Deadson Confidential: A Drakeverse Urban Fantasy Novel

by N. P. Martin

  “He wants to see you,” Mac said.

  “Figures. Why else would you be here? What’s he want?”

  Mac shrugged his massive, black-suited shoulders. “I didn’t ask. He’ll be at the restaurant tomorrow night at eight.”

  “Neutral ground, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  “And I suppose it’s just a coincidence that it’s the anniversary of my mother’s death tomorrow?”

  “I don’t get involved in your family politics, Damion,” he said. “I just do what your father tells me.”

  “Like a good little dingo.”

  Mac turned his head slowly as if he was going to snarl at me. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”

  I sighed and shook my head. “I’m sorry, Mac. My father just brings out the worst in me. I don’t know how you’re even still working for him after all this time.”

  “It’s just a job, mate. A very well-paid job.”

  “Don’t forget the good hunting grounds.”

  He nodded. “That as well.”

  “The deer still tasting good?”

  “Always.”

  I smiled slightly, remembering back to the first time I saw Mac in his weredingo form, with his ferocious jaws and wild eyes. Luckily, I saw him from a safe distance. I’m not sure what he would’ve done if I’d been standing near him. My father always told me and my sister to stay clear of the woods during a full moon, using the excuse that the bears got aggressive during this time. It was only when I happened to be on the balcony of the observatory looking down did I see Mac running naked toward the woods, stopping only to transform into a massive dog-like beast. I avoided Mac for weeks after that, until one day he took me aside and explained everything, telling me he was a weredingo, and had been since he was a kid himself. Until that point, I was only aware of such creatures from books in my father’s library. Seeing Mac that night transform into one cemented my belief in the supernatural, going from imagined to real.

  “You doing all right, mate?” Mac asked me, breaking my reverie.

  “If you mean am I still staying clear of the drugs, the answer is yes.”

  “You still hanging around with that succubus?”

  “Her name is Zee. You sound like my father with that tone.”

  “Sorry, mate. I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I’ve been reading your stories on the website,” he said, changing the subject. “I still don’t know why you insist on putting a target on your back like that. These people you’re writing about, some of them are major players. I’m surprised you haven’t been snuffed out yet.”

  “Some have tried. I can look after myself.”

  “It still mystifies me why you do it, Damion. Drawing attention to all this stuff isn’t going to change anything, you know. It just pisses people off.”

  “Like my father, you mean?”

  “Yeah, well. It’s no secret he hates what you do.”

  “That’s because he’s part of the conspiracy.”

  “What conspiracy?”

  “Don’t play dumb, Mac. You help maintain it.”

  “I do what—”

  “You’re told. Yeah, I know. That’s not an excuse.”

  “Look, mate,” Mac said. “The world is what it is. It’s controlled chaos and always has been. Railing against it like you do will change nothing. It’s just going to get you killed, and I’d hate to see that happen to you, mate. And I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m going to say it anyway. You’re your father’s only son. You’re all he has left, and he wants nothing more than for you to return home and take your rightful place by his side. The work he does is important, and he believes you’ll see it as important too if you just give him a chance to explain—”

  “Jesus, Mac,” I said, cutting him off. “Did he tell you to say all that shit?”

  Mac stared at me before shaking his head. “No, he didn’t. The fact is, Damion, I’ve worked for your father for a long time now. I watched you and your sister grow up. I saw the devastating effect your sister’s disappearance had on you. I care for you as much as anyone, mate. I just don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all.”

  “That’s very noble of you, Mac,” I said. “But I’m doing just fine on my own. Now, if you don’t mind, I got work to do.”

  Opening the door, Mac paused and said, “So what will I tell your father about tomorrow night?”

  “Tell him whatever you like.”

  Mac nodded. “All right, then. I’ll see you.”

  “Mac?” I said when he was outside.

  “Yeah?”

  “I didn’t mean to be a dick. I appreciate your concern.”

  Smiling, Mac said, “I know, mate,” before closing the door.

  Alone in the car now, I breathed deeply and sighed as I sat for a moment watching the rain hit off the windshield as my cravings for a cigarette hit peak levels again. To take my mind off things, I turned on the stereo to play the Tool CD that was already in there, turning the music up loud as I started the car up and drove away, wondering if I was ever going to be free from my father’s over-arching influence and my murky family history.

  8

  God—the supernatural entity that used to rule over the world, and who did a mighty shit job of it, I might add—was gone. God was dead or on vacation, or lounging in front of the TV smoking reefers and eating enormous bags of Cheetos, his long white beard covered in yellow dust. Whatever the case, the Big Guy was no longer around, and in His place, we now had His son, Lucifer. It was a situation nobody saw coming, made possible—from what I heard anyway—by Ethan Drake and his band of merry miscreants. Exactly how Drake was responsible for this change in the universal order, I don’t really know. But the rumors going around the Occult Underground seemed to suggest that Drake actually saved the world from ruin at the hands of Wendell Knightsbridge, the man who ran the Blackstar corporation, a company that was now no more. By all accounts, Knightsbridge was going to seriously fuck shit up for everyone until Drake stopped him. Word is, Drake ripped Knightsbridge’s heart from his chest, but that’s just a rumor someone posted on the DC forum, a rumor I had yet to corroborate.

