Blood On Canvas Novels & Stories

Evans hoists Brandon into his arms, which is a relief for me; I was hoping he'd be able to get a better look at the paintings, since he's been so interested in artwork himself, but I definitely didn't have the strength or energy to lift him up. We go around the outside of the ballroom counter-clockwise, pausing at each easel so that we can examine the piece. I don't say much except to comment on the brushwork here and there, or shrug when it's not to my tastes. Eventually, though, we stop in front of a canvas that takes my breath away. It's abstract: a series of jagged lines in shades of blue, black, and white. They travel down from the top of the square canvas to the bottom, the colors bold

This was another reason as to why I said it was a good thing that I had shopped for a lot of painting related stuffs at once instead of getting the stuffs little by little, and I was super glad that I had purchased this particular type or canvas which the host Had been referring to. I continued to watched the video and watched as the video suddenly got blank only to come back to life after about five seconds, and here, it revealed that the msn was stabbing before a canvas which he had been referring to, moments ago, the type of painting brush which he had been referring to was also being held in his right hand.

Everyone there had this drowsy look on their countenance. "What's happening in my house! Karen care to explain?". The voice of Abhishek made everyone look at us... Karan looks up as well. And suddenly began to cry..he knelt lowering his gaze. It appears that the windows were opened, and the wind came in and blew off the white cloths covering the identity of the person on the ground. Right there we saw pinky lying on the ground, dead. How is this possible? Karan however made allegations regarding her death. Of everything to blame it on.

— Bring them in. Two soldiers entered, carrying the canvases carefully as if transporting relics. Henrique watched with a triumphant smile, but his expression faltered when one of the men ripped off the cloths and handed me a knife. I took one of the canvases in my hands and stared at the work for an instant before throwing it on the floor with hatred. Without hesitation, I stepped on it forcefully, the wood splintering under the weight of my boot. I struck another with the knife; the sound of the fabric tearing was extremely satisfying.

Nothing more. "Then why did you use a cloth to handle them? Standard procedure is direct contact—we're vampires, we don't need gloves. But you used a cloth. Like you were avoiding leaving fingerprints. Or avoiding touching poison residue." "Circumstantial," Cassius said. "Easily explained—""And there's this." Elara showed another image. "The poison bottle, found in your estate's ruins after the fire. Partially melted but intact enough to test. It contained the same poison used on Prince Lucien. Same formula as the grandmother's spell book you mentioned. Which raises a question—how did you get a copy of a dead witch's private journals?"

He set his glass down with deliberate calm, then stood, tall and commanding, his presence filling the room like a storm breaking. “Stay here,” he said, voice low but edged with steel. I shook my head frantically. “Wait…..” But he was already striding to the door. When he opened it, I caught a flash of chaos: a man in a suit collapsed against the wall, blood spreading across his chest, another dragged away by guards. The sharp tang of iron filled the air. My stomach lurched, bile burning my throat. Leonardo stepped out, murmured something I couldn’t hear, and the shouting dulled to curt orders. Within moments, the hallway was cleared, the bodies gone, the blood smeared away as if it had never

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, casually wiping away all that had happened between us. The impact was terrifyingly potent. I felt a lump in my chest, and I doubled over, coughing so hard it felt like my heart was ripping apart. When I finally caught my breath, I looked at my hand, covered in fresh blood. Keith saw it too. His expression darkened, and he was at my side in an instant, his voice deep with concern. "What's going on?"

I burst through the double doors into the main gallery space and come skidding to a halt. The white sheet that had covered my painting earlier now lies in a heap on the floor, revealing the artwork beneath. It depicts a circle of children holding hands, playing ring around the rosie. Werewolf pups swirl around their legs. All are smiling. All are happy. It was meant to be a statement. One of hope, of happiness, of peace. But now, that message is obliterated. Someone has thrown what looks like a bucket of blood over the canvas. Thick, crimson liquid drips down the children’s faces, pools in their outstretched hands, stains their clothes.

“That wasn’t the session. You said tonight was free…” “Consider it payment for professionalism, I’m generous.” His voice is cold now. “Get dressed.” The studio is silent. The charcoal rests on the table. The spotlight burns down on me. Naked, alone, though not really. Not after what just passed. I’m pulling on my jeans when his phone rings. He looks at the screen, his face goes pale. “What is it?” “Campus security. They’ve requested footage from the art building.” He looks at me, and I see fear behind the lust. “Tuesday afternoon. My office.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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.