Page 41 of They Call Me Blue

—Eisel of Kariss

Master Historian

B athed in moonlight, my verncat paces the gravel path at Azerin’s estate.

Red animal blood drips from his muddy orange fur, and his paws leave dirty imprints on the white walkways.

All around him, purple elgrew buzz across gardens and walking trails—laying out carpets, stringing up blue glowfly lanterns, and pruning hedges—all last-minute preparations for my inauguration. They give Prowler a wide berth.

His pacing stops the instant he sees my palanquin. Then, the running starts.

No sooner am I out of the litter than he’s rushing me, rubbing his cheek against my stomach and digging the sides of his sabreteeth into my upper thigh. The weight of him sends me stumbling back against the cart. Groaning, I cradle Tyla close in one hand and scratch his chin with the other.

Needy little asshole.

Purring vibrations rumble my palm. Dirt flakes off my skin when I pull my hand away from him. “Gentle,” I warn, wiping my hand on my pants. “I’m carrying precious cargo.”

Prowler scents the air, sitting on his haunches once he notices Tyla.

His tail flicks from side to side as I straighten my clothing and push off the cart, crossing the remaining distance between us and Azerin’s mansion.

Yellow lamplight spills through open slats in the shuttered windows, alerting me that my father is still awake.

Prowler slinks beside me, eying the babe.

“You can’t follow me inside,” I say as if that’ll stop him.

The cat is quadruple my weight; if he wants to go through those doors, nothing and no one can stand in his way.

Still, it’ll put Azerin in a foul mood. Prowler frightens the slaves, and he’ll no doubt track mud on our freshly polished floors.

No one speaks to us as we approach, gravel crunching under pad and foot.

I don’t expect them to. The servants are all illegitimates—elgrew sired without a breeding ceremony or witnesses—who aren’t permitted to interact with grays, and in solidarity with Sorso, the Butchers guarding the estate despise me.

I prefer their silence anyway. False pleasantries and small chat are barely tolerable in the daylight hours when I’m well rested. Now, it would be excruciating.

As I step onto the wraparound porch, two Butchers open the front door for me, revealing a multistory ladder that blocks the entry.

On the upper rung, a servant stands on tiptoes, running a blue korkuran duster over a crystal chandelier.

Servants carry flower bouquets and table skirts through the foyer, then out an open back door.

Turning to Prowler, I click my tongue and point at the ground. Wait.

He meows in protest. The sound is not nearly as frightening as he thinks it is.

“Most cats would be happy they aren’t allowed inside,” I say. “You’re a spoiled asshole, you know that, right?”

In the city, Prowler would be forced into small animal care facilities where the closest thing to forests are garden rooftops and the occasional courtyard.

He wouldn’t be allowed to roam freely, but out here, he has full rein over the property and the jungle, only returning home when it suits him.

The damn beast doesn’t know how good he has it compared to the other Hunters’ verncats, but he certainly knows how to complain.

Prowler meows louder, and I relent, gesturing him forward with a heavy sigh.

We’re codependent, he and I. He’s more friend than pet. More loyal than Conrin, Sarvenna, or Eleesy.

Eleesy. Gods, what have I done?

No one else can die for Arden—because of Arden. Once I become a Karesai— if I become a Karesai—it’ll be my Hunters tracking her, and thanks to the bond, they’ll know exactly where to look. Then, this thing between us will finally come to an end.

Dashing underneath the ladder, Prowler disappears somewhere out of eyeshot, tracking mud and blood over everything in his path.

But that’s the servants’ problem, not mine.

I step around the other elgrew, peering first into the kitchen, then into the dining room and library in search of my father, but he isn’t there.

Carefully, I climb the winding steps to Tyla’s nursery— my nursery once—where the upper floors are blessedly silent.

Tyla stares at me the whole time, quiet but awake—complaisant and observant like Chalk.

Peeking into her bedroom, I find the lights off, the windows closed and barred for her protection, so a disgruntled slave can’t snatch her.

The room looks the exact same as it did when I was a boy—four walls painted with realistic bluewood trees, a carpet made from living moss, and at the center, a bassinet carved from dark wood, filled with blue downy bedding.

A mobile hangs over the bed, and storm clouds made from cotton dangle from it.

Tyla’s violet eyes widen in wonder as she takes the nursery in, breathing in the musty, rainlike scent.

