Page 14 of They Call Me Blue

“Elgrew are divided into five castes—Butchers, Bracers, Trainers, Hunters, and Stitchers. A single representative is selected from each to serve as Karesai on the Grand Overseer's council. This forms the Politic.”

—Histories of Kariss, The Great Charter.

M y father's newest myrie kneels on the stone floor, swollen-stomached and silent, with a golden collar around her neck.

Her skin is so pale it looks white rather than gray, as does her long, flowing hair, braided down the center of her back.

Like all myrie, she's dressed in clothes that showcase her pregnant form, indicating to the Hunters that she's to be handled with care on the off chance of an escape.

A pair of dark blue harem pants hang low on her waist, but her chest is bare, accentuated by a net of golden chains and beadwork.

I avoid eye contact with her. It does no good to pity my father's pets, and if he mistakes my observation as interest, he'll insist I have her next, that we both breed her until she inevitably dies in childbirth, grows boring to us, or decides to take her own life . . . like the last three have.

Roaring crowds fill the octagonal stadium below us—Bracers, Trainers, Hunters, Stitchers, and Butchers all gathering to watch the show.

Green reed papers wave in their raised fists, black ink scrawled on the fronts of them as they wager which fighter will emerge this year's champion.

A young elgrew boy, some hundred feet below our private balcony, rushes up the stadium steps, collecting their papers in a wicker basket.

My father will have placed his bets last night with the rest of the Politic, trading insider information with city officials, arranging the event so he doesn't lose.

Azerin never loses.

Turning sideways, I scoot between his myrie and the railing, making my way to the seat at his right. He doesn't look at me. I'm late.

Like me, my father's face is a near seamless patchwork of elf flesh, all uniformly the same shade of storm gray.

Unlike me, his eyes have also been replaced—one of them, at least. The violet, silver combination has always been off-putting, even more so when he's angry with me and that silver eye swirls like it's made of mercury.

It's swirling now.

He clears his throat as I settle into my plush, blue-cushioned seat.

“How nice of you to join us,” Azerin says, grabbing the collar on his myrie.

He tugs on the metal leash attached to it and rearranges her so that her face is in his lap.

The chains jingle, but she doesn't make a sound, keeping her gaze down, her mouth closed.

I cringe knowing how much training—how many beatings—went into making her so compliant.

“I was with Conrin and Sarvenna,” I say, leaning back on the cushion, pretending not to notice my father's myrie unbuttoning his silk trousers. “We were discussing—”

“Stop wasting time with them. You've already proven yourself a skilled Hunter. Now it's time to make a name for yourself here. I can't appoint you the next Karesai simply because you're my eldest. You have to earn it.”

I don't want to earn it. I want to live in the rainforest where I can hunt and fuck and kill, free of this guilt. This shame.

Azerin’s myrie opens her mouth and takes my father's purple cock between her lips, not pleasuring him but keeping her mouth full, her submission evident. He strokes her hair in affirmation, and sour saliva fills my mouth.

Fuck the cities.

Fuck him.

“Dad, this place . . . this life isn't for me.”

He holds his hand up to silence me as another member of the Politic filters into our private balcony, his own myrie dragged by a chain and gagged with a glass ball to stifle her screams. I swallow when I see the bite mark on her neck that I inflicted all those years ago.

The dotted scar glows amethyst in my presence, burning brighter and hotter the closer she gets.

My pit organs open of their own accord, expanding tiny pores near my tear ducts that change my vision. I can smell the heat of her. I can see it in the way the colors oversaturate her body and no one else’s. I’ve never bitten an elf before and let it live; the result is almost euphoric.

Her master coughs, and I force my pit organs shut, severing the connection between us.

The elf glares at me with piercing silver eyes, but it’s her master’s stare that has me quickly losing interest. Sorso despises me. He’s never forgiven me for tasting her, and I get the distinct feeling if I weren’t the Grand Overseer’s son, I’d be dead within the week.

Despite his obscene wealth, Sorso—the Karesai of Butchers—looks as hideous as the rest of his caste.

He’s kept his birth skin, leaving it purple and disfigured, with a twisted nose, a cleft lip, and a lumpy forehead that droops over his left eye.

