Doors Blood In The Streets Novels & Stories

When he sent me two sentences at 2:11 in the morning: *I'm in Ashveil. *Something's wrong here.* *Don't come looking for me.* They searched. They found nothing. So I came. --- The main street is too clean. Maple trees line both sides, their leaves gone deep red in the October cold. But the ground beneath them is bare. No fallen leaves. No litter. No mess of any kind. As if someone sweeps before dawn every day and won't tolerate disorder. The few people still out at this hour move with a fluency that isn't trained.

"I just forgot that masterpieces belong in museums, not in cages." The police burst through the French doors. Laredo didn't resist as they tackled him to the marble floor, the clink of the handcuffs sounding like the closing of a book. As they led him away, he stopped for a second beside me. He leaned in, his voice a ghost of a whisper. "I’m not the only one with this blood, Lisa. Remember that when you look in the mirror." Then he was gone. The room erupted into chaos. People were shouting, running for the exits, trying to distance themselves from the scandal of the century.

The steel door hit the floor with a violent hiss, melting into a puddle of golden liquid that glowed, dim and angry, on the concrete. Maya didn’t move. She just stood there, frozen. Silver blood ran down her hand. She pressed it hard to her chest, trying to stop the bleeding, but it just kept coming. The people from the Chorus stayed on their knees—hundreds of them, packed into the dark parking garage. Their golden eyes caught the strange light off the molten metal, making the whole place feel unreal.

THE WOLF DEN {Playlist Suggestion: "Blood in the Water" by grandson / "The Hills" by The Weeknd} ~KOLT POV~ The smoke twisted around my fingers in the dark, wet air of the warehouse, smelling like expensive tobacco and blood because the guy tied to the metal chair in front of me was currently bleeding from about four different places on his face. I took a slow drag from my cigarette, my eyes fixed on Samuel, who was beaten to an absolute crisp, groaning and spitting blood onto the concrete floor of one of my empty storage properties on the edge of the city.

I feel like a monster now. "Anything I can do to help." Dr. Emerson led us down a long corridor before opening the door into the lab. Towards the back of the lab the vials of blood were held. Dr. Emerson looked worried about me being around all that blood, as though I would go berserk simply knowing all that blood was there.

I let rage do the talking. I went back to the streets. Not the bright, polished surface my name sits on—but the one beneath. The blood-laced underground. I dragged out the men who owed me things. Smashed safehouses that weren’t mine but could’ve been. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t need answers. I wanted bruises on my fists and blood under my nails. I wanted to feel something that wasn’t her.

“We can have a swim, wash the blood off.” “Yeah, let’s do that,” Rhett agreed and lit a cigarette before offering the pack around. Cameron and Heath both took one, something they did infrequently, and the three blood splattered teens strolled casually along the street smoking. “I think I’ve got f-king Shaun’s vomit on my shirt.” “Gross,” Cameron grimaced. “That was a good fight.” “I’ll be pissing blood tonight,” Rhett winced as he pulled up his shirt. Sure, enough there was a darkening bruise that curled around his ribs. “What does it look like from behind?” He asked twisting to show the back.

Grayson "War, what the fuck did you do?" I demand. The second I step into the shipping container, the stench of weed, sweat, and blood slams into me. The walls are splattered with it—thick streaks of red staining the cold steel like a fucking horror movie. I come to an abrupt stop just inside the door, my gaze flickering down to the slick pool of blood drying on the floor. Fucking great. I don't mind blood. I've spilled plenty of it. But I don't fucking like walking in it if I don't have to.

I can’t even take a piss without someone “clearing the area.” The road stretches before me like a black void. No streetlights, no signs of life, just my headlights carving through the darkness. This isn’t the main road to the city from my abode; it was one of those roads. Mafia roads. Quiet. Isolated. The kind where secrets are traded, bullets are exchanged, and blood stains the asphalt. Then I see them. Six fucking cars lines up like a funeral procession. My father’s. I roll my eyes so hard they nearly fall out of my head. “Six cars? Fuck me. Am I the Don, or is he?”

The door flung open and I threw myself into the room, slamming it shut behind me, not even bothering to see what was inside. Then everything stopped. The bullets. The shouting. Even the world outside. Silence. I was breathing so hard I couldn’t tell if I was alive or halfway to passing out. But then—then I saw it. Blood. Everywhere. Bags of it. Lined up in black medical sacks, tubes snaking out of them like something from a twisted horror film. It was blood. Real blood. I’ve seen enough crime documentaries, crime scenes, I’ve walked past enough hospital rooms... I know blood when I see it.