Blackwoode: Shadows & Silver

By C. L. Brown

How can others accept you if you can't accept yourself?

 

Simon Blackwoode is a werewolf who has never been part of a pack. As the new Alpha of the Manhattan wolf pack, it's no surprise that some pack members have doubts. The murder of two pack members presents a chance to prove himself capable of filling his role.

 

Pack politics complicate things. Abraham, son of the tri-state area's White Fang, shows up to investigate the murders and to question Simon's right to be in the pack. To top things off, someone makes an attempt on the White Fang's life, and all evidence points to Simon being the culprit.

 

Hunted by a magic-wielding assassin, the pack, and his inner demons; Simon must race to find answers before one of them brings him death.

 

~

 

Blackwoode: Shadows & Silver is part of the Realm Killer universe and takes place after the events in Realm Killer 2: Winds of Change.

 

Fans of Shayne Silvers, Steve McHugh, Cameron O'Connell, Patricia Briggs, or Chris Fox will love this teeth-gnashing supernatural thriller.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. L. Brown
• Release date: Mar 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215796801

C. L. Brown

C.L. Brown, a father, a papa, the dog-loving, gentle giant. A constant daydreamer who supports pizza being its own food group. A Tide fan behind enemy lines in Louisiana. An imaginative horror junky fascinated by the myths and legends of the world. He draws on them to create pulse-pounding tales with a diverse cast of characters who are every bit as dangerous as they are wondrous. Thus, he dwells in the machinations of dark urban fantasy. The dark urban fantasy Realm Killer series features Chase Ambrose, a snarky wizard with a propensity for creating enemies with the highest of the high and lowest of the low. It’s set in an alternate, modern-day world where gods govern an alphabet agency to keep humans, normies, ignorant of the supernatural’s existence. His Winds of Fury series, a dark urban fantasy spin-off of the Realm Killer series, features Molly Padia, known to the supernatural world as Molpadia. Molly is an ancient amazon and wind elemental, who lives in Albany, New York where she is rediscovering herself while failing to avoid supernatural mischief. The dark urban fantasy series The Doorman serves as a companion series that exists in the Realm Killer universe. Taya Freeman is a necromancer with talent that makes her an endangered species. New to the supernatural world, she has to contend with loa, voodoo magic, and the supernatural families of New Orleans. Check him out on social media or sign-up for his newsletter. https://www.facebook.com/ImaginationUnbound https://www.instagram.com/author.c.l.brown/

Book preview

Prologue

Angry cracks of thunder grumbled through the soggy night. Lightning flickered within the dark cloud laden sky. Frigid rain pelted the shadowy landscape. Such a night was common for September in Maryport. But the citizens in Maryport found the town’s prosperity to be worth it.

It was the year 1890. The fires of the iron foundry had calmed for the night. Carpenters and blacksmiths had laid their tools to rest in the shipyards. The Maryport and Carlisle Railway held a train loaded with coal. The foundry wouldn’t unload its portion until morning.

Cohen, go home and clean yourself up, Chelsea said. The rosy-cheeked barmaid always tried to stop him from drinking himself under the table.

Cohen had arrived two months ago. He spent every night sitting at the bar, drinking. The tavern’s patrons said he drank more than the fish in the sea. His sullen nature had spurred all manner of rumors.

Some said he was a former soldier, broken by the horrors of the Third Burma War. Others pinned him as a jilted lover, heartbroken by the betrayal of his love. There were even whispers of him being wanted by the law. The only consistent thing people agreed on was that no one in town could outwork him. Cohen could haul coal all day.

Cohen swayed in his seat. He leered into his half-drunken pint of beer. Blowing out a breath, he went to raise the cup.

Chelsea grabbed his wrist, spilling froth from the mug. How about you lay off the pints? She ran her fingers along his hand as she released him. Maybe…you could lean on me instead?

Chelsea had welcomed Simon into her bed on occasions before. She knew he was odd, but it was his oddness that attracted her. Concern straightened her when he didn’t respond. Cohen?

