Washington Crossing Book Novels & Stories

Manhattan was a beautiful city, and even more so at night. My memory of Giovanni taking me to Gapstow Bridge in Central Park flashed in the back of my mind. The fresh snow that lay on the ground, the iced over water that ceased to flow days before. It was all ethereal. I remember feeling so weightless as we stood on the bridge, gazing out into the darkness. I longed to be back there. It gave me a sense of freedom, despite still being in the city. The silence that surrounded us back then gave me a chance to reflect. Giovanni’s silence was so similar, like he was allowing me company and solitude all at once.

Her books were written off in the name of Sara Moto which is short for Yamamoto but two of her books becoming best sellers made her reveal her face but not her identity. This is the reason why the ladies could recognise her as the author of their favourite books. I've read all five of her books and I must say that, this lady brings out the romance in you. "I'm sorry to cut you ladies short but my sister over here needs to check in with you for her first day at work". "We're sorry, pardon our manners" the blonde one says still looking at Sara and I wonder if they even realise I've been standing here all along since we walked in here and they saw Sara.

“Targets sighted near the North perimeter. All units, converge on the George Washington Bridge approach.” Ron weaves through the late-evening traffic on the Turnpike with a recklessness that should terrify me, but after watching Lydia fall, I feel strangely untouchable. We slice between semi-trucks and commuters, a black streak of shadow moving too fast for the human eye to track. The bike responds to every shift of his weight, every twitch of his wrist, like an extension of his own defiant will. We hit the approach to a small drawbridge over a canal—a shortcut to the industrial side of the city. But the warning lights are already flashing red. The heavy steel leaves of the bridge are starti

He feared what he would find once he reached the chaos. As he reached the crosswalk leading from the business section of Washington Street to the downtown area on the other side of Washington Street, people poured out of the small strip of stores, running as fast as they could, jerking their gazes over their shoulders to make sure nothing pursued them. In the intersection of Washington and Main, several cars sat twisted together, fiberglass bumpers shattered, metal caved in and twisted. Traffic backed up in both directions, some cars abandoned as people either fled or stood and gawked trying to figure out what freaked everyone out.

Kane Ryder killed the headlights and parked two houses down from Veronica Voss’s sleek modern home. His heart pounded as he watched her lights turn off one by one, he couldn’t get her out of his head since the interrogation room. “Fuck this,” he muttered, gripping the steering wheel, he slipped out of the car, moved through the shadows, and picked the lock on her back door. Kane stepped inside quietly and made his way to her study. On her desk lay an open manuscript. He picked it up, eyes scanning the pages under the moonlight.

Then it made a sound I had never heard before. Small. Broken. Almost childlike. Its hand rose, trembling, and pressed against the glass. “Red,” it whispered. “Yes,” I said. “Red River Crossing.” The golden eyes widened. Its breathing grew uneven. I turned the page to the woman in the blue shawl. Subject One’s claws scraped the floor once. “Mama.” Caleb looked down. Daniel turned his face away. My own throat tightened so hard I had to wait before speaking. “We found your sketchbook.”

But because screaming took energy I didn't have, and because somewhere deep inside, something was changing. My mother's blood, maybe. Or something older than that. Something that refused to die. The thirteenth lash. The fourteenth. The fifteenth. And then, suddenly, it stopped. I hung from the chains, barely conscious, my back a ruin of torn flesh and flowing blood. I couldn't feel my body anymore. I couldn't feel anything except the deep, cold emptiness where my wolf should have been. But I was still breathing. I was still alive. Through the roaring in my ears, I heard voices.

When Nicholas returned to the rental house where I had lived, he stared straight at the pile of newspapers on the ground. The dust all over seemed to be telling him how much time had passed here, and that no one had ever been here during that time. "Astrid... No, you wouldn't die..." His voice trembled as he slowly reached out and lifted a corner of the newspaper. A small, dried bloodstain appeared beneath it. "Ah!" Nicholas's legs gave way as he fell to the ground. He no longer dared to lift the remaining newspapers. He seemed to have stopped breathing as he stared blankly without any color on his face. What he had been afraid of and had always refused to believe had come true.

He laughed to himself and steeled himself even more. After what felt like a few years of walking to him he finally saw it. The crossroad. The roads were dusty yellow with a few cracks travelling through them. The man stood on the left side of the road where at the edge of it stood an old wooden sign post that threatened to fall at any moment. The signs were pointing towards a direction with the names on them. The forwards, left, right arrows read ‘NOWHERE’, while the last arrow which pointed towards the road that he came from read, ‘MAYBE SOMEWHERE’.