Page 19 of They Call Me Blue

“Unlike elgrew, elves do not experience adolescence. They mature overnight and all at once upon reaching their Age of Majority. Most elves undergo the transformation between the ages of fourteen and eighteen. However, acute or extended periods of stress have been known to both trigger it early or prevent it entirely.”

L ong black claws rake across the bottom of the lava tube, scratching frantically.

The swamp dog’s desperate struggles have the opposite of their intended effect.

Unconscious or dead, the beast would’ve proven too heavy for me to lift, forcing me to abandon it in the marshes.

While fighting though . . . its kicking legs and twisting body propels it wherever I want.

Still, my biceps scream with the effort of dragging this living creature, my grip so tight on its armored tail that my palms are numb.

Skittering paws and hissing snorts echo down the cavernous hallway as I drag the swamp dog toward the dining hall, my stomach growling.

Water drips from my braided hair, pooling on the stone beneath my feet.

It plasters the clothing to my body—tight enough that the sawgrass pricks through my linen underlayers, turning everything itchy.

Behind us, a trail of mucky water leads back to the trap doors—to the terrified spotters who had to let us in. I wonder if Julian will have the balls to tell me I’m responsible for cleanup.

“It’s past curfew,” spits an unfamiliar voice.

To my right, a bedraggled woman appears in the hallway, shoving past the canvas door that leads to one of several barracks. She’s dressed in nothing but a leather breastwrap and panties, her arms folded across her chest. “Go to bed or I’ll report you to—”

One look at me and the words lodge inside her throat. I’m not sure if it’s the blood-soaked skin the dirt caked on my body or the giant beast that has her frozen in her tracks.

“Arden, I-I didn’t realize it was you.” She takes a cautious step back, her eyes darting between my prey and me. “I’ll get out of your way.”

Backpedaling into the barracks, she disappears behind the safety of her flimsy door. No doubt they’ll gossip about this tomorrow once the other units are sure I’m not around. It always gets back to me, though.

The girl is a fucking animal.

I don’t know why Julian recruited her.

She gives me the creeps.

I repeat the insults in my head, reminding myself for the hundredth time, these fae aren’t my friends.

Outside of Julian and Giara, the elves in Starra’lee don’t know the first thing about who I am.

They see a little girl half their size capable of downing a bear, a swamp dog, or a team of elgrew by herself and get spooked by it.

To them, I’m as much a monster as the elgrew are. Which is fine by me.

Grunting, I pull the swamp dog down several flights of stairs, then push aside the canvas flap that leads to the dining hall.

The scents of lye and musk greet me. Unlike earlier, the smoke is gone, the place abandoned— almost .

Despite the fact that it’s well past curfew and only active spotters or squad leaders are allowed to roam freely, the entirety of my unit sleeps around their makeshift surgery, wrapped in sleeping bags and blankets.

I roll my eyes.

Muttering curses at Julian, I drag my breakfast toward an unlit firepit.

Suspended chains and metal hooks dangle from a makeshift platform beside it—high enough to hang and drain my meat.

Buckets, cooking utensils, and plates lay atop an adjacent table, freshly washed from whatever sap got stuck with cleaning duty.

Dropping the swamp dog’s tail, I sigh. Then, I crack each knuckle and brace myself for the arduous task that is killing, draining, skinning, and cooking an eight-hundred-pound monstrosity.

It hisses mockingly.

Ignoring it, I sling the go-bag from my shoulders, then carefully remove my scratchy layers of sawgrass reeds, dropping them into a puddle at my feet. Peeling the shirt from my body, I toss it too, the fabric splatting as it hits the floor.

“Shit, Arden, that looks terrible.”

My head wheels at the sound of Julian’s voice. He’s leaning against the table, a ratty blanket curled around his shoulders.

“Fuck off,” I spit.

Still, my eyes follow his as he assesses me. Raised, dark-blue rashes cover every inch of my exposed skin. It’ll burn like a bitch when it’s time to clean up. I cringe, imagining what the rashes will feel like once I'm fighting in unyielding leather armor.

“Told you not to use the reeds,” Julian says, pushing the bangs from his forehead. “If you were going to disobey a direct order, you should’ve at least worn something thicker underneath.”

Without a word, I step around him and withdraw my rusted knife, irritated that this asshole thinks we’re still friends. Maybe others find his banter charming—maybe I did too, once—but it’s not enough to make me forget I hate his fucking guts.

