Novel & Cerita Blackwood Sherlock Holmes

Harrison’s jaw clenched as he parked the car, his hand gripping the steering wheel tightly. “Are you ready for this?” Rachel asked, her eyes scanning the building. He nodded, his gaze hard. “I have to be. Let’s go.” The warehouse was silent as they approached, the faint echo of their footsteps the only sound in the empty space. The walls were covered in graffiti, and the air was thick with dust and a faint metallic smell. As they moved deeper inside, Harrison’s heart pounded, each step bringing him closer to answers—and possibly danger. At last, they reached a dimly lit room at the back of the warehouse. Blackwood was there, leaning casually against a table. He looked up as they entered, a s

I cocked my head with my eyebrows raised. "Miss Blackwood is the most qualified investigator here," Kieran said sharply. "She stays." A muscle ticked in Damien's jaw, but he stepped aside. "As you wish. But I warn you, it's not pleasant." I'd seen plenty of unpleasant things in my three years as a hunter. Bodies torn apart by rogues, victims of vampire attacks drained so thoroughly they looked like husks, cursed objects that drove their owners to madness and self-mutilation. I thought I was prepared, even beyond what Damien could comprehend.

As though its owner had stripped away anything personal. And then I saw him. Alexander Blackwood. He was seated behind a dark glass desk, fingers steepled, eyes locked on me the moment I walked in. The pictures in magazines didn’t do him justice. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features and an unnatural stillness about him. His eyes…. storm-grey and icy, pierced straight through me. For a second, I forgot how to breathe. “You’re late,” he said simply, his voice smooth but clipped. He looked at me like he’d seen me a hundred times before.

He was a man in his forties, smoothed over with grooming and a life of small luxuries. He had none of the urgency of a man who’d just been hired to sell lives. “Desmond Blackwood, ” he said when he recognized me, voice tipping between surprise and the practiced flatness of a man who’d seen faces before. “You again. I thought... ” “You don’t get to think, ” I said. I stepped forward until the room closed in, my presence folding the air tight. “You sold them a photograph of a girl. You sent men to find her”

“Yes?” “You’re the one they sent for the bodies.” “Dr. Evelyn Hart,” she said evenly. “Forensic pathologist.” He nodded once, stepping down from the porch. “Jonah Blackwood.” The name tugged at her memory. Someone had mentioned it at the diner—maybe the waitress last night? A hunter. A man who knew the forest better than anyone. “Sheriff says you think it’s not wolves,” Jonah continued. “Because it isn’t.” A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Good. At least you’ve got eyes.”

I rounded a corner, turned left down a tighter row, and— Stopped. There, nestled between two massive grimoires, was a book that didn’t belong. It was smaller, wrapped in black hide, no title. A circular crest gleamed faintly on the cover, a silver wolf’s head bisected by a black sword, the same we saw in the tunnel the other day. I knew that crest, its Blackwood sigil. My lungs tightened. My hand moved before my brain could catch up. I pulled the book free. Dust billowed, I coughed hard.. My heart beat faster.

“She stays. Temporarily. You keep an eye on her.” “And you?” his sister asked. “I’ll investigate her myself.” He turned to leave. “Hey,” I called out and both of them paused. I squinted at his broad back. “You look like a final boss from a bad storybook, so I need something to call you. What’s your name.” He turned just enough for me to see his profile. “Blackwood,” he said. “Atlas Blackwood.” Then he walked out and the door shut with a final, heavy sound.

The desk sergeant looked up from paperwork, recognized him immediately, Sebastian Blackwood's face had been on enough business magazines and society pages. "Can I help you, sir?" "I need to speak with the detectives handling the Whitaker case," Sebastian said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, flat, determined. "Hudson Whitaker, Rosslyn Whitaker, Helen Moreau. I have information." The sergeant raised an eyebrow but picked up the phone. Minutes later a detective, the same woman who had led the arrests, appeared in the hallway. She looked tired but alert. "Mr. Blackwood. Come with me."

I knock on the damn thing and there's a hollow sound coming from inside. "How the fuck does he open this thing?" I touch every part of the wall until I feel something out of the ordinary. I push it and hold my breath. Please let it open. The almost realistic wooden magazine moves to the right, then I see a drawer inside. I press the small button next to it and the drawer moves to the left. Holy fuck. I chuckle. Haiden freaking Blackwood. A genius cunning wolf in the flesh. Two Frost-moon pack werewolf books are placed inside. What surprises me though, is the small book placed between them. I immediately notice it's yellow cover, something closer to gold. It must have been gold but worn out

Private Investigators. Liam had used Blackwood before. For corporate espionage. For background checks on potential board members. For things that needed to be handled with surgical discretion. But he had never used them for something this... personal. He walked in. The office smelled of stale coffee and ozone. James Blackwood, a man who looked like he had been carved out of granite and bad decisions, was waiting for him. "Mr. Cross," Blackwood said, not standing up. He gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "You're not going to like this."