Novel & Cerita Blackwood Sherlock Holmes

It pulsed like a heartbeat against the cold lifelessness around us. Xareth walked toward it. My wolf finally receded, melting away into my bones, and I emerged once more, trembling, weak, every breath a battle. I had never felt this drained after retrieving a Heartstone. I felt hollowed out, like my soul had been scraped raw. But I forced myself upright, staggering to the side as my vision swam. Xareth stepped into the glowing hall and reached toward the source of the light. It wasn’t a weapon, or a jewel. It was a book.

“Go back home. Now. There’s something else in the forest today besides me, and it’s not friendly.” Helena looked at the devastated clearing, at the broken bones, and at the man who seemed to be the center of all that hidden power. She realized that the strange coincidences and inexplicable events were not isolated incidents, but pieces of a supernatural puzzle being assembled around her. Dante Blackwood was the key to everything, the living trace of something ancient and fierce that claimed Blackwater as its own.

But that peace lasted three days, and now even dying didn’t feel like something to fear anymore. Then I heard footsteps. They came slowly from inside the mist. I turned and froze. A man emerged from the shadows, tall and broad-shouldered, his coat dark, his steps steady. There was a faint scar running from his jaw to his neck. His eyes were sharp, darker than the night, and when they locked on mine, I couldn’t breathe. He stopped a few feet away. The silence stretched. “You’re…” I started, my voice barely a whisper. “Liam Blackwood,” he said, his tone calm but cold.

BLACKWOOD MANOR – AFTERNOON The study was dark and heavy with the smell of old books and whiskey. Tall shelves of leather-bound volumes lined the walls, and stern family portraits stared down like judges. Alexander Blackwood sat behind his massive oak desk, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His eyes were cold as he looked at the woman sitting across from him. Katherina Rodriguez looked broken. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her clothes were wrinkled, her hair messy.

"Former military, a demolitions expert, currently employed by Blackwood Security, a private firm owned by, surprise, Thomas Blackwood." “So we’ve caught him,” Damian said. “There’s a direct link between the fire and Blackwood.” “And there’s more,” Lorenzo said, scrolling through his files. “I’ve been investigating all day. Thomas Blackwood isn’t just an angry old man looking for revenge. He’s desperate. Yes, he lost fifty million fifteen years ago, but since then he’s kept making bad investments, trying to get the money back. He’s used everything he owns as collateral—his buildings, his investments, even his judge’s pension. If he doesn’t get that money back soon, he’ll be completely broke.”

The grand library, once a room where billion-dollar mergers were whispered into existence over crystal tumblers of scotch, was now thick with the stale smell of expensive cigars and the bitter rot of defeat. ​Arthur Blackwood sat behind his mahogany desk, his fingers trembling as he traced the rim of a glass. His eyes were bloodshot, fixed on the rain-streaked windows. He was a man suspended in a state of lethal waiting, his ears straining for a phone call from the Jackals—the mercenaries he had sent into the dark to retrieve the daughter he had sold and the man he had failed to kill. ​The heavy oak doors of the library burst open, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

I felt like a father. But as the fire burned low, a floorboard creaked in the hallway. I opened my eyes. Elodie was asleep. The house was still. I looked toward the dark kitchen. A man in a gray suit was standing there, holding a silver briefcase. He didn't have a face. Just a smooth, featureless surface where his features should be. "The interest is due, Mr. Blackwood," the man said. I didn't move. I didn't reach for my claws.

The air in the North Tower’s deepest sub-level did not just carry the scent of dust and neglect; it carried the heavy, metallic tang of a past that had been buried alive. Silas Blackwood moved through the stacks of yellowed ledgers with a frantic, desperate energy. His gold-and-sapphire skin, a permanent brand of the divine unweaving he had endured, cast a rhythmic, flickering light against the stone walls. Each pulse of his aura felt like a heartbeat, irregular and pained.

The house remained overnight, slicing through all clefts with blade-edged, hard bone, light above shadow. Samuel Blackwood had his study, a study redolent with the scent of old leather, cigar smoke, and the iron smell, reminding him of things forgotten. Walls lined with shelves of books, book covers remembered long ago, more trophies than books, bearing witness to a string never sagging, never broken.

I ask. Her face softens, “Not yet. Sorry, Lil.” I nod. A young man in a suit knocks on the door. He doesn’t wait for an invitation. “Sorry to disturb you, Miss Blackwood.” he walks right in holding his hand out “I’m Detective Jones.” I shake his hand. “Hi, Detective Jones.” I look up anxiously. “I’m glad to see you awake and I’m sorry for your loss. I need to ask you some questions.” He says calmly, professionally.