They say you can never come home again.

A blue figure stands outside the door, shape uncertain under a baggy trenchcoat. Is he Ramon Darkholme, European Assassin, or is she Raven Howlett, mother and wife?

A hand reaches for the knocker, pauses, and falls away. A deep breath later, eyes closed, the hand closes over the knob instead.

A large element of the city's populace is enthralled tonight by the extravagant engagement party thrown by the Lensherrs and the Summers families ( Read more... )

The house hasn't changed in twenty three years. There's the same dead patch of grass where he grinds out his cigars, the same home made curtains in the windows, the same slightly wobbly step ( Read more... )

Some things never change.

Ramon lights up another cigarette. Half a dozen butts litter the street by his feet.

He knew the minute he saw Issac's body. The additional data Mr. Lensherr sent along only confirmed it. This shouldn't be possible. Isaac's killer has been dead for over twenty years.

Ramon stares at the juggling rooster on the Cock and ( Read more... )

Isaac was not just an employee for the Lehnsherr family, he was family. He had been there through every important event of the last twenty years. He had seen everything but had not breathed any of the secrets that he had been entrusted with in any of that time ( Read more... )

It's been said there are eight million stories in the Big Apple. Modern New Yorkers scorn this as an underestimate, though the more cynical ones will hold forth on the topic of how many stories are the same old, same old. Others will argue that every story is different, because New York makes them so. This surging, seething city: the hot spot ( Read more... )