Inquisitor Cod Skin Novels & Stories

Here, Kael was no longer the Alpha of a territory; he was merely a wolf standing before his judges. Waiting for them were the High Inquisitors. They were three figures cloaked in robes of unspun white wool, their faces hidden by masks carved from the bone of Great Alphas. Behind them stood a sea of warriors—the combined strength of the Shadow-Stream, Stone-Back, and Iron-Claw packs. Thousands of eyes tracked the small, battered group as they came to a halt in the center of the ring. "Kael Nightfang," the central Inquisitor spoke. The voice was neither male nor female, but a rasping echo that seemed to vibrate within the stones themselves. "You have crossed the water. You have brought the ano

A figure entered, tall, lean, and robed in crimson. The High Inquisitor of the Guxani Sect, his face hidden by a mask of lacquered beetle shells. He carried a shallow bowl of dark elixir. Tonic infused with Amarantha’s essence. The very same that kept the King of Vespas young and his sect powerful.

The Inquisitor was shorter than Xander expected. He wasn’t sure why he’d expected anything different—the Level 5 designation didn’t come with a height requirement—but there was something about the way the man carried himself that made him seem like he was used to taking up more space than he physically did. Tailored coat, Council seal on the lapel, hands clasped behind his back like he was waiting for a bus and not standing at the gate of someone else’s territory at nearly midnight.

Each of the policemen was fully armed and hiding behind the police cars. “F*ck! You won the game but were caught by the police. Death Judge, are you playing with me?” The veins on Marcellus’s face bulged, and he looked particularly ferocious. “Hahaha! So the Inquisitor still has a trick up his sleeve!” “As long as this scumbag doesn’t escape the punishment of the law, I will still support you, Inquisitor!” “Give him a little hope first, then make him despair. The Inquisitor is really amazing!”

“And we find out what the Marchesis were really guarding.” Back in the hills outside the estate, Caine stood before a dozen men in matte black gear. No insignia. No names. Only one thing marked their uniforms. The same Oculus Sigil, now inverted—its serpent cut open, bleeding into infinity. Caine faced them, eyes like steel on ice. “Marchesi won’t surrender the Codex,” he said. One man stepped forward. “Then what’s the plan?” Caine’s lips curled. “We don’t take it.”

Before either of us can respond, movement catches my eye. A man steps forward from the Council seats—late fifties, with slicked-back hair that’s more grease than style and a smile that nauseates me. His robes seem expensive but are worn in a way that suggests he cares more about appearances than actual quality. Rings glitter on every finger, gaudy and excessive. High Inquisitor Draven. Leader of the purist faction within the Umbra Council. The man who has been a thorn in Kael’s side since the moment he took the throne.

She wasn't crying anymore—she was silent, her skin turning a dull, metallic grey as the Inquisitor, a creature with a face of shifting sand, drew lines in the air toward her. “Duke Vane,” the Inquisitor hissed, the sound like a thousand snakes over dry leaves. “You have brought the Vessel. And she carries the mark of the Covenant. Bold. Arrogant. Predictable.” The twelve Lords leaned forward, their collective gaze a physical weight that forced Elara to her knees. Vane stayed standing, his hand resting lightly on Elara’s shoulder.

"Do not waste it." We rounded the corner to the servants' quarters, the secret way to the garage. But we did not find safety. We found a wall of red silk. The High Inquisitor stood there. He was blocking the narrow passage. He did not look like a warrior. He looked like a dried-up old bird wrapped in crimson robes. But the power radiating off him made the air smell like ozone and sulfur. Behind him stood Silas Frost and two warriors with eyes sewn shut. "Going somewhere, little wolf?" the Inquisitor asked. His voice was dry, scratching against the silence.

I murmured, my voice resonating with that deep, metallic echo of the Eclipse that had settled into my bones. I lifted my right arm, allowing the permanent star-silver bracer fused to my skin to catch the morning rays. The metal didn't reflect the light; it devoured it. The intricate flame patterns etched into the silver pulsed a vibrant, dangerous amethyst, drawing directly from the volatile static humming in my nervous system. Down my fingers, the dark violet veins throbbed, completely alive, vibrating in perfect harmony with the heavy obsidian collar fastened around my throat. Down on the plains, the High Inquisitor raised his golden-trimmed arm. The enormous amber crystal atop his staff f

But it was her arm—her left arm—that made Saoirse clamp a hand over her own mouth to stifle a retch. They had made an incision. A long, precise cut from shoulder to elbow. The skin was peeled back, pinned open with silver clamps. Standing over her was a man in a white rubber apron. An Inquisitor. He held a glass vial, collecting the silver-flecked blood that dripped from the wound. "Remarkable," the Inquisitor muttered, his voice echoing up the shaft. "The regeneration rate is slowing, but the potency… it’s still off the charts."