Black rain, p.1
Black Rain, page 1
BLACK RAIN (ETHAN DRAKE BOOK 8)
N.P. MARTIN
Ethan Drake Series
BLACKSTAR (PREQUEL)
INFERNAL JUSTICE
BLOOD SUMMONED
DEATH DEALERS
BLACK MIRROR
HELL PATROL
INFERNAL VENGEANCE
INFERNUM
Deadson Confidential Trilogy
INFERNAL LAISONS
DEATH CULT
DRAGON BLOOD
Gods And Monsters Series
SINISTER MAGIC
OTHERWORLD MAGIC
SHADOW MAGIC
HELLFIRE MAGIC
WILDCARD MAGIC
ROCKSTAR MAGIC
Wizard’s Creed Series
CRIMSON CROW
BLOOD MAGIC
BLOOD DEBT
BLOOD CULT
BLOOD DEMON
Nephilim Rising Series
HUNTER’S LEGACY
DEMON’S LEGACY
HELL’S LEGACY
DEVIL’S LEGACY
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
Black Rain
Ethan Drake Series Book 8
Copyright © 2023 by N. P. MARTIN
npmartin.info@gmail.com
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
MAKE A DIFFERENCE
TEASER: INFERNAL LIAISONS (DEADSON CONFIDENTIAL BOOK 1)
Books By N. P. Martin
About The Author
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Chapter
One
The arduous journey of renewing my mystical tattoos was a marathon of persistence, fraught with the challenge of locating a skilled tattoo artist who possessed the rare knowledge of working with enchanted ink. Larry Swinger, my former tattoo maestro, met his untimely demise and left behind a void that was not easily filled. His expertise in the delicate art of blending magic and ink was unparalleled, and the tales of horrific consequences from botched magical tattoos were a stern reminder that you shouldn’t trifle with amateurs. With magical ink, even the slightest mistake could lead to a slow, agonizing demise. Once that ink was in you, there was no getting rid of it… unless you were willing to subject yourself to the horrendous experience of being incinerated alive, as I did during my stint in Hell. But the less said about that, the better.
But lady luck still had a soft spot for me, it seemed. Larry’s shop was standing, albeit locked and collecting cobwebs. His estranged daughter, the fresh owner of the joint, had no clue what to do with the place. So, I sneaked into the abandoned parlor, rifling through Larry’s leftovers until I hit pay dirt—a skinny black book with a list of contacts. Nestled in the lean list was Maria Gomez, an ink slinger who fit my bill.
After trading stories about Larry and laying out my unusual needs, Maria came on board, but with some hefty conditions. She needed top dollar and insisted I bring my own magic ink.
Back when I was with Blackstar, I had more resources at my fingertips than a third-world dictator. But now, I was finding out just how precious that magic ink really was. My initial foray led me to Danika, Pan Demic’s sister, in her underground lair. Despite her reputation for being able to procure nearly anything, the enigmatic ink eluded even her resourceful grasp. Apparently, the substance was so rare that even the shadowy corners of the black market couldn’t guarantee its availability.
“Why exactly do you need magical tattoos, Drake?” Danika had asked me.
I didn’t need them like I needed air, but I missed having them. The tattoos had always imparted a sense of protection, and their mind-wiping capabilities had often proven invaluable. Devoid of my ink, I felt exposed and vulnerable. Furthermore, I intended to enhance my arsenal of abilities this time around, considering the caliber of freaks I’d been facing.
For a while, I found myself at a loss, until a sudden realization struck me—the solution might lie within Richard Solomon’s abandoned residence in the Old Quarter. It had been over a year since I last ventured there, and Solomon, now deceased and apprenticed to Death itself, would have had no reason to return. As I gunned it toward the Old Quarter, I couldn’t help but ponder Solomon’s current situation and the impact of the recent power shift on his new role. Was the Dark God powerful enough to meddle with Death? Had the balance of power been disrupted at all? Something told if it had, I’d find out soon enough, one way or another.
Upon reaching Solomon’s house, I inexplicably knocked on the front door as though I expected him to greet me. Realizing the absurdity of my action, I was about to force my way inside when the door creaked open, revealing Stitch, whom I had entirely forgotten.
“Stitch,” I uttered, taking in his grotesque, patchwork appearance, the mismatched eyes and ears on his bald head. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Mathter Drake,” Stitch lisped, his disturbing grin expanding across his face. “Tho good to thee you. And thank you,” he added, dipping his head in a modest bow. “Do pleathe come in, Mathter Drake.”
The house remained as I remembered it—impeccably maintained, dimly lit, and permeated with an odd medley of odors. The air was cool, and I shivered involuntarily. Firing up a smoke, I started, “Didn’t figure you’d stick around, Stitch.”
