Jackson The Hedgehog Novels & Stories

As the huge, shaggy head grinned. "You dare to touch my girl. Now you have to die." The beast lunged for his throat, Jackson realized with a start that the monstrous thing he had seen bouncing off a wall was one of his mangled, severed arms. It was the last thing he ever saw.

He dropped to his knees and dramatically put his hand over his heart. “You were right. You five are much faster than me. Later on, we’ll see if you’re faster than my wolf Zeus. Now, run along and see where you can help out!” Jackson gave each of them a high-five before they ran away. It was great to see him able to bring some normalcy back to everything and be able to connect with the younger ones. This was one reason why he was the perfect man for the job. He could be whatever he needed to be for whomever needed him.

Never have. School hated him, and the feeling was mutual. By eighth grade, he’d practically flunked himself out — skipped classes, skipped tests, skipped the whole system. He’s also beaten up half the school by then … broke the principal’s son’s nose … And that’s how we ended up in Legionary Military Academy, Portland, Oregon — Mom’s last resort for Jackson. And I went with. I wasn’t going to let my brother have all the fun alone in boarding school. The thing is, despite his chaos, Jackson sees through people like X-rays. His brain is unique — giving him an extremely annoyingly perceptive nature that sets him apart. It’s almost impossible to pull the wool over his eyes or hide anything from

Before I could respond, Jackson came barreling toward us, his little legs pumping as fast as they could. “Mommy, look! A dino!” he exclaimed, holding up the plush dinosaur Lily had given him. Cecilia’s face lit up as she crouched down to his level. “Oh my goodness, that’s the cutest dinosaur I’ve ever seen! What’s its name?” Jackson tilted his head, thinking hard. “Hmm… Dino-Squish!” “Dino-Squish?” Cecilia repeated, laughing. “That’s a perfect name, Jackson!”

Characters Jackson: a 27-year-old reclusive artist who lives near the edge of the Blackpine Forest. She's grounded, sharp-witted, and recovering from a toxic relationship. Henry Fodger: a 34-year-old unhinged, dominant werewolf who’s been watching her from the shadows, convinced she belongs to him. Scarred, rough, and dangerous. . . .

Joshua Logan, three-time Super Bowl champion, riding on the back of a werewolf, like a horse. I climb onto Jackson’s back, and he takes off like a shot. He is much faster than I thought he would be. We weave in between houses and bushes; parked cars in driveways and kids toys that litter lawns. I’m assuming by the maneuvering we are doing that he is taking the most direct route to the hospital, which means, not on the roads. I grip his fur tighter as we take a sharp turn around a fence and emerge onto a street in a more business dominated area.

But the look on Blue Blades face says it all. The biggest rogue comes forward, his face and snout laden with scars, one ear missing its tip, the other missing completely. “This is Jackson, he has been my shadow ever since we all left Blue Moon, so many years ago. His primary purpose has been to hide my scent with his own. So, you see, everything is not what it seems.” He nods at Jackson , who steps back to stand beside his master. He is the one who attacked me in my room. My skin flashes with heat at the memory of being drenched in poison.

The environment was more befitting for other beasts that slept in the woods. Jackson took the wheel yet again, driving it to the front gate where two guards stood. He pulled up, turning off the ignition when they wouldn’t budge before alighting the car. The two guards walked up to where Jackson stood, speaking in hushed tones. I smirked when he started to re-tie his bun, pulling out his claws in the process and scratching across his face. The other guard growled loudly, but Jackson was just in time to duck out of his reach and send his claws flying straight to his abdomen.

a voice spoke from the shadows of the stone-dolls. Jackson appeared, leaning against a pillar of obsidian. He was no longer the crow or the god. He was a man of shadow, his golden eyes the only thing that didn't look like ash. He held the Ebony Key, but it was now a liquid, shifting thing that looked like a serpent.

Fur spun around to see who it was and he saw a black wolf, a foot shorter than himself standing before him. “Jackson,” Fur grunted. “I believe I put you in a dustbin. This is not your fight.” “It is,” Jackson roared and bounded towards Fur with amazing speed. “You would die today, Fur and everyone would know that I killed the mighty Fur.”