Scratch Marks Novels & Stories

The bond can’t kill me, but Marcus is doing his best to make it try. I bite the inside of my cheek and focus on a scuff mark on the far wall. I’ve stared at that same mark through so many of his “shows” that I could trace it with my eyes closed, a jagged crescent, probably from a claw. I’d rather burn it into my memory than commit the shape of their bodies to it.

We stopped instantly. “What is it?” I asked. He pointed ahead. There were faint marks carved into the bark of a tree. Three deep slashes. Marcus snarled as I scanned them. It was clearly another message. I stepped closer. The wood had been torn by claws — fresh. “Rogue marking,” Ronan said. “But look closer.” I did. The pattern wasn’t random. It was three slashes with a line beneath them. Then another. My stomach twisted. “This isn’t a warning,” I muttered.

As if he had tried to hold onto life. My eyes moved upward and then froze. Scratch marks. Right on his neck. They were thin, curved lines. They looked angry. They broke the skin. My heart thumped hard. Then harder. I blinked. I stepped closer. I held my breath. They looked like fingernail marks. Human fingernail marks. A slow shiver ran through me. I pulled back from the desk. A slow breath left my lungs. The silence wrapped around me like a tight, heavy cloak. I stared at the scratches. I traced them with my eyes. My pulse hammered harder with every second.

Broken tools lie scattered near one wall; rusted picks, a bent shovel, a lantern with shattered glass. I trail my fingers along the stone as I walk, grounding myself with the cool, rough texture. My senses feel sharper here. Not frantic like how it usually is around people. I'm more focused. That’s when I see it. The markings. At first I think they’re just cracks in the rock, natural fractures in stone worn by time. But then the light catches them just right, and I stop short. Lines. Too precise to be nature's doing. I step closer, my heart beginning to pound. My fingers hover, then trace the groove carefully. The marking is shallow but done with an intention, etched rather than broken in by

Long, savage marks gouged into the wood, four of them, straight down like someone had raked their hand—no, their claws, across the surface. And beneath it, scrawled with precision and fury: ‘MINE’

he shrugged. “Why?” she asked annoyed by her excessive nosiness. “Well...... I'm not sure if you will understand but when I hold a paper the words don't seem to focus...and I have to work harder in placing them"he shrugged. "Have you considered getting a spectacle?"she asked.

It's a drawing of the moon cycle with the center silhouette of a howling wolf. "How is a drawing going to help?" I'm perplexed. "This a drawing of a tattoo. Faris, one of the non-affiliated wolfs drew it. He said he saw it on a lot of the wolves who held them captive. We believe this is how they identify each other. It's always in blue ink on their forearm." Amelie hands me the drawing. "This will help narrow down who joined and who has been forced to help them. This is great!" I can't believe they are dumb enough to mark themselves. They are making it easy.

We followed the sound to the far edge of the field where the oldest practice dummies stood — reinforced stone and wood constructs etched with pack markings. Or what used to be pack markings. The dummy lay shredded. Not smashed. Not broken. Torn apart. Deep claw marks gouged through reinforced stone. Wood splintered outward as if ripped by something that knew exactly where to strike. And carved into the chest, precise and deliberate, was a symbol burned into the surface. Blackridge. Not defaced. Claimed. Silence fell heavy around us. Liora crouched beside it, fingers hovering just above the markings. “This wasn’t rage,” she said quietly. “This was demonstration.”

My heart beat so fast it hurt. There were scratches on the windowsill. Deep marks in the white paint. They looked like claw marks. But way bigger than any normal animal. I touched them. They were fresh. Maybe from a few hours ago. The smell was stronger here. Wild and musky. But wrong somehow. I looked at the floor. Muddy prints. From window to dresser. These weren't human footprints. Too long. Too narrow. Claw marks in the wood. My wolf side wanted to fight. Protect what was mine.

A murmur rippled through the pack. Even I felt it when she pulled out the scroll. The scroll was old and far older than anything that could have been made in my time. The surface was worn out, and it had ancient markings etched into it. These markings were Moonblessed inscriptions, and they were not something that was easily forged. The woman lifted her gaze to Damien.