Blood Ink Novels & Stories

As they crossed the threshold into the dimly lit bedroom, their eyes widened in shared horror. There, on the edge of the bed, sat Ana—Eloise’s mother her frail frame hunched forward. A steady trickle of blood dripped from her nose onto the faded floral quilt below. But this was no ordinary blood. Instead of the familiar bright crimson, it flowed thick and viscous, an unnatural obsidian black that caught the lamplight with an oily sheen. The metallic stench of rust and decay hung heavy in the air, sharp enough to sting the nostrils and turn the stomach. Each droplet fell with a soft, sickening patter, staining the fabric in dark, spreading blossoms.

Valen and I exchanged looks. “I will go first. It seems she's not ready yet” I passed him a glare in return. Mrs. Marissa joined in. “You’re right” Valen stretched out his hand on the table. As expected he was calm. I reached for his other hand that were rested on his laps and gave them a tight hold. Mrs. Marissa took his blood sample. “Why is his blood black?” I found myself asking when I saw the color of his blood on the syringe. I know blood is red but then seeing his own shade left me confused.

This time my body had a lot of purple and blue bruises to show for it. I was positive the Smith's were involved in a shady business. I had seen files with a weird logo of a monochrome skull in a bandana and two daggers placed in an opposite angle beneath the skull while cleaning Richard's room on countless occasions. At first I thought it was a research work project or something, until I noticed what a bloody creep he is.

And yet, somehow, I was given the hardest task of all. Picking up the tray, which was heavier than all the rest since it was full of pitcher of heavy blood, I made for the door. The Pack clinic always kept a well-stocked blood bank, both in case a wolf needed a transfusion and for whenever important Vampires come calling. Since Werewolves heal so quickly, it doesn't take much to restock it with donations. I helped Rosie a few times doing blood drives during the long years of the war.

"I’m calling the Gambino family’s Don right now! Let him see your true colors—pretending to talk about business while trying to seduce someone else's husband! You're disgusting!" "I'm calling him now. I'm going to see him now and have him kill you!"

But she pretended to be me and acted as if nothing could touch her. "Those idiots walked into my path! It's not my fault they got hit!" she snapped. Someone shouted at her, "You can't just do that! I'm calling 911!" She just scoffed, "I'm the Lincoln Enterprise heiress. Who's gonna touch me? You can call them if you want. If they're still alive, I'm not gonna cover the medical bills. Besides, there aren't any cameras here!" She said that and left. The family died on the spot.

"It is O positive, your favorite." I smiled at him before extending my hand to collect the blood bag. My orbs turned red once my fang sunk into the bag. My eyelid closed while I savored every drop of the liquid that touched my tongue. It felt like a release from the shackle of bondage I had inserted myself in right from the day we all lost Kate.

Chapter 23: Permission A peaceful night was spent in her room, she was painting, a bloody red paint was dripping down on her illustration board, it was a bloody red rose while the red paint was dripping in uneven length, it was light enough not to drop to the bottom, it was just enough to show that it was dripping like blood from each petal. She had her headphone so her attention was fixed on her painting. But something lighted up beside her and found her, she saw a notification. She cringe her forehead when it was a message.

Ironic. The thought dragged a dry, humorless laugh from my throat. It echoed in the sterile silence of my office, a place that smelled of lemon polish and an underlying decay. My vision was now swimming on the edge of a crimson haze, each blink more laborious than the last. My hands trembled uncontrollably, and I curled them into fists, nails digging into my palms—useless pain that did nothing to steady me. Then it hit me: Bloodmatch. The name pressed against my consciousness like a shadow that refused to lift, a curse and a promise all at once—dangerous, illicit, irresistibly seductive.