Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1) by Jonathan Michael (ereader that reads to you txt) 📗

“You a lyin’ mudsucker! Caster hasn’t been ‘round for ages,” says another.

“Nah, I didn’t see him reel it in, idiot. He kept its razor ivories. I seen ‘em at the healers’ place when I was gettin’ this taken care of.” I don’t bother to see what he’s gesturing at in fear I’ll stir up ruckus for eavesdropping. “If he can angle the demon, no doubt we can too.”

“Of course we can. We just have to find the right bait. I hear rumors that in the Blood Plains there are bodies of water that are much larger than the delta. And along with it, the fish that swim there. And the waters make you thirsty too. No doubt we can get some Delta Demon bait down south.”

Everyone knows a fisherman who doesn’t lie, doesn’t fish. Their stories aren’t to be taken serious while sober. But he mentioned a Healer.

The barmaid delivers my spiced ale as I watch the crowd grow larger. I’m careful not to stare too long in one direction. The lot of men lingering here is much rougher than the crowds my parents used to acquaint with—and any crowd I’m accustom to. From a glance, every man dons ragged wools similar to mine, which offers me both comfort and a self-awakening. I do require a bath, and a new wardrobe. Where I stand apart from them, I don’t have the thick wiry beard and leathery skin. Or missing digits or limbs, for that matter. Compared to the men of Parliament I’m familiar with, this is life in the gutter.

I presume they’re honorable men, though. Strong and proud. And I doubt anyone of them would choose another life if they had the choice. All except for one.

One man sits alone on the opposite side of the public house, dressed in a cream-colored hooded cloak, which conceals his face. I can’t see him, but the lighter colored cloak and lack of missing limbs gives him a much cleaner, more respectable aura than the rest of the gents in the pub.

The barmaid returns with my meal after a short while. It only took one ale to calm my nerves, so I take the opportunity to question her this time. “Umm… excuse me. I couldn’t help but notice your transfixing pale-blue eyes.”

“That courageous after only a single ale, eh? A moment ago, you were shivering like a pup lost its mum. Well, save it, honey. You’re not my type. I prefer a man with hair on his balls. Unless, of course, you have silver hiding in those rags somewhere…” She winks at me.

I startle a bit, hoping she’s not offended. Not because of her sailors’ mouth or her slight against my manhood, but because of her uncharacteristic voice. It catches me off guard once again. I give her a fake laugh. She gently slaps my cheek and caresses my jawline with her thumb before heading off to take care of the regulars.

“Wait. Please. That’s not what I was getting at,” I call to her.

She gyrates and sends me another wink and a smile. “Then what is it you were getting at, young sir?”

“Your eyes. They’re blue.”

“What of it?”

“You’re a Lahyf. Or am I mistaken?”

“Indeed, sir, and why does that interest you?” she asks suspiciously.

“Do you by any chance practice your talent?”

Her suspicions lift. “By talent, are you referring to my talents behind the stove, my seamstress talents, or my unforgettable bedding talents? If so, then yes.” She smiles with her chin up, looking down at me from the corner of her pale-blue eyes. She has pride in what she does.

“Er…none of those, sorry. I’m referring to the seasonal sciences. Your ability to heal.” I’m sure it’d cost me more than a silver for the latter. I shouldn’t waste, but she is attractive.

“Sorry, child. Never did learn much of that. But if you’re in need elsewhere…” She gives me a sidelong, seductive glance.

I shrug my shoulders and give her an awkward grin. “What about that man over there?” I inquire. I nod in the direction of the man wearing the cream-colored cloak.

“Which one? The white cloak across the way?”

“Yes. I hear there’s a Healer in town. Is he by any chance that Healer?”

She smiles with a short snicker. “Sorry, sweetie. You have it wrong.”

“Oh. He’s not a Healer, then?” I lower my gaze to my dish.

“No. That’s not what I said.”

I knock over my ale when a small shift in my seat turns into an exaggerated flail of an elbow. I glimpse it but pay it no mind. I look to the barmaid. “So, he is a Healer?”

She frowns and shakes her head. “He’s not a man. Her name is Astor Greyheart, born and raised in Greenport. And no, she’s not capable of healing. Not in the sense you’re intending, I presume. Why do you ask?”

“Oh…” The servant gal pulls a rag from her waist and cleans my mess. “No reason. He…she just caught my eye amongst the crowd. That’s all. Are there any Healers in town you know of?”

“No true Healers I’m aware of. None that practice. You’re lucky to find anything but a lyin’ fishermen ‘round here. Even their fisher-wives aren’t trained in the seasonal sciences. As you can see amongst the company…” She eyes the crowd. “Many have injuries that never healed properly. You’re not going to find a Healer worthy of healing anything critical in this town. And you’re rather horrible at lying. What’s your goal, child? Do you need some help?” She sympathizes, which seems uncharacteristic from her first impression.

“I’m not a child. I’m aged seventeen seasons.”

“Well…when you’ve doubled that, you’ll think differently. Now, what’s your game, child? Do you need some help or not?”

Ugh. There it is again. Calling me a child. But she says it in a soothing tone with a thoughtful expression, so I