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.

she kept pouting her small round baby lips as she watched them pull out if the drive way. She had also gotten over the fact that her dad was not a masquerade. But she had found his mask either way and held it in her tiny hands. "Let my keep that for you " a maid offered as she ate and okayed around, but she held unto it dearly saying it was her dad's. She was delicate and couldn't be stressed, she they left her to herself as they were too cared to be like the gardener from the day before. As soon as the coue pulled up at the front porch of the Browns in Edward's Lamborghini, Nfrea felt her pm start to get sweaty, so she continued rubbing it on her dress.

"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.

My bond with Velia. The wolf inside me roared, pacing the cage of my bones. “Then let them come.” ******** Hacker burst into the room, soaked and trembling, laptop clutched to his chest. “We caught one of their drones intact this time.” He slammed it onto the table. The screen flickered, then stabilized—live feed from somewhere in the forest. Through static and rain, a figure emerged. Tall. Masked. Moving with the grace of a predator that had learned to mimic man. His coat was long, black as sin, and in his hand—

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.”