Bloodhound Without Mask Novels & Stories

the lead guard barked, his eyes red from the heavy storm as he glanced down at his logbook. I stepped out of the shadows of the tree line, my heels clicking sharply against the slick marble path. I didn't raise the silver filigree mask to my face yet. I held it deliberately by my side, letting the guards see my bare, flawless features. My face was pale, unblemished, and entirely devoid of the purple bruises my father had left hours ago.

He tilted his head back, held his breath, scrambled to take off his short-sleeved t-shirt, wiped the vomit off his face, and glared at Blackie. "You're just going to watch? Hurry up and get me water!" "Yes yes yes…” Blackie quickly let go of Alex and went back to the car to get mineral water. Alex stared at the masked man's right arm, where there was a tattoo in the shape of a wing, which looked very familiar.

“T-the werewolf kept anonymous. He’s very discreet, you see. He goes by no name—not even a pseudonym. He always wears a mask as well, so his identity can not be read.” “Tell me what you know of him,” ordered Kronos. The host fumbled with his fingers. “I know—I know that he’s very well trained. I know that his voice is coarse…he seems older and experienced. Like perhaps he fought in the war. I assume that because I noted a sign on his boots once—a pack engraving. I’m not sure about it, but…” Kronos moved closer, his glower pinning the host. “But what?” “It’s the mark of the Silver Moon Pack,” said the host.

The tension in the small space dissipated slightly. Still holding the gun firmly, she walked over to inspect the bag. Inside were three black masks, each of which she carefully examined. They all resembled masks, similar in appearance to those worn by vampires or shape-shifters. However, unlike those worn by other supernatural creatures, these masks were covered in writing and symbols instead of blood.

"Were JETs always this dangerous? Or is this year special?" ¤ ¤ ¤ Someplace away from them, a youth was engaged in a battle with a three-headed hound. The hound skin was the darkest shade of black, while his eyes were oozing deadly yellow hue. The hound's claws looked so sharp that they would cut the steel in one swoop.

I screamed, breaking cover and running toward them. I found them in a small clearing. The Hunter was lying on his back. He was dressed in grey tactical camouflage, his face covered by a sleek, full-face mask with glowing green lenses. A high-tech compound bow lay in the dirt nearby. Ashren was straddling him, his good hand clamped around the Hunter’s throat, his other hand raised, claws extended, ready to rip the mask off. "Give me one reason not to open your jugular," Ashren snarled.

The truth was buried under silk and champagne. I was just trying not to spill red wine on my borrowed dress. That's when I saw him. He wasn't dancing. He wasn't drinking. He was standing by the terrace doors, a wolf mask covering the top half of his face, watching the crowd like he was calculating exactly how much it would cost to buy them all. His suit was charcoal grey. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass. And his eyes — even through the mask — were the coldest blue I'd ever seen.

As the cameras switched views, a dark figure walked through the estate’s wooded perimeter—moving fast, avoiding sensors, slipping through blind spots like someone who knew the layout better than they should. Hunter stopped in his tracks, eyes narrowing. “That’s not one of Shopia’s men,” he murmured. Monique zoomed the feed. The figure paused, turned deliberately toward the nearest camera, and held up something. A mask. Black. Marked with a symbol Hunter hadn’t seen in years. Helen tensed. Evalina’s grip tightened around Hunter’s arm. “Who is that…?” she whispered. Hunter’s answer was barely audible. “He’s not Shopia’s.”

I purred, my voice laced in sarcasm as I pouted my lips. “Aww... Poor, lonely Enzo.” He scowled, his deep voice cutting through the air. “Wear your damn mask.” I rolled my eyes and held my mask. It had a peacock design, with feathers affixed to the sides. Golden detailing lined the edges, giving it a delicate yet exotic look. I put it on, and it shielded my features, except for my eyes and lips. I turned to look at him. His mask was the design of a wolf, its expression a scowl just like the one he carried permanently on his face. The only covered parts of his face were his forehead and eyelids. His eyes, nose, and mouth were exposed.

Talon regretted nothing, but then he never had to explain himself. My father wandered towards the window and picked up the attackers head. Holding it by a clump of long brown hair, features covered by a black mask with eyeholes. He peeled it off to reveal a man in his thirties. “I don’t recognise him,” I said angrily. “Does he have a scent?” “Only that foul citrus masking,” he muttered back. I looked over in the far corner, a gold watch had come away from its owner's arm. I winced as I remembered how that had tasted in my mouth as Talon had shredded the arm from his torso.