Page 13 of They Call Me Blue

“The first elgrew were of elf and wood nymph descent. The females of our species have always been infertile, whereas the males can only procreate by inseminating a female elf. Children born this way are always elgrew.”

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“Always a pleasure to serve you, Lyrick.”

She winks at me, and I grunt. I don’t recognize her. Outside of mealtimes, I make a point of avoiding the Butchers and their ilk. It’s fucking barbaric what they do to their prey, and I want no part of it.

The mess hall reeks of urine and sweat as row after row of elves line up for slaughter.

It’d reek of shit, too, if the Butchers didn’t have the foresight to starve them last night.

Holding my breath, I poke the gray flesh with my carving knife, making a face as the blood coagulates.

It’s too bony. Too stiff. Eating it would be worse than starving.

My eyes snap to the creature standing across from me, and guilt twists my insides.

Not only is this thing being tortured on my behalf, but I won’t even have the decency to fucking eat it.

We’re still staring at one another when the Butcher pushes down on its shoulders, forcing it into a blue metallic chair made of cold iron , the one substance all fae are weak to save for us.

The elf’s eyes roll to the back of its skull as the magical properties of the chair incapacitate it.

Silver blood bubbles between its lips, its pleas morphing into nothing more than silent gurgles.

By now, both its hands are missing—both ears too—and despite the drugs I’m certain they’ve plied it with, the suffering is evident on its blood and tear-stained face.

“Next!” the Butcher calls.

She fastens leather straps around the elf’s arms, lashing them to the armrests. Then, she swings her cleaver again. No screams this time. The bicep lands with a thump and a squish as the next elgrew in line maneuvers around me and claims their prize, a serrated smile on display.

“Lyrick?” the apprentice asks.

I barely hear my name, my attention transfixed on the elf whose head lolls as it drifts in and out of consciousness. Butchers think the meat tastes better when cut from awake animals. It’s only a matter of time before she withdraws her smelling salts, forcing it to endure—

“Is something wrong?” the apprentice asks. Her deformed skin is covered in silver blood; her black apron sparkles with it. “Would you like a different piece?”

I shake my head emphatically. “No. No, I’m fine.”

Blinking, I take one step back, then another, reminding myself where I am—how I’m expected to behave.

It doesn’t matter what I think about the Butchers or their methods.

Speaking out would brand me a fanatic and get me killed.

Besides, no one forced me to come here. My friends suggested it and my family expects it, but no one made me.

There are more civilized eateries in the heart of the city, where they euthanize their food before they cook it, but no self-respecting Hunter would be caught there.

Like the Butchers, we eat our kills fresh.

Except, these aren’t my kills.

My stomach rumbles, the hunger, the aching emptiness almost unbearable as I make my way through the dining area, past rows of blue metallic tables and matching chairs.

The bamboo floor groans beneath my military boots.

Humid jungle air breezes through the wall-less space, the putrid odors dissipating the farther I get from the carving stations.

Everything around me is blue. Blue-painted ceilings. Blue placemats. Blue chalices filled with blue liquid. My father is obsessed with the color and has turned this entire city into a living reminder of the elf he hunts.

Too bad I’ll eat her long before she’s forced to see it.

I close my eyes, tugging on the mental connection between us, hoping to catch a glimpse of the forest through Arden’s eyes.

It remains as quiet and dark as ever. I have no control over what I see or when I see it, which is probably for the best. The bond between us shouldn’t exist. It can only cause problems.

Pushing her from my mind, I scan the room for Eleesy, Conrin, and Sarvenna.

They sit in the back, their uneaten plates in front of them, waiting for me to return.

Like every Hunter here, the three of them are devastatingly beautiful—their bodies custom-made from their most memorable kills.

It’s a sharp contrast to the Butchers, who’ve maintained their twisted bones and malformed skin.

But the Butchers don’t need to be camouflaged like us; they need to be intimidating to the animals they keep.

No matter how often I see the Butchers, it’s difficult to look at their hideous bodies without wondering what I might’ve looked like without the surgeries and body modifications. So, I don’t look. I keep my gaze averted, ducking past their enclaves to reach my friends.

My plate hits the table a little too hard, silver blood oozing over the lip.

“Hands are the worst,” Eleesy remarks, displaying the same cut as mine. “I swear to Demtin, if I get another hand this month, I’m going to jump across that damn divider and rip the elf’s throat out myself.”

I snort. Like the Butchers would ever let her get close enough to touch their property.

Nudging the hand on my plate, I stick my knife in and seesaw, almost retching when the blood slowly leaks out.

“Still struggling, I see.” Across from me, Conrin happily cuts through his quarter thigh, having gotten the best cut the mess hall has to offer.

I lift a pinky finger to my mouth and bite down, the bone crunching between my teeth. Bile rises up my throat, but I force myself to swallow both it and the grotesquely lukewarm body part, shuddering when it slides into my empty stomach.

