Dead Simple Novels & Stories

she added, wiping her tears. "That's...that's horrible," Jimmy whispered and hugged her. "I'm so sorry." "Don't be." she smiled and patted his back. "I am doing well here." He sat back and looked at her sighing. "He's dead," he said. She raised an eyebrow, "Who?" "Adalis." She gasped and widened her eyes, "W-What? How? That's impossible...he has the most dangerous creatures by his side." "I know." Jimmy nodded. "We came up with a plan and it succeeded. He's dead now."

" I move away standing on my feets as I feel Laura's body as cold as ice now, I drag her up on all her weight as I throw her on my back giving her a piggy back ride, Her dead body which surprisingly had not turned stiff and hard yet seems to be alive however her heartbeat is missing and her pulse intact once again, everything makes me want to go crazy as the fact that I had killed my mate, I pull up her whole weight as I take slow and cautious steps towards the door away from the pool of blood,

Damin – POV A knock on the door jolted me awake from my stupor. “Come in.” “We have two bad news,” Dexter said as he walked in. I frowned. “What now?” I didn’t want to sound annoyed but couldn’t help it. It’s been three months, and I haven't been able to sleep or eat, all because of Stella. “Alpha Altair is dead,” Dexter said with a frown. “An assassin from the Night Angel killed him.”

That version of Aria was dead. I stepped into the dim room, the scent of leather and high-end tech hanging thick in the air. Sitting on the center of the desk was his secondary terminal—a sleek, high-powered laptop connected to the penthouse's secure server. I lifted the lid, and the screen glowed to life, flashing a stark login prompt: Enter Biometric Passcode or Encryption Key.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Officer Will took the call with sorrow. Grim Marie had taken her own life. She was found in the bath with expensive-smelling bubbles and a candle. She had used a razor. He wished this hadn’t surprised him. His heart felt heavy, but he tried to convince himself that at least she was at peace now, enfolded in the arms of her mother and her daughter. A third little urn lined up on the shelf, perhaps. At least the pain and misery of her hunt for The Wolf was over.

They couldn't have been more than fifteen years of age and were both intelligent looking. "We are the new fates, brothers Jackson and Nowell and you two are Rai, the Grim Reaper and Sebastian, a Death & Life soul cultivator, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Jackson stated and presented his open hand to us as he stepped closer. Rai shook it first and said we needed to clean up the mess. "We will deal with it, you both enjoy your newly engaged selves," Jackson grinned. We both thanked them profusely and stood back as they waved their hands over the corpses and the bodies and blood all vanished.

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.

"Your friends are already dead. You have no future ahead of you. Just stop struggling and let go." His eyes find me, fiery and full of anger. He opens his mouth one last time, no doubt to call me a whore again, but this time no sound escapes his lips. Only a long wheeze, a scratchy inhale that sounds like it might hurt a lot. His eyes go impossibly wide, and with that, his body goes limp. I watch and wait as he heaves his last breath, then he's dead. Finally, I take a step back, looking at the three corpses and wondering what I'm going to do with them.

She goes where she has always gone. "I found a ledger," I say, and my voice comes out in the low careful dialect I have learned from listening to her, the register of a woman asking another woman to carry what she cannot carry herself. "In the chapel vault. It has an authorization code for a death that happened two years ago, a death that was ordered from inside this family, and the code matches the payroll sheets I transcribed in my first week. The same block letters. The same purple ink. A single initial." Nonna Carmela taps her forefinger twice on the stone lip of the well.

An unknown contact, yet the content is unmistakable – a picture of a battered Daren accompanied by a chilling message: "72 hours are up, Elena."