Page 22 of They Call Me Blue

“All debts accrued in the gambling dens must be paid. Failure to do so will result in asset forfeiture, including all rights to any myrie or pets. If the borrower has no assets, restitution must be made in payments of the flesh.”

—Azerin of Kariss, Grand Overseer

Royal Proclamation

T he Gambling Block reeks of smoke, and booze, and body odor.

It’s a mystery to me why anyone would willingly travel here.

An air of desperation clings to the patrons—mostly lower caste purples with no chances of moving up in life—all too stupid to realize the house never loses. My father never loses.

Dice tables fill the cramped walkways and city streets, their seats overflowing with elgrew.

Even on slow days, this place is unnavigable by carriages or palanquins.

In the heart of the city, purples might be tempted to clear a path for someone like me, but grays aren’t welcome here even though we own it.

I’m all too aware of how my presence will be received, so I pull my hood up and hide my face in shadow, like I do every time my father sends me on this particular errand.

Gods, I fucking hate being his go-between. Still, it’s better than thinking about the arena.

My boots scrape across the cobbled walkways where kerosene lampposts illuminate multistory, multiblock buildings made from reflective black bricks.

Tinted windows hide the patrons inside, and pleasure slaves decorate the front steps—male and female elves dressed in tasteless scraps of black fabric, so sheer it hides nothing.

Their owners call out prices to every elgrew who walks past. Nightly rates. Hourly.

The sooner I find him, the sooner I can leave.

Turning the corner, I enter a street where green betting slips hang from crisscrossing clotheslines.

I’m tall enough that I have to duck beneath them as I walk.

Wriggling through the crowds, I make a concerted effort not to touch anything.

Not the betting slips. Not the pleasure slaves. And certainly not the unwashed masses.

I hold my breath for as long as possible, but the stench of stale perfume and sex is unavoidable.

Eventually, the congestion levels out and the mossy-blue sky gives way to a green so dark, it could be black.

By the time I reach the gambling den that Conrin’s father frequents, any trace of daylight has vanished.

Silver moonlight bathes the towering building to my right— The Bronze Isle .

It’s identical to the others, save for the gleaming bronze gate in front of it, barring entrance to anyone without an invitation or key.

Two deformed Butchers guard the gate, one of them holding a list of approved patrons.

This is going to be messy.

I crack my knuckles then my neck, sighing as I approach the most exclusive gambling den in Kariss.

“Name,” the Butcher on the left demands.

I pull on my cowl just enough to expose my silver hair, my perfectly sculpted gray skin. “Lyrick. I’m here on the Grand Overseer’s behalf.”

Reaching into my silk cloak, I withdraw a scroll from a hidden internal pocket and pass it to them. My father’s wax seal—a blue sun with an x through it—remains intact. Inside is a detailed ledger of outstanding gambling debts. “I’m here for Morcai,” I add.

They glare at me, but I’m used to it. When Sorso despises someone, so do all his lackeys. Fortunately, they fear my father more than they wish me dead.

Without a word, the Butchers return the scroll to me and unlock the gate.

Its hinges squeak as I step through it—sealed ledger in hand—and climb the half-dozen steps that lead to the front entrance.

The black marble door is already open. Golden lamplight spills from it onto an overcrowded porch.

Here, the clientele is dressed in expensive suits and puffy dresses, their skin a blotchy combination of purple and gray.

Drums pound from inside the building, shaking the stones beneath my feet. Shrill laughter joins it.

Jaw clenched, I thumb my father’s wax seal and mentally brace myself for what’s about to happen. If I’m lucky, Morcai will have the money and Conrin won’t hear about this. If I’m not . . .

Maybe he’ll forgive me.

I slip past the outdoor seating area, into the foyer of an unfurnished room.

Black marble walls and a black marble floor greet me, reflecting the faces of the hundred richest merchants and inventors in Kariss—all of which are packed so tightly, it’s impossible to wedge myself between them.

Glittering blue powder covers their cheeks.

Their lips are smudged with dark paint, which flash serrated teeth when they smile.

Unlike the other gambling dens, there are no tables in The Bronze Isle . No dice games. No cards. Here, the betting is much more sinister. Everyone circles around a bright red spinning wheel where an elven boy has been tied naked to it, its arms and legs outstretched like a starfish.

