The Grimoire: The Dyvin Chronicles, #1

By Tempest V. Everett

What if the secret to your magic was etched in your blood?

It could also be why you may not live to see your next birthday!

 

Thirteen-year-old Alowishus Morhaven is an outsider at Browning Academy, with no magic, no family, few friends, and no hope for her future.

 

But when fate places an ancient grimoire in Alowishus' hands, the dormant power within her stirs to life with terrifying ferocity. 

 

Her new abilities come with a chilling revelation. A dark secret bound to her bloodline challenges everything she believes to be true, threatening to destroy her and everyone she loves.

 

As Alowishus delves deeper into the grimoire, a world of ancient mysteries and dangers tempt her to embrace her true heritage and join forces with the shadows that lurk in her past. With lives on the line and her enemies closing in, she faces an impossible choice—one that will change her world forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cultural Works, LLC
• Release date: May 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990155800

Tempest V. Everett

Tempest V. Everett, the enigmatic founder and CEO of Cultural Works, LLC, a sanctuary where literary dreams are breathed to life. Her adept guidance aids in orchestrating the symphony of words that grace the pages of her creations. Armed with a Bachelor of English degree and a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing, Tempest's journey through the realms of storytelling is both scholarly and passionately driven. Her interests range from the enchantment of antique shops to the clumsiness of a lousy bowler, adding layers to her captivating persona. Residing in the vibrant landscapes of sunny Florida with her family and loyal canine companion, Tempest weaves tales that transcend reality. Her fiction and fantasy realms are the playgrounds of vivid descriptions, intricate plots, and characters so real they leap off the page. Inspired by mythology, folklore, and personal experiences, Tempest's storytelling prowess knows no bounds. When not lost in her own creations, she explores the diverse tapestry of central Florida, seeking new adventures to infuse into her literary marvels. With each word penned, Tempest continues to mesmerize readers with her unparalleled storytelling style and boundless imagination.

Book preview

Athenaeum

Thirteen-year-old Riplei hurried after Cllover up the aisle of the Athenaeum. Cllover Aylett stood an inch shorter than Riplei Monroe, yet she walked with grace. Riplei watched a rainbow of colors dancing on the spines of the vast collection of books.

What are we looking for again?

Cllover continued walking without answering.

This is a nice place. Do you come here often? Riplei asked.

Riplei, for the third time, this is the library, also known as the Athenaeum, and it would be easier if you remembered, but then I’d have to listen to your complaints, Cllover said. "I’ve given you the book’s name and explained why we’re here three times already; it’s The Unfeathered Truth. Repeat it."

"The Unfeathered Truth. Duh."

It’s the perfect book for my end-of-semester essay. It would probably go faster if you help.

Nope—I don’t think that’s something I’d do!

How do you know what you’d do?

I don’t know. But I’m sure it wouldn’t be this—I think.

Riplei gawked at the red cedar handcrafted shelves at least ten feet tall, containing more books than anyone could read in a lifetime. The vintage books sat in neat rows, awaiting readers. Each one held a different smell and a future mystery. Each told a story of living worlds waiting for discovery.

Wow—the Atheneum is beautiful!

The elaborate grand staircase in the middle of the Athenaeum was a gorgeous piece of art. Turquoise cadency symbols were embossed at the corners of each step. A round wooden baluster led to a thirty-foot free-floating onyx marble globe.

Arctic blue eyes reflected Riplei’s untidy ice-white braid thrown over her shoulder. Ooh, look at all the lights. Are they important?

Augh!

What? I just asked a question. Sheesh.

You’ve seen it more than a hundred times.

Riplei saw the muscles in Cllover’s face clench. Well, excuse me! That particular memory is missing.

Cllover drummed her fingers on the railing, Each light represents a Dyvin, a magical being from birth to death. Happy now?

When you say magical being—

Witches, wizards, shapeshifters, and merpeople, trolls, goblins, abikus, fairies, brownies, and pretty much any magical creatures. Cllover passed off a smirk for a smile. Anyone that isn’t a Dyvin is an Awling. They’re regular nature-born beings without magic. We call them Disturbare, also known as a broken bloodline. They’re the ones who aren’t allowed to utilize their gifts.