“Maybe you will be a Hunter like me, huh?” I ask.

Her small hand unroots itself from her baby blanket and curls around my index finger.

My heart squeezes. “Some of the best trackers are those who know how to be quiet and observe. I think your . . . I think Chalk would have been very formidable in the wild. Maybe you inherited some of that.”

The corners of my mouth tilt into a smile, imagining her as my apprentice seven years from now, running beside Prowler and me. It’s wishful thinking. Azerin’s children grow up to have cushy lives and prefer cushy jobs to go with them. I’m the odd one out.

Kissing Tyla’s forehead, I place her in the bassinet then tuck her in, swaddling her back into her blue blanket.

She continues staring as I tap on the mobile and spin it.

“I’m going to go find our dad,” I say, giving her one last look.

Dried purple blood clings to the seams of her flesh, outlining the patchwork, but she doesn’t appear to be in pain or distress. “Good night, Tyla.”

Silently, I pad across the squishy damp moss, then ease the door shut.

The latch clicks into place behind me, but that’s not good enough.

Azerin doesn’t take any chances with his children.

Reaching into my pocket, I procure a set of key rings.

Metal clicks against metal as I riffle through the keys for the correct one.

Once I find it, I lean my ear against the wooden door and listen for a cry or scream. A minute passes, then two. When she doesn’t stir, I shove the key into the hole and turn it, locking her inside. Then, I resume my search for Azerin.

After everything that’s happened, I don’t want to speak to him, but he should know that Tyla’s home safe. My father, for his many faults, loves his children.

I scour the estate, but he’s nowhere in sight—neither is Prowler for that matter.

I’m about to say screw it when the ajar back door catches my eye, muddy pawprints leading up to it. Creaking it open, I pause and stare at my surroundings.

If the front of the estate looks luxurious, this is obscene.

Pavilion tents swarm the gardens, each of them made from soft blue fabrics that sway in the muggy floral breeze.

Expensive beds and furniture fill the tents, and potted plants hang from the ceilings, spilling blue orchids and silver ivy onto ornate rugs.

Dangling over the garden paths are blue glowfly orbs—clear, breathable crystals where little insects buzz around.

I swallow when I see the hexagonal gazebo in the center of the garden, the shadowy outline of five thrones within it. Yellow lamplight gleams from the building’s archways, spilling over the low hill it’s perched on and illuminating an elgrew’s silhouette. My father’s.

The servants have all but finished setting up, leaving only a handful to unfurl the remaining tablecloths and arrange ya’esen flutes.

With the garden empty, the thudding of my bootsteps resonates across the moonstone walkways.

Azerin must see me coming long before I reach him, but he doesn’t move to greet me.

Prowler, on the other hand, creeps out from behind a nearby tent and joins me on the walk, his warm body pressing into my side.

The closer I get, the more detailed the gazebo becomes.

Blue kissy lips climb the cold-iron railings, and blue marble pillars support a stained-glass roof with turquoise, indigo, and cerulean panes.

Carved into the marble are female elves adorned in netted brassieres and low-rise harem pants, kneeling in supplication with their hands bound behind their backs.

As a boy, I thought my father’s obsession with the color was absurd.

I didn’t learn Azerin personally hunted and consumed the last of their subspecies until much later.

It’s not that he wants to fuck Arden—or rather, it’s not just that.

He views it as his moral obligation to bring them back, to breed her with every male elf in Kariss until there are enough blue children to start a captive population in the Butcher’s Block and Agricultural District.

Chalk’s fate, by comparison, was a fucking mercy.

Palm throbbing, I climb the blue mosaicked steps leading up to the gazebo.

Blue and purple hydrangeas frame either side of the pathway and cover the hill, only broken up by kerosene lamp posts that jut from the ground in even intervals.

Prowler darts in front of me, crossing under the gazebo’s polished arches a moment before I do, then lies at my father’s feet.

“How is she?” Azerin asks. He sits atop an enormous bed not meant for sleeping, with chains and cuffs hanging from the metal frame.

A plain wooden trunk lies on the ground beside him.

Unlike the rest of the estate, this place remains untouched by expensive decorations.

The only furniture is practical—five thrones spaced evenly around the perimeter, the bed, and a sawhorse bench.

I may not have a choice in whom I breed, but it seems I’ll have a choice in how I breed them .

How considerate.