Marble Hornets Book Novels & Stories

The key was Mars’s most sacred possession; it was the one bastion the invaders—his stepmother and her brood—had never managed to claim. He ran a finger over the spine of the book he’d plucked from a familiar nook, expecting the worn comfort of a re-read. Instead, his fingertips met unblemished leather. He didn't recognize it. There was no author, no publisher's mark, only a title embossed in ostentatious, looping cursive: A LIGHT THAT CHANGES FATE.

He’s too busy looking over his shoulder, scoping out the area around us. “You’ve never seen a sprite before, I take it,” Chuck says. I shake my head in amazement. Would Nenee let me touch her? Maybe I shouldn’t. Her wings look fragile. A loud boom shakes the walls around us, and I glance back at the bar. It's on fire, flames pouring out of the windows, smoke rising into the night. "Don't worry about it," Chuck says. "That place is owned by a Silver Hunter." He grins. "I'm happy to see it finally gone."

I was sure. I sighed and flipped it open again, running my fingers across the stiff old pages. The writing inside was tiny, neat, and definitely older than anything I had ever seen in Father’s library. Each chapter had illustrations of different beasts, creatures I’d only heard whispers of. Gargoyles, gnomes that were alive, serpent women and even sirens. None of these existed though… or did they? I could feel my head throbbing from an oncoming headache so I just shut the book and stared at the ceiling of my room.

Hell, all I could think right now was the way his skin had felt and the way his mouth had tasted. I was hungry. Starving for Tohr, for my mate. -Mara-. My name echoed through my head almost painfully. And it certainly wasn't Tohr's voice that did it. I jerked my head up from the book that Nerrian had been translating to help me learn their history and their language. -Sorry! - I responded back, burying my thoughts deep.

Mara immediately felt they were true. Not because she understood. Because they felt right. So the sea had moved people. Lyra moved memories. And if memories could become places... Then she didn't need doors. A loud noise made everyone lick together. From the bedroom. Jonas ran. Mara after. The balcony door was open. Wind whipped rain. There was something on the ground. A little notebook. Wet. Old. It was impossible. It wasn't there a minute ago. Mara raised it. Black leather cover.

She pressed her ear to the hidden panel as Marcella’s voice slithered through the crack: “Lock this wing. Replace the books with crystal sculptures. And burn that Shakespeare volume—it reeks of failure.” This was were Amara always crept in after midnight, flashlight beam trembling. The shelves were already half-empty, gaps like missing teeth. Mama’s desk was stripped bare except for the wedged Peter Rabbit. The floor was scattered with torn pages—her translations of Machiavelli, her notes on The Inferno. She gathered the fragments, stuffing them into her cotton dress. Kneeling in the dust, she pressed her scarred wrist to the oak desk, leaving her own mark in the wood grain.

“ Screw you. “ I spat. Using all six horns like a cage to trap me, Beezebub caught me for half a second. The horns locked around my ribs, it pierced into my skin. I grinned, blood dripped from my lips, but my eyes lit like forges. I grabbed two of Beezebulb’s horns, the thickest, the ones that had pierced archangels, and pulled with all my strength, the sound was like mountains splitting. Beezebulb’s scream shook the desert. I ripped one horn clean off, the venom sizzling against my palm and doing nothing. I spun the horn right in my grip and drove it up through Beezebulb’s lower jaw, pinning his mouth shut. Claws flashed. Like Lui kang of mortal kombat did his flying kick mid air, I flew ca

A horn cuts the air from the outer wall. It isn’t the kitchen bell or the council signal. It carries through stone with a depth that moves people before they name it and the room pauses long enough to hear the next note. A second horn answers, closer, sharper and boots strike the corridor beyond the door. Marek’s already giving orders. “Salt down, buckets up and runners to the west yard. Bread for the watch. Hara, keep the pot high, Kai, with me.” He looks at me and doesn’t need to add a word. I’m already lifting the nearest basket. The air tastes different, faint smoke under the heat of the ovens. Joren grabs the other handle without waiting.

Step by step, I moved deeper in. The tunnel narrowed, then suddenly opened up into a massive chamber. I paused at the threshold, blinking at the unexpected sight. The space was wide, almost circular, with a strange, humming silence that pressed against my ears. In the center stood something that didn’t fit. A book pedestal. Stone. Ancient-looking. I moved toward it, drawn to the object resting atop it like it belonged to someone very, very dangerous. The book was bound in black leather, worn and cracked. A single horn—no, two—were carved on the front, protruding slightly like twisted bone. It didn’t have a title. No markings except those horns.

"What is it, Len?" Len showed them a book titled Wondrous Folklores of La Shania Mirepa. On the page he opened, there was a picture of a horned humanoid entity, with spikes protruding behind it. The entity was covered in blue and surrounded by runes, not unlike the ones Lars seen in his encounter with Alt'ma. He muttered the entity's title in a whispery voice. "... The First King of Blood Moon, Guardian of Antares."