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Wicked Blood

Chaos Runs Deep

By Izabella LoraPublished 3 years ago 6 min read
1

PROLOGUE

WIND HOWLS THROUGH the deserted harbor of Ivanthe, Oregon. The sky begins to darken, and clouds swelled with cold, bitter rain threaten to pour over the silent city. Bursts of lightning follow soon after, steadily making their way from one end of the city to the other. No one dares to go outside; those caught outside are trapped within the shelter of their cars.

The noise level becomes so intense that it rattles steel walls, and the chains quake as they dangle from the ceiling of the storage container. Again, the wind rises to the level of a thousand howling hounds.

On the count of three came deafening and explosive waves of thunder, sending chills down their spine.

The kidnapped man huddles in the container, falling against the frame of the twin bed, as the box is slammed into. The stale air smells of sewage, now. At first he had pound against the walls and cried out, but the only reply was his own echoes against the steel walls. Each call cried out in his mind as it was met with silence, silently praying to God.

No help came, but he knew. He knew what was to come.

She would come, just as they wanted.

CHAPTER ONE

AN EERIE DARKNESS BLANKETS the ancient oaks leaves dancing across the earth as a heavy wind blows through. At the base of Mount Colden lies a vast forest with tall canopies capable of concealing dangerous, but necessary, facilities. Each designed as a way to aid the government in the protection of its citizens.

Among them, is an infamous facility known as Harmony Heights—rumors claim that it’s haunted, plagued by demons that roam through Mount Colden’s forest. The legend has been around since the late 1900s, told by a group of teenagers after the asylum was overrun by patients who took the staff captive and used them in a satanic blood sacrifice to conjure the devil.

Though, it has never been proven that demons reside there. The decaying brick of the still-standing building crawls with the nasty creatures. Black smoke, thin and serpentine-like veins beneath the skin, slither all over—across the walls and around our feet. I can smell the decaying scent from miles away.

“You're positive he's here, Conokrev?” A city deputy whispers from beside me.

“Of course,” I say. I was never wrong when it came to tracking. My senses never lead me astray, especially on nights of the full moon. “Even the deadliest predators slip up; this asylum isn’t the first time he’s done it.”

His first mistake was about two weeks ago—in New Jersey. It was a cold night in the alleyway of a closed-down bar that I had cornered him and his blood had touched my lips. Once I got a taste of his blood, all my senses were genetically locked on his. I could sense him in any direction.

“What’s the game plan?” The deputy asks.

Now, he stands beside me. Only the tall, limb-like shadow from the trees separates us from the collapsed fence surrounding the asylum. “Stay here,” I reply. “I’ll bring him out.”

I work better alone.

I don't bother waiting for his response, slipping the leather gloves into my back pocket, and climbing over the fence. Quickly fixing my hair, I scan the building as it grows closer and closer. Other party-goers are staring; bodies stiffening and whispers humming, they’re all heading for the entrance where two men stood guard. Parties at the asylum were meant for a specific kind of crowd, the only way to get in was through an invite.

Good thing I don’t plan on taking the front entrance.

Slipping through the bodies, I head toward the side of the building where a boarded window resides. The rotten boards are graffitied in red paint, and the wood bears the mark of a pentagram.

A chill. Something watches me from within the woods, perhaps. Jumping on to the window ledge, I kick the boards in to reveal a couple; a young girl in the middle of tasting another. They seem unfazed, as though they were used to being watched. The girl’s back arched against the wall, her leg on the other’s shoulder. An urge to join them overcame me, but I kept my focus.

Capture Sullivan Kane.

Walking down the dark corridor, I listen to music thumping through the hollow walls and taste the sweat in the air. The whole front of the asylum is packed with people dancing to the music. I’m scanning the crowd for my bounty, his looks drastically setting him apart from everyone in attendance. He was tall, lean, and blond with blue eyes—the complete opposite of what a serial killer usually looks like. Then again, never judge a book by its cover.

Our eyes meet, and in that instant, I feel as though I am looking deep into the soul of a mad man. He stands in the middle of the stairs, his blue eyes lock on me. I enjoy this part of the arrest, it’s my favorite moment when everyone thoroughly believes they can escape. They always ran.

And they are always captured.

He takes off down the stairs, heading straight for the front door. I pull out my knife, tucked away in the back of my pants, and switch the blade. I run through the crowd, shoving people out of my way as I meet him. Slamming into him, he flies, knocking people over. He wastes no time to charge me and I’m ready.

I step back and dodge the roundhouse kick he throws, slashing the knife up his torso. The blade slices through the shirt like butter. Growing as a child, I had been taught to keep your weapons ready, to never neglect the things you use for protection.

My cell phone begins to ring, but this isn’t the best time. It isn’t the familiar tone for any of the contacts saved on there, it shouldn’t have felt so important; so important, I rush the fight.

He’s coming again only this time with brass knuckles and he knocks me in the ribs, the wind momentarily knocked out of me as I lock my arm around his and throw him over my shoulder. My foot is pressed against his throat as I switch my blade out for the black handcuffs on my belt. Lifting him from the ground, I walk him out the front doors to a small group of FBI agents waiting.

“Sullivan Kane, you’re under arrest.” An agent says loudly as he comes and takes away my bounty.

My phone begins to ring again in my jacket pocket.

“Hello?” I answer, unsure as to why my brother was calling me. Only it wasn’t my brother on the other end, rather, a distressed woman who spoke some terrifying words.

“Dominic is missing.”

fiction
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About the Creator

Izabella Lora

Izabella Lora | 21 | I'm a Valencia College student and a mother of two beautiful little girls, Sinovia and Adalaya. I've been writing stories since I found a website called Wattpad I believe an entire year before I actually joined.

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