  In a strange twist of fate, Christianity—the once prevalent religion in this country and many others—had now been driven underground. Taking center stage now was Luciferianism, and in Fairview, the main Church of Lucifer was located Downtown. Luciferianism now being the world’s dominant religion—and Fairview’s official one—the old Christian church Downtown was converted into a Luciferian house of worship. This sea change happened quickly. Most people believed it was because Lucifer had already many cultists and followers in place to make the transition, a transition that most people hardly questioned as the changes came from on high. Instrumental in making sure that people accepted the changes was the Vatican. The Pope came out one day and made a big speech about how Lucifer, the son of God, had learned the error of his ways, and that God Himself had willingly handed over the reins to his number one son. Of course, many would argue that the Vatican was always Luciferian in nature anyway. Now things were just made official. For a while, after the Pope made his speech, there was uproar across the world, with much rioting in the streets and more than a few deaths. But the authorities soon got things under control, and the people soon came to accept Lucifer as their new God. You know Sleepers. Anything for an easy life.

  Looking at the massive church as I drove past it, I was once again amazed by how goddamn Satanic it looked. The whole outside of the church had been painted black, the stained glass windows that used to display scenes from Christian lore now showed scenes from the life of Lucifer, including his Phoenix-like rise from the ashes of Hell as he ascended into Heaven. The Christian cross that sat atop the church’s roof had now been inverted and outlined in red neon. Indeed, there was neon everywhere, making the church look like some Goth nightclub. But regardless of how dark and Satanic the building looked, it was now the stan
dard design for churches across the world. Even the priests, who many would argue looked Satanic enough already, were now decked out in black and red robes with a pentagram on the back, inverted crosses hanging around their necks.

  Outside the church, a small gathering of people stood protesting the new regime change, holding placards that said: STOP THE BLASPHEMY! and THERE IS ONLY ONE TRUE GOD! For the most part, passersby ignored these protesters, but some people made devil horns at the protestors, laughing as they did so, while others spat at them. Lucifer, you see, had all but bribed the people of Earth into giving him allegiance, and he did this by answering people’s prayers. If he didn’t appear to people directly when they prayed to him, he would sometimes grant their wishes, making some people rich, others beautiful, still others famous. This is how Lucifer was able to dominate the world with his new religion—he bribed people into becoming loyal. Once people knew there was a possibility all of their prayers might be answered—prayers the former God had turned a deaf ear to—they soon fell to their knees and proclaimed their love for the Beautiful Beast.

  I almost felt sorry for the small band of protestors as I drove past the church. They were desperately clinging to something that, for all intents and purposes, didn’t exist anymore. No doubt they already knew this deep down, but that didn’t stop them from trying to bring back that which they had lost. If I didn’t understand their plight, I might have ridiculed the protestors like everyone else did. As it was, to ridicule them would have been to ridicule myself.

  The offices of Intimate Contacts was located in a three-story building at a business park just past Downtown. The website was actually part of a larger company called GeekMind, which owned various porn websites, and also had its hand in a number of other ventures—via a complex web of subsidiaries—that one might describe as “seedy.” I only knew this because I had interviewed the head of the company—one Martin Phillips—twice before in relation to a couple of websites he owned that dealt in what you might call “horror porn” or “snuff lite.” Stuff that was distasteful bordering on sickening, involving various monsters doing nasty things to people. The monsters on the sites were meant to be fake—even though some clearly weren’t—but the things said monsters did to their “victims” often looked all too real, despite the websites’ saying it was all special effects and “wholesome entertainment for these trying times.”

  The stories I wrote for the Midnight Inquirer got the sites shut down. A furious Martin Phillips threatened to get me shut down as well, but he never succeeded in that end, managing only to turn fans of the disgusting sites against me, who for months, sent me hate mail and threatening emails, which stopped suddenly one day. Later, I found out it was because the sites had started back up again, but now operated as closely screened membership sites that demanded a hefty fee from users. I could have gone after Phillips and his monster porn again, but I had bigger fish to fry at the time, so I let it all slide.

  Going into the offices of GeekMind, I wasn’t exactly expecting a warm reception once it became clear who I was. In fact, I expected to be escorted out of the building by the burly security guards in the lobby once the receptionist phoned through to Phillips to announce my presence. If this happened, I had another plan in mind to try and get the information I was after, one that involved a more backdoor method. But I decided to try the front door first, just in case Mr. Phillips was in a welcoming mood.

  “Who should I say is calling?” the receptionist—a young guy with impeccable dark hair and spotless skin—asked me as he picked up the phone to call through to his boss.

  “Damion Deadson,” I said. “I’m a journalist.”

  “Oh,” the receptionist said, suddenly losing his smile. “Don’t hold your breath then.”

  I smiled at him. “I won’t.”

  The receptionist flashed me a quick, humorless smile before speaking into the phone. “Mr. Phillips, sir, there’s a Damion Deadson here asking to see you. He says he’s a journalist.” The receptionist paused for a second. “Yes, sir. I’ll tell him, sir. Word for word. Of course, sir.”

