Blood In The Machine Book Novels & Stories

Chapter 6: Shadows in the Rearview I woke up tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, my heart pounding like I’d just run from a hit gone wrong. The dream lingered, vivid and unwelcome—Ethan’s face, those warm hazel eyes looking up at me, his lips brushing mine in some dimly lit room that smelled like fresh paint and rain. His hands on my skin, soft and unscarred, pulling me closer while I whispered things I’d never say aloud. It was bullshit, all of it. A fantasy my mind cooked up to torture me, because in reality, touching him would be like dragging an angel into hell.

“Yes, mater. I will serve ye until my last breath.” I sighed, running a hand through my hair as I pulled my thoughts away from Jones’ past. I only knew this because I’d gone through the history books kept in the cellar, stumbling upon a journal from the time of Grace Bloodsworth. Her tone had sounded regretful as I brushed my hand over the dark red-ink, my eyes eating up the sorrowful words. I knew without a doubt that she had use her own blood to write it.

Yet, I only but warn him with a soft growl that comes from deep in my throat. "So," I start again while looking at one rather fascinating piece of…I shall call it equipment…It has an outer shell or chamber that is made from thick glass. It seems to carry some kind of fluid that is fed in by one rather complex pump system. Then further to the side on a table, there are several machines hooked up to this thing that is rather ominously beeping. After analyzing it for a further ten minutes, I turn to this man, "Mr. Gurdon…" "Please," he interrupts as he tries to put those filthy hands on my shoulders, "Please call me John."

My father thinks I spend my nights reading. That’s not entirely a lie. Just not books. This room is mine in a way no other room in this house is mine. The rest of the townhouse is my mother's taste — warm and beautiful and expensive, every surface chosen to project exactly the image the Conti family wants projected. My room looks like the inside of my head. Whiteboards on two walls, half of them network maps, the other half cipher keys I've already cracked. A punching bag in the corner worn to gray leather at center mass. Gun cabinet beside the closet — three weapons, combination lock. My father knows about two of them. I find the thread at 3:12 a.m. A routing number. Buried six layers deep,

At Julian's word, they treated me like a broken toy—shoved, dragged, totally numb to it. Dr. Wells rolled in some weird machine. Cold metal clamped onto my arm. The needle hit, and that was it. My ichor matched Isabella's type. Of course it did. Spirit blood always does. But it was the last of me. Once it drained, I'd be gone. The tube filled steadily, drop by drop. Every bit pulled more of me away.

Nuel pleaded, rattling his chains. A sharp whirring broke out as the machine turned on. The lights turned green and red indicating it was stable. The tubes pulsed as though something alive moved within them. Earis’s chest jerked violently, heaving as the machine dragged the breath from her lungs. My grip on her hand tightened. Across from her, Celeste’s body arched, her own chest rising with each stolen inhale, as if her life was being force-fed into her. The loud sound of the machine drowned out Nuel's voice even though I could still hear him beg.

I typed the password and the door opened up to expose the warm room. There were different specimen covered up in different containers, and there were bottles of blue substances. The pumping machine was at the corner, and the heart was in it, beating on its own, outside the body of the owner, and even at the appropriate frequency - not too fast, and at the same time not to slowly. I quickly opened the machine and took the heart in both hands, and rushed back into the room, with blood dripping as I hastened my walking pace. When I got to the room, Malia was already standing behind the body of the said Hansel.

“Once you finish, the doctor will come in to change your lines.” My lines? What the hell was she referring to? Bracing myself, I look down and find drainage lines filled with blood attached to me. If I were a human, then I certainly would already be dead from so much blood loss, but as a wolf, this was absolutely nothing. How much have they already taken? I wonder, trying to regain control and rip the damned lines out of me. As this question appears, I turn my gaze to the machine once again and then look down to find jugs filled with red liquid.

The second went into the primary collection tank. "Start the pump," Martha commanded. The machine whirred to life. A dark, rich red began to flow through the tubes. As the blood hit the glass chamber, it didn't just sit there. It began to glow. A soft, pearlescent white light started to fill the room, pushing back the purple shadows that clung to the corners of the ceiling. "Ahh!" Martha’s back arched. Her skin began to translucent, the veins in her neck standing out like cords of white fire.

The hum of the machine grew louder, like a relentless drone. The red needle on the control console went wild, shattering past the safety limit. Blood welled from every opening—my eyes, ears, and nose—streaming hot down my face. My throat filled with that metallic, bloody taste. I clenched my teeth so hard that they split, soaking my gums in blood. On the main screen, the display flickered and shifted again. It now replayed my memory of that night, cold and drizzling with rain.