Page 18 of They Call Me Blue

“The Lycean Swamp is considered one of the least hospitable habitats on Rayna. Bordered by sawgrass reeds, it’s nearly impossible to access without self-injury.

Ancient beasts lurk within the waters, and snakes as large as verncats slither in the muck.

If an elf chooses to seek refuge within it, elgrew should not pursue; they are dead already. ”

—The Stolen Journal of Jakil Orn, Hunter.

Status: Deceased.

N irissa snores peacefully in the bunk above mine. Wood creaking, I climb the ladder that links our beds together and lean over her still form. Above us, a glowfly jar hangs from the ceiling, bathing the room in dim pink light.

“I’ll be back by morning,” I promise, my voice barely a whisper.

Gently, I tuck a strand of hair behind Nirissa's pointed eartip, then kiss her forehead. She doesn’t stir, but that’s okay.

The words are more for me than for her—a reminder that I owe it to her to return alive and well and in one piece.

It’s bad enough that I’m leaving at all. Still, I can’t force myself to stay.

Restlessness stirs my bones. Simmering anger threatens to boil over if I don’t do something. Julian’s betrayal happened hours ago, but with my sister around, I had to swallow those emotions for as long as I could. Now, the monster rages.

When I get like this, there’s only one cure. Hunting. Dangerous as it is—reckless and stupid now, without the ossi dust—it’s the only way I know to vent steam. I do everything for Nirissa. I do this for myself.

Hopping from the ladder, I check the tightness of my braids then dress, covering my leather breastwrap with a long-sleeved linen tunic and exchanging a pair of shorts for breathable black trousers.

By elvish tradition, we’re supposed to wear hide, but the elgrews’ soft fabrics are more flexible, easier to dry.

Besides, what’s the point of killing those assholes if we can’t steal from them?

The echoing sound of water rushing over stones comes from the hallway—rainfall draining through the air ducts. A lot of it. My skin prickles with anticipation, imagining the challenge of a low-visibility hunt.

Grinning, I crawl beneath my bed and retrieve the leather go-bag I keep tucked against the wall.

A series of buckles and knots secure the contents and a large strap allows me to hook it over my shoulder.

I unfasten the central flap and withdraw the rest of my nonregulation outfit—an oversized, long-sleeved shirt woven from blue sawgrass reeds, a pair of matching oversized trousers, and fingerless gloves.

When I stroke down the outfit, the stems are as smooth as glowfly silk.

Stroking up, they’re sharper than razor wire with a penchant for embedding needlelike splinters beneath the skin.

When I first arrived at Starra’lee, Julian banned the makeshift armor.

He said if healers couldn’t touch me, they couldn’t help.

And if I couldn’t touch others, I couldn’t be an effective member of their team.

Begrudgingly, I agreed. But I still keep the pieces for solitary missions, and Julian hasn’t been stupid enough to confiscate them.

Carefully, I tug them on, adding linen liners to my gloves to prevent the reeds from slicing through skin. Once I’m fully dressed, I pluck my go-bag from the floor and double-check its contents.

Med-pack, check.

Emergency rations, check.

Fire starters, check.

Twine, check.

An extra set of clothing, check.

I buckle everything back up and swing it ‘round my shoulders. Then, I walk to my weapons cache in the closet and retrieve my knife. Not my bow. Not my machetes. But that tiny, rusted thing the spotter gave me all those years ago. Jagged and chipped, the blade gleams in the glowfly light. It’s pitiful, but I like the challenge.

The canvas ripples as I swat it open, sparing Nirissa a final glance before exiting into the hallway.

She’s still soundly asleep and blissfully unaware of the things I do at night.

Sometimes, I wonder what would happen to her if I died on one of these excursions.

Would Julian take care of her? Would he force her to fight?

My back pocket has never felt so empty.

Don’t go, my conscience pleads. Take care of her like you promised.

But the walls are so tight around me, I can hardly breathe. I’m suffocating down here, drowning under the weight of my obligations. I may not belong to the elgrew, but I’m far from free.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

And then I climb.

