Redacted Symbol Novels & Stories

Cole read beside him. The room was very quiet. It was the symbol that stopped Cole. A small circle with a single line through it. Printed in the corner of every document. Simple. Unremarkable. The kind of thing you would pass over without registering unless you had seen it before. Cole had seen it before. He sat back slowly. Damien looked at him. "You recognize it," he said. Cole was quiet for a moment. His eyes still on the symbol.

Lucinda mumbles. Everything in the diner has been destroyed, except one thing, a huge frame on the wall. It is the picture is of a crescent, not an ordinary one. On both sides of the picture, the words CC are boldly written in capital letters. The symbol is a very familiar one, one that makes me shake in rage. Fuck! The bastard is still alive.

Alex said softly. Only then did Jamie relax slightly. Alex handed him the note silently. Jamie’s expression changed the second he saw the silver wolf. Cold recognition. “You know this symbol.” It wasn’t a question. Jamie stayed silent for a long moment. Then finally— “Yes.” Alex waited. Jamie placed the note carefully on the table. “That symbol belongs to a private organization.” “What kind of organization?” Jamie’s jaw tightened. “The kind powerful people use when they want problems erased quietly.” Alex felt unease spread through him.

And to my astonishment, the lock clicked open, revealing the secrets concealed within. Eagerly, I reached inside the safe and retrieved the file that had caused so much turmoil in my life. My hands trembled with a mix of anticipation and fear as I leafed through its contents, my eyes scanning the words and symbols that confirmed its significance. The repetition of "VH14" throughout the pages confirmed that I had indeed found what I had been searching for.

He turns the shield around so I can see the front. It hasn’t been painted on a barn door this time. It hasn’t been scrawled on a perimeter wall. This is military equipment. This belongs to the pack. The blue and silver crest has been defaced. Painted over the wolf is the jagged, open maw of Redmaw, rendered in that same thick, tarry red ochre as before. And below it, scratched deep into the wood with a knife, is a single word. TRAITOR. I stare at it. The letters are jagged and angry. The person who carved this was shaking with rage.

"I see. You can go back to your work now." Mark took out the letters he had received. They were all from the same sender, bearing the same symbol. It was clear that the person sending them was trying to imply something. Looking closely, he noticed a small image in the corner—a cross. The image symbolized justice and truth, while Mark was the villain, the one destined to be punished.

Ray nods and pulls out a photo from his desk's drawer, "Watch this." "What's this?" he examines the photo. "It looks like a black card." "I hacked this photo from one of their websites. It's called a Pecto, there's total seven of them, if the informations are correct." "The Conditorem is quite aficionado of Latin words," he furrows his forehead. "I never understood why their symbol is an innocent bird like swift bird. What do they mean by that? That they can be impeccable and try to make this world better?" he clenches his teeth, then looks up at his friend. "Um, anyway, how can we grab this Pecto?"

Caleb and I stood in Boston Common, at the top of a small hill, looking out, surveying the park. He held a map of the Freedom Trail which he’d just bought in a store, and he ran his finger along it again and again. I stood beside him, holding out both halves of the ancient scroll. “Read it again,” he said. I squinted to make out the words. I read: The Four Horsemen travel a trail to freedom. They leave common ground,

And forwarded, to someone else. An encrypted message flashed across the screen. No location, no signature. Just a symbol: A serpent swallowing its own tail.

“We…don’t…speak…it.” Coward, the Zenaida-voice inside me hissed. “Then draw it,” I said. “In the blood you were so eager to spill.” I lifted my boot, just enough for him to move his arm. He hesitated, then dragged his fingers through the puddle of red by his leg. His hand shook as he traced on the concrete, rain already working to blur the lines. The symbol that emerged was ugly in its simplicity: a circle with a line through the center, and four smaller cuts radiating outward like claw marks.