Unholy Blood Book Novels & Stories

“If this gets me killed, I’m haunting you.” “Wouldn’t be the first ghost I’ve met.” “Then I’ll make sure I’m the loudest.” She pressed her hand to the runes. For a heartbeat, nothing happened — then her mark burned to life. The seal flared white, the ancient stone groaning as it split open. The air rushed inward, carrying a scent that made her skin crawl. Blood. Old, dried, and layered with incense and ash. Zevran’s jaw tensed. “They’ve been using this place again.”

--- Ayana stood in Nelson's living room in the afternoon quiet after Cat left around 2 and looked around at the space that was now, temporarily or permanently, her home. Bare walls. Careful shelves. The couch had barely been used. The kitchen with its two mugs on the table — she'd left them there deliberately, some superstition about the morning, about not erasing the evidence that something had shifted. She went to the bookshelves. Ran her fingers along the spines. Social work texts. Philosophy. History. A worn copy of *Meditations* by Marcus Aurelius with the corners bent back. A Bible — different from her father's, less used, the kind kept for reference rather than comfort.

Gerard’s fingers drove deeper, knuckles stretching my rim, pushing past resistance as he began to fuck me with his hand, relentless, punishing. My back arched, a choked cry tearing from my throat as pleasure and pain collided. “Lydia was getting ripped by your uncle.” He added a second finger, then a third, stretching me wide, his palm grinding against my clit with each brutal inward thrust. “Right there in the bathroom. While your father’s body was still warm.” The confession hit me like a sledgecock to the chest. My mother… this woman, had been fucking my uncle in the very church where my father lay dead, while she was supposed to be mourning.

Unfortunately, I woke up the next morning with that same agonizing, suffocating desolate feeling. I just wanted death to come and fucking take me. As I came around, my skull pounding from the drugs and alcohol, I discovered that I was in bed with an unfamiliar girl beside me. But as I looked at this girl’s face, I realized she didn’t look so unfamiliar. Actually, she looked a hell of a lot like Evie. They could have been sisters, given the right lighting. Then, the girl woke up while I was staring at her. She smiled as she put her hand on my cock, and I felt a strange sense of relief.

Her mother’s handwriting filled the pages. Most entries were normal, lists of chores, thoughts about Olivia’s childhood, feelings about Ethan’s family. But halfway through the book, the words changed. The writing grew frantic, desperate. The sisters call me again. I gave the oath, but I fear it will not end with me. They demand blood. Always blood. Olivia’s skin prickled. Her mother had been part of a secret society. One bound not by loyalty… but by blood. She read on, and her stomach dropped.

I woke with a gasp. The room was dark. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers. The window was black with the night. And the Book of Blood, which had been locked in the council hall, was open on my bedside table. I sat up slowly, my heart pounding. My hands were glowing faintly silver, just like Mirren's had when she first discovered her spirit-wolf. The light pulsed once, twice, then faded. The Book was open to the first page. The names of the bloodlines glowed faintly in the darkness, and I could feel them. All of them. The families who had been waiting. The survivors. The lost.

“Nathaniel. He’s the one who read it in this really big, old book.” “The Supernatural Book?” Nana knew of it. Of course she did. “You know it?” I looked up at her and she nodded. “I know of it. But never have I seen it. Written by the first Hybrids from whom the entire supernatural bloodline came from” She whispered. “So, it’s true then?” I asked her. “All of it…it’s true?”

The man Matteo secretly admired. Everything was tangled. Everyone was a liar. I stared at Violet's face for a long time before flipping the photo over. Scribbled on the back in my handwriting: Kill her slowly. ------------------------------------------------------- The next morning, I requested to go to the library wing alone. I knew Father wouldn't say no. He thought books kept me calm. That I spent my time reading old family journals and poetry. Let him believe it. I moved through the dusty shelves until I found the second volume of The Rise of the Mercantis, a political biography that no one ever touched. I opened it, flipped past the front pages, and found what I was looking for.

Books about magic, energy manipulation, and bloodline secrets. I pulled out a thick, black book with silver decorations. The title read: 'THE VOLKOV LEGACY & THE STAR BLOOD PROPHECY'. My hands trembled as I opened it. I started reading. And what I found... made my blood run cold. It wasn't just about my parents. It wasn't just about defeating Malakor. The book explained that the Volkov family and my mother's family... we are descendants of ancient celestial beings who fell to earth thousands of years ago.

Yet within that silence, he found something powerful: whispers. Not the whispers of men, but echoes that clung to books too ancient for sunlight. Volumes that shouldn’t exist anymore. Manuscripts bound in dark red leather, inked in languages older than the cathedral itself. At first, Arthur ignored them. Focused on restoring old texts, cataloguing records, organizing theological archives. But one book changed everything—"Sanguis Altarum." The Blood of Altars. He found it hidden behind a false panel, sealed with wax and scripture. The moment he touched it, something inside him snapped awake. Visions plagued his dreams afterward. An altar surrounded by shadows. A woman with Isabella’s eyes scr