Page 3 of They Call Me Blue

“The purpose of elgrew venom is neither to incapacitate nor to kill, but to Claim. When we bite someone, our venom is injected beneath the skin, permanently linking them to us. To bite an elf is to Claim them as yours—forever.”

—The Emergence of Species, Elgrew Biology, Volume One

T angy silver blood floods my mouth. The elf’s rapid pulse throbs against my lips. I can smell her fear—sharp and poignant—as I pin the creature’s arms above her head and run my tongue along the side of her gushing gray neck.

Fucking bliss.

My prey whimpers. Her feet kick weakly as I flatten her body beneath my own and claim what’s rightfully mine.

Sinking my teeth into her tender flesh, I rip out a hunk of purple meat and chew.

The muscle is sweet in my mouth, stringy and metallic as I squish it between my teeth and roll it over my tongue, savoring the texture, the flavor, the way her bright silver eyes turn into saucers when I take it.

The creature won’t last long. I’m not a patient man, and I don’t enjoy playing with my prey once it’s caught.

“Please don’t do this,” she begs.

The words jar me, and I stop my ministrations. This thing knows the elgrew tongue.

“You can speak,” I hiss. “Whom do you belong to?”

She doesn’t answer.

I pull away then and scan the elf’s gray body for distinguishable marks. A Hunter can get into a lot of trouble for damaging an owner’s prey without consent. Chances are if she can speak our language, she’s been living in our cities as a pet.

Sure enough, two rows of serrated dots form a circle over her right thigh—unmistakable teeth marks.

Flexing my jaw, I bite back every instinct begging me to finish her off.

Instead, I wave my hand in the air, gesturing to the rest of the hunting party.

Five elgrew approach us, slowly padding through the leafy undergrowth, their palms outstretched so I don’t mistake them as thieves.

Hunters aren't obligated to share our catches. Whoever gets the first bite lays claim.

And I didn’t get the first bite.

My stomach grumbles its frustration. I wipe her blood from the corner of my mouth and press my hand onto the creature’s gaping neck wound, stemming the flow. “Someone, get me a needle, thread, and some ossi dust. I need to seal the wound before it bleeds out.”

Already, silver blood soaks the purple leaves below us, pooling behind her head and neck. I never miss an arterial vein—much to my detriment now when her life is on the line.

The elf thrashes beneath me, landing a good kick to my shin. Groaning, I smack her hard across the cheek, and those stupid silver eyes flutter shut, her body going prone beneath mine.

“Fucking bitch. I’m trying to help you.”

Leaves crunch to my left. My second-in-command squats over the mossy, mucky ground, then passes me a black, cinched bag.

“A runaway?” Conrin asks.

I grunt. “Looks that way. Probably found refuge with the A’sow Tribe. I’m guessing the fires displaced her.”

Black scorch marks stain the underside of her hands and feet. Deep, oozing blisters drain from the surface of her skin. Even with the damage, she smells divine.

My throat burns.

I’m so fucking hungry, it’s a struggle not to bite off a finger or a toe—claim it as payment for returning her—but my father would never hear the end of it, and then I’d be forced to eat meat from the kitchens like the rest of his staff.

Cooked elf doesn’t taste as good, and the creatures bred for slaughter never fight back.

I uncinch the leather drawstring and withdraw a pinch of ossi dust—a black powder made from our bone marrow.

As I spread it along the creature’s arterial vein, the bleeding ebbs, thickening and coagulating until it’s safe to thread the mutilated pieces of her neck back together.

Cursing, I snatch the needle and thread from Conrin, shove it through thick layers of flesh, and get to work.

My mouth is still salivating by the time I finish.

Anyone else in the group wouldn’t have been able to stop mid-feed, let alone stitch her back up, but that’s why they appointed me as their leader.

Even so, the urge to taste her is a constant, gnawing ache in the pit of my gut.

The others wouldn’t judge me if I changed my mind.

They’d join in, and we’d cover it up. Out in the forest, anything could have happened to her.

Disease. Famine. Prey to any number of beasts.

I shake the thought from my head. I'm better than that. My uncle raised me to treat my prey with respect, and I’ve honored that, even when my people don’t. What they’d want to do to her in exchange for their discretion wouldn’t be worth it.

Double-checking the stitchwork, I load her unconscious body onto Conrin’s verncat—a large, muscular beast almost as tall as I am, with saberteeth the length of my forearm and mottled orange fur that blends into the tall grasses.