At least now, I have an outlet to channel that rage.

The swamp dog slithers across the cold, damp floor. My feet stomp behind it. Arms outstretched, I approach it from the side where its blind spot is, then lunge. Claws slash out. I dodge, burying my knife with a single thrust to its eye. A quick, painless death.

Julian would be so lucky.

Seesawing the knife, I rip it free of flesh and bone, then wipe the blood on my pants.

“Marr-damn, Arden. Remind me not to piss you off.” Julian winks at me, and I grind my molars together so hard my gums ache.

“Don’t tempt me,” I growl, slamming the knife in its sheath. “If you’re here to talk, it’s not happening.”

Julian arches an eyebrow.

“Either help me drain it or fuck off.” Jumping, I stretch for the dangling metal chains and groan when I’m still too short to reach them. Shrugging off the blanket, Julian grabs one for me—not even needing to stand on tiptoes. Asshole.

“I’ve got it, Arden.” He breezes past me and wraps the chain around the swamp dog’s back legs, forming a makeshift harness.

Then, he tosses the other end around the platform and raises the beast until it’s hanging upside down.

Julian is one of the only elves strong enough to do so.

Berserker— that’s what the elgrew call them—elves with supernatural strength and stamina, bred to make their games more entertaining.

Though he doesn’t look a day over twenty, he fought for decades in the elgrews’ fighting pits before Starra’lee saved him.

He still doesn’t talk about it.

“Go clean up. I’ll cook,” Julian offers.

I narrow my eyes at him.

“You’re soaked and injured.” Unsheathing the knife from his belt, he flashes me a crooked smile. “Consider it a peace offering.”

“Not a fucking chance.” Still, I grab my go-bag, my movements sluggish, my muscles gelatin as the adrenaline finally wears off. “This isn’t me forgiving you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Roaring laughter bounces off the cavernous walls. Savory smoke clogs the air—white and thick plumes separating me from my squad mates.

Of course, Julian invited them.

Their laughter dies the second I approach, padding barefoot toward the crackling fire.

Julian forwent my original plan to carve the beast into smaller, more manageable chunks.

Instead, he hoisted the whole damn thing onto a spit, combining several firepits into one massive inferno.

It blazes heat, sending goosebumps up my arms and legs.

For the first time in months, my silvery blue hair is free of its braids.

I’m dressed in a sleeveless elgrew top and shorts that barely reach my ass.

It’s the most vulnerable I’ve ever been around them, and it has me hugging my middle as I settle onto an empty, upside-down crate.

A half-dozen other crates fill the space; I stare at them rather than at their traitorous occupants.

“Saved the skin for you,” Julian says. “In case you wanted to make armor out of it.” He indicates a bucket filled with unwashed gore. The gesture is not as half as kind as it would be if he’d done something— anything —to clean it.

I grunt, forcing my rashy arms to my sides, wishing I’d chosen to chafe in sawgrass rather than expose my flesh to them. I’d be totally fucked if I had to fight right now—all I have is the rusted knife strapped to my thigh—but it’s too late to do anything about that.

“Food’s almost done,” Julian adds, speaking in Elgrew this time—no doubt to include Chest Wound in conversation. He passes me a smooth wooden plate and a pair of eating utensils, which I pointedly set on the floor. A jug of fermented grain— glorified pisswater —rests by my feet.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your fun,” I say, the Elgrew words feeling strange on my tongue. Wood creaks beneath me as I lean back in my seat. “Carry on.”

No one speaks.

It’s so quiet, I can hear the meat cooking.

Typical. The fastest way to kill a party is to have me join in.

Julian clears his throat, ready to smooth things over as always. “I was telling the new guy about that time Cheevy asked me to pee on him to treat a yalka sting. Fucking moron.”

“How was I supposed to know it’d make the infection worse?” Eyes narrowed, Cheevy wipes the snot from his half-missing nose. “Besides, Sora let me.”

Sora chuckles. “Because I didn’t think Julian would actually do it.”

Rotating the spit, our squad leader smirks. “I think we all learned some valuable lessons that day.”

They laugh, and my presence is all but forgotten.

One by one, my squadmates settle into casual conversation, sharing stories of how they came to be in Starra’lee. Like me, their physical prowess, cleverness, or hunting skills earned them recruitment offers. Unlike Chest Wound, they deserved to be here.