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

I gaze into the jar and watch as their proximity creates a gentle river of light connecting each bug. It’s mesmerizing. They resemble lightning in a bottle, which I’m sure is why they’re known as thunderbugs. I bet if I asked Goose, he would not only have the answer, but also give me advice on how to be more efficient with capturing them.

“He drives me crazy!” While forcing the jar back into the haversack, it slips my grasp. I react, but not quick enough. The glass jar shatters, and the thunderbugs scatter.

“Argh! Why?” Another burst of anger bellows from my throat.

I watch as the bugs float away, occasionally surging with light. There’s serenity hidden within their energy. It calms me and I realize, just as the boys argued, it is a vital task. Each new batch ensures we won’t be eating in the dark—or be eaten in the dark. So, I must find a way to continue this menial task. I’m not going to be the one to fall short today.

I scavenge through my haversack to be sure there isn’t another jar hiding. Nothing. So, I peruse the undergrowth in search of anything worthy of containing thunderbugs. A nearby tiger palm will suffice. I tear a few palms from the tree and weave them into a small egg-shaped basket that opens and closes at one end with only a bit of pressure. I weave a second smaller basket to utilize as a cap.

After a couple hours of netting, the palm basket proves worthy. I peek inside to confirm my quota is filled, but a quick movement distracts me. There’s a hare bouncing about in a clearing not too far off. Not wanting to risk losing anymore thunderbugs during the hunt, I contemplate heading back to the yurt. But the hare is right there. This is my opportunity.

With my artillery in hand, I collect a handful of ammunition from the forest floor. Mostly pebbles and a few unopened cones. The brown and white speckles don’t offer much camouflage as the hare grazes on a patch of wild blue flowers growing at the base of a cottonwood.

“Easy shot,” I think aloud. The cute little hare, although aware of me, doesn’t treat me as a predator. I load the leather pocket with a pebble and cock it. One shot to the head ought to knock it out, then I can wring its neck. I won’t be refused any hunts after this.

Holding steady… And I release. I respire with the slightest flinch as a tall silhouette appears in the distance. My shot breezes right over the hare with a thwack against the tree behind it. The hare disappears.

I toss my slingshot against the tree and proceed to stamp out the wildflowers the hare was grazing upon. I peek around the tree, and the silhouette has disappeared as well. The noise must have scared it off, whatever it was.

“This should be called the Prey Forest, not the Broken Forest,” I groan. Everything is prey to something else in this wood. “Stupid shadows! Stupid animals!”

I’ll stay focused with the next one. I’ll show Goose what patience means. I swear it. Several hours pass, and I find myself swallowing my words about labeling this place the Prey Forest. Not another form of prey shows face. No hares, no grouse, no deer—not that my slingshot would do any good on a deer. With much shame, I call it quits and trudge back to the yurt.

As I break the thick of the wood and approach our yurt, I look to the sky to check the time of day. The sun creeps lower as Cerise rises beside it. They make acquaintances as they journey to opposite ends of the world. It’s nearing suppertime, but I don’t see any smoke curling from the flue. The boys should be back unless they’re struggling to put food on the dish.

The wafting aroma of a searing steak is what I wish for, but the redundant smell of smoked bluegill is what I expect. Instead…nothing. The only smell in the air is that of dirty pine—a smell that once played a pleasant role in my childhood. My mother and I would curl up by a crackling fire on cold nights, and the sweet smell of the freshly cut pine would waft throughout the common room. It’s a warmth I’ll never experience again, and if I am ever to become my own, it’s time to let those memories fade. Today, that smell only reminds me of the filth I live in anyways. It doesn’t have the same effect it once did.

I light the way to keep predators at bay—they catch the fish to fill the dish. Stone is always feeding me that corny line. They’re expecting me to clean and fry whatever they come home with. I know it. Well I won’t do it this time. I’ve exceeded my tolerance with their laziness, and its time I let them know.

I lunge forward to kick open the door for added effect. A searing pain immediately flows through my leg, and I fall to the ground with an unbridled shriek. The door, built by two of Azure’s most renowned craftsmen, is thatched together with the razor-sharp rune grass. And now it has a window with my leg stuck in it. I thought it strong enough to withstand the force of a young girl’s kick, but apparently not.

I lie on the ground in pain, my leg on the other side of the door, and I wait. Nobody comes. Not even Helios. That cat is getting lazier every day. My awkward position gives me no leverage to free my leg without intensifying the pain. I scream again, swollen with false emotion, to get Stone’s or Goose’s attention. Nobody comes. Good. I’m not helpless. I can figure this out.

The door is aged, making it quite brittle, but most of its rigid dagger-like quality remains.