Betrayer: (The Cursed Bloodstone Book 1)

Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Indigo. Violet. It takes each one of those to make a brilliant rainbow, to create colors so vibrant that the moment you spot it, it steals your breath.

Two days after the brutal execution of the Malachites, I think of that beauty as I sit cross-legged on my plain but well-crafted bed. Even the washing stand isn’t elaborate. It serves its function. Maybe that’s what these bloodstone people prefer—items that simply serve their function.

My gaze shifts to my leather satchel tied to the belt at my waist. Inside its leather folds are all the items I took with me when I left Kyanite land.

Nothing else mattered. No jewels. No fancy gowns. Not that I owned any of those things.

Maybe my herbs will serve a function for the Bloodstones. Even if they had magic, they wouldn’t have healers with the ability to cast spells. That isn’t the way the six tribes of Tarrobane work. Each tribe has different types of gifts.

As a young girl, Mother told me the Kyanites have light, the aptitude to heal. Malachites have earth, the ability to change the world around them. The Bloodstone people once had darkness, the skills to weave cruel spells.

The memory of an older woman, whose face was covered in deep, painful-looking scars, haunts me. Of all the people I met on my journey here, it is her voice I hear most clearly. She said a Bloodstone woman cursed her when she was a girl. She didn’t say why. And I didn’t need to hear the details to know it was unwarranted.

The tent flap lifts, and I look up, expecting Kassandra. But it’s not Kassandra who steps into my shelter. A brawny warrior with intense black eyes moves into my dwelling, my safety, my security. Those eyes stare into mine, drawing a line of fear to my heart. A line so fierce it steals my breath.

At full height, his head nearly brushes the roof of the tent. Scars crisscross his face like a tapestry of horror. His weapon belt contains a broad sword and three daggers. A necklace made of pelican bones hangs around his beefy neck. A piece of linen covers his nose and mouth.

“You’re the Kyanite,” he says, his voice muffled by the material.

“What do you want?” I ask in the calmest voice I can assemble.

Quicker than a breath, he moves closer, removes a glass jar from his cloak and yanks off the lid, spilling a cloudy liquid from the vial. It engulfs the room and snakes up my legs. I gasp, eyes watering as I fight the overwhelming urge to slumber.

Fear slams into my chest as I stumble from the bed, trying to evade him. He reaches out, grabs me around the waist, and hauls me off my feet. A scream splits the air. My scream.

He squeezes my chest with solid, meaty arms, and my breath halts.

Olah, help me!

Numbness entombs me as I blink through the thick haze and try to break from his hold.

He’s too strong. Too deadly.

So, I react with the only thing I have left. My voice.

I scream out the ancient words of my people, the healing verses that, when shouted, sound like a spell. Louder and louder, I scream, hoping they will scare him. His arms go slack, and I crumble to the dirt floor.

My heart pounds against my chest as I continue shouting.

“Shut up!” He raises his hand and lands a mighty blow against my cheek.

Pain splits my face as dots blot my vision. I blink, desperately seeking clarity. Blood pools out of my mouth as he grabs my hair, yanking me off my feet.

Blackness fringes my vision as he shakes me. Over and over again, he shakes me until there are no words. No sounds. No screams.

Feebly, I claw at his arms, desperate for escape, for freedom, for life.

I must live.

I must survive.

Mother needs me.

“Esmund!”

The tent flap lifts, freeing the poisonous cloud and grabbing the attention of the man shaking the life from my body.

My assailant turns as another man joins us, his eyes far angrier than my attacker’s. But his anger is not focused on me. It’s focused on the man who stole into my sanctuary.

“Let her go.” The warrior rips his broad sword free and raises it to the light of the torch. “Now!”

The man drops me for a second time. I crash into the hard, unforgiving ground. Shock spears my body as my assailant draws his weapon and turns to meet Gabriel with a quick, angry strike.

Gabriel counters. Then, he attacks the taller man, his movements fast and impossible to stop. The more Gabriel strikes, the more he sends his opponent backward until he has him pinned and his sword to Esmund’s throat.

My abductor raises his chin and stares straight into Gabriel’s eyes. “Do it. Taint your hands with my blood.”

The edge of Gabriel’s blade digs deeper.

“Do it, you undeserving scum. You’re not worthy of your—”

Fierceness seethes behind Gabriel’s gaze as he rams the sword through the man’s throat. The man’s eyes widen as he chokes on his blood. Violently, Gabriel rips the blade free, and the man collapses to the ground.

I slap my hand to my mouth at the savagery. It shouldn’t shock me, shouldn’t surprise me, yet it does.

Gabriel swipes his blade across the dead man’s surcoat and straightens. I scurry to my bed and sit on the mattress as he slides his broad sword back into the scabbard.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says, his voice low, empathic. If one can imagine a man able to speak in such a way after slaughtering someone.

I draw my knees forward and clasp my arms around them. Trembling overtakes me as I try to unsee Gabriel stabbing the man in the throat.

“Come.” Gabriel holds out his hand, and I sink deeper, shrinking away from his offer. Away from the Bloodstone barbarian and that hissing serpent emblem on his surcoat.

It means death. He means death.

“Kyanite.” He crosses the tent, grabs my arm, and pulls me from the bed. “I cannot leave you with a dead man all night, and you’re bleeding. You’ll come with me.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Leave me.” It would be easier to be with the dead than this man capable of viciously murdering someone much larger.

Instead of heeding my pleas, Gabriel tightens his grip on my arm and leads me from the tent. Away from the dead man. Away from the brutality. Away from the only sanctuary I built while imprisoned by the Bloodstone people.

If Gabriel is willing to kill one of his own, he’ll kill anyone. Harm anyone. Destroy anyone.

I’m next.