Goth Librarian Romane & Geschichten

With some effort, I managed to push it open, revealing an enormous underground chamber. My breath caught in my throat. The chamber was filled with rows upon rows of old books and scrolls—an ancient library dedicated to werewolf lore and magic. The walls were lined with shelves crammed with forgotten knowledge, and in the center of the room stood a large, intricately carved table covered in tomes and manuscripts. I approached the table, my eyes scanning the titles. Many of the books were written in old, nearly forgotten languages, but one tome caught my attention. It was bound in dark leather, the title barely legible: "The Lament of the Moon."

He didn’t want the bond. That shit ended today. He turned back to walk to the middle of the atrium, to the librarian’s desk and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. Miss Donovan was a vampire who had been the librarian here probably since the old building had been built. She knew everything about everything and would know that one of the books on his list had nothing to do with any of his subjects. “I need these books and others on those subjects,” he told her. Miss Donovan didn’t cower. She was probably one of the few people who didn’t reek of fear when he spoke to them. She took the paper from him without a word and started typing something on her computer.

But Lena continued curiously exploring, fully desiring to become a part of Renz's private world, at least for a few moments. Lena had already seen the four libraries of Schloss Wolfenbarger, but Lena thought that Renz's lounge could have been considered a small fifth. There were several tall bookcases, neatly stacked with large volumes and ledgers. Lena briefly scanned the titles, surprised by the names that had been deemed worthy of Renz's private collection. There were several that she knew well with from the hours she stole reading at Sterling Manor, such as Shakespeare and Dante, and illuminated prints of William Blake. There were other names that Lena recognized, but wasn't familiar wit

It was tucked away in a corner, hidden behind a pile of dusty tomes. Curiosity getting the best of me, I pulled the book out and opened it to a page that caught my eye. The text was written in a language that I didn't recognize, but as I continued to read, I realized that it was a prophecy about a great war between the forces of light and darkness. Lost in thought, I jumped when I heard a voice behind me. "That book is not meant for your eyes, Alpha Augustra." I turned to see the head librarian, an old man named Gideon, looking at me sternly. "Why not?" I asked.

I was just walking behind Xavier, alive yet dead. “Lura, this is room twenty-seven. It’s the house library. Should I open it so you can see?” “Yes, open it,” I replied. Indeed, it was a very large library, stacked with old leather-bound books, salons with gold-trimmed furniture, and a massive portrait of Blackwood men and women staring down at me with frozen judgment. Each glance felt like a test on my life, and I hated how heavy their expectations felt on me. We left the library after some minutes and finally arrived in a smaller sitting room filled with gold chairs and expensive luxury.

About what I was becoming. I turned and began walking deeper into the library. The librarian was at the far desk near the eastern shelves, arranging a stack of old returns with the deliberate care of someone who had spent too many years around fragile things to ever move roughly again. She was older, thin, with silver at her temples and sharp eyes that missed less than people probably liked. I had seen her before over the years, though mostly from a distance. Not many girls like me had reason to linger in libraries where knowledge belonged more easily to children expected to inherit something.

Thirty seconds later, the room was silent again, save for the hiss of the gas. "All pages sent," The Glitch said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The Librarian’s accounts are being frozen by his own investors. He’s officially a liability, Alessandro. He’s 'red' on every board in the world." Alessandro walked back to the terminal and grabbed the "Bridge." He didn't look at the fallen men. He looked at the hole in the wall he had made. "Caro, get to the extraction point," Alessandro said. "The Librarian is no longer the auditor. He’s the one being audited."

I walk into the dorm and go upstairs to rest and prepare myself for the crazy night ahead of me. Many hours later when night has fallen, I find myself in the library archives. I arrived about an hour ago to watch the night shift librarian close up for the evening. I’ve always been a night owl with a considerable rebellious streak, so I’ve already spent a few nights staking out the library’s security measures to find the best way to sneak in after hours. The librarian didn’t suspect a thing. It’s eerie down here alone in the archives. It’s a large, dimly lit room with walls, cabinets, and displays of old records. Dusty old books line the walls. A brassy light fixture hangs in the middle of th

I’ve got my library card, I’ve returned the books, there’s absolutely no reason for me to stay a split second longer than necessary in this library, but instead my feet turn towards William’s direction and before I can convince myself to leave, I’m standing by his table, hovering like an uninvited ghost. And he treats me as one. His head is lowered, eyes trained on a diagram of the werewolf life cycle depicted in an Advanced Biology textbook, fingers laced through his dark hair, wired earphones lodged into his ears, pretending to ignore my presence. The library tables are usually placed with four chairs on four sides, and although both the seats on his left and right are empty, the one direc

Some lines tried to cling, curling up around my wrists like they wanted to come with; the pen in my hand warmed, and they recoiled, hissing. The angle of the passage made us half‑slide, half‑stumble down. Behind us, the graveyard roared. Tombs shattered. Ink rushed. The whole broken body of the librarian groaned as if it were being pulled apart further by forces we couldn’t see. As I ducked under a low shelf of fused volumes and stepped over a sagging clump of binding, the Game leaned in. Not through a booming monster. Not through the intercom. Through the ink, I still cling under my skin.