Passive Bloodstains Novels & Stories

On the battered basin before him, nine bloody spikes lay in a haphazard pile, stained crimson, an unsettling testament to what had transpired. “Done,” I muttered, voice strained but steady. I reached for the crumpled piece of paper, now soaked in blood and sweat, tangled in the mess. The note had once been pristine—perhaps just a scribbled warning or plea—yet now it looked like a fragment of a nightmare.

Daniel told him, still impassive, “and I couldn't tell you if any of my family or friends to whom it was ever lent bled there and didn't want to leave that in plain sight.” “Are you aware that a crime could have been committed there?” Norma asked. “The pattern of that bloodstain suggests that whoever it belonged to was thrown violently against that wall.” “As far as I know, nothing strange has ever happened in that cabin, and one less murder, for God's sake! You will have to investigate it then. Also, if I'm not mistaken, where a homicide is committed there are always many traces of blood, right? Not just a stain.” “You are right,” Roy told him, “there's always more blood, and we haven't fou

There were marks on the floor and on the walls, and shattered glass lined the floor just where I was about to plant my foot for the next step. The scent of blood hit my body hard, making me shudder. Bodies lay sprawled and scattered across the ground. Some of them were still quivering, fighting to revive the flickering flame of life, while others lay so alarmingly still. The torches lining the hall flickered erratically, casting eerie shadows over the destruction. This had the vast, written all over it. All around the crime scene were Damion’s footprints and claw imprints. Chaos heralded his presence, and devastation stuck around just after he had left.

Corey threw out words of protest, but I tuned him out and motioned the others to drag him outside. Once the bar was emptied out completely, I went back to the spot that’s been nagging at me all this time. Behind the bar, right in front of the door to the kitchen, was what appeared to be a pool of dried blood staining the floor. I knelt down, my eyes fixed on the dark stain. “Jun. Collect a sample. Now. Send it for DNA testing.” He stepped closer, glancing at the trampled area. “Sir, with all these footprints crossing through it, the sample might be too contaminated to get clear results.”

He scanned the room in one slow sweep. Seraphine's raised blades. Kyle's stance. Then his eyes landed on Viviana sitting upright on the bed with a water bottle raised like a weapon. He went very still. Something crossed his face, fast and completely unguarded, there and locked down before it could be named. Gone behind the aggression like he'd caught himself doing something he hadn't planned on. Viviana stared back at him with absolute zero intention of looking away first. "We tracked vampire blood here," he said. His voice was low and rough, like something that had never learned to be gentle. "Three vampire signatures." His eyes moved to me and the aggression shifted into something else ent

There's a wetness between my legs that wasn't there before, and when my hand slides down to investigate, my heart stops. Sticky warmth. Unmistakable texture. I yank my hand back, and even in the dim light filtering through the curtains, I can see the dark stain on my fingers. Blood. I'm bleeding... my body is cramping and I'm bleeding. No! Please, no! I stumble out of bed on unsteady legs, fumbling as I switch on the lamp. The evidence is there on the pristine white sheets— a small but unmistakable crimson stain that looks like everything I've ever feared.

Julian’s POV An overpowering stench of blood, mixed with the minus-thirty-degree aura of death, rushed at my face. I stopped dead in my tracks. Inside, the chilling crimson ice flowers almost completely covered the frozen corner. In the corner lay the ashes of the thermal blanket I ordered burned. And in the center of this frozen blood, lay a stark, sickening pool of black blood. That was the dead blood a human mother bleeds only when she is drained of her life force from failing to gestate a vampire.

Bliss watched her disappear around the bend of the hedge. She wandered deeper into the garden. The path curved toward a stone bench set beneath a yew tree. The bench had dark stains along its edge, old and weathered, but her eyes caught a newer mark near the base. She crouched and brushed away loose soil. A faint brown smear showed on the stone. Blood. The same shade she had seen on the staircase. Her breath slowed as she pressed her palm flat against the cold surface.

And there, beneath it, almost in‌visible against t​he dark wo⁠od, was a smud​ge. ​ Not dust. It was a dull,​ rusty brown, fl⁠aked and dry. A cres​cent​,‍ the size of a⁠ fing⁠ernail. A fi‌n‍gerprint in blood​. My‍ b‍reat​h seized. The air left the roo‌m. I stared, my mind racing. Silas somet​im‌es n⁠icked h⁠ims​elf shaving.​ But he didn’t shav⁠e here. Thi​s was old‌ blood. From the night he fel‌l​ i‌ll?

Everything about him is precise, controlled, perfect. Something’s wrong. I crouch down, my fingers brushing the fabric, finding it stiff in places. When I lift it, straightening on my feet, sunlight catches on a clean slice through the shoulder. But it’s the blood that makes my breath catch—dark brown stains spread across the white cotton like a Rorschach test of violence. I’ve never seen him bleed before…