Bathory Blood On Ice Novels & Stories

what is all of this? The cold night air was thick with the sounds of battle—a cacophony of growls, snarls, and the metallic clang of weapons clashing. Shrieks pierced through the din, high-pitched and unnatural, a sound that could only belong to the twisted creations of Duke Draven's experiments. The moonlight illuminated the battlefield, casting eerie silver shadows on the blood-soaked snow. Vampires darted through the chaos, their movements a blur as they fought against the disgusting figures of the upgraded homunculi.

He puts lids on them and straws and then holds the cup out to me and says, “You’re welcome to it, if you want it.” I’m hesitant, but my grumbling tummy doesn’t give me much of an option. As I take the cup from his hands, my fingers brush against his and I’m alarmed by how cold they are. It felt colder than ice and I wish I could hold his hands and warm them up in mine. He tells me, “We get the blood from blood drives or animals we’ve caught in the forest. We try hard not to have to drink from tap. Especially with humans, although, some of us has more restraint than others.” He rolls his eyes with that last sentence and I can’t help but wonder what he means by that. Who has less restraint? I

She said, holding it out to me. I didn't take it immediately. “What is it?” “An enchanted Athame.” She said simply and it was my turn to roll my eyes. “I mean what does it do. What is it echanted with?” “Enough power to kill a vampire, should you get the chance.” I paused and looked down at the weapon again before closing my hand around the hilt. It vibrated in my grip, singing to some deep, primitive part of me that hungered for blood.

The academy gates loomed ahead, massive black iron twisted into the shape of thorned vines. It glowed faintly along the metal, humming with magic that made the hairs on my arms stand on end. Two guards stood at the entrance, both armed with blades that looked older than the city itself. One was a vampire, pale as moonlight with eyes like melted gold. The other… I didn’t even know. His skin shimmered faintly, like his shape was never fully fixed in one form. They scanned us, eyes lingering on me, but Davorin murmured something under his breath and they stepped aside.

“It feeds on blood, but not in the way we do. It takes the life beneath the blood.” Lucien moved along the opposite wall, running his fingers just above the carvings. “Ancient war magic. This predates the first vampire packs.” Kael nodded grimly. “And it’s not dead. Someone’s using it again.” Before I could ask how that was possible, the air shifted—cooler, sharper. I felt it like a prick along the back of my neck. “We’re not alone,” Kael said, his voice low. Shadows moved in the corners of the ruin. Not wolves, not vampires—these were something else entirely. Tall, thin, with skin stretched tight over bones, eyes like shards of ice. They moved unnaturally, as if the air itself bent to carry

I swear it on the blood that runs through my veins. My blood turned to ice. What the hell did that mean? And why now?

It wasn't just a copy, it was exactly the same. How did this get here? She puzzled over the familiar book, glimpses of a childhood she couldn't remember slipping into her mind. An old folded note tucked right in the middle of the book caught her attention, and she gently unfolded it. Somehow, she was sure she was meant to find the note. Her blood ran cold as she read the content of the note, cold sweat springing up on her spine. The contents of the note was simple but ominous. “The sins of the father live in the blood of the daughter.”

I narrowed my eyes, trying to decipher the ancient, jagged writing that surrounded the drawing: "When the Moon bleeds, and the shadows grow long, the heart that beats no more shall find its beat. From the ashes of the ancient burial grounds, the Cold Ones shall arise. They are the hunger that never sleeps, the thirst that cannot be slaked. When the Blood Moon crowns the sky, the Undead shall claim the throne of the living, and the world shall drown in the red of their feast." Devon yawned tiredly behind me, stretching out on the bed. "Jimmie... will you put the book away and come to bed? Please? Come on, babe..."

The roar of the crowd was supposed to feel like home. Sebastian Cruz had spent fifteen years chasing that sound. The thunder of ten thousand voices shaking the rafters. The slam of bodies against plexiglass. The screech of blades carving ice. It lived in his bones. It pumped through his veins like blood. Tonight, it sounded like a funeral. 3 to 1. The scoreboard hung above center ice like a tombstone, glowing red with defeat. Vancouver Storm at home. Calgary Snow Wolves visiting. And the man responsible for two of those three goals was currently gliding past the Storm bench, his number 17 jersey a walking insult.