Danny Phantom Images Novels & Stories

If I didn't show up, he’d just find out where I lived and show up at my place. I reached the suite, knocked twice, and didn't wait for an answer. I pushed the door open, my eyes immediately darting to the living area. Danny was there. Shirtless, of course. Because why would he make this easy? He was standing by the window, adjusting something on a laptop, his back to me. When he turned, the casual smirk I was bracing for didn't come. He just looked... tired. He saw me, let his gaze linger for a second, and then looked back at the screen.

It seems the kid had learned some caution, at least. “Boss?” Danny’s voice was young, and uncertain. “You wanted to see me?” I turned slowly, letting him sweat for a moment. He was twenty, maybe twenty-one. Scrawny. And very nervous. This was the kid who’d let Rylan escape a week ago. “Come here,” I said. Danny approached like he was walking to the gallows. His hands were shaking. I let the silence stretch, watching him squirm. Then I smiled. “Good work.”

The Tara Jackson he knew—hell, the Tara Smith he knew in high school—was vibrant, healthy, and smiling. The woman sitting in this booth is a hollowed-out shell with dark circles and a bandaged forehead. The door chimes again. A man walks in. He is wearing a dark, tailored jacket over a plain t-shirt. Broad shoulders. Confident pose. He scans the room, his eyes sweeping over the scattered customers. Then, the morning light catches his face. I see the small, familiar mole just above his top lip. Danny. I raise my hand, a hesitant, jerky wave.

I grab fur, muscle, bone…anything I can hold onto. “RUN!” I scream for the hundredth time. The wolf twists, eyes never leaving Catherine. And then… “What are you guys doing? Shooting a Hollywood action movie?” The voice cuts through everything, laughing. I whip my head around. Danny. Standing there. Alive. Oblivious. Annoying. He’s staring at me like I’ve finally lost my last brain cell. I open my mouth. Can’t he see this? Can’t he see the wolf? Can’t he see…

He told Danny. Jacques flicked through some files on the iPad before turning it round for Danny to see. I quickly glanced at the screen, to see it was a photo of Betty at the recent social. I hated to admit it given the circumstances, but she actually looked quite pretty. Alongside Betty, put together in some form of collage, was a recent photo of Amber and another blonde girl, who I had never seen before. Danny’s eyes widened, as his Adam’s Apple bobbed. “Yes, that’s her. In the middle.” I doubled checked the picture, to see Betty was the middle photo.

He had taken Rhodes' golden boy hostage in one swift move, triggering an all-out conflict with Blumedale's top brass. Antonio's heart pounded harder than it had in years. He thought Andrew was not just dangerous—he played the game at a level that made seasoned veterans break into cold sweats. Andrew glanced at Dylan and Natasha. "There's a guy from Blumedale's underground scene who goes by Phantom Eye. You two know anything about him?" Dylan's face went pale. "What? Kenny actually called in Phantom Eye? That maniac?" Natasha's expression turned serious. "Darling, Phantom Eye got his name because of his missing eye—one of them is completely blind. No one knows his real name, especially us low

The hair on my arms stood up as I felt the nervous chills I got from him travel across my body. Danny held onto my hand as we walked up to his house, a large home with more windows than necessary. He pulled his keys out of his pocket, and unlocked the large, navy blue front door. I took a deep breath in as I followed Danny inside to the entryway, where his mother had decorated and hung all of their family photos. There were so many photos of Aly, more than anyone else in the family. But, I don't think any of the Schwinns had a problem with that fact.

"A legal fiction, Zora. If the market thinks you're dead, they stop looking for your offshore accounts. I expected a copywriter's daughter to understand the power of a well-edited narrative." "He's... he's a phantom, Zora," Dante rumbled. His massive three-ton frame shifted, his obsidian claws leaving long, white scars across the flawless Carrara marble. A thick, dark stream of violet-tinted saliva dripped from his lower jaw, sizzling as it hit the cold stone. "His baseline... it doesn't have a heartbeat. It’s just... an interactive projection from the core frame."

He looked at Alex, but he didn't see the man he loved; he saw a a liar, a phantom that wouldn't let him die in peace. "Don't... touch... me," Danny gasped, his hands flying up to cover his ears. "You’re not real. You’re a hallucination. My brain is broken. It’s all broken." Alex didn't rush him. He sank to his knees on the floor a few feet from the bed, making himself smaller, lower than the boy on the mattress. He stayed silent, letting the waves of Danny’s panic wash over him through the bond. He felt the cold, the hopelessness, and the terrifying desire for the world to simply stop.

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO MICHAEL DELANEY, SOLE SURVIVOR OF THE JAMES BRIDGE MASSACRE? Next to this text was the classic black-and-white photograph he’d seen all over the Internet: an eighteen-year-old Danny—his Danny—in the back of an ambulance, surrounded by police officers, a heat-reflective space blanket draped over his shoulders to cover wounds that would, with time, become scars, a coffee cup in hand, his snowman’s face with eyes of coal. The young man’s t-shirt. Everyone who had seen this photograph remembered that shirt.