Every Cloak Rolled In Blood Novels & Stories

"You have a mixed blood? How did you get a mixed blood." "Apparently, he was one of the humans I had rescued." "Wait, you are telling me that this mixed blood human with you is one of the humans you had rescued from the house of Krane on that day?" Sheila added quickly. "The very one!" "What is his name?" Liam asked. "Leo." She held up the cloak for Liam to see. "This is his, it has his blood on it." Liam reached out and took the cloak, examining it. "Why so much blood? Is he hurt?"

She grins. Dren must see something in her eyes—probably the part where she enjoys inflicting pain a little too much—because he flinches. “Okay, okay! I don’t know his name. Just that he wears this cloak—red, with silver trim. Fancy as hell. Smells like moonroot and metal.” Trixie and I exchange a look. That description’s becoming alarmingly familiar. Every rogue lately seems to follow some mystery man dressed like a discount vampire overlord.

With a devastating sweep of his iron pole, Roland's attack tore through the knights, obliterating armour, bones, and flesh in a gruesome display. The scenery transformed swiftly into a dreadful scene of crimson and gore.

They were beautiful and terrifying all at once. I felt something strange in my chest, a sudden, powerful desire that nudged me toward him despite the chaos. The claw came down, ready to snap my neck and end it all. The blue-eyed man moved fast, his movements a blur. Blood poured over me, hot and thick, soaking through my clothes and skin. It wasn't my blood this time. It belonged to the rogue who had raised his claw against me. His head was ripped from his body, rolling away into the dark bushes. His heavy torso slumped backward into the dirt with a dull thud.

He tucked the end of the cloak around her bare ankles where the green wedding gown had ridden up. The pack-folk in the courtyard would tell stories about the small careful arranging of the cloak for the rest of their lives. They would tell their grandchildren about it. They would tell their grandchildren that they had stood in the courtyard of Ironbough Pack on the morning of the autumn festival and watched the king of Velmoria sit on the back of his enormous black horse with the rejected Luna of their own pack in his arms and tuck a black cloak around her ankles with both his hands as if he were a young husband putting his small wife to bed in the dead of winter, and their grandchildren wou

There was a lingering, metallic taste on my tongue—the clear, heavy taste of pureblood Lycan blood. I shifted on the rotting straw bed. I wasn't freezing. I looked down. Wrapped tightly around my shoulders, covering me in its massive, fur-lined folds, was a heavy black velvet cloak. Pinned to the collar was the silver crest of the Blackwood Warlord. My breath caught in my throat.

"Remove your heavy cloak right now, my faithful servant, so that these skeptical leaders can finally see the beautiful face of the warrior who will deliver the Blood Thorne pack straight into our hands." The cloaked figure reached up with a slow, mechanical precision and pulled the deep blue hood backward away from her face, allowing her long dark hair to cascade over her shoulders in the bright torchlight. The assembled alphas gasped out in pure, mind-blowing terror as they scrambled backward in their chairs, their faces turning an incredibly pale shade of grey as they recognized the unmistakable features of the woman standing before them.

The Last Blood Vow Clint's voice echoed through the chamber like a verdict being read aloud. “I am the last Blood Vow.” The air changed instantly, the temperature dropped. Even the shadows seemed to pause, leaning closer to hear. John froze, his eyes narrowing. “No. That’s not possible.” Sarah stepped protectively in front of him. “You died. The Order hunted the Blood Vows to extinction.” Clint walked forward, slow and confident, as though the chaos around them was nothing more than theater for his entrance. His robes, once clean and pristine, were now drenched in dried blood. The Spiral symbol had been burned into the fabric and his skin.

Juls shouted, his chest heaving, blood streaking down his arms. Florita broke her barrier in a burst of light, wrapping herself in her own cloak as she sprinted. Rogues dove for her, but Juls and Roderick—half-shifted now, claws and steel both in hand—cut them down with desperate fury. Flesh split, blood sprayed, bones cracked beneath their strikes.

"I could feel their eyes on me, too many eyes. But it was the sense that all of us were being watched that disturbed me. It disturbed me more even than the hand that held me by the neck. Then a man came into the alley. He wore a black hooded cloak over his head, and his beard was a greying white. He didn't speak, just walked in bare feet and sword raised. I thought he might be one of them, but he looked too... calm. Too composed, as though he was walking into his destiny, like what he was about to do was why he was alive, like his swords the black of night. I hadn't known then, but they'd stood no chance. "First, the cloaked man severed the hand of the man that held me. He just swung his swo