Darkhold Iron Man Novels & Stories

Worry and fear were etched all over her face, and before I asked her what was wrong, I caught a shadow from the corner of my eyes. My eyes narrowed at a tall, mysterious-looking man standing by the door behind my dad, who at first I thought was Hunter. But when I looked closer, I realized it was not him, but the spitting image of Hunter Ysrael. No, the original image and father of Hunter Ysrael, Alpha Marcus of the Cruelcrest Hounds pack. He was wearing all black, from the bulky leather coat, black slacks, to black ankle boots. Anyone would mistake him as a nightcrawler if he keeps popping up in the shadows. But more importantly, what is he doing here?

Her throat dried up when she found him smirking at her. "My bad, I startled you," Hunter said casually, his hands tucked in his pockets and thumbs out. He was wearing black cargo pants, black combat boots, a black turtleneck with the silver chain dangling on his neck, and silver rings with his hair a ruffled mess. Those jade green hues stood prominently out like cold icy glaciers in all black. Silvia swallowed thickly as she lowered her gaze. She tried to stop the trembling of her fingers. The girl inhaled deeply before closing her eyes as she focused on the flow of magic in her veins.

"I am Maximus Jameson. I am also known and 'The Revenant'. I Build the company ground up from nothing but my own money. I invented the A.I. Robots as well as being the owner of 8 schools, 100 factories, 7 football teams, 1,000 resource-rich planets, and 1 robotic company, Revenant Robotics Inc. I posses a power called the rift, which I inherited from a man much older and wiser than me." Shantal stares at him with a shocked face, not sure whether to accept or deny this new reality. "I... don't understand." She says, looking to pathfinder for support, but he just nods, reinforcing his father's words. Revenant sighs. "Yeah, I know. It's a lot to take in. Fortunately, you won't get to remember t

Jack stood on a reinforced observation balcony overlooking the primary casting floor. He was entirely insulated from the harsh environment. Varkas had provided the Sovereign with a localized, hard-light cooling mantle that draped elegantly over his white silk tunic, regulating his body temperature perfectly. Jack's chameleon skin pulsed with a steady, radiant Pink High, entirely unaffected by the brutal heat. "The Throne of the Iron Barrens," Varkas announced, his synthetic voice amplified over the roar of the furnaces. The Elder pointed a pristine, manicured finger toward the center of the casting floor.

And on the opposite side of the clearing, I saw them. Ironclaw. They stood in formation; dark clothes, silver armbands, tall, broad-shouldered men with eyes like predators. Every single one of them radiated control and danger. Then I saw him. Adrian Holt. Alpha of Ironclaw. I had heard stories about him all my life. The ruthless Alpha who burned villages, who killed without blinking. The man who wore his father’s death like armor. I expected cruelty. I didn’t expect the stillness.

Silent: I watch with crossed arms as the infamous Dr. Kolohe Cho uses her technological power to complete the suit of armor. “The Iron Fist armor is nearly ready,” Dr. Cho says while looking at a metal claw. Her eyes and head glowing a blueish-green color, the claw starts to turn by itself. It grabs a massive iron hand and screws it into the wrist of the armor. Dr. Cho thanks the claw machine while it spins around.

What can you even expect from an old man who depends on his descendants for blood? "Henry, don't get yourself all worked up. Calm down." "You're dying, and you expect me to stay calm? You can't keep going back and forth at this point. "You have to make a decision and get Skylar on board too. The two of you have billions of dollars between you. That's enough to protect yourselves, isn't it? "You want me to calm down? Fine. I'll do just that. But there's no way I'm giving up my money to that old geezer! You have to make a choice now. Me or that old man."

He was in his late twenties, broad-shouldered and muscled from years of hard labor and combat, with tousled dark hair, a stubbled jaw, and stormy blue eyes that defied her even now. His shirt had been torn away during capture, revealing a chiseled chest marked with fresh bruises and old scars. Iron manacles bound his wrists above his head, forcing his arms to stretch, while his ankles were shackled to the floor, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. He glared at her, his jaw clenched, but Elara could see the flicker of heat in his gaze as it roamed over her body.

And then he appeared. Tall. Imposing. Dressed in midnight-black armor engraved with the Ironclaw sigil—a set of twin hammers crossed over a wolf’s skull. His face was partially hidden behind a dark hood, but I could see the silver in his beard, the hard line of his jaw, and eyes like hammered steel. He stepped forward and inclined his head. “Alpha Selene of Moonbound.” “Alpha Ronan of Ironclaw.” He didn’t offer his hand. Neither did I.

It was a man entirely unmade by Eleanor Vance’s cruelty. He stood nearly seven feet tall, his massive, unnaturally pale torso completely bare and laced with thick, pulsing black veins from years of aggressive chemical augmentation. A heavy iron sensory deprivation helmet completely encased his head, secured to his collarbone with industrial bolts. He held a massive, rusted steel breaching hammer in one hand, the heavy iron chains wrapped around his wrists dragging behind him like the tethers of a chained beast. He had no eyes, no ears, no humanity. He was a pure, guided ballistic missile of flesh and bone, engineered to hunt by thermal signature and sound.