Blood On Canvas Novels & Stories

I needed to be alone to process what just happened. The garage was empty. My boots echoed in the damp air. I found my car parked in the far corner on the second level and pressed the unlock button on my keys. I pulled the heavy driver's door open and I stopped dead in my tracks. I gasped loudly, taking a fast step backward. Sitting dead center on my driver's seat was a small, square art canvas. The white fabric was splattered with dark bloodied ink or blood or ink. The metallic smell of copper hit my nose.

So that’s how I ended up in a sleek little gallery in Chelsea at eight o’clock that night, wearing my nicest button-down (the pale blue one that Bella said made my eyes pop) and trying not to feel like an impostor. The place was packed. Black walls, white lights, paintings that looked like someone had thrown paint at canvas and called it genius. Everyone was holding wine glasses and speaking in that low, serious tone people use when they want to sound important. Bella was in her element—chatting up strangers, laughing too loud, flirting with at least three different people at once. I loved watching her work a room. She made everything look effortless. I wandered toward the back, where the cr

He stepped forward, his massive frame towering over the vampire as he looked down into the folds of the cloak. The Alpha's dark eyes instantly narrowed as he caught the visual markers of the crisis. Brynn’s face was pale, her soft jasmine scent heavily laced with the metallic, intoxicating tang of primordial vampire blood. But what Garick saw first—what caused his wolf instincts to flare with a protective panic—were the thin, smoky purple-and-black tracks of the Blood-born venom still faintly webbing across her collarbone. They were visibly fading, dissolving into her sun-kissed skin as Riheirk’s ancient, healing blood aggressively incinerated the last remnants of the poison from her system.

The moon bleeds red over Hollowshade tonight, its crimson light seeping through the stained glass windows of my throne room like spilled wine. I can taste the shift in the air bitter, metallic, carrying the scent of approaching storm and the copper tang of violence yet to come. It's like the moment before a blade is drawn, when the world holds its breath and waits for the first drop of blood to fall.

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

he says. "I know," I say. He hands the knife back to me, handle first. "Keep it," he says. "Next time, aim for the throat." Outside, the moon is rising—two days from full, heavy and pregnant with light. But in the portrait room, surrounded by the faces of women who had not been allowed to choose, I feel something shift. The bloodline is not a curse, I realize. It is a question. And for the first time, I am ready to answer it on my own terms.

Every canvas whispered something. I walked slowly. A painting of a boy with a broken crown. A sculpture of hands holding flame. A mural of teeth growing from soil. Art made by the forgotten. Art that carried weight. Pain. And then I saw it. A canvas. Hung on the far wall. Larger than the others. Not showy—just heavy. The background was blood red, textured with violent strokes. At the center was a throne. Black. Splintered. Empty. And just behind it, a shadow. Tall. Watching.

The knife flashes across my face, he grabs a chunk of my hair, baring my neck. “Let me go!” I scream with tears raining from my eyes.