Dead Jack and the Old Gods: Dead Jack, #3

By James Aquilone

COSMIC HORROR! LOVECRAFTIAN MADNESS! FAIRY DUST!

 

In the third book in the Dead Jack series, eldritch terrors threaten to invade Pandemonium. Meanwhile, Jack and Oswald's relationship is at the breaking point over the homunculus's newfound powers. Can Jack and Oswald stop the Old Gods before they kill each other?

The series is being developed for film and TV. Read Dead Jack and the Old Gods now before it hits the screen!

NOVELS IN THE SERIES:

• DEAD JACK AND THE PANDEMONIUM DEVICE (BOOK 1)
• DEAD JACK AND THE SOUL CATCHER (BOOK 2)
• DEAD JACK AND THE OLD GODS (BOOK 3)

 

SHORT STORIES:

• "Dead Jack and the Case of the Amorous Ogre"
• "Dead Jack and the Case of the Creepy Cryptid"
• "Dead Jack and Oswald Meet Frankenstein"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Homunculus House
• Release date: Aug 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781946346087

James Aquilone

James Aquilone was raised on Saturday morning cartoons, comic books, sitcoms, and Cap'n Crunch. Amid the Cold War, he dreamed of being a jet fighter pilot but decided against the military life after realizing it would require him to wake up early. He had further illusions of being a stand-up comedian, until a traumatic experience on stage forced him to seek a college education. Brief stints as an alternative rock singer/guitarist and child model also proved unsuccessful. Today he battles a severe Tetris addiction while trying to write in the speculative fiction game. Demons, robots, dragons, superheroes...that sort of thing. His short fiction has been published in such places as Nature's Futures, "The Best of Galaxy's Edge 2013-2014," "Unidentified Funny Objects 4," and Weird Tales Magazine. His first novel should be out soon. Suffice it to say, things are going much better than his modeling career.  He lives in Staten Island, New York, but don't hold that against him.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A Zombie’s Sanctuary

The man in the mirror was an ugly bastard. His face was death itself. Sunken, soulless eyes stared back at me. Skin tough and dried like beef jerky. Exposed bone. Holes where they shouldn’t be. It had taken me years before I could look at my reflection. Now, I find myself staring at it every day. I must be a glutton for punishment.

A bright and shiny mound of fairy dust sat on the corner of the bathroom sink. My candy twinkled in the dim light, a rainbow in powder form, the only thing alive in the water closet.

"We have an appointment in fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes!" an irritating voice screeched from behind the bathroom door.

Shut the fook up! I’m in the bathroom. Can’t a man have peace in the bathroom? The bathroom should be a sanctuary.

Then the homunculus banged on the door. Big meaty knocks. Boom-boom-boom. His fists, I was sure, had been inflated to the size of an ogre or wood troll’s.

I said no hoodoo. Isn’t that what I said? You break down that door, and I’ll never go to the therapist.

"It’s not hoodoo. I could always do this. I’m a shapeshifter, remember?" The banging stopped. Now, it was just me and the mirror and the dust again. Therapy? The little lunatic wanted us to see a headshrinker. He was the crazy one. I didn’t need to rehash the past. Some things are better off buried and not dug up. I should know.

I sprinkled a little dust on my fist.

Is that fookin dust? Oswald shouted through the door. The little runt had super-sensitive hearing now?

I didn’t answer him. For the first time in my godforsaken existence, I had a healthy supply of dust, and I couldn’t enjoy it?

"You’re not taking dust before our first therapy session! Oswald sounded hysterical, his voice raised to a pitch only Cerberus could hear. What’s wrong with you?"

That’s a good fookin question. I raised my fist to my nose and snorted mightily. My head jerked back as the dust entered my nasal cavity. The Fourth of July went off in my brain. Supernovas burst behind my eyes. A warm loaf of just-baked bread sat in my stomach.

Fook, Oswald muttered.

Then I scooped up the rest of the dust in both hands and inhaled that, too. Yowza! Seltzer bubbles bubbled up my spine.

I straightened my fedora in the mirror, winked at my gruesome reflection, which threw off sparks and shimmered like a mirage—this was primo dust—and triumphantly opened the bathroom door.

I’m ready to go, I said, and passed out, hitting the floor face first, but not before seeing the look of disappointment on Oswald’s stupid face.

Chapter 2

Waiting Room of Doom

Two days later, I found myself in the therapist’s office. Sober. When you find yourself in a Pandemonium therapist’s office, you know you’ve made some terrible afterlife decisions. I’ve experienced some fooked-up shit, but I’ve never needed a shrink. Denial and a shot of Devil Boy always fixed the problem. Then that obnoxious homunculus came along.

I’m in a really good place, Oswald said stupidly. A big smile blossomed on his face. Like I’m floating on air.

The marshmallow thought he was a regular Jack Benny because he was, in fact, floating on air, hovering over the periodical-covered coffee table in Dr. Noctua’s waiting room. Behind him was a poster of a sad-looking man. Underneath him, it read: Let’s turn that frown upside down.

Dunzy, what did I say about the hoodoo? Knock it off. It’s not cute.