The loner’s gray eyes climbed to meet the hazel-green eyes of Chelsea. Cohen. That’s what she called him. He had trained himself to respond to it. But tonight, the mixture of alcohol and weighted thoughts made him ignore the name. Because he was born Simon Blackwoode. A son of English nobility.

Well? Chelsea mused. Care for a shaggin’?

Not tonight, love. Simon’s smile was warm and charming. Part of the allure that had other townswomen envious of Chelsea’s romps with him.

Are you sure? With the rain, tonight is chillier than a dead whore’s tits. I could keep you warm.

Maybe some other time, Simon said, having no issues with staying warm. Through his own studies, he had discovered his body temperature hovered just above 104 degrees Fahrenheit. Simon washed down the last of his pint. Try to stay dry tonight. And stop playing with dead whore’s tits.

Chelsea swatted at him with her rag. Just as good for a laugh as you are for a docking, Cohen Booth.

Multi-talented, I am. Simon said, staggering as he stood. He rifled through his pockets, then dropped ten shillings on the bar. Best to be making my way home.

Simon staggered home, clenching his coat shut and huddling in on himself. A convincing display of weakness. The rain and cold didn’t bother him. People tended to ask fewer questions when you do normal things. His posturing was normal for someone walking in the frigid, torrential storm. He waited until he was out of town before dropping the ruse and hastening his pace.

Running made Simon feel free. But on a night like tonight, running was a necessity. Time was of the essence. Reaching home was of paramount importance. He dashed through the night. Superb vision ensured steady footing. A trek that would have taken most men thirty minutes only took Simon five.

The silhouette of Simon’s humble home came into view. It was little more than a hollow shell when he purchased it. He labored day and night for two weeks to restore it. When he finished, the original structure was livable, and he had added two more rooms. Today it stood as a presentable shack he called home.

Simon burst through the front door, slamming it shut behind him. Three six-by-six cuts of wood, four feet in length, stood by the door. He slid each of them into the iron cradles bordering both sides of the door’s frame. His attention turned to the shutters inside the windows.

Shutters closed and secured, he went over to the fireplace and started a fire. On its crude wooden mantle sat a small box made of stained oak. Branded on the lid were the letters ‘BW’. Its polished surface glistened in the firelight. Taking it in his hands, Simon ran a thumb across the lettering. A sad smile tugged at his lips. Anger spawned an involuntary growl in his throat. He shook off the sudden wave of fury and turned on his heels. Lighting the lantern on the table, he continued through the house.

Simon reached the rear room and grabbed the iron ring hanging from a hook by its door. He used the single key on the ring to unlock the door. With a resigned calmness, he entered and used the key to lock the door. Simon tossed the key on the floor and hung the lantern on a hook by the door.

Chain restraints hung from the far wall. The plate they hung from had sixteen railroad spikes securing it to the wall. Simon had taken care to make the walls of this room thrice as thick as any other wall in the house. Windowless and bare, the room’s sole purpose was to keep people out, not in. Something would fill it soon enough.

Simon sat the box on the floor at his feet. He slid his coat from his shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor as he kicked off his shoes. The same was done with his shirt and trousers. Wet and his body bare, Simon reached for the box, shivering—but not from the cold.

The recluse of noble birth could feel himself being pushed down into darkness. His sense of self-control was slipping from him. The subtle muscle aches that preceded rage inducing pain.

Simon opened the box. Its red velvet interior cradled a hypodermic syringe and needle. A small amber bottle lay tucked beside it. He removed the hypodermic needle from its velvet cradle. Rational thought fought to escape his grasp. With one hand, the nobleman grabbed the contents. The box fell to the floor as he made room for the bottle. Nerves on edge, the hermit pulled the cork out with his teeth. Simon stuck the needle in and slowly drew the syringe’s plunger back.

Lustrous, liquid metal rose in the syringe. Simon halted its ascent at three-and-a-half milliliters. Any less might not get the job done. Anymore, and he wouldn’t wake up for days, if at all. The first time he injected himself with silver, he hoped for death. A bear had paid the price for his under-calculation. His second attempt left him incapacitated for days. More than enough time to realize he wasn’t ready to die.

Fucking shit, Simon cursed in a voice he barely recognized. He had spent too much time drowning his sorrows. The hour he feared was quickly approaching.

