Eda Clawthorne Novels & Stories

The rain lashed the leaded windows of Blackthorn Manor like it wanted inside. Elara had come for the architecture, centuries-old stone, gargoyles dripping water, the kind of place that made ghost stories feel plausible. She was twenty-nine, alone, a freelance photographer chasing decay and beauty for a coffee-table book no one would buy. The caretaker had let her in after hours with a knowing smile and a single brass key.

The Blackwood estate sat like a gothic crown atop the jagged cliffs of the North Sea, a sprawling labyrinth of cold stone, soaring archways, and centuries of secrets. It was a place where the wind howled through the battlements like a mourning ghost, and the salt spray of the ocean crusted the windowpanes with a persistent, crystalline frost. For Clara Vance, it was a workplace-a gilded cage where she was expected to be a silent, efficient shadow. For Julian Blackwood, it was a kingdom, and he was its undisputed, iron-willed sovereign.

“Never. He’s a beast... a bastard beast.” ‎Her eyes darkened at the memory, her fingers clenching involuntarily at her sides. Shaking off the thought, Claire stood up and headed toward her room in silence, determined to wash away the confusion and whatever lingering touch Edward had left behind. ‎ ‎Cleo arrived at the grand Ryan Estate just as the sun began to set, casting a warm golden hue over the sprawling property. As she approached the ornate gate, she spotted the familiar security guard stationed at his post. She gave him a polite nod and a soft smile.

Now Anya would pay for it all. I reached the old meeting house at the edge of the ancient forest where the three Ironclaw elders waited. The wooden structure was weathered and half-hidden by overgrown vines, perfect for secrets. Elder Thorne, Elder Mira, and Elder Kael turned as I entered, their faces illuminated by the dim lantern light that cast long, conspiratorial shadows across the walls.

AVA I stood beside Derek and our team, my heart pounding in my chest as we crept through the shadows of the Golden Claw Palace. The night air was thick with tension, and I could feel the weight of our mission bearing down on us. We had stolen codes and inside information that would help us slip through the back gate undetected, but I knew that didn't guarantee our safety. As we moved closer to the palace, I felt a strange sensation building inside me. It was as if my bond with Cane was growing stronger, like an invisible thread connecting us across the distance.

Tormund was back at the pack house acting like a lovesick pup for a woman he had literally thrown away, and every time I thought about the way he compared me to Kyla, I wanted to scream until my lungs gave out. ‘Focus, Vivica,’ Raven hissed in the back of my mind. ‘The witch doesn't like to be kept waiting, and we need that potion before the sun goes down.’ I pushed through a thicket of thorns and finally saw the small, crooked shack tucked away in the shadows of a weeping willow. This was where Clarence stayed when she wasn't traveling. She was a dark witch who didn't care about pack laws or morality as long as she was paid in gold or blood.

Opening the book on Lycanthropy, I tried to read it but I couldn't concentrate. I was starving. It had been almost twenty four hours since I had last eaten. I had been running on fumes and adrenaline since then. Suddenly, A knock sounded at the door. I closed the book and placed it on the couch as I stood up to go see who it was. I was surprised to see Cain standing outside my door holding a large plate of steaming food, a fork and a bottle of water tucked under his arm. "I figured you hadn't eaten," he said. "Mind if I come in?"

Clayton's son Elijah would be my chauffeur, it was no big deal. Yesterday Aunt Dorothy said that this town is impenetrable to any wolf and only those with special permission can enter here. So I doubt whether Alarick can enter the town of Izlav. "Mrs. Balstair, where would you like me to take you?" asked Elijah, who I had been taking around Izlav town for the past twenty minutes. "Are you tired?" I asked.

“And she thinks she can hide him from me? She underestimates the patience of a father… of a man who is precise, who is obsessed, who sees everything.” He began to move silently along the cliffside path, every step careful, calculated, his presence blending with the darkness and the wind. The child was his, and he would reclaim him. Nothing would stop him. --- Ines paused to catch her breath, eyes scanning the cliffs for any sign of movement. “No one can see us here,” she whispered. “No one can find us… not him…” The wind carried a soft sound—a shifting of rocks behind her. Her breath caught. “Who’s there?”

The Edmund files Clara put on my desk at eight fifty seven were thorough in the way that only files compiled by an intelligence operation over forty years could be thorough. Edmund Thorne. Sixty eight years old. Founder of the Thorne Group. Educated at Oxford and Harvard. Married once. Divorced. One acknowledged son, Julian. One unacknowledged son who didn’t exist in any official record anywhere because Eleanor had made sure of that. Connections spanning six continents. A reputation in private financial circles as the man you called when the problem was too large and too sensitive for conventional solutions.