The Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

Alexander He gritted his teeth as he studied the image of his lycan above the marbled mantlepiece. The painting was done by a royal pack member, Paul Cezanne in 1858. The worth of the art was invaluable like the artist himself. No matter how much he tried to relax, it was impossible. His wolf was snarling and roaring in his head, wanting blood on his sharp canines. The blood of the enemy. A fucking necromancer. He will tear him piece by piece by nightfall tomorrow.

that chimed at the hour. The gong filled the air, an ominous sensation washing over me with each chime before my eyes look up the grand staircase once more, now to a painting. Air enters my lungs sharply from shock as I recognise the wolf in the painting, slain and covered in her own blood. The life has left the wolf’s eyes, the bright blueness no more. As a male’s foot is placed on her frail body. Like hunter that has caught his prey.

Both of their voices were raised, so it was possible to hear them even with the loud music. When I saw who was standing at the front entrance, I stopped dead in my tracks. Even though I had never seen Aaron Taddeo in person, I’d seen pictures of him so I knew what he looked like. He was admittedly good-looking with sharp cheekbones and icy blue eyes. Aaron had a lean frame and brown hair. But the only thing people usually remembered was his front gold tooth. Because Aaron never smiled. Except when he was killing someone. Aaron wasn’t smiling now. He was towering over Ambrosia with a glare on his face. I understood what was going on immediately. Ambrosia knew Aaron was looking for me because

"They also resonate good memories which are important for you at this point." "I don’t think the paintings bring back good memories," Blackwheel said. "They are what they are. What we can see are two men holding a blood-stained sword. But what really happened is more terrifying than the story the painting has been able to tell. We don't see two men who has returned from a war which they probably might have won by some fine margins. The blood on their sword is evidence that they took the lives of people. Innocent people if you were to ask me."

I remarked and Kyler chuckled. “The pictures you sent me through the mindlink were wow ! Are you an artist in painting bodies with blood ? The precision of the cuts and the streams of oozing blood were too accurately done !! I could swear you were sending me the images of a painting if I had not seen your victims walking and talking for real ! The artwork was beautiful but gory,” Kyler said with a shudder. “I know you paint red better, babe,” I snorted as I thought back about Kyler’s victims tonight. All of them had been left hanging on a tree and I swear, I would have loved to turn that tree into a Xmas one if he had used actual decorations instead of corpses.

That was why I preferred seeing things myself rather than relying entirely on managers and supervisors. My gaze landed on the centerpiece of the exhibition, a colossal painting that occupied nearly an entire wall. It was known as The Crimson Ascension, a fictional depiction of an ancient vampire legend. The painting showed a blood red moon hanging above a black mountain while thousands of cloaked immortals knelt beneath it. Rivers of silver flowed through the valley below, reflecting the crimson light from the sky. At the summit stood a lone vampire king dressed in obsidian armor, his silver eyes glowing like stars while a crown of black thorns rested upon his head. Behind him stretched a ba

she snapped, “I need to get back the shop before the boss has my head. Is this about the Bloody Barbies again?” Bloody Barbie was the nickname Maria gave to the murders ever since she’d gotten involved as a suspect. It was an apt name. Each crime scene that had been investigated was painted red with each victim’s blood, and in each one there would be a bloody doll left behind (though, not exactly a Barbie), no less than three feet away from the body.

The tears that had also mixed with the paint I had used to make this art, the art that was made out of my own pain and heartbreak. I lifted my hand, my fingers hovering over his dark form, the only thing that gave away that it was Cole was the slash of moonlight on his right brow and the highlight of the right side of his face. That square jawline and the hint of stubble on it. And one more thing, his hand holding a delicate jaw of the female figure lying under him. Me. It was me. The whole painting was black and white, and various shades of grey. The darkness of it had resembled the same dark emotions brewing inside me while I had painted it. But there was one color that I didn’t mute. The

The woman’s gaze met his with a combination of fear and defiance, the trembling hand on the knife, the only line separating life from something else entirely. Red trickled freely now. It fell onto her shoes, splashed onto the floor, yet still she painted. Each line, each curve, each shadow carried the weight of intent, of story, of power The crowd leaned in closer. A woman whispered, “She’s… bleeding. Is she okay?” Another muttered, “Look at the detail—how is this even possible?” No one understood. And yet everyone felt it—the tension, the dread, the impossible intimacy of predator and prey as seen in the painting.

She dropped into a seat at the back, breath still ragged from the graffiti’s shock. The teacher droned on about ancient wars, but Alice couldn’t focus. Her senses crackled, too sharp, catching the rustle of papers, the sour tang of sweat from the kid in front of her, the heartbeat of the girl doodling beside her. Her nails pressed into her palms, tingling, threatening to sharpen. The prophecy—Born of man and moon—was a cult’s script, not fate. She wanted to be the Alice who aced quizzes, not this weapon built to end the packs.