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Prologue: The Invitation
The letter arrived on black paper, sealed with crimson wax.
I held it to the lamplight in my cramped Boston apartment, watching shadows dance across the elaborate calligraphy. The seal bore a symbol I recognized from my doctoral research—a serpent consuming its own tail, encircling an open eye. The Ouroboros of Eternal Sight. A mark used by occult scholars of the Victorian era.
Dr. Miriam Thorne,
Your dissertation on medieval necromantic texts has come to our attention. Blackwood University requires an archivist for our restricted collection—the Tenebris Archivum. The position offers exclusive access to grimoires and manuscripts unavailable elsewhere.
If you accept, arrive before the new moon. The library opens only for those it chooses.
Signed, The Custodians
No return address. No university letterhead. Just an antiquated train ticket tucked inside, dated for three days hence.
I should have burned it.
Instead, I began to pack.
The train deposited me at a station that shouldn't exist on any modern map. Blackwood Village huddled in a valley surrounded by ancient woods, its Gothic architecture untouched by time. Fog clung to cobblestone streets like desperate fingers.
The university loomed on a hill—a massive Victorian Gothic Revival structure of blackened stone, its spires clawing at the October sky. Gargoyles leered from every corner. Stained glass windows depicted scenes I recognized from forbidden texts: summoning circles, communion with the dead, rituals best left unspoken.
A figure waited at the iron gates.
"Dr. Thorne." Not a question. The woman was severe in black silk, her silver hair pulled into an unforgiving knot. "I am Professor Ashwood. You received our invitation."
"I did." I adjusted my grip on my leather satchel, suddenly aware of how out of place I must look—twenty-eight years old, dressed in practical traveling clothes, my dark hair escaping its pins. "Though I confess, the circumstances are unusual."
"The Tenebris Archivum is not for conventional scholars." Her pale eyes assessed me with unsettling intensity. "Follow me. The library awaits."
We walked through corridors lined with portraits of stern academics, their painted eyes seeming to track our movement. The university felt empty, though Professor Ashwood assured me students would arrive for the autumn term. I heard only the echo of our footsteps and the whisper of my skirts against stone.
The library entrance was a masterpiece of wrought iron and dark wood. Carvings of ravens, wolves, and serpents adorned the doorframe. Above the threshold, words in Latin:
Hic Sunt Dracones—Here Be Dragons
"The restricted archives are in the lower levels," Professor Ashwood said, producing an ornate key from her bodice. "You'll h...
Raven Blackwell's past is shrouded in mystery—some say they worked as a mortuary assistant, others claim they're an occult researcher with access to forbidden grimoires. What's certain is that Raven writes from a place of darkness, beauty, and death-positive sensuality that few dare explore. From an undisclosed Gothic Revival mansion filled with arcane books and candlelight, Raven crafts atmospheric tales where vampires seduce, necromancers claim, and demons bargain. Their work draws from the great Gothic tradition—Poe, Shelley, Rice—while bringing explicit sensuality to dark romance.
