Journal For Books Read Novels & Stories

she said brightly, thrusting the books into my arms without so much as a warning. I staggered slightly under the weight, blinking at her. “What are these?” Jessica beamed, looking far too pleased with herself. “Books on pregnancy, of course! I want you to finish reading them all. There’s so much to learn about what’s best for the baby!” I stared at the stack, the titles screaming words like ‘prenatal nutrition’, ‘what to expect when you're expecting’, and ‘perfect parenting from day one’. Inwardly, I cried. Never mind. This place wasn’t heaven. It was hell.

It wasn’t anything like the libraries in Gabriel and Raphael’s estates but this room was beautiful in its own dark haunted way. I picked the one that had caught my attention because of Mario, The Art of War, and tucked it beneath my arm as I went through other books. When I picked up one of the heavy books that was on the top shelf which looked like no one had ever read it or even moved it from its place from the dust that was gathered in its cover, I cleaned it with my palm and realized that it wasn’t a book but a journal. There was one more. I picked it up too. I sat down on the floor and opened the journal first.

A blast of cold air rushed up from below, smelling like wet stone, old blood, and something rotten beneath snow. The journal slid across the floor toward the opening. “No!” I lunged for it. Damien caught me tighter. “Leave it.” “No.” “That thing wants you closer.” “The book has been more honest than half the people in this town.” “It is not a person.” “Neither are half the people in this town.” The journal teetered on the edge. Pages fluttering. Glowing. Waiting. Then one page ripped free and flew upward on a burst of silver wind.

As I explained in my book description, this book is a four-volume continual series. Let me know your thoughts as we go. I remain your esteemed author, Jenivalwrites ❤️

As I perused the books, I could feel Aidan’s gaze on me. The shop, much like the one downstairs, boasted an impressive selection. These were books to be enjoyed in the coffee lounge, not purchased or taken home. A smile tugged at my lips as I reached the romance novel section. So, Well Thumbed had these too. I wondered if they had hidden gems, perhaps something I hadn’t read or that Uncle Alex’s book club, Bound To Please, hadn’t discovered yet.

Jaden I read through the first journal, careful not to tear any of the pages. There wasn’t much to find to begin with, as there was nothing about the moonstone pack or Claxton. Night had come, and the fire crackled in the lounge as they sat on the floor, tearing through the pages. The smell of smoke wafted through the air, mingling with the musty scent of old books. We tore through the journal’s contents like wild animals ripping apart their prey, desperate for any scrap of knowledge that could aid us in our mission.

I say, hoping it helps. “We need to figure out which books to order. It’s pointless building it if it’s going to be empty,” Jax laughs. I nod in agreement, though most of her books seem to be pure smut based on the covers and her social media. I wouldn’t know for sure since I haven’t tried reading them.

The book is called JERICHO (For obvious reasons) Follow my In$t@gr@m account of you want to read any of my kindle books or paperbacks : the handle us @authorkyliegopal.

Instead, she shifted gears, asking, "What were you reading?" I snapped my fingers, and my journal reappeared in my hand. It was a treasured possession, filled with entries spanning the past 100 years. I had amassed a collection of these journals, each one a testament to my love of recording every detail of my life. I wrote about experiences, adventures, thoughts, plans, and ideas - nothing was left unrecorded.

The FT section of the rack was the deepest, the issues stacked in reverse chronological order, the most recent on top. Two culinary journals, Elijah's, which arrived monthly and were read promptly and thoroughly. Elijah read them with a pen in hand, making notes in the margins, dog-earing pages that referenced techniques he wanted to try or restaurants he wanted to visit or chefs whose work he wanted to understand better. The culinary journals never stayed in the rack for long — they migrated to Elijah's office or to the kitchen or to the small stack beside his side of the bed — but they passed through the rack on their way to wherever they were going.