“Where elthe would I go?” Stitch replied. “Thith houthe ith my world.”
“There’s more beyond these walls, just so you know.”
“Yeth, I know. But I wouldn’t fit that world. Mathter Tholomon always said tho.”
“So, how do you pass time here? Must get dull rattling around alone.”
“Oh, I’m not alone, Mathter Drake.”
“What?”
“I have my thildren to keep me company,” Stitch chirped, a tinge of pride in his voice.
I gave him a puzzled look. “Children, Stitch? You’ve been playing daddy?”
His sly smile resurfaced as he beckoned, “Timmy! Annie! Thay hello to our guetht.”
As I stood there, baffled, two small children, hand in hand, emerged from the shadows. Their waxy skin and deathly pallor rendered them eerily reminiscent of lifeless dolls. Like Stitch, their features were a mosaic of mismatched and crudely sewn body parts, once belonging to vibrant lives, now repurposed and reanimated. Their tiny, spindly limbs seemed to defy nature, held together by some hidden, unholy force.
Timmy, the boy, had a smattering of hair that appeared to have been threaded meticulously into his pale scalp, each strand bearing witness to the macabre craftsmanship of their creator. His sister, Annie, boasted slightly more hair, her reddish locks hanging limply around her ghastly face. Dressed in dreary, homemade clothes that clung to their unnatural bodies, the girl wore a ragged skirt and bandages that served as makeshift tights, while the boy sported shorts and mismatched shoes.
Their cold, glassy gazes pierced through me, raising goosebumps on my skin. Their voices rang out in an eerie unison, void of warmth. “Hello,” they chimed, their words an unsettling chant. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
I nodded at them, doing my best to smile and not appear thoroughly unnerved. “Eh, pleased to meet you too.”
“They are my pride and joy,” Stitch declared, placing his mismatched hands on the children’s shoulders.
“Yes,” I said. “I can see that. So, did you... create them, Stitch, or...” I trailed off, unsure how to phrase my question.
“Yeth,” Stitch answered, brimming with pride. “Fortunately, Mathter Tholomon liked to keep detailed noteth of all hith experimentth.”
“That’s handy. So, where’d you find the... pieces?”
“Oh, a magician never revealth hith thecretth, Mathter Drake,” Stitch said, then laughed for the first time I could recall. He sounded like a rusty gate creaking in a hurricane, but the joy was unmistakable. “But don’t worry, they’re all ethically thourthed—mothtly from the local graveyard’th clearanthe thale!” My eyes widened as I stared at him. “That wath a joke, Mathter Drake.”
“Right,” I stammered, forcing a chuckle as the two ‘children’ joined in, their laughter sounding forced and new. “You got me good there, Stitch.”
“I’m glad,” Stitch said. “Mathter Tholomon alwayth thtreththed the importanthe of humor in life.”
I stared at him. “He said that? Are you sure?”
“Mathter Tholomon’s humor wath, thhall we thay, dry, Mathter Drake.”
Dry? It was downright nonexistent!
“Anyway, Stitch,” I pivoted, wanting to dodge this nightmarish spectacle. “I was hoping you could help me find something.”
“Of course, Mathter Drake. I will thertainly do my betht. What ith it you need?”
“Magic tattoo ink. Solomon kept a lot of stuff here, so I figured he might have that too.”
“I think you might be in luck, Mathter Drake,” Stitch said, before turning to the two kids. “Children, you go back to your gameth now.”
“Yes, Father,” they said, their eyes devoid of life. “We will go back to our games now, Father.”
Still holding hands, Timmy and Annie walked slowly back to the room they had come from, and I watched as Stitch smiled after them.
“Things got a little lonely here then, did they, Stitch?” I asked him.
“Yeth, Mathter Drake, I’m afraid they did.”
“What about Solomon? Have you heard from him since his… transfiguration?”
“No, I haven’t, Mathter Drake. Though I mithth him tho. When he ith ready, I have no doubt he will vithit me here.”
Don’t hold your breath, I thought as I followed Stitch, descending into the shadowy depths of the basement. My senses stirred with vivid recollections of my last visit to this underground lair. The pungent aroma of Solomon’s dark experiments had once choked the air, but now, to my surprise, the basement had transformed into a more tolerable environment. Stitch’s handiwork was evident, as he had not only maintained the space with meticulous tidiness, but also infused the air with an almost saccharine scent of exotic herbs and mysterious concoctions.
As my eyes adjusted to the dimly lit chamber, I took in the sweeping vista of shelves that lined the walls, each laden with an astounding assortment of ingredients. It was a veritable cornucopia of the magical, the vile, and the hideously fascinating. Some items seemed to defy the very laws of nature, pulsating with a sickly glow or writhing as if possessed by a life of their own. Stitch had reorganized this arcane menagerie with surgical precision, making it easy for even the uninitiated to locate the most obscure reagents.