Sprawled out on the cat, the elf could almost be mistaken for one of us.

Like most Hunters, my friends and I have meticulously replaced our skin with theirs, converting our lumpy purple flesh into something smooth and gray, both for camouflage and vanity.

Tiny silver threads connect the patchwork, while ossi dust fuses it to our musculature, giving us the ability to feel their flesh as if it were our own.

Besides the threads, our eyes and mouths are the only things that give us away—glowing violet irises where they should be silver and sharp, pointed teeth where they should be dull and flat. We’d rid ourselves of those, too, if we didn’t need the eyes to hunt them or the teeth to pick their bones.

I twist my long silver hair into a bun as Conrin hops onto his verncat and tightens his arm around the elf. His hand roams a little too far south, and I click my tongue.

“She’s not yours. No touching.”

He glares at me but obeys.

His verncat purrs as I walk past them, running my fingers through its sleek fur. Its long tail brushes against my leather pants. “If you touch her and she tells,” I warn, keeping my voice low so the others don’t hear, “I won’t protect you this time.”

Conrin rakes his fingers through his hair. “Shit, Lye, I won’t. Stop acting like my dad.”

“Someone has to.”

A tense silence settles between us; it always does anytime his father is involved. The man is worth less than dirt, having earned their family a life’s worth of gambling debt that Conrin’s still paying off.

I break the quiet, throwing my head back to release a sharp battle cry.

Trees and grasses rustle behind me before Prowler’s orange eyes emerge from a thicket of purple berries.

My pet is shorter than the other verncats, but faster and with a wider body too.

Jagged scars run along his back, cutting through the mottled fur.

The instant Prowler reaches me, I rub his chin in greeting. “Good boy. Did you have a successful hunt?”

Purring vibrations travel up my palm.

“Thought so. Your mood’s much improved since this morning.”

He nuzzles into my chest, and I nearly topple over. The damn beast has no idea just how large he actually is. Grinning, I scratch lower, until my fingers glide into something warm and wet. When I pull them away, silver blood glistens on my palm.

My stomach rumbles.

I glance between my friends, Prowler, and the orange grasses swaying in the humid breeze. I don’t like sharing food, and unlike them, I haven’t eaten in weeks. Salted meat rations sustain most Hunters, but I can’t stand the stuff. I need my kills hot and alive and fighting.

“I promised Azerin I’d bring back oo’ren moss,” I tell the others. They’ve already mounted their verncats and are on the mucky, uneven road that leads back to Kariss through the heart of the jungle. Audible groans escape their lips, and I screw my face into something apologetic.

“I’ll be back soon. Give me until sundown.”

I don’t wait for an answer before gesturing at Prowler to follow me through the purple bushes to the orange grasslands behind them.

Brushing aside leafy plants, I gently but firmly pinch the tip of Prowler’s ear, indicating he take me to the creature.

The cat obeys, his muscular body slinking through the tall grasses, dragging his belly close to the ground.

While Prowler sneaks, I straighten, feigning alertness like an elf about to be snatched.

If I’m lucky, my prey will hear me walking then come to me for help.

The prickly grasses bend as I stomp on them. Mud squelches beneath my hunting boots.

Twitching my pointed ears, I inhale long and deep and scan the clearing for signs of it .

Scents of ash and charred flesh linger here.

On the other side of the field lies total devastation—downed trees and razed shrubs as far as I can see.

The wildlife is either dead or gone. The sky around me is silent.

No chirping birds.

No buzzing insects.

This place is a graveyard.

My brows furrow as Prowler continues in that direction. No one survives something like this, yet his steps are sure as we approach the tree line.

“I know it hurts, Nirissa,” comes a faraway voice, spoken in the Elvish tongue.

I can’t see her, but saliva pools in the back of my mouth all the same. Not one elf, but two. Enough to sell one to the Butchers if they’re big enough or to fill my growling stomach for the next week if they aren’t.

I stalk toward my prey, ducking under a section of downed spine trees with thorns as large as my fingers.

Perfect.

There are no trees for them to climb up. No vines to swing from. If the elves want to run, it’ll have to be on foot, and I’m exceptionally fast on my feet. Scratching Prowler’s chin, I point toward the ground and snap, ordering him to stay put as I push aside the grasses and spot her.

Blue.

The elf every elgrew in Kariss is after. The elf my father, Azerin, paid handsomely to track and import. My people hunted their kind to near extinction, and now my father is spearheading the campaign to bring them back.

Find her.