Counting Sheep Book Novels & Stories

More, and more. End of Book 1

He keeps talking, filling the jeep with his voice—low, light, annoyingly pleasant, occasionally dropping into that serious, husky rumble that sets my nerves on edge. He starts recounting a story about a clumsy elder named Barnaby who once tried to move a ward stone with a backhoe, resulting in two days of rain inside the pack house. He’s clearly trying to relax me, trying to paint a picture of a normal, if slightly eccentric, community. My nerves, however, are a tight tangle of knots. The wolf is still silent, the silence almost deafening after Zeke’s recent outburst of Alpha power. I reach for the radio and crank the volume, needing a loud, jarring noise to break the heavy tension and Zeke’

The dark is bad. The dark is just dark, he said. Nothing in it. But you can’t see. No, he said. You can’t see. He fed her himself. Small bites. A story about a rabbit who was also scared of the dark and learned to count stars instead. Liyana ate and listened and by the third verse she had uncurled slightly, her feet finding their way to his knee. By the time she finished eating she was mostly herself again. Can I watch the fish show, she said.

She's already tucked under a quilt decorated with stars, and a stack of books on her nightstand. "Uncle Shawn!" She bounces excitedly. "Please read me a story since it's your first time visiting." "Of course," I hover in the doorway, suddenly feeling massive and out of place in this delicate space. "Come sit!" She pats the bed beside her. I walk into her room and lower myself carefully onto the edge of the mattress. She immediately thrusts a book into my hands. "This one!" I look at the cover—some story about a brave little wolf. Of course.

Curiosity tugged at her to go to the library. She got out of the room and followed the path Alice had described. The library's doors creaked open, revealing rows of shelves stacked with books. The air was a bit dusty and cobwebs hung around. She wondered if people hardly came here. She trailed her fingers along the spines of the books until she found one titled: “The Lunar Bond, The mating of wolves” Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted the heavy book. She opened it, reading in silence about bonds, instinct and transformations.

Not really. Mira sat across from the fire, her sword across her lap, unmoving. She wasn’t sharpening it this time. Just holding it. Watching. Waiting. Elen was crouched in the dirt, her fingers stained with ink and soil, sketching spirals into the earth—maybe trying to name something too old for language. Velan sat further out, a little shadow murmuring to the sky, his voice slipping into a language Azriel couldn’t place. Something older than any Archive.

Finally. She need not pretend any longer. In William’s arms was where she wanted to be. ~The End~ Look for these books in this series: Let's Fall in Love Again (book 2) Let's Create a Wonderland (book 3) Let's be Together (book 4)

Pure deliciousness. "Ok, this one first." She slides a book towards me. On the front is shows a wolf fetus inside the womb, it reads 'SHE-WOLF PREGNANCY WEEK BY WEEK' in bold letters. If that wasn't a kick to the gut, I don't know what is. Am I really doing this?

There were unfamiliar characters carved at the bottom. I touched it with my fingertips and I felt a sudden jolt. I was stunned when the characters suddenly became readable. I swear I haven’t learned any other language yet and I can only read alphabets. The characters were unfamiliar yet I’m reading it and it was my name on the cover! Was this the real Nemiah’s diary? My cold sweat ran through my temples as I turned the pages with my trembling hands. The pages were made of parchment bound with a straw and the first page says, How a sheep lives with the wolves. I didn’t recognize what kind of language it was but I’m amazed how smoothly I read it. Was it because the real Nemiah is inside me? Or

Tired from reading in the Count’s magnificent library, Eleanor had retired to her room and stood looking out the window and the lush fields. Was it green like this in Scotia? She could not remember. How long ago had she lost the images of MacDonald lands? Would she even recognize the keep? What did her sister look like now? Was she wed? Had her mother’s hair turned to grey? Would she hear the same birds singing in the north? Some of the books she’d read today had drawings of such colourful and fantastic-looking animals. Some of them were hard to believe, but one of the Count’s guests insisted he had seen the animal with his own eyes. “The giraffe is a gentle giant,” the man had insisted. “It