Simon’s hands trembled. He jabbed the needle into his thigh and drove the plunger down. A pained hiss escaped him. Desperate, he pulled the needle out and tossed the syringe on his pants.

It took needle-point-focus for him to cork the bottle before dropping it. Convulsions competed against his conscious movements. Simon rushed over to the chains. He glanced at the corner on the far end of the room. Spotting the key, he dropped to his knees and shackled his wrists.

The storm grew outraged. Thunder boomed like cannons of war. Rain fell in squalls. The light of the full moon peered through the dark clouds. And a booming howl clamored over the sounds of the storm.

Chapter 1

Istared out the window at the thin layer of snow covering the courtyard. The building across the courtyard was identical to this one. Then again, that wasn’t true. Their similarities ended with their faded red brick exteriors. The internal layout of the rooms was different.

This building had exclusive amenities. My office was one of them. Because this was the Alpha’s building. And, after years of being a lone wolf, I now had the responsibility of being the Manhattan Alpha.

An unobstructed view gave me a full view of the complex. My suite occupied two-thirds of the top floor. A conference room and the Beta’s suite split the remaining third.

Gavin, the pack’s former Alpha, had made sure he could watch over them from here. He still held the hearts of many of the pack’s members. I understood and respected their reasoning. He gave his life defending them. I was an outsider. A lone wolf who stumbled into the tragedy the pack had become.

One of my first acts as Alpha was to purchase the blocks of flats. Fast tracking permits and contracts sped up the remodel. I suppose ‘rebuild’ was a better term. My friends and I had done a number on the place, liberating it from the tyranny of witches and a treacherous wolf. I intended to provide the pack with the living quarters they deserved.

Mounds of dirt, construction supplies, and yellow caution tape filled the corners of the courtyard. Scaffolding reached up the front of the eastmost building. The construction crew toiled away on its various levels.

Staring won’t make them finish any faster, Riley said.

I smelled her when she entered, but hadn’t acknowledged her. Her deep breathing signaled her disapproval. Four minutes passed before I formed a response.

If only I had magic, I finally said, my attention still on the workers.

Shifting is magic. We’ve talked about this, Riley said.

Say what you want, but shifting can’t forge walls.

Riley’s tone softened. Progress takes time. I’m not sure anyone could have made this much progress faster than you have. Pack members have already moved back into the West building.

I shifted my gaze to the broad three-story building to the west of the courtyard. Some of the pack aren’t happy about having to share space.

Amir has assured me the contractors will have the East building move-in ready within the next two weeks. Those complaining won’t be when they see their new apartments. Besides, the redesign has added another two hundred square feet to every apartment.

The southern building is next, then this one, I said.

You’re improving our home, Riley said, trying to sound encouraging. Let’s not forget you’ve helped people move in and out of their apartments.

No one enjoys moving, I said, dropping myself into the office chair behind me and spinning to face Riley and my desk. Having to move twice isn’t helping me win any popularity contest.

You have their respect, Riley said. She sat down and placed the manila folder she was holding on the desk.

Questionable. I pulled two crystalline glasses and a bottle of Bowmore 25 from the bottom desk drawer.

It’s not even lunch yet, Riley protested.

Then it’s a good thing we’re werewolves, I said, pouring four fingers of whiskey into each glass. Handing a glass to Riley, I asked, Are you ever going to look at me?

Riley cocked her head and frowned. I always look at you.

That’s suggestive, but no, you don’t. You’re looking at a point on my face. At best, you glance at me. But that doesn’t happen often.

Riley’s eyes focused on mine. You’re new to pack life and being around so many wolves. I don’t want you to think I’m challenging you. Locking eyes with a wolf can be dangerous.

I find it hard to believe you all walk around not making eye contact, I said.

Riley swallowed hard before lowering her eyes to the folder. Your dominance makes it hard to hold eye contact. It’s why I focus on your jaw. Once you learn to wrangle it in, eye contact will be easier.

I’ve never told you not to meet my eyes.

See how your finger is tapping your glass? Riley asked.

I looked at my hand and stiffened. Ripples settled across the amber