Grimoire Ink Novels & Stories

One was the image or vision I saw about Grim eating flesh and bones. The second was why I was seeing this and why I had this severe migraine. Immediately I was done bathing and dressing. I climbed my bed again ready to fall asleep when a knock came in. “Come in” I ordered, maybe it was the maid. My eyes widened when Grim walked inside with a glass on his hand. “Magna said I should give it to you to drink,” he said in a low voice, stretching his hands to me. I glanced at the cup and then at him. Magna literally hated me, told me to send her greeting to her child and now she is offering me a drink? Maybe it was poisoned.

This isn’t just a party — it’s a goddamn masquerade of killers and liars. Mafia kings, cartel lords, their mistresses, and enemies in disguise. Everyone in here has killed people or sent someone to die. Everyone is armed, even when pretending to flirt. Men with tattoos that tell stories of loyalty and blood. Women with eyes like poison. And me? I’m the ghost they’ve heard of but never seen. I felt the heat of every eye on my ass as I glide through the hall. Good. Let them look. I reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray and take a sip. Cold.

It was closed, with no title, but a symbol was tooled into its cover—the same symbol from the bone resonator: the wolf unraveling into a spiral. He approached it with a reverence that felt out of place in the violated chamber. He did not touch it. “It’s a Weaver’s Grimoire. Warded to the bloodline. He could not open it. He could not even move it.” He looked at me, his gaze intense. “It will only respond to you.”

In an attempt to regain control the creature then tried to flip me and once again dig its claws into my skin to get a better grip. ----- [Chapter quote:" Into the wild, I go losing my way, finding my soul"]

Each one a precise bruise of ownership that affirms he craves what I give, and I give only what his demanding defiance can bear. I grind the pigment in a shallow bowl, bone-ash and blood, mixed to a thin, glossy black. It smells faintly of distant bonfires and the ghost of ash. The ancient, vicious scent of vows that are meant to last longer than life. The ink stains everything it touches, exactly as it should. He watches me, his heavy-lidded eyes sharp with animal anticipation. His legs are parted, a raw, silent invitation to chaos. “You’re really doing it,” he murmurs. The tremor in his voice is a sound of absolute vulnerability and I treasure every syllable.

Randall was about to reprimand her for barging in when she interrupted him, uttering the very words that made Randall's world come to a standstill. "The Grimoire of The Ancient is missing, Alpha Randall. We have a big problem." *** Alpha Randall, Kellan, Aldric, Merikh, Klara, and, of course, Visha all stood in total silence, that you could hear their very own heartbeats in the courtroom. The heaviness was so thick, thick enough to steal the breath from their lungs. The Grimoire of The Ancient is an ancient book passed down from generations in the Blood Crescent pack. It contains all the ancient battle strategies, sacred knowledge, and unique, powerful spells known only to the Alphas of the

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • ....wherever you see Dilion, there you will find Griggs; and wherever Damian is, there is also Fred. Declan is a solo walker...a man of seclusion. ....and there are many of us...many too identical... • • RED INK EP 30: Where two roads shall meet • •

Arcane symbols stitched into the spine. “Try this,” he said, sliding it across the table. “It’s an old dream-tracing grimoire. From the southern libraries. It maps dream entities through their energy signatures. Might tell you what’s visiting you. Or who.” I didn’t reach for it. “I’m not making a deal with you,” I said. “No,” he said, voice softer now. “But I believe you might want to figure this out that much.” Silence stretched between us. I stared at the book then at him then back at the flickering candles.

She had never seen the book in her life. "I don't—" But Maeven stopped her with an upraised hand. I see," she said. "Ink in this book is a ritual for temple rituals. It's only something a high-ranking witch would be allowed to use. The same ink that disappeared three nights before." The onlookers started murmuring. Mark and Lark exchanged glances across the yard. Maeven slowly turned the book over, presenting the eyes gathered there to rest upon the heavy ceremonial ink and jagged markings within.

The sound of the wine filling the glass is oddly soothing. I take a fork from the drawer and hold the glass in my other hand as I walk back to my desk. The comforting warmth of the pasta bag in my other hand, I place everything down on the surface with a soft thunk. My eyes automatically scan over the grimoires that are opened in front of me. They’ve become a constant companion, pages filled with ancient, cryptic text and symbols. The answers I need feel like they’re buried somewhere within these worn pages, but they’re so elusive.