Why? Riplei stopped and looked to Cllover for an answer. Why aren’t they allowed to use their gifts?

Magic is born in some of us. It is a part of who we are, but it has to be anchored, Cllover rolled her eyes before walking away.

Silently, Riplei walked behind Cllover, careful to keep her distance while observing the Athenaeum’s beauty.

Still doesn’t explain why they aren’t allowed to use their gifts.

Ugh! Think of your magic like a tree. Without your roots and your ancestors, your tree wouldn’t survive. It would fall. You have to know where you come from to survive in this world. Or you could be an Awling.

They walked in silence. Riplei allowed Cllover’s words to move through her without settling. Even in her haze, she could recite a few of her ancestors, but it wasn’t fair for those without knowledge of their beginnings.

As they made their way past the chronicles of mysticism, alchemy, and prophecy sections of the Athenaeum, Riplei considered which of these she’d rather engross herself in first.

Riplei, I need you to keep up, Cllover called out to her friend as she wandered away, searching for her book.

Riplei tapped at her thighs. She would far rather read than wander. I’m going to sit here and wait!

A shimmer of mist arose at the end of the shelves. A Sylph appeared and shushed Riplei.

Hey, don’t take too long. We have to meet your friend—Alowishus—I think for lunch. Riplei said to Cllover, waving the angry Sylph away.

She continued toward the palatial armchairs. Reaching over, she pulled the stacks of books out of incorrect sequence, then straightened them. At least that part of her memory worked fine. By the time she had gotten to the end of the row, Riplei noticed that Cllover had rounded the corner, so she fell back comfortably into the arms of an armchair.

While sitting, Riplei noticed another place where the stacks weren’t numbered correctly —a little thing to most that bothered no one but her.

Solid order is the foundation to a solid life, she mumbled as she stood to straighten the row of books.

A book with gold and red lettering sat at eye level, the moth-eaten spine barely readable. Carriwitchet.

Riplei sounded out the letters, I wonder if that’s a real word? She brushed at her navy-blue pleated skirt atop a pair of ripped hot pink leggings.

The wisp of memory floated through her mind. She remembered that the Athenaeum once had a forever librarian whose name, ironically, was Fate. Fate had kept the books in order, but three months ago, she’d vanished. There was a rumor that she and one of the herbalist professors skipped town to join a wayward cult… which would have been believable if the librarian weren’t such a stodgy old puss. Interesting what this brain of mine wants to remember, Riplei mused. Why this pointless bit?

She drew in a breath, scanned the aisle from the corner of her eye, and when she saw that no one was within hearing distance, she attempted to remember the basic straightening spell.

After the books arranged themselves according to the runic system, Riplei nodded her satisfaction.

Cllover! Riplei whispered, looking around the empty room. She was proud of her work but didn’t like the thought of getting caught twisting spells.

Where was her friend?

Riplei’s patience grew thin, Cllover—Cllover!

The Sylph appeared again, angrily shushing for quiet.

Riplei’s hands clenched into fists. Sucking in a breath, she stood and paced the floor, then stopped.

I’m seriously not good at waiting. I wonder if Cllover knows this? Riplei asked. Cllover—Cllover! Where are you! Riplei’s voice echoed through the open and tranquil space of the Athenaeum. If you could show me the way out, I’ll leave!—I swear if I could remember how to get out of here, I would leave.

Riplei shuffled in between the aisles, deliberately brushing her fingers along the spines of the dusty books as she wandered in search of Cllover, waiting for her response.

Cllover! Cllover! Where are you?

Shhh! cried the few students studying in the Athenaeum.

A cloud wisp glided through the stacks. The graceful form of a woman with barely visible insect-like wings took shape.

I’m looking for my friend! Riplei snarked.

A powder-white figure stood in front of Riplei with cloud-like hair and a spiral head dressing upon her head. Without uttering a word, the Sylph pointed her boney finger to the stone archway in the back halls of the Athenaeum.

Great! I’m asking a faceless cloud for help.