Muck squishes between my toes, red blood and water mixing in a shallow pool beneath my feet.

Kneeling in the underbrush, I sweep aside soaked leaves to reveal a hidden flap made from twigs and knotted twine.

On the other side of the flap comes the pleating cries of a korkuran bird—a flightless, little creature that ventures out at night to hunt the grubs and earthworms. When it rains, the damn things are everywhere.

The flooding drives the worms topside so they can breathe, and the worms draw the korkuran.

Starra’lee keeps dozens of these traps; I just take advantage of them. It’s not suspicious if one or two turn up empty when the spotters go to check on them in the mornings.

A transparent thread of glowfly silk connects the trap’s flap to a weighted mechanism held up by sticks.

Pressing down on the flap makes the weight lift, and the trap door opens, inundating me with the bird’s frantic cries.

The leak-tight clay hole is full of water.

Rain continues to pound overhead, plastering the wet clothing to my body, creating dozens of tiny ripples in the water below.

The blue korkuran thrashes its neck, hopping on webbed feet to hold its head above the surface. Wingless, its movements are ineffective.

With a shink , I unsheathe my blade. Then, I wrap my hand around the bird so it doesn’t have to struggle anymore. The korkuran doesn’t fight me—it thinks I’m its savior, and in a way, I am. The death I’m giving it is far more merciful than what the trap would bring.

I slash its throat. The movement is so fast the bird can’t register it, and the cut is deep enough it won’t have time to feel pain.

Blood turns the water red. Once the bird is limp in my hands, I grab its taloned feet, then knot them to my belt using a ball of twine.

Three other korkurans from three other traps hang by its side—the same slash across their throats.

Four is enough.

Julian will likely realize I screwed over the traps, but fuck him.

Blood drains down my legs, staining my clothing faster than the rain can wash it away. Wiping the wetness from my face, I squint into the darkness. Up ahead, a solid wall of sawgrass reeds denotes the start of the marshes. It’ll rip the birds apart if I’m not careful.

Thunder booms overhead. White lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating the dark world in flashes.

Still, I can’t see. The rain blurs everything, turning the dirt into a slushy mess beneath my feet.

I trudge through it all the same—feet schlooping, sticking, squelching in the muck.

It’s ankle-deep in some places and knee-deep in others.

I have to practically crawl to pull myself free.

When I reach the reeds, I toss my go-bag onto a tree branch overhead. Shoving a hand into my soaked pockets, I retrieve a dozen small stones that I collected at the start of the hunt—skipping stones. Smooth and flat and black as my surroundings.

Hands outstretched, I wade into the marshes, sticking to the border where the water barely reaches my ankles.

Goosebumps prickle my skin, the warmth of the marsh at total odds with the chilly rain.

Shivering, I keep my hands in front of me, using the backs of my gloves to brush aside the blue reeds—the same shade as my skin.

My movements are slow. Deliberate. One wrong step and I’m done for.

Cut by the grasses. Eaten by the beasts that lurk within them.

All around me, water ripples. Phytoplankton create bioluminescence under the constant onslaught of rain—tiny blue lights twinkling in an otherwise black expanse.

The grass bends up ahead. I let out a little prayer to the Korring-Marr that it’s just the wind as I wade deeper into the marsh. The water reaches my knees, and my heart thumps against my ribcage.

Another boom.

The thunder shakes the mushy ground beneath me and I throw my first stone, skipping it across the twinkling lights. The water glows turquoise with every hit. Red eyeshine reflects despite the thick curtain of rain. Swamp dogs. Dozens of them. But I only need one.

I throw another stone in a different direction.

Eight pairs of angry red eyes blink into and out of existence.

I toss again and again until I find the social outcast—usually the biggest, most cantankerous of the group, who doesn’t play well with others.

In the darkness, in the rain, it’s impossible to guess its size.

Retreating into the sawgrass, I move parallel to the swamp dog.