Three elgrew form a single file line in front of the creature.

“Place your bets, everyone!” shouts a Bracer. Clad in black leather, she paces the room, holding a bamboo wicker basket. The crowd parts for her as she passes, tossing green betting slips into a nearly overflowing pile.

A dozen conversations echo off the walls.

“I think Oris will kill it,” whispers the woman in front of me.

Someone else snorts. “Selia’s brother is a Hunter. She has better aim.”

I scan the room for Morcai and clench my fists once I realize he’s the third competitor.

It’s a desperate ploy to recoup the money he owes Azerin—one that costs a fortune in and of itself.

Contestants don’t just pay the betting fee.

They pay for the elf. They pay the betters if they lose.

And they pay the house fifteen percent of their earnings.

It’s fucking psychotic that he’s up there, owing what he already does. Conrin’s bailed him out enough times already. If he goes through with this, neither of them will ever be out of debt.

For the first time in my life, I want to make a scene.

Someone has to teach this man a lesson before he ruins my best friend’s life.

If I have to be that person, so be it. I’m glad Conrin isn’t here to stop me—to pay me—he’s already paid enough.

And this stupid piece of shit deserves everything that’s coming to him.

My hand reflexively goes to my bone knife—the one my uncle gave me when I was seven, first learning how to kill. The smooth hilt curves into my palm. A perfect fit. Slowly, I unsheathe it and lower my hood, intent on stopping this before it’s too late.

“The betting is now closed,” the Bracer announces, cupping her hands around her mouth to be heard above the chatter. “Oris, you may spin the wheel.”

The room falls silent.

Kerosene sconces dim.

At the spinning wheel, the elven boy snaps its eyes shut, tears and snot leaking down its freckled face.

The creature’s bottom lip wobbles as Oris approaches it, his expensive boots clicking on the polished floor, his silk cloak swishing behind him.

He ruffles the elf’s hair playfully, like this is all a game.

Of course, to him, it is. I’m the only one who seems to realize how fucking disgusting this is.

I take a step forward, nudging the woman in front of me as Oris places his hands on the wheel and heaves, putting his whole body into the spin.

The boy screams. The sound changes pitch, wavering as its head swings toward the ceiling then back down again. At least with me here, it won’t have to suffer long. I’m nothing if not precise.

“Move,” I hiss.

The woman turns to glare at me. “If you wanted a better spot, you should have gotten here sooner.”

Her jaw drops when she sees my face. The Grand Overseer’s enforcer—not just his son, but the person he sends to demand restitution.

“Lyrick . . .” She takes a step back, bumping into the elgrew closest to her.

The boy continues screaming and a knife thunks against wood.

“Move.” I’m louder now.

More patrons turn toward me, then shuffle out of the way, clearing a direct path to the spinning wheel, Morcai, and the panicked boy.

Not seeing me, Oris flicks his blade. The metal tip gleams as it shoots through the air and lodges into the boy’s arm.

Another knife goes flying in a blur of motion.

And then it’s buried into the elf’s emaciated gut.

Silver blood oozes onto the marble floor, glittering like mercury. My stomach turns even as it rumbles.

He shouldn’t be here.

This is wrong.

Anger simmers in my veins. Maybe I can’t stop the torture that happens in this place, but I can offer mercy. I clench my jaw and throw before the other two competitors get a chance.

The boy’s cries suddenly go silent—everything does save for the swish, swish, swish of the wheel and the clomping of my military boots.

I don’t look at the pathetic creature as I step past the frozen crowd, up to the macabre display.

No—my eyes are on Morcai as I wiggle my blade free of its gushing throat.

A clean kill.

As painless as it gets for someone like him.

“Morcai, you owe the house a debt,” I say, keeping my voice level, my face blank. Calmly, I wipe the blade on my thigh, spreading silver onto my black hunting leathers. The tangy metallic stench threatens to cloud my thoughts, but I force myself to blot it out.

I will not lose control here.

I sheathe the blade and proffer my father’s scroll. “For you.”

The retired Hunter narrows his violet eyes.

