Hombre Sombra Novels & Stories

What Tador and the others termed as a shadowed man, wasn’t really a shadowed man, but a being made of a pile of thick black smoke like a man. Now the only thing that danced in Tador’s mind was how the hell he would get out of the scary dream he was in.

While Bo has a shining white head free of even a single strand of hair and a short thin (mostly gray) facial hair and smells like golden spice. Gray is standing on the left side of a semicircle made up of him, Cordelia and Bo, with cordelia being in the middle, a few yards just ahead of us. Gray’s holding a long thick metal link chain in his hands, conversing with the two. Iselyn and I stop a few feet away, just close enough to alert them to our presence and hear the conversation.

About twenty meters away I spot them, or more to the point I spot him. Clayton Blackridge Alpha of the Lobo Sombra pack in his huge gun metal grey wolf. Standing to his right is a brown and grey wolf slightly smaller in height and not as muscular, possibly his Beta. My wolf starts stalking towards them and even though I am protesting she wants him. As I get closer he shifts back then the other wolf turns I realise he is giving us some privacy.

I even allowed myself a single steadying breath, the kind I hadn't dared take since I'd first sat down. Then he reached beneath the table and produced another paper, sliding it across the wooden surface with the same unhurried calm he'd shown throughout the entire conversation. A wanted poster. Bold lettering stretched across the top, stark and unmistakable: *THE ASSASSIN KNOWN AS LA SOMBRA ROJA. THE RED SHADOW.*

The room was dimly lit, the heavy scent of cigar smoke curling through the air. Alessandro De Luca leaned back in his leather chair, swirling a glass of red wine. Across from him, Mateo Salazar stood with calculated ease, his sharp eyes betraying no emotion. The silence between them was razor-thin, each man waiting for the other to speak first. “A man of your reputation shouldn’t be wasting his time in the shadows, Alessandro.” Mateo spoke, breaking the silence. “Especially not when there’s an opportunity to reclaim what’s rightfully yours.”

She takes my hand in hers and squeezes it gently. "We are werewolves, not monsters," she says softly. "Our pack is called the Shadows and is led by Gabriel Valley. He became our leader after his father's death some months ago." I sigh and turn to look at her. Her blue eyes look sad as she stares at me. "I promise you my child, you are not a monster. Being different is your greatest power," she whispers, grazing her fingers across my eyebrows. "You'll see," she adds with a faint smile. I stare at her drowning in my thoughts. I think about everything. Me. Them. The pack. I'd have sworn last night was just a dream but I know what I saw and felt. It was all too real. "Your father and I are going

A frosty chill blows over my body causing me to shiver. The cool air is filled with the sound of chattering people as we prepare to leave the Shadow Moore. I jump when I feel something touch my shoulder. Looking behind me I see Pyotr. His dark hair is tied neatly into a low ponytail. He's wearing a white tunic with a red vest tucked into black pants. Pyotr smiles at me, the moonlight glinting off his orange eyes makes them glow.

"Yes." His head moved to that man standing way far from us, it was only a dark silhouette illuminating through the darkness. I froze in fright. I couldn't see his face or his entire body since he is actually standing in the shadows. He's kind of tall and he's a bit slim but not too slim. He's slim. Can he just come out of the shadows already? He's making me scared when he stands like that there in the shadows looking like slender man. "He's here." The man tells me.

A river of liquid shadow flowed silently past, stretching out into a horizon where the sky and water were the same shade of bruised violet. A boat was waiting. It was a shallow skiff made of gnarled driftwood, and standing at the helm was a figure wrapped in tatters of gray silk. The Ferryman. He didn't have a face, only a void where features should be, illuminated by two faint, flickering embers. "The McKinnley girl," a voice echoed, not from the figure, but from the water itself. "You are early. Your name is not yet etched in the silt."

Her eyes blazing with a fierce, desperate light, “Don’t let him in your head! Fight, pendejo! Fight!” Esteban tuts, circling her like a predator toying with its prey. His shadow doesn’t match his physical form—it writhes on the wall, a monstrous thing, elongated and distorted. Antennaed and multi-legged, pinning Dru’s wrists with grotesque, shadowy limbs. A butterfly lands on his impeccably tailored shoulder, its skull wings flexing with a disturbing elegance. “Pretty little bruja. She’ll burn brighter than your mamá.”