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

With every subtle movement, the razors slice into my calf. I put my self-pity aside and brave the pain.

“Argh!” I let out a large bellow as I rip my leg free. Excruciating pain explodes throughout my calf. “Damn!” It resembles the product of a meat grinder except for the blades of grass that remain attached to my flesh. With a quick jolt, I pluck them free one by one, grinding my teeth while doing so.

Fortunately, my nearly exhausted footwear protected the soul of my foot, but everything else was wide open for dicing. The lacerations don’t appear life threatening, so I ease to my feet, careful not to put too much pressure on the damaged leg.

“Stupid door!” I mutter to myself. “Why did they build it with blades of grass anyways? This was bound to happen. What a stupid idea.” Well, I’m not going to wait around all evening for those thoughtless boys to come back and help me.

I hobble into the yurt looking for something to use as a bandage. Helios naps on my bed mat. I shake my head at the indolent cat. His eyes open halfway, and his front paws stretch forward, toes spreading wide before kneading the grassy mat with a subtle purr. Then he goes back to napping.

As I rummage through my belongings, I cannot find any spare cloth. Not without having to tear strips from my limited wardrobe. A sly grin works its way onto my face as I look over to Goose’s wad of clothes bunched in the corner.

Not his trousers or his jerkin. He’ll need those come winter. This one. His best tunic. A faded green bandage will look rather nice with my cambric cut-off trousers. I pick up the fabric and set to tear into it when I see an etching on the floorboard beneath it. An old picture from one of the fables he used to tell me when we were first shoved into this lifestyle. His stories eased me to sleep back then. This picture was from his tale of the legendary Everweed. A cure-all plant he claimed originated somewhere in this forest. It’s a reminder of his kinder moments. Holding his tunic in my hands, I hesitate, contemplating whether he deserves this. He’s a dick. Of course he does. I tear a strip near the bottom hem. The sound of fabric ripping is gratifying, like the crunch of snow beneath your feet or the snapping of twigs on the forest floor. I tear a few more strips until I feel I have enough to cover the wound.

While bandaging my leg, I stare at the etching of the plant, and an exciting realization strikes me. I saw that plant earlier today. That hare was nibbling on it—the plant I used as an outlet for my failure.

I’m hesitant to forfeit my current position, though, as the day grows older. We’re not supposed to be out past twilight. Plus, Goose is boisterous and often secretive, so it can be difficult to trust his word at times. In fact, it’s public knowledge why my brother and I are secluded in this wood. The entire region knows of it. As for Goose, he’s never opened up about why he’s here. His father chased him away. That’s as much as we know. At the time of our escape, Goose was a ray of light in the dark. Our only chance at survival. We went out on a limb in trusting him in that moment and it was all we needed to accept him into our deteriorating world. I rub my fingers over the etching and ponder a moment. I want to find it.

I push myself to my feet and limp to the window. The sky holds enough light. Looking at my improvised bandage, I press down on my foot. It offers more pain than I’d like to endure. It could slow me down. It’s not going to stop me, however. Knowing exactly where I saw it, I can venture there and back before twilight. I know I can. I empty the contents of my haversack next to Helios, and I make way into the forest again.

As the shadows grow larger in the undergrowth, I keep an eye out for the smaller predators—the coons, pumas, wolverines, and the like. They don’t prey upon humans, but they’ll try their best to turn me into a savory meal if I cross their path. But when night falls, they’re no longer the concern. The prime reason to stay behind closed doors at night has many names across Azure. Creature of the Night, the Broken Behemoth, the Spirit of the South, and, most commonly, a Cryptid. My family always referred to them as Lost Souls. My father said they were once humans in a past life. Humans who lived a nasty and malicious life and have been reborn as beasts of the worst kind.

Who knows, though? They’re mere legend. In fact, none of us have actually seen one, but the legend originates from this wood, and we haven’t been willing to take any chances thus far. But that’s one of Stone’s many rules to keep us safe. Not mine. There have been a few tell-tale signs we’ve encountered, but we’re not positive. It’s a sight I’ll never forget. Just last Spring, the doe was hanging from a tree, entangled in forest vines, swaying like a dead man from a noose—and it’s unfortunate I can make that comparison. The pelt was draping from the hooves as if it had been peeled away.  Judging from the small amount of sinew remaining, a savage tore into it once the hide was flayed with precision. The remnants had turned a purplish-blue color. Part of me was intrigued, but I was mostly terrified something capable of doing that lives amongst us.

We haven’t witnessed anything else like it in all the seasons we’ve been here. It was an isolated incident, which is why