Michael Vey 9 Novels & Stories

He stepped into the dark crypt, his hand on his sword, his nose twitching as he tracked the sharp scent of the garlic. Before he could even turn his head, Michael moved. With terrifying speed, Michael lunged forward, his massive forearm wrapping tightly around the guard's throat from behind, cutting off his airway before the man could let out a single sound. The guard thrashed violently, his wolf instincts kicking in as he tried to claw at Michael’s face, but Michael’s grip was like iron. He drove his knee into the man’s lower back, twisting him downward until the guard's eyes rolled back and his body went entirely limp.

I had bought a very specific piece of intelligence from a corrupt Council Clerk before the storm hit. "There is no need to draw your weapons, Officer," I said, my voice smooth, cold, and entirely level. I didn't step back. Instead, I leaned slightly forward, locking my eyes onto the lead guard’s identification badge. Commander Zack. "The machine didn't fail," I whispered, keeping my tone low enough that only a werewolf’s enhanced hearing could catch it over the wind. "The identity bound to Mask 99 is under an absolute proxy seal by the Northern High Vault. If you force a hard reset on that console, the biometric lock will flag this entire sector as a security breach. And I don't think your c

My fingers tightly gripped the canvas straps of my thrifted duffel bag, the faded fabric a stark contrast to the pristine, stitched leather beneath me. ​"You're going to burn a hole through the glass if you keep staring at it like that," a low, gravelly voice cut through the hum of the engine. ​I didn't turn my head. I didn't need to. I could see his reflection in the window—the sharp, arrogant line of his jawline, now marred by a faint, fading purple bruise from the industrial warehouse brawl. Michael "Mike" Weller. Nineteen years old, standing at a towering six-foot-three, with a mop of golden blonde hair that looked effortlessly styled even when he'd just rolled out of bed. He wore a simp

I said, my fingers flying as I initiated the "Ventilation Flush." I tapped into the foundry’s massive, soot-choked exhaust fans. The motors groaned, a sound like a giant waking from a coma, and then the air began to move. The smoke didn't just clear; it was sucked upward in a violent, artificial gale, revealing the remaining three mercenaries huddling behind a rusted coal car. "They're exposed, Enzo! Sector 9!" But as I watched the map, a new signature appeared. It wasn't coming from the gate. It was coming from the roof.

****The text****** Good morning chief, Michael here. I’m safe and the comare has appointed me to be one of her security detail. I'm trying to get all the evidence to arrest her but Mario, her second in command, is yet to trust me and I am yet to get involved with all their business. As of now some men were either released or killed when I was captured. Only the 3 of us survived their intense training. And you will be surprised to know that the comare is ….. ****End of text*****

One of the two men suddenly flung open his coat and what appeared to be a Fostech Origin 12 shotgun came out of his side from the vast collection of guns that were hanging underneath. He emptied it, spraying the security guard with bullets that were being emitted at almost thirty rounds in less than eight seconds before turning back to his counterpart. The sound of bullets threw everyone present in the facility into panic, with people running to hide under their working tables. Moments later, the two men were seen running out of the facility, carrying a large metallic box and got into a truck. ★★★ Mr. Gilbert took over from the reception, applying his knowledge on History with the students f

Had a stranger answered the door, Michael would have shuffled away throwing apologies and excuses, taking with him the swarm of flies that kept him safe—even when he wasn’t. Those flies cartwheeled now, riding waves of electric energy Michael couldn’t see, but felt. Oh, boy, did he ever. This was where he was meant to be. This was where it began. If Clive hadn’t lured him in, then Michael never would have become one of Liz Frost’s infamous nine. If. If. IF. He drew in excited gulps of air through the webs, which Michael suspected the man couldn’t see for some reason. The energy about them made him feel more alive than he had in years, and when one of his flies landed on Clive’s face and craw

“She’s being transported west, heading toward the outskirts of the city. I’ll send you the coordinates.” Michael’s eyes narrowed. “Good. We’re on our way.” He ended the call and turned to his team. “Move out,” he ordered. “We’re bringing her home.” The convoy of sleek black SUVs tore through the city streets, their engines roaring as they raced toward Evelyn’s location. Michael sat in the lead vehicle, his expression grim as he went over the plan in his head. “She’ll be fine,” one of his men assured him. “She has to be,” Michael replied, his voice barely above a whisper.