Fenton's Open Book Novels & Stories

He didn’t smile often, but when he did, it was always right before he cut something in half. “Took you long enough,” he said, falling into step beside us. “You knew we’d come?” I asked. “I was betting on it,” Fenton replied. “Besides, I don’t like secrets. And someone’s been burying too many of them around here.” “We’re headed to the archives,” Lucian said. Fenton gave a short nod. “Then I’m coming.”

“Yes sir!” the men replied. Once more, Zephyr laid his eyes on the books, his gaze rested on one of them. The book was covered in a layer of dust and was made of bamboo. It looked unique. “Thunderfoot?” Zephyr muttered as he opened the book, reading its contents. A wave of excitement washed over him. He excitedly flipped through the pages, carefully memorizing the technique’s intricate steps.

She kneeled beside a locked iron chest, whispered a spell under her breath, and opened it. The air dropped ten degrees. Inside lay a thick, ancient book wrapped in dark leather that looked almost… alive. The Book of the Damned. Its surface pulsed faintly. Rhea swallowed. “That thing creeps me out.” “It should,” Violet said simply. She carried it with both hands and placed it on the oak table. As she flipped open the pages, black ink shimmered like oil. Kael stepped closer. Fenrak crossed his arms, expression changing from playful to serious.

I’m not as dumb as he thinks I might be. This play couldn’t have ended with a better result than the one I have here. The right words and the right actions come with a greater prize than I hoped. “Anyway,” Fenton starts speaking before I come up with a decent question. “I’m not a messenger, not even close to that. Let’s say I have seen my fair share of bullshit and the things that happen around those holy beings.” As he lays the information out, Fenton stops in his tracks. I’m pretty sure realisation hit him just now. He said too much.

Mr. Fren leans forward with both hands pressed firmly on his desk in front of him, shoulders squared as he waits for students to take their seat. His desk is neatly arranged, with a small nameplate reading “Mr. Fren– History” on it and a stack of books besides the nameplate, including titles such as The Roman Empire: A Very Short Introduction, The Silk Roads, Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jared Diamond, and The Peloponnesian War by Donald Kagan. A black mug with the phrase “History is written by those who survive” sits nearby, alongside a pen holder filled with pens and pencils.

I stare at him. Sophie makes a sound behind me. "Daddy said he sent a book," Evan says helpfully. Of course he did. Of course Derek told his three year old he sent the book. "Better than the book," I say. Evan grins, wide and uncomplicated, and it is Derek's grin but also not Derek's grin at all... something entirely new, and I stand back up with the clay Arlo in my hands and feel something move through my chest that I was not prepared for.

Fenton threatened. While those two were going back and forth, my mind instantly flashed to a memory from the days I'd spent with Theo. He was either being loud or annoying, cooking, snoring softly with a streak of dried drool near his cheek or just being a total idiot. “Sir, you haven't said anything yet,” Fenton broke my train of thoughts. “What if he's a corporate spy or something?” “That sounds like something I would imagine, not you, Fenton,” Reed laughed.

Ronan wasted no time. Within the hour, he had quietly gathered every lesson book, every set of notes, every scrap of paper Fenn had used with the children over the past several weeks, laying them across Wren's study table for careful review while the tutor himself remained, conveniently, occupied with an evening walk he took alone most nights.

The air was faintly scented with chalk, old books, and spectres of past essays. Morning sunlight streamed through high windows, light on long rectangles between the lines of hunched students over notebooks, laptop keys typing, pencils scratching. Fiona stood near the front of the room, dark curls contained, blouse taut at the waist, heels muffled on the wooden floor. She clutched a dog-eared copy of The Yellow Wallpaper against her palm, pages covered in scribbles in numerous colors over the years of academic battles. Her voice sliced through morning quiet, firm, crisp, yet intimate—like she was sharing a secret she wouldn't share.

I said. I turned my back at them and started walking. I hoped my plan would work and they would call me back. Surprise surprise, it worked. "Fine. You can open it. But just this once okay? You keep taking the fun out of everything." Freddy said and rolled his eyes. I rushed back and grabbed the book from Freddy's hands and opened it. "What? But there's nothing in it." I said. Freddy who was seating beside new and had seen inside the book gave me a weird look.