Dead Calm Novel Novels & Stories

He was strong, and there was no resisting, even if I could. As we moved through the door, I turned back and stared in wide-eyed horror. The walls were dripping with red. Marcy, Damon, Murphy, Dr. Alma, and Ian were sprawled out on the floor. Their eyes were empty as blood pooled beneath them. A scream built in my chest, but it wouldn’t come out. The world fell from beneath me as I tried to understand, to process what was going on, that they were all dead. Pain in my arm brought my attention back to the man who just last night was a dream come true. Now he seemed to be a thing made of nightmares.

Shady people for sure, but… I’m an assassin so I’m shady too. I approach the door to Damien’s bedroom and place a hand silently on the knob, slowly testing it. It’s not even locked… I haven’t opened it yet, listening intently at the door for a moment. I can see the soft glow of light spreading in a small sliver from beneath the door. He must be awake. My suspicion is verified when I hear the soft sound of a page turning in a book or something from within. I turn the knob slowly until the latch is fully retracted then pull the door open slowly without making a sound. As the door opens, about halfway through, a small creak sounds. I move the instant the sound is made, darting in at the same ti

Damian Cordwell. Meanwhile. I was called to the scene just minutes ago. The cops said a young vampire had phoned in a report, a massacre. But what I find isn’t just carnage. It’s a sin. The air reeks of blood and death. The ground is slick with it. The silence around us is deafening, save for the sound of body bags being zipped and carried away, one after another. Slake’s is the last. His body lies still, a gaping hole in his neck staring back at me like a silent scream. I buckle inwardly, but my limbs hold. My face remains stone, even as my chest splits open with pain. Even as a silent wail rips inside me.

A hollow feeling came over me. “Calvin’s dead?” “Don’t worry. He won’t be forcing his attentions on you any more. That will be me.” I tried to reach Bethany in vain. Whatever had knocked me out must have been strong, never mind the recent trauma. “You’re lying.” “Am I?” He held up, of all things, a copy of the Werewolf Times. It had made the front page. ‘Psycho Alpha dies in nightclub fire.’ “You torched your own building?”

"She's brain dead. Time of declaration- 11:43 p.m." Everyone walked out of the room one by one while Violet was crying somewhere in the background, with Kirk consoling her. A few minutes after they were all gone, a nurse walked in and covered me with white cloth. She walked out right after that, but then someone entered almost immediately. I knew it wasn't the nurse because the footsteps were heavy. The figure walked up and stood right next to my bed. He was close. Too close. And then the deep, male voice said. "You deserve this. Once you are gone... immortality will be mine."

Calla's POV The pain is gone. That is the first thing I notice, and it frightens me more than the pain ever did … because I know what it means when a body stops hurting. I know what that silence is called. I know I am dying. I am floating. Somewhere above myself, somewhere between the cold ground and whatever comes after, I am simply drifting, and the strange, terrible thing is how peaceful it is. How soft. I had expected death to be violent, to demand something of me at the end. But it is nothing like that. It is the way a fire goes out … not all at once, just dimmer and dimmer, the light going gently, until there isn’t any left.

Yup, she was annoyed. “No, sorry. I was reading an email.” The email that I had just received was from the councilmen. Alpha Isaac died last night and it was reported that it was from natural causes. Bullshit! I know Jared had something to do with it. I was typing a response when she was talking to me.

“His scanner is calibrated to the ambient temperature of the wet concrete. If you drop low, the cold water of the puddle will mask your thermal signature for exactly two seconds before his display recalibrates. The guard on your right is off-balance. He’s putting too much weight on his right heel to avoid slipping in the clay.” A slow, chilling wave of absolute clarity washed over my mind. The panic, the tears, the desperate wife who had begged him to live in that closet —all of it vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating void of the Ghost. "Which one has the radio?" I whispered under my breath, making it look like a quiet, desperate prayer to the men in front of me.

I heard the clicking of camera shutters, but no one called the ambulance. My blood drained dry. My body became cold. Finally, Yvette Skye was no more. I died all alone at the corner of the street. No one cared. My corpse was not a pretty sight. My eyes were wide, unseeing, and there was a large hole in my stomach. My legs were twisted together. One of my arms was flung by the side of the road. My legs were useless now. I was ugly. No wonder the little girl cried. Floating in the air, I stared at my mutilated corpse.

Each cough sent waves of pain through my frame, though none of it hurt as much as the pain in my chest did. Just as I was losing consciousness, I saw paramedics rushing in to rescue people. When I woke up again, I was lying in a hospital bed. The room was eerily quiet. Every now and then, I could hear nurses whispering in the hallway outside. "I heard that famous lawyer, Ms. Hudson, is in the room next door. She's keeping her first love company. I never thought someone who looks so cold on TV could be so gentle with her boyfriend!" "Yes, they make such a great couple!"