Cellar Books Novels & Stories

I was in a damp, pitch-black cellar, hunched in a corner with my injured leg behind me. The walls were slimy and wet, and the moisture soaked through my blouse. The door swung open, and a burst of light stung my eyes. I lifted my hand to block it. I heard footsteps and quickly shrank back, hiding deeper in the shadows. "Mr. Carver sent me to get you, Mrs. Carver." I looked up to see who it was. It was the bodyguard Henry had hired years ago.

The damp scent of ink mingled with sandalwood wafted out. The cellar's four walls were lined with ebony bookshelves reaching the vaulted ceiling. Bronze wall sconces cast warm yellow halos, illuminating the mottled patterns on gilded spines. This library cellar had existed since his great-grandfather's generation. It had been abandoned for over a decade in between, before his father renovated it. A cast-iron spiral staircase snaked upwards, connecting to a second-floor gallery where dust-covered foreign ancient texts were piled, with even ancestral annotations tucked between their pages.

Now, the lock was freshly scratched. Clara crouched, running her thumb along the edge. “Recently forced.” “Within the last few nights,” I agreed. “Probably her.” I drew the dagger from my belt and slid it between the hinges. “Stand back.” She did, though her hand stayed close to her blade. With a soft crack, the rusted latch gave way, and the door creaked open. Cold air rushed out — damp, still, carrying a whisper of something ancient. We descended slowly. The cellar was larger than I remembered, carved deep into the rock. Dust coated the shelves and old barrels, but in the far corner, a single candle had burned down to wax and ash. Around it, faint symbols were drawn into the dirt — precise

The wine cellar was my father's territory by preference, not rule, which meant it was the one place in this house where I could think without feeling like someone was watching. I pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside as Clara followed. The cellar was long and cool, lined with wooden racks that ran floor to ceiling on both sides. The light here was dim — two wall sconces that cast everything in amber. It smelled like oak and dust and something older than either of us. "There's something I need to ask you," I said. Clara stiffened as she turned to face me. "All right." "This morning. Before breakfast. Did you see anything near my father's study?"

He says, pushing me through the door and into the store. I lead him to the back room where Mrs. B put a bunch of comfortable couches and armchairs as well as lamps for gentle light. Bookshelves line every wall, stacked to capacity with beautiful leather bound books. There's even a bronze, gliding ladder that she doesn't use anymore, but she calls it her pride and joy.

It was industrial, bolted and so out of place. He didn’t say anything, he just keyed in a code, waited for a soft click and then the air hissed the way do. The lights inside flickered to life one after the one, revealing rows upon rows of books, bound in leather, ribbon, and velvet. Stacks of brittle notes, sealed drawers, scrolls in temperature-controlled glass. Nirvana feet took action before she could stop it and her eyes looked around as if trying to assimilate everything and commit it to memory.

He looked at me for one fast second, his dark eyes burning with that same fierce, protective fire, before he nodded once. We stepped through the narrow doorway onto the top wooden step. The stairs were steep, dropping down into pitch-blackness. Dominic reached out, his hand finding a small light switch on the wooden post. He flipped it down. A single yellow bulb flickered above the cellar floor. The cellar was small, built into the solid granite bedrock of the ocean cliff. Sitting right in the middle of the concrete floor was a single steel folding chair and a small folding table. On top of the table sat a heavy black metal lockbox and a small glass jar filled with fresh water.

“What do you have?” Dario shook his head. “Contessa, Catalina is a wine connoisseur. Surprise her with one of our dry whites.” He looked at me. “The wine cellar is off the kitchen. Since we’re over forty stories in the air, it’s not a true cellar, but the walls are insulated, and the room is temperature controlled.” “It takes a chunk of my square footage away,” Dante said. “And I don’t even have a door from my level.” “Anyway,” Dario said, “you should check it out.”

She found herself walking out of her camp and heading towards the largest tent that was located in the center of the coven. She gulped as she tried to find the right amount of courage for her to go through with what she had to do. She didn't know where it was but a part of her told her that it would be down in the cellars. The cellars was the codename given to the largest store of books in the coven. It wasn't heavily guarded as Zoran liked to use it in order for him to finally be able to boost his ego. He didn't think that there was anyone that would have been stupud to dare try and mess with him.

"It was just dormant." Without another word, Killian led the way toward the arched doorway behind the high table—a narrow, forgotten passage that led into the old foundation cellars where the citadel’s winter grain and cured meats were stored. I pulled a heavy iron torch from the wall bracket, the orange flame dancing wildly against the unnatural, sulfurous draft rising from the depths.