by N. P. Martin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental
N.P. Martin
Deadson Confidential
Deadson Confidential Series Book 1
Copyright © 2021 by N. P. MARTIN
[email protected]
Cover design by Original Book Cover Designs
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
MAKE A DIFFERENCE
TEASER: INFERNAL JUSTICE (ETHAN DRAKE BOOK 1)
Books By N. P. Martin
About The Author
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1
The men who kidnapped me smelled like blood. The rusted iron scent found its way through the material of the hood that had been forced over my head after they grabbed me. Although the smell could just as easily have been my own blood, for one bastard punched me in the mouth before I was thrown into the back of the van I found myself being transported in.
Transported to where, I didn’t know, though I was sure it was no place good. Ten minutes before, I had been walking down the street minding my own business, having just finished a meeting with a contact around the back of some seedy BDSM club. After paying my contact for the information he gave me, I stopped at a liquor store to get a bottle of Scotch so I could drink while I worked the rest of the night at home. The Scotch bottle was now lying broken on the side of the road a ways back, its contents running into the gutter no doubt. Bastards. That was expensive whiskey. The good stuff, aged fifteen years. I’d be lucky to find the money for another bottle any time soon, and that’s if I even survived the little mystery tour I was now on.
I had counted three guys during my abduction. They burst out of the side of the van that screeched up alongside me, two of them immediately grabbing me before I knew what was happening, the other punching me in the face before putting the hood over my head. Despite my muffled protests and panicked questions, none of the men said a word. They were clearly professionals, and had done this kind of thing—snatching people off the street—many times before. They didn’t mess about, and they knew not to speak to me. Their ominous silence only added to my fear and confusion.
As soon as I got dumped face-first into the van—an older model black Dodge, that’s all I remember—I felt what must have been a knee in my back that forced the wind out of my lungs as I cried out in shock, and then my arms got yanked behind me and zip tied. Once they had me secured, they patted me down for weapons, finding the Glock 19 in my shoulder holster, the double-edged knife strapped to my right ankle, and the pocket full of sigil cards I had on me. That put paid to me using any of those things to save myself. Now all I had was my wits.
For the next ten minutes—I think anyway, it was hard to tell—I lay on the cold floor of the van and tried to calm my racing thoughts, which wasn’t easy, given that fear and uncertainty had me tight in their respective grips. When the van started moving, I had this notion that I could somehow figure out where the van was going if I concentrated hard enough, feeling for the turns and the stops, counting how long it took to get from one place to another. But after a few frantic minutes, it quickly became clear that I wasn’t Liam Neeson, and that I did not know where I was going. My mind could only focus on the fact that something horrible was about to happen to me, and that I was probably about to die. Maybe from a bullet to the head, or worse, by being weighted and dumped into the river, my bloated corpse eventually finding its way to shore somewhere to be discovered by some guy out walking his dog, and that’s if the creatures in the river didn’t eat me first.
All right, I thought as I tried to breathe through the thick material of the hood over my head. Stay calm and focus. Who would’ve done this? Who would’ve sent a bunch of thugs out to kidnap me?
The questions made my mind race and my heart to thump harder in my chest. I’d pissed off so many people because of my work—so many bad people—that any of them could have been responsible for my current predicament. Christ, it was my job to piss people off and make enemies. That was the business I was in. I’d been at it so long, I hardly gave it any thought anymore.
Unless things like this happened.
The van stopped moving, but the engine was still running. I held my breath as I waited to see what would happen. The men around me didn’t appear to be moving. Outside, I could hear traffic—horns blaring, engines running.
We must be at a stoplight.
The silence. The horrible anticipation. It was killing me.
Someone coughed, and I flinched.
The van lurched forward again.
Christ, I can’t take this shit…
I was torn between wanting the journey to end—to see what fate had in store for me—and being glad that we still hadn’t arrived wherever they were taking me. As long as the van kept moving, I was safe.
Safe as a lamb in a den of wolves.
FML.
I desperately wanted to speak, to plead with my kidnappers, but I knew there would be no point. The second I opened my mouth, I’d get a dose of pain in return, and I’d still be none the wiser about what was going on.
We seemed to be on a long straight now. No stops for the last few minutes. No turns.
Fuck, this silence is killing me. Goddamn professionals.
Maybe if I’d been kidnapped by amateurs, they would’ve run their mouths off and then maybe I could’ve gotten information out of them. I could’ve prepared myself for my eventual destination. But not these guys. These guys were stone cold.
