Historical Fiction Mystery Book Novels & Stories

When she curled up in the big armchair to read Mischief loved to sit in her lap, settling herself so she almost appeared to reading, too. The book was one of the many treasures she'd unearthed as she worked her way through everything in the attic. First she'd found the wolf, inexplicably dust-free despite the fact that everything else was wrapped in a thick layer of the stuff. Then several books on the history of Romania. She hadn't known her grandparents were students of history, especially of a country that had no relationship to their family. Or did it? Did she have ancestors from there several generations back that she just didn't know about?

NOTE BEFORE YOU READ….. Note before you read… The next few chapters are written in the Carolingian Renaissance and the Vikings era but don't stick to the fact. You will find a few things that have been added to fit into the story. So if you find anything strange or unusual, then remember the next few chapters are based on historical fantasy fiction books. Do add or check the other book of the author. Revenge on the Mafia lord. .. .. .. YEAR 956 AD. It was a loud night, one where the sounds of crickets chirping could not be heard and the clouds smothered the moon and stars.

I watch intently with my brows raised as he removes a sizable oil painting from its place on the wall, unveiling a hidden safe that had been seamlessly integrated into the structure. I pivot on my heel and survey the colossal collection of books that had escaped my memory until now. The tips of my fingers delicately graze the uppermost edges of the book spines as my eyes glide over the titles. My fingers hover over one book in particular. It's a book that is very improper in Alessandros’ collection. This book is a historical romance novel written by Sylvia Day. One of Roses’ all-time favourite authors. Curiosity gets the better of me and I start to slide the book out, “come here, tesoro.” I

This was going to give him some time, and he had been itching to get his hands on more of the information in those books. Walking back over to the bookshelf, Bradford noticed there were thicker books, unlike the journal of his mother that he had been reading. These books read more like history books. These books spoke at length about what was done in order to defeat The opposing clan of casters that tried to take down the Bellevonnes Clan. Flipping through the pages, he could feel their age. He had to be very careful not to tear or smudge what was left of the writing inside of it. The edges of the book seem to be stained with time, and the great smell of glue and leather and paper lifted to

Ona is searching her shelves for a book of stories, her hands moving rapidly as she scans the spines, and checks to see if any books are hidden inside of other books. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you!” Ona gasps, exasperated. “Okay, where is it now…where did that blasted book go?” Eventually, her fingers find a small, pink book. “Ah, here it is.” “The Story of Carnelia the Great,” I shrug, “What of it? I can assure you I’ve read it a dozen times and I haven’t seen anything remotely connected to our situation.” “This,” she holds the little pink book aloft, “Is the key to everything. It’s not just a fairy tale, it's a history book.”

But nothing seemed to match the symbol on my door. Frustrated, I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. There had to be something here, some clue that I was missing. I glanced at the stack of books beside me, my eyes landing on one that looked older and more worn than the others. Its leather cover was cracked and faded, the title barely legible: *The Mysteries of Silverwood.* I pulled the book closer and opened it carefully. The pages were brittle, the text handwritten in an elegant script. As I flipped through the pages, a passage caught my eye:

The air was heavy with the scent of parchment and dust, the large shelves stretching high up to the ceilings, stacked with books too old to even remember their authors. I ran my fingers along the spines of the books, scanning the titles. Ancient Clan Wars. The First Kingdoms. Blood and Silver: The History of Alpha Dynasties. None of these were what I needed. I sighed, moving deeper into the archives. There had to be something here. I spent hours flipping through books, scanning old texts, piecing together fragments of history that barely made sense. Just when I was about to give up, my fingers brushed against a large, worn-out book hidden behind several others.

I sighed as I continued to wander the shelves, looking for some kind of clue. “What are you looking for over here?” I jumped at the sound of Griffin’s voice coming from right behind me. I turned around to find him standing closer to me than I realized. I was surprised because I hadn’t even heard him walk over. “Oh,” I said, taking a slight step back and bumping into the bookshelf behind me. “I was just taking a look around, trying to see if I could find anything that we haven’t already explored.” “Way over here?” he asked, reaching up and grabbing a book off the shelf to the left of my head. “The Complete History of the Witch Trials,” he read aloud. “You think you might find something in the

I went to the living room and, as expected, found the pair of underwear I was looking for in his bag. Downstairs, I called my best friend. "Help me look up someone. I have shopping records." I started the car, planning to visit the real estate office to check on property transactions. Suddenly, I felt something sharp poking at me from underneath the seat. I reached down and pulled out a black lace bra. Clearly, it matched the underwear. This car was usually Milton's—since I worked near home, I usually took the subway. This meant their entanglement that night had probably started in this very car.

My bedroom was messed up and I couldn't think straight when everything was trashy around me. Colliding on a comfortable couch, l opened up the book and began reading it. The pages were coming to my hand as the glue wasn't that strong but either way, Bane did a good job fixing it. The writing inside the book were mainly stories, non-fiction, about the horrible events that happened in the eighteenth century. "Is written by someone from the Redwood bloodline," I mumbled as Isreal’s shadow appeared at the corner of my eyes. "Do you know him? Simon don?"