Reading Journal Books Novels & Stories

Almost unconsciously, he reached out, his fingers brushing along the spines of the neatly arranged books. He wasn’t looking for anything specific. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. His hand paused at a small gap between the books, something slightly off in an otherwise perfect shelf. He frowned, shifting the surrounding books enough to uncover what had been tucked behind them. Another journal. It was simple and unpretentious, the cover worn at the edges as if it had been read often. There was nothing remarkable about it at first glance, nothing explaining why it had been hidden away.

Every face around me carried the same mixture of curiosity and concern. The memories came slowly at first, like pieces of a dream trying to reform after years of being forgotten. A small cabin. A warm fire. My mother sitting beside me. Her fingers tracing patterns across an old leather-bound book. Symbols. Drawings. Stories. Things I had dismissed as children's tales. Things I suddenly wasn't so sure were stories at all. "My mother had a journal," I said quietly. Rachel blinked. "A journal?" I nodded. "When I was little, she used to read from it sometimes. Not often. Only when my father wasn't around."

My hands were firmly clasped at my back, because Goddess knew I didn't want to do anything to damage these books. Many were precious tomes, originals of books I had heard of, history books and several more were journals of past Alphas I had never ever known existed. My mood continued to brighten as I pictured what it must be like to read each and every one of these books. I wasn't a bookworm, truly I wasn't, but the one thing I had learnt was that study was important to prove excellence. And that alone made me look at these tomes and books and journals as resources. If I was going to get a leg up in the world, these sorts of items were invaluable.

Aiden, rummaging through a chest in the corner, muttered, “This feels like a waste of time. If there was something here, we’d have found it already.” I ignored him, running my fingers along the spines of the books. Most were dull titles on pack history and strategy, but one stood out, a journal with a faded leather cover. I pulled it free, flipping through the pages, but they were blank. Frustration was beginning to set in when something caught my eye. A faint glimmer from inside one of the desk drawers. “Wait,” I said, crouching down. “What is it?” Axel asked, abandoning his search to join me.

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.

I only have a basic photo up, trying to look as professional as possible, with a clear note that I'm an intern. After a beat, Reagan stands and crosses to her bookshelf. "I have a book I want you to read, and this is my journal." She pulls out two books. "I've kept notes on this profession from my own experience; it's about eight years' worth." She comes back over and hands them to me. "I'd like them back when you're done," she adds. "Thank you," I breathe, stunned by the kindness, but these books aren't why I'm here. "Reagan, I actually wanted to ask you something."

Jace DAYS BEFORE The bed creaked in protest as I reached for the leather-bound journal which had turned into a close companion for the last couple of weeks. Forbidden knowledge had been inked into every page with intentionality I could only thank the author for. I opened to the page I had dog-eared for days, sinking into the information there.

As I perused the shelves, my eyes landed on a weathered journal, its pages filled with untold stories. I carefully opened the journal, my fingers trembling with anticipation. The pages crackled under my touch, revealing a glimpse into Alexander's life—a life he had chosen to keep hidden, even from me. The words on those pages painted a picture of a complex and enigmatic man, a past fraught with secrets and shadows.

And second which was closed. I don't know if it was my conscious decision but even after all the sirens that went off in my brain, I deafeaned myself to those rings as I walked in the direction of those books. My hand hesitantly reached out to touch the open book, feeling the rough texture of the leather cover under my fingertips. As I flipped through the pages, my heart started racing, my mind trying to process the words written on the pages. It was a journal. A journal filled with beautiful cursive handwriting. I filled to the last page of the journal as my hand traced over the writing longingly.

Taking my place on the sofa, I place my coffee down and open the book. Flipping through pages this isn’t any normal book. It looks like it is Rodrick’s journal. Dates go back over thirty years. I knew this wouldn’t contain anything of interest. When I see a date and blink before I look at it closely. Nightshade is mentioned. So that piques my curiosity.