Ghostemane Ghost Tattoo Novels & Stories

"Elle, you need to see this.” Ghost calls out. I push the knife a little harder into the Collector’s shoulder before jumping to my feet. I give him one last look before turning my back on him. His fingers have stopped twitching; even if I take the knife out, the damage is most likely permanent, and he’s no threat to me anymore. I see Ghost has walked behind the counter; he has a computer in front of him and the glow of the screen is lighting him up, making him look like some kind of otherworldly ghost. I kind of get the name but it seems more like a punishment to me, like his parents judged him on how he looked when he was born and decided to brand him with the name forever.

He hated that he had any similarities with them. Ghost had a hard time accepting that weird part of him. And he never disclosed it to anyone in the Mafia, not even Scar. They might as well tag him as a freak, or some kind of beast. He didn't want that. He placed his glass on the counter with a thud. He just had over ten shots of tequila and was getting impatient. What was taking that bitch so long? He glanced up and found Viper on the rails, eye-scanning the place for the girl. Their eyes met and Viper flashed him a grin. Ghost looked away, muttering curses under his breath. He's never lost to Viper, and he's not about to start. The girl better fall into his grip or he might just send every

Giovanni turned his back on me, my eyes were on the giant snake coloured tattoo that covered his whole back, I was still staring at the tattoo before he disappeared into a closed door. I settled back, eyes closed, palms resting on the table, and let my mind wander to Giovanni's canvas of tattoos. The intricate snake on his left neck caught my attention first – its delicate scales seeming to slither across his skin. My gaze, though imaginary, traced the vibrant, full-back serpent, its red and black hues dancing in mesmerizing harmony. Next, my mental focus shifted to the cobwebs delicately etched onto his broad neck, their subtle complexity a testament to the artist's skill. The bold, cursive

He nudged the unconscious man, pushing him to his stomach and just as expected, a black moon tattoo was carved onto the skin of his neck. A Darkmooner “Blow the horn”

What in the world? I see a small crowd of angry faces egging them on. Why isn’t anyone stopping this? A girl yells, “Kick the crap out of him, Gaston! Show the royal punk werewolves aren’t to be messed with!” The wind ruffles Sapphire Eyes’s short, glossy brown hair, making it look like he's doing one of those shampoo commercials that make you wish you had better hair. I notice a tattoo on his back: large, black tribal markings that zigzag across his shoulders and go down to the middle of his back in a complicated pattern. When he throws another hard blow, I whistle to get their attention. Andddd it’s ignored. I sigh and make my way toward them.

No matter, it will end soon. "Hold, shaman!" the ghost said. "I have lots to tell you." "What do you have, that interests me?" anger could be seen on the shaman face. All he needs is a talking ghost. Maybe, there is something to learn here. He halted his arm. "Name it." "What happened here?" "Nothing good, I'm afraid. First that armored man came, and now you... he searched for something. He was tall, like a pole that women use for the laundry, he didn't look friendly."

The spirit had no lower jaw, only a gaping, bloody hole. I turned my head to look at the oil portrait of Lorenzo on the table. The man in the painting had sharp, chiseled features that radiated a cold, oppressive aura. But in my eyes, a translucent figure hovered at the edge of the frame. The spirit sat astride the frame, his long legs swinging idly as he shamelessly sized me up. He wore an unbuttoned black shirt, revealing an expanse of tattoos across his powerful chest. Even as a spirit, he seemed more alive than anyone else in the room.