Grave Robbers Chronicles Novels & Stories

Josephine's favorite color was black and that was all her wardrobe consisted of. Except no one saw her for her beauty. Instead they saw her for her name. Particularly her last name, Cromwell. Everyone in Jossie's pack knew that the Cromwell bloodline descended from the dangerous rogue pack run by her great grandfather Marcus Cromwell. And, Rogues were known to be terrifying night-stalking killers. They are werebeasts. Practically rabied infested. They were sociopaths.

Blood stains were on his lips and chin and on the bed, and he used his fingers to scoop some more into his mouth, savoring the last tastes of the warm blood. He left and walked over to his Underground Spring Chamber, which was under his Royal Chamber to take his bathe. When the head sentinel, Darian Stormrider had confirmed he was not longer in his chambers, he opened the door to go in and dispose off the body .

He checked the amount and value of the recent harvest from the wasteland that was stated in the ledger. The yearly cross-house tournament was coming, and house Valentino had to offer their share of resources that would be used as part of the reward to give to the Victors. Rufus Valentino rubbed his forehead as he laid his back on the chair made from agar wood . Vampires don't really get tired, but they sure as hell aren't immune to frustration. "I should have a damn secretary for these stuffs" count Rufus muttered with exasperation in his tone.

The heavy, dreamless sleep didn’t last nearly long enough. I was jolted awake by the mechanical, booming chime of the Graves house monitor. Years of sleepover, and I still hated it with passion. “Good morning, Graves! Seven o’ clock. Time to greet the day!” The automated voice chirped through the ceiling speakers.

BLAIRE The cold marble of the kitchen counter bit into the backs of my thighs, but the fire radiating from Raymond’s body made the chill vanish in an instant. He didn't wait for a response. He didn't ask for permission. His hand fisted in the delicate silk of my peach robe and with one violent, downward jerk, the fabric gave way. The sound of the silk ripping was loud in the quiet kitchen, a sharp protest that ended with the robe hanging in useless tatters around my elbows.

"It’s not a handout. It’s a trade. Consider it a loan, like the High Priest’s archives. Besides, I’ve already memorized them. They’re just rotting on my shelf." It was a lie, and I hoped the Moon Mother wasn't listening. I had spent two hours agonizing over which ones to bring before settling on the Chronicles of the Elder Moon—the most sacred history we had. I didn't care if he was a 'scrapper.' I knew he’d understand the weight of the words. Grayson hesitated, his silver eyes darting toward the pack families gathering around the roasting pits. I could read the tension in his shoulders. He felt like an intruder.

Anthony seemed drunk. The minute he walked through the door, the strong stench of alcohol hit me. Before my ghost friends and I could even guess what had happened, Anthony staggered straight into the bedroom, looking like his soul had been sucked out again. He threw his arms around my urn and suddenly started to sob. My friends were dumbfounded; the cards slipped from my hands and scattered all over the floor.

“Only two of the bodies were wolves. The rest… were human.” I blinked. “Humans?” “Yup.” He leaned back in his chair with a frustrated groan. “Somebody went grave-robbing—and they were choosy. We’re still figuring out why.” “Disgusting,” I muttered. “Freaking necro-maniacs.” Antony’s jaw ticked. His eyes flashed briefly—just a gleam of fury behind the calm. For a man who rarely spoke, he was volcano-level intense when his patience cracked.

The furnishings in the room were so simple they bordered on shabby, forming a stark contrast to Rebecca's room, which was filled with luxury items. Everything was tidy, yet it also felt cold and lifeless. As he stood in the room, for the first time, Clyde felt an indescribable sensation rise in his chest. Mr. Banks' men moved swiftly and professionally, combing through every single corner. Soon, someone found a repair log on the desk. Mr. Banks took it, and as he flipped through a few pages, his expression turned grave. Right after, another subordinate discovered a locked iron box deep inside the nightstand. The box was forcibly pried open, revealing a thick stack of medical records and a di

"Gonna die smug about it." The grandkids stood shoulder to shoulder around the open graves, a wall of muscle and poise that made the funeral director nervous. Eli...now broad as an oak, jaw set tight...kept his hand on Lia's shoulder as she wiped her eyes. Noah's daughter, all sharp angles and quiet rage, traced the family crest carved into Jeff's coffin with her thumb. Inside the farmhouse later, whiskey flowed and stories burned hotter. Micah...Marcus's spitting image....leaned against the mantel, watching his cousins strip off black suits and dresses like shedding skin.