Black Novel Novels & Stories

Welcome to unedited Black book 3 of the Woods series. This book can be read independently. You can read it without adventuring into 'Married to a stripper'. I'll be extremely happy if those who haven't checked that book out do so. I hope you enjoy my works. Love you guys much much. Your humble author Zagzahzlau. ~••~ The Sunday night was frigid against unarmed skin in Buea--the city of legendary hospitality-- located in the southwest region of Cameroon.

The Black Rose lead submarine navigated the suffocating, silent pressures of the abyss for seven relentless days. It moved like a ghost through the thermal layers, evading every sonar sweep and satellite eye that the Voss and Reyes empires possessed. Finally, in the frozen twilight of the eighth day, the charcoal-black leviathan breached the surface.

He showed her no compassion and that's when the young woman felt that her cause was truly lost. For a moment, the young woman could hardly breathe. No! Not now... she said to herself. Not now... She began to make the hundred steps under the vigilant eye of the man. She was choking... She had more and more difficulty to breathe and in a last look of pity towards the man, she felt herself losing her balance... She closed her eyes and fainted. Before closing her eyes, she had time to see the face of the stranger who had caught her in time... Black hole... ***

Others were modern thrillers and contemporary fiction, their glossy jackets still vibrant. But then she came to a section that felt...different. These books weren’t stacked like the others. They were nestled into the shelves like treasures, rich, cracked leather covers, some with gold foiling so worn it was barely legible. Her hand paused over one that read, The History of the Black Moon Pack. Her brows knit. “Pack?” she murmured under her breath, pulling it from the shelf.

were slamming down from the sky, locking the 401st Chapter into a 22-minute-episode format. ​She reached the "Border," but instead of the white void, she found a Wall of Black Ink. ​But it wasn't the Author’s ink. It was different. It was thicker. It was Red. ​A hand reached out from the red ink—a hand made of blood and old, handwritten letters. It wasn't Kael’s hand. It was larger, rougher, and covered in the scars of a thousand "Hard-Boiled" thrillers. ​"Need a ghostwriter, kid?" a new voice rasped from the shadows of the red ink—a voice that sounded like whiskey and gravel. "The suits are fast, but they can't handle a Noir-Shift."

he points at her with his chin, expressionless, “didn't you want to join our group? There is the proof.” I swallow a bitter breath when I reach for it and study it, without a doubt it is the same bracelet that the Zanni subjects had. “Why black?” “I really don't know.” He dives into the pages of his new book of the week and surprisingly it is not the one he read yesterday. Had I already finished it? For sure yes. His title was somewhat ironic; The Darkest Book of Cheap Poetry.

She pulled the black leather notebook out of her jacket, clicked her pen, and began writing down every new case number, comparing them line by line against the calm-period timestamps. "Fine," Wallace sighed, shaking his head. "Just keep that book out of sight." Across the district in the editorial bullpen, Lina snatched up her desk phone on the second ring. "Rossi," she said. "The block's blowing up again, Lina," Trent's voice came through fast over the line. "Two pawnshops on Eighth just got cleaned out. Junkies are back behind the canal warehouses, and three corner stores had their gates hooked to pickup trucks. The quiet streak's dead already."

Alpha Asher's father was the one ruling in Alpha Damian's father's time, so I wasn't surprised he knew so much about him; after all, they were enemies. The names on the book had some that were written boldly, unlike the rest, and I couldn't help but stare at the bold inks. My eyes flashed across a familiar one and it felt as though my heart stopped for a minute. I looked towards Damian, but he looked too busy with something else, and then I looked at the book again. "Rose Nightfall" stayed boldly written and I suddenly became too dumb to utter a word. I looked at the killer of the name and "Richard Blackwood" was boldly written above.

I hated how steadying it felt. I stepped back before I could think too hard about that. "Just — explain. You said you'd seen this before. What did you mean?" "There's a novel," he said. "About a wolf warrior who enrolls at an academy and starts shifting into a black wolf instead of the rare white wolf she was born with. No one can explain it. Not at first." My pulse spiked. "Who wrote it?" "Sophie Miller, I think." The name hit me like a blow to the chest. The world tilted, sound rushing out of my ears until all I could hear was my own heartbeat, deafening.

I followed my ruined corpse all the way to the mass grave. My limbs were twisted at unnatural angles, my body covered in crisscrossing bruises, my face drained of every drop of color—like a weed that had been stomped flat by a hundred boots. Soon, a pack of mangy stray dogs caught the scent of fresh meat. Their eyes glowed hungry and green in the darkness as they circled in. At first, they just tugged at the edges of my clothes. Then one bolder mutt sank its teeth into my calf and ripped off a chunk of flesh.