Page 34 of They Call Me Blue

“Trainers are the backbone of elgrew society. As the name implies, they are responsible for training all breedable pets within the city, ensuring they’re well-versed in obedience and bedplay.

Elves who undergo training are reportedly happier than their counterparts who don't. They are also far less likely to pose a danger to themselves and to others. It is for this reason, training is mandatory before any pleasure slave or myrie can be sold or bought.”

—City of Kariss, The Great Charter

T he training houses are located at the center of the metropolis, shaded by the Korring-Marr’s fiery orange leaves.

Centuries ago, these buildings could be found all throughout Kariss—or so my father says—but that made it easier for the elves to escape.

Here, they’re far enough away from the city walls that any attempt would be futile.

Still, the elves try.

Colette’s training houses are some of the most lavish buildings in the city—glossy, black marble structures with long staircases and pillars so high they touch the lower branches of the Korring-Marr.

Most of them have purple roofs; those are for the lower caste.

Some have silver. But our palanquin stops in front of a blue marble building with golden veins running through it—the only one of its kind, reserved solely for members of the Politic, which apparently now includes me.

“What are we doing here?” I ask. My legs ache from sitting crisscross in the box for so long.

From my father’s estate, the training houses are nearly half a day’s journey.

Already, dusk approaches, scattering pink sunlight across the skyline.

“I thought we’d be writing speeches or contacting event planners. ”

Colette snorts. “We have people who take care of that, Lyrick. There are many, many perks that come with being a Karesai.”

Carefully, her slaves lower the box. Colette swings the door open, sighing as she stretches.

Her yellow dress is wrinkled from travel.

Her updo droops free of its golden pins.

“Your father has asked me to prepare you for the celebration that comes after you’re inducted.

He thought you’d throw a tantrum if he suggested it in person. ”

“Prepare me how?” I step outside the box, cracking my back as I twist from side to side. The relief is instantaneous.

“Sorso won’t agree to the appointment unless you take a myrie. He doesn’t like the way you look at his. After the inauguration, there will be a public breeding ceremony at your father’s estate.”

I clench my teeth. “How public?”

All breeding ceremonies require a minimum of five witnesses—one from each of the five castes—or else the joining is illegitimate as well as any children birthed as a result. Much to my chagrin, it was never going to be a private affair, but I’ll be damned if it’s a spectacle.

“All his guests will be in attendance.”

All ten thousand of them? Fuck that.

“You can tell my father to take his appointment and shove it up—”

She holds up her hand. “I know. You’re not interested in breeding a myrie or becoming a Karesai.

You’re a Hunter, and like all Hunters, you despise domesticity.

But the thing is, you don’t have a choice.

Once the Grand Overseer makes an appointment, it’s already done.

Yes, Sorso, Yaklan, Ryla, or I could technically vote against him, but he would make our lives very unpleasant, like he’s making yours right now.

” Colette cups my shoulders, her eyes full of the one emotion I didn’t think a Trainer could possess—sympathy.

“In two days’ time, you will be a Karesai, like it or not, and you’ll be forced to mate.

I can train you for the role, as I trained your predecessor, but only if you cooperate. ”

My skin itches. I’m as trapped here as the slaves. Forced to rule over a society I despise. Forced to break the morals Talin so thoroughly engrained into me.

“I tried to run away,” I admit. “But the guards know my face.”

“The last Karesai of Hunters ran too,” she says. Colette offers me her arm, and I accept, letting her guide me up the marble steps. “Now he’s dead. When it comes to defying Azerin, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Crisp air billows my clothes. Leaves as large as my face fall from the Korring-Marr, tangling in our hair before they sweep down the steps. The elves claim they can feel divinity when they touch their sacred tree, but if their god exists, it abandoned them a long time ago.

The front door yawns before us, a solid sheet of gold with a knocker shaped like a verncat head. Colette picks it up and slams it down. Once. Twice. The doors swoosh open in a flurry of motion, three slaves on either side holding it as we walk past.

Kerosene chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting dim yellow light across the polished marble.

A grand staircase leads to the second-floor overlook, where a gilded railing frames the rectangular space.

To my surprise, there aren’t any pleasure slaves milling about.

There are no screams of pain or moans of pleasure. It’s . . . quiet.

“We can speak freely here, Lyrick,” Colette says, her voice echoing off the stonework. “The slaves don’t understand enough Elgrew to spread rumors, and the other members of the Politic never appear unannounced. I can help you best if you speak candidly and honestly.”

“What do you want to know?” I ask.

“Have you ever lain with an elf before?”

I peer over my shoulders, staring at the six elves who let us in. They’re dressed in plain white gowns, not the netted breastplates or low-rise harem pants that would mark them as pleasure slaves. “I . . .”

She steps in front of me, blocking my line of sight until we’re the only two people in the room. “Candidly and honestly, Lyrick. Help me help you.”

Swallowing, I debate the intelligence of sharing such personal information with a political rival. It’s nothing she couldn’t guess. Still, I choose my words wisely. “I’m not attracted to them,” I admit. “They don’t do anything for me.”

“You can’t get hard,” she clarifies. There’s no judgment in her voice. It’s a matter-of-fact statement.

I feel judged regardless.

Tugging on my shirt collar, I envision the floor swallowing me whole.

“No need to be embarrassed,” she says. “I suspected as much based on what your father has told me. I have potions that will help with that.”

Rifling through her pockets, she retrieves a glass vial that contains viscous orange liquid. Uncorking it, she offers the vial to me. “Reaction times and side effects vary from elgrew to elgrew. It’s best to take it in an isolated setting the first time.”

I sniff the potion. My nose scrunches at how sickly sweet it is—like fermented fruit.