  “Well?” I said after the receptionist put the phone down.

  “Mr. Phillips said for you to suck a big monster cock, and to get the fuck out of this building right now before security drags you out.” The receptionist beamed at me like he’d just told me to have a nice day. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  My hand was inside my coat pocket, and without even thinking about, one of the sigil cards inserted itself between my fingers. The knockout spell. Oh, what satisfaction it would have given me to use the card on the smug receptionist, but I held back. “Okay,” I said. “Pick up the phone again and tell your boss that if he doesn’t speak to me, he’s going to find his face splashed on the front page of the Midnight Inquirer, under the headline, ‘GeekMind Owner Investigated Over Child Porn Allegations.’ The story will explain how a known pedophile ring has been distributing child pornography on Mr. Phillips’ websites’ with his full knowledge. One credible source even alleges that Mr. Phillips himself is heavily involved with said pedophile ring, and can be seen in a number of the sickening videos.” I paused for a second as the disgust mounted on the receptionist’s smug face. “Tell Mr. Phillips if he doesn’t want his name dragged through the mud and his websites shut down pending a full investigation by the authorities, all he has to do is spare me ten minutes of his valuable time to discuss a murder case linked to his website, Intimate Connections. Can you do that, please?”

  The receptionist shook his head at me as he lifted the phone again. “You’re disgusting, you know that.”

  “I’m disgusting? Do you even know who you’re working for?”

  “Mr. Phillips is a reputable businessman who—yes, hello sir. It’s me again. The gutter journalist is still here…yes, I know you did, sir, but he’s being very insistent—”

  “Tell him what I said. Word for word.”

  His jaw tensing, the receptionist sighed and repeated everything I had said to him. To his credit, he did so with a hundred percent accuracy. When he’d finished, he held the phone away from his ear for a second as if his boss was yelling at him, then he said, “Yes, sir. Very good, Mr. Phillips.”

  “Well?” I said, knowing what his answer would be.

  “Mr. Phillips said to go up to his office,” the receptionist sneered.

  I smiled. “Thanks very much. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “There’s a special place in hell for people like you, you know,” the receptionist called after me.

  “I think I’m in it already,” I called back before getting into the elevator.

  Martin Phillips. Even his name sleazed me out, though not anywhere near as much as the man himself. His office, for one thing, was a shrine to his massive ego and complete lack of taste when it came to decorating an office that befitted the head of a probable billion dollar company. Then again, considering the kind of business he was in—and the kind of person he was—you could say Phillips’ office decor suited him just fine.

  Double velvet-lined doors marked the entrance to Phillips’ office. When you walked inside, the first thing you noticed was the four white fluted pillars along the back wall, a huge white-rimmed circular wall light between each one. The next thing you noticed was the huge red leather chair behind the ridiculously expensive designer desk. And then you realized the office had no windows, and you wondered why. It’s not because Phillips was a vampire—although an argument could be made that he was a vampire, just not the traditional blood-sucking type, though it wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that the man partook in a little blood drinking action when the mood suited him, or when he had to partake in the occult rituals his kind used to keep themselves top of the pile. Top of the money pile, that is. In every other sense, a man like Phillips was definitely bottom of the pile. He had pornographic sculptures sitting in the huge room, for Christ’s sake, of devils fucking angels in not very pleasant ways. His walls held framed photographs of amateu
r porn stars. One huge picture showed a blond woman—a MILF, you might say, if you were to use the industry lingo—sucking a cock that I would’ve betted belonged to Phillips, only you couldn’t see his head in the picture as it was cropped out. Various porn awards were scattered about the place like ornaments, the closest to me reading: MOST POPULAR PORN SITE 2020 - PORNDOGS. He also had a large couch against one wall. God only knows how many poor girls he had screwed on that, figuratively and literally, probably in the sleaziest way possible.

  The pièce de résistance, however, was the plaster cast of a huge penis proudly displayed on the designer desk. That thing must have been eleven inches long and as thick as a baby’s arm. It was gross and in shockingly poor taste, especially since it was plainly a cast of Phillips’ own cock. Or perhaps just a fantasy version of it. Whatever the case, I couldn’t help but wonder what people thought when they walked into that office to be greeted by that veiny, bulbous-headed thing.

  As for Phillips himself, he didn’t seem to be around. I stood for a moment wondering if this was Phillips’ idea of a joke, calling me up to his office knowing he wouldn’t be there. But Phillips soon emerged from the wall, or at least appeared to as he walked out of what must have been a hidden room, the door to which blended perfectly with the dark green wall. Phillips—wearing a custom made purple Adidas tracksuit and wearing mirror sunglasses—didn’t even acknowledge my presence as he walked over and sat down in that oversized chair of his. There he sat for a second, smoothing his comb-over across his balding head, before opening a drawer and taking out a small mirror, on top of which was a pile of white powder and a bill of unknown denomination, though I guessed it was probably a hundred. Phillips then hoovered up two lines of the white powder before opening his mouth exaggeratedly to stretch his jaw, rubbing his nose at the same time. “Woo-ee!” he said before finally looking at me. “Can I interest you in a line, Deadson?”