Blood On Satan's Claw Novels & Stories

I drag my claw from her hairline down her face and continue till I get to her chest, blood is gushing from the open wound her scream of pain makes my cock twitch. I claw open her shirt and watch the blood run down onto her boobs, I use my claw to carve out the skin right in the centre of her boobs, My families crest, Celeste starts to shake from shock and the blood and tears are all mixed together all while Magnus sits and watches on, his knuckles are white from how hard he is grabbing the lounge, the claw marks etched into the fabric show he is still fight for control and I don’t blame him honestly.

The common denominator were the pools and splatters of golden blood around their bodies. Well, except one. Cutting a contrast against the blue glow of the place was a lone, cloaked Hellborn bleeding crimson. And it was no other than Calix. Glassy-eyed. Unmoving. Pale with a tinge of purple. With a sword impaling his upturned chest. Kat blinked, and just like that, she got thrown back to reality. The vision was gone as quickly as it had come, but the last scene seemed to have burned itself behind her eyelids.

Dane wanted the entire pack to witness the ceremony, so he insisted on hosting it in the pack house instead of the temple. The podium was adorned with candles and garlands. A small statue of the Moon Goddess sat on a decorated table. The Shaman picked up the sacred knife from the table and asked Dane to give his right hand. Instead, Dane took the knife from him. Opening his palm, he drew a small amount of blood from his palm and dropped a few drops in the bowl near the statue that contained the blood of all the Red Claw wolves. As his blood mixed with it, a crimson mist emerged from the surface. Twisting and turning, it encircled the statue of the Moon Goddess, breaking apart as it reached h

“Let me confirm it again.” After Dax said that, he cut his finger. Then, a drop of blood flowed out and floated into the air. After that, Dax started casting the Bloodline Guidance Spell. The blood floating in the air started to create an invisible suction force. It sucked the tiny blood droplets on the ground and leaves. Then, they formed a blood clot the size of a fist around the blood. As time passed, the blood clot began to grow. This was the blood left behind after Archimedes died.

“I didn’t consider that. Sorry. Please hold out your arm.” Clara held out her left arm. It was perfectly unscathed, with no cut marks. The old cigarette burns from her bullies weren’t there either. It was a nice sight. She looked up to see the demon pulling out a knife from his cloak and knew her arm wasn’t going to be unscathed for long. He slashed his arm and held it over her arm with the blood dripping down. “I’m going to cut your arm now, you can close your eyes if you like,” he announced. “This part is the bonding ritual.”

I reply frantically, searching around the room. Much to my relief, I spot a small dagger in the room. Without a moment’s hesitation, I return to Elder Claude’s side, grab his hand, and slash his wrist open. The heavy scent of blood fills the room, sharp and metallic, mingling with the acrid scent of wolfsbane poison. The blood that spills across my gown is purple, not red. I hold back a gag as I angle Elder Claude’s wrist downward, trying to help the poisoned blood flow out.

The air grew heavier with each passing hour, as though the world itself was bracing for something unnatural. Ever since the gods’ messenger appeared, the countdown had begun—seven days until the Day of the Blood Moon. Seven days to prepare. Seven days to survive. Ava sat beneath the twisted elder tree outside the sanctuary, the bark behind her pulsing faintly as if aware of her presence. The wind was sharp, slicing through the night with whispers. Her fingers traced the mark on her wrist—ever since she mixed her blood with Achi’s, the mark had darkened, a signal that something ancient had awakened.

She gestured with his hand, creating a projector like screen in front of them and pulled up a picture of Steven, sitting on the sofa with Jordon. Damon stared at the picture of a pitiful looking vampire, silently watching as Clary started pulling picture after picture up of miserable, ill-looking mixed blood, describing what he was seeing as he stared at the screen. He forgot about his drink as he watched the gallery of misery roll before his eyes.

The Hollow’s mark flared across his chest as he struck Clint. They tumbled through fire and bone, the ground quaking beneath them. Sarah hit the dirt coughing, clawing herself up. John’s claws tore through Clint’s shoulder, but Clint laughed rising from the wound like it was nothing. “You still don’t get it,” Clint said, eyes glowing a deeper, darker red than any moon. “I’m not just a Hollow. I am the Blood Moon.” Then Clint’s body erupted, bones cracking, twisting, not a wolf, not a man, a godless fusion of both.

He knelt beside the altar, drew a ceremonial claw from his sash—an old blade honed from moon-granite, passed down through our line—and pressed his hand to the stone. He sliced his palm with a smooth, practiced motion. Blood welled immediately, dark and thick.