Inches from Riplei’s face, the Sylph jerked her clawed fingers to the back of the room past the archway.

I got it!

Glancing around, Riplei stepped closer toward the Sylph, sure she’d done this before, and peered into the void of its orbital sockets. Expecting to see light, instead, she only saw darkness.

The Sylph disappeared, and Riplei shivered with a sudden cold. Whoa —that’s creepy.

She eyed the area; there were no students, no Sylphs, and, from what she could see, no Cllover—just the phrase Bough af Cnāwan Branch of Knowledge across the stone.

Riplei walked toward the back of the Athenaeum where the Sylph had gestured. Above her head, large glass panes allowed the sun’s reflective rays to brighten the otherwise dull space.

As Riplei made her way under the arch, another phrase caught her eye, Nolie timere praeterita Do not fear the past.

Embedded in the hardwood floors just beyond the threshold was a large protective mark in addition to the symbols etched into the stacks. Some of the characters she remembered. Others were foreign to her. One looked like a dragon coiled up like a serpent. Another featured the carving of a tree that resembled cacti. The symbols were etched in red cinnabar.

I didn’t even know this was back here. Riplei considered her recent memory issues. At least I don’t think I knew it was.

Her fingers ran across the woodgrain stacks. The etchings weren’t carved into the wood or branded; they were spelled into the wood.

How? she wondered aloud. I’ve never heard of any dyvin capable of creating such a spell—You know what? She left me here like I’m a child.

Riplei rubbed her hands down the sides of her uniform skirt, feeling the rough bumps of the embroidered school emblem. The emptiness gnawing at the center of her stomach reminded her of the lunch she was missing.

Riplei squeezed her arms and gave them a brisk rubbing. She had no idea where the frost was coming from, but she could feel it savaging her bare skin. Pulling the knotted sweater from around her waist, she shook it and slid her arms through, then pulled it close to hide from the bitter chill.

She stared out into the emptiness of the archive section, biting her lower lip while she focused on finding Cllover.

This doesn’t feel right—I think. It feels like something is out of place. Riplei gazed intently around, a tingling feeling slowly creeping its way up her spine. Her gaze bounced from one title to the next.

Extinction or Extermination by Beverly Wallace. Hum, Riplei said, her interest piqued. "The complete history of our missing animals.

"What is that tapping sound?

The rapid beating of her heart pulled her away from the stack, Oh—it’s me! Riplei sheepishly said, shoving her freezing hands under her arms.

From the dark spaces between the book stacks where the lack of natural light—or any light, for that matter—existed, came the dank and sour smell of rotting paper. As Riplei watched, the black stains on the hardwood floors swiftly moved about, creating ancient symbols of old tongues from Egyptian, Greek, and native people.

The fog that had clouded Riplei’s mind most of the morning cleared a bit, though whether it was due to the cold or fear, she wasn’t sure. She was overwhelmed at the thought that she and Cllover had wandered into the one place feared by every student and professor here at Browning Academy: the Lost Coves—an unknown, forbidden section of the Athenaeum. Or, it could be that the Athenaeum had grown, and she simply didn’t remember this part.

Either way, Riplei wanted out.

Continuing to call out to Cllover was getting her nowhere. For some reason, her friend wouldn’t or couldn’t answer.

Shhh!

The nagging call for silence spun Riplei on her heels. She turned to see the standing Sylph with a balled fist at the threshold between the two rooms.

What? Riplei snapped. I’m not disrupting anyone! Hell—there’s no one even in this section—so go away!

Riplei jerked her body back around to see a figure scurrying between the book stacks.

Cllover! Cllover! she called, giving chase.

When the figure reached the corner, it vanished.

Riplei spun around, confused, her eyes darting back and forth, then up and down the aisles. She turned, walked back to the beginning of the stacks, and peered down each of them.

What was Cllover doing? Riplei sighed with frustration as she rubbed at her temples. She turned and started up the aisle. So many untold stories within these books. How would Cllover choose only one?

However, right now Riplei was more concerned as to why Cllover was running, and where had she vanished. Since Cllover wasn’t answering her calls, Riplei headed toward the corner, fingers digging into her hips.

