Norse Pagan Bible Novels & Stories

Her cold breath brushed against my cheeks while she whispered, “This will hurt!” Her mouth opened wide, showing rows and rows of knife-sharp canines. Several jaws, piranha, snake, and monster were all I managed to think of before she jolted forward, and they all pierced my skin. Like a chainsaw ripping my skin, knives piercing my flesh, the last thing I felt was her ice-cold tongue brush over my throbbing skin as her jaws bit down even further. -- The Norns were the Norse goddesses of fate, represented by three sisters named Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld. They lived underneath the world tree and wove the tapestry of fate.

Rebecca shakes her head timidly and swallows hard. "No? Then let me enlighten you," he practically purrs, rubbing his hands with an eagerness to put her in her place. "Loa means black magic. Sindre, and I have spread the black dust over Asgard to get these savage Vikings to work for us." His tongue traced over his chipped and yellow teeth. Sindre claps his hands mockingly at the imagery of the defeated Vikings.

His senses on high alert as he hesitantly leaned over the doorframe to see a tall figure with black hair dancing around in the Kitchen with weird steps. His eyebrows furrowed as he took in the dressing of this supposed churail, she was dressed in a pair of plazo pants and a sweatshirt. She turned around and started screaming upon seeing him. At once he knew this was no churail, only person had a voice this horrible in tht family and that was Zoya. He doubted if her horrible voice had scared the actual jinns away or not. He rolled his eyes but when her screams turned into full blown curses, he took hurried steps to shut her mouth with his hand before she could wake everyone up.

“They’re insane.” “I told you, guys. My father is not there anymore. The demon is using his body. My father is long gone.” “Shut up, bitch! This is your father’s fault. He shouldn’t have played with black magic in the first place.” Theia didn’t work so hard to hide her anger and disgust at Nora. Zarah shut the book close, cut her palm again, and pressed the blood against it. Then she began chanting, “Una iuro vita; Nihil te accipio nisi levem. Tenebrae non praevalebunt.”

“Benji, tell us what you have figured out so far!” “I thought you would never ask. Here is the facts first. Nancy and I discovered… Drum roll please!... Ciara is a descendent from Nordic Ancient Gods!!” Benji squealed with delight which sounded like nails on a chalkboard to my ears. “Her pack is around this area of the North and guess what! They are still ALIVE and Kicking!” she pointed towards the map on the TV screen. “But wait there is more! According to the journal, her mother is a distant descendant of one of Odin’s wolves, Geri or Freki, not sure which, but that doesn’t really matter right now. What matters is this connection to Odin’s wolves. According to legend, Geri and Freki would

someone was using her as the sacrificial bond. And Aegon was unknowingly delivering the blows. Vimon’s hands shook as she reached for the moonwater vial. “We’re not just racing against time,” she whispered. “We’re racing against a ritual already in motion.” A creak at the door startled her. Nico entered, eyes sharp, face pale. “I think I found the connection.” He placed an old book on the table, dust trailing from its spine. The title was etched in a language long forgotten by most of the pack. Lunaris Venandi. Moon Hunters.

It simply disintegrated, then reappeared back in the car. “Sick bastard,” I spat. He'd been stalking me. I tore a slim black book from the rat pile. Book of Psychopomps was etched on it in gold ink. Numbers, emails, and old-fashioned addresses accompanied names, written in no apparent order. I rifled through the pages: “Old farts: ODIN, MORRIGAN, YAMA, HERMES....” and “New pests: ANAESTHESIA, AIDS, SANTA MUERTE...” A red ribbon marked a page at the back. “Accessories: SHANNON PARKER.”

I’m surprised she doesn’t ask for brand, style, and inventory number of the tabs. “Our pack is so obsessed with the story of our origins, we ignore the story of our ending.” She opens one of the books and it lays flat, pages perilously close to falling out. There’s a woodcut illustration of Fenrir devouring Odin. “Ragnarök.” Tara braces her hands on the table on either side of the book. “It’s not an end, so much as a renewal. But for the gods, it’s very much an end.” “I don’t like the sound of that,” I say, dread piercing my heart. “You know, since they’re using Nathan and I as avatars for gods in their little plan.”

And the book… the book calls to her, whispers to her, its voice a seductive murmur in the back of her mind. With a deep breath, Demika opens the book. The pages are yellowed with age, the ink faded but still legible. The writing is in an ancient script, one that she has only seen in the oldest of the Wiccan texts. But as she scans the pages, the words seem to rearrange themselves before her eyes, transforming into a language she can understand.