Lyon Novels & Stories

A secret part of me is also looking forward to seeing Alpha Jeremey again, As Lionidas drives us towards the Northern pack lands I wonder how I can ask questions about Leo without asking direct questions about Leo. I wish I remembered the car ride when we left the pack before so I could tell if I was close or not but nothing looked familiar but there was an intense feeling building up in my stomach. Like a bubble of excitement but it was laced with fear. Like I was moving towards something vital but I didn’t know what it was going to be. As we continued driving, I finally saw something I recognised, the main square of the Golden Harvest Pack. It felt so strange to be looking at this place. O

This is also one of the attractive places in France, it had been reported that there is a company called Bateux Mouche, which is dedicated to giving tours for the enjoyment of tourists. First they had to reach the pier with the same name, very close to the Alma Bridge in the Port de la Conférence. They soon left, after a while, I was already enjoying the walk and they left no evidence of how much fun they were having during the walk. I received several photos on W******p in which you could see them smiling, Matt's smile filled my heart, in the following ones there was the Notre Dame Cathedral, the Louvre Museum, the Hótel de Ville and others.

The woman sat in the corner, still silent, her hands folded like always. The jet began to hum. Damien looked at me, calm and cruel in the same breath. “We’re going to a place called Fourcès,” he said. I blinked. “Where?” “In Occitanie,” he answered. I pulled out my phone and ran a quick search. The signal was weak, but enough. Fourcès. A medieval village in the south of France. Beautiful. Isolated. Barely touched by time. A place where stone and silence still ruled the streets.

Damien’s POV Lyon smelled of wet stone and old secrets. By the time my jet touched down, night had already settled over the city, pooling in the crooked alleys and on the slick cobblestones like black ink. I went straight to a safe house tucked behind an unmarked steel door in the Croix-Rousse district, where two of our family mafia’s old contacts were waiting. René and Baptiste looked like any pair of aging café owners—wrinkled jackets, nicotine fingers—but the men behind those eyes had once moved guns across three borders without leaving a single trace.

The big guy upstairs must've been listening, because he made an exit not long after. Jared brought me lunch which I ate at my desk, because I found that the last person had made a mess of the files. Not that anything was missing, it's just that there was no real order to anything. Around two the phone rang, good, break up the monotony. "Lyon's Place, how may I help you?" "Where the fuck is Lyon?" "Excuse me?" "Lyon, the quack that runs that outfit over there, where the hell is he?"

“I’m Captain Ian J. Francois, leader of the forces occupying this city. The enemy left the city as soon as they heard of your march. They left all their supplies and weapons.” “Nevertheless, be on your guard, captain,” Julien whips the reins. “My mother always reminded me that danger can come from unexpected places.” The city of Erlain in the Basille domain is the largest city in the central riverlands. The great river Reyne flows through the city, supplying it with the riches of the land. It is a vital point for any assault northwards or southwards. It also provides a powerful defense against any enemy attack, with its high walls and deep moats. The north and south bridges are the only stru

Prince Nicholas' castle, the Château de Rochefort, nestled in the serene commune of Rochefort-en-Yvelines, lay in the heart of the Île-de-France region, a mere 47 kilometers southwest of Paris. Today, eight Sherpa Lights – a fleet of 4x4 tactical and light armored vehicles crafted by the renowned French company, Renault Trucks Defense – rumbled out of the castle gates in urgent haste. Their engines roared, cutting through the tranquility of the countryside. If they maintained a speed of 60 kilometers per hour, Paris would be within their reach in under an hour.

Raquel The path forward lies over your heart. It’s clearly another one of Dad’s coded messages, but I don’t have a sweet clue what he means. Montpellier is a beautiful city near the edge of the Mediterranean Sea. It’s one of those amazing places where the old and the new weave together —where the shiny and efficient tramway network that zips past old buildings left over from the Reformation. Several storefronts are heavily decorated, some of them still sporting pumpkins and fall leaves while others have already moved on to festive Christmas paraphernalia.

Caitlin flew the short distance from Saint Germain Des Pres over the Seine river, and then over the Ile de la Cite. She circled the small, narrow island slowly, trying to take it all in. There, of course, was the Notre Dame, huge, enormous, towering over everything, the largest building on the island. It was an overwhelming structure. The thought of finding whatever it was she needed inside it seemed daunting.

Paris, France. Montmartre. 18th Arrondissement. Two Days Later. It was raining. A cold, grey, relentless drizzle that soaked into the bones. A taxi stopped on a cobblestone street. The driver grunted, "No cars past this point. You walk."