Vincent And Rody Dead Plate Novels & Stories

“Who did you just name?” Lukeman nodded furiously, almost sobbing. “Vincent. Vincent Dragomir.” Lancly and I exchanged a look, something ancient and dark stirring in the space between us. “That’s impossible,” I said flatly. “The last time we checked, Vincent died in the Great War. Jonathan Nightclaw ripped his head from his shoulders and burned the remains.” “He’s alive,” Lukeman breathed. “Very much alive.” I stared at him, the wind curling around us like a warning.

Vincent was still lying there without any movement! Vincent’s body was still pierced by the 108 needles, and he was in the same situation as he was three days ago. He just lay there without breathing at all. If he was not dead, what else could he be? The old doctor said, “There’s no need to look over. He’s dead. How can he come back to life? We’re not shooting ‘Flatliners.’ How can such a magical thing happen? Mr. Braun lost his life three days ago, so it’s completely useless to wait for three days.”

My stomach twisted in anticipation of the horror waiting beyond the open doors. The meeting room was grand, with high ceilings and heavy chandeliers that swayed ever so slightly as if trembling in response to the carnage below. The long mahogany table, once a place of power and control, was now marred by the grotesque stillness of death. Three bodies sat slumped in their chairs, their forms eerily motionless, their expressions frozen in horror. Vincent D’Angelo. Antonio Russo. Carla Marconi.

Before Vincenzo and his knife could reach my mother and me, a gunshot rang through the room. I opened my eyes and saw Vincenzo on the floor with a hole in his forehead, blood pouring out. The knife had fallen from his hand, and his eyes, which were full of rage and despair, were still wide open. His body twitched a few times, then went still. He was dead.

Rodrick said with conviction. The sound of Vincent's boots hitting the floor filled the silence that followed Rodrick's statement. He watched as his old rival drew in closer to him. Vincent didn't stop until he was standing beside Rodrick, an amused expression coming across his features while they stared each other down. Finally, he clapped a hand on Rodrick's shoulder and released a short scoff.

It was a deep, rumbling boom that seemed to go on forever. Vincent was staring at his now-black tablet screen with pure joy on his face. "Perfect," he whispered. "Absolutely perfect." I felt like my world had ended. Adrian, Commander Stevens, all those professional soldiers who had been trying to help us - they were all dead because Vincent had planned this trap months in advance. "You killed them," I said, tears streaming down my face. "You killed all of them." "I eliminated a threat to my operations," Vincent corrected. "Including the man that Nichole Valmont loves most in this world."

I see Erik and Chris close to the bed, Lilly is off to the side, Zander behind her with his arms wrapped around her waist, Elder Rose sat in a chair near the bed and in the far corner in the room stood Oliver head down in the shadows. Elder Rose spoke first “my dear sweetheart tell us what happened?” I turned to her, “I was coming back to my room when I saw…” The words catch in my throat. Chris hands me a glass of water, I take a few drinks. “Any way I saw what I saw it does not matter. Then I felt a very painful snap, it made me pass out. I don’t know how I know but I think it is the mate bond breaking.” A gasp could be heard by everyone.

However, come sunrise, she was struck by a heart attack and died right then and there. My husband Chester and I, devastated by the loss, handled her funeral. That same night, Chester dreamt of Dad too. "Chester, it's been ages since I've had a bite to eat. I'm longing for your liver pâté and a shot of strong whiskey." He woke up, bought the best liver pâté he could find, popped open a bottle of single-malt whisky, and dashed to the graveyard. However, shortly after he got back, he was rushed to the ICU with liver failure and died three days later.

Halfway up, he shifts. Bones crack. Tendons strain unnaturally. His wolf— black and vicious— lunges out of the ritual circle. Before he lands, his gleaming canine latches around a werewolf’s neck. He rips his head right off his neck. Blood gushes everywhere. Twin howls fill the air. Vincent hauls his weight into both wolves. He slashes one across the chest in rapid succession. He’s dead in seconds. The last wolf bites down on Vincent’s back and they go tumbling down a narrow trail.