Assassin's Cowl Novels & Stories

The lock held for half a second. Then the door kicked in with a muted crack, wood splintering inward, the sound swallowed by carpet and gas. The towels shifted. A thin ribbon of chemical fog curled through the gap like a living thing, reaching. Kingsley moved first. He slipped out of the shower stall like a shadow tearing free, silent and fast, using the broken doorframe as cover. The assassin entered in a low sweep, pistol up, muzzle already tracking the space where he expected us to be. They collided without ceremony.

“But we are what was left behind.” One of the others a tall, eyeless man whose skin shimmered like broken glass spoke in a voice that echoed with dozens of tones. “You killed the Quill.” “I did.” “You shattered the pen,” said a girl with birds instead of hair. “I had to.” “And now,” whispered the assassin twins in perfect harmony, “the stories must write themselves.” Ashen stepped closer, page extended. “Give me a name.” “What?” “A real one,” she said. “Not Ashen. That was your placeholder. Give me something meant to last.”

And now only less than then assassins are left standing. One of the assassins took off its mask. It is a middle aged man. A man familiar to me. "El Morte," I said under my breath. It is the name of the guild. And the man who took of his mask is one of their first class assassins, Franco. I know him because we once fought but he escaped when he got severely injured. Didn't know he actually survived that. "Isn't it ironic? Werewolves are very strict when it comes to morality, and yet you are with an assassin from House of Spades?" Franco said playfully as his eyes drifted to me.

*giggles* After that, I'm going to ki- "Wtf! Bro, stop smiling, it's terrifying." Relax, William, that's your brother. "SHUT UP," I demanded. I haven't introduced myself yet. My name is William Carter, and I am a 36-year-old assassin. Reaper is the codename I use. Many people have motivations for being a spy, assassin, criminal, and so on. However, I became an assassin because of my father. Third-person pov

Confusion threaded i's way through the underground world of the multiple mafia families who had put a bounty on the Russian man's head, even before he had landed on American soil. Usually, a target is either assigned or their bounty is claimed within no more than three hours after the target has been taken down. It's been more than the usual three hours and the assigned assassin was just as confused as everyone else at the smoothly executed take down of his target. If it wasn't Blake who took the Russian down, then who was it? Would that assassin come forward to claim the bounty? Perhaps, in a few days, once the heat from all the news announcements have pittered out. Maybe.

Just in case Silas needed me to complete the job subsequently, I left a card with my number on it and with how harsh her breathing was and the desire in her eyes, I doubted it would go unused One of my burner phones buzzed on my table, dragging me from my thoughts, and I knew exactly who it was even before seeing the number “We’ve got new orders. You need to get close to Raina Cole and find out some accounts and vital information about her company. I’ll send you the details.” He always spoke steadily, his voice was never raised nor in a rush “Get close, how?” I asked “You’ll improv,” he said. “You’re the best at improvising. Get in. Get it.”

“Ah, dear niece, so this is what an average day in the life looks like… waltzing with your kill and staring right into their eyes right before you snuff the light out of it… brilliant!” It was obvious he wanted a reaction out of her, and on a very good day, he would have gotten nothing, but today wasn’t exactly going as planned for the plus-sized assassin. Barbara moved with a speed that would have stunned the girl she used to be. In one fluid motion, she was behind him. She didn't bother shedding the server's jacket; she simply reached beneath it. The cold steel of a ceramic knife was pressed firmly against the pulse point of his neck before he could say another word.

– Abandoned Warehouse District Sera arrived alone at the coordinates, heart pounding. The warehouse was dark and decaying, rain pattering on the metal roof. A single light bulb swung in the center of the space. A man stepped out of the shadows — mid-fifties, sharp features, wearing an expensive coat. “Dr. Elias Crowe,” he introduced himself. “The assassin you and Cassian killed six years ago was my brother.” Sera’s stomach dropped. “I’m not here to kill you,” Crowe continued. “I’m here for justice. Your husband destroyed my family. My brother was the only one who believed in me. And now I’m going to destroy everything you both love.”

A figure dropped from the ceiling beams. It didn't make a sound when it landed. It was wrapped in charcoal-grey rags that seemed to absorb the candlelight. It didn't have a scent of a wolf; it smelled like a void. A Shadow-Pack assassin. They were the Council’s silent blades, wolves who had been stripped of their souls to become nothing but killing intent. The assassin held a glass sphere filled with a roiling, black liquid. "The archives must burn," a voice rasped from beneath the rags. It sounded like stones grinding together in a dry creek bed.

She wore a neat, shoulder-length wig tucked beneath a simple service cap, a plain uniform that masked her figure, and spotless white gloves that hid her manicured hands. When she stepped into the elevator, her heart thudded in her chest. Just as she reached for the close button, the doors opened again — and in walked Alexander, Colton, and a small entourage. Ava instinctively tightened her grip on the cart’s handle, lowering her gaze so her eyes stayed hidden beneath the cap. As the elevator began to rise, Colton spoke in his low, matter-of-fact voice. “The guy we caught last time killed himself. I traced that scorpion tattoo — turns out it’s from a foreign assassin group called New Dawn.”