Dark purple lines have been scratched into his face and forearms. I imagine elsewhere, too, but if so, they're hidden by a loose tunic, a black butcher’s apron, and matching trousers.

Sitting on my father's left, Sorso shoves down on his myrie’s shoulders and forces her to the ground. Her knees crack against the pavement, and tears well behind her swollen dark-gray lids. He leans in close and whispers something in her ear, jagged teeth flashing.

All the fight drains away then. Shuddering, she wraps her arms protectively around her swollen stomach, then bows her head in submission.

I should have eaten her. It would have been better for both of us if I had.

“Lyrick, it’s good to see you again,” Sorso spits. Staring at me, his hand delves beneath the golden chains adorning his elf’s chest, pinching her nipple in a demonstration of ownership. It's a struggle not to roll my eyes.

“Likewise, Sorso.”

“Your father tells me you'll be picking a myrie this week.”

I snort, but the sound gets lost amongst the roaring crowd. “Not likely.”

Azerin’s silver eye swirls. Unable to punish me without making a scene, he squeezes the roots of his myrie's hair, forcing her to swallow several more inches of him. She gags but doesn't struggle.

“We're considering Brawler,” he says to Sorso. “Lyrick likes it when they fight.”

I prefer it when they run.

Sorso's grip tightens on his myrie's shoulders—the topic of conversation reminding him yet again that I've fought his elf and won. My body has been between her legs, close enough to breed her if I'd chosen. And how can he be certain I didn't? It's not as if the other Hunters would rat me out.

Sensing his train of thought, I'm already expecting his reaction before it happens. Sharp fingernails pierce the elf's flesh until silver blood beads to the surface, seeping down her back. I lick my lips unintentionally, my stomach growling at the memory of tangy liquid and squishing flesh.

Azerin glares at me, and I work my jaw, fighting back the hunger. It's been too long since I last hunted.

“Excuse my son,” Azerin says. “He’s still adjusting to civilized society.”

Sorso flashes those pointed teeth at me. “Tell me, Lyrick, why is it you’ve never taken a myrie of your own? Is there something wrong with you?”

I tense, but the words come out smooth as silk. “I don’t find it very sporting to keep the elves collared and chained. I’d think you, of all people, would understand.”

He arches a brow, and I indicate the scratch marks on his body.

A smart man wouldn’t bait him, but if I’m to be forced into a leadership role, then these power moves are absolutely necessary, despite what my father might want.

“I’m guessing you let your myrie loose when you fuck her,” I say, my lips curling into a smug smile. “It’s probably how she escaped in the first place. Shame she was so easy to catch, though I don’t think she fought me half as hard as she does you.”

I let the implication hang in the air.

Sorso leaps from his seat, pulling her leash taut. “If I find out you touched her—”

“You’ll what? Beg for advice?”

Sorso lunges, but my father shoves his slave to the ground and steps between us, a vein ticking in his forehead. “That’s enough. Both of you.” He opens his mouth to say something more, but before he can, feminine giggles sound from the entryway.

Turning, I watch the Karesai of Trainers and the Karesai of Bracers duck into the seating area, laughing arm and arm at some inside joke.

Their patchwork gray skin is as mottled as Sarvenna’s—their reputation just as brutal.

One of the women dresses in a puffy, lacy gown, while the other wears purple fighting leathers, a pair of knives strapped to her thighs.

If either of them senses the tension between us, they don’t say anything. Instead, they offer up customary hellos before selecting seats in the singular row behind ours. Usually, they bring pleasure slaves with them, but not today, likely because they're planning on purchasing a victor as well.

Straightening his apron, Sorso returns to his seat and readjusts his myrie between thick, lumpy legs. I’ve just made her life infinitely worse, and I can’t help but feel terrible about it. Still, the need for self-preservation wins out.

It always does.

The Karesai of Stitchers is the last to arrive.

He’s dressed in a white surgeon's apron and matching silk trousers.

His gray skin and eyes are so perfectly matched, he could be an elf were it not for the serrated teeth.

Likely, he spent twice his weight in gold purchasing the elves who made him so attractive.

The same could be said for me, Azerin, and half the upper class.

The Stitcher—the closest thing I have to an ally within the Politic—sits beside me and clasps me on the shoulder. “Are you still having trouble with your jaw?”