Novel & Cerita The Jackal 13 Ghosts Costume

Dirt flies up under my boots as I skid to a stop near the outer line, my heart hammering, my wolf pacing hard inside my skin, restless and angry. A man drops to his knees not ten feet from me, clutching his throat, blood spraying between his fingers. The one who takes him down does not wear Ridgeveil colors. He is not BloodRain either. His jacket is darker, stitched with a mark I know too well, one I have not seen in years but never forgot. My stomach tightens as recognition slams into me. Jackal. “Fuck,” I breathe, the word ripped out of me as I spin, scanning the field with sharper eyes.

Jack stood on the central floating platform, completely overwhelmed by the sheer, staggering magnitude of the adoration. He was dressed not in his torn, old-world clothes, but in a custom-tailored tunic of woven white hard-light silk that perfectly complemented his slender, delicate frame. His chameleon skin was flushed with a constant, ethereal pink luminescence. Everywhere he stepped, a trail of physical Pink Blossoms bloomed against the steel and dissolved into fragrant light. He was the absolute center of their universe, and the Pink High was intoxicating. "They're cheering for us, Marcus," Jack whispered, a breathtaking, genuine smile stretching across his face.

“Mom! Where’s my black jacket? The one with the hood?” “Who wants to know?” “Me, Jacob! Ashley has his!” “You never wear it, so I hung it in the basement!” “Shit.” “What did you say?” “I said, dang it.” “Uh-huh.” Ashley got his leather jacket, a tight white T-shirt, and blues jeans he could roll up the cuffs on and a pair of black motorcycle boots. This would be his 1950's street-tough costume. Jacob wanted his black hooded jacket to dress up as a serial killer with a ghost face mask and a huge plastic butcher knife. Both had torn their room to pieces trying to find everything.

"Look what crawled out of the drain." Three men stepped into the light. They wore oversized hoodies and tactical vests scavenged from the raid. In the center stood Ghost. He was thinner than I remembered. A jagged scar ran from his ear to his jaw—a gift from the last turf war I’d led before I disappeared. "Ghost," I said. I didn't lower the pipe. "Don't 'Ghost' me, you golden-eyed prick." He spat a glob of phlegm onto the concrete. He raised a heavy-duty revolver. "Except your eyes aren't gold anymore, are they? You look... ordinary. Like the rest of us rats."

The other party was obviously a big demon in the shapeshifting stage, but in the eyes of the one behind the Gates of Hell, the other party was no different from a fish caught. The demon jackal was the mysterious figure that had been hiding in the depths of Ghost City in Wanzhou. Caspian narrowed his eyes and moved his fingertips when he saw that the gray light on the other party's body did not fade even though the other party was being grabbed by him. The gray light suddenly began to sway. Seeing this, Caspian pointed at his opponent's throat. Immediately, the demon jackal opened its mouth and a gray bead flew into Caspian's hand.

J The miniature ghost stood defiant, hands on hips, with a fire in the deep brown eyes peering through the sheet holes that would have given most larger beings pause. But where the frayed sheet ended, a pair of long, gangly legs wearing pink “Hello Kitty” socks and blue thrift-shop sneakers comically softened the spirit’s fierce glare. “I wore this at Halloween when I was, like, ten,” sulked the irate specter. An elderly black woman with close-cropped curly white hair sighed in response as she looked down at her adopted granddaughter. “Jeannine LaRue, you’re the one who begged me to have a costume party for your birthday in the middle of summer, Lord have mercy.”

"You're late for the feast, little wolf." The voice didn't come from the twins. It came from the trees. I spun, my wooden stake raised. A group of men and women stepped into the clearing. They didn't wear clothes; they wore shadows. Their skin was pale, mapped with scars that glowed with a faint, sickly violet light. Shadow-Pack. The Council’s ghosts. There were six of them, circling me with a slow, coordinated rhythm that spoke of centuries of shared kills. Their leader stepped forward. He was a man with a face like a cracked mask—one eye missing, replaced by a jagged scar. He smelled of stagnant water and cold iron.

“Looks like he eats nails for breakfast.” That did it. She burst into laughter. I wasn’t doing much better. Nico remained perfectly serious. “And…” His fingers paused. “He doesn’t have the sense God gave a goose.” Elena leaned forward until her forehead rested against my shoulder as she laughed harder. I shook my head. “You enjoy this far too much.” “I do.” He nodded his head once. He never denied it. “He’s paying you for information on ghost. And you’re describing Ghost as…” she started to say.

Unfortunately, Scarlet did not even spare Hattie a glance. Hattie was a little disappointed. "Senior York, why didn’t Scarlet call my name?" Lucas shook his head in secret. ‘Scarlet is a zombie that I exclusively trained. Besides, how is she supposed to call your name when she’s only a Rank 3 zombie?’ It was already dusk at this moment, and there were no zombies on the street. The silence was deafening. Lucas looked out the window and spotted several humans who resembled gene martial artists. The humans were clad in white robes that had two huge, crimson characters written on them.

For a fleeting second, hope claws at me—maybe the guard was wrong, maybe he’s only resting, maybe— But then I see his eyes. Not the emerald green I share with him, not the fierce fire I grew up both fearing and yearning for. His eyes are white. Empty. A ghost’s stare. Dark smoke coils around his head like a crown of poison. His skin is pale, stretched thin, the color of ash. “No…” My voice cracks in the air, raw and desperate. Beside me, Jack whispers, grief rough in his throat. “I think his soul left his body.” The words rip me apart. I scream, stumbling forward, reaching for him—but Jack’s arms lock around my waist, dragging me back against his chest.