Blood On The Clocktower Grimoire Novels & Stories

A woman with a crown of thorns and tears of blood. Tatiana blinked—and the vision was gone. But something had changed. In the shadows just beyond her door, the fog stirred again. Far away, in the heart of the Crimson Citadel, a sealed tome whispered open on its own. Blood ink bled from ancient parchment. A long-forgotten sigil—Sanguine—glowed faintly in red. And miles beneath the earth, in the tomb of the Blood Queen, a single petal bloomed on a thorned vine.

The room was quiet, still swallowed in the deep blue of pre-dawn. But it couldn’t wait anymore. I had to tell her. Not tomorrow. Not later. Now. Throwing back the covers, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and reached for my bag. The old leather grimoire sat nestled between a change of clothes and a box of protection salts. I held it close to my chest, fingers tight around the spine. I walked through the hallways of the pack house like a ghost. No one stirred. Not even the floors creaked.

MARCUS’ POV The throne room of my BloodMoon stronghold loomed vast and cold, its stone walls etched with the claw marks of past Alphas, the flickering torchlight casting shadows that danced like ghosts. I slouched in my carved obsidian throne, my crimson robe hanging open, the fabric slipping to reveal the scarred expanse of my chest, the faint glow of my curse’s mark pulsing beneath my skin. In my hand, a crystal tumbler held the whiskey Kael had brought back from his trip to Novella—a sharp, smoky burn that did little to dull the agony clawing at my heart.

All magic had a signature, even dark magic. As I continued to scan the room, moving through it carefully, I found a single book resting upon an old stone pedestal. The leather was thicker than the others, held together with ebony stitching that looked as dark as the shadows slithering about. Scratched onto the front were the words, “Liber Sanguinis.” Book of Blood... My gut told me this was the book I was looking for. The one that held the spell Kimberly used to bind herself to Jude. It was coated in a thick layer of that tar-like substance.

Pushing herself further, she stumbled into the empty circle and in front of her was the grimoire in contrary to gravity. "I'm in, Elsa." She called from within. "Great, now can you toss the grimoire over?" Elsa asked. "Sure." Emily grabbed the book and flung it out of the circle. Oliver marvelled at the sight, his gaze brushing over the hard cover and Elsa opened it, glancing at the pages in a fast flip. "There." Oliver pointed to a page, and she paused in her tracks. "That's the linking spell." The page had a drawing of two thin streams of blood entangling itself into a knot.

Its flesh had blackened completely around the chest while veins twisted unnaturally beneath dead skin. The doctor lowered his head quickly. “Her blood reacts differently than expected.” I moved toward the largest table in the center chamber where dozens of notes and ancient texts had been scattered beside blood samples taken from previous experiments. One symbol had been circled repeatedly across the pages. A crown. The Crown of Night. Interesting how myths stopped sounding like myths once enough blood entered the story. “You knew,” a voice said carefully behind me. I looked toward Malvek standing near the laboratory entrance. Old vampire. Useless politician. Too cautious to survive what wa

When I tried to pull my hand back, the paper stayed stuck to my skin, glued to my palm by some invisible force. I gasped, peeling my hand away with a sharp tug. The card flipped over, landing face-up on the table. My breath caught. The card was beautifully, horrifically painted. It depicted a heavy, ancient-looking chalice—a relic—filled to the brim with a thick, crimson fluid that looked unmistakably like blood. The background was dark, slashed with strokes of gold and ash. Behind me, I heard Zane let out a sharp, sudden intake of breath. I glanced up to see his forehead furrowed into a deep, angry frown, his jaw completely clenched.

We walked in, with each step in my back tensed, and my fingers curled. Something was terribly wrong. The moment we were in fully, I saw it. My heart banged loudly, sweat formed on my forehead and brows. Goosebumps covered my arms solely. It was on the floor. All over the floor. It was fresh. FRESH! Blood. It had pooled in a shallow basin that was sitting comfortably in the middle of this portal, the basin seemed to have a joke underneath it, where the blood spilled into working its way around. Dark magic. No, blood magic.

Always red. I reached the far end of the hall, where the grand staircase had collapsed long ago. Beneath the rubble, hidden from mortal sight, was the entrance I needed. I knelt, brushing away the debris until my fingers found the sigil carved into the stone, the mark of the sealed Bathory crypt. “Ego sanguine aperio,” I whispered, pressing my palm to it. Blood welled up instantly, the seal drinking greedily from my skin. The stone trembled, splitting open with a low hiss. The stench of centuries spilled upward: decay, iron, and the faint sweetness of rot.