Elizabeth Afton Books Novels & Stories

Elizabeth's Pov Sunset feels like a sigh. One moment, I’m anchored in the warm, solid weight of Claire’s body, feeling the ghost of Rashford’s embrace like a brand on my skin. The next, the world turns to watercolor. Colors bleed, sounds soften, and I’m slipping… up. Out. It’s not a choice anymore. It’s a law. Like gravity in reverse. The city passes beneath me in a smear of light and shadow. I don’t control the direction. I’m a leaf on a current, pulled toward the one place my soul still recognizes as home.

The version of her that didn’t feel her pulse race at the sound of Liam’s footsteps because she couldn’t tell if it was fear or something worse. “Except asking me to let you go.” Of course. Of course. Elizabeth turned away from the window and sank onto the bed again, hugging her knees to her chest. “Then what the hell do I wish for?” she whispered. Suddenly, Elizabeth’s breath hitched. A flash of memory struck her like lightning. The door. The woman. The dead woman. She had seen it once—just for a second—and then never again. A strange chill ran down her spine as she stood. Quietly, she made her way through the silent house, her bare feet padding against the wooden floor. The hallway stretch

Silver thinned her lips, glaring at him. "You'll find the clue in the library." He said and quickened his steps out of the library. Elizabeth deflated, "It's going to take days." She raked her gaze at the ranks, bookcases, touching the ceiling. "Let's start," Silver said, extending her feet at the nearby bookcase and pulling the random book. "How will I get there?" I asked, looking up at the bookcases touching the ceiling. Elizabeth swirled her finger in the air, a blue sparkle shimmered around her hand. The book began to float in the air to the giant table.

In a coffin. Caitlin’s heart started to pound. She hated tight spaces, and she started breathing harder. She wondered if she were dreaming, stuck in some sort of horrible limbo, or if she had truly awakened in some other time, and some other place. She reached up again, with both hands, and with all her might, pushed. It moved a fraction of an inch, just enough for her to slide a finger into the crack. She pushed again, with all her might, and the heavy stone lid moved further, with the sound of stone scraping against stone.

At night, she hears whispers in the water. On the third night, Evelyn sees a flickering light drifting down the river. She follows it—drawn by something she doesn’t understand—and finds a wooden boat with a burning lantern and an old journal inside. The pages are filled with entries from a woman named Alara who speaks of binding spells, river spirits, and a curse upon her bloodline. The last page is stained and unreadable

A mass grave meant nothing left to bury—scavengers, bones scattered, flesh devoured. But Matthew wouldn't let it go. "Eli suffered so much—I have to find him," he insisted, tearful and relentless. So my father, against his better judgment, sent a group of servants to the reeking pit of corpses to search for my remains. I followed them, watching as they prodded through the mountain of rotting bodies with long iron hooks. The stench was so foul that several young servants doubled over and vomited. In the end, it was George who found my corpse. He remembered the coarse cloth I'd been wearing when they sold me off—and the tiny, clumsy ink orchid I'd embroidered on the hem with my own hands.

And they moved on their own. “I, Elizabeth from the Black Lake pack, rejected Max as my mate.” “Do it again.” “I, Elizabeth from the Black Lake pack, rejected Max as my mate.” “Again.” “I, Elizabeth from the Black Lake pack, rejected Max as my mate.” “AGAIN!” “I, Elizabeth from the Black Lake pack, rejected Max as my mate.” “Good! I recorded it!” Hearing the last three words Elaina had said, my body fell to the ground and everything went black.

Why? I saw her eyes close, "Rest." I said. I stood up to get a blanket for her, but she suddenly opens her eyes and grabs unto my shirt to pull down to her. Her cheek against my own. What she whispers so quietly that I could barely hear, sent worry down right to my very soul. She whispered " Sangui el Sanquis krono esmerna fitabella Elizabetha Nightwalker, that is what he said." Then she fell asleep. This is bad...this is really really bad.

Sybil’s hand flew to her mouth and for a moment she was left breathless, as the image before her indelibly seared itself into her memory. ‘Eli. . . . she looks exactly. . . . It can’t be! ’ ‘Like Faye. . . . ’Eli said. ’She looks exactly like Faye.’ ………….. The English Coast,1794 ‘Mathilda. . . . you are speaking of murder! ’Elizabeth said in a chilling whisper. ’We will be no better than Magnus and his followers!’

With one glance around, she slips into the recliner and downloads the next book in the series. The large mahogany grandfather clock in the hall chimes its tune. It's only chimed three times since she started reading. The tune echoes up through the house and reverberates through her ears. Staring at the words The End on the Kindle in her lap, she blinks in disbelief. She has finished the remaining three books in the series, in record time according to the percentage statistics on the Kindle. Her eyes flew across the pages at record speed and yet, she can still recall every line with insane precision, every plot twist connects. It seems that all her cognitive processing is moving at an incredi