Novel & Cerita Blood Raven Book

It was too vivid, too real to dismiss. It pleasured me against my will, forcing a release that left me shaking and hollowed out. No amount of silver, no holy scripture, could stop it. I’m tired. I’ve tried everything, yet I can’t escape this life. I am a monster.” --- Clap! The sound of a sharp clap echoed through the room as the book slammed shut. The figure holding the book lingered for a moment. It then used his fingers to trace over the worn leather cover and the grooves of the embossed initials: R.H.—Raven’s diary.

She smiled at me, picked a few more boxes, and moved them upstairs. Kaden spent a few hours in his office. An hour after breakfast Mrs. Raynolds came in the drawing-room and deposited three books on the coffee table, inclined her head, and left to return a few minutes later with tea. One book was a study in werewolf society, one was a history of the region and more specifically Blakewoods and the Devon family line, and the last one was the detailed duties of a Luna.

But the others were supremely confident in her capabilities that he had no choice but to capitulate. “Very well,” he said. “This investment group is formed as of right now, pending official paperwork of course. What’s our first order of business?” “How ‘bout a name?” asked Eva. “The merc company Raijin and I formed is called Conspiracy of Ravens. Where we’re from, a raven’s a large black bird that’s ridiculously smart, opportunistic, and tricky. They do whatever it takes to survive, and it kinda represents our modus operandi to a T.”

“Bring the Black Coast shipment codes, the account access, and every fucking file you stole.” A sob caught painfully in my throat. What the hell were they talking about? “I swear I don’t know anything,” I whispered desperately. “I don’t even know who Ravens is.” One of the men barked out a laugh. “Damn. She really clueless.” “Not our fucking problem,” another muttered. The gun pressed harder into my skin and my breathing immediately turned shaky again. “You hear that, Ravens?” the man said into the phone. “Fourteen hours before we paint the floor with her brains.”

Raven was in a house full of people who had spent nineteen years treating him like he didn't exist. Without warning, the world tilted. A sharp, violent jolt slammed into my ribs. It was a scream of pure emotion—frustration, longing, and a sharp spike of anger. It hit me so hard the air left my lungs. I buckled, my hands crushing the stone railing. It wasn't a physical attack, but a soul-level tug. Raven. Are you there?

I thought of the world that was currently waking up to a silence it didn’t understand. But as I felt that tiny, second heartbeat pulse against my palm, I didn’t feel like a fugitive. I didn’t feel like a victim of a global conspiracy. I felt like an Architect. The first book was about the blood. It was about the betrayal and the breaking of the old world. It was about the trauma of the glass and the roar of the mountain. But the second book? The one we were starting right now, in this quiet French valley? That book was going to be about the Home.

“You’ll tell me what’s in the journal first. Then you’ll get what you want.” She paused. Then grinned. “I like your spirit.” Melinda took the book, flipped it open, and began reading aloud in a low, ancient chant. Her voice sent chills down my spine. Then she stopped. Her eyes gleamed. “Oh... I just knew it. You're Ravena's daughter,” she said, stepping toward me and tugging at a strand of my hair. “In English,” I said coldly, brushing her hand away. She rolled her eyes. “Fine. It says...

The storage room was dark. The hallway light poured in from behind Derrick, illuminating a large stain of dark red across the floor. It stretched from the doorway where he stood all the way to the corner of the room. I was slumped against the wall with my head tilted slightly to one side. A dried wound cut across my temple. The area around it had swollen into a massive purple bruise, so swollen that one of my eyes was nearly unrecognizable. Blood from my nose had run past my lips and chin, smearing across my cheeks and ears.

She tilted her chin toward the hallway and said, “See the door with the blue light over there? That’s a licensed blood donation center. It’s open twenty-four hours. Ma’am, you can sell your blood for some money.” She paused, her gaze settling back on my face, as if measuring my reaction. “Not only will it be enough to buy that box of medicine, but it might even help you chip away at whatever debt you’ve got on your credit card.” I didn’t want to sell my blood, but I wanted to survive. So, I had no choice. The needle pierced my skin, and I watched as my blood rushed through the clear plastic tube into the collection bag. The first bag filled quickly, and the machine let out a soft beep.