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??Blood Beneath the Skin

Dorian

I couldn’t stop seeing her. The woman in the alley. Blood dripping down her temple. Fury in her eyes. Death in her grip.

She screamed. Didn’t crumble. Just screamed and ran.

She was afraid. Not of the bullet. Not of the body beside her. Of something else.

And that… That’s what kept me up.

I reviewed the security footage for the ninth time, watching it frame by frame. The moment the man beside her lips curled in a thin frown, the way they moved, his nervous gestures.

Then his head snapped back, skull cracked open like a dropped melon. Crimson sprayed the alley wall behind her.

A single shot.

Precise. Surgical.

I paused the footage. Zoomed in on the rooftop.

There he was.

Kreed Elias.

Rifle balanced. Eye steady. A shadow, once my client. Now my mistake.

I let him walk after his last kill. Helped him get off without any jail time. Planned to rid the world of him a week later, but he vanished.

I’d been hunting him, but now it seemed like he’s hunting her.

I dug deeper.

The people Kreed killed, they weren’t random. They were connected. All scholars. Historians. Linguists. Anthropologists. But not just any kind.

They were Seekers.

Men and women who studied forgotten tongues, cryptic texts, relics older than time. People who knew the truth behind the Gate.

I found journal entries. Interviews. Restricted files buried in academic databases. Each Seeker had reached the same dead-end, a name.

The Carr Line.

A bloodline tied to the Watchers. To Veilwalkers. To the Gate itself.

That’s why he killed them.

They knew too much about the Gate, who got too close to something meant to stay buried.

And that’s why he butchered the last one.

Dr. Kira Carr.

Expert in Pre-Abyssal Lore, found gutted open in her own home, throat slit ear to ear, sigils carved into her flesh with precision only madness or prophecy could deliver.

The cops called it ritualistic. A cult hit.

But I knew better.

It was a warning.

And now Kreed’s circling again. Same pattern. Same precision.

He was following this woman and she didn’t know. He’d keep coming until he got what he wanted.

I leaned back in my chair, cold bleeding through my bones like rot. Every nerve screamed for blood.

Because this threat… It wasn’t just another client.

Another body.

Another name to bury.

This one’s personal. She’s personal.

And if Kreed laid a finger on her again, I wouldn’t just end him. I’d erase him. Cell by cell. Scream by scream. Until the world forgot he ever existed.

I’d leave his skull at the threshold of the Veil and let it rot beneath the weight of what he tried to touch.

Dorian knew the world wouldn’t survive unless monsters like Kreed Elias were erased, utterly, mercilessly, and without a trace.

I haven’t fed in three days.

I didn’t mean blood. I meant death .

I’ve stalked rooftops and courthouse parking lots, picked off vermin with names the system chanted in defense.

But even when their lungs collapsed and their skulls caved in beneath my hands, I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I needed to know who she was.

The speakeasy was buried beneath a long, defunct bookstore on the Lower East Side. No password. No name. Just blood on the back of your tongue and a knock that echoed wrong in the bones.

Inside, the air was heavy, salted with sin, old coin, and the perfume of things that shouldn’t breathe. Vampires lounged against witches. Skinwalkers passed cigars to demons. Everyone pretending not to notice the demons in the mirror.

I took my usual booth, back to the wall, eyes on the exits.

Cassian Black slid in across from me like a ghost slipping into his own skin. Sleek as oil. Jacket tailored like sin. Same feral grin. Same scent of ozone and aftershave and something ancient beneath it all.

“Well, well. Dorian fucking Vale,” he said, voice low and amused. “Didn’t think they let you out of your cathedral of self-loathing.”

I didn’t bother to smile. “You still bitter about Berlin?”

He lifted a brow. “You took my mark and my car.”

“You had sex with my secretary in 1947.”

“Her husband challenged me to a duel,” Cassian deadpanned. “I won. Fairly. You were just pissed because you liked her handwriting.”

I leaned forward, resting a velvet box on the table and opening it with a click. Shadows spilled from within, curling like smoke, and formed the image I’d burned into my memory.

Her.

Blood on her cheek. Eyes lit with something more than fear. Something almost divine.

Cassian’s grin faltered. “Who is she?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “But Kreed Elias was following her two nights ago. Shot the man she was talking to. Clean. Right through the temple.”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “Really?”

“Yes, and I’m determined to find out why.” I said.

Cassian studied the image. “She looks... familiar. Not by face. By aura. Like someone you almost remember from a dream that ended too soon.”

“She’s tied to something,” I muttered. “Something old. And he wants her. That’s enough for me.”

Cassian tapped the image once, the projection rippling. “So you’re curious.”

“I’m working,” I corrected.

“Bullshit. That’s the same look you had when we chased the bone-witch across the Danube. Right before you fell in love and lost a lung.”

“I grew another one,” I said.

“Yeah. And you still haven’t grown out of your obsession with lost girls and dangerous magic.”

I closed the box. “She’s not lost,” I said quietly. “Not yet.”

Cassian leaned back, eyes gleaming. “You want me to find her?”

“I want you to tell me who she is,” I said. “Before Kreed tries anything again.”

He smirked, lazy and lethal. “And if I find her first?”

I didn’t blink. “Then I’ll take your other hand this time.”

Cassian chuckled. “It’s good to see you haven’t changed.”

“Neither have you.”

He stood and tapped twice on the wood, signaling for something expensive and illegal. “Alright, Vale. I’ll dig. No promises.”

“There never are with you.”

As he turned to leave, he paused and looked over his shoulder. “If she’s beautiful... I’ll take her for myself.”

I nursed my drink, watching the shadowy outline of her face flicker once more in the box. “Not this time.”