He didn’t listen to me. Ever since he had come out of his coma, Oswald was an obstinate little bastard.

As he floated above me, he read a knitting magazine just to be annoying. He didn’t even knit. There were perfectly reasonable chairs all around him, and much better magazines, Boy’s Afterlife and The Saturday Evening Post-Mortem, to name a few.

We’re going to talk about your hoodoo rules with the doctor, Oswald threatened. He didn’t look up from his knitting magazine. "We’re going to talk to the doctor about a lot of things."

Dr. Noctua was a headshrinker. Not really a doctor. Not even a witch doctor. I trusted witch doctors. Once you got beyond the masks and feathers and chanting, they usually got results. Headshrinkers, on the other hand, took your money and forced you to talk about having sex with your mother.

The waiting room was small and cramped, even though we were the only ones in it. The grass-green carpet was worn thin. You could see the floor beneath in spots. I sat in a hard wooden chair opposite the receptionist, an ancient mummy who wore cat-eye glasses and bright red lipstick smeared over her head bandages. Beside her was a pile of brochures about dust addiction with such titles as Fairy Dust Kills and So You’re a No-Good Dust Head.

"Shrink, you mean, I said, and you’re embarrassing me."

You’re a corpse in a cheap suit. You don’t get embarrassed.

Get down or I’m walking out. This was your idea to come here, and I was nice enough to agree.

After I threatened to make all your Devil Boy vanish.

All I wanted was for Oswald to stop using his newfound powers, which he had gained after absorbing a Jupiter Stone, the most powerful energy source in Pandemonium. Apparently, it made him some sort of wizard with unlimited power. The problem? Oswald is a lunatic who can’t be trusted with typing a grocery list.

We’re going to talk about that, too, with the good doctor, I said. You’ve become a lunatic. They lock up people like you but go ahead and take your chances in there.

I’ll be fine. Seriously, I’m in a good place. Why shouldn’t I be? After all I’ve been through.

Please, don’t go over it again. I was there. I’m always there.

Let’s see. First, a Jupiter Stone blew up underneath me—

Lucifer, stop.

Then I went into a coma. You thought I was dead. I remember you were pretty concerned.

Don’t remember that.

I was abducted by neo-Nazis and attached to a Soul Sucker, and then I learned I’m alive because your soul is inside me.

Thank you for the recap, annoyance. You forgot the part where you turned into a ticking time bomb.

I’m powerful.

A powerful lunatic. The most dangerous kind. Sit down. In a chair. Or I’m leaving. I stood in a threatening manner.

Oswald pouted, rolled his X-shaped eyes, and slowly, obstinately, gradually, stubbornly, with arms crossed over his chest, floated down, a deflating balloon making its way back to the earth, and sat in the chair below. I sat back down, too, in a manner just a tad less threatening but not by too much.

Your idea is to do nothing, he said, clearly irritated. Let things fester like a sore until maggots grow out of it and eat away at the flesh. Sometimes, you’re such a fookin zombie.

Keep talking like that, let the doctor see how crazy you sound. After you swallowed that Jupiter Stone, you were never the same. You used to be obnoxious. Now, you’re unbearable.

I picked up a copy of that morning’s Daily Specter off the coffee table. The front-page headline blared: Black Powder Overtaking Five Cities.

Have you heard about this new drug? I asked. Maybe I should try it.

I heard it’s a mix of mummy dust, dragon’s blood, a pinch of fairy dust, and a bunch of other unknown stuff. It supposedly puts you in a blissful catatonic state.

Zonks you out, huh? The paper says it’s becoming more popular than fairy dust. That’s good. It might be easier to get.

I’m keeping notes. The doctor will be informed about that.

I flipped through the paper. Stories of a Midtown ShadowShade bank being knocked over by an ogre gang. Bludletter, ShadowShade’s biggest crime boss, was arrested for trying to extort Mayor Ed Varkiss. He was released three hours later. He had the best vampire lawyers money could buy.

On page six, I saw a familiar face. The headline read: Unicorn de Havilland Finds Love With Mystery Redhead. I knew the redhead, too, but she wasn’t a redhead the last time I saw her. Our little Zara Moonbeam must have dyed it. The photo showed the petite Unicorn in a short multicolored dress leaving a downtown nightclub while holding hands with Zara. I read the article.

Word around ShadowShade is Unicorn is dating a groupie, and from what we hear, the gal is Unicorn’s No. 1 fan, a real Kill Unicorn Kill army member from way back. Seems Unicorn now is just as obsessed with this voluptuous, giant, who—get this, dear readers—claims to be half pixie. Maybe half of her big, fat derriere is.

I looked at the byline. Nell Cavendish. Nell probably wasn’t aware of the fact that if Zara heard the word fat to describe her, she’d kick her derriere straight to the Outer Lands.

So now, Zara was dating Unicorn de Havilland? Crazier stuff has happened in the Five Cities, I guess.

Mr. Jack and Mr. Oswald! Doctor Noctua will see you now, the mummy receptionist said. Dust puffed out of her mouth.

Headshrinker time, I said, and clapped my hands.

Just give it a chance.

No.