“It’s not poison, Lyrick. I’m not stupid enough to harm the Grand Overseer’s son. Take it or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me, but if you refuse your father will hear of it.”

“He expects me to drink it.”

She nods. “He expects your full cooperation.”

Of course he does.

Glowering at her, I tip back the liquid and shudder as it slides down my throat. Warmth settles into my stomach like a slimy lead ball, and my mouth puckers in revulsion. She hums her approval then collects the empty vial and recorks it, slipping it back into her puffy dress.

“Normally, elves are trained for months before they become a myrie. Your father has demanded we expedite that process.” Colette whistles, and another plainly dressed elf appears, sprinting as she descends the marble staircase.

Her footsteps are lighter than a fallen feather.

In her hands is a measuring tape and a notepad.

“Brawler will not be like my other pets,” Colette warns. “She speaks too much Elgrew, and she’s trained to fight back. It will be dangerous to keep her.”

“So, it’s been decided then?” I hiss. “I no longer have a choice in who I breed.”

“Apparently not.”

The slave kneels at my feet, loose silver hair falling over her face as she takes my measurements for gods knows what. First, she takes my inseam, then my hip, moving up along my body with slow precision. My disgust at her touch is unmaskable, and Colette takes note of it.

“I promised Azerin you won’t embarrass him at the ceremony. Trust me and everything will be alright. If you need something stronger, that can be arranged.”

The elf finishes and darts away as quickly as she appeared, saying nothing.

“I tried to dissuade your father from Brawler,” Colette continues, “but he likes the statement it makes, and he likes the idea of a powerful heir. It’s been a long while since a Bracer was born into your bloodline.”

Colette offers up her arm again then leads me to the second story. At least twelve golden doors fill the space. She opens one of them and steps inside.

I expect a bedroom but find an apothecary instead.

Shelves upon shelves of potions and ingredients line the walls.

A large island in the center contains a mortar and pestle—crushed purple powder sticking to the inside of the bowl.

Floral scents invade my nostrils, so pungent I cough, shielding my nose with my shirt.

I’m not used to strong odors, even pleasant ones.

On the hunt, elgrew try to smell as neutral as possible to keep our locations secret—both to the elves we hunt and the predators who hunt us.

Even in the city, we only frequent inoffensive places.

The ones that won’t assault our nostrils or weaken our sense of smell.

Colette crosses the room, high heels clicking across stone. A cabinet creaks as she peeks into it, withdrawing a clear glass jar filled with dehydrated silver berries. Hundreds of them.

“Do you know what these are?” Colette asks.

“Rowan berries.” A single one costs the lower caste five years’ wages. Harvested from the Korring-Marr once a century, they’re the single most limited and valuable resource in Kariss. “Elves need them to ovulate.”

Nodding, she taps her nails along the jar, clinking the glass. “One or two will make an elf fertile. But any amount can make them more … accommodating to your advances.”

She passes me the jar, and I turn it over in my hands.

While elves can live for millennia, it’s more than most elgrew could use in a lifetime—although my father might come close.

He’s replaced his body parts enough times to avoid the decay that comes with old age, artificially extending his life for centuries.

“When my pets leave their training houses,” Colette says, “they don’t need the berries to behave, but with Brawler .

. . it might be best to keep her under sedation so long as she’s in your house.

A pinch of powder added to her drinks every few hours will ensure she doesn’t injure herself or others. ”

Sweat pools beneath my armpits, plastering the shirt to my skin. I feel sick, listening to her talk about drugging someone so casually.

“If you need more berries, come to me. The Politic has unrestricted access to our reserves.” In demonstration, Colette withdraws another identical jar and sets it on the counter.

“I have cold-iron shackles as well. They’re messy, but they should keep her in her place.

Still, I’d advise against using them in public.

As the Karesai of Hunters, you must be seen as strong enough to manage without. ”

The room closes in around me, stealing the air from my lungs.

I need to sit down.

I need to run.

How the fuck am I supposed to get through the Ring Day celebration? My inauguration? Does Azerin honestly expect me to rape and keep one of those things?

“Lyrick?” Colette asks.

I sink to the floor, my pulse in my stomach, my mouth so dry it could be a desert. “I can’t do this,” I admit.

She presses the back of her hand against my forehead. Her skin is cool against my flesh. Shoving her hands into her pockets, she withdraws another orange vial, uncorks it, and forces it down my throat.

It burns this time.

As the seconds pass, the heat in my stomach radiates to my limbs and arms, and the sickness settles, turning into something else. Raw, aching, need.

“That’s better,” Colette says. Her pointed teeth glint in the lamplight, and that saccharine smile twists into something sinister. Her breasts spill from her corset as she bends over and rubs my rapidly hardening cock. “Mmmm, you’re so much bigger than I expected.”

I groan at the sensation, my eyes rolling to the back of my skull. My thoughts are fuzzy, my brain scrambled. The room blurs as she tugs me to my feet.

I blink, and then I’m lying belly up in a bed, staring at a blue marble ceiling. Giggles fill the room. The bed creaks and dips as a naked elf climbs on top of it, her silver hair brushing her delicate shoulders. Red lips part as her tongue darts out to lick them.

My insides squirm in realization. This animal is trying to mount me.

No.

NO!

I jerk, but nothing happens.

Another elf joins us, breasts smooshing against my chest as she reaches for my elastic waistband. To my abject horror, my cock stays hard.

I clench my hands into tight fists. It’s the only movement I can manage.

My body is too heavy and my muscles are too achy for anything else.

Closing my eyes, I disappear into the woods, vanishing into a hunt that isn’t real.

My hunger blots out the sensation of being touched.

Stripped. Somewhere, I register a growl.

A scream. The snapping of bones against my palm.

Then, nothing.