In this den of alchemical wonders, it became evident that Stitch had not only preserved Solomon’s legacy but elevated it to new heights. I couldn’t help but marvel at the metamorphosis that had taken place, transforming this once-foul dungeon into a mesmerizing and intoxicating display that captivated the senses.
It didn’t take Stitch long to find the ink. He used a ladder to take down a medium-sized glass jar filled with reddish-black ink, which he immediately handed to me. “I believe thith ith what you require, Mathter Drake. Will that be enough?”
“More than enough, I’d say. Thanks, Stitch.”
“Anything for you, Mathter Drake. As you know, Mathter Tholomon thought highly of you.”
I looked at him in surprise, almost laughing. “I wouldn’t have thought so. He didn’t show it much.”
“Yeth, well, Mathter Tholomon expreththed thingth in hith own way. I think I wath the only one who truly underthtood him.”
God help you, Stitch.
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “He was a complicated guy… to say the least.” I stared around at the various jars on the shelves. “Mind if I take a few other ingredients?”
“Help yourself, Mathter Drake. You are welcome to whatever you need.”
“Thanks, Stitch.”
I was running low on the ingredients I needed to make the Mud, ingredients which had become increasingly difficult to come by of late. It seemed like everyone was into making potions these days. When I told Stitch the ingredients I needed, he quickly found them for me and then we went back upstairs.
“I’m glad I could help you, Mathter Drake,” Stitch said as we stood in the hallway, the two kids in their makeshift playroom sitting on the floor staring out at me blankly. “It altho did my heart good to thee you again.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re doing okay, Stitch,” I said, smiling uneasily at Timmy and Annie, who soon went back to whatever game they were playing, which seemed to involve a dead crow and a pile of needles.
At the front door, Stitch said, “Feel free to call on me anytime, Mathter Drake. You are alwayth free to avail of the rethourtheth contained within thith houthe.”
“Good to know. Thanks, Stitch.”
Ink in hand, I woke the next morning with one destination in mind: Maria Gomez’s tattoo parlor, nestled deep within the unhallowed bosom of the Shadow District, that obscene bastard child of Chinatown. A purgatorial wasteland, hemmed in by the foul miasma of the Meatpacking District and the frigid, mechanical soul of the Industrial Zone.
A maddened city block, it gorged on the ghosts of dashed hopes and broken beings. It was a grim sanctuary for the forsaken and the fuck-ups, for the convicts, cretins, and bottom-feeders who had slipped through the grimy slits of society’s underbelly like rancid grease from a dirty spoon. Its asphalt arteries were slick with the filth of countless sins, the air heavy with the oppressive perfume of despair, an aroma that seemed to leech into my bones as I navigated its serpentine streets in the Dodge.
Its denizens, an unsightly collection of the dejected and deranged, scurried about like rats in the gutter, ceaselessly seeking their next high, their next hustle, their next sordid delight. A kind of mass lunacy permeated the district, a collective madness that infected every poor bastard who dared set foot within its shadowy depths. Its gravitational pull was all-consuming, sucking in everything in its insatiable maw like a black hole feasting on stars.
Barely able to discern anything through the Dodge’s open window, I cruised past alleyways choked with refuse, passed past storefronts with their lightless windows ajar, disgorging the nauseating reek of dubious substances and the riotous symphony of desperation. Each corner held a fresh horror—a gutter doctor stitching a bullet wound, a pack of wild kids brawling over a morsel of food, a junkie clawing at their own flesh in a pathetic attempt to escape the incessant torment of their self-inflicted hell.
In the darkest, foulest pit of the Shadow District, a tattoo parlor squatted like an infected boil. Its facade was a tapestry of neon and peeling paint, a sign overhead creaking in the fetid breeze like the wails of the damned. “Inkferno,” it proclaimed in blood-red, dribbling letters—a haven for the lost and cursed, where flesh was marked with both the mundane and the magical.
Shoving open the door, defaced by layers of graffiti, I was met by the relentless hum of the tattoo guns and a cocktail of sensory offense—the metallic sting of blood mingling with the acrid tang of antiseptic. The walls were a chaotic jigsaw of designs and images, from the trite to the blasphemous—pin-up girls frolicking with devils, skulls leering in perverse delight, and ancient sigils that throbbed with a forbidden power.
The parlor’s denizens, an unholy congregation of reprobates and misfits, scarred and mutilated, had hands as steady as a surgeon’s, etching out their black magic with an unholy grace. They were the high priests of this deranged temple, their needles like holy relics, carving patterns of light and shadow onto the sacrificial flesh of their disciples.
