Page 40 of They Call Me Blue

Still, I see my father’s logic in sending me here. He’s offered me a chance to mold society into my image . . . on one condition. I behave the way he desires. I breed the elves, I eat in the mess halls, and I pretend that living here doesn’t make me feel like spiders are crawling on my skin.

Fuck if it isn’t tempting—not for me, but for them.

“Hunters are hard to control,” I say eventually, thinking of Sorso and how easy it would have been for anyone to fuck and eat his myrie. If I hadn’t been there, Conrin most certainly would have. “No one follows the rules that are in place now.”

“You have to change their minds before you can change their actions. It’s slow but worthwhile.” Yaklan’s politician face drops, and he lowers his voice. “Colette and Azerin told me what happened at the training house with her pets. That must have been . . . traumatic.”

I swallow, swatting the memories of my assault aside before they have time to consume me. The last thing I need is to lose control of my emotions in front of Yaklan, too.

“I was the same way about touching them,” he says. “But you don’t have to drug the elves like Colette or force them like Sorso. There is a third path.”

We stop in front of a large room, shielded by a spotted pink and yellow curtain.

Golden lamplight streams through a gap in the fabric.

Yaklan withdraws a chain from around his neck with a small key attached.

He shoves the key in the lock, his fingers hovering on the crystal doorknob. “I expect your discretion, Lyrick.”

I arch a brow.

Turning the handle, he ushers me inside then closes the door.

My jaw drops at what I see.

Sitting crisscross on the floor is a smiling female elf, surrounded by plush blankets and toy blocks.

A small elgrew boy sits in her lap, gumming wooden cubes as she strokes his hair.

His gray skin is the same shade as hers, but lumpy and uneven.

A pair of golden pins hold a cloth diaper to his waist.

Their heads jerk toward us as Yaklan locks the door. At the sight of me, the elf’s broad smile vanishes and her arms wrap protectively around the elgrew boy’s stomach—her son’s stomach, I realize.

“Yaklan, what is this?” My gaze flickers between them.

He merely crosses the room and sinks onto the floor, kneeling beside the creature. Yaklan cups her face in his palms and kisses her forehead. “It’s alright,” he says. “Lyrick is a friend.”

They exchange words that I don’t understand. Not Elvish, but something older, something illegal —the language before Rayna’s takeover. Her eyes dart to me, then to the boy, then back again. But Yaklan strokes her hair, his voice placatingly soft. “Relax. Sit. You are safe.”

In that ancient language, he says more until her shoulders finally slump. Once she’s calm, Yaklan turns to me and pats the floor beside him in invitation. I shake my head. This is wrong. The elves are animals and incubators. Not parents. Not . . . whatever the fuck this is.

I feel sick.

I turn the handle. It rattles, but it doesn’t budge.

“This is Vera,” Yaklan says. “She’s been my myrie since before I became a Karesai. I’ve never taken any others.” He picks up the squirming boy and holds him in his arms. “This is our son, Luvin. He’ll be two next week.”

“Does my father know about this?” I hiss.

“Azerin knows everything that happens in this city. We have an understanding.” Setting the boy down, he strokes the creature’s head, and she closes her eyes, purring like a verncat.

“I keep Vera confined to my domains. She isn’t allowed alone in public spaces, and she knows no more Elgrew words than any other myrie.

If she’s commanded to do something, she will obey. ”

Yaklan rubs his thumb along the hollow of her throat as the boy crawls around, grabbing up his toy blocks with slobbery, mangled hands.

Vera leans into Yaklan’s touch, angling her neck for better access.

Dressed in a simple long-sleeved gown, she shifts her legs, revealing dozens of dotted circular scars on her calves and thighs.

Yaklan lets go of the creature and she pouts.

“I give Vera whatever she wants within reason,” he says, patting her head.

His knees pop as he rises from the ground.

“I let her raise our children until they’re four or five, then I send them away before they’re old enough to remember her.

Elves are much more docile when you let them keep their young.

Treat them well enough and they’ll spread their legs willingly—no need for drugs or force.

She’s never even seen the inside of a training house. ”

All I can do is stare at them and try to process what he’s said—what I’ve seen.

