Betrayer: (The Cursed Bloodstone Book 1)

“Do you know why I like the color red?” Mother had asked as I sat at her feet trying to write the letter A on a piece of slate.

“Because flowers are red. Fruit is red. Everything good is red, Sol,” I say, repeating what she had said to me for summers.

Happiness gleams in her eyes as she nods at me. “So, you do listen to what I say.”

Mother’s voice accompanies me as I pick red flowers along the path leading to Kassandra’s house. The moment I look down, catching my gaze on those crimson petals, my heart shudders. For the Bloodstone people red means something different. At least, red poppies mean something different.

I lift my hands, allowing the petals to fall. I would never bring red flowers to any of them. Nor would they understand why I picked them. It was a brief connection to Mother, a memory of better, happier days.

Just like the day I walked next to Kassandra, people don’t meet my eyes as I move past them. Instead of allowing them to bother me, I enjoy the gentle breeze and the cloudy sky.

Only four days have passed since Kassandra’s news. I long to speak to her about Luc and thank her again for making me such a fine dress for the festival.

The sound of cheering fills the air as I draw closer to the center of the large town. It thrums a beat of disharmony through the sandstone streets, striking at my chest. With each step, it thrums harder and harder, drawing me in like a spider, ensnaring its victim.

As I round the last bend, I come to a sudden halt, where a thick crowd of people lift their fists and shout. “Stone her. Stone her. Stone her.”

Trepidation trembles down my back, raising ice along my skin. Instead of turning away, I move closer, still lured by that spider, that need to see, to know.

Through the crush of people, I press forward, avoiding shoulders, arms, legs. Sweat beads my brow and dampens the back of my surcoat as I keep pushing my way through the crush of bodies.

I must see. I must know who they are stoning.

When I get a clear view, I stop and let out a quick breath. A young woman lies on the ground, her body broken, her surcoat torn. Palm-sized rocks lie around her spent form as three women continue to throw stones at her. They pummel her body and pelt the ground around her. The red circle in the center of her torn surcoat clashes against the blueness of the sky.

The women yell the same word as they rear back with all their strength and continue attacking the woman. “…whore. …whore. …whore.”

I think of stepping forward, shielding the woman from their onslaught. It would be futile. She’s already staring vacantly. Her body is already beyond repair.

My heart bleeds for her. It doesn’t matter that she’s Bloodstone.

A small child, no more than nine or ten summers old, bursts through the crowd and spills a handful of crushed red poppies at the woman’s feet. The crowd cheers louder, elated by the child’s offering, an offer of death, of finality.

My heart wilts as I stumble back a step. The crowd moves closer, crushing me in a swarm of sweaty bodies.

Olah, help me!

I summon determination, grit my teeth, and push through the people until I reach the outskirts of the mob. It’s still not enough distance. Nothing is enough.

The scene haunts me as I dig my fingers into my palm, sinking pain into my skin instead of the people who carried out this monstrosity. These people thirst for blood, for violence.

I shudder at the sight of a crushed red petal clinging to my sleeve. Wildly, I shake my arm until it flutters away and sinks to the ground.

A sob wrenches from my throat as I take off running. Back toward the home I share with Gabriel, and the safety of its walls.