Dark Dealings In The Blackpits Novels & Stories

The light overhead shines over a wet mop of black hair, owned by the mole who’s been in my fucking house under the guise of protecting my household. “Go to the pits,” I order to Andros who listens diligently. “If the bodies there are piled too high, melt them off. They have a new roommate coming in soon.” He bows and is out to get the eternal resting place of this betrayer ready. “Wake him up,” I instruct to the men standing to Sydney’s right. They douse on him a bucket of water at freezing temperature. He wakes with a gasp, lolling his head back and blinking to adjust his sight.

Dark of Night Copyright 2019 Emily Goodwin Chapter One “What do you see when you look at this one?” The doctor holds up a card, showcasing an ink splotch that’s twisted and creepy, with eyes that follow you no matter where you go. I look at it, heart hammering away inside my chest. The mess of ink on the white paper reminds me of the monster that lurks in Nana and Papa’s basement, the one that tried to get Abby and Scott to go downstairs with it.

At the heart of Country F, hidden within the neon-lit underbelly of The Black Bastion, the Guild of Shadows’ true power churned in secrecy. A sleek black sedan pulled into an underground parking lot, its tinted windows hiding the grim-faced passengers inside. Dr. Weber stepped out first, the cold air biting into his skin. His pulse pounded as he clutched the burner phone in his pocket. He had sent the message. The reply had been immediate. Come to the nest. He had no choice. His life depended on it.

Ama gently pushed open the black double doors that led to the room, her breath catching in her throat at the stunning sight before her. The decor held a captivating dark aura that felt both intimidating and intriguing. As she surveyed the space, her mind turned to the Blackwood family. Grayson Blackwood was the only one who came to mind as the possible creator of such an imposing environment. Realization washed over her; of course, this was his room. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it sooner.

Mr. Black’s footsteps echoed through the dim hallway as he made his way to the lower levels of the building. It was a place reserved for special cases, the types of people he couldn’t trust within the walls of a regular cell. And tonight, Uncle Nick had earned himself a spot here, his smug expression seared into Mr. Black’s memory as he was dragged out of the SUV.

deliberate. They crouched in front of me, knees cracking faintly under the weight of whatever armor or gear they wore. I still couldn’t make out a face beneath the mask—just smooth blackness, like a void watching me back. “I’m going to make you a deal,” they said, voice suddenly low, almost conversational. “You’re not like him. I’ve seen enough to know that now.” I blinked. “What are you talking about?” “Damien Voss is deeper into this than you can imagine. It’s not just bribes and blood money. It’s murder. Trafficking. Blackmail. Secrets that would burn this city to the ground if they ever surfaced.”

Every shadow, every creaking metal moan of the yard seemed to whisper my son’s name. Aaron. My pup. My blood. The corrugated door of the main warehouse loomed ahead, partially open, light seeping into the darkness. I kicked it inward with ferocious vigor. The metal screamed in protest as it smacked against the wall. Inside, Damien stood beneath a rusty lighting, his slick black suit pristine, silver hair glittering like a snake’s scales. His frigid, colorless eyes gleamed as he raised a goblet of crimson wine to me. “Welcome, Alpha Blackthorne,” he drawled. “Care for a drink? You look… unhinged.”

It was blackmail, pure and simple. The old slaughterhouse stood skeletal against the bruised-purple sky of dusk. The air was thick with the metallic tang of rust and the ghostly memory of blood. The sound of water dripping from a rusted pipe echoed like a slow, ominous clock. As Jack stepped through the main gate, flanked only by Marcus, he was met with the sight of over a hundred men. They lined the cavernous main floor, clutching pipes, chains, and a few illegally acquired firearms. Their eyes, filled with a mixture of feral aggression and junkie desperation, glowed faintly in the gloom. They were a pack of jackals, all posturing and snarling.

Sophie's pov **The Descent Into Darkness** The black SUV rumbled through the abandoned meatpacking district, its tires crunching over broken glass and decades-old filth. Damien Blackstone sat motionless in the backseat, his hands resting on his knees, his breathing steady despite the gun pressed to his ribs by the hulking enforcer beside him. Outside the tinted windows, the warehouses loomed like gravestones, their broken windows staring blindly into the night. *"Last chance to turn back, Blackstone,"* sneered the man to his left—Rico, Ferraro's right hand, with knuckles scarred from too many bare-knuckle fights. His breath reeked of garlic and cheap whiskey.