Bloodborne Executioner Set Novels & Stories

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

Each thread ended in a rusted steel treble hook, and on every hook dangled a severed human jawbone, clicking rhythmically as the draft blew through the tunnel. "A biological sentry," Dr. Vane whispered, stepping back, his hand fumbling at the brass holster on his belt. "A dead-lock executioner. It doesn't hunt by scent or sight. It reacts to sound and pressurized fluid shifts." "It reacts to marrow," Cattleya corrected quietly. She reached into her sleeve, her fingers wrapping around the cold, textured grip of her heavy bone-saw. "Look at his sternum."

It was like he was watching his life flashing before his eyes, replaying every memory before he was no more. Derick’s eyes finally shifted to the executioner’s face which was heavily covered, unable to a patch of skin. “Derick Cresentblood,” the executioner boomed, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “You stand here, not as a Beta, not as a brother of the Fangborn Pack, but as a traitor. Your actions have not only endangered our kin but have tarnished the sacred bond we hold with the Moon Goddess. For this, you are unworthy of her mercy and shall have no mercy from the likes of us.”

The pile of dead werewolves was in a section of the pentagram and they were marked with a crescent sign on their forehead. And it all came to my mind like a rush of fresh air, how Lucindo gets stronger with sacrificial magic and how those bodies although dead were still being channeled. He never needed them alive in the first place, he wanted them dead so he could use them and we aided his plans. We had fallen right into his trap.

Lucius raised a hand and signaled. An executioner walked in with specialized silver tongs. "Drain her bloodline. Turn her into a Husk." "No!" Lilah let out a bloodcurdling scream. "Please, just kill me! Don't do this!" But an Original's verdict is final. The executioner mercilessly clamped the silver tongs onto Lilah's fangs and ripped them out. Blood sprayed. Lilah's agonizing screams pierced the night. Then, a silver needle was driven into her heart, siphoning out her vampiric essence.

And beside me did not mean she was to stay silent. I exhaled slowly. "You're right. I'm sorry." Savannah's expression shifted, surprise softening her fear. "I know." She said, a little too quickly. Despite everything, my mouth twitched. I turned back to the papers. "Look, there's more." The next page was older. And not in my mother's handwriting, but a copied passage from some record I didn't recognize. "To create a Bloodborn, you require three violations: stolen wolf blood, vampiric hunger, and Luna magic that had been broken from its rightful bond. The result is neither dead nor living. Neither wolf nor vampire, but something that is between doors." I read out loud.

he said, thumb dragging over my lower lip, “is what happens when someone tries to steal what’s mine.” The words should have worked hard inside me--this is how I looked at them: people steal things all the time and have always, this is that, for centuries; it did not make one person someone other than themselves, but it rewiring the tone of my voice, the total ownership in it rewired something inside of me. “You think this is a game?” I shot back, voice rough. “Do you think kissing me after I kill someone makes it—makes me—”. “Alive,” he cut in, the one syllable a punch.

Each tattoo pulsed faintly, dark and ancient, remnants of an allegiance born of secrecy, ambition, and old blood. “I told you,” the one with the serpent tattoo murmured, his voice dry and slick like oil. “Declan isn’t just some captive. He’s the cursed blood. The son of the Black Ember line. If we control him, we don’t just weaken Rhett — we shatter him.” “You don’t control a curse,” the one with the skeletal crown muttered from the shadows, fingers flexing slowly against the table’s edge. “You either seal it or let it devour your enemies. But you don’t chain it like a dog and hope it obeys.”

Their heirs and appointed proxies, accustomed to wielding power in their stead, now sat amongst their awakened sires and grand-sires, a palpable tension thrumming in the air like an impending storm. These were creatures who had warred with each other for centuries, their grudges as old and deeply ingrained as the stone of the very room they occupied. Vampires, their aristocratic bearing radiating an aura of ancient power and cold indifference, sat stiffly, their crimson eyes scanning the room for any sign of treachery. Werewolves, their raw, untamed energy barely contained beneath a veneer of human civility, fidgeted restlessly, their senses on high alert, sniffing the air for any hint of da

BLOOD AND VOWS --- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO HIS FIRST KILL “A man doesn’t become a monster. He just finds out what was already in him.” He was thirteen the first time someone handed him a gun. It was a summer night in Palermo. The kind of heat that clings to the bones. Alessio Moretti stood in the back of a butcher shop that doubled as a safehouse, blood on the floors, sweat on his neck, the sound of meat hooks swinging faint in the dark. Don Salvatore was there. So was his father. And in the middle of the room, tied to a chair, was a man with a bag over his head and a bruise blooming around his eye.