Diane Foxington Crimson Paw Novels & Stories

You'd think after seventeen years, I'd be used to it. You'd be wrong. "Aria Blackwood," I read aloud, tracing the elegant calligraphy with my thumb. No one in Pine Hollow received mail with such beautiful writing. Hell, most of us were lucky if the bills arrived without coffee stains. The return address made my blood turn to ice: Crimson Moon Academy. "No," I whispered, my hands starting to shake. "No, no, no." But there it was, the official seal pressed into blood-red wax—a crescent moon wrapped around a wolf's head. Everyone knew what that meant. Every human between seventeen and nineteen knew what that meant.

Kira walked ahead with grim purpose, her eyes scanning everything—every tree, every footprint, every glint of metal buried in the frost. Valerie, ever the wildfire wrapped in silk, hummed quietly beside me, one hand resting on her holster, her other playing with the end of her braid. I wasn’t sure if the hum was to calm herself or to taunt Death. The bodies were waiting for us, strung like grotesque ornaments on the rusted iron fence, a chilling welcome from whatever bastard thought this would scare us. They failed. But that didn’t mean it didn’t piss me off. Three corpses, mutilated beyond recognition. Faces slashed and peeled back, skin branded with crude symbols, symbols that made my stom

While Rig and Duke stayed at the parking lot to watch the truck. He waited for hours until the auction finally get started. Mr. Christmas sat on another leathered sofa beside him with his two stick figured trusted men behind him. "Your 39 ladies are all ready for the auction, I saw them at the back stage they are looking so nice and sexy! Where'd you get them?" Mr. Christmas hissed with that all smile tattooed on his face while wiping his hands at the side of his thigh, obviously trying to clean his hands from greese and crumbs of the bread he just ate.

I walked to my closet—a room the size of most people's apartments—and pulled out the dress I'd been saving for a special occasion. Deep crimson red. The color of blood and vengeance. It hugged every curve, the slit running dangerously high up my thigh. The back was completely open, exposing flawless skin marked with an intricate tattoo—a phoenix rising from ashes. A reminder of who I had become. I slipped it on, the silk cool against my skin. My hair fell in sleek waves over one shoulder. Diamond earrings—worth more than the Blackwood packhouse—caught the light. My makeup was flawless. Smoky eyes. Sharp contours. Lips the same crimson as my dress.