Bloodstained Techniques Novels & Stories

"Charles! Freddie! I don't care who was driving. Kill them both!! "Today, we need to avenge Rachel's family no matter what!" Charles stepped in front of me and turned to me with panic. "The footage didn't catch the face. What now?" He was right. Maeve had been careful; she'd even wiped fingerprints. It was obvious she'd planned this. Before I could speak, Maeve grabbed Freddie's arm. "Did you all see clearly? Is that me? Does that match my image? No wonder Lydia kept mumbling on the phone about running into some trouble. Turns out she hit someone!"

Blood streamed down his chest, over his abdomen, staining his trousers. Tears I didn’t know I had left spilled from my eyes, silent and hot. Not from pity, but from the sheer, grotesque spectacle of it. From the awful, intimate violence of his guided hand on mine, carving a new claim into his flesh. He guided the tip of the blade again, just below the bleeding ruin. With agonizing slowness, he made me carve. A ‘V’. An ‘i’. A ‘c’. A ‘k’. An ‘i’. The letters were crude, childlike, dripping.

On the battered basin before him, nine bloody spikes lay in a haphazard pile, stained crimson, an unsettling testament to what had transpired. “Done,” I muttered, voice strained but steady. I reached for the crumpled piece of paper, now soaked in blood and sweat, tangled in the mess. The note had once been pristine—perhaps just a scribbled warning or plea—yet now it looked like a fragment of a nightmare.

A pair of silver embroidery scissors on the vanity. I move without thinking. The metal is cold against my palm as I pick it up, as I bring the sharp edge to my skin. The first slice is quick, practiced. A shallow line across my palm, deep enough to well up, but not deep enough to scar. I watch, detached, as blood pools, then drips—warm and red—onto the pristine white sheets. A stain. A lie. A perfect little crime. I let the pain settle, let the sting ground me.

Like saying it out loud is its own kind of relief. "Don't talk," I say. I put my hands on him. The Moonblood knows what to do. I don't have to direct it or manage it or be afraid of it. It moves through me the way it has been waiting to move — not forced, not pushed, simply allowed. It finds the powder's trace in his blood the way light finds the edges of things in a dark room. Not by force. By nature. By the simple fact that where this kind of light goes, the things that hide in darkness cannot stay hidden.

“That's true. Now let's get you rinsed.” I'm offering to wash his knuckles off the proof of fight, there is a big old baby behind his tough form and he revealed it today. I turned on the tap, he let me pull his hands to the running water. The water mixed with the blood on his hands was a stain on the white porcelain sink. The more water touched his knuckles, the clearer the water became. The blood stains was gone, I looked at his knuckles where the blood had gathered the most, “No cut?” I asked, avoiding glancing at him.

Blood seeped into his already blood-soaked trousers and the wooden stage beneath him, permanently changing the natural colours of the fabrics and grains. “My dear friends, fellow wolves, this right here is a work of art almost at its finest and completion.” He had not looked away from the gruesome sight whilst he spoke, his eyes remaining out of focus from the world, as if the only thing of total importance or in existence was Elliot’s suffering for his pleasure. His hands were hovering just a short distance from his so-called work, suddenly fearful of damaging the priceless destruction. The blood was shimmering on his deadly hands as they reflected the low light from the dancing flames of t

Carved symbols covered every inch of the walls—twisted designs that seemed to writhe in the flickering light from overhead fixtures. “What is all this?” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Ritual implements,” Remus’s assistant explained, gesturing toward tables covered with ceremonial knives, ceremonial bowls, and devices I couldn’t identify. “Specifically, rituals involving the transfer of bloodline abilities from one individual to another.” My legs went weak. “Transfer of abilities?” “The forensic team found extensive research notes detailing procedures for extracting bloodline powers,” Remus continued. “The equipment here was designed to facilitate that process.”

"I was right about you, girlie! Don't worry, I'll make sure to spare your life!" As she turned back to Frank and saw no fear on his face, she asked in curiosity, "Could you have seen this technique before?" Frank shook his head. "It is intimidating, and most would have trouble against it, but you see, I'm not most people." "Is that so?" The hag laughed icily and waved her hand, and the blood ocean spilled on top of Frank like a waterfall. Frank raised his hand in response and shouted, "Up!" Suddenly, the blood ocean scattered into infinite droplets and shot upward instead!

My blurred vision was making me heave so I close my eyes and crawl in the direction I think it is. I feel the cold tile floor of the bathroom on my hands and flop forwards embracing it's coolness on my body. My throat started to burn again like she was clawing at me from the inside tearing her way up. I grit my teeth and grip onto the bath tub pulling myself up. I fall into the tub in a huge splash sending water everywhere. I drink at the blood stained water greedily trying to soothe my thirst. The cold water does little to soothe the burning like earlier and my breathing picks up as I pant through my mouth.