Black Novels To Read Novels & Stories

Francesco My hands trembled as I placed them on The Black Book. This isn't going to be easy. But I have to do it. I sucked in a sharp breath and flipped open the cover. Deadly Sins. Wild Secrets. Mafia Rules. Do You Dare To Enter? A chill ran down my spine. What the hell does that mean? I swallowed hard and turned the first page. Nothing. A frown creased my forehead. I flipped to the next. Still nothing.

And from its heart, something began to emerge — a shape woven of shadow and blood, wearing a thousand faces Kaelira once loved and lost. Her knees nearly buckled. “It’s the Echo,” she whispered. “The last remnant of the Black Moon.” It smiled — a cruel, shifting thing. You brought him here, it hissed. How generous. Another vessel to consume. Zevran didn’t flinch. “You’ll choke on me before that happens.” The battle began like a storm breaking open — lightning and steel, magic and fury. Kaelira unleashed her power, the air crackling with blue fire as runes carved themselves across her skin. Zevran moved like a phantom, every strike precise, every step anchored in the rhythm of survival.

My heart beats fast, and I feel a wetness between my legs that I can’t ignore. One gray afternoon, it was pouring rain outside. The library was dead empty. No one to bother me. I locked the front door early and turned the sign to closed. My hands were sweaty as I picked out my four favorite books from the back shelf. There was the pirate story with Captain Thorne, a tough guy who sails the seas and takes what he wants. Then the vampire book with Lord Draven, all dark and mysterious, with eyes that pull you in. Next, the cowboy tale with Buck, rough and ready from the wild west. And finally, the barbarian adventure with Garrick, a big brute who fights with his hands and conquers everything. E

“Favor Robert E. Howard an Dashall Hammit myself.” From his bag Gavin pulled a black and white hardcover book, a picture of an adolescent’s shadowed profile on the cover. “Hank, this was one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten, and you’re a pretty stand-up guy yourself . . . ” he held out the novel to the short-order cook, “I’d like you to have this. It’s my last copy, and though it’s not Howard or Hammit, I think you’ll find enough action in here to suit you.” Hank accepted the book with an air of rustic grace. “That’s good of ya. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.” He laid the book on the counter. “Mind signin it?”

By the time Momma passed I was married with a little one on the way, so my chance for college had passed, too. But I never stopped reading. Got me a nice little library out back, filled with all sorts of books crammed on bookshelves made by my own two hands. Books like Tom Sawyer, Edgar Allen Poe stories, Huck Finn and The King in Yellow, (that last one I don’t read much cause it always gives me strange dreams), some old mysteries, a clutch of Lovecraft’s books (they hurt my head, too, so I don’t read them much neither), my Hardy Boys books from growing up, and a whole bunch of newer ones by Stephen King and Dean Koontz. Got some heavy thinking books, too. The family King James, The Book of

Whatever it was, he was good and big in it. He was prospering in his legal businesses and the illegal ones were topnotch seeing how everyone knew of him… a crude handsome fox. Dylan was the number one in his business and to crown it all, here I was going through his stuff. Though his room was plain, the amount of files in there wasn't. So many trades, treaties, allegiance and the rest and there were books. I reached out and took one of them, the books weren't outdated because I knew every single one. ‘His’ by Aubrey Dark, ‘ Haunting Adeline’ , ‘The Priest’ by Sierra Simone.

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The deep sea was a realm of shattered black silk, a crushing, obsidian abyss where the light of the sun had never dared to reach. Outside the titanium hull of the Black Rose lead submarine, the ocean was a chaotic mess of cavitation and churning white foam. The low-frequency hum of twelve synchronized nuclear engines rose into a deafening, subsonic roar—a death symphony conducted by a woman who had finally run out of things to lose. Inside the command deck, the clinical red emergency lighting stretched the shadows of the crew into long, jagged knives, each one appearing ready to strike at the heart of the next.

“That’s exactly what your grandmother used to say at your age.” I wandered farther between the narrow shelves mostly to escape the public humiliation, while Harmony disappeared toward the romance section making loud, dramatic noises about enemies-to-lovers tropes. The bookstore glowed softly beneath the low hanging lights while the snow drifted in thick waves outside the front windows facing Main Street. I paused near the folklore section automatically, my fingers tracing the bindings. Appalachian legends, mountain myths, and local history books lined the dark wood. One specific title caught my eye immediately: The Founding Families of Black Hollow.