Stigmata Book Novels & Stories

He complimented, wiping tears away from his eyes with the back of his hand. Normally dressed like a well-to-do businessman in a tailored suit of the finest quality, today he’s wearing the vestments of a priest. I see straight past this outward facade to the creature buried deep within. When dealing with arcane creatures, I can usually pierce their disguises, recognising something akin to an aura about them—their true selves, if you will. A black pit surrounded Stolas with malicious crimson eyes staring out of its depths that remind me of an owl. Finally, he finishes his chapter and dog-ears his place on the corner of the page, before setting the book down in front of him. For that act alone,

He knocked. “Come in,” Stefan’s voice called from inside. Siron opened the door. Stefan’s room was simple, cluttered with books and scrolls. Stefan stood by the desk, holding an old leather book. “Here it is,” Stefan said, opening a page. “Look, here is the diagram of The Mimic.” Siron stepped closer. But when he looked at the page, it was blank. There was no writing. “I don’t see anything,” Siron said, on high alert.

Hopping the answer would be yes, I flipped to the introduction, the much-needed hope fluttering in my chest as I read. “From their temple origins to their violent renaissance in the Bloody War that birthed Henosis, Crowns of Shame have a complex past mixed with hope and cruelty alike. Despite its variety of intents and shapes, one thing remains the same throughout its history: the scar-tissue that defines it.” I flipped through the book, deterred by the word “scar-tissue”. I stopped at a page with a grotesque image of a man on his knees as someone carved a line across his forehead.

I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, as if my skin wasn’t still burning where Icarus touched me. “And it wasn’t a good visit,” he replied, finally tearing his gaze from Icarus and landing it on me. “He writes as if he was forced to be there. As if that place held something… dark. Something that shook him.” Icarus opened the book, flipping quickly until he found the page marked with a precise fold. His eyes scanned the lines in silence. “The Severed Stag,” I translated in a low voice, a shiver running down my spine. “Comforting name.”

At length, he came across another old book, covered also by a thick film of grime. The words "The Mystic Diabolic Enchantment" were on the face of its cover. Xiao Chen's brows furrowed with curiosity. As he was once a student of a Cultivators' sect, his interest was piqued at the "Diabolic" word he saw on the cover of the book. He flipped opened the book. But when he opened the book, the rest of the pages swiftly turned as if being blown by a strong wind. The words from the book floated off its pages and melded together into a black mass of smoke which suddenly shot into his forehead.

“Surely you don’t believe in those tales of sorcerers snatching away pups from their dens to sacrifice them to on the nights of the New Moon?” I felt my neck and ears burn, as my small, tiny world of Bragne flipped over on its head. “Isn’t… Don’t you all know of the Stigma?” I felt stupid as a child trying to explain to adults how the world worked. “Oh? The Stigma? You mean this purple thing that’s all over my body?” Felix pulled down the hood of his cloak and exposed the deep violet veins all over his neck. He rolled up his sleeves and tore off the white bandages that covered his arms. Once again, I saw the veins crawl up and down his brown skin like violet centipedes. I looked away in naus

The violent disarray wasn’t the methodical search of a victor; it was the tantrum of a thief who had come up empty-handed. Kaelen’s torchlight fell upon the only thing left untouched in the center of the room: a large, flat stone altar. On it rested a single, pristine object. A book, bound in what looked like pale, silvery leather. It was closed, with no title, but a symbol was tooled into its cover—the same symbol from the bone resonator: the wolf unraveling into a spiral.

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.”

A book with a leather binding. No diamonds. No large sums of money. No secret weapons or blueprints. Just a book. I felt stupid for a moment. Then I reached in and took it out. The weight of it was substantial and firm. The spine was strengthened with old thread and the leather has become smooth with use and age. I had never seen a single crest stamped on a cover before. A crown, dagger and an ember. All three combined to form a single horrifying symbol. I took my place at the desk and got it open. and started reading.

“Is the book of Eilistrae.” She set the heavy, leather-bound tome on a small table. It was massive- the size of a small television- bound in dark brown leather that looked almost black with age. Strange symbols were burned into the cover: a swirling spiral, a dagger, and a star with thirteen points. In the center was a handprint, pressed deep into the leather, almost like a seal. “Only those with witch blood can open it,” Bonnie explained, and she nodded at Ava. “Go on, baby.”