Silas Ramsbottom Novels & Stories

"Sit, Dante. Silas was just briefing me on the Nightbreeze situation." I took the chair beside my uncle while Silas settled back into his own, immediately slipping into the comfortable posture of someone who'd sat in this office a thousand times before. At forty-five, he carried himself with the confidence of age and experience, though he looked a decade younger—werewolf genetics blessing him with dark hair barely touched by silver, a strong build kept lean through constant training. He'd always been the more approachable of the two brothers. Where Dominic ruled with ice and distance, Silas led with warmth tempered by pragmatism.

Silas rasped, his voice dropping into that dark, low register that made the water inside the crystal glasses on the table ripple. He didn't take his seat at the head of the table. Instead, he stood there, his large hands braced against the polished wood, looming over the terrified directors like a predator deciding where to strike first. The gold lines on his wrists flared slightly beneath his crisp white cuffs, a silent warning of the beast lurking just beneath the billionaire exterior.

Andrew tried to make a joke to relieve Robin's stress. As she let out a laugh, the sound of the doorbell went off and Andrew walked up to the door to answer. "Hello Andrew Alexander, I wonder why you're still living in this place. It's too small and close to the cheap hostel areas on campus. I'll have my assistant get you another apartment," Silas said as he walked in, looking every bit of intimidating with his 6ft 3inch frame. He had a very deep and commanding voice, almost like Andrew's but deeper. He looked very fit and quite young for someone at forty seven. His well cut jaw, spotted a little stubble and his eyes were steel grey, making him all the more intimidating.

Actually just one person, his name was Silas", Ambrosia said. Lucas had heard that name before and so have his brothers. Mildred told them the story of Silas, but Ambrosia knew another part of his life that he had not heard. "Tell me more about this Silas", Lucas said, as he was eager to listen. 'Silas was a handsome vampire just like you three. He was my fellow General and we served for centuries under Dracula's command. Silas was the most loved of all the Generals and the most clever. Dracula would send him on deadly assignments no one dared to go and he would carry them out successfully. Even the deadly 6, the famous vampire scouts that replaced him after his death weren't as successful

"He was Julio Castellano's shadow for twenty years. He's the one who designed the sub-basement security protocols at the estate before Isabella decided he knew too much and tried to have him buried in a shallow grave." Silas stepped forward, his eyes landing on my bandaged chest and the way I was leaning against the bedpost just to keep from collapsing. He let out a dry, hacking sound that might have been a laugh, but sounded more like he had been gargling gravel for breakfast. "This is the Reaper?" Silas asked, his voice sounding like it was being dragged over rusted nails. "He looks like a piece of meat the dogs gave up on. You sure he can even hold a gun, Lorenzo? Because he looks like h

It was​ her cons‌tant, painful re‍minder of the man who‌ had stood in his pristine execu⁠ti​v‍e o‌ffice, l⁠ooked towa⁠rd the window, and‌ called her life th‍e big‌gest mistake he had ev‌er made. "They ar‌e comple‌tely l‌iqui⁠dated‍, you know," a low, gravelly voice muttered fr​om t‍he thick darkness beside her. Celeste‌ did‍ n‌ot flin‍ch or⁠ sta‌rtle. She had​ spent the last two⁠ weeks learnin​g exactly ho​w⁠ to brea⁠the i​n the​ dark, blending⁠ into the background unti‌l she was no‌thing more tha⁠n a part of the a​rchi‍tecture. She slow​ly tur‌ned her⁠ h⁠ead to lo‍o​k​ at Silas.‌ He was a forme‌r ov⁠erni‍ght​ secu‌rity guard from the f ⁠l⁠a⁠gship ho​tel wh​o had been brutally fi‍red without

I stopped flipping when I saw a name written in red ink at the bottom of a page. "There," I said, pointing to the line. "Silas Vane?" Clara read the name out loud. "Who is that? Sounds like a character from an old movie." "He’s the man Victor couldn't kill," I said. "About ten years ago, Silas owned the shipping routes Victor needed for the W-Project. Victor tried to buy him out, Silas said no. So Victor framed him for embezzlement, burned down his main warehouse, and basically ran him out of the country."

But the blinding searchlights, those sweeping beams slicing through the shattered windows of the infirmary, felt very much like the modern mortal world being done with us. "Silas!" Dominic barked, voice raw, still somehow bossy even as he shoved himself off the floor. The black veins were fully gone now, his soul cleaned by our daughter’s light, but his body looked worn out like he’d been dragged through gravel. "Talk to me. Who is out there?" Silas came bursting through the melted infirmary doors, tactical gear smeared with ash. The mercenary looked human-panicked, the kind that tries to stay professional but fails.

At the top of the tower, the ancient masonry fell away to reveal a state-of-the-art broadcast hub. Standing in the center of the room, lit by the flickering blue light of the monitors, was Silas Reed. He wasn't the man I remembered. He was sitting in a motorized exoskeleton, his face scarred and his eyes burning with a feverish, digital madness. He looked less like a businessman and more like a ghost that had clawed its way back from hell. "Ethan," Silas rasped, his voice amplified by the room’s speakers. "You always were a poet. You thought you could save the world by deleting its memory? You just made them forget who their masters were. I'm here to remind them."

"Clear the express elevator. Now." She didn't wait for a response. She reached back and yanked the hood away. A collective gasp hissed through the room. A janitor dropped his mop. Two executives near the fountain turned ghost-white. Abram Silas. The man the city thought was a memory stood in the center of his own empire. He was thinner. His cheekbones looked like they were trying to punch through his skin. His eyes were bloodshot, darting with a feral, manic light that hadn't been there before.