Doors Blood In The Streets Novels & Stories

Something is wrong. She dashed towards the door and yanked it open. She stepped out and paused. Outside was a mess. Everyone were crying and running at all directions. Blood was splattering everywhere, and fresh bones scattered on the ground. The ground itself was red, full of blood like a river. Everyone were crying yet the cries were inaudible. Tears smeared on their faces but Mira can't hear any single sound. It's like the world felt silent, muting the sound of horror.

I saw the blood that trailed down my sisters chest onto the floor and made a puddle next to my dad. I looked at the front door and made a run for it. I pulled open the door and ran outside. I ran till the blood was out of my legs and the oxygen couldn't make it to my lungs. Finally, I was gone from that horrible place. Finally, I was free again. I hid in a dark alley and slept there for the night.

Saratan’s P.O.V "I own you, little vessel." His breath was icy against my neck as he leaned in, “Every drop of the blood thrumming through your veins belongs to me… and when you bore me, I’ll drain and stuff you." My pulse thudded erratically and I couldn't help the helpless tears that slid from my eyes, "P-please, don't kill me, I don’t want to be a blood vessel…" I whimpered, feeling my bladder give up on me and wetness flooded my thighs.

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.

It was blunt and miserable, no matter what you wore out here. Doyle’s looked harmless from the front—neon beer signs, a couple cars in the lot, muffled music. From the back it looked like every shady deal I’d ever covered: a door that shouldn’t be open, a camera that “mysteriously” didn’t work, and a line of sight from the street that was just bad enough to make you feel safe.

He groaned, "Let's go outside." ....The night was chill and Dolph was just realizing it now as they went outside. The blood on his face felt awkward, it had been a very long time since he had the blood of another stained on his body or smeared on his face. He liked the smell of blood, as long as it wasn't his, Dolph didn't mind taking the life of another man as long as that man had been tagged as the bad guy. He was exhausted right now, what he needed was that medicinal bath, not a chat with Brenda of all people.

The cold bit harder outside, sharp enough to sting the raw edges of my anger. I shoved my gloved hand deeper into my coat pocket, the corruption beneath the fabric throbbing like a second heartbeat. The streets here weren’t streets—just alleys strung between leaning buildings, their walls pockmarked with bullet holes and graffiti that read like obituaries. Burn the Cursed. Silver Pays. I kept my head down, my boots crunching over ice and things better left identified.

A man in a half-tied robe talking to the camera like it was his fifteen minutes. "This whole street's a mess," he said. "Drugs, teenage hooliganism, graffiti, trash everywhere. I've been saying for years someone was gonna end up dead back there. This isn't the first girl they've found like that. This is about the city letting things rot." I turned the volume down. Positional asphyxia. No bruises. No blood. Just silence. Funny how quiet the world gets when you take out the parts that don't matter. No one would know.

m. My body said no. My wallet screamed yes. I grabbed my hoodie and slipped out quietly, walking fast through the rain. Miami nights were loud—cars, music, parties—but the streets near Club Rosario were different. Quiet. Wrong. I reached the back door and stepped inside. The hallway was dim, the lights flickering. It smelled like sweat and bleach. The music upstairs pounded like a heartbeat. I grabbed a mop and got to work. The floor was sticky with old drinks. My arms ached with every push of the handle.

On the third night after Seraphina Vale—the academy's most envied beauty—took her own life, a blood ledger appeared out of nowhere in the abandoned chapel of St. Ophelia's Academy. Rumor had it that if you left a blood print on it, the ledger would grant your deepest wish. At first, nobody bought such a ridiculous story. Until Vivian Cross—all two hundred and twenty pounds of her—shakily made her choice: beauty. She dropped the weight overnight. Her features turned so delicate people couldn't look away. Just like that, she became the academy's new obsession. After that, no one called the blood ledger bad luck anymore. Dorian Blackwood chose his future, and the Black Council's recommendation