Betrayer: (The Cursed Bloodstone Book 1)

Every day, I tend my herb garden, pulling weeds, watering, and checking them for their growth, but that’s not the only reason I spend time outside. I observe, watch, and take mental notes of the occupants of Astarobane.

The blacksmith works at his craft until the baker’s daughter walks by with bread. Then, he always stops and speaks to her, and she answers cheerfully as she meanders by.

I predict an arrangement between them by winter. If they’re not already lovers.

The cobbler arrives at work early and doesn’t leave until nightfall sets on the town. He moves with a limp, and battle scars slash across his face. He was probably once a great warrior.

He’s not someone I want catching me on my quest.

People stroll the streets, stopping by the different shops. Some visit once a week. Others daily. Most seem innocent. Some of them look like they’re placed there on purpose. As if they guard the city from unnamed threats.

They’re the ones I watch carefully, observing their habits, timing their daily trips. I must never take them for granted.

I must gain full entrance into their world. A fish doesn’t notice other fish that look the same as them, but if I swim like a shark and look like a shark, they’ll see through me.

So, each day, I don my gray surcoat, tend my garden, and smile at people who walk past. Few even acknowledge me, but I hold to my course.

As I walk through the city, I pay the closest attention to those who act important. They dress in silk surcoats. They walk with their chins lifted. They bark orders at people. And they always head toward the palace when they’re finished.

On one particularly humid day, when sweat clings to the most annoying of places, I move closer to one of the important looking ladies. She talks to the butcher about Alden’s wife preferring leaner cuts.

Alden has a wife?

Now that’s not something I expected. She probably loathes him. I would if I was wed to him.

“Here, Deborah,” the butcher says as he hands the woman a linen wrapped package.

Deborah?

The name fits the auburn-haired woman with her ivory skin and green eyes.

As Deborah walks away, a thought hits me. None of the people I have spied on these past few days have given me the information I seek. At least, nothing pertaining to Roland.

Where is he?

As I journey back to the cottage I share with Gabriel, it strikes me that he may be in one of those other Bloodstone cities.

Frustration gnaws at my chest as I step into my cottage and push the door shut with my foot.

I am in the wrong city.