“I hate eating this shit,” I say. “I need to be out there, hunting with the rest of you.”

Where it’s a fair fight.

“Then breed someone and get it over with,” Sarvenna says, rolling her eyes.

Her skin is mottled—dark gray, light gray, and cream forming a gorgeous patchwork across her face and neck.

It ruins the camouflage, especially when her long silver hair is pulled into a pony, but fuck if it doesn’t make her attractive too.

Attractive enough, I can’t keep my hands off her.

Our violet eyes meet, and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing as I am. My bedroom won’t be empty tonight.

“I have no interest in breeding animals,” I tell them. “My cock is quite content as is.”

Conrin groans. “Your father has some of the best pleasure slaves in the city. I don’t see why you’re making such a big fucking deal about this. Just give him a grandson already so you can hunt with us again.”

He doesn’t understand. None of them do. They eat meat just fine—cooked, salted, fresh, it doesn’t matter.

They fuck elves for pleasure as much as they fuck each other.

But I’m better than that. I want to be better than that.

I’m not about to fuck something that can’t enjoy it.

I won’t torture animals by forcing them to carry my spawn or by coming in them when their eyes are half dead.

It goes against everything my uncle taught me.

I’d rather be my father’s prisoner indefinitely, which is all too easy to accomplish given his sentries block every exit.

“I shouldn’t have returned from the last hunting trip,” I snarl, dropping my knife and lifting the elf’s hand to my teeth.

The flesh gives way beneath me, and I do my best not to taste it as I rip and chew.

“I hate living indoors and sitting in on the Politic. It’s been five fucking years, and he won’t take no for an answer.

I wish my cock worked as well as their wombs. ”

I gesture to Eleesy and Sarvenna, who glare at me.

If there’s one thing elgrew women hate, it’s being reminded of their infertility—that despite their physical prowess and cunning, they will always be inferior to elves in that one regard.

I, for one, consider it a Marr-damn blessing.

The last thing Sarvenna and I need is to bring a child into this world.

“Poor Lyrick,” Eleesy says. “It must be awful having an endless supply of pleasure slaves to fill up.”

“Truly torture,” Sarvenna adds.

I hold my retorts. Admitting my disgust would raise eyebrows.

It’s a personal choice, not a political statement, but my father wouldn’t see it that way.

At best, he’d call me a traitor. At worst, he’d do to me what he does to the slaves—tie me naked to a bed and force me to fuck one.

Living in Kariss means playing it smart, not making waves, not admitting the truth—that the mess halls, the pleasure houses, and the arena all make me want to puke.

I drop my mostly uneaten hand and reach for a clay pitcher at the center of the table. Sometimes ya’esen helps. Rather than pour the alcohol into my chalice, I chug directly from the source, face puckering with the bitter, burning taste. When it’s a quarter empty, I pull away, gasping.

“You’re in a mood today,” Eleesy says.

I shoot her a vulgar gesture before taking another swig.

Then, I fill my cup. Midnight-blue liquid—the same shade as Arden’s skin—splashes against the ceramic, forming air bubbles in my drink.

Clammy sweat beads my forehead as I imagine my elf strapped to the Butcher’s chair, my father doing gods know what to her and forcing me to do the same.

I need to get out of here.

I need to be back in the forest, where everything makes sense.

City life has made me soft. Five years ago, I wouldn’t have cared about any of these creatures.

Fuck, I would have sold them to the Butchers myself.

But that was before I had to witness what was done to them day in and day out. It’s easy to ignore what you can’t see.

“He’s always in a mood.” Conrin snorts.

“Because he never eats anything,” Sarvenna adds. “I can hear your stomach rumbling from over here.”

I resist the urge to hug my traitorous belly and prove her right.

Outside, a series of rhythmic drum beats mark the start of today’s games. I practically jump from my chair, its metal legs scraping against the floor.

“Where the fuck are you going in such a hurry?” Conrin asks.

Bending over the table, I snatch my chalice from its placemat, then scoot my remaining food toward Sarvenna. “The games,” I spit. “Azerin insisted I come. He thinks he can get me to take the victor as my myrie. ”

The mother of my child.

“Good luck with that,” Conrin says.

Eleesy perks up, her eyes alight with something dark and playful. “Is he going to let you fight her? I’ve never fucked an elf outside of the pleasure houses, and the Trainers refuse to arm them, even when you ask nicely.”

Groaning, Sarvenna rolls her eyes and takes a sip from her drink. “Don’t be stupid, Leesy. Whoever wins is going to be the strongest elf in Rayna. Azerin isn’t going to let Lyrick chase her just so fucking her will be more fun. Her womb’s too expensive.”

“As much as I enjoy this conversation,” I say, squeezing the chalice so hard the stitchwork in my knuckles pulls, “I’m late.”

Spinning on my heels, I polish off the rest of the ya’esen and leave. It’s not enough to get me drunk, but it’s a start.