Like Sarvenna, his skin is a mottled patchwork of gray.

Too poor to maintain it, purple scars sprout from the flesh where he’s been cut or scraped.

A narrow line down his left eye. Another through his lip.

He dresses in expensive suits that I know he can’t afford, wasting his son’s money and abusing his charity.

Gods, I fucking hate him.

The man makes no effort to retrieve the missive, so I close the gap between us. “The Grand Overseer requires payment,” I say, shoving the scroll against his chest. “Now.”

Baring his teeth, Morcai thumbs the wax seal open, breaking it. His cheeks darken with anger upon reading the contents. “That’s twice as much as I owe.”

“That’s interest,” I say. “Do you have the money or not? If not, I have permission to extract payment in other ways.” Peeling back my cloak, I flash my blade. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve flayed someone here. Elf skin is worth a fortune, even as used as his.

He puffs out his chest. “You think you can best me?”

“I do.” It’s not confidence or arrogance. It’s a fact. The old man is out of practice, and while I haven’t been permitted to hunt, I’ve never stopped training.

“Get the money from Conrin,” he says, shooing me away like he used to when I was a child. “We both know he’s good for it.”

My fist shoots out, connecting with Morcai’s gut.

The man grunts and doubles over, his chest heaving as he catches his breath.

Gods, this asshole is pathetic—not just that, but weak too.

It’s hard to believe I ever admired him.

Flexing my fingers, I walk a circle around the used-up has-been, my footsteps heavy and loud in the silence of the room.

No one interferes. They never do.

I punch him again— one, two —hard and in the side. Morcai stumbles forward.

At the edges of the crowd, several armed Butchers appear, ready to intercede if I need them. Ready to hold him down if it comes to that. But I don’t need help. Fighting, skinning, putting Hunters in their place, that’s what I’m good at.

“Your son’s name isn’t on the ledger,” I say. “ Yours is. It’s time you took responsibility for your actions.” I shove Morcai to the floor then join him, climbing over his body.

Morcai lashes out, grappling for me. Fingernails claw at my leather armor to no avail.

I pin his body beneath my own and rest my forearm against his throat, pressing down, cutting off his air supply. Choked off sputters escape the elgrew’s mouth. His gray face turns dark, nearly black as he slaps and kicks at me with muscles that have long since atrophied.

A knock to my gut.

A kick to my calves.

He grabs a fistful of my long hair and yanks, lurching my head back so I look at the ceiling. Searing pain lances my scalp, but I don’t budge. I’ve been waiting for this moment a long fucking time, and a little bit of pain isn’t about to stop me.

I stare at our reflection in the dark marble, savoring the view as his eyes close and his limbs stop flopping around.

Still, no one moves. No one speaks.

They watch me in complete stillness as I flip Morcai’s unconscious body over and reach for my blade. Expensive fabric rips as I trail the knife down his spine, peeling back layers of a three-piece suit, exposing a canvas of fattened muscle and scarred elf flesh.

Straddling him, I grip Morcai’s nape and shove his face to the floor, holding it there while I angle the knife between muscle and skin.

It severs so easily. So quickly. I’m loosely aware of how he moans beneath me.

How he twitches and begs for mercy. But I’m more focused on keeping the cut clean, tracing a stable line through a river of oozing amethyst blood.

My hands are steady—as sure as Yaklan’s—as I remove what Morcai owes my father, sweat beading against my brow. I blink past the burning in my eyes and throw the flesh to the floor with a resounding smack. “Pick it up,” I order the Butchers. “Have someone deliver it to Azerin.”

Purple blood sticks to every part of me. I have no desire to clean it off as I sweep the hair from my eyes and stand. I want them to see. My father wants them to see. No one fucks with us and gets away with it.

My legs wobble from how long I’ve been in the same position, but Conrin’s father has gone eerily still. If not for his white breath fogging the onyx tiles, I’d assume him dead.

“My guess is that at least one of you has ossi dust,” I call, speaking to anyone—everyone—in the crowd, stretching as I do so. I don’t wait for a response. “If you feel so inclined, you may heal him. Fuck if I care.”

And then I walk out—not bothering to see what becomes of the useless heap.