Web Of Wyrd Tattoo Novels & Stories

The skin around the new tattoo was red like he had actually sat in a tattoo chair for hours getting it done. “What is it?” He was starting to sound more excited than in pain. “Holy crap. It’s a black dragon with huge wings on your spine in between your shoulder blades.” Ajax answered him looking a bit jealous. “And the four elements around it. Water, Earth, Fire, and Wind.” Wilder sounded amazed as he got a closer look. “It seems my granddaughter isn’t just a regular Fae. She has all the elements.” “Awesome. Now can someone tell me what mine is?” I was exhausted and it was barely afternoon.

He said. "Then how'd you...get that?" I pointed with my index finger towards his neck. "I heard you get that type of tattoo or something similar when you come of age as a wizard. It's the symbol that shows the moon goddess has shown her blessings on a wizard, and he is ready to conquer the world with his magic. Also, they say a half moon tattoo could only be found on some unique wizard who has something related to the Alpha blood." He said that as if it wasn't a big deal but for me it was. I was stunned to think that he was taking his powers so lightly.

The others backed up, mumbling under their breaths. Before he could so much as check if she was hurt, pain seared the inside of his left wrist. He cursed and watched in horror as black lines formed on his skin, burning as they merged into a...trinity knot. A symbol he recognized only because of his Irish heritage and the countless Galloway Wiccan documents he'd examined through the years. Slightly larger than a quarter, it branded him like a tattoo. Kaida cried out, grabbing her arm as the same pattern emerged in the same spot on her inner wrist. Breaths soughing, she sat up and glanced from the mark, to him, and back again. "Oh God. Did I...do that?"

This continued till my mother felt we had had enough and started bringing the ritual to an end. I felt the exact moment when the ritual tattoo started forming on my wrist. I watched with my eyes and my heart broke with what I saw. The two wolves that were supposed to be entwined with each other to the extent that you couldn’t tell where one started and the other ended, stood next to each other with their backs facing the other. My family crest laid on top of one wolf and the packs emblem laid on the wolf that I think belongs to my mate and there was blazing fire in the middle of the two wolves and a streak of thunder on top.

The three marks on Wren’s inner forearm itched with a low, persistent thrum, a living tattoo of longing etched into her skin by a ritual gone beautifully, catastrophically wrong. They weren't scars, but claims waiting to be made. One for tender worship, one for rude praise, one for slow dominance. Tonight, the first of them, a silvery crescent like a wolf’s gentle bite, burned with a need that was becoming a torment.

I touched her, her wrist cool under my fingers, the rune tattoo there. “You’re not her.” “She’s not dead.” I didn’t argue. On that night, we did the sacrifice. It wasn’t some ordinary locator spell. I cobbled together this hybrid glyph web — part clairvoyance, part astral anchoring, totally fucking unstable. We needed to track Vira’s residual magic. To follow the line from where she was to the Warden. But the tether would have to pass through Jasmine. She didn’t hesitate. She just rolled up her sleeve and took a seat in the circle.“You ready?” I asked.

"And…I got something off him. During the fight.” She held up her phone. Liora crossed the room and took it. A photograph. Blurred at the edges, bad lighting — taken fast, maybe mid-struggle — but clear enough. The inside of a wrist. A tattoo. Intricate. A wolf's head in profile, geometric, something woven behind it that looked like a crescent or a gate or both at once. Lettering beneath that she couldn't quite read. Something about it pulled at her. Like a word she almost knew.

Curse‑workers had slashed through it with their own runes, drawing a jagged circle around it, symbols intersecting like a snare. She gestured. “Here,” she said. “This is the heart of the web. This is where you will stand when we begin.” “Alone?” Kael demanded. “No,” the seer said. “Never alone. The web is a circle. We break it with another circle.” Her gaze tracked over my brothers, over the twins, the healers, the scouts. “You all will stand with her,” she said. “Hands joined. Magic linked. Pack, blood, bond. That is how we pull the threads inward instead of letting them tear outward.”

For werewolves, the full moon is a sacred occasion. A werewolf pack congregates for their own rites in the same manner that humans might dress nicely and convene at a place of worship. The location where we meet for the Trialblazer pack is roughly an hour and a half northwest of Toronto. Two hundred acres of pristine territory where we can securely wander as the monsters we become every full moon were once home to a pack long before Canada was known as New France, at the time when our ancestors fled northern Europe in longboats.

The pale brown almost birthmark looking tattoos along his arms, shoulders, back and chest blaze with divine light and a long bow appears in his massive hand, a full quiver on his back. “Careful of the weres and the humans!” I warn, as he nocks a wicked looking arrow and let’s fly into the back of a knife-wielding vampire with one of the Candlewood wolves pinned against a tree. Twitching as if a current of electricity was running through him, the vamp staggers back, but before the loosed were can tear into him, the arrow bursts into a white-hot flare, burning the bloodsucker from the inside out. My father glances at me, arching a brow.