Then, I draw my knife and slice the first korkuran loose, catching it before it hits the water.

The plume of feathers is smooth beneath my fingertips.

Sleek and thick. I pluck some free for Nirissa, pocketing them before I run my gloves over the freshly exposed skin.

Tiny rivulets of blood ooze to the surface; most of it has drained by now, but there’s still enough for my purposes.

Reeling back my arm, I hurl the bird as far as I can toward the swamp dog. The rain slows it. But it hits close enough. Drawn by the smell of blood, the swamp dog swims to the bird and thrashes out of the water. Turquoise illuminates the spot, outlining a massive, scaled beast taller than Julian.

I swallow, palms sweating, chest aching. Adrenaline pours into my body, my muscles screaming in anticipation.

I can do this.

On instinct, I grab the next bird and the next, repeating until I’ve lured the swamp dog so close to me, I can see it despite the rain, despite the dark.

Quietly, slowly, I backstep to the outermost edges of the marsh until the water has receded to the bottom of my calves.

Out there, swamp dogs have the advantage.

But on land, they’re clumsier. Slower. They make mistakes.

I grab my last bird and cut it deeply with my knife until the slimy insides fall out. Then, I run.

Korkuran in hand, I make it out of the water just in time to see the swamp dog’s shimmering blue-and-black scales.

It lunges, paws thumping in the slippery muck.

Dropping the bird, I dodge, squeezing the rusted blade in my right palm.

The sawgrass can’t help me win this fight.

The swamp dog’s back is thicker than armor.

If I want to kill it, only two options exist—the underbelly or the eye.

Every time it lunges, it exhausts itself. The birds were a lure as much as a distraction.

Keep it busy.

Wear it down.

Trap it once it’s too tired to fight back.

Julian wonders how I kill my prey. The answer is simple—I outsmart it.

Its massive jaws open wide, revealing pointy teeth the size of my fingers. Thrashing its body, it seizes what remains of the bird carcass and consumes it in a single gulp. Blood seeps between its crooked smile. Those glowing red eyes settle on me.

I circle it, and it lets out a low hiss.

Body squirming, it rakes its claws through mud in an attempt to keep me in its line of sight. It’s fast, but I’m faster.

Lightning cracks, illuminating the marsh in brilliant white, showing me where to strike. I take the opening and dive onto the creature’s back. It bucks against me. My fingers slip on wet scales, and my knife goes flying.

Shit.

Fuck.

Panic seizes my core. No weapons. All I have is a spool of twine on my belt.

Above us, the rain pounds so hard, I can’t see a damn thing.

But I’m trained for this—I trained myself for this.

Emptying my mind, I clench my thighs around the creature’s massive frame and grope blindly for a fingerhold.

Soft, vulnerable skin grazes my fingertips—its neck.

As the swamp dog squirms and thrashes, I grab a fistful of skin with one hand, then reach for my twine with the other, my thighs and forearms burning with effort to hold on.

It roars, its whole body rumbling with the sound.

Twine in hand, I reach for the swamp dog’s head, pushing down on its massive snout.

Too late, it realizes what I’ve done. The creature tries to retreat into the water, but its movements are clumsy—slowed by exhaustion.

I wrap the twine around its upper and lower jaw, forcing its mouth shut.

Then, I ride its back until the thrashing stops and it’s safe to retrieve my knife.

Smiling, I stare down at the massive, worn-out thing, my whole body tingling with exhilaration.

I did it. I won.

This is what freedom feels like—the ability to fight monsters and win.

One day, I’ll rid myself of the elgrew too.

Not just for my sake, but for Nirissa’s.

I stare at my fingerless glove, Lyrick’s bite mark throbbing beneath it.

It’s been months since I felt our connection, but I feel it now, like someone squeezing my heart.

I don’t know if he can see me, nor do I care. I whisper the words regardless. “Letting me go will be your biggest mistake.”

Gripping onto the swamp dog’s tail, I drag it through the forest and return home.