Velvet Crowbar Novels & Stories

I just stood there, in the secluded road, all alone as the autumn breeze caressed me gently, reaching deep into my soul. I felt like a diaspora, standing there in the strange, dark valley. Suddenly, all the colours that was in the background and melted together in a bland combination. Everything swirled as I stood there, trembling. Something bad was going to happen, I knew it. The colours that melted together, suddenly, started separating, creating a vague form of shades. Red. Black. Brown. Scarlett. It was like witnessing a mighty artwork unfold in front of me. Shades of red, brown and black diademed the canvas, yet not getting mixed together, as if they harboured misogyny.

Carlos a answered with venom in his eyes. Xx___xX

“That’s it, soak your brother’s cock. Milk me with that tight little-pussy. I’m going to keep you dripping every single day until you’re swollen with my child.” When the spasms finally slowed he pulled out, fisted his cock glistening with her juices, and painted her tits and belly with thick ropes of pre-cum, marking every inch of skin like territory. Then he reached under the pillow and produced the final collar. Black Italian leather, two-and-a-half inches wide, butter-soft lambskin on the inside, heavy brushed-silver O-ring at the front. A discreet engraved plate hidden against her throat would read: PROPERTY OF SAINT VALENTI – RETURN IF FOUND CUM-SOAKED.

He raises a rusted iron crowbar, his wild, starving eyes darting toward the pantry door. He doesn't even see me in the shadows. "Don't move," I rumble. The scavenger spins around, swinging the heavy iron crowbar blindly into the dark. He is fighting with the sloppy, erratic adrenaline of a starving man, but he is swinging at an Alpha who was trained by the Blood Moon elite. I don't even need to shift. I step smoothly inside his guard, catching his wrist in a vice-like grip. I twist sharply, forcing the crowbar to clatter uselessly onto the floorboards, and slam my forearm against his chest, driving him hard against the log wall.

Pass or fail, they want ownership sealed in ink. Crowe raised the bracer higher, relic humming with strained imitation of Lunaris song. “We begin the claim,” he said.

“Fine. You want in, you’re in.” They went to the armory room in the back of the club. Metal shelves lined with firearms, ammunition, and knives gleamed in the low light. Amy’s fingers skimmed along the collection before she pulled down a polished Colt 1911 and a snub-nosed revolver. Isadora grinned and took her favorites — a black Beretta M1951 and a sawed-off shotgun with a worn leather strap. “You ever notice,” Isadora said as she checked the Beretta’s magazine, “that people like us never really retire?”

My crowbar wasn’t sharp but with enough strength, anything could be removed. This really made them scatter. But it was too easy. They were far too slow. Too slow in shifting. Too slow in running. Just all around…too fucking slow. I kicked the last one down and put my Dock Marten’s through his skull. Blood splattered and I growled, trying to wipe it off my cheek.

EFFIGY We went to the barn. "A scarecrow doesn't fight," Martha lectured as she rummaged through a pile of scrap metal. "A scarecrow works on instinct. It tells the crow that there is a predator here. It projects fear." "The Dust Crows are constructs," Leo argued. "They don't feel fear." "They run on code," Martha said. "Code has avoidance protocols. If Danger > Reward, Abort." She threw a pile of junk at Leo’s feet. The carapace of a dead Giant Locust. A roll of star-metal wire. The torn chest-plate of an Ironwood Peacekeeper. A skull from a Hollow Man. "Build something," Martha ordered. "Make it ugly. Make it loud. And put a piece of yourself inside it." Leo looked at the pile. "You want

Authority made manifest, wrapped in velvet shadows and centuries of absolute power. Velis Draykar. Caelum's eyes snapped open, pupils dilating as they adjusted to the soft lamplight that filled the chamber. His hand shot out instinctively—sluggish from whatever drugs still coursed through his system—striking the bowl and sending it flying in a golden arc that splattered broth across expensive carpets and polished stone. The spoon rang against the floor like a bell tolling his defiance. He tried to rise, to put distance between himself and the creature that had destroyed his world, but his body had other plans.