City Of Ghosts Book 2 Mga Nobela at Kwento

I set the vase in the trash. Phones lit. Thermals painted the map like a bruise. A fixer traced three shell companies back to one procurement account that an Iron Fang auditor would recognise. The south-border grid flickered twice, then briefly cut. “Ghost them,” I said. The room obeyed. Beyond the glass, the city was a net I intended to pull taut. Past the river, borders were a story men told. I would write a new one with steel and sky. The rogue’s words stained the floor: toward Iron Fang lines.

The skyscraper in Manhattan rose dark and empty against the night sky. Windows shattered like broken teeth. Wind howled through the corridors. Marcus had turned this place into a base years ago, and the whole building still hummed with his signal, a low pulse that made the air taste like blood and old lies. Cedric moved through the halls with his gun drawn, and every footstep echoed back at him like a warning he couldn't quite make out. The ghosts followed him.

They descended hard. Anya swung cold stone with a grunt, Corven's limp body thudding down beside her. Stale, icy wind from the catacombs caressed her skin like breath from a dead deity. She coughed, sat up, and opened her eyes through the darkness. Ell'shivar. City of tombs. They'd succeeded. Ghost lights cast a faint, ghostly glow above great arches carved of fossil bone and obsidian. The entire city below the Dominion thrummed weakly with old, forgotten sorcery—unmapped, forbidden, interred.

screamed Ghost in the doorway to the office. A shot rang out. It echoed off the walls. Out of the corner of her eye, Amber watched Ghost drop to the concrete floor only feet away. A trail of crimson seeped out from around him, reaching towards Amber. She was frozen. Muted. Her brain not working. But luckily Grayson reacted by knocking Amber flat against the floor, pinning her beneath his body as a hail of gunfire sprayed over their heads.

"They will not teach you mercy. I won’t either. But I will teach you love—because love is the thing they fear most. The pen shook only once. Then steadied. She wrote about silence, the language of killers. About the way empires rot from within long before they fall from without. She wrote about the weight of a name. Of survival. Of trust sold at gunpoint. Of brothers lost in smoke and sisters buried beneath blood. This wasn't a lullaby. This was war scripture. The second entry in The Book of Blood. And she meant every word. ~~~~~~~~~~ GHOST MOUTH — DAWN Lorenzo stood barefoot in the tide, shirt open, smoke curling from the end of a thin black cigarillo. Behind him, Roji and Inez oversaw the

It was where Elara had spent her nights before the Forced Fighting Ring claimed her. They moved through the shadows, a pack of ghosts. The city felt different—hollow. There were no sirens, no shouting. Just the rhythmic thump-thump of the frequency, like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant. As they descended into the tunnels, the Dust-Dogs met them. They weren't standing in rows; they were frantic, barricading the entrances with scrap metal and electrified wire.

Lila POV And with that, Feargus punches a set of numbers into the security lock. The door clicks open, and he steps back. With a nod from Caleb, I follow him inside, my breath streaming out in front of me. Nyxies I can totally deal with. Ghosts, on the other hand, are another kettle of fish I’d much rather avoid. At least with demons, I can physically see them and drag their asses back to Hell. But dead people left to rot in an underground city?

Finally, I slipped out the side door and into the night. ………. Driving felt strange. Like slipping into a skin I had not worn in years. I gripped the steering wheel tight as streetlights blurred past, one after another. The city was not quiet, Whales was never quiet but inside me, it was. All I thought was Dock 9. It was where the ghosts lived. Memories crouched in the shadows: of blood-stained clothes, whispered names, rain getaways. It had been my safehouse once. Now it felt like an ambush point. Don stood against one of the rusted shipping crates, arms crossed as I approached. The years hadn't changed him much. He still looked half-warrior, half-wreckage. His eyes hadn't lost any of their