to use his telepathic abilities to project his sincerity into her mind. “I won’t hurt you if you put down the staff and step aside. I’ll even argue for leniency on your behalf.”
The girl hesitated, obviously wondering about what she should do. Her decision was taken out of her hands, however, when the sound of gunfire rang out and a bullet exploded through the back of her head, exiting between her eyes.
The Peregrine jumped as the Minnow sagged forward, landing in a bloody heap on the deck. Max looked up to see a tall, thin man wearing a smoking jacket and dark slacks standing next to the stairs leading below decks. He held Max’s discarded pistol on his right hand.
“Quite a weapon,” the Eel said, his dark eyes shining brightly in the moonlight. “I’ve heard stories that say you never run out of bullets. Is that true?”
“You didn’t need to kill her,” Max responded, growing furious at the sight of the dead girl.
“Oh, but I did. I demand total subservience from my followers… and she was considering selling me out. I could see it in her body language.”
The Peregrine raised his own gun and directed it at the Eel. “Drop the weapon.”
“Ah, are you going to make the same offer to me? Will you argue for leniency if I surrender? Or are you hell-bent on driving me to my knees so you can scar my face with that little ring of yours?”
The Peregrine’s eyes drifted to the red signet ring he wore beneath his right glove. Bearing a gemstone forged in the blood of Nyarlathotep, messenger of the Old Ones, it was capable of burning into any surface. Max looked back at the Eel and smiled coldly. “I don’t plan to give you the chance to surrender, you’re right about that.”
The Eel shook his head, as if in disbelief. “I don’t know who you are or what compels you to do the things you do… but I can tell you this: I’ve fought and killed men twice your size. Why don’t you take a page out of your own book and listen to me? Put down the weapon and come to work for me.”
The Peregrine answered by firing his gun.
The bullet ripped through the Eel’s shoulder, causing him to drop the gun. The crime lord placed a hand over the wound, his skin whitening from shock. As the Peregrine moved towards him, the Eel turned and took off down the stairs. He made it only halfway down before the Peregrine landed atop him, having thrown himself through the air. Together, the two men tumbled down the stairs.
The Eel drove an elbow into the Peregrine’s face, just missing breaking Max’s nose. True to his threat, the Eel appeared to be a dangerous opponent. He wiggled free of the Peregrine and threw out a foot that caught Max under the chin.
The Peregrine’s mouth filled with blood as his teeth clamped together against his tongue but he knew he had no time to waste on pain. The Eel was scrambling towards a desk that lay against the far wall. Max couldn’t be sure what items lay there but he wagered that the Eel thought them important enough to expend valuable energy in reaching them.
Realizing that he’d never catch the Eel in time to stop him, Max called upon the mental powers that he possessed. These abilities, which included precognitive dreams, telekinesis and limited telepathy, had first begun to appear in the months following the brutal slaying of Max’s father, over thirty years ago. Only in the past few years had Max begun to get a real grip on the psionic potential he possessed—but still he was loathe to call upon them, for they felt unnatural to him.
The Peregrine reached out with his telekinesis, snatching the Eel’s right foot and giving it a yank. The villain lost his balance and tumbled to the ground once more, letting out a cry of surprise.
The Peregrine was upon
him then, smashing the Eel’s face with a powerful blow. The crime lord sank to the floor, his eyes rolling up in his head.
Max took out a small bit of rope from the inside of his pocket and bound the Eel tightly. He then moved over to the desk and examined what was there. A small short sword lay across its surface, the obvious source of the Eel’s desire. The Peregrine reached out and touched its surface, which was lined with a series of ornate designs. Runes, Max thought to himself. Max could sense supernatural energy emanating from the weapon, powerful enough that the Peregrine felt dizzy in its presence. He took a deep breath and the spell seemed to pass, leaving him in full control of himself.