My baby sister stirs in my arms just long enough to turn her head and smack her lips together. Adjusting the feverishly warm blanket, I peer at the closed curtain.

“I should go,” I say. “It’s a big day tomorrow, and this little one still needs to be fed.”

Sighing, Yaklan removes the key from around his neck and unlocks the door. “Think about what I’ve said, Lyrick. This life is what you make it.”

“You think I should take the appointment.” It isn’t a question.

“I shudder to think what elgrew will replace you should you refuse.”

The humid breeze tangles in my hair as I pace the abandoned city streets, forgoing my palanquin at the surgery center.

My boots scrape across glimmering, silver-painted sidewalks as I pass between upscale apartment buildings that drip with ivy.

At the bottom level, a handful of eateries have left their curtains open, casting dim yellow light onto the path ahead; Feron’s Nursery is among them.

Tyla coos in my arms, her lumpy hands sneaking free of the baby blanket.

Eyes closed, she presses a tiny palm to my cheek, and my chest tightens—those pesky paternal instincts kicking in, squirming around inside me like a festering disease.

It’s not that I don’t want to be a father.

It’s that every conceivable scenario leading up to that outcome—and following it—is utterly abhorrent.

Tyla’s cute now, but what will she be in twenty years? A Trainer like Sorso’s daughter? Like Colette? Will she take after Azerin, beating her slaves into submission, scalping them the moment it becomes convenient?

I already know the answer. I’ve seen it with my other siblings.

A little line forms between Tyla’s eyebrows as she frowns up at me.

Gently, I smooth it away with my thumb then cross the street, climbing a small set of steps that lead to Feron’s Nursery .

A green awning stretches overhead, and flowers curl around a short iron fence that frames the apartment complex.

Sweet orchids and purple kissy lips blow in the musty breeze.

The rainforest is so fucking close, I could walk a mile and be hidden in it.

Juggling Tyla, I open the glass door instead.

A golden bell rings overhead as I step into the brightly lit space.

The entryway is barren, save for a lone hallway that leads deeper inside and a standing desk with frilly pink lace draped over the top—two male Trainers behind it.

They smile in unison, straightening the fronts of their stuffy, three-piece suits.

A mixture of purple and gray skin blots their features—lower middle class, by the looks of it.

“Your little one is so precious,” the first one gushes, moving around the desk to get a better look at her. They don’t need to know who I am to see that I’m important. Our gray skin screams privilege. That our pockets run deep enough to buy their entire establishment and every elf inside it.

“How old are they?” the second asks, approaching the other side.

I grunt. Suck-ups. “The Stitchers extracted her yesterday.”

More noises. More fussing about how fantastic a job they did with replacing her skin.

I cut them off. “She needs to be fed.”

“Are you looking to purchase a milk slave or is this—”

“A one-time thing,” I say, cutting him off.

My father will have a slave at the estate, which he’ll most certainly traumatize come morning.

He prefers it when they don’t know their roles beforehand, watching the shock and fear on their expressions as elgrew rather than elf babes latch onto their nipples for the first time, razor teeth digging in.

It’s fucking awful, just like everything he does.

I allow one of the Trainers to lead me into a back room, chattering away the whole time.

I don’t pretend to listen. My mind is half a world away—on Yaklan’s surgery, Colette’s training house, and the arena tomorrow.

Half a dozen doors fill the hallway, all of them closed.

Stained-glass chandeliers cast flecks of color in every direction, and soft yellow carpet squishes beneath our feet.

The Trainer takes me to the last door, which is as unassuming as the rest. White painted. White knobbed. Ordinary.

He blocks the doorway. “The cost for feeding is—”

I hold up a hand. “I don’t care. You can send the bill to Azerin’s office.”

His amethyst eyes glint at the revelation, gold coins flashing in them. Bowing, the Trainer opens the door for me and steps aside. “Yes, sir. Of course. Whatever we have is at your disposal.”

“What I need is privacy,” I grunt. Stepping around him, I enter the feeding room.

A soft lullaby fills my ears. In the corner, a Trainer plucks at silver harp strings, his purple fingers broken and crooked. Attention singularly focused, he doesn’t pause or glance up when the door clicks shut.

