Dostoevsky Novels & Stories

Cory grumbled. Isis grabbed a hold of Dimitri's shoulder and pulled herself ahead of him. She stared at the man in front of her. Blue skin, lifeless almond-shaped eyes. He was standing around 7ft tall. He was a rather thin-looking man, with a bald spot on his head. "Of course, you are Dolos, God of Thievery and sometimes known as a trickster." "You caught me," Dolos bowed.

’ Her face twitched as if she was fighting an inner devil. ‘Interesting ... What is it?’ said the inspector calmly looking up at his wife. She took a deep breath. ‘It is nowhere close to interesting – I have been meaning to tell you this for a long time now – Oh! It has been eating me up from within. I am a firm believer of Allah the Almighty, and I know that he has his own way of punishing sinners. But ... I am the wife to a person whose duty is to get hold of people who are immoral, dishonest and corrupt.

Torque explains as he types like a maniac on his computer and an image appears of Cole and some shmuck at a dinner table. "Who the hell is that?" Max asks. "His name is Craig Delula. He is a notorious criminal. About twenty years ago he was more of a middle man, now he helps run Cole's business. This guy is like the biggest piece of shit there is, rumor is he has a son in prison for something he did, made his son take the fall."

His eyes—those terrible, pale eyes—glowed faintly in the dim light. King Valerian was the embodiment of a warrior king—tall, broad-shouldered, and carved from muscle and discipline. His physique was built not by luxury but by centuries of battle, every line of his body honed like a weapon. Unlike most alphas, his skin bore a faint, icy pallor, a reflection of the frozen lands he ruled, and his long, silver-streaked black hair flowed like the northern winds he commanded. But it was his eyes that set him apart—piercing pale grey, almost white, glowing faintly with the eerie calm of a predator who didn’t need to snarl to be feared. Even in silence, Valerian commanded a room, a man of both chill

his eyes were on mine. “Worry me! What if you go to prison Dimitri?” “I won’t,” his voice was strong. “You don’t know that!” “I didn’t do anything, Harper please believe me. Alexander is our friend. He had to run from Moscow and he needed someone to talk to. There’s no fucking way I would have tried to kill him like come on!” He shouted. “You know me Harper! Right! You know me!” His voice was getting louder. I put my hand on his chest.

Afterall, they are all on his payroll. I eventually find Dante outside near the pool lounge area, stretched casually against one of the cushioned chairs with a half-empty beer in one hand and a copy of Crime and Punishment resting open across his lap. The late afternoon sunlight catches against his dark hair and sharp features, making him look unfairly beautiful in a way that instantly irritates me. Who knew he is a fan of Fyodor Dostoevsky. The moment he notices me approaching, he sighs heavily and shuts the book closed.

“You are American, mooncalf, get over it. You may have Russian blood, but you were born in the land of the fat, obnoxious and complacent.” “I am glad you think so highly of my heritage,” Anya snapped. She stuck out her tongue and crossed her arms. The engaged in a death glare match. “Enough, the both of you. I have had a long day’s work of herding animals and tending the trees, and I came home seeking peace, not squabbling,” Dmitri said. He sat beside the stove and began perusing his worn illicit copy of Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and the Margarita, bought from a black market in Moscow.

Michael asks as we come closer. Lana points to a page on the journal, “Le destructeur de tous et de ses proches, la mort, la guerre et la Pestilence, récolteront la destruction de tous. Le sacrifice de l'humanité sera son champion. Si l'amour et la bonté prévalent, le monde sera sauvé. Si la mort et l'avidité réussissent, la fin sera un nouveau commencement rempli de mort, d'assujettissement et de destruction.”

He became a raged beast that loves to chew bones of enemies. But who was responsible for creating this monstrosity? Who snatched the innocence and light from those mischievous eyes? Who awakened this reaper from a beautiful soul? Who killed the humanity of this devil? All these questions held one answer. Russian Don- SvetozarVolkov.

It wasn’t just a want, it was a need. With a shrug of his shoulders, he muttered a simple, “kill his daughter.” As though it was the easiest task to perform. Viktor Nikolai Advik—Don Viktor—was the most powerful man in Russia if not the world. Rumor had it that he was a good man, kind, gentle, thoughtful even. But the intensity at which he was good was the same intensity at which he was wicked. His answer to everything was murder and he couldn’t care less if he needed to murder his own blood to get the job done.