The Peregrine picked up the sword and stepped back towards the exit from the ship’s interior. He’d give a call to the police and let them handle things from here. He paused at the foot of the stairs, remembering that he had not yet marked the Eel. Max pulled off a glove and bent to press the glowing signet ring, marked with the image of a bird in flight, to the man’s forehead.
As he did so, a pounding suddenly began, one that threatened to blot out his vision. Max issued a cry and clutched at the sides of his head, images flooding his mind. He recognized this onslaught, for he had occasionally been plagued by painful visions of the future since childhood. He saw flames reaching high into the sky and he thought he smelled the odor of burning flesh. One name kept cascading over all else, however: McKenzie.
When the visions faded, the Peregrine was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His breath came in rapid gasps and he sat upright, trying desperately to vanquish the residual memories. McKenzie was in trouble, or soon would be…
And then the Peregrine noticed that he was alone.
Max sat up quickly, rushing up to the top deck. The Minnows remained where he’d left them but the corpse of the Eel had vanished. Max was sure the villain had been dead… but how to explain his disappearance?
Once again, it seemed, the Eel had slipped free.
Max pushed thoughts of the crime lord out of his head for now, however. He was about to depart the ship and return to his parked roadster when a tinny-sounding ring filled the air. The Peregrine reached into a pocket and retrieved a small silver device. Much like a traditional telephone, it allowed for long-range communication. This version was completely wireless, however, and was the result of Max’s own experimentation. “Yes?”
The lilting sounds of his wife Evelyn reached Max’s ears, though he could hear the strain behind her words. “Max, something terrible has happened.”
The Peregrine closed his eyes, feeling the world beneath his feet begin to tilt. “It’s about McKenzie, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she answered, with a slight catch in her voice. “He’s dead.”
CHAPTER III
Maid in Metal
Kirsten Bauer stepped out of the tub, suppressing the shiver that threatened to run down her spine. Steam rose from the waters at her feet but they were cooling quickly and the tiny beads that ran down her smooth, flat stomach were equally chilly. She toweled off in silence, her ice blue eyes flicking about the small private room she’d claimed for herself. The men who worked for her worshipped her like a goddess and she’d recently caught one of them staring openly at her breasts. The beating he’d received for his impertinence had put the other brutes at bay for a bit but she felt certain it was only a matter of time before another tried to peer at her.
Kirsten was lovely, with a trim figure that featured long legs and a pert bosom. Her hair was the kind of strawberry blonde that many women envied and her eyes contained a cold intelligence that spoke of years of study. The niece of a high-ranking member of the SS, Kirsten had managed to acquire numerous skills thanks to her uncle’s indulgences. He’d been emotionally distant but quite willing to spend freely to keep her occupied. She had become a master of several fighting styles and was proficient with a large number of weapons. But it had been her keen intellect that had allowed her access to Operation: Ragnarok.
A nagging feeling of regret caused her to frown as she slipped into a hip-hugging knee length skirt and a button up khaki blouse. She had tortured McKenzie for hours on end but he had told her nothing new. He had peeked into the box containing the Ragnarok artifacts but he remembered nothing about what he had done with them afterwards.
It had taken every resource available to Kirsten to track the relics to McKenzie. She felt certain that he had taken the items with him to Atlanta but perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps he had simply thrown them out, his mind unhinged by what he had seen. He’d then repressed the memories so much that he could not recall his actions even under the worst of tortures.
No, she thought to herself, moving towards a thin selection of papers spread out across her bed. There’s more to it than that. There has to be.
Kirsten glanced briefly at her suit of armor that hung on a mannequin nearby. She ached to wear it again, to feel its strength and weight. Later, she promised, for now we have to remind ourselves of our humanity.
Weakness had always been something Kirsten despised. As a woman in traditionally male-dominated fields, she’d been forced to be twice as good as everyone else. She’d had to fend off unwanted advances so often that she’d often dreamed of possessing a hardened shell about her supple curves, a carapace to defend her against the testosterone laden men who surrounded her.
