Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1) Jonathan Michael (red novels .txt) 📖

name I don’t know to tend to Stave. The boatswain rushes to the captain’s side. “There’re no more than a few minor punctures and a handful of scratches. There’s not enough blood. He can’t be dead!” Gentry exclaims. “This is Captain Fika Crowbill! He’s battled alligators twice this size and lived to tell the tale. He can’t be dead! There’s no way.” Gentry’s voice trembles with emotion. “You!” He grabs me by my tunic with both fists and gives me a jarring shake. “If it wasn’t for your greenhorn mistake, this never would’ve happened. You did this! You’re responsible for his death. You have to fix it.” He yells at me as if he’s just lost his father—a boy who’s lost his family.

“I want to help. But how? This is resurrection you’re asking for.”

“I don’t know. Figure it out or you’ll join him.” He shoves me aggressively, nearly sending me over the rail into the rushing waters.

He’s not bluffing. His anger is boiling over the top because of the captain’s death, and somehow, he expects me to do something about it. I can see it in his eyes. I can hear it in his voice. I can feel it from his touch. I’ve been there. His pain is real. I must do something about it. But what? I can’t bring people back from the dead. It’s impossible. I attempted resurrection on those squirrels when I was a boy, but nothing ever came of it. But maybe I can try. And I better start praying. To whom, though? Susy can’t help me with this.

I rip the captain’s charcoal-grey tunic from his chest. No hidden injuries beneath. Nothing serious. I slide my hand upward across his forehead to open his eyes, and they’re bloodshot, but no life. I prod around looking for what may have caused his death, and then I see it.

My internal metronome slows to a sloth’s pace. The red liquid beads in the corner of his mouth. It slowly runs down his cheek, staining his grey beard as it meanders through the coarse whiskers. The blood drips from his beard to the deck with a heart-stopping splash. More blood pools in the corner of his mouth and runs its course down his chin. He’s bleeding internally.

“He’s bleeding from the inside out!” I cry out.

“What? That’s not a good thing. Why are you… What? Can you…” Gentry sputters out fragments of questions.

“It means he’s not dead. Not completely. If his heart beats hard enough to pump blood, then there’s still time. Don’t let anyone distract me. I can do this.” I hope.

Gentry shuffles backward, giving me enough space to focus, and pushes back some of the onlookers gathering around. Assuming the bleeding is originating somewhere in his chest, that’s where I place my hands first.

I concentrate solely on Captain Crowbill. The rustle of the crew around me fades out. The putrid odor lingering on the deck dissipates. The transfixing sound of the river’s swift current drowns out. The blinding light from the orange sun hovering over the horizon disappears into shadow. There is nothing more than the captain.

I peel back the layers of pain and anguish, leaving room for only the corporeal elements of the captain’s form. I can no longer feel his skin under my palms, but instead the soft tissue of his inactive lungs. I prod deeper, sensing the vast nest of every nerve intertwining throughout his sinew, every warm vessel that continues to pump life through his failing body, until I zero in on his heart.

It’s slow. It’s weak. But it continues to beat steadily as if it were hibernating. I cannot sense any damage, but I decide to regenerate it anyways. The instant I begin to manipulate his heart, two hands firmly grip me around my biceps, severing all concentration.

“You’re not allowed to fish anymore, greenhorn,” a grungy voice says to me.

I open my eyes to see Captain Crowbill holding onto me with two fully functional hands. No cold bone or dried sinew. Two complete hands covered in flesh with fingernails too.

They continue to expect truths—the Advocates themselves even. Their disciples will never grow into what they need to become. The truth must be withheld. I must obliterate their history. I am a scientist. I don’t have it in me to destroy such knowledge, so I will leave it concealed, hidden away for only the worthy. It pains me, but knowledge will be replaced with faith and fear.

25 Jaymes

W e stand amid a grassy hillside, staring north with the sun peeking over the distant Western Ceruleans. The morning air is brisk as it flows into my nostrils. Fresh. Not humid and heavy like the stagnant air in the Broken Forest. I don’t remember summer mornings ever being this cool.

The Crimson Capital lies in our view. It’s a vast city, the biggest in all of Azure. The Crimson Harbor consumes both sides of the Scarlet River, and the city stretches to the east for leagues. Buildings tightly stacked create an unnatural, rigid terrain from this distance. I look beyond it to the redwoods and scattered oak. I know somewhere out there, where the evergreens give way to broadleaves, is my hometown of Redoak. And just north of that town is my home. Will I ever see it again?

From the outskirts of the capital, Ellia points down to the Martelli Manor. “There.” She treks with a limp, walking beside her beast, Persia, who is also trudging along with injury.

My injuries aren’t nearly as severe.  Painful, but only a small slice of my calf went missing. And not too deep. Painful to walk on, but I can walk. The laceration running the length of my body opened up again, but the suspension Astor did to it has restricted the blood flow. It’s not life-threatening, just hideous. And as much as I enjoy the idea of battle