Unlike the greeting area, this space is dark.

The only light comes from a few flickering candles on low-rise glass tables.

Floral-printed couches fill the room—most are empty, but a few contain female elves that have been stripped bare.

No chains pin them. No gags fill their mouths.

But it doesn’t matter. They’re trapped here all the same.

Purple-skinned Butchers pace the aisles, cleavers in hand, a constant reminder that any misbehavior will be punished.

Thump-scrape.

Thump-scrape.

Thump—

Their shambling footfalls rumble past the music—legs uneven, backs hunched.

Ignoring them, I hug Tyla closer and settle into the nearest couch.

The plush cushions cave around me. The elf beside us stiffens, her engorged breasts hidden by long silver hair.

If only she knew this facility was one of the kinder ones.

Most milk-slaves get put into production lines, milked from sunup to sundown, with mechanical pumps that rub their nipples raw.

It’s still torture here—I know that—but it’s more ethical , at least. It’s not as if we have a choice in the matter; our children have to eat sometime.

Another reason not to have one.

I think I’d have to truly hate whatever elf I bred. That’s the only way they’d deserve the pregnancies, the surgeries, the forced lactation. It’s a moot point, anyway. I’d have to want them too, and that’s so fucking unrealistic it’s not worth entertaining.

I don’t fuck animals.

I’d sooner bash Colette’s godsdamned skull in than let her drug me again.

“Sir?” The Trainer who led me inside approaches the couch, carrying a crocheted blanket and a porcelain teacup. The cup rattles on its saucer as he sets it on the nearest table, then drapes the blanket over my armrest. “Is there anything else I can bring you?”

“Do you have a pump?” I ask. “I prefer feeding her myself.”

He bows his head. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” Then, he scurries away.

The man returns a moment later with a clear glass bottle. On one end is a suction cup that adheres to the creature’s nipple. On the other is glass tubing and a rubber ball affixed to the end. He tries to hand it to me, but I shake my head.

“Pumping bores me. I don’t like the way it cramps my palm.”

“Yes, sir.” He sweeps the hair from the elf’s shoulder, exposing her breasts. Scabbed-over bite marks circle her cracked nipples. I don’t watch as he places or adjusts the pump, focusing instead on Tyla as I unfurl the crocheted blanket over us.

She makes this fussy sound, her cheeks blooming amethyst.

“Shhhh, I’ve got you,” I say. “Food’s almost ready.

” Her hand curls around my index finger, mouthing for milk that isn’t there.

I rock her as we wait, and eventually Tyla nestles into me—this small, helpless little monster.

Warmth fills my chest, and for the thousandth time, I think having a child wouldn’t be the worst thing imaginable.

I could hunt with them. I could teach them my ways of thinking, the same as my uncle taught me.

And then I’d burn as a fanatic.

Shrieking cries.

Blazing heat.

I can still feel Morcai’s meaty fingers digging into me, forcing me to watch as Korun burned my uncle alive. Skinning him wasn’t enough. I should have gutted that bastard on the gambling hall floor—Conrin’s feelings be damned.

Shaking my head, I push those desires down and force the images out.

Morcai isn’t the problem; it’s the whole damn system.

Yaklan thinks I can change things, but that’s what happens to the Hunters who try.

Then again, the fanatics have never had the Politic on their side.

Being a Karesai was my uncle’s dream, not mine.

All I ever wanted was to hunt, fuck, and mind my own damn business. But now?

Yaklan’s words play on repeat, and the weight of my obligations and expectations drags me down.

It feels like an eternity before the Trainer passes me the warm bottle, a rubber nipple secured to it.

Tyla’s lips curl around the thing, her small, razor-like teeth digging in as she suckles.

Adjusting the bottle, I tip it back and stare into her wide amethyst eyes, envisioning a world where I turn the appointment down.

If not me, then who? Conrin? Sarvenna? They’re my friends and even I wouldn’t want them in charge.

My freedom is so close I can practically taste it.

The rainforest is just outside those doors.

But I know deep down, when I leave this room, I’m leaving it in shackles.