And now she had it. She was the Iron Maiden… and no man would ever hold dominion over her, unless she chose to give him such power. The Fuehrer was one such man, for he was the chosen leader of the Aryan people and Kirsten fervently believed in the rightness of their cause.
Settling down under the sheets, Kirsten looked over the papers, studying the ancient writings and sketches. There was quite a fanciful tale to be found here, about a Norse warrior named Grímarr who perished from disease. This dishonorable death had kept him from Valhalla, instead casting him into the dark depths of Hel, a shadowy realm ruled by a frightful goddess of the same name. There he bargained with the goddess, pledging his allegiance in return for a single boon: he wished to return to the land of the living so that he could witness his only son’s marriage. Hel agreed, gifting him with a fearful title: Grímarr would be the “Sword of Hel,” striking at her enemies.
From there, the narrative mentioned a wide variety of adventures that Grímarr engaged in, all on behalf of his deathly mistress. Eventually, he was freed from her service and his sword left behind in the world of man. That sword had acquired unique abilities over the years, soaked as it was in both the blood of Grímarr’s enemies and in the strange powers of Hel.
There were other items in the box, of course, but it was the sword that most enflamed Kirsten’s desires.
She knew that the Fuehrer believed that the sword and its companion pieces could be used to deliver a powerful killing blow to Germany’s enemies but a part of her secretly desired it for herself. To wield such a weapon… coupled with her armor, she would never need fear the depredations of men again.
The Fuehrer will use me as his Valkyrie, she thought with a smile, and I will help the Third Reich achieve its most glorious victories…
The image of the handsome police officer rose unbidden in her mind and her happy thoughts trailed away. What she’d done was distasteful but necessary, she believed… but he seemed so honest and his appearance was almost Aryan in its attractiveness.
Kirsten sighed, closing her eyes and tossing the papers away. Men were such vexing creatures, both enticing and frightening in equal amounts. She lay in bed, tossing and turning, for nearly an hour before she rose hesitatingly to approach her armor. She garbed herself in its metallic embrace and then returned to the bed, which creaked beneath her increased weight.
Encased in gleaming metal, she slept.
CHAPTER IV
The Scene of the Crime
The Peregrine’s connections with law enforcement, first put into place by the mysterious Benson but later strengthened considerably by McKenzie, allowed him access to areas that
would otherwise be considered closed crime scenes. At present, he was spending the early dawn hours crawling through the wreckage of McKenzie’s vacation house.
Max bent low, running his gloved hands through ash. He was near the area where McKenzie’s body had been found and he was considering doing something that he knew would be distasteful.
“Max?”
The Peregrine glanced up to see his wife approaching. She was in her adventuring gear, which consisted of khaki pants, a stiff blouse, gloves, coat and a small domino-style mask. Max regarded the entire ensemble with some amusement but he knew it pleased Evelyn to accompany him on his missions, as much as possible. Being a mother and a relatively successful actress usually kept her busy, but at times like this she wanted to be there for him.
“Find anything?” Max asked, grateful that the police had given them complete privacy at the moment.
“I checked the grounds like you asked and you’re right—there are multiple footprints out there, some of which couldn’t possibly be from the firemen or police officers.”
“What do you mean?”
Evelyn moved closer, her attractive features lined with worry. Several years younger than her husband, Evelyn was a auburn-haired buxom woman, with porcelain doll features. She’d starred in off-Broadway productions since her teen years and had moved into low-budget b-movies as well. Her most recent film, Bride of the Swamp Beast, hadn’t opened in theaters yet but Max had seen enough of the shooting to know it followed the usual plotlines, involving Evelyn’s character being placed in mortal peril, complete with artfully ripped bodice. “There are some that are too deep to have been made by any of the boots or shoes they’re wearing. From what you’ve taught me about gait, I’d say it was a woman who made them but she would have been incredibly heavy.”