Riplei stood at the end of the aisle. There were only three directions she could go: straight ahead, right (which would lead her back out and into the main Athenaeum), or left, toward a massive white stone wall with a tapestry of past leaders, battles, and knowledgeable quotes. As she walked past the honored historical tapestries, each one lifted by a light breeze, the idea of leaving her friend behind was inconceivable. She could see the archway she had walked under in the far distance that separated the two rooms.

Pushing back the pocket of nerves, Riplei continued her search for Cllover, trying not to be distracted by the books along the way. The face of each book stack was labeled with beautiful gold lettering. Snow-white clouds draped delicately across the ceiling, while colorful glass jars of stored knowledge hung suspended in the air—fragmental memories from Dyvins and Awlings, pieces of intellect that others perceived as dangerous.

As she went around the corner, Riplei caught a glimpse of Cllover standing at the other end.

Yesss!

Riplei hurried forward, brushing the books’ spines with her fingers as she passed. With Cllover’s back toward her, Riplei watched as her friend held up her hand and, in a series of movements, maneuvered a colored jar from its position, drawing it closer to her.

Riplei stopped short. The hairs at the nape of her neck prickled in alarm. Snatching her hand away from the books, she pulled them close to her body.

Before her eyes, the stacks violently and quickly shifted. Books fell. The colorful glowing jars went dark and disappeared. The once white clouds that hung freely from the ceiling grayed as thunder rumbled above her.

No! No! No!

Dodging falling books, Riplei ran toward Cllover. She watched in horror when the stone wall cracked open. Layers of dirt and dust escaped into the air as a long-preserved room revealed itself before their eyes.

Riplei cringed at the sight of Cllover standing in front of a small sunken room. Her insides churned, choking on dust and debris as she momentarily froze. The sound of heavy doors dragging across the marble floors tugged at Riplei.

The walls were stone and blanketed in rich, wet, green algae from top to bottom, from ceiling to floor. A small population of overgrown rats fled into tight spaces within the stone walls while a parade of insects retreated to darker corners away from the light.

Cllover stood transfixed by the small room’s brilliant, beautiful light, unaware of the dank and dismal place she had wandered into.

The stone room blew out a bone-chilling cold.

Moments later, the warmth of the sun carried away the green algae. Riplei stood motionless and dumbfounded. An ache touched her, sending a wave of discomfort along her back. Her knees felt wobbly, and her head pulsated while a searing pain swallowed her stomach and knocked her to the floor.

Something from the stone room, carried by the wind, crawled up her legs and pinned her down. A mass weighed down her belly, causing her spine to burn, then sucked the air from her lungs where it waited on her chest.

Helpless, Riplei couldn’t call out to her friend. As she watched Cllover enter into the sunken stone room, a tear rolled down the side of her face. A mirage of ancestors flickered through her mind before sleep took her.

Lost Coves

Cllover was unaware of the door dragging across the marble floors and closing behind her, trapping her in the small stone space. With the glass jar still in her hand, she followed the fading light without hesitation.

She placed her hand along the wall as she stumbled over the slippery stones, instinctively dropping the glass jar. Instead of the fated shattering of glass, it disappeared.

She wrinkled her nose at the smell of churned earth. The strong sent of something else wavered in the air—something rancid and rotten and foul. The wall was rough in spots and smooth in others, but no matter where she placed her hands, it was wet and fuzzy with moss. A dampening cold came from the wall. A slight breeze seemed to have found its way down here. Or is it in here, Cllover wondered. When her hands could no longer feel the roughness under her fingertips, she stopped.

She needed light. No one was around. No one would know if she twisted some magic.

She nervously raked her hands across her uniform skirt, trying to remove the dirty slime encrusted on them.

Well, I’ll have light, but it will be dim and might not last long, she whispered.

Releasing a slow and steady breath, Cllover centered herself, closed her eyes, and one by one closed off each of the noises that fought for her attention. When silence stilled the air, she spoke directly into her hands, holding them first palms up, then pushing them down, sweeping them around, and waving them near her core while reciting an old illuminating mantra.

