The Prof Croft Series Books 0 - 4 Brad Magnarella Book of Souls · Demon Moon · Blood Deal · Purge City · Death Mage Copyright © 2016, 2017, and 2021 by Brad Magnarella All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Cover image by Damonza.com Table of Contents Book of Souls A Prequel Novella Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Demon Moon Book 1 Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Blood Deal Book 2 Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Purge City Book 3 Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Death Mage Book 4 Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Available Now! Free Books, Anyone? Author’s Notes Croftverse Catalogue Join the Strange Brigade The Prof Croft Series PREQUELS Book of Souls Siren Call MAIN SERIES Demon Moon Blood Deal Purge City Death Mage Black Luck Power Game Druid Bond Night Rune MORE COMING! Book of Souls A Prequel Novella 1 My heart thumped hard and high in my chest as I sealed the door onto a pulsating blackness. Turning, I snapped on my flashlight. Through a suspension of dust, bookcases loomed from the too-close walls. At the far end of the room, a large steamer trunk and an antique desk leaned in and out of the shadows, the desk featuring an old lamp with a blood-red shade and brass pull chain. As I stepped from the door, the fear that had been balling up my insides let out, allowing a euphoric excitement to seep in. An entire life lived in this house, thirteen years to the day, and I had never been inside Grandpa’s attic study. I was in unchartered territory. Even better, forbidden territory. I ran my beam over the titles on the bookshelves. An old encyclopedia set, row after row of books on insurance and insurance law. Boring titles, but my proximity to them made the hair on my arms tingle straight. Maybe it was because I knew almost nothing about my grandfather, a man who was rarely home, who rarely spoke even when he was. A man whose dour eyes and foreign accent scared the hell out of my friends—and me, if I was being honest. I trained my beam on his trunk. A large, battered container of black wood and metal that looked for all the world like a pirate’s chest. I undid both hasps and worked my fingernails around the edge of the central lock, surprised when the spring-loaded latch fell open. A shot of anticipation jiggled my bladder. I clamped the flashlight between shoulder and cheek, placed my hands on the front of the lid … and hesitated. As freaky as it sounded, the trunk felt alive. And it wasn’t just the warmth of the pliant wood. A force was moving through my hands, a steady rising and falling, like breathing. And was that a heart beat? My own heart lurched as I spun from the trunk. No, not a heart beat—footsteps, on the attic stairs. Their steady cadence accompanied by wooden taps now, growing louder. Shit. Grandpa. I replaced the hatch, refastened the hasps, and shot my beam around the study. A closet! In five jerky steps, I was plunging into a line of hanging coats and pulling the folding door closed behind me. A beat later, just as I snapped off my light, the study door creaked open and then closed again. A heavy silence followed. I held my breath, sure Grandpa could sense my presence. He uttered one of his strange words: “Serrare.” Pressure built in my ears as the floorboards clicked and a dangling bulb flooded the room with weak light. I stiffened in my crouch. Grandpa’s tall figure entered my view through the seam above the closet door’s middle hinge, his back to me. I released my breath and blinked to moisten my eyes again. Though the man usually carried himself like a ruler, his shoulders sloped now, as though bearing a large load. He set his cane and fedora on the desk and, sighing, ran a hand through his thinning hair. The silver ring with the dragon gleamed dully on his middle finger. I once asked Nana why Grandpa was so quiet. What I was really asking, of course, was why he paid so little attention to me. Nana seemed to understand, her lips creasing into a tender smile. “When your grandfather was a young man,” she explained, “he fought in a long war. An awful war. He saw many terrible things. Some people never recover from that kind of experience.” “Do you mean World War Two?” I asked. She didn’t nod, only repeated, “An awful war.” From the closet, I watched Grandpa pace in front of his desk. Seeming to arrive at a decision, he straightened and turned to the nearest bookcase. “Svelare,” he said. Another strange word, spoken with depth and resonance. A charge stirred the air, and the bookcase … rippled. In the time it took for me to lean closer to the door seam, the books became other books. No more encyclopedias or insurance manuals. Humming quietly, Grandpa skipped his fingers across folios and old leather bindings. I was studying Latin