So what did that say about them? What did that say about who they worked for? Could they work for one of the vampire clans? The clans often used humans to do their dirty work. And I published that story last week about the Furer Clan’s involvement with the adrenochrome trade, a story that caused quite a stink, drawing attention to their warehouse operation in the Industrial Zone. Not by the cops—who mostly took no notice of what I wrote—but by a werewolf gang who apparently tried to muscle in on the operation. I heard there was quite a battle between the two gangs before the Furers drove the lycans off. If this was the Furer clan, I was fucked, for I was about to be strung from a street
light and gutted.
But then I also ousted that hellot cult a while a back for stealing kids off the street and using them as human sacrifices. That story drew a lot of attention on the website. Even the cops got involved after it emerged that one of the street kids was actually a rich kid from the Hills, slumming it in Old Town. Not that the cops got very far in their investigation, mind. Hellots are good at covering up their messes, and the FPD is full of corruption and deep-seated apathy anyway. The leader of the cult, a man named Dorian Silvers—a high-priced lawyer—called me a few days after the story broke and told me I would get what’s coming to me sooner rather than later. I normally didn’t pay any attention to such threats. I got them all the time. In my line of work, threats to your life are par for the course.
Godammit. Why did I have to make my living by being a shit-stirrer?
I could’ve just kept the silver spoon in my mouth and lived off the trust fund my father had set up for me. It would’ve been a hell of a lot easier, I’ll tell you that. But I’d rather swing from a street light than accept anything off my father. That should tell you all you need to know about my relationship with the man.
The van stopped again, and I fell back into my state of hypervigilance, holding my breath as I waited to see if the vehicle would move again.
But it didn’t.
The engine stopped running and the three men in the back with me started to move, heavy boots stomping the metal floor around my head. I heard the back doors creak open and then I got lifted out of the van and plonked unsteadily on my feet, the sudden coldness outside cooling the sweat coating my skin.
“Walk,” a deep voice barked as I got pushed forward, both my arms being held as I was forced to move. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to walk with your arms tied behind your back and a hood over your head, but it’s damn difficult and very disorientating. With every unsure step it felt like I was about to fall down a dark hole, and I kept waiting for my face to plant the hard concrete or whatever surface I was walking on.
Ahead of me, I heard a creaking sound, which sounded like a door opening.
“Watch the step,” a gruff voice said, too late, for I tripped and lurched forward, the only thing stopping me from falling being the two assholes holding my arms in their iron grip, their fingers digging painfully into my biceps.
We were inside now. Somewhere warm, or at least warmer than outside. Smells immediately wafted through the hood and into my nostrils—stale cigarette smoke, and disinfectant that failed to mask the musty smell of damp.
This must be an old building. And it smells somehow familiar…
It felt like I was walking on carpet tiles now, and despite the hood over my head, I still sensed an almost cozy atmosphere. Quiet. Serene almost.
Apart from the faint sound of screaming coming from somewhere.
What the hell is that? It sounds…recorded. Like it’s coming from a speaker.
Ahead, I heard another door being opened, and the screaming sounds immediately got louder. There were other sounds as well—the buzzing of a power tool, the unmistakable wet slap of blood hitting a hard surface.
Is this a cinema? Is that the sound of a horror movie playing?
I got pushed forward slightly, and then the iron grips on my arm were released as the hood got whipped off my head and the ties binding me were cut, freeing my arms at last, which now ached like hell. I expected to be blinded by bright light once the hood was removed, but the only light in the dark room I found myself in was the light from the huge screen in front of me. As my eyes adjusted to the glare, images of horror flashed before me as a masked, naked man appeared to drill holes into a woman’s face with a power drill. When the camera suddenly zoomed in—just as the thick drill bit went into the woman’s eye—I had to look away. Two seconds of seeing it and I knew it was no horror movie playing up there, but some sick snuff movie.
With an overwhelming urge to flee, I turned and pulled on the doors, but they were locked.
“Damion Deadson,” a gruff voice said from somewhere, making me spin around to look for the person who spoke my name.
I know that voice. Shit. Now I know what’s going on here… and who’s doing this.
