Books Similar To The Mortal Instruments の小説・ストーリー

It was as if every piece of knowledge that could be useful in this world had been gathered and preserved here, waiting to be used by those who needed it. My fingers moved slowly across the shelves until they stopped on one particular title. Herb Remedies & Elixirs. The moment I read the words, something shifted inside me. It wasn’t just recognition—it was something deeper, sharper. Images flooded my mind without warning, vivid and overwhelming. A small room, dimly lit, with books scattered across a bed. Pages filled with notes written in hurried handwriting. My hands holding one of those books, flipping through it quickly, trying to memorize something important. The feeling of pressure, of n

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“Our race is very fragmented. Much like the human race. There are many races within our race, and many territories—or covens—within each race. It is quite complex. They don’t affect good vampires.” “Good?” she asked. “Just like your human race, there are forces for good and forces of evil. We are not all the same.” He left it at that. As usual, the answers only raised more questions. But she held her tongue. She didn’t want to pry. Not now.

If you’re below eighteen, you should not read these books as they feature a lot of violence, gore and sex. If you’re a fan of fantasy series with werewolves, demons, vampires, witches, gods and whatnot, you can read THE WICKED GAMES, which is the first in the series called The Spirileaxus Saga. Unfortunately, none of the books in this series is standalone, so you have to read them in chronological order. You can also go for CURSED BLESSINGS. Again, this is book one in the series The Blessed Ones.

It's hard to focus without her, but I lead Axar into the small library with me as I begin to search. Having been alive for so long I've acquired many books and ancient pieces of literature. Some are in immaculate shape, others are torn segments and several pages, barely tethered together by bits of spine. Many of these are family heirlooms as well, handwritten and handed down to future generations for guidance. Some are my own notes and contacts, roughly scribed here and there and then stuffed back onto shelves. I find several books on banshees and a couple on cambions. I find some on death as well, and I stack it into my arms with the rest the pile. "Take this one too." Axar softly suggest

Caierre staggered. The wolf roared. The sound exploded through his skull like thunder. He nearly collapsed. The clearing blurred. The soldiers immediately reacted. Several raised their weapons. Others stepped backward. Morwen remained perfectly still. The pain intensified. Caierre squeezed his eyes shut. Memories flashed through his mind. Not his memories. Someone else's. Blood. Screaming. Chains. A massive black wolf thrashing against restraints. Silver symbols carved into stone. Voices chanting. Magic. Darkness.

I hiss. Apparently, you can't trust the word of someone you met in an underground werewolf bar. The entrance to Dyad Marketplace should be here, right past the— Something glimmers in the bricks on the other side of the fountain. Something bright and shiny. Striding across the courtyard, I approach the bit of metal stuck in the wall. A grin breaks across my face. "Perfect." Placing my fingers on the thin strip of metal—something that would appear completely innocuous and meaningless to any basic person walking by—I speak the incantation. "Aperta obidier."

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A half-smoked cigarette dangled between my fingers, the glow between my curled, stiff fingers the only warmth in the dimly lit sala. I took another long drag, letting the smoke sear into my lungs before slowly blowing it out. My head was a battle zone, images of deception flashing like gunfire: Victor and his sneer, poisoned wine, and the audacity of men who believed they were more clever than me—better or more worthy of what I’d earned in blood and steel. The business world was a more deadly version of an unloaded pistol with the safety off. Deals sealed with a handshake could explode like grenades. Survival was more than just pulling a trigger; it meant knowing when to pull it, who to aim

she murmured, tilting her head. Drawn by fascination, she found the rolling ladder attached to the bookshelf and climbed carefully. Her fingers trailed over several thick volumes—Blood Oaths and Moonlight, Fangs of Fire, The Treaty of Shadows. The illustrations on the covers were beautiful yet chilling, with fanged creatures, glowing eyes, and moons stained crimson. With great care, she pulled down four books and descended, arms full. She found the oversized reading chair near the window and curled into it, flipping open the first book.