Burn…four candles, burn them brightly. Illuminate this space so that I may see.

A stream of light polished the stone walls, allowing her to see a door with a thick brass knob. It was old and the source of the foul odor. Careful not to fall, Cllover lightly tugged on the knob. The door did not move.

She pulled harder, and the door gave way and swung open.

Cllover stepped into a small, brightly lit room. A warm breeze encircled the room and carried a pleasant fragrance of wildflowers.

Is this the Lost Cove?

Cllover stood in awe at the endless rows of books. So. Many. Beautiful. Books. Her heart raced, and her skin tingled. She recalled all of the rumors she’d heard long ago in her past lives and again, recently, here at the Browning Academy. The voices of many warnings echoed in the far reaches of her mind.

The Lost Coves—a haunted place trapping the living. Dooming the dead. A gateway of worlds between the two living and the dead.

Cllover stood near the door. Her gaze flitted around, never coming to rest on any particular area for too long.

Eagerly, she ran her fingers across the set of books sitting on the cart near the door. The racks shifted, and a new collection of books appeared in their place. Her eyes lit up. There were books here that she had only heard of: an antiquarian pictorial history, anecdotal folios, literature, and scrolls written by great philosophers. There were so many—the only question was what to choose.

Ahh, I won’t stay long.

The Edge of a Nation by H. Crow, a bibliography she’d heard existed centuries before, the literary genius of a female author she’d long admired. Every copy was said to have been destroyed.

Warmth radiated throughout her body. An uncontained smile flushed her face while a dozen thoughts scattered her mind, but when she went to pull the book from the shelf, it wouldn’t budge. Attempting to remove the quarto next to it, Guardians of the Damned by Uwoness The Blight, only managed to stub her toe after kicking the bottom shelf. The books were unmoved.

Cllover tossed her hands up in frustration then attempted to pull each book from its holding place.

Aw—come on!

Cllover felt like screaming. From her peripheral vision, she thought she saw something moving. She pulled harder.

Just—let—me—have the darn book!

The walls started to breathe.

The vision of books and beauty disappeared. Any semblance of allure faded. A revelation of truth appeared before her eyes. The aroma of scented wildflower was replaced with the wails of tormented and tortured souls crying out in pain. Terrifying screams called out around her, begging for help. A shroud of black clouds covered the glass floors beneath her feet. People were trapped in there!

Cllover fell to her knees. With tears staining her cheeks, she rubbed at the floor.

The wails grew louder, only thinning each time something wisped past. Cllover grabbed at her ears. Flashes of lightning sent waves of fear throughout her core. Jumping to her feet, Cllover ran to the door.

Help! Help! Please—someone help!

She banged on the decaying wood, each time pulling back pieces of the door by the fistful in her hands.

A horrid feeling roiled in the pit of her stomach. The tales of the Lost Cove were true! A stream of warm salty tears pooled down her face as she thought of the many lives she’d lived, from the slave boy of Marzapaniona, often punished for his love of books and lack of hard work, to the duchess of Reddem Hill, married to a coward afraid to defend her for reading. None were better than the one she was living in now. Never had she been more frightened.

I want out of here! Someone, please help me!

Something shifted.

The walls brightened to a sunrise orange, and the floors became a marbled brown. The door returned to solid wood, and the screams vanished into silence.

Cllover let out a sigh of relief. She placed both hands on the knob of the door and gave a good tug. She pulled at the brass handle until her arms felt they couldn’t take any more. She was locked in.

Discouragement loomed. Cllover looked in all directions, hoping for a sign pointing to a way out, but none came. She staggered backward into a row of books, knocking them to the floor.

Really! Now you come loose?

Her pulse raced. With the sound of her heart pounding in her ears, she grabbed at her hands to control them from shaking.

Pull it together, she told herself. Deep breath in. Deep breath out!

Wringing her hands together and purposely digging her nails into her palms was one of the many control and calming techniques Alowishus taught her two years ago. The thought of chocolate-covered gummies, sand sugared sliced papples, and honeyed dew milk started to silence the thudding sound of her heart beating loudly in her ears.

