Grimoire Ink Novels & Stories

"You saw what I did to those Inquisitors. I can help." Silas looked at me, a flash of pride crossing his features before he suppressed it. "You want to help? Then master it. That light... it’s wild. It’s unrefined. If you use it in the middle of a crowded battlefield, you'll kill my wolves just as easily as you'll kill the Inquisition." He walked over to a hidden alcove in the wall and pulled out an old, leather-bound grimoire. It looked like it had been salvaged from a fire. He dropped it on the bed.

On rare occasions, I join a video meeting with investors or distributors that want to see the face of the man behind Ebon Moon winery. My brow furrowed as I broke the seal, and purple and gold glitter in the shape of masks fell onto the white linen tablecloth. I shouldn’t be surprised that glitter would be involved. This is André D’Amore I’m dealing with. But why masks? Why purple and gold? These aren’t Madonie colors. And if anything from André, I’d have expected rainbow flecks of glitter. My expression didn’t change as I took the card out and read the contents.

He told to help myself to whatever book I may want to read and he took his seat behind his desk, writing away on a parchment with a quill pen. I schemed through ledgers of the books, reading titles that were written in languages I did not understand. All the books were red, except for a particular purple one. Curious, I picked it and read the words written on the hard cover; ‘Lobo’ was the single word that was inscribed into the thick cover.

I followed after Grim as he headed towards Arram who eyed him strangely. "Shouldn't you be doing your queen," he asked, then gasped embarrassingly at seeing me. "I need some gloves so I can handle the ancient grimoire," Grim asked. Arram snapped his fingers and a pair of cotton gloves fell into his lap. He handed them to Grim. Grim gestured for me to follow him. He put on the gloves and grabbed the book and led me to a private sitting room. Grim turned on a side lamp, sat on a couch and patted the space next to him. I sat next to him and watched as he carefully turned the yellowish pages. Grim was reading the information and I grinned slightly seeing the tip of his pink tongue sticking out o

“They’re written in Old Tongue the language of the first witches. And they’re protected. You can’t just read them. You have to… negotiate.” “Negotiate with a book?” “With the magic inside it.” Dorian moved to one of the shelves, pulling down a tome that looked like it was bound in something that definitely wasn’t leather. Definitely wasn’t anything Selene wanted to think too hard about. “Grimoires are alive, in a sense. They contain the essence of the witch who created them. If you want their knowledge, you have to prove yourself worthy.” “And how do I do that?”

"Disgusting. Now show me where you put the Grimoire." Grimoire. Mike had heard the word before. Walking closer to the edge of the cliff, it came to him. "It's more of a journal really. There's a cave out that way, to keep it from getting wet. This guy," he pointed at the Mandragora, "is simply all over the place. I've never seen any animals here, and the plants don't give a shit, so I figured it would be safe." "A cave huh?" Mike could feel a shift in the air, and that familiar ball of ice formed in his gut.

I gulp and ask her while maintaining her heavy gaze, "What's a Grimoire? Is it some sort of relic?" That only intensifies the heavy air around her that sprouts goosebumps across my skin. I glimpse at my mate to see him leaning in with rapt anticipation. When she starts to speak again, I lazily drag my gaze in a horizontal line and settle then on Aunt Sue staring at me. "It's a book of magic spells, rituals, and instructions used by practitioners of magical traditions. Its texts are sacred and secretive, containing knowledge and information on various magical practices, symbols, and techniques."

He had been staring directly into my eyes since I sat down and I wondered how intimidating he must have thought it was. ‘’ How badly do you want Christopher Rhinehart dead?’’ He finally asked and I had to school my face to remain expressionless. He probably wanted to strike the the- enemy – of – my -enemy – is – my – friend deal with me, but vampires in general were my enemies, I didn’t have specific dislikes and I was beginning to prefer the Rhineharts to vampires who hid out in dusty buildings and sat on Cain chairs -- but then, everyone preferred the rich.

Oda said. Saffron sat alone near the fire, her grandmother's journal upon her lap. She hadn't the courage to open it, afraid of what she would find inside. Her fingers traced the tooled leather on the cover. She brought it to her nose and inhaled deeply. She thought she could still smell the faint lilac fragrance of her grandmother. She wiped away the few tears that escaped her eyes and unwound the strap that bound the book together. The spine protested with age as she opened the book. The pages were yellowed and warped from age. "The Grimoire of Imogene Greenreaver. Only those in my line shall read the words upon these pages. So mote it be."

The circle was drawn in Himalayan salt and crushed pomegranate seeds, the air thick with the scent of burnt honey and Ava's desperation. She wasn't praying; she was bargaining. Her knife, usually an extension of her will, felt heavy and dull in her hand. The critics' words echoed, derivative, lacking fire, safe, carved deeper wounds than any blade. Michelin stars felt like distant, dying embers. Inspiration had deserted her like a fickle lover. So, she turned to the unconventional section of her grandmother's grimoire, the one bound in suspiciously soft, warm leather. Incubus Minor: For Creative Ignition. Price: Nights of Service.