Chapter 3

Therapy Is a Not a Hoot

Dr. Evelyn Noctua was an owl. Not a little, normal owl, but a giant, human-sized owl with enormous taloned hands she kept in her lap. She regarded us from over her horn-rimmed glasses, which sat precipitously at the tip of her sharp beak.

Please, sit wherever you’d like, she said, and extended her hand toward the couch and chairs opposite her. They were covered in more cushions than I thought necessary. Big, fluffy squares embroidered with hearts and rainbows and disembodied smiles. More posters covered the walls. A cheerful ogre in clown makeup with the caption: Life’s Funny, Ain’t It? A depressed vampire pontificated: Blood Is the Life, but Is It a Life Worth Living?

Do we lie back on the couch while you explore our Oedipal rages? I asked.

If that makes you more comfortable, certainly, go ahead, Dr. Evelyn Noctua said, flashing a fake smile, but that’s mostly in the movies and books. We’re more casual here.

I sat on the chair closest the door, and Oswald hopped on the couch. I was surprised he didn’t float above it, but he was probably going to hide his craziness from the headshrinker as best he could.

I’m very happy to see you two today, Dr. Noctua said. Why, may I ask, did you come see me?

Oswald opened his stupid mouth, but I cut him off. It was this guy’s idea. I’m not here on my own accord. Let the record state. You can write that down.

"I don’t take notes. I don’t find it necessary. Why would you listen to that guy over there if you didn’t want to come?"

That’s a good question. A damn good question.

And the answer to the question is? Dr. Noctua lifted her bushy white eyebrows in anticipation of an answer. I didn’t like her. Owls always struck me as pompous.

He’s annoying—you’ll see that—and relentless. He wouldn’t stop, so I gave in to shut him up.

What do you have to say about that, Oswald?

I couldn’t get comfortable with all the damn cushions. I threw two of them on the floor and held one in my lap.

I’m not being annoying, Oswald said. I want us to get along, and things have been more contentious than normal since I came out of a coma.

You had a medical emergency? Dr. Noctua asked. Her eyes and mouth made big O’s. Very dramatic.

You could say that. Jack and I are detectives—

"He’s not a detective, I said. He doesn’t have a license."

Dr. Noctua held up a hand. That’s fine, Jack. Let Oswald speak. I really didn’t like Dr. Evelyn Noctua.

We had a case, and, well, long story short, I absorbed a Jupiter Stone.

Dr. Noctua wrinkled her huge round eyes in mock concern. The theatrics worried me. If she had too much sympathy for Oswald, he’d take advantage of her and turn this whole thing around on me. The most powerful energy source in Pandemonium, she said. It’s amazing you’re still alive. You must be quite special.

Oh, Lucifer!

I went into a coma for weeks…and when I woke up I had, well, powers.

What kind of powers?

I can levitate.

Don’t levitate, I said.

See? Oswald said. He hates when I use my powers. He’s ordered me to never use them.

Really, Jack? Dr. Noctua’s owl head swiveled, and she shot me an accusing look. She was turning on me. Why is that?

Because he’s dangerous, I said. I don’t disagree that Oswald has amazing powers. Huge powers. But it’s like giving a kid an atomic bomb on the Fourth of July. He could destroy this entire world if he does his hoodoo. Shouldn’t I be concerned about that? You should be agreeing with me. You’re in danger, too.

Oswald doesn’t look dangerous to me, Sigmund Fraud said.

Appearances can be deceptive, Doc. Oswald could be the person they’re talking about in those prophecies about the end of the world. This goes beyond any therapy.

I think what you’re really worried about is your friend has changed since the accident, Dr. Noctua said, that he can do amazing things, and it threatens you. The dynamic of your relationship has shifted.

He doesn’t consider me his friend, Oswald chimed in.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. The runt was going for the jugular. Why don’t I just hand you the knife so you can stab me in the back, Oswald?

You don’t, Jack? You don’t see Oswald as your friend?

He says it all the time. Oswald poured it on. Gasoline on the fire. This therapy session was a setup. "If anyone thinks he’s my friend, he corrects them and says, ‘Him? That runt? He’s not my friend. He’s an associate.’"

How does that make you feel, Oswald?

I dug my fists into the cushion.

"Not so good, to be honest. I think of him as a friend, more than a friend really."

Jack… Here we go. Go ahead, Doctor, tighten the thumbscrews. Pour vinegar in the wound. Jack, is this true? Why won’t you call Oswald your friend? It’s quite obvious you two have a special relationship.

I glared at Oswald, but he wouldn’t look at me. He was leaving me to hang.

I don’t have friends as a personal preference, I said.

Noctua gave me her concerned look—pursed lips and squinted eyes, a pitiful, so-sad-for-me expression that made me want to punch her in the throat. That’s sad. You must be very lonely, Jack.

I had enough. What the fook is this? Is this what therapy is about? What happened to turn that frown upside down? My frown isn’t going anywhere. There’s something he’s not telling you, besides the fact he’s a big liar.

What is that, Jack? I’m listening. The Owl Lady leaned forward. Somehow, her glasses were even farther down her nose.

"What he’s not telling you is my soul, my long-lost soul, is inside