When she had gotten her heart under control again, she spied something on the floor nearby.

"The Grimoire of Secretorum, Cllover mumbled. I’ve never heard of this book before."

With still shaky hands, she picked up the book. She immediately noticed how heavy it was and the way that it was carefully wrapped in an old widow’s veil.

A sense of calmness slowly washed over the mounting dread she was feeling. Her top concern was needing to escape the room, but the discovery of such a beautiful book soothed her.

Hiding the Grimoire under her arm, Cllover anxiously approached the door. It was no longer a decaying slab of wood; instead, it was a wash of solid gold.

Hesitantly, Cllover wrapped a hand around the golden handle, though the thought of the book disappearing from under her arm as soon as she left the room was more frightening than being locked in here. But if she didn’t open the door, then she would end up like those lost in the legend—trapped in this room for all eternity.

Delicately, Cllover removed the black lace veil, exposing a leather cover. The hair of horses had been used to bind the stained brown pages.

It’s beautiful, she said aloud, gripping the book so tightly that her knuckles lost color. A whiff of sweet vanilla emitted from its preserved pages. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. She scanned the book thoroughly.

A carved Vegvisir Compass sat in the center of the dark-skinned tome. The four corners on the front were carved runic symbols: journey, source of life, strength, and dawn. Horsehair was woven into the spine. The edges were foxed from age.

She turned the book over several more times. It felt familiar in her hands, as if she’d held it before today.

The door to the small room opened abruptly on its own, and the air smelled of familiarity.

Whatever spell the book had begun binding was broken. Cllover bolted out of the small stone room, a little shakily. She rushed away with the Grimoire held tightly in her hand, scanning the Athenaeum for Riplei.

Across the room, down an aisle, she spotted her, crumpled in a heap on the floor.

A Need

The horror of seeing Riplei lying on the wooden floor sucked the air from Cllover’s lungs. A thick, suffocating lump sat thick in her throat.

Riplei! Riplei! she called, racing to her unmoving friend.

Sun rays peered through the stained-glass windows, bouncing light into Riplei’s artic white eyes.

What happened? Why are you on the floor? Cllover scanned the area. Where is Isara? she asked, ready to defend and protect. First, she taints the chocolate almond beetles Alowishus brought, then twists up itchmites and places them in our beds. And now she’s done something to knock you out. I’m going to kick—

Who? Riplei asked, blinking owlishly.

Just forget it. Cllover relinquished, helping her disoriented friend off the floor.

I’m—alright. Riplei rubbed her eyes. Where are we?

In the Athenaeum. You came with me to look for a book, Cllover reminded her.

Huh? Riplei flinched while scanning the area for answers.

We’re in the Athenaeum. I couldn’t leave you alone, at least not for—six more hours, because somehow your short-term memory potion accidentally spilled.

Wait—what? Riplei’s eyes widened. She pulled the sweater from around her waist and untucked her collared shirt.

Cllover shook her head, Don’t worry about it. The spell will wear off by sundown.

Why would you do something like this to me?

First off, I didn’t do this to you; you did this to yourself—again, accidentally. You were trying to get back at Isara for the itchmites!

Who is Isara? Riplei wondered.

Tall. Naturally tanned. Jet black hair with frosted white ends. Caramel-brown eyes. Meaner than a hyrnet’s nest. Always hanging around with that wench Babette.

How did I end up on the Atheneum floor?

Cllover shrugged. Probably forgot how to stand up.

Her smile instantly brightened Riplei’s mood.

Well, now that I’ve answered your questions, guess where I was? I found the Lost Coves!

The Lost what? Riplei questioned.

The Lost Coves. The most dangerous place hidden here on the Browning Academy’s grounds. It’s filled with forbidden art, books, swords, jewels, maps, and cities! Yes, whole cities swallowed! Can you believe that? Riplei, there are so many legends about the people who got lost searching for this mythical place, and here it is on our campus! In our Athenaeum!

Cllover’s voice grew higher with each sentence. She spun around, wrapping her arms around herself in excitement.

"Didn’t you hear me calling you? How did you even