But before I tell you who my kidnapper is, let me just pause for a second and rewind a bit, for I realize I haven’t told you very much about me or what it is I do. At least you know my name now. In case you missed it, it’s Damion Deadson. Kind of a weird surname, I know, but it apparently goes back to the early part of the century when my ancestors first moved to Washington State, and to the great city of Fairfield, having made their way over from London, England. My great, great grandfather decided the family needed a new surname, and they chose Deadson. This fact became more significant—funny, even—when I found out my great, great grandfather liked to dabble in necromancy. In fact, the Dark Arts have played a big part in my family history, with just about everyone having a hand in it to some degree. Even me these days, though mostly for protection.
But let’s not get into my murky family history just yet. Let’s talk instead about what it is I do, which should throw some light on why I found myself kidnapped and brought to some seedy snuff cinema owned by a despicable vampire named Byron Black.
In case you haven’t guessed, I’m an investigative reporter. The type of stuff I investigate, you won’t see mentioned in any mainstream newspaper or the six o’clock news. I concern myself only with prodding the dark underbelly of this city, the Occult Underground most citizens don’t even know exists. I lift rocks and shine my light under them to see what comes scurrying out, which is usually supernatural criminals of one type or another. I uncover the conspiracies and injustices these often despicable beings perpetrate. I find the story and then I write it up on my website, Deadson Confidential (DC for short), so the Sleepers out there can become that bit more awake, and that little bit more aware of the supernatural filth that surrounds them.
I shine a light into the darkness. That’s my job, and it has been for the last fifteen years or so.
There’s more to my story. A lot more. You haven’t even met Zee yet—but we’ll get to that later.
In the meantime, let’s get back to Byron Black and his filthy cinema. Black is a vampire, but he doesn’t belong to any clan. He’s what you might call an independent. What the clans refer to as Scumdogs. It’s an apt title, especially for someone like Bryon Black, who spends most of his time wallowing in scum. The same argument could be made about me, of course, but let’s not go there.
“Damion Deadson,” Black said in his growly voice from somewhere inside the dark cinema. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?” I said as I walked down the center aisle, rubbing my chaffed wrists as I looked to see where the vampire was, soon spotting the back of his huge bald head five rows back from the front. “You could’ve just called and asked to meet you know.”
“Would you have come if I did?”
“Probably not.”
“Well then. Get your scrawny ass over here. Don’t spoil my viewing by making me come and get you.”
“Yeah,” I said as I made my way reluctantly down the aisle to the fifth row. “Wouldn’t want to spoil the show or anything.”
On the screen, the woman screamed again, a horrible drawn out sound as the drill went into her ear.
I can’t believe I have to endure this shit.
I’d seen enough of Black’s “material” when I was investigating him the week before. If I never saw another snuff movie for the rest of my life, it would be too soon. Some things you just can’t unsee, but I guess that’s a hazard of the job.
Like Black himself, for instance. He was three hundred pounds of pure slime squeezed into a black leather bondage outfit, no hair on his head except for the long strands that hung from his temples over his shoulders. Tied to those greasy strands of hair were two very small human skulls, one on either side. The Horseman of Gluttony some people called Black, and for
good reason. He was always eating, and being a vampire, what he ate most was human flesh, and what he drank was blood. Most vampires just stuck with blood, for they needed nothing else to sustain themselves. Black, however, had developed a taste for flesh as well, and he ate it like a delicacy.
“Come, sit,” Black said, his eyes never leaving the screen in front of him.
Just the thought of having to sit next to Jabba the Huts’ bondage-loving little brother was enough to turn my stomach, but I knew I had to, for despite his size, Black could still move fast. He may have been a fat, loathsome bastard, but he was still a vampire, and vampires can have their hands around your throat in the time it takes you to blink.
So having little choice in the matter, I made my way slowly between the seats before stopping two seats away from him.
“Closer,” he said as I went to sit down, his eyes still enraptured by the real life horror on the screen.
Sighing slightly, I stared at Black for a second before moving toward him again, stopping by the seat next to him before slowly sitting down as if I expected the seat to explode when my ass touched it. As soon as I was seated, I sat uncomfortably while the horror continued to play out on the screen, so sickening I couldn’t even look at it.
“It’s a double bill,” Black said. “You should see what’s coming on next.” He raised his hand to his mouth, taking a bite out of whatever he was holding. Something small, maybe the size of an orange. When he bit down on it, his teeth crunched against bits of white, and blood ran through his fingers. When he chewed, he made more crunching sounds, like someone eating a boiled sweet. I didn’t ask what he was eating. I didn’t have to.